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KDITKI) liY

ions MOllLEY

VIII.
STEHNE. By II. D. Tkaill
SH'IFT. By Lksliu Stkimien
HUME. By T. II. IIl-.vley

FACULTE DES ARTS
COLLEGE UNIVERSITAIRE

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(l,imit<Ml)

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S T E E N E

II. D. TRAILL

rEEFATORY XOTE.

The materials for a biography of Sterne arc by no mean-
abundant. Of the earlier years of his life tlic only exist-
ing record is that preserved in tlie brief autobiographical
memoir which, a few months before liis death, he com-
posed, iu tlic usual (juaint staccato style of his familiar cor-
respondence, for the benefit of his (Laughter. Of his child-
hood; of his school-days; of his life at Cambridge, and in
his Yorkshire vicarage; of his wliole history, in fact, up to
the age of forty-six, we know nothing more than he has
there jotted down, lie attained that age in the year iToO ;
and at tliis date begins that >eries of his Letters, from
which, for those who have the patience to sort them out
of the chronological confusion in which las daugliter and
editress involved them, there is, no doubt, a good deal to
be learnt. These lettei's, however, which extend down to
1768, the year of the writer's death, contain pretty nearly
all the contemporary material that we have to depend on.
Freely as Sterne mixed in the best literary society, there is
singularly little to be gathered about liim, even i.a the way
of chance allusion and anecdote, from the memoirs and ana
of his time. Of the many friends who would have been
competent to write his biography while the facts were yet
fresh, but one, John Wilkes, ever entertained— if he did
seriously entertain — the idea of perfonning this pious
work; and he, in spite of the entreaties of Sterne's widow

rnKFATOUY XOTK.

;iii<l (laiii,'hti'r, then in stmitencil circiimstancos, left utiro-
(li'oiiiod his promise to do so. The brief menioir by Sir
Walter Scott, which is pri'fixed to many popuhir editions
of Tristi'diit Shdinlif and the Sei>fl)nen((fl Jnuruci/, scif>. out
the so-oalled aiitobiou;raphy in fc'l, but for the rest is main-
ly critical ; Thackeray's well-known lecture-essay is almost
wholly so; and nothing, worthy to bo digniOed by the
name of a Life of Sterne, seems ever to have been ]»nb-
Jished, until the appearance of Mr. Percy Fitzgerald's two
stout volumes, under this title, some eighteen years ago.
Of this work it is liardly too much to say that it contains
(no doubt with the a(bni.\ture of a good deal of supertlu-
ons matter) nearly all the information as to thu facts of
Sterne's life that is now ever likely to l)e recovered. The
evidence for certain of its statements of fact is not as thor-
oughly sifted as it might liave been ; and with some of its
criticism T, at least, am unable to agree. But no one inter-
ested in tlie subject of this memoir can be insensible of his
obligations to Mr. Fitzgerald for the fruitful diligence with
whicli he has laboured in a too long neglected field.

U. D. T.

CONTENTS,

CHAPTER I.

(1T13-1724.)

IJiuTir, Parexta(;e, and Eauly Years

PAfil-.

CITAPTEPv TI.

(1724-1739.)
Sf'lKl!)!, AND UmVEHSITY.— IIaMI AX A?'D CAMliUIDOE . 11

CHAPTER III.

(1738-1769.)

Life at Sutton.— Mauiuaoe.— The Pauisii Pkiest . '.30

CHAPTER IV.

(17.50-17(50.)

TniSTiiAM Siianpv," Vols. I. and II.

CHAPTER V.

(1 700-1 7(V2.)

London TnTiMPii^i.— Fiust .^kt of Seumonp.— "Tuis-
nJAM Shandy," Vols. HI. and IV. — Coxwold. —
"Tristham Shandy,"' Vols. V. and VI.— First Visit
TO THE Continent.— Paris. — Toulouse .... 49

Vlll

CONTf]\TS.

CHAPTER VI.

(17C2-1TC5.)

PACK

Life i\ the Soitu.— Ketckn to Enolaxd.— " Tms-

TKAM SlIANDY," V0L8. VII. AND VIII.— SECOND SeT

OF Sehmoxs 75

CIL\.PTER VII.

(lT65-17Ci3.)

Fkance and Italy.— ^Ieetixo with Wife and DAUfin-
TEH.— Retuun to England.— "Tuistuam Shandy,"
Vol. IX.— -'The Sentimental Joukney" .... 10;5

CHAPTER VIII.

(ITCS.)

Last Day.s and Death 117

CHAPTER IX.

Stkhne as a ■\Vuitek.— The Ciiaiuje of Plaoiarisji.
—Dh. Feruiak's "Illustrations" 130

CHAPTER X.

Style and Geneual Characteristics.— Humour and
Sentiment J39

CHAPTER XI.

Creative and Dramatic Power.—Place in English
Literature 1(54

117

120

STERNE.

CILVPTER I.

BiiiTii, pahextaoe, and early years.
(1713-1724.)

Towards the close of tlic month of November, 1713, one
of the last of the English regiments which had been de-
tained in Flanders to supervise the execution of the treaty
of Utrecht arrived at Clonmcl from Dunkirk. The day
after its arrival the regiment was disl)anded ; and yet a
few days later, on the 2-lth of the month, the wife of one
of its subalterns gave birth to a son. The child who thu3
early displayed the perversity of his humour by so inop-
portune an appearance was Laurence Sterne. "My
birthday," he says, in the slipshod, loosely-strung notes by
which he has been somewhat grandiloquently said to have
"anticipated the labours" of the biographer — "my birth-
day was ominous to my poor father, who was the day after
our arrival, with many other brave officers, broke and sent
adrift into the wide world with a wife and two children."
Roger Sterne, however, now late ensign of the ;Vlth, or
Chudlcigh's regiment of foot, was after all in less evil case
than were many, probably, of his comrades. He had kins-
1*

STERXE.

[chap.

men to whom he conl.l look for, at any rate, temporary
assistance, ami Ins mother was a woaltliy widow. The
Stcrnos, originally of a Suffolk stock, had passed from that
county to Nottinghamshire, and thence into Yorkshire, and
were at this time^a family of position and substance in tlio
last-named countv. Roger's grandfather had been Arch-
bishop of York, and a man of more note, if only through
the accident of the times upon which he fell, than most ot
the incumbents of that see. He had played an exception-
ally energetic part even for a Cavalier prelate in the great
political struggle of the seventeenth century, and had suf-
fered with foi'titude and dignity in the royal cause. He
liad, moreover, a further claim to distinction in having been
treated with common gratitude at the Restoration by the
son of the monarch wliom he had served. As Master ot
Jesus Colleo-e, Cambridge, he had " been active in sending
the Tniversltv plate to his Majesty," and for this offence
he was seized by Cromwell and carried in military custody
to London, whence, after undergoing imprisonment in va-
rious gaols, and experiencing other forms of hardship, he
was at length permitted to retire to an obscure retreat in
the countn-, there to commune with himself until that
tvrannv should be overpast. On the return of the exiled
Stuarts Pr. Sterne was made Bishop of Carlisle, and a few
years later wns translated to the see of York. He lived
to tlie age of cio-htv-six, and so far justified Burnet's accu-
sation ac^ainst him of " minding chiefly enriching himself,"
that he^seems to have divided no fewer than four landed
estates among his children. One of these, Simon Sterne,
a youno-er son of the Archbishop, himself married an heir-
ess, the\]auohter of Sir Roger Jaques of Elvington ; and
Roo-er,the father of Laurence Sterne, was the seventh and
vouuo-est of the issue of this marriage. At the time when

>•]

IJIUTII, PARENTAGE, AND EARLY YEARS.

tlie double misfortune above recorded befell him at the
liands of Lucina and tlie War Office, his father liad been
some years dead ; but Simon Sterne's widow was still mis-
tress of the property which she had brouf^ht with lier at
her marriage, and to Elvington, accordingly, "as soon,"
writes Sterne, " as I was able to be carried," the compul-
Korilv retired ensign betook himself with his wife and his
two children, lie was not, however, compelled to remain
long dependent on his mother. Tlie ways of the military
authorities were as inscrutable to the army of that day as
they arc in our day to our own. Before a year had passed
the regiment was ordered to be re-established, and " our
household decamped with bag and baggage for Dublin."
This was in the autumn of 1714, and from that time on-
ward, for some eleven years, the movements and fortunes
of the Sterne family, as detailed in the narrative of its
most famous member, form a history in which the ludi-
crous struggles strangely with the pathetic.

A husband, condemned to be the Ulysses-likc plaything
of adverse gods at the War Office ; an indefatigably pro-
lific wife ; a succession of weak and ailing children ; mis-
fortune in the seasons of journeying ; misfortune in the
moods of the weather by sea and land — under all this
combination of hostile chances and conditions was the
struggle to be carried on. The little household was per-
petually "on the move" — a little household which was
always becoming and never remaining bigger — contin\ial-
ly increased by births, only to be again reduced by deaths
— until the contest between the deadly hardships of trav-
el and the fatal fecundity of Mrs. Sterne was brought by
events to a natu'-al close. Almost might the unfortunate
lady have exclaimed, Quce re^io in tcrris nostri non j)lena
laboris? She passes from Ireland to England, and from

STERXE.

[chap.

Enolaiul to Trolantl, from inland garrison to sea-port town
and back a2,'ain, incessantly bearing and incessantly bury-
ing children — until even her son in his narrative begins to
speak of losing one infant at this place, and " leaving an-
other behind " on that journey, almost as if they were so
many overlooked ov misdirected articles of luggage. The
tragic side of the history, however, overshadows the gro-
tesque. When we think how hard a business was travel
even under the most favourable conditions in those days,
and how serious even in our own times, when travel is
cas)', are the discomforts of the women and children of a
regiment on the march — we may well pity these unrest-
ing followers of the drnm. As to Mrs. Sterne herself, she
seems to liavc been a woman of a pretty t(Migh fibre, and
she came moreover of a campaigning stock, ller father
was a "noted suttler" of the name of Xuttle, and her first
husband — for she was a widow when Iloo-er Sterne married
her — liad been a soldier also. She had, therefore, served
some years' apprenticeship to the military life before these
wanderings began ; and she herself was destined to live
to a good old age. But somehow or other she failed to
endow her offspring with her own robust constitution and
powers of endurance. " My father's children were," as
Laurence St':>rne grimly puts it, " not made to last long ;''
but one cannot help suspecting that it was the hardshi[)s
of those early years which carried them off in their infan-
cy with such painful regularity and despatch, and that it
was to the same cause that their surviving brother owed
the beginnings of that fatal malady by which his own life
was cut short.

The diary of their travels — for the early part of Sterne's
memoirs amounts to scarcely more — is the more effective
for its very brevity and abruptness. Save for one interval

-i.

BIRTH, rAREXTAGE, AND EARLY YEARS.

fif Romewliat lon2;cr sojourn tlian usual at Dublin, the read-
er lias tlirougliout it all the feelinif of the traveller who
never finds time to unpack his portmanteau. On the re-
enrolment of the regiment in 1714, " our h tusehold," says
the narrative, "dccamj)ed from York with bag and bag-
gage for ])ublin. AVitliin a month my father left us, be-
ing ordered to Exeter; where, in a sad winter, my mother
and her two children followed him, travelling from Liver-
pool, by land, to riymouth." At I'lymouth Mrs. Sterne
gave birth to a son, christened Joram ; and, "in twelve
months' time we were all sent back to Dublin. My moth-
er," with Jier three children, " took ship at Bristol for Ire-
land, and had a narrow escape from being cast away by a
leak springing up in the vessel. At length, after many
perils and struggles, we got to Dublin." Here intervenes
the short breathing-space, of which mention has been made
— an interval employed by Roger Sterne in " spending a
great deal of money" on a "large house," which he hired
and furnished ; and then " in the year one thousand seven
liundred and nineteen, all unhinged again." The regiment
had been ordered off to the Isle of W''>'ht, thence to cm-
bark for Spain, on " the Vigo Expedition," and " we," who
accompanied it, " were driven into Milford Haven, but af-
terwards landed at Bristol, and thence by land to riymouth
again, and to the Isle of Wight ;"" losing on this expedi-
tion "poor Jorau), a pretty boy, who died of the small-
pox." In the Isle of "Wight, Mrs. Sterne and lier family
remained till the Vigo P^xpedition returned home; and
during her stay there "poor Joram's loss was supplied by
the birth of a girl, Anne," a " pretty blossom," but <k>stincd
to fall "at the age of three years." On the return of the
regiment to "Wicklow, Roger Sterne again sent to collect
his family around him. "We embarked for Dublin, and

STEllXE.

[ciur.

had all been cast away by a most violent storm; but,
tliroiij^h the intercession of my mother, tlic captain was
]M'evailea npon to turn back into Wales, where we stayed
a month, and at length got into Dublin, and travelled by
land to Wicklow, where my father had, for some weeks,
oiven us over for lost." Hero a year passed, and another
child, Devijehcr — so called after the colonel of the regi-
,„(.nt_was born. "From thence we decamped to stay
half a year with Mr. PY'therston, a clergyman, about seven
miles from AVicklow, who, being a relative of my mother's,
invited us to his parsonage at Animo.' From thence,
again, " we followed the regiment to Dublin," where again
"''we lay in the barracks a year." In 1722 the regiment
was ordered to Carrickfergus. " \Ve all decamped, but
got no further than Drogheda; thence ordered to Mullin-
gar, forty niiles west, where, by I'rovidence, we stumbled
upon a kind relation, a collateral descendant from xVrch-
bishop Sterne, who took us all to his castle, and kindly en-
tertained us for a year." Thence, by " a most rueful jour-
ney," to Carrickfergus, where " we arrived in six or seven

1 "It wiis in this paii.4i," says Storne, "tliat I liad that wonderful
escape in falling through a mill race while the mill was going, and
Ijcing taken up unhurt ; the story is incredible, but known to all that
part°of Ireland, wliere hundreds of the common people flocked to see
me." More Inereilible still does it seem that Thoresby should relate
the occurrence of an accident of precisely the same kind to Sterne's
great-grandfather, the Archbishop. " Playing near a mill, he fell with-
in a ebw ; there was but one board or buck t wanting in tlie whole
wheel, but a gracious Trovidence so ordered it tliat the void place
came down at that moment, else he had been crushed to death ; but
was reserved to be a grand benefactor afterwards." (Thoresby, ii. 15.)
But what will probably strike the reader as more extraordinary even
than this coincidence is that Sterne should have been either unaware
of it, or should have omitted mention of it in the above passtige.

)rm ; but,
iptiiin was
\vc stayed
avclled by
ine weeks,
id another
f the regi-
id to fetay
bout seven
y mother's,
)m thence,
■lierc again
c rcginient
limped, but
to MuUin-
e stumbled
from xVrch-
i Idndly en-
rueful jour-
iix or seven

iiat wonderful
as going, and
iwn to all that
flocked to see

should relatL'
nd to Stcrne'.s
11, he fell with-
T in the whole
the void place

to death ; but
lioresby, ii.l.").)
lofdluary even
nther unaware
e passage.

i.J lURTlF, rAUENTAGE, AND EARLY YEARS. 7

day.s" Here, at the ago of three, little Devijeher obtained
a happy release from his name; and "another child, Su-
san, was sent to till his place, who also left us behind in
this weary journey." In the " autumn of this year, or the
spring of the ne.vt " — Sterne's memory failing in exacti-
tude at the very point where we should have expected it
ti) be most pri;cise — "my father obtained permission of
his colonel to fix me at school ;" and henceforth the boy's
sliiire in the family wanderings was at an end. l>ut his
father had yet to be ordered from C.irrickfergus to Lon-
donderry, where at last a permanent child, Catherine, was
born ; and thence to Gibraltar, to take part in the Defence
of that famous Rock, where the inuch-enduring campaigner
was run through the body in a duel, "about a goose" (a
thoroughly Shandian catastrophe) ; and thence to Jamaica,
where, " with a constitution impaiicd" by the sword-thrust
earned in his anserine quarrel, he was defeated in a more
i1( adly duel with the " country fever," and died. " His
malady," writes his son, with a touch of feeling struggling
through his dislocated grammar, " took away his senses
first, and made a child of him ; and then in a month or
two walking about continually without complaining, till
the moment he sat down in an arm-chair and breathed his
last."

There is, as lias been observed, a certain mixture of the
comic and the pathetic in the life-history of this obscure
father of a famous son. His life was clearly not a fortu-
nate one, so far as external circumstances go ; but its mis-
fortunes had no sort of consoling dignity about them.
Roger Sterne's lot in the world was not so much an un-
happy as an uncomfortable one; and discomfort earns lit-
tle sympathy, and absolutely no admiration, for its suffer-
ers. He somehow reminds us of one of those Irish heroes

STEltXE.

[ciup.

— good-natured, peppery, dobt-loadod, liylit-lieartcd, sliift-
Icss — whosi' fortunes wc follow with mirtliful and lialf-
contcinptuous synipatliy in the pages of Thackeray, llo
wa^ obviously a typical specimen of that class of men who
are destitute alike of the virtues and failings of the "re-
spectable" and successful; whom many people love ar.d
no one respects ; whom everybody pities in their struggles
tind difiiculties, but whom few pity without a smile.

It is evident, however, that he succeeded in winning the
affection of one wno liad not too much affection of the
deeper kind to spare for any one. The figure of Roger
Sterne alone stands out with any clearness by the side of
the ceaselessly flitting mother and phantasmal children of
Laurence Sterne's Memoir; and it is touched in with strokes
so vivid and characteristic that critics have been tempted
to find in it the original of the most famous portrait in
the Shandy gallery. " My fatlier," says Sterne, " was a
little, smart man, active to the hist degree in all exercises,
most patient of fatigue and disappointments, of which it
pleased God to give him full measure. He was, in his
temper, somewhat rapid and hasty, but of a kindly, sweet
disposition, void of all design, and so innocent in his own
intentions, that he suspected no one; so that you mioht
have cheated him ten times a da}', if nine had not been
sufHcient for your purpose." This is a captivating little
picture ; and it no doubt presents traits which may have
impressed themselves early and deeply on the imagination
which was afterwards to give birth to " My Uncle Toby."
The simplicity of nature and the " kindly, sweet disposi-
tion " are common to both the ensign of real life and to
the immortal Captain Shandy of fiction ; but the criticism
whicli professes to find traces of Roger Sterne's " rapid and
hasty temper" in my Uncle Toby is eumpelled to strain

[chap.

xrtctl, sliift-
I ami half-
laruy. lie
)f lucn who
3f the " 10-
Ic h)Vo aiwl
ir striiijijlt's
nilo.

.imiiiii^ tho
tioii of tlio
; of Rogor
the sklo of
children of
'ith strokes
n tempted
portrait in
le, " was a
1 exercises,
)f wliich it
*vas, ill his
ully, sweet
ill his own
j-oii might
1 not been
iitiiig little

may have
n agination
cloTcby."
ct disposi-
ife and to
c criticism
rapid and

to strain

,.] BIRTH, TARENTAGE, AND EARLY YEARS. 9

itself considerably. And, on the wliolo, there socms no
reason to believe that Sterne borrowed more from the
character of his father than any writer must necessarily,
,nd perhaps unconsciously, borrow from his observation
I of the moral and mental qualities of those with whom he

has come into most freq leiit contact.

That Laurence Stcrno passed the first eleven years of
his life with such an exemplar of these simple virtues of
kindliness, guilelessness, and courage ever before him, is
perhaps the best that can be said for the lot in which his
early days were cast. In almost all other respects there
could hardly have been— f<ir a quick-witted, precocious,
imitative boy — a worse bringing-up. No one, I should
imairine, ever more needed discipline in his youth than
Sterne ; and the camp is a place of discipline for the sol-
dier only. To all others whom necessity attaches to it,
and to the young especially, it is rather a school of license
and irregularity. It is fair to remember these disadvan-
tages of Sterne's early training, in judging of the many
defects as a man, and laxities as a writer, which marked his
later life ; though, on the other hand, there is no denying
the reality and value of some of the countervailing advan-
tages which came to him from his boyish surroundings.
The conception of my Uncle Toby need not have been
taken whole from Roger Sterne, or from any one actual
captain of a marching regiment; but the constant sight
of, and converse with, many captains and many corporals
may undoubtedly have contributed much to the vigour and
vitality of Toby Shandy and Corporal Trim. So far as
the externals of portraiture were concerned, there can be
no doubt that his ail benefited much from his early mili-
tary life. His soldiers Iiave the true stamp of the soldier
about them in air and language ; and when his captain and
13 '2

STEUXE.

[chap. r.

corporal %lit their Flo.nisl. Imttlos over ajjain wc are tlior-
oughly oonscioiis that wo arc listoninir, uuder the ilrainatic
form, to one who must himselt liavo hoard ma.iy a chapter
of the same spk-ndid story from the h'ps of tlio vory men
♦vIjo had helped to break the pride of the Grand iMoiiarque
under Maiihorough and Eugene.

[(HAP. I.

(vc are thor-
ho dramatic
y a diaptor
e voiy iiion
1 Mouarcjuc

V-1-,

CHAPTER II.

SCHOOL AND rNlV-KRSITY.— HALIFAX AND CAMBRIDOE.

(17'23-1788.)

It was not — as we have seen from the Memoir— till the
autiuiin of 17l'3, "or the spring of the fiillowing vear,"
that Uogor Sterne obtained leave of his colonel to "fix"
his son at school; and this would bring Laurence to the
tolerably advanced age of ten before beginnitig his edu-
cation in any systematic way. lie records, under date of
1721, that "in this year I learned to write, etc.;" but it
is not probable that the " itc."— that indolent symbol of
which Sterne jnakes such irritating use in all his familiar
writing— covers, in this case, any wide extent f cduca-
tionaladvance. The boy, most likely, could jnsi read and
write, and no more, at the time when lie was fixed at
school, " near Halifax, with an able master :" a j idicious
selection, no doubt, both of place as well as tcache . Mr.
Fitzgerald, to whose researches we owe as much li^ht as
is ever likely to be thrown upon this obscure and proba-
bly not very interesting period of Sterne's life, has point-
ed out that Richard Sterne, eldest son of the late Simon
Sterne, and uncle, therefore, of Laurence, was one of the
governors of Halifax Granmiar School, and that he may
have used his interest to obtain his nephew's admissior to
the foundation as the grandson of a Halifax man, and so,
constructively, a child of the parish. But, be this a.- ik

^Mffli

STERNE.

[chap.

may, it is more than probable tbat from tlie time wlicn
lie was sent to Halifax School the whole care and cost of
the boy's education was borne by his Yorkshire relatives.
The Memoir says that, " by God's care of me, my cousin
Sterne, of ]ilvington, became a father to me, and sent me
to the University, &c., &c. ;" and it is to be inferred from
this that the benevolent guardianship of Sterne's uncle
liichard (who died in 1732, the year before Laurence was
admitted of Jesus College, Cambridge) must have been
taken up by his son. Of his school course — though it
lasted for over seven years — the autobiographer has little
to say ; nothing, indeed, except that he "cannot omit men-
tioning" that anecdote with which everybody, I suppose,
who has ever come across the briefest notice of Sterne's
life is familiar. The schoolmaster "had the ceiling of
the schoolroom new-whitewashed, and the ladder remain-
ed there. I, one imlucky day, mounted it, and wrote with
a brush, in largo capital letters, LAU. STEKNE, for which
the usher severely whipped me. My master was very
much hurt at this, and said before me that never should
that name be effaced, for I was a boy of genius, and he
was sure I should come to i)referment. This expression
made me forget the blows I had received." It is hardly
to be supposed, of course, that this story is pure romance ;
but it is difficult, on the other hand, to believe that the in-
cident has been related by Sterne exactly as it happened.
That the recorded prediction may have been made in jest
—or even in earnest (for penetrating teachers have these
prophetic moments sometimes) — is, of course, possible;
hut that Sterne's master was "very much hurt" at the
boy's having been justly punished for an act of wanton
mischief, or that he recognized it as the natural privilege
of nascent genius to deface newly -whitewashed ceilino-s.

[chap.

le time wlicn
and cost of
liire relatives,
le, iny cousin
and sent me
inferred from
terne's uncle
Laurence was
t liavc been

— though it
her has little
ot omit men-
y, I suppose,
!e of Sterne's
le ceiling of
Jder remain-
i wrote with
E, for which
er was very
never should
nius, and he
s expression
It is hardly

re romance ;
that the in-
it happened,
nade in jest
i have these
se, possible ;
urt" at the

- of wanton
ral privilege
led ceilings,

II]

HALIFAX AND CAMBRIDGE.

must have been a delusion of the humourist's later years.
The extreme fatuity whicli it would compel us to attribute
to the schoolmaster seems inconsistent with the power of
detecting intellectual capacity in any one else. On the
whole, one inclines to suspect that the remark belonged to
that order of half sardonic, half kindly jest which a certain
sort of pedagogue sometimes throws off, for the consola-
tion of a recently-caned boy ; and that Sterne's vanity,
either then or afterwards (for it remained juvenile all his
life), translated it into a serious prophecy. In itself, how-
ever, the urchin's freak was only too unhappily character-
istic of the man. The trick of befouling what was clean
(and because it was clean) clung to him most tenaciously
all his days ; and many a fair white surface — of liumour,
of fancy, or of sentiment — was to be disfigured by him
in after-years with stains and splotches in which wc can
all too plainly decipher the literary signature of Laurence
Sterne.

At Halifax School the boy, as has been said, remained
for about eight years ; that is, until he was nearly ainetcen,
and for some months after his father's death at Port An-
tonio, which occurred in March, 1*731. "In the year '32,"
says the Memoir, " my cousin sent me to the University,
where I staj-^d some time." In the course of his first ye/xr
he read for and obtained a sizarship, to which the college
records show that he was duly admitted on the Gth of July,
1733. The selection of Jesus College was a natural one:
Sterne's great-grandfather, the afterwards Archbishop, had
been its Master, and had founded scholarships there, to one
of whicli the young sizar was, a year after his admission,
elected. No inference can, of course, be drawn from this
as to Sterne's proficiency, or even industry, in his academ-
ical studies : it is scarcely more than a testimony to the

STERXE.

[cnAP.

fact of decent and regular behaviour, lie was bene natiis,
in tlic sense of being related to the right man, tlie founder ;
and in those days lie need bo only very modice dortva in-
deed in order to qualify himself for admission to the en-
joyment of his kinsman's benefactions. Still ho must iiuve
been orderly and well-conducted in his ways ; and this he
would also seem to have been, from the fact of his having
passed througli his University course without any apparent
break or liiteli, and having been admitted to his Baclielor's
degree after no more than the normal period of residence.
The only remark which, in tlie Memoir, he vouchsafes to
bestow upon his academical career is, that " 'twas there

that I commenced a friendship with Mr. II , which has

been lasting on both sides;" and it may, perhaps, be said
tliat this ivas, from one point of view, the most important

event of his Cambridge life. For Mr. 11 was John

Hall, afterwards John Hall Stevenson, the "Eugenius" of
Tristram Sham>>/, tlie master of Skelton Castle, at which
Sterne was, throughout life, to be a frequent and most
familiar visitor; and, unfortunately, also a person whose
later reputation, both as a man and a writer, became such
as seriously to compromise the not very robust respectabil-
ity of his clerical comrade. Sterne and Hall were distant
cousins, and it may have been the tie of consanguinity
which first drew them togethe.'. But there was evidently
a thorough congeniality of the most unlucky sort between
them ; and from their first meeting, as undergraduates at
Jesus, until the premature death of the elder, they contin-
ued to supply each other's minds with precisely that sort
of occupation and stimulus of which each by the grace of
nature stood least in need. That their close intimacy was
ill-calculated to raise Sterne's reputation in later years may
be inferred from the fact that Hall Stevenson afterwards

[chap.

II.]

HALIFAX AXD CAMBRIDGE.

ras bene natus,
, tlie founder ;
lice doff'/a in-
ion to the en-

lio must have
I ; and this he

of his liaving
; any apparent
liis Bachelor's
I of residence,
vouchsafes to

" 'twas there
— , which has
rliaps, be said
ost important
— was Jolin
Eugenius" of
stle, at which
■nt mid most
persc.iii whose

became such
st respectabil-
I were distant
:;pnsan2;uiiiity
was evidently

sort between
rgraduates at
I they contin-
sely that sort

the grace of
intimacy was
;er years may
>n afterwards

obtained literary notoriety by the publication of Crazi/
Talcs, a collection of comic but extremely broad ballads,
in which his clerical friend was quite unjustly suspected of
having had a hand. Mr. llall was also reported, whether
truly or falsely, to have been a member of Wilkes's famous
confraternity of Medmenham Abbey ; and from this it was
an easy step for gossip to advance to the assertion that the
Rev. Mr. Sterne had himself been admitted to that unholy
order.

Among acquaintances wliich the young sizar of Jesus
miglit have more profitably made at Cambridge, but did
not, was that of a student destined, like himself, to leave
behind him a name famous in English letters. Gray, born
throe years later than Sterne, had entered a year after him
at Cambridge as a pensioner of Pcterhouse, and the two
students went through their terms together, though the
poet at the time took no degree. There Avas probably lit-
tle enough in common between the shy, fastidious, slightly
effeminate pensioner of Pcterhouse, and a scholar of Jesus,
wliose chief friend and comrade was a man like Hall; and
no close intimacy between the two men, if they had come
across each other, would liave been very likely to arise.
But it does not appear that they could have ever met or
heard of each other, for Gray writes of Sterne, after Tris-
tram Shandtf had made him famous, in terms whicli clear-
ly show that he did not recall liis fellow-undergraduate.

In January, 1730, Sterne took his B.A. degree, and quit-
ted Cambridge for York, where another of his father's
brothers now makes liis appearance as his patron. Dr.
Jacques Sterne was the second son of Simon Sterne, of
Elvington, and a man apparently of more marked and vig-
orous character than any of his brothers. What induced
him now to take notice of the nephew, whom in boyliood

STERNE.

[chap.

and early youtli ho had left to the unshared guardianship
of his brother, and brother's son, does not appear; but the
personal history of this energetic pluralist — Prebcndarv of
Durham, Archdeacon of Cleveland, Canon Residentiary,
Precentor, Prebendary, and Archdeacon of York, Rector of
Rise, and Rector of lIornsey-cum-Riston — suggests the sur-
mise that he detected qualities in the young CambriJge
graduate which would make him useful. For Dr. Sterne
was a typical specimen of the Churchman -politician, in
days when both components of the compound word
meant a good deal more than they do now. The Arch-
deacon was a devoted "Whig, a Hanoverian to the back-
bone ; and he held it his duty to support the Protestant
succession, not only by the spiritual but by the secular arm.
lie was a great clectioneerer, as befitted times when the
claims of two rival dynasties virtually met upon the hust-
ings, and he took a prominent part in the great Yorkshire
contest of the year 1734. His most vigorous display of
energy, however, was made, as was natural, in " the '45."
The Whig Archdeacon, not then Archdeacon of the East
Riding, nor as yet quite buried under the mass of prefer-
ments which lie afterwards accumulated, seems to have
thought that this indeed was the crisis of his fortunes, and
that, imles.s he was prepared to die a mere prebendary,
canon, and rector of one or two benefices, now was the
time to strike a blow for his advancement in the Church.
Ills bustling activity at this trying time was indeed i)or-
tentous, and at last took the form of arresting the unfort-
unate Dr, Burton (the original of Dr. Slop), on suspicion
of holding conimunication with the invading army of the
Pretender, then on its march southward from Edinburgh,
The suspect, who was wholly innocent, was taken to Lon-
don and kept in custody for nearly a year before bein(»-

[chap.

guardianship
pear; but tlio
.^rebendarv of
Ilcsidentiarv,
)rk, Rector of
jgests the sur-
ig CanibriJjre
or Dr. Sterne
■poHtic'iaii, in
ipound word
. The Arch-
to tlic back-
lie Protestant
3 secuhir arm.
les when the
pon the hust-
cut Yorkshire
us disphiy of
in "the '45."
11 of the East
ass of prcfer-
)cms to have
fortunes, and
! prebendary,
now was the
» the Church.
* indeed por-
ig the unfort-
on suspicion
: army of the
II Edinburgh,
aken to Lon-

n.]

HALIFAX AND CAMBRIDGE.

discharged, after wliich, by way of a slight redress, a letter
of reprimand for his trop de zele was sent by direction of
Lord Carteret to the militant dignitary. But the desired
end was nevertheless attained, and Dr. Sterne succeeded in
crowning the edifice of his ecclesiastical honours.'

There can be little doubt that patronage extended by
such an uncle to such a nephew received its full equiva-
lent in some way or other, pud indeed the Memoir gives
us a chic to the mode in wliich payment was made. " My
uncle," writes Sterne, describing their subsequent rupture,
"quarrelled with me because I would '-"ot write paragraphs
in the newspapers; though he was a party-man, I was not,
and detested such dirty work, thinking it beneath me.
From that time he became my bitterest enemy." The
date of this quarrel cannot be precisely fixed; bat we
gather from an autograph letter (now in the British Mu-
seum) from Sterne to Archdeacon Blackburne that by the
year 1750 the two men had for some time ceased to be on
friendly terms. Probably, however, the breach occurred
subsequently to the rebellion of '45, and it may be that it
arose out of the excess of partisan zeal which Dr. Sterne
developed in that year, and which his nephew very likely

' A once-familiar piece of humorous verse describes t':e upset of
a coach containing a clerical pluralist :

" When struggling on the ground was seen
A Rector, Vicar, Canon, Dean ;
You might have thought the coach was full.
But no ! 'twas only Dr. Bull."

Dr. Jacques Sterne, however, might have been thrown out of one of
the more capacious vehicles of the London General Omnibus Com-
pany, with almost the same misleading effect upon those who only
heard of the mishap.

STERNE.

[til. VI'.

did not, in liis opinion, sufficiently sliarc. ]5iit this is
quite consistent with the younger man's liaving up to that
time assisted the eUler in his party polemics, lie certainly
speaks in his " Letters" of liis having " employed his brains
for an ungrateful person," and the remark is made in a
way and in a connexion which seems to imply that the
services rendered to his uncle were mainly literarj/. If so,
his declaration that he " would not write paragraphs in the
newspapers" can only mean that he would not go on writ-
ing them. Be tliis as it may, however, it is certain that
the Archdeacon for some time found his account in main-
taining friendly relations with his nephew, and that during
that period he undoubtedly did a good deal for his ad-
vancement. Sterne \vas ordained deacon by the Bishop of
Lincoln in March, 173G, only three months after taking his
B.A. degree, and took priest's orders in August, 173R; where-
upon his uncle immediately obtained for him the living of
Sutton-on-the-Forcst, into whicli he was inducted a few
days afterwards. Other preferments followed, to be noted
hereafter; and it must be admitted that until the quarrel
occurred about the '' party paragraphs " the Archdeacon
did his duty by his nephew after the peculiar fashion of
that time. ^Vhcn that quarrei came, however, it seems to
have snapped more tics than one, for in the Memoir Sterne
speaks of his youngest sister Catherine as " still living, but
most unhappily estranged from me by my uncle's wicked-
ness and her own folly." Of his elder sister Mary, who
was born at Lille a year before himself, he records that
"she married one Weemans in Dublin, who used her most
unmercifully, spent his substance, became a bankrupt, and
left my poor sister to shift for herself, which she was able
to do but for a few months, for she went to a friend's
house in the country and died of a broken heart." Truly

[('ii.vr.

J>iit tliis is
ng up to that

lie certainly
yed his brains
is made in a
nply that the
crary. If so,
igraphs in tlic
3t go on writ-
s certain tliat
onnt in niain-
d that during
\\ for his ad-
tlie Bishop of
ter taking his
, 1738, wlierc-
i the living of
ducted a few
J, to be noted
;il the quarrel
e Archdeacon
iar fashion of
Dr, it seems to
lemoir Sterne
till livinix, but
ncle's wicked-
er Mary, who
! records that
used her most
bankrupt, and
1 she was able

to a friend's
leart." Truly

u.]

HALIFAX AND CAMBRIDGE.

an unlucky family.' Only three to survive the hardships
among which the years of their infancy were passed, and
this to be the history of two out of the three survivors!

' Tlie niotlior, Mr.s. Sterne, makes lier appearance once more for a
moment in or about the yea: 1758. Horace Walpole, aiul after liim
llyroi), accu^^ed Sterne of having "preferred \vl ining over a dead ass
to relieviii'.; a living mother," and the former went so far as to de-
fl ire " on in(liil)itahle autliority " that Mrs. Sterne, " who kept a school
(in Ireland), having run in debt on account of an extravagant daugh-
ter, would have rotted in a gaol if the parents of her scholars had not
rai.-ed a subscription for her." Even "the indubitable authority,"
however, does not positively assert — whatever may be meant to be
insinuated — that Sterne himself did nothing to assist his mother,
and Mr. FitZLa-rald justly points out that to pay the whole debts of
a bankrupt school might well have been beyond a Yorkshire clergy-
man's means. x\.nyhow there is evidence that Sterne at a later date
than this was actively concerning himself about his mother's inter-
ests. Slie afterwards came to York, whither he went to meet her;
and he tlien writes to a friend : " I trust my poor mother's affair is
bv this time ended to our comfort and hers."

CHAPTER III.

H''

LIFE AT SUTTON. MAUKIAGE. — THE PARISH PRIEST.

(1738-1759.)

Great writers who spring lato and suddenly from obscu-
rity into fame and yet die early, must always form more or
less perplexing subjc is of literary biography. The proc-
esses of their intellectual and artistic growth lie hidden in
nameless years ; their genius is not revealed to tlie world
until it has reached its full maturity, and many aspects of
it, which, perhaps, would have easily explained themselves
if the gradual development had ^^^ne on before men's eyes,
remain often unexplained to the last. By few, if any, of
the more celebrated English men of letters is this observa-
tion so forcibly illustrated as it is in the case of Sterne : the
obscure period of his life so greatly exceeded in duration
the brief season of his fame, and its obscurity was so ex-
ceptionally profound. He was forty - seven years of age
when, at a bound, he achieved celebrity ; he was not five-
and-fifty when he died. And though it might be too much
to say that the artist sprang, like the reputation, full-grown
into being, it is nevertheless true that there arc no marks
of positive immaturity to be detected even in the earliest
public displays of his art. His work grows, indeed, most
marvellously in vividness and symmetry as he proceeds, but
there arc no visible signs of growth in the workman's skill.

a&.v

CHAP. III.]

LIFE AT SUTTON.

II PRIEST.

from obscu-
:orm more or
. The proc-
lie hidden in
to the world
ly aspects of
d themselves
c men's eyes,
w, if any, of
this observa-
F Sterne : the
I in duration
V was so ex-
years of age
was not five-
be too ninch
n, full-grown
ive no marks
1 the earliest
indeed, most
proceeds, but
kman's skill.

Even when the highest point of finish is attained we can-
not say that the hand is any more cunning than it was
from the first. As well might we sav that the last light
touches of the sculptor's chisel upon the perfected statue
are more skilful than its first vigorous strokes upon the
shapeless block.

It is certain, however, that Sterne must have been storing
up his material of observation, secreting his reflections on
life and character, and consciously or unconsciously matur-
ing his powers of expression, during the whole of those si-
lent twenty years which have now to be passed under brief
review. With one exception, to be noted presently, the
only known writings of his which belong to this period
are sermons, and these — a mere " scratch " collection of
pulpit discourses, which, as soon as ho had gained the pub-
lic ear, he hastened in characteristic fashion to rummage
from his desk and carry to the book-market — throw no
light upon the problem before us. There arc sermons of
Sterne which alike in manner and matter disclose the au-
thor of Tristram S hand if ; but they are not among those
which he preached or wrote before that work was given to
the world. They are not its ancestors but its descendants.
They belong to the post-Shandian period, and are in obvi-
ous imitation of the Shandian style ; while in none of the
earlier ones — not even in that famous homily on a Good
Conscience, which did not succeed till Corporal Trim
preached it before the brothers Shandy and Dr. Slop —
can we trace either the trick of style or the turn of thought
that give piquancy to the novel. Yet the peculiar quali-
ties of mind, and the special faculty of workmanship of
which this turn of thought and tr of stylo were the
product, must of course have been potentially ]>resent from
the beginning. Men do not blossom forth as wits, hu-

STEUXE.

[CUAP.

mourists, masterly delineators of cliaracter, and skilful per-
formers on a liiglily-strnng and carefully-tuned sentimental
instrument all at once, after entering their "forties;" and
the only wonder is that a possessor of these powers — some
of them of the kind which, as a rule, and in most men,
socks almost as irresistibly for exorcise as even the poetic
instinct itself — should have been held so long unemployed.
There is, however, one very common stimulus to literary
exertions which in Sterne's case was undoubtedly wanting
— a superabundance of unoccupied time. Wc have little
reason, it is true, to sup{)ose th.at this light-minded and
valetudinarian Yorkshire parson was at any period of his
life an industrious "parish priest;" but it is })robable,
nevertheless, that time never hung \ery heavily upon his
hands. In addition to the favourite amusements which he
enumerates in the Memoir, he was all his days addicted to
one which is, perhaps, the most absorl'ing of all — flirtation,
riiilandering, and especially philandcrhig of the I'latonic
and ultra-sentimental order, is almost the one human pas-
time of which its votaries never seem to tire ; and its con-
stant ministrations to human vanity may serve, perhaps,
to account for their unwearied absorption in its pursuit.
Sterne's first love affair — an affair of which, unfortunately,
the consequences were i.iorc lasting than the passion — took
place immediately upon his leaving Cambridge. To relate
it as he relates it to his daughter : " At York I became ac-
quainted with your mother, and courted her for two years.
She owned she liked me, but thoughi herself not rich
enough or me too poor to be joined together. She went
to her sister's in S[taffordshire], and I wrote to her often.
I believe then she was partly determined to have me, but
would not say so. At her return she fell into a con-
sumption, and one evening that I was sitting by her, with

iiii

".1

[CUAP.

lu.l

mauuia(;e.

1(1 skilful per-
tl soiitiiiK'iital
forties;" and
towers — some
n iiiDst men,
on the poetic

uncmi)loyed.
his to literary
teJly wanting
V"c have little
t-minJed and
period of his

is j)robable,
vily u{)on his
cnts w hich ho
•s addicted to
ill — flirtation.

the I'latonic
c human pas-
; and its con-
orve, perhaps,
in its i)ursuit.
unfortunately,
passion — took
n'c. To relate
L I became ac-
for two years.
I'self not rich
er. She went

to lier often.

have me, but
II into a con-
5 by her, with

an almost broken heart to see her so ill, sIk ■- i: 'My
dear Laurv, 1 never can be yours, for I veril\ leve I
have not lonuj to live ! but I have left yon every >liil-
liiii,' of my fortune.' Upon that she showed mo her will.
This generosity overpowered me. Tt pleased God that
she recovered, and we were married in 1741." The
name of this lady was Elizabeth Lumley, and it was to
her that Sterne addressed those earliest letters which
his dauixhtcr included in the collection ])ublished bv her
some eight years after her father's death. They were
added, the preface tells us, " in justice to Mr. Sterne's
delicate feelings;" and in our modern usage of the word
" delicate," as equivalent to infirm of health and probably
short of life, they no doubt do full justice to the passion
which they are supposed to express. It would bo unfair,
of course, to judge any love-letters of that period by the
standard of sincerity applied in our own less artificial age.
All such compositions seem frigid and formal enough to
us of to-day ; yet in most cases of genuine attachment we
usually find at least a sentence here and there in which the
natural accents of the heart make themselves heard above
the atl'ected modulations of the style. But the letters of
Sterne's courtship maintain the pseudo-poetic, shepherd-
und-shepherdes-s strain throughout; or, if the lover ever
abandons it, it is only to make somewhat maudlin record
of those "tears" which flowed a little too easily at all
times throughout liis life. These letters, however, have a
certain critical interest in their bearing upon those sensi-
bilities which Sterne afterwards learned to cultivate in a
forcing-frame, with a view to the application of their prod-
uce to the purposes of an art of pathetic writing which
simulates nature with such admirable fidelity at its best,
and descends to such singular bathos at its worst.

STERNE.

[ritAP.

The marnjin;c preluded by this courtship did not take
place till Sterne had already been three years Vicar of Sut-
ton-on-the-Korest, the benetice which had been procured
for him by his uncle the Archdeacon; through whose in-
terest also he was appointed successively to two prebends
— preferments which were less valuable lo him for their
emolument than for the ecclesiastical status which they
conferred upon him, for the excuse which they gave him
for periodical visits to the cathedral city to fulfil the resi-
dential conditions of his otKces, and for the opportunity
thus afforded him of mixing in and studying the society
of the C'lose. Upon his union with Miss Luinlcy, and, in
a somewhat curious fashion, by her im^ans, he obtained in
addition the living of Stillington. "A friend of hers in
the South liad promised her that if she married a clergy-
man in Yorkshire, when the living became vacant he would
make her a compliment of it;" and made accordingly this
singular "compliment" was. At Sutton Sterne remained
nearly twenty years, doing duty at both places, during
which time "books, painting, fiddling, and shooting were,"
he says, " my chief amusements." With wliat success ho
shot, and with what skill he fiddled, wc know not. llis
writin"s contain not a few musical metaphors and allu-
sions music, which seem to indicate a competent ac-
(juaintance with its technicalities; but the specimen of
his powers as an artist, which Mr. Fitzgerald has repro-
duced from his illustrations of a volume of poems by Mr.
Woodhull, does not dispose one to rate highly liis pro-
ficiency in this accomplishment. We niay expect that,
after all, it was the first-mentioned of his amusements in
which he took the greatest delight, and that neither the
brush, tlic bow, nor the fowling-piece was nearly so often
in his hand as the book. Within a few miles of Sutton,

[chap.

did not take
Vicar of Siit-
}cn procured
gli wlioso in-
iwo prchcnds
iiu for tlieir
I wliifh tlicy
cy gave him
iiltil the rcsi-
opportiinity
f the society
miey, and, in
! obtained in
d of liers in
led a cleruy-
ant lie would
ordinu;]y this
i-ne remained
laces, dnrinp:
)0tinif were,"
at success he
)w nut. His
jrs and allii-
Dmpetent ac-
specimen of
1 has ropro-
loeins by Mr.
fhly his pro-
expect that,
uisements in
t neither the
arly so often
2s of Sutton,

III.

MAUUIAGE.

at Skelton ('astlo, an almost unique Koinan stronghold,
since modernized by Gothic hand-*, dwelt his college-friend
John Hull Stevenson, whose well-stocked library contained
at'linict.' l)ut hcterogi'i , collection of books — old Krench
"ana," ami the learning of mediaeval doctors — books in-
tentionally and books unintentionally comic, the former of
which Sfcrtio read with an only too retentive a memory for
their jests, and the latter with an acutely humorous appre-
ciation of their solemn trilling. Latcjr on it will be time to
note the extent to which ho utilized these results of his
widely discursive reading, and to examine the legitimacy of
the mode in which he used theuj : here it is enough to
say generally that the materials for maiiy a burlesque chap-
ter of Tristram Shamhi must have been unconsciouslv
storing themselves in his mind in many an amused hour
passed bv Sterne in the librarv of Skelton Castle.

But before finally quitting this part of my subject it
may be as well, ])erhaps, to deal somewhat at length with a
matter which will doubtless have to be many times inci-
dentally referred to in the conrse of this study, but which
I now hope to relieve myself from the necessity of doing
more than touch npon hereafter. I refer of course to
Sterne's perpetually recurring Hirtations. This is a mat-
ter almost as impossible to omit from any biography of
Sterne as it would be to omit it from any biography of
Cloethe. The English humonrist did not, it is true, engage
in the }>astimc in the scriou.s, not to say scientific, spirit of
the German philosopher-poet ; it was not deliberately made
by the former as by the latter to contribute to his artistic
development; but it is nevertheless hardly open to doubt
that Sterne's philandering propensities did exercise an in-
fluence upon his literary character and work in more ways
than one. That his marriage was an ill-assorted and un'
C 2* ^

i ^

i i ix »»> .Mrt i; ^

STERNE.

[chap.

happy union was liardly so much the cause of his incon-
stancy as its effect. It may well be, of course, that the
"dear L.," whose moral and mental graces her lover had
celebrated in such superfine, sentimental fashion, was a
commonplace person cnouoh. That she was really a wom-
an of the exquisite stolidity of Mrs. Shandy, and that her
exasperating feats as an asscntatrix did, as has been sug-
gested, supply the model for the irresistibly ludicrous col-
loquies between the philosopher and his wife, there is no
sufficient warrant for believing. ]>ut it is quite possible
that the daily companion of one of the most indefatigable
jesters that ever lived may have been unable to see a joke ;
that she regarded her husband's wilder drolleries as mere
horse-collar grimacing, and that the point of his subtler
humour escaped her altogether. IJut even if it were so, it
is, to say the least of it, doubtful whether Sterne suffered
at all on this ground from the wounded f(;elings of the
mari incompris, while it is next to certain that it does not
need the sting of any such disappointment to account for
his alienation, lie must have had plenty of time and op-
portunity to discover Miss Lumley's intellectual limitations
during the two years of his courtship ; and it is not likely
that, even if they were as well marked as Mrs. Shandy's
own, they would have done much of themselves to estrange
the couple. Sympathy is not the necessity to the humour-
ist which the poet finds, or imagines, it to be to himself:
the humourist, indeed, will sometimes contrive to extract
from the very absence of sympathy in those about him a
keener relish for his reflections. With sentiment, indeed,
and still more with sentimentalisra, the case would of course
be different; but as for Mr. Sterne's demands for sympa-
thy in that department of his life and art, one may say
without the least hesitation that they would have been be-

•fa-

-M

[C'lIAP.

of his incon-
urso, that the
her lover had
ishion, was a
really a wom-

and that her
las hccu suo--
hidicrous col-
0, there is no
quite possible

indefatigable
to sec a joke ;
leries as mere
af liis snbtler
' it were so, it
:erne suffered
clings of the
it it does not
o account for

time and op-
lal limitations
t, is not likelv
\h's. Shandy's
es to estrange
> the humour-
>o to himself:
ve to extract

about him a
mcnt, indeed,
:)uld of course
Is for sympa-

one may say
have been be-

m.]

MARRIAGE.

yond the power of any one woman, however distinguished
a disciple of the " Laura Matilda " school, to satisfy. " I
must ever," he frankly says in one of the " Yorick to Eliza"
letters, "I must ever have some Dulcinea in my head: it
harmonizes the soul;" and he might have added that he
found it impossible to sustain the harmony without fre-
quently changing the Didcinea. One may suspect that
Mrs. Sterne soon had cause for jealousy, and it is at least
certain that several years before Sterne's emergence into
notoriety their estrangement was complotc. One daughter
was born to them in 1745, but lived scarcely more than
long enough to be rescued from the limhiis infantium by
the prompt rites of the Church. The child was christened
Lydia, and died on the following day. Its place was tilled
in 1V47 by a second daughter, also christened Lydia, who
lived to become the wife of M. de Medalle, and the not
very judicious editress of the posthumous "Letters." For
her as she grew up Sterne conceived a genuine and truly
fatherly affection, and it is in writing to her and of her
that we sec him at his best ; or rather one might say it is
almost only then that we can distinguish the true notes of
the heart through that habitual falsetto of sentimentalism
which distinguishes most of Sterne's communications with
the other sex. There was no subsequent issue of the mar-
riage, and, from one of the letters most indiscreetly in-
cluded in Madame de Medalle's collection, it is to be as-
certained that some four years or so after Lydia's birth the
relations between Sterne and Mrs. Sterne ceased to be con-
jugal, and never again resumed that character.

It is, however, probable, upon the husband's own con-
fessions, that he had given his wife earlier cause for jeal-
ousy, and certaiidy from the time when lie begins to re-
veal himself in correspondence there seems to bo hardly

STERNE.

[chap.

a moment when some such cause was not in existence
— in the person of this, that, or tlie other lackadaisical
damsel or cociuettish matron. From Miss Fourmantelle,
the " dear, dear Kitty," to whom Sterne was makino- vio-
lent love in 1759, the year of the York publication of
Tristram Shandy, down to Mrs. Draper, the heroine of
the famous "Yorick to Eliza" letters, the list of ladies
who seem to have kindled flames in that susceptible breast
is almost as long" and more real than the roll of mistresses
immortalized by Horace. How Mrs. Sterne at first bore
herself under her husband's ostentatious neixlect there is
no direct evidence to show. That she ultimately took
refuge in indifference we can perceive, but it is to be fear-
ed tliat she was not always able to maintain the attitude
of contemptuous composure. So, at least, we may suspect
from the evidence of that Frenchman who met " le bon et
agroable Tristram," and his wife, at Montpellier, and who,
characteristically sympathizing with the inconstant luis-
band, declared that his wife's incessant pursuit of him
made him pass "d'assez mauvais moments," which he bore
" with the patience of an angel." But, on the whole, Mrs.
Sterne's conduct seems by her husband's own admissions
to have been not wanting in dignity.

As to the nature of Sterne's love-affairs I have come,
though not without hesitation, to the conclusion that they
were most, if not all of them, what is called, somewhat
absurdly, Platonic. In saying this, however, I am by no
means prepared to assert that they would all of them have
passed muster before a prosaic and unsentimental British
jury as mere indiscretions, and nothing worse. Sterne's
relations with Miss Fourmantelle, for instance, assumed at
last a profoundly compromising character, and it is far
from improbable that the worst construction would have

M i

[chap.

II..]

MARRIAGE.

t ill existence
I' lackadaisical
Fourmantelle,
IS making vio-
pnblication of
lie heroine of
list of ladies
ceptibic breast
1 of mistresses
3 at first bore
?<i:lect there is
Itiniately took
i is to be fear-
n the attitude
e may suspect
net " le bon et
llier, and who,
iconstant hus-
iirsuit of him
which he bore
he whole, Mrs.
\\n admissions

I have come,
ision that they
led, somewhat
r, I am by no
I of them have
mental British
Drse. Sterne's
CO, assumed at

and it is far
on would have

been put upon them by one of the plaLn-dcaling tribunals
aforesaid. Certainly a young woman who leaves her
mother at York, and corncs up to London to reside alone
in lodgings, where she is constantly being visited by a
lover who is himself living en f/avfon in the metropolis,
can hardly complain if her imprudence is fatal to her rep-
utation ; neither can he if his own suffers in the same
way. l>ut, as I am not of those who hold that the con-
ventionally "innocent" is the equivalent of the morally
harmless in this matter, I cannot regard the question as
worth any very minute investigation. I am not sure that
the habitual male flirt, who neglects his wife to sit con-
tinually languishing at the feet of some other woman,
gives much less pain and scandal to others, or does much
less mischief to himself an<l the objects of his adoration,
than the thorough-going profligate ; and I even feel tempt-
ed to risk the apparent paradox that, from the artistic
point of view, Sterne lost rather than gained by the gener-
ally Platonic character of his amours. For, as it was, the
restniint of one instinct of his nature implied the over-in-
dulgence of another which stood in at least as much need
of chastenment. If his love-affairs stopped short of the
gratification of the senses, they involved a perpetual fond-
ling and caressing of those effeminate sensibilities of his
into that condition of hyper-iesthesia which, though Sterne
regarded it as the strength, was in reality the weakness, of
his art.

Injurious, however, as was tlie effect which Sterne's phi-
landerings exercised upon his personal and literary charac-
ter, it is not likely that, at least at this period of his life
at Sutton, they had in any degree compromised his repu-
tation. For this he had provided in other ways, and prin-
cipally by his exceedingly injudicious choice of associates.

STERNE.

[chap.

" As to tlie squire of the parish," he remarks in the Me-
moir, " I cannot say we were on a very friendly footing,
but at Stillington the family of the C[roft]s showed us ev-
ery kindness: 'twas most agreeable to be within a mile and
a half of an amiable family who were ever cordial friends;"
and who, it may be added, appear to have been Sterne's
only reputable acquaintances. For the satisfaction of all
other social needs he seems to have resorted to a compan-
ionship which it was liardly possible for a clergyman to
frequent without scandal — that, namely, of John Hall Ste-
venson and the kindred spirits whom he delighted to col-
lect around him at Skelton — familiarly known as "Crazy"
Castle. The club of the "Demoniacs," of which Sterne
makes mention in his letters, may have had nothing very
diabolical about it except the name ; but, headed as it was
by the suspected ex-comrade of Wilkes and his brother
monks of Medmenham, and recruited by gay militaires
like Colonels Hall and Lee, and "fast" parsons like the
Rev. " Panty " Lascelles (mock godson of Pantagruel), it
was certainly a society in which the Vicar of Sutton could
not expect to enroll himself without offence. We may
fairly suppose, therefore, that it was to his association with
these somewhat too "jolly companions" that Sterne owed
that disfavour among decorous country circles, of which
he shows resentful consciousness in the earlier chapters of
Tristram Shandij.

But before we finally cross the line which separates the
life of the obscure country parson from the life of the
famous author, a word or two must be said of that piece
of writing which was alluded to a few pages back as the
only known exception to the generally " professional " char-
acter of all Sterne's compositions of the pre-Shandian era.
This was a piece in the allegoric-satirical style, which,

[chap.

ks in the Me-
endly footing,
sliowed us ev-
hin a mil(3 and
)rdial friends;"

been Sterne's
sfaction of all
I to a conipan-

clcrgynian to
John Hall Ste-
lighted to col-
vn as "Crazy"
: which Sterne

I nothing very
;adcd as it was
nd his brother

gay militaires
irsons like the
Pantagruel), it
if Sutton could
ICO. We may
ssociation with
at Sterne owed
rcles, of which
lier chapters of

I I separates the
the life of the
d of that piece
jes back as the
Fessional " char-
e-Shandian era.
il style, which,

in.]

THE PARISH PRIEST.

though not very remarkable in itself, may not improbably
have helped to determine its author's tlioughts in the
direction of more elaborate literary efforts. In the year
175S a dispute had arisen between a certain Dr. Topham,
an ecclesiastical lawyer in large local practice, and Dr.
Fountayne, the then Dean of York. This dispute had
originated in an attempt on the part of the learned ci-
vilian, who appears to have been a pluralist of an excep-
tionally insatiable order, to obtain the reversion of one of
his luuucrous offices for his son, alleging a promise made
to him on that behalf by the Archbishop. This promise
— which had, in fact, been given — was legally impossible of
perfwrmance, and upon the failure of his attempt the dis-
appointed Topham turned upon the Dean, and maintained
that by him, at any rate, he had been promised another
place of the value of five guineas per annum, and appro-
priately known as the " Commissaryship of Pickering and
Poeklitio'ton." This the Dean denied, and thereupon Dr.
Topham lired off a pamphlet setting forth the circum-
stances of the alleged promise, and protesting against the
wrong intlicted upon him by its non-perfornuuice. At
this point Sterne came to Dr. Fonntayne's assistance with
a sarcastic apologue entitled the " History of a good Warm
Watchcoat," which liad " hung up many years in tlie
parish vestry," and showing how this garment had so
excited the cupidity of Trim, the sexton, that " nothing
would serve him but he must take it home, to liave it
converted into a warm under-petticoat for liis wife and a
jerkin for liimself against the winter." The symbolization
of Dr. Topham's snug " patent place," which he wished to
make hereditary, under the image of the good warm watch-
coat, is of course plain enough ; and there is some humour
in the way in which the parson (the Archbishop) discovers

STERNE.

[chap. III.

that his incautious assent to Trim's request had been given
ultra vires. Looking througli the parish register, at the
request of a Labourer who wislied to ascertain his age, the
parson finds express words of bequest leaving the watch-
coat " for tlic solo use of the sextons of the church for
ever, to be worn by tlieni respectively on winterly cohl
nights," and at tlic moment when he is exclaiming, "Just
Heaven ! what an escape have I had ! Give this for a
petticoat to Trim's wife !" he is interrupted by Trim him-
self entering the vestry with " the coat actually ript and
cut out" ready for conversion into a petticoat for his wife.
And we get a foretaste of tlic familiar Shandian imperti-
nence in the remark which follow.s, that " there are many
good similes subsisting in the world, but which I have
neither time to recollect nor look for, which would give
you an idea of the parson's astonishment at Trim's im-
pudence." The emoluments of "Pickering and Pock-
lington " appear under the figure of a " pair o'f black velvet
plush breeches" which ultimately " got into the possession
of one Lorry Slim (Sterne himself, of course), an unlucky
wight, by whom they are still worn : in truth, as you will
guess, they arc very thin by this time."

The whole thing is the very slightest of " skits ;" and
the quarrel having been accommodated before it could be
published, it was not given to the world until after its
author's death. But it is interesting, as his first known
attempt in this line of composition, and the graspino- sex-
ton deserves remembrance, if only as having handed down
his name to a far more famous descendant.

[CIIAP. III.

1(1 been given
gistcr, at the
I his age, the
L? the watch-
ii cluirch for
vintorly cold
imino:, "Just
'c this for a
y Trim hini-
illy ript and
for his wife,
lian imperti-
M'o are many
hich I liave
would give
' Irnn s inl-
and Pock-
black velvet
10 possession
, an unlucky
, as you will

skits ;" and
it could be
itil after its
first known
rasping sex-
andcd down

■%

CILVPTER IV.

" TRISTRAM SIIANDV," VOLS. 1. AND II.

(1759-17G0.)

IIiTiiERTO WO liave liad to construct our conception of
Sterne out of materials of more or less plausible conjecture.
We arc now at last approaching the region of positive evi-
dence, and henceforward, down almost to the last scene of
all, Sterne's doings will be chronicled, and his character re-
vealed, by one wlio happens, in this case, to be tho best of
all possible biographers — the man himself. Not tliat such
records are by any means always the most trustworthy of
evidence. There are some men whose real character is
never more effectually concealed than in their correspond-
ence. Put it is not so with Sterne. The careless, slipshod
letters which Madame do Medalle "pitchforked" into tho
book- market, rather tlian edited, are highly valuable as
pieces of autobiogi'aphy. They are easy, naive, and nat-
nral, rich in simple self-disclosure in almost every page;
and if they have more to tell us about the man than
the writer, they are yet not wanting in instructive hints
as to Sterne's methods of composition and his theories
of art.

It was in the year 1759 tliat the Vicar of Sutton and
Prebendary of York — already, no doubt, a stone of stum-
bling and a rock of offence to many worthy people in the

STEBXE.

[CIIAP.

county — conceived the idea of astonisliing and scaiidalizincf
them still further after a new and orininal fashion. His
impulses to literary production were probably various, and
not all of them, rv perhai)s tlic strongest of them, of the
artistic order. Jhe first and most urgent was, it may be
suspected, tlie simplest and most common of all such mo-
tive forces. Sterne, in all likelihood, was in want of money.
lie was not, perhaps, under tlic actual instruction of that
muf/istei' art'mni whom the Roman satirist has celebrated ;
for he declared, indeed, afterwards, that " he wrote not to
be fed, but to be famous." But the context of the passage
shows that he only meant to deny any absolute compul-
sion to write for mere subsistence. Between this sort of
constraint and tliat gentler form of pressure whicli arises
from the wish to increase an income suflicient for one's
needs, but inadeciuate to one's desires, there is a consider-
able difference ; and to repudiate the one is not to disclaim
the other. It is, at any rate, certain that Stornc engaged
at one tim ; of his life in a rather speculative sort of farm-
ing, and we have it from himself in a passage in one of liis
letters, which may be jest, but reads more like earnest, that
it was his losses in this business that first turned his atten-
tion to literature.' His thoughts once set in that direction,
his peculiar choice of subject and method of treatment arc
easily comprehensible. Pantagruelic burlesque came to
him, if not naturally, at any rate by "second nature."
He had a strong and sedulously cultivated taste for Rabe-
laisian humour; his head Avas crammed with all sorts of

' '• I was once such a puppy myself," lie writes to ii certain baronet
whom he is attomptinj^ to iliscouraf:;c from speculative farming of
this sort, "and iiad my labour for my pains and two hundred pounds
out of pocket. Curse on farming! (I said). Let us see if the pen
will not succeed better than the spade."

[CIIAP.

.v.]

"TUISTRAM SHANDY," VOLS. I. AND II.

scandal iziniif

isliion. His

various, and

them, of tli(!

s, it may be

■5

all Rucli mo-

lt of money.

tion of that

celebrated ;

vrotc not to

the passage

nto coinpul-

this sort of

whicli arises

nt for one's

5 a consider-

, '

t to disclaim

rne ono-awd

)ort of farm-

n one of liis

earnest, that

ed his atten-

at direction,

reatment are

uc came to

nd nature."

to for Rabe-

all sorts of

•oitain baronet

ve riirniiiig of

inulrod ])ouniis
see if the pen

-4

out-of-the-way learning constantly tickling his comic sense
by its very uselossness ; he relished more keenly than any
man the solemn futilities of mediaeval doctors, and the pe-
dantic indecencies of casuist fathers ; and, along with all
these temptations to an enterprise of the kind upon which
be entered, he had bcei' experiencing a steady relaxation
of deterrent restraints, lie had fallen out with his uncle
some years since,' and the quarrel had freed him from at
least one intiuencc making for clerical propriety of beliav-
iour. His incorrigible levities had probably lost him the
countenance of most of his more serious ac(iuaintances;
his satirical humour had as probably gained him personal
enemies not a few, and it may bo that he bad gradually
contra( ted something of that " naughty-boy " temper, as
we may call it, for whicli the deliberate and ostentatious
repetition of offences has an inexplicable charm. It seems
clear, too, that, growth for growth with this spirit of brava-
do, there bad sprung up — in somewhat incongruous com-
panionship, perhaps — a certain sense of wrong. Along
with the impulse to give an additional shock to the i)reju-
diccs he had already offended, Sterne felt impelled to vin-
dicate what he considered the genuine moral worth u?ider-
lying the indiscretions of the offender. What, then, could
better suit him than to compose a novel in which he might
give full play to his simious hiiniour, startle more hideously
than ever his straighter-laced neighbours defiantly defend
his own character, and caricature whatever eccentric figure

' lie himself, indeed, makes a partieular point of this in explaining
his literary venture. " Now for your desire," lie writes to a corre-
spondent in 17")!), "of knowing tlie reason of my turning author?
why, truly I am tired of employing my brains for other people's ad-
vantage. 'Tis a foolish sacrifice I have made for some years for an
ungrateful person." -^Letters, i. 82.

STERNE.

[CUAP.

in the society around him mii^ht offer the most tcmptinj*
butt for ridicule?

All tlie world knows how far he ultimately advanced
beyond the simplicity of the conception, and into wliat far
hiyher regions of art its execution led him. Ihit I find no
convincinc: reason for believino* that Tristram ShamJi/ iiad
at the outset any more seriously artistic purpose than this ;
and much indirect evidence that this, in fact, it was.

The humorous figure of Mr. Hlundy is, of course, the
Cervantic centre of the whole; an" it was out of him and
his crotchets that Sterne, no doubt, intended from the first
to draw the materials of that often unsavoury fun which
was to amuse the light-minded and scandalize the demure.
But it can hardly escape notice that the two most elab-
orate portraits in Vol. 1. — the admirable but very llatter-
ingly idealized sketch of the author himself in Yorick, and
the Gilraycsque caricature of Dr. Slop — are drawn with a
distinctly polemical purpose, defensive in the former case
and offensive in the latter. On the other hand, with the
disappearance of Dr. Slop caricature of living persons dis-
appears also ; while, after the famous description of Yor-
ick's death-bed, we meet with no more attempts at self-
vindication. It seems probable, therefore, that long before
the first two volumes were completed Sterne had discovered
the artistic possil luties of "My Uncle Toby" and "Cor-
poral Trim," and had realized the full potentialities of hu-
mour contained in the contrast between the two brothers
Shandy. The very work of sharpening and deepening the
outlines of this humorous antithesis, while it made the
crack-brained philosopher more and more of a burlesque
unrealitv, continuallv added new touches of life and nature
to the lineaments of the simple-minded soldier ; and it was
by this curious and lialf-accidental process that there came

•^

•fi

I I

[chap.
;t tcniptinj*

Y advfinccd
to wliat far
it I find no
■ihandi/ had
; than tliis;

Avas.

coui'so, the
of liim and
Din the first

fun which
;ho demure.

most clab-
,'cry fiattcr-
Voriclc, and
awn with a
former case
d, with the
persons dis-
ion of Yor-
ipts at self-
h)n<^ before
[ discovered

and " Cor-
lities of hu-
,vo brothers
epcning the
t made the
a burlesque

and nature
; and it was

there came

.v.]

'TKISTRAM SHANDY," VOLS. I. AND 11.

•A
•%

to be added to the gallery of Hnudish fiction one of the
most perfect and delij>htfid portraits that it possesses.

We know from internal evidence that Tristram Shandy
was bc;4un in the early days of 1750; and the first two
volumes were probably completed by about the middlp of
the year. " In the year 1700," writes Sterne, " T went up
to London to publish my two first volumes of Shandy^
And it is stated in a note to this pi' s;;o'e, as cited in Scott's
memoir, that the first edition was published " the year be-
fore" in York. There is, ho^vever, no direct proof that it
was in the hands of the public before the bcj^inninc; of
17G0, thoui^li it is possible that the date of its publication
may just have fallen within the year, liut, at all events,
on the 1st of January, 1700, an advertisement in the Pub-
Ik Advertiser informed the world that '' this day " was
"published, printed on superfine writino--papcr, »tc., 7'/<<'
Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy. York. Printed
for and sold by John llinxham. Bookseller in Stonegate."
The great London publisher, Dodsley, to whom the book
had been offered, and who had declined the venture, fig-
ures in the advertisement as the principal London book-
seller from whom it was to be obtained. It seems that
only a few copies were in the first instance sent up to the
London mai :et; but they fell into good liands, for there
is evidence that Tristram Shandy had attracted the notice
of at least one competent critic in the cai)ital before the
montli of January was out. But though the metropolitan
success of the book was destined to be delayed for still a
month or two, in York it had already created a furore in
more senses than one. For, in fact, and no wonder, it had
in many quarters given the deepest oilcnce. Its llabelai-
sian license of incident and allusion was calculated to of-
fend the proprieties — the provincial proprieties especially —

STERNE.

[chap.

even in that froc-spokcn in,'e ; and tlicro was tliat in the
book, moreover, which a provincial society may I'e count-
ed on to abominate, with a keener if less disinterested ab-
horrence than any sins a<,'ainst decency. It contained, or
was.supposed to tjntain, a broa<lly ludicrous caricature of
one well-known local pliy«ioian ; and an allusion, brief, in-
deed, and covert, but hi^'hly scandalous, to a certain " droll
foible" attributed to another personai,'e of much wider
celebrity in the scicntitic world. The victim in the latter
ease was no longer living; and this circumstance brought
upon Sterne a remonstrance from a correspondent, to
which he replied in a letter so characteristic in many re-
spects as to be worth (pioting. His correspondent was a
j ),. * * I": * * (asterisks for which it is now impossible to
substitute letters); aid the burden of what seem to have
been several communications in speech and writing on the
subject was the maxim, " iJe mortuis nil nisi bonum."
AVitli such seriousness and severity had his correspondent
dwelt upon this adage, that " at length," writes Sterne,
"you have made me as serious and as severe as yourself;
but, that the humours you have stirred up might not work
too potently within me, I have waited four days to cool
myself before I could set pen to paper to answer you."
And thus he sots forth the results of his four days' delib-
eration :

'"Do mortuis nil nisi bonum.' I declare I have considered the
wisdom and foundation of it over and over again as dispassionately
and charitably as a good Christian can, and, after all, I can find noth-
ing in it, or ni .ke more of it than a nonsensical lullaby of some
nurse, put into l/itin by some pedant, to be chanted by some hypo-
crite to the end of the world for the consolation of departing lechers.
'Tis, I own, Latin, and I think that is all the weight it has, for, in
plain Englir^h, 'lis a loose and futile position below a dispute. ' You
are not to speak anything of the dead but what is good.' Why so?

ii-i

[chap.

lliat in the
V 1»(! coiint-
tevostt'd ab-
ontaiiicd, or
aricaturo of
)U, brief, in-
rtain " droll
niicli wider
in the latter
nee brouifht
pendent, to
in many rc-
ndeut was a
inpossiblc to
LH'Ui to have
•itinu; on the
isi bonum."
)rrespondcnt
rites Sterne,
as yourself;
;ht not work
lays to cool
inswer you."
• days' delib-

considcred the
dispassionately
[ ciui find noth-
Lillaby of some
by some hypo-
parting lechers,
it it lias, for, in
dispute. ' You
)od.' Whv so?

.v.]

"TRISTIIAM SHANDY," VOLS. I. AKD II.

8tf

Who says so V Neither reason nor Scripture. Insjiired authors have
done otherwise, and reason and common sense tell me that, if the
characters of past ages ami men are to he drawn at all, they are to
he drawn liUe thcm.'^elves, that is, wUh their excellences and their
foihlcs ; and it as much a piece of ju.itico to the woilil, and to virtue,
too, to do the one as the other. The ruling passion, it Iih iiptrrmmls
da rout; are tlfe very things which mark and distinguish a man's
iharacter, in wliieh 1 would as soon leave out a man's head as his
hohhy-hoise. IloweviT, if, like the poor devil of a painter, we must
conform to the pious canon, ' De mortuis,' &c., whlcli I own has a
spice of piety in the mmnd of it, and he ol)lig(;d to paint both (jur
angels and our devils out of the same pot, I then infer that our Syd-
enlianis and our Sangrados, our Lucretias and our Messalinas, our
Somersets and our Boliiighrokes, are alike entitled to statues, ami
all the historians or satirists who have said otherwise since tiiey de-
parted this life, from Sallust to S e, are guilty of the crimes

you charge me with, 'cowardice and injustice' Hut why cowardice?
' IJccause 'tis not courage to attack a dead man who can't defend
himself.' Jhit why do you doctors attack such a one with your in-
cision knife? Oh ! for the good of the living. 'Tis my plea."

And, liavlnp; given this humorous twist to his argument,
he glides off into extenuatory matter. He had not even,
he protests, made as much as a surgical Incision into his
victim (Dr. Richard Mead, the friend of Bentlcy and of
Newton, and a physician and physiologis ^f high repute
in his day) ; he had but just scratchc iiim, and that
scarce skin-dcei). As to the "droll foible" <>f Dr. Mead,
which he had made merry with, "it was not lirst report( i
(even to the fev. svho can understand the hint) by lue, but
known before by every chanibenuaid and footman within
the bills of mortality " — a somewhat daring assertion, one
would imagine, considering what the droll foible was; and
Dr. Mead, continues Sterne, gr.:at man as he was, had,
after all, not fared worse than " a man of twice his wis-
dom" — to wit Solomon, of whom the same remark had

STERNE.

[chap.

I I m

been made, that " they -vvcre botli great men, and, like all
mortal men, had eacli then- ruling passion."

The mixture of banter and sound reasoning in this reply
is, no doubt, very skilful. But, unfortunately, neither the
reasoning nor the banter happens to meet the case of this
particular defiance of the " De mortuis" maxim, and as a
serious defence against a serious charge (which was what
the occasion required) Sterne's answer is altogether futile.
For the plea of "the good of the living," upon which, af-
ter all, the whole defence, considered seriously, rests, was
quite inapplicable as an excuse for the incriminated pas-
sage. The only living persons who could possibly be af-
fected by it, for good or evil, were those surviving friends
of the dead man, to whom Sterne's allusion to what he
called Dr. Mend's "droll foible" was calculated to cause
the deepest pain and shame.

The other matter of oifence to Sterne's Yorkshire read-
ers was of a much more elaborate kind. In the person of
Dr. Slup, the grotesque man-midwife, Avho was to have as-
sisted, but missed assisting, at Tristram s entry into the
world, the good people of York were not slow to recog-
nize the physical peculiarities and professional antecedents
of Dr. r>urton, the local accoucheur, whom Archdeacon
Sterne had arrested as a Jacobite. That the portrait was
faithful to anvthiuii' but the external traits of tlie oriijinal,
or was intended to reproduce anything more than these,
Sterne afterwards denied ; and we have certainly no
ground for thinking that liurton had invited ridicule on
any other than the somewhat unworthy ground of the
curious ugliness of his face and figure. It is most unlikely
that his success as a practitioner in a branch of the med-
ical art in which imposture is the most easily detected,
could have been earned by mere quackery ; and be seems,

IV.]

" TRISTRAM RIIANDY," VOLS. I. AND II.

moreover, to have been a man of learning in more Ivinds
than one. The probability is that the worst that could
be alleged against him was a tendency to scientific pedan-
try in his published writings, which was pretty sure to
tickle the fancy of Mr, Sterne. Unscrnpulously, however,
as he was caricatured, the sensation which appears to have
been excited in the county by the burlesque portrait could
hardly have been due to any strong public sympathy with
the involuntary sitter. Dr. Burton seems, as a suspected
Jacobite, to have been no special favourite with the York-
shire scpiirearchy in general, but rather the reverse thereof.
Ucalegon, however, does not need to be popular to arouse
his neighbour's interest in his misfortunes; and the cari-
cature of ]5urton was doubtless resented on the proximus
ardet principle by many who feared that their turn was
coming next.

To all the complaints and protests which reached him
on the subject Sterne would in any case, probably, have
been indifferent ; but he was soon to receive encourage-
ment which would have more than repaid a man of his
temper for twice the number of rebukes. For London
cared nothing for Yorkshire susceptibilities and Yorkshire
fears. Provincial notables might be libelled, ami their
friends might go in fear of similar treatment, but all that
was nothing to "the town," and Tristram Shaitdi/ had
taken the town by storm. We gather from a passage in
the letter above quoted that as early as January 30 the
book had " gained the very favourable opinion " of Mr.
Garrick, afterwards to become the author's intimate friend ;
and it is certain that by the time of Sterne's arrival in
Lotidon, in March, 1760, Tristram Shandy had become the
rage.

To say of this extraordinary work that it defies analysis
1) 3 4

! ,

STEllXE.

[chap.

would be the merest inadequacy of commonplace. It was
meant to defy analysis; it is of the very essence of its
scheme and purpose that it should do so ; and the mere
attempt to subject it systematically to any such process
would .-u-giic an altogether mistaken conception of the
author's intent. Its full "official" style and title is The
Life^ and Opimons of Tristram Shandy, Gent, and it
IS difficult to say whicli it contains the less about— the
opinions of Tristram Shandy or the events of his life. As
a matter of fact, its proper description would be " The
Opinions of Tristram Shandy's Father, with some Passao-cs
from the Life of his Uncle." Its claim to be reo-arded°as
a biography of its nominal hero is best illustrated by the
fact that Tristram is not born till the third volume", and
not breeched till the sixth ; that it is not till the seventh
that he begins to play any active part in the narrative,
appearing then only as a completely colourless and unin-
dividualizcd figure, a mere vehicle for the conveyance of
Sterne's own Continental impressions de voyage; and that
in the last two volumes, which are entirely taken up with
the incident of his uncle's courtship, ho disappears from
the story altogether. It is to be presumed, perhaps, thouo-h
not very confidently, that the reader would have seen more
of him if the tale had been continued ; but how much or
how little is quite uncertain. The real hero of the book
IS at the outset Mr. Shandy, senior, who is, later on, suc-
ceeded in this place of dignity by my Uncle Tobv. It not
only served Sterne's purpose to confine himself mainly to
these two characters, as the best whereon to display' his
powers, but it was part of Jiis studied eccentricity to do
so. It was a "point" to give as little as possible about
Iristram Shandy in a life of Tristram Shandy; just as it
was a point to keep the reader waiting throughout the year

s»

[chap.

place. It was
essence of its
and the mere

such process
option of the
I title is The
Gent., and it
IS about — the
■ his life. As
Ljld be "The
i>iae Passao'cs
3 reg-avded as
tratcd bv the

volume, and
1 the seventh
he narrative,
;ss and unin-
>nveyaiice of
ye; and that
ken up with
ppcars from
haps, though
■c seen more
o\v much or
of the book
iter on, suc-
oby. It not
If mainly to

display his
ricity to do
ssiblc about

; just as it
mi the vear

IV.]

' TRISTRAM SIIAXDY," VOLS. I. AXD If.

1760 for their hero to be so much as born. In the first
volume, therefore, the author docs literally everythinf>- but
make the slio;htcst progress with his story. Starting ol!
abruptly with a mock physiologic disquisition upon the
importance of a proper ordering of their mental states on
the part of the intending progenitors of children, he phi-
losophizes gravely on this theme for two or three chapters;
and then wanders away into an account of the local mid-
wife, upon whose sole services Mrs. Shandy, in opposition
to her husband, was inclined to rely. From the midwife
it is an easy transition to her patron and protector, the
incumbent of the parish, and this, in its turn, suggests a
long excursus on the character, habits, appearance, home,
friends, enemies, and finally death, burial, and epitaph of
the liev. Mr. Yorick. Thence we return to Mr. and Mrs.
Shandy, and arc made acquainted, in absurdly minute
detail, with an agreement entered into between them with
reference to the place of sojourn to be selected for the
lady's accouchement, the burlesque deed which records
this compact being actually set out at full length. Thence,
again, we arc beckoned away by the jester to join him in
. . ■»rate and not very edifying ridicule of the Catholic
( c"t;inc of ante-natal baptism ; and tlience— but it would
be useless to follow farther the windings and doublings of
this literary liare.

\et though the book, as one thus summarizes it, may
appear a mere farrago of digrcs.sions, it nevertheless, after
its peculiar fashion, advances. Sucli definite purpose as
underlies the tricks and grimaces of its author is by de-
grees accomplished ; and before we reach the end of the
first volume tlie highly humorous, if extravagantly ideal-
ized, figure of Mr. Shandy takes bodily shape "and 'consist-
ency before our eyes. It is a mistake, I think, of Sir Wal-

STERXE.

[ciup.

tcr Scott's to re-ard the portrait of this eccentric philoso-
I.her as intended for a satire upon perverted and deran.red
erudition-as the study of a man "whom too much and
too miscellaneous learning had brought within a step or
two of madness." Sterne's conception seems to me a
httle more subtle and less commonplace than that. Mr
Slia.idy, I imagine, is designed to personify not " crack-
brained learning" so much as " theorv run mad." He is
possessed by a sort of Demon of the Deductive, ever im-
pelling him to push his premises to new conclusions with-
out over allowing him time to compare them with the far>ts
^o doubt we are meant to regard him as a learned man •
but his son gives us to understand distinctly and very earlv
m the book that his crotchets were by no means those of
a weak receptive mind, overladen with moro knowledo-e
tuan It could digest, but rather those of an over-active in-
telligence, far more deeply and constantly concerned with
Its own processes than with the thoughts of others Tris-
tram, indeed, dwells pointedly on the fact that his father's
dialectical skill was not the result of training, and that he
owed nothing to the logic of the schools. " He was cer-
tainly," says his son, "irresistible both in his orations and
disputations," but that was because "he was born an orator
(efoc.oa.Toe). Persuasion hung upon his lips, and the ele-
ments of logic and rhetoric were so blended in him and
withal he had so shrewd a guess at the weaknesses' and
passions of his respondent, that Nature might have stood
up and said, ' This man is eloquent.' And yet," continues
the nlial panegyric,

" lie htul nevo. read Cicero nor Quintiliau de Oratorc, nor Aristotle
nor Long,„us among ti.e ancient., nor Vossius, nor Skioppius, noi'
Ramus nor Farnuby among ti.e moderns: and wi.at is more astoni.l,-
lug he had never in his whole life the least light or spark of subtiltv

t
%

[chap.

ntric philoso-
^nd deraiiired
)o imicli and
in a step or
ms to me a
n that. Air.
not "crack-
lad." lie is
ivo, ever itn-
lusions with-
itb the facts,
earned man ;
id very early
ans those of
! knowJedo'c
er-active in-
ccrned with
hers. Tris-
his fatlier's
and that he
He was cer-
irations and
■n an orator
and the ele-
" him, and
cnesses and
liave stood
" continues

IV.]

" TRISTRAM SHANDY," VOLS. I. AND II.

struck into his miiul by one single lecture upon Crackcntliorpe oi-
Burgersdioius or any Dutch commentator : he knew not so nuicli as
in what tlie difference of an argument ad ignovnntiam and an argu-
ment ad hominon consisted ; and wlien he went up along with me to
enter my name at Jesus College, in * » * *, it was a matter of ju*t
wonder with my woi'.hy tutor and two or three Fellows of that learned
society that a man who knew not so much as the names of his tools
should be able to work after that fashion with them."

Surely we all know men of this kind, and the consterna-
tion — comparable only to that of M. Jourdain under the
impromptu carte -and -tierce of his servant-maid — which
their sturdy if informal dialectic will often spread among
many kinds of "learned societies." But such men are
certainly not of the class which Scott supposed to have
been ridiculed in the character of Walter Shandy.

Among the crotchets of this born dialectician was a the-
ory as to the importance of Christian names in deterinin-
iiig tlie future beliaviour and destiny of the children to
whom they are given; and, whatever admixture of jest
there might have been in some of his other fancies, in this
his son affirms he was absolutely serious. lie solemnly
maintained the opinion "that there was a strange kind of
magic bias which good or bad names, as he called them,
irresistibly impre^ed upon our character and conduct."
How many C.'usars and Pompeys, he would say, by mere
inspiration of their names have been rendered worthy of
them ! And how many, he would add, are there who might
have done exceeding well in the world had not their char-
acters and spirits been totally depressed and Nicodemus'd
into nothing! He was astonished at parents failing to
perceive that " when once a vile name was wrongfully or
injudiciously given, 'twas not like a case of a man's charac-
ter, which, when wronged, miglit afterwards be cleared;

rii

«.i

STERXE.

[chap.

and possibly some time or other, if not in the man's life,
at least after his death, be someliow or other set to rio-hts
\vith the worhl." This name-giving injury, he would say,
" eonld never be undone ; nay, ho doubted whether an Aet
of Parliament eould reach it ; he knew, as well as you, that
the Legislature assumed a power over surnames; but for
very strong reasons, which he could give, it had never yet
adventured, he would say, to go a step further."

A\ ith all this extravagance, however, there was com-
bin('(l an admirable atfectation of sobriety. Mr, Shandy
would have us believe that he was no blind slave to his
theory, lie was quite willing to admit the existence of
names which could not atfeet the character either for
good or evil — Jack, Dick, and Tom, for instance; and
such the philosopher styled "neutral names," atlirming of
them, " without a satire, that there had been as many
knaves and fools at least as wise and good men since the
world began, who had inditlerently borne them, so that,
like equal forces acting against each other in contrary
directions, he thought they nuitually destroyed each
other's effects; for which reason lie would often declare
he would not give a cherry-stone to choose among them.
Bob, whicli was my brother's name, was another of these
neutral kinds of Christian names which operated very lit-
tle cither way ; and as my father happened to be at lips .n
when it was given him, he would ofttimes thank Heaven
it wi' no worse." ForewariiOd of this peculiarity of Mr.
Shandy's, th .ider is, of course, prepared to hear that of
all the names in the universo the phihjsopher had the most
unconipierable aversion for Tristram, "the lowest and most
contemi)tible opinion of it of anything in the world." lie
would break off in the midst of one of his frequent dis-
putes on the subject of names, and "in a spirited e[>i[>hu-

[chap.

Jiiairs life,
t to rig-lits
would say,
hci" an Act
s you, tliat
s ; but for
, never yet

was com-
[r. Sliandv
lave to his
[istence of
cither for
ance ; and
Hrniino- of

as many

since the
[1, so that,
I contrary
yed each
3n declare
ono- them,
r of these
d verv lit-

at E[)s ,n
ik Heaven
ity of Mr.
'ar that of
I the most

and most
)rld." He
qncnt dis-
d e|)i[thu-

iv.J

"TRISTRAM SHANDY," VOLS. I. AND II.

nema, or rather crotcsis," demand of his antagonist " wheth-
er he would take upon him to say he had ever remembered,
wiiether he had ever read, or whetlicr he had ever heard
tell of a man called Tristram performing anything great or
worth recording. No, he would say. Tristram ! the thing
is impossible." It only remained that he should have pub-
lished a book in defence of the belief, and sure enough
" in the year sixteen," two years before the birth of his
second s<)n, " he was at the pains of writing an express
dissertation simply upon the word Tristram, showing the
world with great candour and modesty the grounds of his
great abhorrence to the name." And with this idea Sterne
continues to amuse liiuiself at intervals till the end of the

cliaj)ti'r.

That he does not so persistently amuse the reader it is,
of course, scarcely necessary to say. The jest has not sub-
stance enough—few of Sterne's jests have— to stand the
process of continual attrition to which he subjects it. But
the mere historic gravity with which the various turns of
this monomania are recorded— to say nothing of the sel-
dom failing charm of the easy, gossiping style— prevents
the thing fro!\i ever becoming utterly tiresome. On the
whole, however, one begins to grow impatient for more of
the same sort as the three admirable chapters t n the Rev.
Mr. Yorick, and is not sorry to get to the opening of the
second volume, with its half- tender, half -luimorous, and
wholly delightful account of Uncle Toby's difficulties in
describing the siege operations before Nainur, and of the
happy chance by which these difficulties made him ulti-
mately the fortunate possessor of a " hobby."

Throughout this volume there are manifest signs of
Sterne's unceasing interest in liis own creations, and of his
increasing consciousness of creative power. Captain Toby

( i l

V, i»

STf:RXE.

[chap. IV,

Sliandy is but just llglitly skctched-in in the first volume,
while Corporal Trim has not made liis appearance on the
scene at all ; but before the end of the second we know
both of them thoroughly, within and without. Indeed, one
might almost say that in the first half-dozen chapters which
so excellently recount the origin of the corporal's fortifica-
tion scheme, and the wounded ofiicer's delighted accept-
ance of it, every trait in the simple characters— alike yet
so different in their simplicity— of master and of man be-
comes definitely fixed in the reader's mind. And the total
difference between the second and the first volume in point
of fulness, variety, and colour is most marked. The artist,
the inventor, the master of dialogue, the comic dramatist,
in fact, as distinct from the humorous essayist, would al-
most seem to have started into being as we pass from the
one volume to the oth.T. There is nothing in the droll-
eries of the first volume — in the broad jests upon Mr.
Shandy's crotchets, or even in the subtler humour of the
intellectual collision between these crotchets and his broth-
er's plain sense — to indicate the kind of power displayed
in that remarkable colloquy a quatre, which begins with
the arrival of Dr. Slop and ends with Corporal Trim's re-
cital of the Sermon on Conscience. AVit, humour, irony,
quaint learning, shrewd judgment of men and things, of
these Sterne had displayed abundance already; but it is
not in the earlier but in the later half of the first instal-
ment of Tristmm Shandy that we first become conscious
that he is something more than the possessor of all these
things ; that he is gifted with the genius of creation, and
has sent forth new beings into that world of immortal
shadows which to many of us is more real than our own.

[fHAP. IT,

st volume,
ICO on the
we know
idood, one
ters which
s f<n'tifica-
mI accopt-
-alike yet
f man be-
I the total
in point
^he artist,
Irainatist,
would al-
from the
the droll-
upon Mr.
nr of the
lis broth-
displayed
[>ins with
Vim's ro-
ll r, irony,
hinns, of
but it is
st instal-
conscious
all these
tioi), and
immortal
ur own.

CIIAriER V.

LONnON TKirMPIIS. — FIRST SET OK SERMONS. — " TRISTRAM

SHANDY,'' VOLS. III. AND IV. fOXWOI.D. VOLS. V.

AND VI. — FIRST VISIT TO THE CONTINENT. I'AKIS.

TO LLC USE.

(17G0-17G2.)

Sterne alighted from the York mail, just as Byron "awoke
one morning," to "find himself famous." Seldom indeed
has any lion so suddenly discovered boon pursued so eager-
ly and by such a distinguished crowd of hunters. The
chase was remarkable enougu to have left a lasting im-
pression on the spectators; for it was several years after
(in 177.3) that Dr. Johnson, by way of fortifying his very
just remark that " any man who has a name or who has
the power of pleasing will be generally invited in Lon-
don," observed grutHy that " the man Sterne," he was told,
" had had enixagements for three months." And truly it
would appear from abundant evidence that " the man
Sterne " gained such a social triumph as might well have
turned a stronger head than his. Within twenty-four
hours after his arrival his lodgings in Pall Mall were be-
sieged by a crowd of fashionable visitors; and in a few
weeks he had probably made the ac(juaintance of " every-
body who was anybody " in the London society of that
day.

How thoroughly he relished the delights of celebrity is
3*

STERNE.

[fllAl',

^•]

!il| U

revealed, with a simple vanity which almost disaiiiis ciiti-
cisiii, in many a passaj^c of his correspondence. In t>ne
of Ills earliest letters to Miss Fourmantellc we find him
proudly relatinjif to her how already lie "was enyaj^ed to
ten noblemen and men of fashion." Of Garrick, who had
warmly welcomed the humourist who:e merits he had been
the first to discover, Sterne says that he had " promised
him at dinner to numbers of ^reat people." Amonjnrst
these great people who song'ht him out for themselves
was that discerninjj; patron of ability in every shaj»e. Lord
Rockingham. In one of the many letters which Madame
de Medallo fiung dateless upon the world, but which from
internal evidence we can assign to the early months of
1700, Sterne writes that he is about to "set off with a
grand retinue of Lord Rockingham's (in whose suite I
move) for AVindsor" to witness, it should seem, an instal-
lation of a Kniglit of the Garter. It is in his letters to
Miss Fourmantelle, however, that his almost boyish exulta-
tion at his London triumph discloses itself most frankly.
" My rooms," he writes, " are filling every hour with great
people of the first rank, who strive who shall most honour
me." Never, he believes, had such homage been rendered
to any man by devotees so distinguished. " The honours
paid me were the greatest that were ever known from tlie
great,"

The self-painted portrait is not, it must be confessed,
altogether an attractive one. It is somewhat wanting in
dignity, and its air of over-inflated complacency is at times
slightly ridiculous. But wc must not judge Sterne in this
matter by too severe a standard. He was by nature nei-
ther a diu'uified nor a self-contained man : he had a head
particularly unfitted to stand sudden elevation ; and it must
be allowed that few men's power of resisting giddiness at

^•]

LONDOX TIUUMPIIS.

fil

previously unexplored altltiulos was over so severely tried.
It was not only "the yreat" in the sense of the hii^h in
rank and social distinction by whom he was courted; he
was welcomed also by the eminent in j^enius and learnin;^;
and it would be no very diflicult t-'sk for him to Hatter
himself that it was the latter form of rccoj^nition which
he really valued nio^t. Much, at any rate, in the way of
undue elation may be for<;ivcn to a country eleriryman
who suddenly found himself the centre of a court, which
was r.'i-iilarly atteiuled by statesmen, wits, and leaders of
fashion, and with whom even bishops condescended to
o[)cn liracious diplomatic communication. " l-^ven all the
bishops," he writes, "have sent their compliments;" and
thoun-h this can hardly have been true of the whole Epis-
copal Bench, it is certain that Sterm; received something
mure than a compliment from one bishop, who was a host
in himself, lie was introduced by (larrick to Warburton,
and received high encouragement from that formidable
prelate.'

The year 1700, however, was to bring to Sterne more
solid gains than that of mere celebrity, or even than the
somewhat precarious money ])rotits which depend on lit-
crarv vo""uc. Oniy a few weeks after his arrival in town
he was presented by Lord Falconberg with the curacy of
Cuxwold, "a sweet retirement," as he describes it, "in
comparison of Sutton," at wliich he was in future to pass
most of the time spent by him in Yorkshire. ^Vhat ob-
tained him this piece of preferment is unknown. It may
be that Tvistr<im Shandy drew the Yorkshire peer's atten-

1 It is admitted, moreover, in the eorrespondenee witli Miss Four-
raantelle tli:it Sti'rne received soiiH'lhing more sut)staiUi;il from the
Bishop, in the sliape of a purse of gold; and this strange present
gave rise to a scandal on whieli something will be said hereafter.

lil

ill

STERNE.

[chap.

v.]

tioii to the fact tliat there was a Yorkshiroinaii of trt'iiius
liviiiLj witliiii a few miles of a tlieti vacant benetice in liis
lonlsliij/s gift, and that tliis was enough for him. IJnt
Stcnie himself says — in writing a year or so afterwards to
a hidy of Ids ac(|uaintancc — " 1 lioj)e I have been of .some
service to liis lordsldp, and he lias sufKcieiitly requited nic;"
and in the face of this j»lain assertion, eonlinncd as it is by
the fact that Lord Kalcoiibcrg was on terms of friendly in-
timacy with the Vicar of C'oxwold at a much later date
than this, wo may dismiss idle talcs about Sterne's having
'* black-mailed " the patron out of a presentation tu a ben-
efice worth no more, after all, than sotnc 70/. a year net.

There is somewhat more substance, however, in the
scandal which got abroad with reference to a certain al-
leged transaction between Sterne and Warburton. Be-
fore Sterne had been many days in London, and while
yet his person and doings were the natural -subjects of the
newest gossip, a story found its whv into currency to the
effect that the new-made ]^)ishop of Gloucester had fou!id
it advisable to protect himself against the satiric humour
of tlie author of the Tristram Shamlij by a substantial
present of money. Coming to (Jarrick's ears, it was re-
peated by him — whether seriously or in jest — to Sterne,
from whom it evoked a curious letter, which in Madame
do Medalle's collection has been studiously hidden away
amongst the correspondence of seven years later. " 'Twas
for all the world," he began, " like a cut across my finger
with a sharp pen-knife. I saw tlie blood — gave it a suck,
wrapt it up, and thought no more about it. . , . The story
you told me of Tiistram's pretended tutor this morning"
— (the scandal was, that Warburton had been tlircatcncd
with caricature in the next volume of the novel, under the
guise of the hero's tutor) — " this vile story, I say, though

[chap.

of iri'iiius
'Hoc ill liis
liiiii. l>ut
crwards to
11 of some
lited mo;"
as it is by
ritMidly in-
later date
c's having

I to a ben-
rear net.
or, in the
certain al-
rtoii. Be-
and while
cct.s of the
ncy to tlio
liad found
ic humour
substantial
it was re-
to Sturne,

II Madame
Idea away
. '"Twas
my finger
it a suck,
The story
iiioniing"
threatened

under the
ay, though

v.]

LONDON TKirMPIIS.

I then saw both bow and wlwTo it wounded, I felt little
from it at first, or, to speak more honestly (th> igh it ruins
my simile), I felt a great deal of pain from it, but affected
an air, usual in such accidents, of feeling less than I had."
And he goes (.11 t«> repudiate, it will be observed, not so
much the moral offence of corruption, in receiving money
ti) spare Warbiirton, as the intellectual s..locism of seltvt-
ing him for ridicule. " What the devil !" he exclaims, "is
there 110 one learned blockhead throughout the schools of
misapplied science in the Christian world to make a tutor
of for my Tristram — are we so run out of stock that there
is no one lumber-beaded, muddle-headed, mortar-headed,
pudding-head chap amongst our doctors . . . but 1 must
disable my judgment by choosing a AVarburton ?" Later
on, ill a letter to his friend, Mr. Croft, at Stillington, whom
the scamlal hail reached ''uough a "society journal" of
the time, he asks whe'iier jic ; le would suppose ho would
be "such a fool as to h\\ foul ■.<''. Dr. Warburton, my best
friend, by representing l.isu so ^ eak a man; or by telling
such a lie of him as his viug .:ie a purse to buy off the
tutorship of Tristram — or that 1 should be fool enough to
own that I had taken a purse for that purpose?" It will
be remarked that Sterne does not here deny having re-
ceived a purse from Warburton, but only his having re-
ceived it by way of black-mail : and the most mysterious
])art of the affair is that Sterne did actually receive the
strange present of a "purse of gold" from Warburton
(whom at that time he did not know nor had ever seen);
and that he admits as much in one of his letters to Miss
Fourmantelle. " I had a purse of guineas given mc yes-
terday by a Bishop," he writes, triumphantly, but without
volunteering any exi)laiiation of this extraordinary gift.
Sterne's letter to Garriok was forwarded, it would seem, to

iH.

iii

STERNE.

[chap.

ls|

Warburton ; and the Bishop tlianks Gavrick for havinu;
procured for liiin " the confutation of an impertinent story
the first moment I heard of it." This, liowever, can hard-
ly count for much. If Warburton had really wished Sterne
to abstain from caricaturino; him, he would be as anxious —
and for mucli the same reasons — to conceal the fact as to
suppress the caricature, lie would naturally have the dis-
closure of it reported to Sterne for formal contradiction,
as in fulfilment of a virtual term in the bargain between
them. The epithet of " irrevocable scoundrel," which he
afterwards applied to Sterne, is of less importance, as pro-
cecdinj;- from \\'arburton, than it would have been had it
come from any one not habitually employini^ Warburton's
peculiar vocabulary ; but it at least argues no very cordial
feeling on the liishop's side. And, on the whole, one re-
grets to feel, as I must honestly confess that I do feel, far
less confident of the groundlessness of this rather unpleas-
ant story than could be wished. It is impossible to for-
get, however, that while the ethics of this matter were un-
doubtedly less strict in those days than they are — or, at
any rate, are recognized as being — in our own, there is
nothing in Sterne's character to make us suppose him to
have been at all in advance of the morality of his time.

The incumbent-designate did not go down at once to
take possession of his temporalities. His London trium{)h
had not yet run its course. The first edition of ^'ols. I.
and II. of Tristram Shamhj was exhausted in some three
months. In April, Dodsley brought out a second , and,
concurrently with the advertisement of its issue, there ap-
peared — in somewliat incongruous companionship — the
announcement, "Speedily will be published, The Sermons
of Mr. Yorick." The judicious Dodsley, or possibly the
judicious Sterne himself (acute enough in matters of this

'^%

[chap.

for liavinn;
iiicnt story
•, can liard-
jheil Sterne
i anxious —
J fact as to
ivo the dis-
iitradictioii,
in bi'twccn
" which lie
ace, as pro-
been had it
Varburton's
tery cordial
olo, one re-
do feel, far
icr un[>leas-
ible to for-
er were nn-

are — or, at
vn, there is
5ose him to
his time.

at once to
Ion trinmph

of Vols. I.

some tliree
,'cond , and,
le, there ap-
nship — the
he Sermons
lossibly the
tters of this

v.]

FIRST SET OF SERMONS.

kind), had perceived that now was the time to publisli a
scries of sermons by the very unclerical lion of the day.
There would— they, no doubt, thought— be an undeniable
pi(]uancy, a distinct flavour of semi-scandalous incongruity
in listening to the Word of Life from the lii)s of this loose-
tonf'ued droll ; and the more staid and serious the sermon,
the niore effective the contrast. There need not have been
much trouble in finding the kind of article required ; and
we '.nay be tolerably sure that, even if Sterne did not per-
ceive that fact for himself, his publisher hastened to inform
him that "anything would do." Two of his pulpit dis-
courses, the Assize Sermon and tlie Charity Sermon, had
alreadv been thought worthy of publication by their au-
thor in a separate form ; and tliC latter of these found a
place in the series; while the rest seem to have been sim-
ply the chance sweepings of the parson's sermon-drawer.
The critics who find wit, eccentricity, flashes of Shandy-
ism, and what not else of the same sort in these discourses,
must be able— or so it seems to me— to discover these
phenomena anywhere. To the best of my own judgment
the Sermons are— with but few and partial exceptions —
of the most commonplace character ; platitudinous with
the platitudes of a thousand pulpits, and insipid with the
cramhe repet'ita of a hundred thousand liomilies. A single
extract will fully suffice for a specimen of Sterne's prc-
Shandian homiletic style; his post-Shandian manner was
very different, as we shall see. The preacher is discours-
ing upon the well-worn subject of the inconsistencies of
human character :

" If such a contrast was only observable in the different stages of
a man's life, it would cease to be either a matter of wonder or of
just reproach. Age, experience, and much reflection may naturally
enough be supposed to alter a man's sense of things, and so entirely

' ■■■ill

STERNE.

[chap.

v.]

■pt

to transform him that, not only in outward ajipearancc hut in the
very ca^t and turn of his mind, iio may be as unlike and diiTercnt
froii) the man he was twenty or thirty years ago as he ever was from
anything of his own species. This, I say, is naturally to be aceount-
od for, and in some cases might be praiseworthy too; but the obser-
vr.tion is to Ije made of men in the same period of their lives that in
the same day, sometimes on the very same action, they are utterly in-
consistent and irreecmcilable with themselves. Look at tlie man in one
n!i;ht, and he shall seem wise, penetrating, discreet, and brave; behold
him in another point of view, and you sec a creature all over folly
and indiscretion, weak and timorous as cowardice and indiscretion
can make him. A man shall appear (.'•■ntle, courteous, and benevo-
lent to all mankind ; follow hin; into his own house, maybe you see
a tyrant morose and savage to all whose hajipiness depends upon his
kindness. A third, in his general behaviour, is founil to be gener-
ous, disinterested, Inimane, and friendly. Hear but the sad story of
the friendless orphans too credulously trusting all their whole sub-
stance into his hands, and he shall appear more sordid, more pitiless
and unjust than the injured themselves have bitterness to paint him.
Another shall 1x" charitable to the poor, uncharitable in his censures
and opiiuons of all the rest of the world besides: temperate in his
appetites, intemperate in his tongue; shall have too much conscience
and religion to cheat the man who trusts him, and perhaps as far as
the business of debtor and creditor extends shall be just and scrupu-
lous to the uttermost mite ; yet in matters of full or great concern,
where he is to have the handling of the party's reputation and good
name, the dearest, the tenderest property the man has, he will do him
irreparal)le damage, and rob him there without measure or pity." —
Sermon XI.— On Evil Sprakinr/.

There is clearly notliing pcarticiilarly striking in all that,
even convoyed as it is in Sterne's effective, if loose and
careless, style; and it is no nnfair sain]>le of the whole.
The calculation, however, of the author and his shrewd
publisher was that, whatever the intrinsic merits or de-
merits of these sermons, they would "take" on the strength
of the author's name; nor, it would seem, wa^ 'heir calcit-
lation disappointed. The edition of this scries of sermons.

•f

[chap.

e but in the
iiiul iliirorciit
kxr was from
J be account-
lit the obser-

livcs that in
irc utterly in-
le man in one
irave; behold
all over folly
1 indiscretion

and benevo-
laybe you see
,'nd3 upon his

to be gener-

sad story of
ir wliole sub-
, more pitiless

to paint him.
1 his censures
iil)eratc in his
ich conscience
liaps as far as
«t and scrupu-
great concern,
[tion and good
he will do hira
ire or pity." —

o* in all that,
if loose and
P the whole.

his shrewd
iciits or de-

tho strcnf^th
p their calcn-
^ of sermons.

FIRST SET OF SERMONS.

noNv Ivin;.- before mo is numbered the sixth, and its date
is 1704 r which represents a demand for a new edition
o\ .TV nine months or so, over a space of four years. They
inav. perhai.s, have succeeded, too, in partially reconcilin- a
certain serious-minded portion of the public to the author.
Sterne evidently hoped that they mi-ht; for we find him
scndinu" a copy to Warburton, in the month of June, im-
mediately afler the publication of the book, an.l receiving
in return a letter of courteous thanks, and full of excellent
advice as to the expediency of avoiding scandal by too
hazardous a style of writing in the future. Sterne, in re-
plv, protests that he would "willingly give no offence to
mortal by anything which could look like the least viola-
tion of cither decency or good manners;" but— and it is
an important "but"— he cannot promise to "mutilate ev-
erything" in Tristram "down to the prudish humour of
cverv particular" (individual), though ho will do his best;
but,' in any ease, "laugh, my Lord, I will, and as loudly as
I can." And laugh he did, and in such Rabelaisian fashion
that the liishop (somewhat inconsistently for a critic who
had welcomed Sterne on the appearance of the first two
volumes expressly as the "English Kabelais") remarked
of him afterwards with characteristic vigour, in a letter
to a friend, that he fears the fellow is an " irrevocable

scoundrel."

The volumes, however, which earned " the fellow " this
Episcopal bciiedietion were not given to the world till the
next year. At the end of May or beginning of June, 1 700,
Sterne went to his new home at Coxwold, and his letters
soon liegin to show him to us at work upon further records
of Mr. Shandy's philosophical theory - spinning and the
simpler pursuits of his excellent brother. It is probable
that this year, 1700, was, on the whole, the happiest vear
E " ^

STERNE.

[CHAP.

v.]

of St(M'ne's life. His licaltli, tliouc'^i always feeble, had
not yet iinally given way ; and though the " vile cough "
which was to bring liini more than once to death's door,
and at last to force it open, was already troubling liiui, he
had that within hiui which made it easy to bear up
against all such physical ills. His spirits, in fact, were at
tiieir highest. His worldly aiTairs were going at least as
smoothly as they ever went. He was basking in that
sunshine of fame which was so delightful to a tempera-
ment difTering from that of the average Englishman, as
does the physique of the Southern races from that of the
hardier children of the North ; and lastly, ho was exulting
in a new-born sense of creative power which no doubt
made the composition of the earlier volumes of Tristram
a veritable labour of love.

Hut the witty division of literary spinners into silk-
worms and spiders — those who spin because tbey are full,
and those who do so because they arc empty — is not
exhaustive. There arc human silk-worms who become
gradually transformed into s[>iders — men Avho begin writ-
ing in order to unburden a full imagination, and who,
long after that process has been comiiletely performed,
continue writing in order to till an empty belly; and
though Sterne did not live long enough to " write himself
out," there are certain indications that he would not have
left off writing if and when he felt that this stage of
exhaustion had arrived. His artistic impulses were curi-
ously combined with a distinct admixture of the " pot-
boiler " spirit; and it was with something of the compla-
cency of an annuitant that he looked forward to giving
the public a couple of volumes of Tristram Shandy every
year as long as they would stand it. In these early days,
however, there was no necessity even to discuss the prob-

[tllAP.

ecble, had
lo COUI^'ll "
itli's door,
lof liiiii, he
) bear up
ct, were at
at least as
H iu that
I tcmpora-
islinian, as
hat of tlic
IS exulting
no doubt
■ TrlrAram

into silk-
:>y arc full,
ty — is not
lo become
.)cgin writ-
, and who,
[xjrfornied,
belly ; and
itc himself
d not have
s stage of
were curi-
thc " pot-
he compla-

[ to g^^"^"S
ainhj every
early days,
s the prob-

v.]

" TRISTRAM SIIAXDY," VOLS. III. AND IV

able period either of the writer's inspiration or of the
reader's appetite. At present the public were as eager to
cuii>nme more Shandyism as Sterne was ready to produce
it : the demand was as active as the supply was e.%sy. IJy
the end of the year W-ls. III. and IV. were in the press,
and on January -27, ITOI, they made their appearance.
They iKid been disposed i)f in advance to Dodsloy for 880/.
— no bad terms of remuneration in those days; but it is
still likely enough that the publisher made a j)rofitablc
bari^'ain. The new volumes sold freely, and the public
laughed at them as heartily as their two predecessors.
Th 'ir author's vngue in Londim, whither ho went in De-
cember, 170U, to superintend publication, was as great
during the next spring as it had been in the last. The
tide of visitors again set in in all its former force and
volume towards the "genteel lodgings." His diimer list
was once more full, and he was feasted and flattered by
wits, beaux, courtiers, politicians, and tilled -lady lion-
hunters as sedulously as ever, llis letters, especially those
to his friends the Crofts, of Stiliiugton, abound, as before,
in touches of the san..; amusing vanity. AVith how de-
licious a sense of self-im[)ortance must he have written
these words : " Vou made me and my friends very merry
with the accounts current at York of my being for1)ad the
Court, but they do not consider what a considerable per-
son they make of me when they suppose either my goirg
or not going there is a point that ever enters the K.'s
head; and for those about him, I have the honour either
to stand so personally well-known to them, or to be so
well represented by those of the iirst rank, as to fear no
accident of the kind." Amusing, loo, is it to note
the familiarity, as of an old hahitiif of Ministerial ante-
chambers, with which this country ])arson discusses the

h' i|

iTiM

'' '

STERKE.

[ciiAr.

l.olitical changes of that interesting' year ; though scarcely
more amusing, perhaps, than the solemnity with which his
daughter disguises the identity of the new Pi'dnier under

the title 13 e ; and by a similar use of initials attempts

tu conceal the momentous state secret that the I), of Ji.
had heen removed from the place of Groom of the C'ham-
bers. and that Sir F. J), had succeeded T. as ChaMcclior ('\
the i-]\clK'f]uer. Occasionally, however, the laton'.-.t of hi,>
letters changes from personal to public, ;iiid we get a
glimpse uf scenes and personages that have become lii--
torieal. lie was j)resent in the House of Commons at the
first grand debate on the German war after the Great
Commoner's retirement from otliee — " the pitched battle,"
as Sterne calls it, " wherein Mv. V. was to have enscred and
thrown down the gauntlet" in def liCe oi his military
policy. Tmus he describes it;

■' Tiiero never was so full a House — ihe aallcry i'lill to ilic tup — I
wfi.; ih'HV. alt the day ; wlicu lu 1 a political fit of the Rout seized the
groat com ba! ant— he entered not the lists. HecUford jjot >ip and
bcggt ! a • nou«c, as he saw not his right hoiinn'al)lc friend tlicre,
to pui uir the <lciiatc — it could not l)e done: so IJcckford rose up
and nridc a most loiiir, passionate, incoherent snicch in defence of
the (ieruian war, hut very severe npon tiie unfriitud manner it was
carried on, in which he addressed himself ])rinci[)aUy to the ('[han-
ccllorj of the E[xchc(pier], and laid on him tcrriliiy. . . . Lcgge
answered Reckford very rationallv and coollv. Lord X. snoke Ion".
Sir F. I)[ashwooil] maintained the (Rinnan war was most pi-i-ni-
ciou.-. . . . Lord l![arrington] at last got \i\) and spoke half an hour
witii great plainness and temper, explained many hiiidcn things re-
lating to these accounts in favour of the late K., and told two or
three conversations which had passed I)etween the K. and himself
relative to these expenses, which cast great honour upon the K.'s
character. This was with regard to the money tlie K. had secretly
fnrnislicd out of his own pocket to lessen the account of the Ilan-

overscorc brought us to discharge.

F\CULTE DES ARTS
COLLEGE ^JNIVERSITAIRE

SHERBROOKE

Beckford and Barrington

-i

•

v.]

tin

est

tai

-^•„

[chap.

T.]

COXWOLI).

li scarct'ly
wliicli liis
lier under
i attempts

! I), of K.

he ('liam-

:ncellor of
•est of lii.N
wo <;-et n
CDUio lii--
jiis at tlie
tlic Groat
.'d battle,"
1 sored and
i niilii;ii'v

llio top 1

t scizL'd tlie
i^ot up iiiid
•ii'iid tliere,
)i(l rose up

dcfciic'o <jf
inur it wiis
tlie Cfluui-

• • I'f,i-'f,'e>
spoke Ion;,'.
Host pL-.'ni-
;ilf an lutur
1 tliiiiLTs re-
told two or
md liiiiisolf
>n tlic K.'s
lad j^oerctly
il' tlie Jlaii-

Barriii^rton

abused all who foujrlit for peaeo and joined in the cry for it,
and Beckford added that the reasons of wishing a peace now were
the same as at the Peace of rtrcciit— that the people behind the
curtain could not both niaiiitaiii the war and tlii'ir places too, so
were for making:; anoilier sacrifice (d' the nation to their own inter-
ests. After all, the cry for a peace is so general that it will cer-
tainly end in one."

Anvl then the letter, recurring to personal matters to-
wards the close, records the snecess of Vols. III. and IV. :
" One half of the town abuse my book as bitterly as the oth-
er half cry it up to the skies — the best is they abuse and
buy it, and at such a rate that we are going- on with a sec-
ond edition as fast as possible." This was written only in
the first week of March, so that the edition must have been
exhausted in little more than a month. It was, indeed,
another triumph; and all through this spring up to mid-
summer did Sterne remain in London to enjoy it. Lut,
with three distinct ilocks awaiting a renewal of his pastoral
ministrations in Yorkshire, it would scarcely have done for
liim, even in those easy-going days of the Establishment,
to take up his permanent abode at the capital ; and earlj'^
in July he returned to Coxwold.

From the middle of this year, 17G1, the scene begins to
darken, and from the beginning of the next year onward
Sterne's life was little better than a trnceless struiro-lc with

raw

the disease to which he was destined, prematurely, to suc-
cumb. The wretched constitution which, in common with
his short-lived brothers and sisters, he had iidicriled proba-
bly from his father, already began to show signs of break-
ing up. Invalid from the first, it had doubtless been weak-
ened by the hardships of Sterne's early years, and yet
further, perhaps, by the excitements and dissipations of
his London life ; nor was the change from the gaieties of

V'.i

;llj

•'. II

STERNE.

[CIUP.

the capital to hard literary labour in a country parsotiat^e
calculated to benefit him as much as it mii^lit olliers.
Shandy Hall, as he christened his pretty parsonag-c at Cox-
wold, and as the liouse, still standing:, is called to this day,
soon became irksome to him. The very reaction bc<jotten
of unwonted quietude acted on his temperament with a
dispiritiniv rather than a soothiuLi; efTect. The ehanj;'e
from his full and stimulating life in London to the dull
round of clerical duties in a Yorkshire villaije mi.<,dit wi'll
have been depressing to a mind better balanced and bal-
lasted than his. To him, with his lio-ht, pleasure -lovin<«;
nature, it was as the return of the schoolboy from panto-
mimes and pony-ridinir to the more sober delights of Dr.
Swishtail's; and, in a letter to Hall Stevenson, Sterne re-
veals his feelings with all the juvenile frankness of one of
the Doctor's pupils:

" I rejoice you uio in Loinlon — rest you tiiere in peace ; liere 'tis tlie
(li'vil. Y(ju were a ^^ood i)roi)liet. I wisli myself l)ack again, as you
tolil me I shoukl, but not because a thin, death-doing, pestiferous
nurtli-e;ist wind blows in a line directly from Crazy Castle turret
Irc.-h upon me in this cuckoldly retreat (for I value the north-east
wiml and all its powers not a straw), but the transition from rapid
motion to absolute rest was too violent. I should have walUed aliout
the stro. Is of York ten days, as a proper medium to have passed
through Ijefore 1 entered upon my rest ; I stayed but a moment, and
I have been here but a few, to satisfy me. I have not managed my
miseries like a wise man, and if (Jod for my consolation had not
l>ourcd forth the spirit of Sliandyism unto me, which will not sulTer
me to think two moments upon any grave subject, I would else just
now lay down and die."

It is true he adds, in the next sentence, thui, in half an
hour's time "I'll lay a guinea I shall be as merry as a
monkey, and forget it all," but such sudden revulsions of
high spirits can hardly be allowed to count for uiucl^

[ciur.

):irsotint^c
t otlicrs.
(■ at Cux-
this (lay,

bcn'otton
it with a
c cliango

the dull
li^'ht wt'll

ami l>al-
irc-luviiin'
)m paiito-
its (,f 1 >r.
Stcriic rc-
of one of

here 'tis the
511111, as you

pestiferous
astlc turret
e iiortli-ciist

from nipid
alked about
liave passed
iioment, and
managed my
ion luid not
ill not sulVer
uld else just

ill half ail
merry as a
vnlsions of

for uiucl/

^•]

COXWOLD.

auaiii.st the prevailing tone of discontented ennui which
pervades this letter.

Apart, moreover, from Sterne's regrets of London, his
comitry home was becoiniiiu' from other causes a less pleas-
ant place of abode. His n'lations with his wife were get-
tiiiii less and less cordial every year. ^Vith a jierversity
sometimes noticeable in the wives of distinguished men,
Mrs. Sterne had failed to Jiceept with enthusiasm the role
of distant and humbly admiring sjiectator of her brilliant
husband's triumphs. Accept it, of course, she did, being
unable, indeed, to belli herself; but it is clear that when
Sterne returned home afb'r one of his six months' revels
in the fraicties of London, his wife, who had been vege-
tatinir the while in the retirement of Yorkshire, was not in
the habit of welcoming him with etTusiou. Perceiving so
clearly that Iut lm.-,band preferred the world's society to
hers, she naturally, perhaps, refused to disguise her prefer-
ence of her own society to his. Their estrangement, in
short, had grown apace, and had alri'ady brought them to.
that stage of mutual inditTerenee which is at once so com-
fortable and so hopeless — secure alike against tlic risk of
"scenes" and the h»\)c of reconciliation, shut fast in its
exemption frnm iDauntlani inc against ail possibility of
redlntcfiratio atnoris. To such perfection, indeed, had the
feeling been cultivated on both sides, that Sterne, in the
letter above quoted, can write of his conjugal relations in
this philosophic strain :

"As to matrimony I should be a beast to rail at it, for my wife is
easy, but the world is not, and bad I stayed from her a seeoiul long-
er it would have been a burning shame — else she deelares herself
happier without, nie. But not in anger is this deelaration made (the
most fatal point, of course, about it), but in pure, sober, good ^ense,
built oil sound experience. She hopes you will be able to strike a

^iWllL

STKRXE

fCHAP.

barfriiin for mo hofore tlii,'^ twelveniontli to lead a hear rotiiul Eii-
ropc, ami IVom this hope from mhi I veiily l)clicvo it is tli;it \,,ii are
so lii^rh ill her favour at prcsoui. Siio swears you are ii fellow of nit,
though humorous ;' a funny, jolly soul, tliou<,'li somewhat splenetic,
ami (liaiiiii,' the love of women) .i.s Iioncst an gold. How do you
like the simile V"

W- I

Tilt 10 i!*, poi'ljfips, ;i touch of affeetc'l cynioism in tlic
.sii,<I,o'osti< I tliafc >,' . Stenie'.s likiii-- for one of Ik r ims-
baiul. iricn.I \n .s wholly based upon the cxpoLtation
that li'> would rid lur of hoi- hushand; but nuitiial indif-
ference must, it is clear, liave ivac'iod a pretty advanced
stairo before snch a roniark could, even half in jest, be
possible. And with <>• ngino-, lin<>-crino- look at

tlie scenes which he liad fjuitted for a lot like that of
the Duke of liuckinn^hani's doo;, upon whom his master
pronounced the maledictory wish that "he were married
and lived in the country," this characteristic letter con-
cludes:

"Oh, Lord ! now arc you <roinf,' to Ranolagh to-night, and I am sit-
ting sorrowful as the proplu i was when the voice cried out to him
and said, -What do'st thou here, Elijah V 'Tis well that the spirit
does not make the same at Coxwoid, for unless for the few sheep
left me to take care of in tlie .vildcriicss, I might as well, nay, better,
beat Mecca. When w, find we can, by a shifiing v'' ^<i^<.v■', run
away from ourselves, what think you of a jaunt there before we
timiVy pay a visit to the Vale of .Jehushaphat ? As ill a fame as we
have, I trust 1 shall one day or otlu ; see you face to face, so tell the
two colonels if they love good company to live righteously and so-
berly, IIS ijitH do, and then they will have no r .fs or (iamri r> within

1 It is curious to note, as a point in the chronology of languairf,
how exclusive is Sterne's empl. yment of the words " hu i our," '• hu-
mourists," tlieii older sen of " whiiiisicality," "an eccentric."
The later ciiange in its meaning gives to the word "though" in th
above passage an almost comic effect.

^^■^-^=^-'^~»'*^— —'—---— —^***' —

fCHAP.

roiii,! Kii-
i:i' voii are
llow of wit,

t 8I)l{'ll('tic,

vv,- (!,, voii

in ill tiic
li> r ;;ii.s-
poctation
iial iiidif-
advanccd
1 jost, be
g look at
J tliat (if
is iiia>t(.'r
■ iiianicil
Iter cun-

"TUISTUAM PlIANDY," VOLS. V. AND VI.

or without tliom. Prosciif my Ix'st mihI wiirmcst wislus to thorn,

iiiii atlviso tlif clik'st to |)rn|) ii|> iiis , .iiiij got n rii'h dowager

hcfdi-L' tlii CDiR'liision of tlic peace. ^^ill not the U'lviee suit
both, jKir iiii/illt j'ratrum .'"

In conclusion, he tells lil.s frioml tliat tlic next niornincf,
if Heaven jxi nit, lie begins the fifth volinnc of Sfiundt/,
and adds, defiantly, that ho " cares not a curse for the
critics," but "will load mv vehicle \vith wliat sjfoods lie
sends nie, and they may take 'em oil my hands or let 'em
alone."

The allusions to forcii];n travel in this letter were made
with somethini; more than a jesting- intent. Sti rnc liad
already beo-un to be seriously alarmed, and not without
reason, about the condition of his health, lie shrank
from faeini; another English winter, and meditated n
southward Hight so soon as he should have finished his
fifth and si.xth volume>, and seen them safe in the jirint-
cr's hands. His publi.her had changed, for what rea-
son is not known, and the lirm t)f IJeckel i^- I)e Ilondt had
taken the place of Dodsley. Sterne hoped by the end of
the year to be free to de|)art from Hngland, and already
he had made all arrangements with his ecclesiastical supe-
riors for the necessary leave of ab.sence. lie seems to have
been treated with all eonsideiation in the matter. His
Archbishop, on being ajiplied to, at once excused him from
parochial work for a year, and promised, if it should be
'Cessary, to double that term. Fortified with this pcr-
missi' Steiiie bade farewell to his wife an 1 daughter,
and >k himself to London, with his nav com[)leted

volumes, ;i setting in of the winter. On the 21st of

December they made their appearance, and in about three
weeks from that date their author left England, with the
intention nf winterinc: in the South of France. Tl ero

ii m

I i

I'l

STERNE.

[chap.

wcro (rilliciiltios, however, of more kiiuls tl m one which
had Tirst to bo faced — a pecuniary diflicuiiy, which (iar-
rick iiici by a loan of '20/., atid a political ditilculty, for
the r^'iiioval of which Sterne liad to ein[»l<)y the [vood
oilii'i's of new ae(iuaint;uice later on. lie reaelu'd I'aris
about the l7th of January, I70:i, and there met with a
reception which interposed, as iniuiht have been expected,
the most elTectual of obstacles to his furtlier proi,a-esH
southward. He was received in l*aris with ( inii arms,
and stepped at once within the charmed circle of the [)liil-
osopliic salons. A<j;ain was the old intoxicating- cu[» pre-
sented to his lips — this time, too, witli more dexterous than
Kn^li^Ii hands— and ai;ain did he drink deei)ly uf it. "My
head is turned," he writes to Garrick, " with what I sec,
and the unexpected honour 1 have met with here. Tris-
tniiii was almost as much known here as in London, at
least among- your men of condition and learniuL', and has
got me introduced into so many circles ('tis rnniiue a
Londroi) I have just now a fortnight'.s dinners and sup-
pers on my hands." AVc may venture tu doubt whether
French politeness had not been in one respect taken some-
what too seriously by the flattered Englishman, and whether
it was much more than the name and general reputation
of Trisfnnn, which was "almost as much known" in I'aris
as in London. The linners and suppers, however, were, at
any rate, no figures of .-pecch, but very liberal entertain-
ments, at which Sterne ai)i)ears to have disported himself
with all his usual unclerical uhandon. " I Shandy it away,"
lie writes in his boyish fashion to Garrick, " fifty times
more than I was over wont, talk more nonsense than ever
you heard me talk in all your da\s, and to all sorts of
pco[)le. 'Qui le diable est cet honnneda ?' said Clioiseul,
t'other day, ' ce Chevalier Shandy?'" [We might be lis-

tel

b'.-

•A

ill

-i
,*

[CIIAP.

:m one wliich
y, which Gar-

dililcultv, for
>loy llie o'ood

reachi'il Paris

iiict willi a
jc'on cxpectftl,
•thor j)roi>;i'csH
li oju'ii arms,
io of lln' [iliil-
itiiiu' c;wj) piv-
Icxteioiis than
ly of it. " My
h what I sec,

1 lieic. Trh-
in London, at
rninL', aiul has
['tis com III c h
ners am', sup-
h)iibt whither
3t taken soino-
n,an(l wliethcr
n'al reputation
own" in Paris
,vcver, were, at
K ral entertain-
ptjrtcd liiniself
inily it away,"
:, " fifty times
cnsc tlian ever
;o all sorts of
said Clioiseul,
i mii;lit be lis-

v] F1I5-T VISIT TO TIIK ('(INTINF.NT. 67

t.uiiiu- to one of Thackeray's Iri>h heroes.] " You'll think
111,' as vain as a devil uas l to tell you the rest of the dia-
lu.j;ue." P>nt lli«iv wdv distitiiiuished Frenchmen who
were ready to render t.. the Euuiish author more imp(.r-
tant services than that of ollVriuu' him hospitality and
tlattcrv. I'eace hatl not been formally eoucludi.-d between
France and England, and the passport with which Sterne
had b'fii orarioiisly furnished by Pitt was not of force
eiiouub to dispense him from makinii special application
to the French (iovernment for permission to remain in the
count IV. In this reipiest he w.'ts intluentially b.arkcd.
"Mv application," he writes, "to the Count de Clioiseul
uocs on swimminoly, fur not only M. Pelletiere (who by-
tlie-bve sends ten thousand civilities to you and Mrs. (J.)
lias. undertaken my aiTair, but the Count d»; Lindjourt;;.
The Daron d'llolbach has olfered any security for the in-
olTcnsiveness of my behaviour in France — 'tis more, you
ro'^iie'. than you will do." And then the orthodox, or
])r()fcssedly ortluxlox, F^n^u'lish divine, goes on to describe
the character and habits of his strang-e new friend: "This
IJaron is one of the most learned noblemen here, the f-Teat
protector of wits and of the s<imus who are no wits; keeps
open house three days a week — his house is now, as yours
was to nie, my own — lie lives at great exi)ense." Efpially
communicative is he as to his other great acquaintances.
Among these were the Count de liissie, whom by an " odd
incident" (as it seemed to his unsuspecting vanity) "1
found rcaditig Tristram when I was introduced to him,
which I was," ho adds (without j)crceiving the connexion
between this fact and the "incident"), "at his desire;"
Mr. Fox and Mr. Macartney (afterwards the liord Macart-
ney of Chinese celebrity), and the J^uke =)f Orleans (not
yet Egalite) himself, " who has suffered my portrait to be

i':

«8

RTEHXE.

[niAP.

adik'tl to llio nuinbor of Hoinc odd men in his collection,
and lias had it taken most cx|>ressively at full lentjth by a
i^cntlenian who lives with him." Nor was it only in the
doliu'lits of society that Sterne was now rcvelliiiij;. JIc was
passionately fond of tho theatre, and his letters to (Jarrick
are full of eauer criticism of the u;reat Frencli performers,
intermiiiiiled with flatteries, sometimes rather fiiU-hodied
than d(;licate, of their famous Kn'jcHsh rival. OF Clairon,
in JphH/vnie, he says ".she is extremely great. Would to
God you had one or two like her. AVhat a luxury to sec
yon with one of such power in the same interesting scene!
J>ut 'lis too much." Again he writes: "The French com-
edy I seldom visit; they act scarce an\ thing hut tragedies;
and the ('lairon is great, and Mdll •. J)umesmil in some
parts still greater than lier. Yet I cannot bear preaoliing
— I fancy I got a .surfeit of it in my younger days." And
in a later letter:

" After a vile suspension of tliree weeks, \vc arc bef^iiming wiili
our eoiiieiiie.s and operas. Yours I licar never (lourished more ; here
the eoniic aetors were never so low; tlie tra^^ediuus iiold up their
hends in id! senses. 1 have known onr little uitiii support the tlieiit-
rieal world like a David Atlas upon his shoulders, hut I'reville can't
do half as uiueh here, thonj^h J[ad. Clairon stands liy hiiu and sets
her tiadv to his. She is verj' <:reat, however, and lii^ddy i.nproved
sinee you saw her. She also supi)orts her dignity at tahle, and has
her puiilte day every Thursday, when she gives to eat (as tliey say
here) to all that arc hungry and dry. You are ntueli talked of hure.
and niueh exjieeted, as soon as the peace will Ui you. These two
last <lays you have hajjpened to engross the whole conversation at
the great houses where I was at dinner. 'Tis the greatest problem
in nature in this meridian that one and the same man should possess
such tragic and comic powers, and in such an tijiii/i/irio as to divide
the world for which of the two Nature intended him."

And wliile on this subject of the stage let us pause for

■II ^

V-]

TARIS.

a nioinont to olancc at an incident which connects Stcrno
with Olio of the most famous of his French contempora-
ries. He lias been asked "by a lady of talent," he tells
(iarriek, "to read a tra!;edy, and conjuncture if it would do
f.M- you, 'Tis from the plan of Diderot; and, possibly,
half a translation of it: The XuUiral Son, or the 'Triumph
of Virtue, in live ari-<. It has too much sentiment in it
(at least for nic); the speeches too lon<,s and savour too
much of preachinu-. This may bo a second reason it is
not to my tast( — 'tis a" love, love, love throuL!;hout, with-
out much separation in the characters. So I fear it would
not do for voiir stanc, and i)erhaps for the very reason
which recommends it to a Kreiich one." It is curious to
sec the " adaptator cerebrosuira" at work in those days as
in these; thou<j;h not, iu this instance, as it seems, with as
successful results. The Xdtitra/ Son, or the Triionph of
Virtue, is not known to havo reached either Eiii;li^h read-
ers or ICnulish theatrical audiences. The French orii^inal,
a- we know, fared scarcely better, " It was not until 1771,"
says J)iderot's latest HiiL,'lish bioorapher, " that the direc-
tors of the French Comeily could be induced to place Li
FiJs Xaturel on the sta^'e. The actors detested their task,
and, as we can well believe, went sulkily through parts
which they had not taken the trouble to master. The pub-
lic felt as little interest in the piece as the actors had done,
and after one or two representations, it was put aside,"'

Another, and it is to bo guessed a too conL^enial, ac-
quaintance f(»nneil by Sterne in I'aris was that of Crebil-
loii ; and with him he concluded "a convention," unedi-
fyiuL? enouj^h, whether in jest or earnest : " As soon as I
l^et to Toulouse he has aj^reed to write me an expostula-
tory letter upon the indecorums of T. Shamlij, which is
' Morloy : Diderot and the Jinci/clo/xt'lisfs, ii. 31)5.

-1 r

i y

STERNE.

[CIIAP.

to bo answered by rccriininntioii ufion tbo liberties in hh
own works. These are to be printed too-etlier— Crebillon
au'ainst Sterne, Sterne apiinst Crebiljon — tiie copy to be
sold, and tlie money equally divided. This is <,'uod Swiss-
policy," he a(Ms; and the idea (wliioh was never carried
ont) had certainly the merit of ingenuity, if no other.

The words "as soon as I oet to Tonlonse," in a letter
written from Paris on the luth of April, miuht well have
reminded Sterne of the fitranuv way in which he had car-
ried out his intention of " winteritio- in the South." He
insists, however, nj)on the curative effects of his winter of
ixaiety in I'aris. " 1 am I'ccovfred <rivatly," he says ; " and
if 1 could spend oi'e whole winter at TouIoum-, 1 slu.uld I>e
fortified in my inner man beyond all daiiircr of relapsini-'."
There was another, too, for wlioni this chaiin-e of climate
h:ul become imper:. lively necessary. For three winters
past liis daujjhter Lydia, now fourteen years old, had been
sutTcrino- severely from asthma, and needed to try "the last
remedy i)f a warnu«r and softer air." Her father, therefore,
was about N) solicit passports for his wife and daUL;hter,
with a view to their joitiiiii; him at once in l*aris, wlience,
after a month's stay, they were to depart ton-ether for the
South. 'I nis application for passports he intended, he said,
to make "this week:" and it wotdd seem that the inten-
tion was carried out; but, for reasons explained in a letter
which Mr. Kitzjverald was the first to publidi, it was not
till the middle of the next month that he was able to make
prep;iration for their joinini; him. Im.>iii this letter writ-
ten to his Archbishop, to re<]uest an extension of ins leave
— we learn that while applying; for the passports lio was
attacked with a fever, " whiidi has endi'd th(> worst way it
could for me, in a di fluxion {(fc) polfriuc, as the French
piiysicians call it. It is generally fatal to weak liin-s, sc

[CIIAP.

ios in ]iis
■Crc'billon
)py to be
od Swiss-
T carried
tlior.

11 a letter
well have
: liail car-
tli." IIo
winter uf
ks ; " and
Silionld be
'la[)siiii;'."
f cliinato
■ winters
bad been
" tlic last
liciefore,
laiii:;htt'r,
, \v I It' nee,
r for tbe
, bo said,
be inten-
II a letter
was not
to make
■r — writ-
bis leave
s bo WHS
■it way it
• Froneb
Uin^s, so

v.]

PARIS.

tbat T bave lost in ten days all I bavc gained since T cainc
bcre ; and from a relaxation of my Inntfs bave lost my
voice entirely, tbat 'twill bo mneb if I ever (Hiite recover
it. Tbis evil sends me directly to Tonlouse, for wbieli T
set out from tbis j)laco direeiiy my family arrives." Evi-
dentlv tbi'i-i' was no time to bo lost, and a week after tbo
date of tbis letter we lirid biin in communication witb Mrs.
and Miss Sterne, and makinif arran!i;emcnl.s for wbat was,
in tbose days, a somcwbat formidable undertakinif — tbe
journey of two ladies from tbo Nortb of England to tbe
centre of France. Tbe correspondence wbicli ensued may
be s.'iid t" Lri\f us tbe last pleasant nlim[)se of Sterne's re-
lations witb bis wife. One can liardly lielp snspectiiej;, of
eonrs(>, tbat it was bis solicitude for tbe safety an<l com-
fort of bis mucb-loved daiiu'bter tbat mainly inspired tbo
atTectioiiate anxiety wbicb pervailes tbeM- lettirs to Mrs,
Sterne; but tbeir writer is, at tbe \eiy least, entitled to
credit f^r allowini; no dilTerenee of tone to reveal itself in
tbe tei'ni< in wbicb be speal<s of wife and cliild. Aiid,
wbiebever of tbe two be was mainly tbinkiiii;- of, tbero is
sometbini;- very entjatrin^' in tbe tbouu;litfiil minuteness of
bis instructions to tbe two women travellers, tbe earnest-
ness of bis attempts to iiispin; tbem with couratre for tbeir
enterprise, and tbe sineero fecvo.ir of bis manv commen-
dations of tbem to tbe Piviiie keepitiL;-. Tbe mixture of
"canny" eonnsel and pious invocation lias freipiently a
droll effect: as wbeii tbe advice to " t^ivc tbe custoin-bonso
odlcers wbat I told you, and at Calais more, if yon bavo
mucb Seoteb sniifT;"and "to drink small Kbetiisb to keep
yon Cool, tbat is, if yon like it," is ronnded oil by tbe <'jac-
nlation, " Su («od in Heaven prosper and i^'o aloni; with
vou 1" Letter ;ifter letter did bo send tbem, full of >ucb

^ 11

reminders as tbat " tbev 1

lave

bad

pins and vile needles

STERNE.

[ciup.

hero," tliat it would bo advisable to briiiu; with them a
stroiiijf bottle-screw, and a •••ood stout coj)f)er tea-kettle; till
at last, in the final words of preparation, his lani;iKii;e .as-
sumes soiiutliiiii;' of the soleuiiiity of a general addressing
his army on the eve of a well-nigh desperate enterprise:
"I'luck up your spirits — trust in (iod, in me, and your-
selves; with this, was you put to it, you would encounter
■ til these diflieulties ten times told. Write instantly, and
tell me vou triumph over all fears — tell me Lvdia is bet-
ter, and a lM'l[)-mate to you. You say she grows like mc :
let her show wo. she does so in her contempt of small dan-
gers, and lighting against the a[)prehensions of them, which
is better still."

At last this anxiously awaited journey was taken ; and,
on Thursday, July 7, Mrs. Sterne and her daughter arrived
in Paris. 'J'luir stay there was not long — not much ex-
tended, probably, beyond the |)roposed week. For Sterne's
health had, some ten days before the arrival of his family,
again given him warning to de[»art (juiokly. lie had but
a few weeks recovered from the fever of which he spoke
in his letter to the Archbishop, when he again broke a
blood-vessel in his lungs. It ha[)pened in the night, and
"finiling in the morning that 1 was likely to bleed to
death, I sent immediately," he says, in a sentence which
quaintly brings out tlu; j)aradox of contemporary medical
treatment, "for a surgeon to bleed me at both arms. This
saved me " — /. e. did not kill me — " and, with lying speech-
less three days, 1 recovered upon my back in bed: the
breach healed, and in a week after I got out." Ihit the
weakness which ensued, and the subsequent " hurrying
about," no doubt as cicerone of Parisian sights to his wife
and daughter, " nuide me think it high time to haste to
Toulouse." Accordingly, about the 2Uth of the month,

[CIUP.

kitli llicm a
a-kdtlo; till
Iai)'4'ii;ii(c as-
il addressing
eiiU rprise :
?, and yoiir-
Id encounter
istantlv, and
jvdia is bet-
i\vs like inc :
>f small dan-
tluni, wliicli

taken ; and,
jliter arrived
ot much ex-
For Sterne's
f Ms family,

lie Iiad but
cli he spoke
;ain broke a
u niLi,lit, and

to bleed to
tence wbich
rary inedical

arms. This
yiiig speech-
ill bed : the
." ]Jut the
t " hurrying
s to liis wife
! to haste to

the month,

v.l

TOULOUSE.

li
4

and " in the midst of sncli heats that tbc oldest Frencli-
man never remembers the like," the party set off by way
of liyons and Afontpellier for their Pyrenean destination.
Their journey seems to have been a journey of many mis-
chances, extraordinary discomfort, and incredible length ;
and it is not till the second week in August that we again
take up the broken thread of his correspondence. Writ-
ing to Mr. Foley, his banker in I'aris, on the 14th of that
month, he speaks of its liaving taken him three weeks to
reach Toulouse ; and adds that " in our journey wc sutfer-
ed so much from the heats, it gives me pain to remember
it. I never saw a cloud from Faris to Nismcs half as
broad as a twenty-four sols i)iece. (Jood God ! we were
toasted, roasted, grilled, stewed, carbonadcd, on one side
or other, all the way: and being all done through {asscz
ciiifs) in the day, we were eat up at night by bugs and
other unswei)t-out vermin, the legal inhabitant.s, if length
of possession give right, at every inn on the war." A few
miles from lieaucaire he broke a hind wheel of his car-
riage, and was obliged in consequence " to sit live liours
on a gravelly road without one drop of water, or possibili-
ty of getting any;" and hero, to mend the matter, he was
cursed with "two dough - liearted fools" for postilions,
who 'fell a-crying 'nothing was to bo done!'" and could
only be recalled to a worthier and more helpful mot)d by
Sterne's "pulling otf his coat and waistcoat,"' and "threat-
ening to thrash them butli within an inch of their lives."

The longest journey, liowcver, must come to an end ;
and the party found much to console them at Toulouse for
the miseries of travel. They were fortunate enough to se-
cure one of those large, old comfortable houses which were
and, here and there, perhaps, still are to be hired on the
outskirts of provincial towns, at a rent whicli would now
1' 4* C

STERNE.

[(•riAP. V.

bo thought absurdly small ; and Storno writes in terms of
high complacency of liis temporary abode. " Excellent,"
" well furnished," "elegant beyond anything I ever looked
for," arc some of tlio expres-ions of praise which it draws
from him. lie observes with pride that the " verv great
sitlle a eompa^nie is as large as liaron (rib)lbiieirs ;" and
he records with great satisfaction — as well ho might — that
for the use of this and a country house two miles out of
town, "besides tlio enjoyment of gardens, which the land-
lord engaged to keep in order," he was to j)ay no more
tbaii thirty pounds a year. "All tliiuus," he add^*, "are
cheap in proportion: so we shall live hero for a verv, very
little."

And t])is, no doubt, was to Sterno a matter of some mo-
ment at tliis time. The expenses of his long and tedious
journey UMist have been heavy ; and the gold-yielding vein
of literary popularity, which ho had for three years been
working, had already begun to show signs of exluuistion.
Tiistyuin iihand)/ had lost its first vogue; and the fifth
and sixth volumes, the copyright of which he docs not
scorn to have disposed of, were "{^oing off" but slowly.

m
fen A I*. V.

ill tcniis of
' Kxcollent,"

i'\('V looked
lii'li it draws
" very liroat
jveli's ;" and
mifjlit — tliat
iiiilos out of
oil the land-
ay no inoiv
; ixCAs "arc
a very, very

:>f some mo-
and tedious
ieldinrj vein
years been
exlianstion.
nd the tiftl»
ic docs not
.it slowly.

CIIAPTEll VI.

LIFE IN THE SOI Til. — HKTrRN TO ENCLAND, — VOLS. VII.
AXD Via. — SECOND SET OF 8EKMON.S.

(1702-1705.)

TiiF, dimiiiisliod appetite of tlin public for the lunuours of
.Mr. Sliamly and jiis brother is, perhaps, not very dilllouit
to understand. Time was simply doino; its usual whole-
some work in siftinj? tiie false from the true — in ridding
Sterne's audience of its contincjont of sham admirers. This
is not to say, of course, that there might not have been
other and better [grounds for a partial withdrawal of popu-
lar favour. A writer who systematically employs Steru'-'s
peculiar methods must lay his account with undeserved
loss as well as with unmerited piin. The fifth and sixth
volumes deal quite lari^ely cnou_£,di in mere eccentricity to
justify the distaste of any reader upon whom mere eccen-
tricity had begun to pall. But if this were the solo e.\-
planation of thv brok's deelining popularity, we should
liave to admit that t!'c .idvcrse judgment of the public had
been delayed too long for justice, and had passed over the
worst to light upon the le^.s hoinou.'=. ounces. For the
third volume, though its earlier r i-r^g contain some good
touches, drifts away into mere dub, t:iic!"anly equivoque in
its concluding chapters; and the fiftii iiid sixth volumes
may, at any nite, quite safely challenge favourable <;umpar-

STEHNK.

[(II A p.

ison witli the fuurtli — the poorest, I venture to think, of
the whole scries. There is nothinn; in these two later vol-
umes to compare, for instance, with that most wearisome
exercise in double enli'mh-e, Slawkenberuius's Tale ; nothini;
to match that painfully elah-.i-ate i)iece of low comedy, the
crmMiltation of philosophers and its episode of I'hutatori-
us's mishap with the. hut chestnut; no such persistent re-
port, in short, to those mechanical methods of mirth-inak-
inii upon which Sterne, thron^hout a great part of the
fourth volume, almost exclusively relies. The humour of
the fifth is, to a far larger extent, of the creative and dra-
matic order; the ever-delightful collision of intellectual
incongruities in the persons of the two luothers Shandy
gives animation to the vohinie almost from beginning to
end. The arrival of the news of Iiobl)y Shandy's death,
and the contrast of its reception by the jdiilosophic father
and the simple-minded uncle, form a scene of inimitable
absurdity, and the "Tristrapn-dia," with its ingenious ju-oj-
eet for opening up innumerable "tracks of inquiry" be-
fore the mind of the pupil by sheer skill in the manipula-
tion of the auxiliary verbs, is in the author's happiest vein.
The sixth volume, again, which contains the irresistible
dialogue between Mr. and Mrs. Shandy on the great ques-
tion of the "breeching of Tristram," and the much-admired,
if not wholly admirable, episode of Lc Fovre's death, is ful-
ly entitled to rank beside its predecessors. On the whole,
therefore, it must be said that the colder reception accorded
to this instalment of the novel, as compared with the pre
vious one, can hardly be justified on sound critical grounds.
J hit that literary shortconungs were not, in fact, the cause
of Tristram's declining popularity may be conlidently in-
ferred from the fact that the seventh volume, with its ad-
nurably vivid aud spirited scenes of Continental travel, and

[chap.

o think, of
o later vul-

woarisoino
Ic; notliiiiu:
omc'dy, tlio

I'luitatori-
'rsistcrit ro-
niirth-iiiak-
lait of tlio
liiiinour of
>o and dra-
intclloctiial
3rs Sliaiidy
^ijiiiniiii; to
ily's deatli,
pliic father

inimitable
II ions i)roj-
(juirv " l»e-
! nianipula-
|)|)ie.st vein.

irresistible
i^reat ques-
!h-adniircd,
eath, is ful-

thc whole,
>n accorded
th the pre
al ti^roiinds.
, the eanso
lidently in-
vilh its ad-
travel, and

V,.]

LIFE IN TIIK SOUTH.

the cicjhth and ninth, witli tlioir cliarmini]; narrative of Cap-
tain Shandy's love affair, were but slii^htly more siiceessful.
The readers whom this, the third instalment of the novel,
had bei,'un to repel, were mainly, I ima<jinc, those who had
never felt any intellii,'ent admiration for the former; who
had been caught by the writer's eccentricity, without ap-
preciating his insight into character and his graphic })Owcr,
and who had seen no ■ i or aspects of his humour than
those buffooneries and pueiilitics which, after first amusing,
had begun, in the natural course of things, to wcarv them.
Meanwhile, however, and with spirits restored by the
.Southeni warmth to that buoyancy which never long de-
serted them, Sterne had begun to set to work upon a
new volume, llis letters show that this was not the
seventh but the eighth ; and Mr. Fitzgerald's conjecture,
that the materials ultimately given to the world in the for-
mer volume were origitially designed for another work,
appears exceedingly probable. JJut for some time after
his arrival at Touhjuse he was unable, it would seem, to
resume his literary labours in any form. Ever liable,
througli llis weakly constitution, to whatever local mala-
dies might anywhere prevail, he had fallen ill, he writes to
Hall Stevenson, "of an epidemic vile fever which killed
hundreds about me. The physicians here," he adds, "are
the arrantest charlatans in Europe, or the most ignorant of
all pretending fools. I withdrew what was left of me out
of their hands, and recommended my affairs entirely to
Dame Nature. She (dear goddess) has saved me in fifty
different pinching bouts, and I begin to have a kind of
enthusiasm now in her favour and my own, so that one or
two more escapes will make mo believci I shall leave vou
all at last [)y translation, and not by fair death." llavino-
now become " stout aud fooli.ib again as a mim can wish

8TERXE.

(Cli

to bo, I am," ho says, *' busy playing the fool with my
Undo Toby, whom I have yot soured over head and cars
in love." Now, it is not till tin; (.iglith volumo that the
Widow Wadinan begins to weave her si»oll.s around (Jap-
tain Shandy's ingenuous heart ; while the seventh volumo
is mainly composed of that scries of travel-pictures in
which Sterne has manifestly recorded his owa impressions
of Northern Franco in the person of tlio yontnful 'I'nstram.
It is scarcely doubtful, therefore, that it is these .sketches,
and the use which ho then proposed to make of them, that
he refers to, when speaking in this letter <f "hints and
projects for other works." Originally intended to form a
part of the volume afterwards published as the Sentimental
Jounte)/, it was found necessary — under pressure, it is to be
supposed, of insuflicient matter — to work them uj) in-tead
into an interpolated seventh volume of Tristram Sluuubj.
At the moment, however, he no doubt as little foresaw this
as he did the delay which was to take place be ore .'iny
continuation of the novel appeared. He clearly contem-
plated no very long absence from England. "^Vllcn I
have reaped the benefit of the winter at Toulouse, I cannot
see I have anything more to do with it. Therefore, after
having gone with my wife and girl to llagneres, T .shall
return from whence I came." Already, however, one can
perfcivc signs of his having too presumptuously marked
out his future. " My wife wants to stay another year, to
aavc moiiey ; and this opposition of wishes, though it will
not be as sour as lemon, yet 'twill not be as sweet as
sugar." And again : " If the snows will suffer me, I pro-
pose to spend two or three months at Barege or Bagneres ;
but my dear wife is against all schemes of additional ex-
pense, which wicked propensity (though not of despotic
power) yet I cannot suffer — though, by-thc-bye, laudable

\: >

•!! J,

In.

VI.

LTFK IV TTIR SOUTH.

enouuh. Dut hlie may taik; I will go ii.y own way, and
she will aoijuiesc' witlioiit a word of debate on the sub-
ject. Who cafi say so nnicli in praise of bis wifo? Few,
I trow." The tone of coiitcmptiiouH ainiabiln shows
pretty clearlv .t tin- rflations between huslat!'! *"(>

had in nowisi iinpnn I>ut wives do not > 1. ,i

all their infl-ence .»vcr iiu.sl tuds' wills aloni; ,th the
power over their affections; and it will be seen that Sterne
did ni)t make his projected winter trip to ]>au;neres, and
that he dil renniiii at Toulouse for .•' eonsiderablc part of
the second year for which Mrs. Sterne desired to prolo' .
their stay. The place, however, was not to Ids taste; and
he was not the first traveller in France who, d» lii,d»ted with
the gaiety of Paris, has been disaj)pointed at fin 'ing that
French provincial towns can be as dull liness itself

could require. It is in the souiewhat u/ijii \ which is

commonly begotten of disillusion that Ste, discovers the
cause of his ennui in "the eternal platitii.le of the French
character," witli its "little variety and no originality at
all." " Tliey are very civil," he admits, " but civility itself
so thus wMiforni wearies and bothers me to death. If I
(h) not mitid I shall grow most stupid and sententious."
With such apprehensions it is not surprising that he should
have eagerly welcomed any distraction that < hance ininht
offer, and in December we find him joyfully informiiin; his
chief correspondent of the period, Mr. Foley— who to his
services as Sterne's banker seems to have added those of a
most helpful and trusted friend— that " there an a com-
pany of English strollers arrived here who are to act
comedies all the Christmas, and are now busy in making
dresses and preparing some of our best comedies." Thcso
so-called strollers were, in fact, certn'u members of tlio
English colony in Toulouse, and their performances were

111,

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W i

.STERNE,

[chap.

among tlic first of those " amateur theatrical " entertain-
ments whicli now-a-days may be said to rival the faiiiuiis
"morning drum-beat" of Daniel Webster's orati.,n, in
marking the ubiquity of British boredom, as the reveil
docs that of British power over all the terrestrial globe.
" TJie next week," writes Sterne, " with a grand orchestra,
we play The Busybody, and the Journey to London the
week after; but I have some thought of adapting it to
our situation, and making it the Journey to Toulouse,
which, with the change of half-a-dozen scenes, may be
easily done. TIjus, ray dear Foley, for want of something
better we Iiave recourse to ourselves, and strike out the
best amusements we can from sucli materials." "Re-
course to ourselves," however, means, in strict accuracy,
" recourse to each other ;" and when the amateur players
had played themselves out, and exhausted their powers of
contributing to each others' amusement, it is probable that
"recourse to ourselves," in the exact sense of the phrase,
was found ineffective— in Sterne's case, at any rate— to
stave off ennui. To him, with his copiously if somewhat
oddly furnished mind, and his natural activity of imagi-
nation, one could hardly apply the line of Pcrsius,

"Tecum habita ct noris quam sit tibi curta supellex;"'

but it is yet evident enough that Sterne's was one of that
numerous order of intellects which are the convivial as-
sociates, rather than the fireside companions, of their own-
ers, and which, when deprived of the stimulus of external
excitement, are apt to become very dull company indeed.
Nor does he seem to have obtained much diversion of
mind from his literary work— a form of intellectual en-
joyment which, indeed, more often presupposes than be^
gets good spirits in such temperaments as Lis. lie de-

'!N

VI.]

LIFE IX THE SOUTH.

clarcs, it is true, that ho " sports much witli my Uncle
Toby " in tlie vohimo whicli he is now " fabricatincc for
the lanf,diino- part of the world ;" but if so ho must have
sported only after i\ very desultory and dilatory fashion.
On the whole one cannot escape a very strong impression
that Sterne was heartily bored by his sojourn in Toulouse,
and that he eagerly longed for the day of his return to
"the dalliance and the Avit, the flattery and the strife,"
whicli he had left behind him in the two great capitals in
which he had shone.

His stay, however, was destined to be very prolonged.
The winter of 1762 went by, and the succeeding year had
run nearly half its course, before he changed his quarters.
" The first week in June," he writes in April to Mr. Foley,
"I decamp like a patriarch, with all my household, to pitch
our tents for three months at the foot of the Pyrcnean
hills at Bagneres, where I expect much health and much
amusem-nt from all corners of the oartli." He t-.ilked too
at this time of spending the winter at Florence, and, after
a visit to Leghorn, returning home the following April by
way of Paris; "but this," he adds, "is a sketch only,"
and it remained only a sketch. Toulouse, however, ho
was in any case resolved to quit. He should not, ho said,
be tempted to spend another winter there. It did not suit
his health, as he had hoped: he complamed that it was too
moist, and that lie could not keep clear of ague. In June,
1763, he quitted it finally for Bagneres; whence after a
short, and, as avc subsequently learn, a disappointed, so-
journ, he passed on to Marseilles, and later to Aix, for
both of which places he expressed dislike ; and by Octo-
ber he had gone again into winter quarters at Montpellicr,
where " my wife and daughter," he writes, " purpose to
stay at least a year behind me." His own intention was

ll^i

! t 1

V i'

STERXfi.

to sot out in February for England, '
been flod tliese six months." ''llei'

[citA

arc traces of that periodic, or rather, perh

, Wiiere my licnrt has
•c again, liowcvcr, there

conflict of

', perhaps, tliat cliron

•cii nation between himself and Mrj

'! 1

,. I • I 1 , — •■...,.,^11 rtim i,^i's. Hterno of

;;: ".m"'"-.;'," '"" ^ '-"■'* "«-*^'- »' v^^

op ) . )h ,v,fo," 1,0 ,vntos in January, " .■ctn^ns t, To,,-
lou>c, and proposes to spend ti.e sn.nmer at Ua.vn;.ro, I
on tl.c eontrary, go to visit ,„y ,vife tl,o el,„rel, i„ Yort
Inre. A\ e all live tl.c longer, at least tl,o I,a,,pie „r

o"?.. ":■": 7 7" T '"''" '' '-y -"i".-' nl ;i

t .e «o,»t It was natural enough tl.at Sterne, at any rate
.ould w,sh to turn hi., baek on Montpellier. A^ain C'
ho „„ lueky .nvalid l>ee„ attaefal by i dangerous" ,

the 'sharp an-" of the plaoo disagreed with him a, h s'

Phys,e,aas, after having hin, under'tl.eir hands , „

.nont , .nformed hin, eoolly that if ho staved any l„ Zr

.lon.pelher ,t would bo fatal to him. 1 „w soon ,C

l..-.t son,e>vhat Into warning ho took his dopart„ro

that we hnd h,n, writing from Paris to his daughter. A, d
smce ho t ere announees his intention of leaving for E, I
land ,„ a fev days, it is a prohaHo oonjeetnre that he h-id
armed at the Freneh eapital some fortnight or so b „ 7

t lli.no n hemselves, but too ehar,aetoristie of the n,an to
he onmted. Lord Hertford, the British A.nbassador, nd
jnst taken a raagnifieent hotel in ...ris, and Sterne Z
asked to preaoh the fl„t sern,on s ohapel. T Z

sage «as bro.^h, l,im, ,,o writes, -^ wl,en I was olayinfa
sober game of whist with Mr. Thornbill ; and ^lith^- I
was called abruptly fron, n,y afternoon amusen.ent t . 1
pare n,ysolf for the business on the ne.t day, or fro, v^t

ill I

[chap.

TI,

LIFE IN THE SOUTH.

lucky kind of fit seized me wliicli
able to resist, and a very unlucky

other cause, I do not pretend to determine ; but that un-

i know I ain never
. did come into iny
head." Tlie text referred to was 2 Kintys xx. 1;"5 — Hcze-
kiah's admission of tiiat ostentatious display of the treas-
ures of his palace to the ambassadors of Babylon for which
Isaiah rebuked lain by prophesying the Babylonian cap-
tivity of Judah. Nothing, indeed, as Sterne protests, could
have been more innocent than the discourse which he
founded upon the mal-a-2)ropos text; but still it was un-
questionably ;i fair subject for " chaff," and the preacher
was rallied upon it by no less a person than David Hume.
Gossip having magnified this into a dispute between the
parson and the philosopher, Sterne disposes of the idle
story in a passage deriving an additional interest from its
tribute to that sweet disposition which had an equal charm
for two men so utterly unlike r^ +he author of I'ristram
Shandij and the author of the Wcal'h of JVations. " I
should," he writes, "be exceedingly surf nsed to hear that
David ever had an unpleasant contention with any man ;
and if 1 should ever be made to believe that such an event
had happened, nothing would persuade me that his oppo-
nent was not in the wrong, for in my life did I never meet
with a being of a more placid and gentle nature ; and it is
this amiable turn of his character which has given more
consequence and force to his scepticism than all the argu-
ments of his sophistry." The real truth of the matter
was that, meeting Sterne at Lord Hertford's table on the
day when he Lad preached at the Embassy Chapel, " David
was disposed to make a little merry with the parson, and
in return the parson was equally disposed to make a little
merry witli the infidel. We laughed at one another, and
the company laughed with us both." It would be absurd,

' ii

KH&J.,

STERXE.

[chap.

s ,

of course, to identify Sterne's lautiulinarian bonhomie with
the liio-lier order of tolerance; but many a more confirmed
and notorious Gallio tl)an the clerical humourist would
have assumed prudish airs of orthodoxy in such a pres-
ence, and the incident, if it does not raise one's cr^timato
of Sterne's dignity, displays him to us as laudably free
from hypocrisy.

But the long holiday of somewhat dull travel, with its
short last act of social gaiety, was drawing to a close. In
the third or fourth week of May SLcrne quitted Paris ; and
after a stay of a few weeks in London he returned to the
Yorkshire parsonage, from which he had been absent some
thirty months.

Unusually long as was the interval which had elapsed
since the publication of the last instalment of Tristram
Shandy, the new one was far from ready ; and even in
the "sweet retirement" of Coxwold he seems to have
made but slow progress with it. Indeed, the " sweet re-
tirement" itself became soon a little tedious to him. The
month of September found hiin ;.Ircady bored with work
and solitude; and the fine autumn weather of 17G4 set
him longing for a few days' pleasure-making at what was
even then the fashionable Yorkshire watering-place. " I
do not think," he writes, with characteristic tncohercncc,
to Hall Stevenson— "I do not think a week or ten days'
playing the good fellow (at this very time) so abominable
a thing; but if a man could get there clcverlv, and every
soul in his house in the mind to try what cJuld be done
m furtherance thereof, I have no one to consult in these
affairs. Therefore, as a man may do worse things, the
plain English of all which is, that I am going to feave a
few poor sheep in the wilderness for fourteen days, and
from pride and naughtiness of heart to go see what is

!lt f

VI.]

RETURN TO EXGLAND.

doing at Scarborougli, stcadfnlly ineanlnoj afterwards to
lead a now life and strengthen uiy faitli. Now, some folks
say there is much company there, and some say not ; and
I believe there is neither the one nor the other, but will be
both if the world will have patience for a month or so."
Of his work he has not much to say : " I o-o on not rap-
idly but well enough with my Uncle Toby's amours.
There is no sittinu; and cudgellino; one's brains whilst the
sun shines bright. 'Twill be all over in six or seven
weeks ; and there are dismal weeks enow ' ' -n- to endure
suffocation by a brimstone fireside." lie was anxious that
his boon companion should join him at Scarborough ; but
that additional pleasure was denied him, and he had to
content himself with the usual gay society of the place.
Three weeks, it seems, were passed by him in this most
doubtfully judicious form of bodily and mental relaxation
— weeks which he spent, he afterwards writes, in " drinking
the waters, and receiving from them marvellous strength,
had I not debilitated it as fast as I got it by playing the
good fellow with Lord Granby and Co. too much." By
the end of the month he was back again at Goxwold,
"returned to my Philosophical Hut to finish Tristram,
which I calculate will be ready for the world about Christ-
mas, at which time I decamp from hence and fix my head-
quarters at London for the winter, unless my cough pushes
me forward to your metropolis" (he is writing to Foley,
in Paris), " or that I can persuade some f/ros viUord to
make a trip to you." Again, too, in this letter we get
another glimpse at that thoroughly descntimentalized
"domestic interior" which the sentimentalist's household
had long presented to the view. Writing to request a
remittance of money to Mrs. Sterne at Montauban — a duty
which, to do him justice, he seems to have very watchfully

ii*

til

STERXE.

[CIUP.

! I'

observed— Storne adds his solicitation to iMr. Folov to "do
.somotl.ino- crjually essential to rectify a niistak; in the
mind of your correspondent there, who, it seems, i^avc her
a hint not long ago 'that she wa<- separated fro.n nie for
J.to. ^o^v, as this is not true, in the first place, and may
tix a disadvantageous impression of hvr to those she lives
aniongst, 'twould be unmerciful to let her or my dau^diter
suffer by ,t. So do bo so good as to undeceive himl for
in a year or two she purposes (and I expect it with impa-
tience from her) to rejoin me."

Early in x\ovember the two new volumes of S/mnchj be-
gan to approach completion ; for by this time Sterne had
already made up his mind to interpolate these notes of his
i^rcnch travels, which now do duty as Vol. VII "You
will read," he tells Foley, "as odd a tour thro.K-h Franco
as was ever projected or executed by traveller 'or travcl-
writor since the world began. 'Tis a laughing, good-tem-
pered satire upon travelling-as juippks travel." liy the
IGth of the month he had "finished my two volumes
of Tnsfram;^ and looked to bo in London at Christmas,
whence I have some thoughts of going to Italy this year.
At least I shall not defer it above another." On the 26th
of January, 1705, the two new volumes were given to the
world.

Shorter in length than any of the preceding instalments,
and filled out as it was, even so, by a process of what
would now bo called " book-making," this issue will yet
boar comparison, I think, with the best of its predecessors.
Its sketches of travel, though destined to be surpassed in
vigour and freedom of draftsmanship by the Senthnental
Journey, are yet excellent, and their very obvious want of
connexion with the story-if story it can bo called-is so
little felt that we almost resent the head-and-ears introduc-

' : 'J',

'■' il.

VI.] "TRISTRAM SHANDY," VOLS. VII. AND VIII. 87

tion of Mr. Shandy and liis brother, and the Corporal, in
apparent concession to the popiihir prejudice in favour of
some sort of coherence between tlie various parts of a nar-
rative. The first seventeen chapters are, perhaps, as freshly
delii;'htful re.'uliii.', as aiiythin;,' in Sterne. Tiiey are liter-
ally filled and brinii.iino- over with the exhilaration of
travel: written, or at least prepared for writing-, we can
clearly see, under the full intoxicant effect which a bewil-
Jeriiiij; succession of new sigjits and sounds will produce,
in a certain measure, upon the coolest of us, and which
would set a head like Sterne's in an absolute whirl. The
contao-ion of his hii,'li spirits is, however, irresistible ; and,
puttiiij;- aside all other and more solid qualities in them,
these chapters are, for mere fun — for that kind of clever
nonsense which only wins by perfect spontaneity, and
which so promptly makes ashamed the moment sponta-
neity fails — unsurpassed by anytliing of the same kind
from the same hand. IIuw strange, then, that, with so
keen an eye for the liumorous, so sound and true a judg-
ment in the higliest qualities of humour, Sterne should
think it possible for any one who has outgrown what may
be called the dirty stage of boyhood to smile at the story
which begins a few chapters afterwards — that of the
Abbess and Novice of the Convent of Andouillets ! Tho
adult male person is not so much sliocked at the coarse-
ness of this story as astounded at the bathos of its intro-
duction. It is as though some matchless connoisseur in
wine, after having a luindred times demonstrated tlio un-
erring discrimination of his palate for the finest brands,
should then produce some vile and loaded co- wmnd, and
invite us to drink it with all the relisli witfi vhich ho
seems to be swallowing it himself. This story of the Ab-
bess and Novice almost impels us to turn back to certain

STEUNE.

[CIIAP.

caHior chapters or former volumes, and rc-cxami.ic some
of tho .subtler passao-cs of Immour to be found there— in
do^vnri^•ht apprehension lest wo should turn out to liave
read these "i.-ood things," „ot "in," but "into," our au-
thor. The bad wine is so very bad, that wo catch our-
selves wondering whether the Hner brands were genuine,
when we sec the same palate equally satisfied with both'
But one should, of course, add that it is only in respect of
Its supposed luimour that this story shakes its readers'
faith iu the gifts of the narrator. As a mere piece of
story-telling, and even as a study in landscape and fi<nire-
painting, it is quite perversely skilful. There is s.nnet'liin.v
almost irritating, as a waste of powers on unworthy ma"-
terial, in the prettiness of the picture wliich Sterne draws
of the preparations for the departure of the two rdirjicuscs
—the stir in the simple village, the co-operating labours of
the gardener and the tailor, the carpenter and the smith
and all tiiose other little details whicli bring the whole
scene before the eye so vividly that Sterne may, perhaps
m all seriousness, and not merely as a piece of his charac-
teristic persiflage, have thrown in the exclamation, "I de-
clare I am interested in this story, and wish I had been
there." >;othing, again, could be better done than the
sketch of the little good-natured, "broad-set" gardener,
Avho acted as the Ladies' muleteer, and the recital of the
indiscretions by which he was betrayed into temporarv de-
sertion of his duties. The whole scene is Chaucerian in
Its sharpness of outline and translucencv of atmosphere:
though there, unfortunately, the resemblance ends. Sterne's
manner of saying what we now leave nnsaid is as uidike
Chaucer's, and as unlike for the worse, as it can pos-
sibly be.

Still, a certain amount of this element of the non nomi-

I i

Ti.] "TKISTHAM SHANDY," VOLS. V'll. AND VIII.

8 'J

vtDidinii must bo coiiipoiindcd for, ono rci^rets to snv in
nearly every cl)aptor that Stern*! ever wrote; and tlu^ro
is certainly less than the averai,'c amount of it in the*
seventh vohinic TImmi, aj-ain, this volume contains the
famous scene with the ass — the live and mniuinelv toueii-
inu', and not the dead and fictitiously pathetic, animal;
and tiiat perfect piece of coinie diaIoi,Mie — the interview
between tiie puzzled Hiiolish travrllor and the French com-
missary of the posts. To have suj>-u:estcd this scene is, per-
iiaps, the sole claim of the absurd fiscal system of the An-
ck'j rvfjime upon the grateful remembrance of the world.
A scheme of taxation which exacted posting-charges from
a traveller who proposed to continue his journey by water,
possesses a natural ingredient of drollery infused into its
mere vexatiousness ; but a whole volume of satire could
hardly put its essential absurdity in a stronger light than
is thrown upon it in the short conversation between the
astonished Tristram and the officer of the fisc, who had
just lianded him a little bill for six livres four sous :

" ' Upon wliat account?' said I.

" ' 'Tia upon the part of tlie King,' said tlie commissary, heaving
up his slioulders.

" ' My good friend,' «iuotli 1, ' as sure as I am I, and you are you—'

" 'And wiio are you ?' lie said.

'"Don't puzzle me,' said J. 'Dut it is an indubitable verity,' I
continued, addressing myself to the commissary, changing only the
form of my asseveration, ' tliat I owe tlic King of France nothing but
my good-will, for he is a very honest man, and I wish him all the health
and pastime in the world.'

" ' Pardonnez-moi,' replied the commissary. ' You are indebted to
Inm six livres four sous for the next post from hence to St. Fons, on
your route to Avi: . nn, whieli being a post royal, you pay double for
the horses and pcti.ion, olhevwisc 'twould have amounted to no more
than three livres two sous.'

'"But I don't go by land,' said I.
(4 5 ^

f . !

'JU

«TKRXE.

[CIIAP.

IV I

" ' You rnny if yo„ please,' roplio.l the com.nissarv.

; ^o.n- inost obedient servant.' sai.l I. .„aldn, hi,u a lo. how.
Tho con.,n>ssary, ,v„l, all the sinccritv of grave Koo.l-I.ree.lin.'
jnac,,„^o , rnovorwas.no,.e.£eone^;,n.:l;;;;

■" "v I.fc ll.e (lev.l take tl.e serious character of these pconle '
-ud I asulo; 'they un.lorstand no n.orc of irony tlnu t , .,' T L
cou,,ar..so„ was standing dose hy with her pannier., t.ut o netiln.
Hoalcl up n.y lips. I could not pronounce the name ^

^^^^ S.-,' saul I, cuiiectinK .nyseif, 'it is not n.y intention to take

if;:ji^:."'^'^"''''*'''''''-^'^''''^^ '— y
.io'i;':;ioi::7'''""'^^'"^''^'^'^'^'^'™^ «"^i

'" Hut you n.u,st pay for it, whether you do or no.'

^^^ Ay, for tho salt; said I, 'I know.'

"'And f«)i' tlio post, too,' a(hled he.

" ' Defend n.e !> cried I. ' I travel by water. I am going down the

one t ,s ve., afternoon; ,„y baggage is in the b^., nd
■K'tiially paid mne Iivres lor my passa<re.'

'"C'e-st tout egal— 'tis all one,' saiiri.'e
^J^ Dieu ! What ! pay lor the way I go and for the way 1 do

'"C'est tout egal,' replied tho commissarv

in.t 0, England! England I thou land of libortv and climate of
good-senso ! thou tonderest of mother.s and gentlest of nurses -'c-rird

' It is the penalty-I suppose the just penaltv-paid by habitually
cx^..vagant lmn.ourists,th,.t ,...., ,,, ..ng aLys i^V^^a^

A n ho« , ,t n,ay be suspected that this retort of Tristran.'s is too often

tor.. m^>,hcat.on, an.l that its extremely fViieitous pertinence to the

c,«c.t,on,ndispateist,,,.sover, .ed. The point It, J:. ^

hat the husmess ,„ whieh ,l,e connnissary was then on.....! , •.
P^ocs. y a„.,„gous to that of exacting salt dues fron. pene; e , :

:i!S

ntioii to take

vi.J "TUISTUAM SHANDY," VOLS. VII. AND VIll. ..il

I, kneeling upon one knee u.s I was boginninK my apostioplie— wlun
tl;e director of Madame L. IJIanc's conscience coming' in at that in-
stunt, :iii(l sceiii.!,' a person in lilacl<, with a face as pal." as aslics, at
ills devotions, asiu'd il' I stood in want ol' tlie aids of the Ciiiurli.

'"I no l)y water,' siid I, 'and liere's another will be for makinj,'
me pay for goinj; by oil.' "

The coiiimissaiy, of course, roinaiiis obdiimto, and Tris-
tram protests that the treatment to wliicli he is heiiio- siil)-
jeetcd is " contrary to the law of nature, contrary to rea-
son, contrary to the Gospel :"

" ' Hut not to this,' said he, putting a printed paper into my hand.

'"Dc par le Roi.' "Tis a pitliy prol-.'omenon,' quoth I, and so

read on -JJy ail which it appears,' (piutli I, iiaving read it over

a little too rapidly, ' tliat if a man sets out in a post-chaise for Paris,
iie must go on travelling in one all the days of his life, or pay for it.'

'" Excuse me,' said the commissary, 'tiie s|)irit of tin; ordinance is
this, that if you set out with an intention of running jmst from I'aris
to Avignon, &c., you shall not change that intention or mode of trav-
elling witliout first satisfying tlic fenniers for two posts further i\.in
the place you repent at; and 'tis founded,' continued he, 'upon this,
that the revenues arc not to fall short through your lickleness.'

" ' 0, by heavens !' cried I, ' if fickleness is taxable in France, wo
have nothing to do but to nuikc the best peace wc can.'

"And so the peace was made."

And the volume ends with the dance of villagers on
" the road between Nisnies and Lunel, where is the best
Muscatto wine in all France "--that charniini;- little idyll
wiiich won the unwillins-' adunntion ,>f the least friendly
t>f Sterne's critics.'

With the close of this volume the shadowy Tristram
disappears altogether from the scene; and even tiic clear-
l\-sketchcd figures of Mr. and Mrs. Shandy recede some-
what into the bacl<ground. The courtship of my Uv.';l(.'
' Thackeray: Kiujlis}! IlKmniu-ista, vol. x. \\. nUM, oil. 187!t.

1^'

^^"'""^-^^-^-^^h^BL-L- -

'■ I

STERXE.

[CUAP.

Tob fo,-,„, tl,o wl.olo «„,;/; ,„„, i„j,„, „|„,„^j

". the novel a sroat deal l,a,, l,oc„ said and written ad

much „ t.„ ,„.ai»„ ,,o,,i„„,„., ,„,„„ i, i^ ,„,„,„ 2 ;.;'•

ho a, f„l co,,„ot,-ie., „f the .-..eiaath,. widow, and tit

8 adnal eapm, at,on of the Captain, are stndied w th ad ^

finuo g,.aee and skill. jj„t „,„„ i,, .,, , „„

Lr; '.''"'"^ "'''"''''''"»>•'' '-""'^

vewtj of Sterae s an.n.alisn, in a nunc e.vaspomtin. way

.» not so nn,eh the an.onnt of this elen,e„ as th^th .'

>i»ce, and n.anno,- in which it n.ahes its presence fel !

nsc. ,n„st o course, play tl.ci,- part in all love allahs, e t

a 1.3, on fo,. n,stanco, are ,,„ite free f.on, the charge of
o-er-spu-,tMaI,,,n,g their description of the passion ^ V
one n„.i,t safely say that there is far le s ,„ repel a
I *hy nnn n, the poofs aeco.n,. of the an.onr of 'j a,
."'1 Ilaideo than ,s to be found in n.anv a passage in this
vohnne ,t is not nrerely that one is ihe pootrj a ,

l..q.e , a d pon, s to a fandan.ental dittcrcnoe of attiritde
towards the.r subject iu the two writers' n.inds.

l.c.ns to have been slightly greater than that of the pri-
c«ln,g one. Writing fron, London, where !,o was £0
mo,.e haslang in the sunshine of social popularity o Gn-
nolc, then ,n Paris, he says (March 1„, ,'„i).. . ^C^
a lucra ,ve campaign here. «/,„„,,, sells wdl," and "I a '
taxing the public with two n,ore volumes of sermons „ |, "
;v." .nore than double the gains of Sk,„u,., I . « !
worid with a prancing lis. * „„„„ /,;'„„„4 i h
w." brn,g me „, three hundred pounds, e.elusivo of tl

/!!■;

,:; , I

JJ.

VI.]

"TRISTRAM SHANDY," Vols. V,I. am, VIII.

s;i

;;''" ".V'" ■="»'■" The list w,,«, i„>,oo,l, oxtonsivc a,„l ,li.

Yet h T"" ™"™'<=''^''''= '"- « i'i.out advanci,,,.

Ic ,0 l,„d g„„,l reasons, acooi-Jl„. to l,is own aeeount fo
v.s^,u^ to pusl. „„ thei,. „„l,n,„u„„. IJi, p„,,o,, ; ' ;

■e ,ew ser,„„„s co„ti„„e,l .„ I,a„,, fi,.. A,ai„, i„ Ap ,'
UescnW-s tl,o s„bseriptio„ list as " the most spl ,„lid IM

■■11} as fortlieoi.nao. ,„ ,Si.pte,„i.,e,.. thoao-l, I l^.,, ,,„, :„

I i /^, . jiiuHu J^nojand on Ins .second <ni<l

.Ht Co,„„,e„tal jo„n,ey. Tl,„ f,.,l sabserlptio, is , !

f^tunc lud publ,sl,cd w,-,s ,|„i,e favourable enouol, ,„ ,„.
;;;•■;«.• a ,-epet,tio„ of t„e o.po,.i,„e,„. „e w.i si -e
ui.msl,, ,„>vove,. to peteeive that o„ tliis see„„d oee.asio,,
;. »»."owl,at different sort „f artiele ,vo„ld be repaired I
. e i,rst flash ol T,-;.,„,. S,„,,f, ,„„„,,_„,, , ^

tie „, ter and tl,e nnbonaded lieease of the book, I,e
conld safel, reekon on ,.,s large and enrions a pablle for , ,

TAn

ti I

STEUXK.

[chap.

sermons wl.atcvcr from tl,e pen of Mr. Y..rick There
was no need that the h„n,onri.st in his pulpit should at all
rosen^ble the humourist at his desk, or, indeed, that he
should l.e in any way an impressive or commaudiuo- fio,,re
11.0 great_ des.re of the world was to know what 1.:.//,^
resemble ,n tins new and incon^cruous position. Men
wished to see what the queer, sly faee looked like over
n velvet cushion, in the assurance that the sio-ht would be
a strano.e ,„d interesting one, at any rate. Five years af-
erwards, however, the case was different. The public then
bad already had one set of sern.ons, and had discovered
ha the humorous Mr. Sterne was not a very different man
n he pulp.t from the dullest and most decorous of his
bro hron. Such discoveries as these are instructive to
make, but not attractive to dwell upon; and Sterne was
fully ahve to the probability that there would be no great
|lemand for a volume of sermons which should only tllus-
fato for the second time the fact that lie could be as com-
monplace as liis neighbour. He saw that in future the
Ivey. Mr. \ oriek must a little more resemble the author of
Jr^sfnan shandy, and it is not improbable that from IVGO
<.nwards he composed his parochial sermons with especial
attention to this mode of qualifying them for republication,
llicre IS, at any rate, no slight critical difKcultv in believ-
ing that the bulk of the sermons of I7G6 can be assio-ued
to the same literary period as tlie sermons of 1761 ^The
one set seems as manifestly to belong to the post-Shandian

as the other does to the pre-Shandian era; and in some,
mdced, of the apparently later productions the darino-
qnaintness of style and illustration is carried so far that"
-cept for the fact that Sterne had no time to spare foi'
the composition of sermons not intended for professional
use, one would have been disposed to believe that thej

VI.]

SECOND SET OF SEILMOXS.

(»5

neither were nor were meant to be delivered from the pul-
1^'t Ht all.- Throuo-hout all of them, however, Sterne's
new-found literary power displays itself in a yhumv of ox-
1 -ession and vivacity <,f illustration which at leiist serve to
" >l<e the sermons of IVOG considerahlv more entertain-
'..■.• reading- than those of ]7G1. In the first of the latter
sc-nes, for instance-tlie sermon on Shimei-a discourse
in which there are no very noticeable sallies of iinclerical
lunnour, the quality of liveliness is very conspicuouslv
present. The preacher's view of the character of Shimei
and of his behaviour to David, is hardly that, perhaps, of
a competent historical critic, and in treatino- of the Ben-
jamite's insults to the King, of Israel he appears to take
no account of the blood-feud between the house of David
and the clan to wliich the railer belonged ; just as in com-
nientmg on Shimei's subsequent and most abject submis-
sion to the victorious monarch, Sterne lays altogether too
much stress upon conduct which is indicative, not so much
ot any exceptional meanness of disposition, as of the or-
dinary suppleness of the Oriental put in fear of Ids life
However, it makes a more piquant and dramatic picture to
represent Shimei as a type of the Avretch of insolence and
•servility compact, with a tongue ever ready to be loosed
against the unfortunate, and a knee ever ready to be bent
to the strong. And thus he moralizes on his conce^.tion :

"There is not a cl.anictor in the world which lias so ba.l an influ
eneo upon it as this of Hhin.ei. While power meets with honest
checkH and the evils of life will, honest refuge, the world will never
be undone; but thou, Shimei, hast sapped it at both extremes: for
thou corruptest prosperity, and 'tis thou who hast broken the heart

' Mr. Fitzgerald, indeed, asserts as a faet that some at least of
hose ser,non,s_ were actually eon>posed in the capacity of Utteratacr
•md not of d.vuie-for the press and not for the pulpit.

'•■ ii

I I Hi

f '

I .

STKRXE.

of
'tis

poverty, .\ii.l s.) 1

[OH,

Af.

fi oh

<>n^' as wortlil

iiMicter wo iH'vcr sli

loss spirits can ),o aml.iti

fiiinp, the oahiiK't:

"■"It- Oil ! it intVst,-

oils OIK'S

I'voiy (|iiartor, i

it inCcsis tile ('Inircj,, <;

n <'Vfry pro/ossioi

'111-' I'oiirf, t||(

wliools „r (l„, Cortunato tlirou-1, tl

liastc !

and

oi' thou wilt, ho uiul

1, you soo a Si
i;(li thifli iiuro and d

H'l'C VOU W

III

lllllOl

)lio\\

ini;- ilu

'poodetii after ii

'one forever. Sli

takes tlie wheel from his cli

'»• «eliold tlio hand uliidi

iiy- Ihistc, SiiiiiH.i,
mei feripjeth up his h.ins

Kovorns ovorvthi

he
like tl

iivily. Siiiinci dou))los 1

'■'f>t, NO tliat iie who drivotli d

Dsr

K' Wilxl OV(

ii« speed ; hut 'tis th

rivoth on

your friend.

ii sandy desert. ... St

your honefiictor, tl

iiv. SI

loeoiitrary way: lie flit

'""t'l ! 'tis your puti

.":^ : ^-"'--toShiniei. Shi„.oi is the barometer .

■on.

nun the

man's fortmu ; marks tl

from

^eorohing hot to fr

«'".ile will admit of.' Is a eloud upon tl

'o nso and fall of it, with all tl

I'I'on hi.s oountenanee that the

■eeziiu

eoM 1

letor of every
h; variations

over Shimei's I

''low ! Hast tiiou he

y affairs ? See, it h

captain of tho host without suoce.<

en spoken for to tho 1

PUiiar, tho vat

fv is filled in Shiniei'.s L

not toShimoi:-' Xo matte,
'jo more insolent. What, tl

Itook not into tl

lee. Ai't thou in debt, tliouKh

lings

liing or the

le Court Cal-

le worst ofHoer of tho law shall

black

IS it of so L^'Ueral

I'lse up as Olio m
lose the right to

leii, .Shimei, is the fault of
oueern that thou and all thy family"

not

iiu to loproaeh it ? When it 1

IKiverty so
must

pity too -i Or did ho wh

niakelh rich strip it of its natural
suppio the temper of your

swoi- for. It is this t

•a 00 ;

ost everything, did it

maketh poor as well as

leart and

powers to mollify the h

its like y

leatmont whieh it 1

•ust me you hayo muoli to

an-

I's v.hit.j, has gradually tau-d

lias over met with from

lun it as tl

^'ht tlio world to look

spir-
upon it

.'IS the greatest of evils, and si

i« it, I beseeeh you-w hat is it' th.;V: "" 'T' ''''^'"''- ^"'' "'"^t

;-ore an impiation :d;;:i::;:::: t ri:;:: ;;rr'-;-

tliat ho rses earl- l-jtot.,) . ■ -^ ''"'" this

tl- he plots, c:;^;.- :;: :, 1 :': r ''- t' " --'••"-- ^

all garments, wears th m h uZtlZ^'f "' "" ''''''' '''''
"lay favour his escape ?" '"'" ""'"''"■''' J"'^^ "-^ i^

And tl.o„u.I, the scnnon ends in orthodox fashio.i uith
anassttt.aneethat,i..spiteoftheShi.ueisbyw;;:;:;:!;
' ^^'^"''' '''' ""^ '""^"y !» "10 ease of a bamneter.

[oiup.

itiiiliitioiis ones
tln' t'oiirt, (lio
''<-' vf'ii "ill, in
('i)llouiim' (i,(.
Hii^tc, SliiiiH.j,
I' "P I'i-^ loins
1'ii.s evorvtliinir
■til, (Irivftli on
^' ^*iiy : ho (licH
s your patron,
you from the
lotor of every
liu variations
iiK'e that tiie
^LH', it hangs
; king or tlie
le Court Cal-
debt, though
'i»- filial! not
' poverty so
family must
•tiling, did it
*f as well as
' heart and
iiueh to an-
1 from spir-
3ok upon it
And what
!ep clear of
' fiom this
uefuhief^s V
liapes, tries
', jii.st as it

ion, with
'liom we

VI.]

PECOXD SET OF SERMOXS.

a.;o stUTounclo<l,t is in o.u- power to ''lav the foundation
I'f -•";^ rx-.e (wlH.ro it o„^ht to W) uitl.in our own
'"■arts, y.-t tlu. proacher rau, in tin- .nidst o( his .arlier

''-t:">Slunu.i! -n.ld to Heaven, when thou wast
sla.n, that a 1 thv fan.ilv had been slain with thee, and
«H.t one o thy resen.blanee left ! But ye have nutltipiied
exccedmo.ly, .,,,1 replenished the earth; and if I prophesy
n.u-htly, yc, will in tlie end subdue it."

Nowhere, however, does the man of the world reveal
iH'nself w.th more strangely eonncal effect under the
gown of the divine than in tlie sermon on "The l»rod
."■al Son."^ The repentant spendthrift has returned to
tus^^ithers house, and is about to eonfess liis follies.

"Alas! How shall he tell his storv?

" Ve who have trod this round, telfnu. in what words he shall ^ivc
. to h.s father the sad items of his extravagance an.l follvlhc
easts and banquets whieh he gave to whole cities in the Ea^t ^ o
costs of As.atie nui.ies, and of Asiatic cooks to dress ,hcm • th^ e^
reuses of singing nam and singing women ; the flute, the harp the'
suckbut, an all kinds of music; the dress of the i>ers Ln C. l"
-iKndu-ent I their slaves how numerous I their chariots, their h
tl cr p,c arcs, their furniture, what immense sums they had devo .'
0.1 ! wha expectations from strangers of condition ! what exact o s .

^: t ; T """: "r '""^^ '^"""^■•^"^"^ ^"- •- --!< ^■

am n d ■ T'! '-^---the world; that he had

th It to the Ganges; that a whore of JJahylon had swallowed his
)cs pearl, and anointed the whole city with his balm of Gilead • tha
0^1 been sold by a n.n of honour f.r twenty shekels of sil^ o
• ^^o Kc ,n graven nnages ; that the images he had purchased pro
<l--i lum nothing, that they could not be transported aero s 1 e
- ierness, and had been burnt with, iiro at Shusan; that": an
and poacocks^which he had sent for from Tharsis lay' dead upon L
o

STERXE.

[ciup.

'I w

f,«»»k Ms f,ui,c.,.'» Ll,!;.r '' '" "■'■""'5 '■'■'"" "«■• ''">■ '■"

All this it ,n„^ be ad,„i,tc,l, i, p,.ctty Mvoh- f,„. , .,„..

tiles, and were rocnvom,! l>,. r • ^"'

edifv you or not 1 '^' "■'"^''^'" ^* ^^'^^'l^

rv }ou o, not, J,c goes on, in elfcct, to say T do nnf

P^pc^e to provide you with ediHcati;n i.:'; t L
llicso uses have been so ably set fo.-tl, in

;---pont,.el,.di,a.C^ V,:,Zf^r
f.-o.n then, at present, and eontent .ny.elf i ,
flections upon that fatal passion wh . , "'"; ''"

>"any tbousands after tiu .xan n '" /'"V!""^ ^"

t'^^etber and take hi. jo„. "" r^^^^^^^

v.-io..s W,Kls Of bo,„-;i.a<ic„ , a ■ '" ■ ?. °' "'"

Js,.,,,.,,,,,,„,,..,ae,.t,,:;:i; , ;7i:i:;t^''''7

"'. -ci.ty-i„ co„ti„o,„„i ci.i.,a„.i; ;„ ; ° ;;;'*

"f intro,i„cli„„.' •• Tl,,-,t i, lit..,..,llv , '■'

i» Jitfialh- tl,c substance of tlie

iill I *

••X.

VI.]

SECOND SET OF SERMONS.

remainder of the sermon. And tlms pleasantly docs the
preacher play with his curious subject :

"But you will send an ahlr pil„t with vour s„n-a sdiolar If
wisdon, can speak i,i no otl.c-r tonj,n,e but Greek or Latin, vow ,1,,
well; or ,f n.atl>en>aties will make a man a gentleman, or natural
plulosophy but teach him to make a bow, he mav be of some service
in .ntro.luc.n^^ your son into good societies, an.l suppo.ti,,.. him in
then, when he had done. JJut the upshot will be generally this that
on the most pressing occasions of a.ldresses, if he is not a" mere man
of rcadmg, the unhappy youth will have the tutor to carry, and not
the tutor to carry him. But (let us say) you will avoid this" extreme •
he shall be escorte.l by one who knows the world, not only from'
books but from his own experience; a man who has been employed
on such services, and thrice 'made the tour of Europe with success'
—that IS, without breaking his o«-n or his pupil's neck; lor if he is
such as my eyes have seen, some broken Swiss mid ik chamln-e some
general undertaker, who will perform the journey in so many n.'onths.
If God permit,' nmch knowledge will not accrue. Some 'profit at
oast: he wdl learn the an.o.mt to a halfpenny of every stage from
Calaisto Home; he will be carried to the best inns, instructed where
here IS the best wme, and sup a livre cheaper than if the youth had
been left o make the tour and the ba.gain himself. Look at our
governor, I beseech you ! See, he is an inch taller as he relates the
advantages. And here endeth his pride, his knowledge, an.l his „se.
But wl.en your son gets abroad he will be taken out of his hanu by
his society with n>en of rank and letters, with whom he will pnss the
greatest part of his time."

So much for the bear-leader; and now a remark or .wo
on the youno; man'.s chances of o-ettino- i„to j^ood forcio-n
society ; and then— the benediction :

"Let me observe, in the first place, that company which is really
good .s very rare and very shy. But you have .surmounted this dif-
ficulty, and procured him the best letters of reconm.endation to the
most eminent and respectable in every capital. And I answer that
he wdl obtam all by then, which courtesy strictly stands obliged to

1 ' I

100

RTERXE.

[on A p.

piiy on such occasions, hut no nu.rn ti

.•"■.- so n.ucl, ,i..coivc,l ,s . r h . "'" " """''""' '■" "'''^•'' '"^

-x-oMs an,l discourse with (he h.cra.i t Z "'"" ' '

.^tu.iy. Conversation is a tr mV ! . • ""'"'"' ''-^- •^•^''"•■^ <>■-

stoci<of lu.ovvioc|.c. oil ce^ • ."'' " •"" ""^"' '' "'"'""^ -'"o

;'-..ade drops ^„::':;:^:rr:^r^^^^^

'•".'stcd to tiio contrary whv t,-.vnii ' I'on-ever it may bo

-nyorsation wit.M;::t h^fr ^t I"""".^^^^^^'''''>-«-0
-nyiction, that ti.crc is nothii.: Co x '^ T?"""; "" ''''''''
ti- or yonng itinerants .orti, th^t^ ,.^ " '" -T /^ "'""^''■
ti.o interruption of their yisits." "'' ''"^' ''"'Suage, or

Very tr.c, no doubt, and oxcellcntlv ^vo]l nnf h„f ,

<'".v .outc. of pulpit j,;:L.:,%,:t::r.f ""•''-

«l Mill] Ins reception by "tlio Mtmti " i 11"'"'

oasici- society • ird .,. I ,1 '''""'"'• fc, socks •• an
over lyi,r ,\" f „''"'' "°"'';''"'>- '^ ■■>l"»3» -«ly, an.l

poor pro,;;; ;,1^,::'™'- '^ r°" ""''"'■ '"" "■»
.-.aPMorec„„ci,^,;„iJl^t^f;;i,:^^^^^^^

to sliow .l,,,t tl.is so , i. 1 """='' '""'''■"■''' »>•'''''"="

'' '" ^— "'«- -0 toucl,es of „„clc,.ic„l ..rilicy Zt

T,.]

a few. Th

SECOND SKT OF SEIJMOXH.

101

• What

a noise," he exclaims, " aniono- tl

siimilauts (,f the various virtues! . . . Behohl

IIu

militv.

1 -•J'-iiuiu lllMllllltV,

'c-co.ue so out ot .norc pride; Chastity, never once in

arm sway; and (V,ura.e, like a Spanish soMior upon a„
I ahan stago-a bladder full of wind. Hush ! the sound
that trunipet ! Let not my soldier run !' tis some o-ood
Christian o.vmg alms. O Pity, thou gentlest of human
Mssions soft and tender are thy notes, and ill accord
tliey with so loud an instrument."

Ilore again is a somewhat bold saying for a divine:

iMi , to avoKl all commonplace cant as much as I can on

lis head, wil forbear to say, because I do not think,

tl at tis a breach of Christian charity to think or speak

must f"lT ""^ "•■, ''" """"^ ''^'"'^ ''■' -•• ^'Pi'-"
must follow the evidence," etc. And a little later on

comnientino- on the insinuation conveyed in Satan's nues:

tion. Does Job serve God for nought ?" he says • " It is

a bad picture, and done by a terrible master; and yet we

are always copying it. Does a man from real conviction

of lH.irt forsake his vices? The position is not to be al-

uwed ^o; Ids vices have forsaken him. Does a pure

M.g.n fear God, and say her prayers? She is i„ her eli-

mactenc? Does humility clothe and educate the unknown

orphan ? Poverty, thou hast no genealogies. See ' is he

not the father of the child ?" Li another sermon he

launches out into quaintly contemptuous criticism of a

vel^giQus inovement which he was certainly the last person

H. the world to understand-to wit, Methodism. He asks

-l.other, when a poor, disconsolated, drooping creature

■s terrified from all enjoyment, prays without ceasino- till

Hs imagination is heated, fasts and mortifies and m^pes

td Ins body IS in as bad a pliglit as his mind, it is a won-

dei that the mechanical disturbances and confiicts of an

I"'

102

STERXE.

[chap. VI.

u. ty M,y, ,,,tc,.,„..t„| |,v .„ e,„,,t, ,,,„,, ,|„„,,,, ,,„ ,„.,.
ol. to,. woA,,,,. „f „ ,i„„,,,.^ y,„, f,,,„, _^.|^^^^ ^1^

C. tlioht fo...|„,j, „.|„„i, „,,^ cl„iracte,istic even „f imliffo,-

I>ut ,„ ,„ost of tl,c„i one is liable t„ co,„e a. any .no.nont
aero., o„o of tl.osc rt,a„g„ ,„„;„, („ „.,,;„,, ,,,.; ^^'

«l.eu e ..,,1 of tl,e effeet of .SterneV .,„„„„„; „,,„, J
ea.le,. tl.at "jon of.o„ »o him tottering on tl.o ve go of
t,:tai'e::V--'' - "-^ «' .-i>vi. m t,. fafe of

[CIIAP. VI.

'ulil be niis-
"liat tlicy
l>ittc'r ami-
of imliiror-
!iig Uivinos.
tiy moincnt
ay alluded,
ris upon a
10 verge of
lie face of

CHAPTER vir.

FRANCE AND ITALY' MvvTxvn „.,»

— "t„V1. ''^'■'••^■'■"■— TIUSTRAM SUANUV," VOr. IV
— IIIE 8ESTIMENTA1, JOUB.VEV."

(1705-17(18.)

In 11,0 fi,-st week „f Ootok-r, 1705, or . fc„. ,,,,,, ,,,„
So no .,, „,t „„ „,„.^ „,„, „f,^,.„,.,,.^,^ ^__ b„,,„„:,„„ :^

Not, of oourso, that all tl,o materials for that colobratcd
P.000 of literary travel were oolloetocl on this „aj^ „'

> luol, I,e l,ad already traversed three years before and
thoro ,s reason to boliovo that at least some of the LTe,

made on 1, , f„r,ner v.s.t. His stay in Paris was shorter

t^ns year than it had boon on the previous oeeasio A

mon h a tor leaving England ho was at Pont Bea„v„i,i,7

nd by the m,ddlo of November ho had roaehed t"

.■om „., e,ty he writes, with his eharacteristio sin!;"":

«y ■ I am very happy, and have found n,y way into a

dozen houses already. To-n.orrow I „n, ,o 'bo pro."!;

nv Id-Ill "f "''™ "'"' '""'""''■ =' °'-"'- I »'"•" I---
my hands full „f eng,-,goments." From Turin ho went on

by .,ay of Milan, Parnn,, Kaeen.a d Bol„,n , Flo !

o,,ce. where, after three days' stay, "to diu'o vi h r

Plon.po.," 1,0 conti,n,ed his journey to R„,„o. Hero .n

104

«TEUXE.

[cHAr.

at Xaplos, ho pas.e.1 tlio winter ..f 1 7Gr.-'(5(j,' and pro-
I'M.-nl Lis stay in Italy u.itil tl... onsuincj sprin.- was wdl
•>'lvan.,.c..|. In tl.. n...ntl, of May ho was ai,.,in un his way
J'<'"HS Ihroi,,!, Frano.., and had had a .nootino. aftor two
years separation fn.n) thc.n, with his wifo and dau^l.tor
r/is acconnt of it to Hall Stevenson is curious- "Never
man," ho writes, - has boon su.'h a wild-o-oose chase affr
Ins w.to as I have been. After havin- sought her in live or
SIX different towns, I found her at last in'Franche C.>nUe
1 oor woman I" hv a.lds, " she was verv cordial, d-c." The
&c. ,s charndng. JJut her cordiality had evidentlv no ten-
dency to deepen into any more impassioned sentiment, for
she " begged to stay another year or so." As to " my
Lydia"— th." real cause, we must suspect, of Sterne's hav-
ing turned out of his road-she, ho says, " pleases mc much
1 found her greatly improved in everything I wished lior."
As to himself: " I am most unaccountablv well, and most
accountably nonsensical. 'Tis at least a proof of -ood
spirits, which is a sign and token, in these latter days,' that
r must take up my pen. In faith, I think I shall die with
It in my hand; but I shall live these ten vears, my Anton v
notwithstanding the fears of my wife, whom ( left mo'st
melancholy on that a.^eount." The "fears" and J.e mel-
ancholy were, alas! to be justified, rather than the " <vood
spirits ;" and the shears of Atropos were to close, not in
ton years, but in little more than twenty months, upon
that fragile thread of life,

' It was on tl.is tour that Sterne picked up the Fiencl. valet La-
Heur wl.on. l.e introduced as a cl.aracter into ti.e ScuthnentalJour-
no, but whose subsequently publislied recollections of the tour (if
indeed, the veritable Lafieui- was the author of the notes from which
bcott quotes so freely) appear, as Mr. Fitzgerald has point-d out
from niternal evidenci' to !),. mo.^llv fictitious

;i ; I

tSiN'-!

[riiAP.

,' .111(1 pro-
!4' was well
uij his way
, after two
1 (laiijulittT.
^: "NovcM-
'base after
r ill li\(' (,!•
Iio Comte.
I'c." 'I'I.e
:\y no tcn-
imeiit, for
s to " my
iiio's liav-
me much,
hod licr."
and most

of :>-ood
Jays, that

die witli
' Antony,
left most

who mol-
ic " <ifood
e, not in
hs, upon

valet La-
ntal Jonr-
c tour (if,
om whicli
int'd out,

VII

'TltrSTKAM .SIIANOV," VUL. IX.

11)8

l»y the end of June Iio wns bnck

a<;ain in his Y'orkshiro

li""-. ■••M.l very soon aft'. .;.d sottle<l down t.. work .mou
the . ..th and last ^oh^v . . Trhmm Shamh,. \U was
wntuin-, houever, as it should seem, under sonulh.n- more
tliai. il,r usual distraetions of a man with two e^tld.lisl,-
incnts. Mrs. Storno was just then ill at M.useillos, and her
hiisi„uid-wliu, to do him justice, was alwavs properlv so-
Ix^'tous for her material eon.fort-was hu.sy n.akinrf'p.o-
visM.n for lu r to ehaiiuo her quarters to Chalons! He
wntes to M. I'anehau.l, at I'aris, sendin- fifty pounds, and
..-nn- hmi t.. m.-.ke her all further .Klvanees that nii-rht
1- necessary. " 1 have," he says, " sucli entire oontidenee
'M my wif,. thiit she spen.ls as little as she can, thou-d. she
IS conHncd to no particular sum . . . and you may relv—
M. case she should draw for fifty or a hundred pounds^ex
traonhnary-tliat it and every demand shall be punctii, Iv
l>a'd, and with proper thanks; and for this the whole
Shandian family are ready to stan.l security." Later o„
too, he writes that "a young noblci ,an is now inauourat-
n>- a jaunt with mc for six weeks, al-out Christmas, to the
Faubour- St. Germain;" and he add -in a tone the sin-
cerity of which he would himself liaN probably found a
d.fhculty in gau-ino— "if „,y wife should grow worse
(li.iving had a very poor account of hei in mv dau-ditcr's
last), T cannot think of her being without mJ; an.ij.ow-
cver expensive the journey would be, I we ,ld fly to Avign-
on to administer consolation to her and my poor girD"

■ Tlioio can be few aJniirers of Sterne's Renms wlm would not
gladly inclmo, whenever they find it possilde, to M, Fitzgerald's verv
>u.lul-ent estimate of his disposition. But this is . nly one of many
mstanees in whieh the eha.ity of the biographer ..pears to me to
be, It tlie expression may bo permitted, unconscioi .ble. I can at
any rate, lind no warrant whatever in the above pa.- ge for the too
11 8

1()(>

STERNE.

[CUA)'.

I'f I,

TIr. ....cossity f..r tliis f1io.],t, I.owov.m-, did not ariso. Boi-
>;••• ■•"•n.uMts of Mrs. StcTM.. arrived a few weeks later, an.l
the liiishaiKi's eniisolatioiis were not required

Meanuliile the idyll of Captain Sl.andv's l.-ve-nmlcino-
was uradnally approaching- completion; and there are si-.n^s
to he met with-in the anthor's correspondence, that is'to
say, and not in the work itself-that lie was somewhat im-
patient to 1)0 done with it, at any rate for the time " I
.'^l.all publish," he says/' late in this year; and the next I
Hiiall l.eo-,n a new work of fonr vohimes, winch, when fin-
isIkhI, 1 shall continue Trhtmm with fresh spirit." The
new work in four volumes (not destined to o-et beyond
one) was, of course, the SentimcnUdJonrnnf. "jljs ninth
volume of Trhfmni Shand;, was finished by the end
of the year, and at (.^hristmas he came up to Lo.ulon, after
Ills usual practice, to see to its publication and enjoy
tlie honours of its reception. Ti.e book passed duly
tlirough the press, and iiT the last days of January was
issued the announcement of its immediate appearance
Of the character of its welcome I can find no other ev-
idence than that of Sterne himself, in a letter addressed
to M. I'anchaud some fortnight after the book appeared.
lis hked the best of all here;" but, with whatever ac-
curacy this may have expressed the complimentary opin-
ion of friends, or even the well-considered judo-ment of
critics, one can hardly believe that it enjoyed' anvthin.-
like the vogue of the former volumes. Sterne, howevei"
would be the less concerned for this, that his licad was at
the moment full of his new venture. " I am going," he

kindly su-ostlon that "Sterne was aotnally negotiating a journey to
aris as ' bear-leader ' to a young nobleman (an odious odiee, to whidi
lie had special aversion), in order that he nnght with eeonon.y fiv
over to Avignon." '

,1 I .,, (

Til.]

"THE SEXTIMEXTAL JOURXEY."

107

writes, " to publisli A SentlmmtalJoimwj through France
and Itahj. Tlie niidertakino; is protected and hio-ldy eii-
courao-cd by all our noblesse. 'Tis subscribed for' at a
yreat rate ; 'twill bo an orii.-inal, in lary-e quarto, the sub-
scription lialf a guinea. If you (Pancliaud) can procure;
mo the honour of a few names of men of science or
fashion, I shall thank you : they will appear in oood com-
pany, as all the nobility here have honoured nie with their
names." As was usual with him, however, he postponed
commcncino- it until he should have returned to Coxwold ;
and, as was equally usual with him, he found it difficult to
tear himself away from the delights of London. More-
over, thei'e was in the present instance a special diflieulty,
arising out of an affair upon which, as it has relations with
the history of Sterne's literary work, it would be impossi-
ble, even in the most strictly critical and least general of
biographies, to observe complete silence. I refer, of course,
to the famous and furious flirtation with Mrs. Draper—
the Eliza of the Yorick and Eliza Letters. Of the affair
itself but little need be said. I have already stated my
own views on the general subject of Sterne's love affairs;
and I feel no inducement to discuss the question of their
innocence or otherwise in relation to this particular amou-
rette. I will only say that were it technically as innocent as
you please, the mean which must be found between Thack-
eray's somewhat too harsh and Mr. Fitzgerald's consider-
ably too indulgent judgment on it will lie, it seems to me,
decidedly nearer to the former than to the latter's extreme.
This episode of violently sentimental philandering with an
Lidian " grass widow " was, in any case, an extremely un-
lovely passage in Sterne's life. On the best and most
charitable view of it, the fiirtation, pursued in the way it
was, and to the lengths to which it was carried, must be

! ■

? »

1 1

h I]

108

STEUXE.

[chap.

icld to convict tl.o fl.Iorly lover of tl.e most deplorable
icvity, vanity, indiscretion, and sickly sentinientalism Tt
was, to say tl.o least of it, most unbeco.nino- in a man of
Stcrnos ago and profession; and when it' is added that
ionck 8 attentions to Eliza were paid in so open a fashion
as to be brono-ht by gossip to the ears of his neo-leoted
wife then luing many hnndred miles away from him, its
b.ghly reprehensible character seems ananifest enono-h in
all ways. *

No sooner, liowever, had the fascinating widow set sail
than the sentimental lover began to feel so stron..-lv the
need of a female consoler, that his heart seems to"' have
softened, insensibly, even towards his wife. M am nn
bappy," lie writes plaintively to Lvdia Sterne. "Thv
mother and thyself at a distance from me-and what ca^
compensate for such a destitution ? For God's sake per-
suade her to come and fix in England ! for life is too
•sliort to waste in separation; and while she lives in one
country and I in another, many people will suppose it
proceeds from choice "-a supposition, he seems to imply
which even my scrupulously discroot conduct in her absence
•scarcely suffices to refute. "IJosi.les "-a word in which
tliere is here almost as much virtue as in an"if "~" I .y.^^t
thee near me, thou child and darling of my heart. I am
ma melandioly mood, and my Lydia's eyes will smart
Av-ith weeping when I tell lier the cause that just now
affcctsme." And then his sensibilities brim over, and
into his daughter's ear he pours forth his lamentations
over the OSS of her mother's rival. "I .„, apprehensive
the dear friend I mentioned in my last letter is goin-.- into
a decline. I was with her two days ago, and I never be-
K'la a being so altered. She has a tender frame, and looks
like a drooping lily, for the roses are tied from her cheeks

ii:

[chap.

t deplorable
ntfilisni. Tt
II a man of

added tliat
en a fashion
is neglected
oni him, its

onungh in

ow set sail,
rongly the
ns to have
"I am nu-
nc. " Thy
1 what cap
■i sake per-
life is too
^■os in one
nippose it
i to imply,
cr absence
I in Avhich
-" I want
I't. 1 am
vill smart
jnst now
over, and
I en tat ions
rehensive
oing into
never bo-
xnd looks
'V clieeks.

]

THE SKXTIMEXTAL JOUKXEY.

KtS)

I can never sec or talk to this incomparable woman with-
out bursting into tears. I have a IhousaTid obligations to
her, and I love her more than her whole sex, if not all the
world put together. She has a delicacy," c^-c, S:c. And
after reciting a frigid epitaph which lie' had written, "ex-
pressive of her modest worth," he winds up with—*' Say
all that is kind of mo to thy mother; and believe me, my
Lydia, that I love thee most truly," My excuse for quot-
ing thus fully from this most characteristic letter, and, in-
deed, for dwelling at all upon these closing incidents of the
Yorick and Eliza episode, is, that in their striking ilhis-
tion of the soft, weak, spiritually self - indulgent'naturc
of the man, they assist n., far more than many pages
of criticism would do, to understand one particular aspect
of his literary idiosyncrasy. The sentimentalist of real life
explains the sentimentalist in art.

In the early days of May Sterne managed at last to tear
himself away from London and its joys, and with painful
slowness, for he was now in a wretched state of health, to
make his way back to Yorkshire. " I have got conveyed,"
he says in a distressing letter from Newark to Hall Ste-
venson—" I have got conveyed thus far like a bale of cadav-
erous goods consigned to Pluto and Company, lying in the
bottom of my chaise most of the route, upon a large pillow
which I had the 2i>-cvoi/ance to purchase before 1 set out.
1 am worn out, but pass on to liarnby Moor to-night, and
if possible to York the next. I know not what . . the
matter with me, but some derangement presses hard upon
this machine. Still, I think it will not be overset this
bout "—another of those utterances of a cheerful courage
under the prostration of pain which reveal to us the man-
liest side of Sterne's nature. On reaching Coxwold his
health appears to have temporarily mended, and in June

I ^

ir *

m If

lii

I'ii'

ii^' If

I 1

110

STEHNE.

find

[ru

A p.

mil <>

other of Jiis frieiul

iving a f.„. i.^^^tter nccoiiiit of lii-iisdf

liavc temporarily revived ]

■«. The fresh Yorksl

o ail-

lure air .scoins t*

^cc, a youno: Anjerican, he writes tl

liiii, and to his friend, Art

lur

as ca prinee at Coxwold, and I wisl

lus : " I am as ha

princely

a manner I Jive

ppy

low

»v" .-'ion. to dinner-fish and wild-fowl, or a eo'npl
'Wis or dneks, witli eream and all the simple plenty

ill I'nll.ii .1... TT •!. ^ ' J

H rich vail

1 yoii could see in I_. ..
Tis a land of plenty. I sit

e of
which

iiider Hamilton Hills can prod

clean cloth o.i my table, and a bottle of

hand to drink
chickens about

your health. 1 1

produce, with a

wine on my rioht

lave a hundred hens and

my yard ; and not a parishioner catcl

are, a rabbit, or a trout but he b

les a

me.

nno-s it as an offerino- to

Another of his correspondents at this

the Mrs. II. of his letters, wl

able to trace, but wl

peiT d
lose identity I have been

seems to show Sterne's

lo is addressed i

iza's kindliiio- l)y ^ ^^

was
nn-

n a manner which
ame of

the sentimental

anxiety to expel the old fi
w one. There is little, indeed, of

izmg- strain in which 1

It the feet of Mrs. Draper, I

e was wont to sio'h

dom of a \

'lit in its place there is a frc

^i;y prominent, and here and there of a hio-hlv

.-mil T.v 1,: c.' 1 t r . - ^ n J

'Pleasant, kin.h To his friends, Mr. and Mrs. J,

ic writes frequently duriiio- tl

;mies, too.

his soul on the subject of El
always addressed

ii-^ year, chiefly to pour out
iza ; and Mrs. James, wl

10 IS

the almost unifjue dist

I'l company with her husband, enjoy

•^-Lion of being- the only worn,

outside his own far ily circle whom'st

[)roacl

les in the 1

!!<!

fin

erne never an-

in that of

aj)

- ways
'dship and respect.' Meanwhile.

:e of artificial o-a||antry, but al

() inis

l>e iiHsignetl tin

life, it

may liere ))e rcinarluHl, is to

justly aniniad

v<>rtt !,,.,. .jv Thafkci

letter ("and very sad (i„jr. Latin too")

of wiiiLJi MmiImmic iIo Me.lall

It is (u 1

iiy, and containinj^ a i)a.ssa"-e

IV ell

iiiilal.Iy li(,|H'(l, liad

;•!..]

'THE SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY."

Ill

liowovcr, the Sentimental Joimiey was advanci.io' at a iva-
sonablo rate of speed towards completion. In Jnlv lie
writes of himself as "now beo-inninj-- to be truly busy"
on it, "the pain and sorrows of this life havino- retarded
its prooTcss."

His Avifc and dauolitcr were about to rejoin liim in the
autumn, and he looked forward to settlino- them at a hired
house in York before g-oino- up to town to publish liis new
v^.lumes. On the 1st of October the two hidies arrived at
York, and the next day tlie reunited family went on to
Coxwold. The meeting with the daugliter gave Sterne
one of the few quite innocent pleasures which lie was ca-
pable of feeling; and he writes next day to Mr. and Mrs.
JMines in terms of high pride and satisfaction of his recov-
ered child. " xMy girl has returned," he writes, in tlic lan-
.Uiiage of playf.d affection, "an elegant, accomplished little
slut. My wife — but I hate," he adds, with remarkable
presence of mind, "to praise my wife. 'Tis as much as
decency will allow to praise my daughter. I suppose," he
concludes, " they will return next summer to France. They
leave me in u month to reside at York for the winter, and
I stay at Coxwold till the 1st of January." This seems to
indicate a little longer delay in the publication of the Sen-
timental Jonrneij than he luul at first intended ; for it seems
that the book was finislied by the end of November. On

suspicion of the meaning. Mr. Fitzgerald, 11.1-0,1-1. an ovorsi-rl.t in
tnu.8lation, and understanding Sterne to say that he himself; and
not Ins corres,H)..dont, Hall Stevenson, was "quadraginta et plus an-
nos natus," has rcferml it to an earlier date. The point, houever
IS of no great importance, as the untranslatable passage in the let-
ter would be little less unseemly in 1754 or 1755 than in 1708 at
the beginning of which year, since the letter is addressed from Lon-
don to Hall Stevenson, then in Yorkshire, it must, in fact, have been
written.

•I
'? il

■l"^.

11 •

f rfl'll.

I'il'

112

STERNE.

i (

[chap.

tlic' ^Hth of tl.at month I.e writes to tl.o EuH of /

""«lnU.„ ,. ,levotio„ Stcno ,,l,o«cd to l,i! • '

"" »!" W .K,tc.,l 1,0,-oaftc.,.) " l"t I ? "" "'"■

cause I „otc l-ns,r„ iv,,,,,}, „" , '! """"T' '"-

uju, pcinaps, liave been scarce v Dossihlo fn.. Qf

tions arc here in .I) " '' connubial affec-

rtiL neie, in all seriousness arxl o-oorl Aifi.

'y. opposed to ,:,„ se„ti,„c,„al e.not o^ , 7'"""'"'

tlic lilo-liei- T • 1. , '""°"*—'''' tlie lower to

I 8 he, i„ ,„d„lge tI,o fom,e,. is to bo "SLandi-,,, "

, ■' '" !-^''' ''™'-^'= ""'l '=">™l ; to devote onesel „ e
latter, or, ,„ other words, to spend one'. ,1,
i-iotic languishing, over the whole f T ^^ '" "-"'"■

"atc:y.is.osh„;spirit;,:it:::t!r*"""''''-'''"^
'^-'■■■foell„,,-w.a3heoo4„::Lrr„t'';::::

n' I

VU.J

THE SKXTIMENTAL JOUHXEV.

113

supposed. Much of th

liich of the exhaustion which Stcrno liad nt-
tnl.u.ed to the violence of his liter.uy en.otions ^vas no
doubt due to the rapid decline of bodily powers which,
unknown to bin,, were already within a few niontbs of
t .cir final collapse. lie did not set out for Lon.lon on
the 20th of J)eceniber, as he had pronnsed himself, for
on that day he was only just recovering from "an attack
nf fovcr and bleeding at the lungs," which had c<.ntined
iHMi to h,s room for nearly three weeks. "I am worn
down to a shadow," he writes on the 2;3rd, "but as mv
fever has left me, I set off the latter en<l of next week
with my friend, Mr. Hall, for town." His home affairs
hnd already been settled. Karly in December it had been
.•trmnge<l that his wife and daughter should only remain
at York during the winter, a.ul should return to the Con-
t.nent m the spring. "Mrs. Sterne's health," he writes
IS insupportable in England. She must return to France'
and justice and humanity forbid me to oppose it " But
separation from his wife meant separation from his dano-h-
ter; ,t was this, of course, whicli was the really painful
partmg, and it is to the credit of Sterne's disinterestedness
of affection for Lydia, that in his then state of health he
brought himself to consent to her leaving him. But he
reeognized that it was for the advantage^of her prospect
of settling herself in life that she should go with her
mother, who seemed " inclined to establish her in France
where she has had many advantageous offers." Neverthe-
less " his heart bled," as he wrote to Lee, when he thono-ht
o parting with his ehild. " 'Twill be like the soparatbn
of soul and body, and equal to nothing but what passes at
that tremendous moment; and like it in one respect, for
she will be ,n one kingdom while I am in another." Thus
was this matter settled, and by the 1st of January Sterne
6 -^

»'l

■r-rt^

1- •* ti
'i i •!

111

STKKNB.

[citAP.

I' 1...

M"a,U.,.» ,,t the lodgings i„ Bond Sfcot (N„. 4,), vl,
;■ -< ".-■cp.-d dnring hi. stay in tow,, tl,o provio » y

ll,o»o ,,c«,p,od two fnll ,„o,„|,s, ,,n,, „„ ,„o 27,,, „( ,..,
™a..y ti,na,t w„,.l, „, it „,„ ,,„,„„, ,„ ,, ,,j ^i^f
M,-. V oi„.|; was issued to tl,o wo|.|,I

uta,„K o,-„,,t „„d |,„„„„. j„ „„„ ,„

p..„. 1 , , -^ tompjimctits wliicli courteous
F . < ,„,an ,,„d p„id tl,„ a„tl.„,. „p, ,, ,„,„„, „,„. ^

"1- ' l";-.„I.lo vanity 1„„1 ,w„||„,,„, „,,,„,„ I

-"- , w,tl„.nt tl,o „,ncI,.„ecdod gnin of «,,, „, ^T

doubt, l,avc been repeated to bin, „;„, f„, „re ,te,",i e !

c.c,v„ then, n„d an, ,,,,ehn,.,n t„,d hi,,. „ . ' ^
.. afte,.>™,,U t„at .l,e latte,- wo,i- ,vas "aln,ost a 1

'.'".on and Ioa,a,ins," b. would ve,.y likely I ave bee ,
2 ';- n» ."- tban the trntb. The i„,;„„ J'^ -
«.'/ co,.,a„,iy ae,„,i,e,l what Tru,„,n >,,„„„,, nevo,- .11
-a M„-„pean reputation. ft has been tra,fsla.e,l i,, o
taban, Gennan, Duteh, and even Polish; and into LVench
aj;a,n „„d aga.n. The R-eneb, indeed, have no doub v 1, .
;-'■ ot Its be,„g Ste,.ne's cnef.l'a„„.; and one ,, o •

J"^lam Shand,, ,„t„ tbe san,c language to nndwstaud
and fro,„ „,„■ „eigl,bo„,V point of view eve,, to dmit e'

justiee of tbei,^ p,efe,e„ee. The eha,-n,s of ,1 r '
it, „,.„,.„ ,„;, , , . -"n" <!nain,» ot the ^oKHin/,
s g,aee w,t, and „rban,ty, are tboroughlv eon.venial ,„
tbat most graeeful of languages, and ..ep.oduce tbCv!:

:M4

V1I.J

rc.a(lil\

TllK SKMiMKYTAL Jol J{.\KV,

115

:1> therein ; whilo, on the otlier hand, the f

cnongli tlierein

iin-

tast.c < ,o.,ess,ons, the elaborate mystifications, the fareica,
-"teHu.lcs ot the earlier work, appear intolerai.lv avvkwara
nndh^,,are m their Frcneh dress; and, what is nn.eh more
•stran-e, oven the point of the douMc mtondrc. is sometimes
nmu^countahly lost. Were it not that the ovnnine hnmonr
ot I nstmm SImndu in a great . leasuro evaporates in trans-
lation, one would be forced to almit that the work whicJi
IS the more catholic in its appeal to appreciation is the bet-
tor ot the two. lint, havinn- rr o,„,l to this disappearance
ot genuine and unquestionable excellences in the process
of translation, I see no good reas.m why those Kn-lishmen
-the great majority, I imagine -who prefer 7V/,s7mm
^handi, to the Sentimental Jonrne,, should feel any mis-
. g-ivings as to the soundness of their taste. The hmnour
;vhich goes the (h^epest down beneath the surface of thinc-s
IS the tnost likely to become inextricably interwoven witl.
those deeper fibres of associations which lie at the roots
<>t a language ; and it may well happen, therefore, thou-rh
from the cosmopolitan point of view it is a melancholy
rcrtect.on, that the merit of a book, to those who use tl,;
language in which it is written, bears a direct ratio to tho
Persistence of its refusal to yield up its charm to men of
another tongue.

The favour, however, with which the ScnthnentalJour-
";// was received abroad, and which it still enjoys (the last
iM-ench translation is very recent), is, as Mr. Fitzgerald says,
' worthily merited, if grace, nature, true sentiment, and ex-
q.Hs.tc dramatic nower be qualities that are to fin.l a wel-
'■ome. And ap.,rt," he adds, " from these attractions it
'as a unique charm of its own, a fiavour, so to speak, a
fragrance that belongs to that one book alone. Never
was there such a charming series of complete little pict-

\ 'S

^« ,

r ii (

I ',

^1 * li-

.STKIJXK.

I '/i-il

T'lUP. VII.

'■■ "'- •■•"■"'- ■-■. :i^"ir '"f "^' "■'"

ini. • \r n • , *'"^^'> • ^I'l Calais, witli ts old

n>;:i;™irrt.-;;::t^-t:::i:^

tl.r,»ii>,i. +11 , ' ' ''I'^ljaiuJ, w 10 passed

"."sl. tl,o shop a„U pulled off l,U I,„t to Jf„,„ieur fo

"7 '',"'";•"• '■" "■■■" ''-"S l.i.n ; 11,0 little ,„,,ia i„ tl oL;
-■I.e.- H siiop, who put he,, little present i, „,r, ■ 1 7 1
...s <i,-e„zo 'grisset,' wl,„ s„|J ,,?,„ t , ^ ', ''" """■'":

ciowd of minor crov/y^?_nostilinn«j L.wii "n t'lc

duTs, abbes, »m/e?/w'v ni.,;,l. i '^^ ""wuts, sol-

att:;:r:rbi'-"-^^^^^^^

uisunct and ^vn^hm characters."

III'

i ! I

' |!- •

ti']'*:

[cHAr. VII.

'f modal I ions
' 800 in (jl,i
>ri,!,f|itly, and
\itli its old

artistic lio-.

l;idy wlioui
fivoller; the
ravel lors rc-
itrokcs; La
-Ilcr, wlioso
vlio passed
f>iisicur for
I the book,
tlie cljann-
lic reduced
Moiitrcuil;
■; and the
taries, sol-
Jiit toncli-
Icction of

CIIAPTEIl VIII.

LAST DAVS AND DEATH.

(1708.)

The end was now fast approachin,;?. Montlis before, Storr)o
had written doubtf.dly of Ids bcinj. able to stand a.iothor
winter in Enghmd, and his doubts were to be fatally justi-
hod. One can easily see, however, l,ow the nnliappy ex-
periment came to be tried. It is possible that he niiobt
have delayed the publication of his book for a while, and
taken refuge abroad from the ri.i-ours of the two rcmainino-
winter months, had it not been in the nature of his malady
to conceal its deadly approaches. Consumption sported
with Its victim in tlic cruel fasliion tliat is its wont. "I
continue to mend," Sterne writes from Bond Street on tlie
first day of the new year, "and doubt not but this with all
other evils and uncertainties of life will end for the best "
And for the best perhaps it did end, in the sense in which
the resigned Christian uses these pious words; but this
one fears, was not the sense intended by the dyinc. man'
All through January and February lie was occupied not
only with business, but as it would seem with a fair amount,
though less, no doubt, than his usual share, of pleasure also
\ ustly active was he, it seems, in the great undertakino- of
obtaining tickets for one of Mrs. Cornely's entertainments
—the "thing" to go to at that particular time-for liis

^ f
■ M
I \

1 ;

Il>

STERNE.

[CIIAP.

W"...l« llu. Jm„o»o,, II,. writcH then „„ M,,,,,,,,. ,1,,. I,.

:; ;;i::j::;,:s'7'';-'', "' '■^"' ■' ■^^^''^^'^- ■

imy iiDout (he Solu, ticket. " f have l.f.,.,, .,f ., y .
^ Mac ,„ ,.,t „„e, I,,,,,. |„„,„ , ,„^ - .

*.-t y„„ a ,„ae. „. Co.,,.., ,„, ..„,,:^ ^ I /rj",'

;;.; It;.";' • ">• " -»' ™«i". »-' i/yo»'r ;'„'.„

«^t in. I am n„w tied doui, nock and Jicvl. I, •

• • • ■ I ."" .|.nlc. wdl. b,„, e.l,a„slc.,l witl, a ,„,„,f , " ;

f.fi 11, Aj>uia btornos ettcr to Iw.p

fMtlior had, J,c said, astonished him " m, /m c

I i<..itli tliee as a legacy to Ife. Diapc- No ,,„. I i-
..» a lady wI,o,c vin„c. I „UI, tl.c' to itiia ^^^ I':!'

ja,ne, ,„ fact, wi,„„, „„ p,.„,,,,, ,„ ^,.„,^ „,;;;,:„,;!;;,:,

'!',*•'

VIII.J

LAST llAVS AM) liKATII

lit

I"...myl,v,l,„.,l,v .I,.,- will .sunivo „„.;,; ,;,,,.!

"■' '"■"■ " "i"' "0 .-.ppn.la.nsi,,,,, „„ ,„_,. ,„,„,„„, ,

::;: n ''■";; '■'■'■^^ i-kK:,„„\i,.j';,

."■"-of ,e,.fa.,,.,.,l,,,tl.will„„t„,„ifvl,or „

'r'xirr,''" '"?''"''"'''>• ■"''•'"■■■• '■■"""-'

w; L ' . ■'•' "'"" '" "'"■"■ '"'•• ^"' ' ""■ 'i'"->' ti-i-

c MM and l,,.|,„v„ ,„o over, ,,vc,., ll.v „IIcoti„„„te !M,vv"

J.Ht 1,0,1 Il,„ "v,|„ ,„, ,„,.. ,,,„, („ ,

'la, follow,,,.;, ,„ „vi,lc.„t co„scio„,,nos, tl,,,t l,i,, „,.! was
"car, 1,0 ,,o„„o,, .,.„t cv "fo,- pitj- „,„, i,,ri..r :>Th2
cay calls ,t_tl,o fi,,t a, well a,s tl,c la.st„„.l „ .iol, ,„, „t
|.in.o«t a, .t,,„,go as it doe, pitoo,,., f,.,,, tUoso .noe^::

"The pliysiuiaii savs I am hotii^v r„ i i ,. ,

u,.ir „ 11 ^ 'I'll luud. . . , («0(I knows, for I fool iiiv

soil sadiv WToii"- and *;liill ;f t .. ■ , ? •"' ^ itti my

o him ■uTu, ""' ""' ■'■' ''" '^'"'"^^'^^ "t the sight

u M .-. Janavs, entreat him to come to-monow or next da; L ,! '
I'M'H I have not many days or honrs to live. I want i k / .v

for me w'f H " . "" *''"'' '"''"* '"'^ P'-'^'='«»« *<> be shed

120

STERNE.

[cifAl'.

I
f
I

^iifl

iIFm(^

.!i (

I it

1110, and forget tlio follies wliieli you so often coiuli'inned, « liieli my
licart, not my head, betrayed me into. Shoidd my eiiiid, my Lydia,
want a motlier, may I liope you will (if siie i.s left i)arentle.s») take liei-
to your IjosomV Vou are the only woman on earth I ean depend
upon for sueh a lieiievolent aetion. I wrote to her a fortnight ago,
and told her what, 1 trust, she will find in you. Mr. James will l)e a
father to her. . . . Commend me to liin,, as I now eommend you to
that ]}eing who takes under his care the good and kind part of the
woild. Adieu, all grateful thanks to you and Mr. James.

" From your affectionate friend, L. Stkunk."

Tliis patlictic death -bed letter is superscribed "Tues-
day." It seeins to liavo been written on Tuesday, the 15th
of March, and tlirec days later the writer breathed his last.
Ihit two persons, strangers both, were present at his death-
bed, and it is by a singularly fortunate chance, therefore,
that one of these— and ho not belonging to the class of
people who usually leave behind them published records
of the events of their lives — should have preserved for us
an account of the closing scene. This, liowever, is to be
found in the Memoirs of John Macdonald, "a cadet of the
house of Keppoch," at that time footman to Mr. Crawford,
a fashionable friend of Sterne's. His master had taken a
house in Clifford Street in the .'spring of 1708 ; and "about
this time," he writes, "Mr. Sterne, the celebrated author,
was taken ill at the silk -bag shop in Old Bond Street.
He was sometimes called Tristram Shandy and sometimes
Yorick, a very great favourite of the gentlemen. One
day"— namely, on the aforesaid 18th of March— " my
master had company to dinner who were speaking about
him— the Duke of Koxburghe, the Earl of March, the Earl
of Ossory, the Duke of Grafton, Mr. Garrick, Mr. Hume,
and a Mr. James." Many, if not most, of the party, there-
fore, were personal friends of the man who lay dying in
the street hard by, and naturally enough the conversation

'11 '.♦.

^^U

VTIl.]

LAST DAYS AND DEATH.

121

turned on his condition. '"John,'" said my master," the
narrative continues, "'go and inquire how Mr. Sterne is
to-day.' " Macdonald did so ; and, in language which
seems to bear tlic stamp of truth upon it, he thus records
the grim story wliich he liad to report to the assembled
guests on his return : " I went to Mr. Sterne's lodgings ;
the mistress opened the door. I enquired how he did;
she told mc to go up to the nurse. I went into the room,
and he was just a-dying. I waited ten minutes; but in
five he said, ' Now it is come.' lie put up his hand as if
to stop a blow, and died in a minute. The gentlemen
were all very sorry, and lamented him very much."

Thus, supported by a hired nurse, and under the curious
eves of a stranger, Sterne breathed his last. His wife and
daughter were far away; the convivial associates " who were
all very sorry and lamented him very much," were for the
moment represented only by "John ;" and the shocking tra-
dition goes that the alien hands by which the "dving eves
were closed," and the "decent limbs composed," remuner-
ated themselves for the pious office by abstracting the gold
sleeve-links from the dead man's wrists. One may hope,
indeed, that this last circumstance is to be rejected as sen-
sational legend, but even without it the story of Sterne's
death seems sad enough, no doubt. Yet it is, after all,
only by contrast with the excited gaiety of his daily life
in London that his end appears so forlorn. From many
a "set of residential chambers," from many of the old and
silent inns of the lawyers, departures as lonely, or lonelier,
are being made around us in London every year : the de-
partures of men not necessarily kinless or friendless, but
living solitary lives, and dying before their friends or kin-
dred can be summoned to their bedsides. Such deaths, no
doubt, are often contrasted in conventional pathos with that
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of the liiisband and father surrounded by a weeping wife
and children ; but the more sensible among us construct
no tragedy out of a mode of exit which nuist have many
times entered as at least a possibiHty into tlie previous
contemplation of the dying man. And except, as has been
said, tliat Sterne associates himself in our minds with tlie
perpetual excitements of lively companionship, there would
be nothing particularly melancholy in his end. This is
subject, of course, to the assumption that the story of liis
landlady having stolen the gold sleeve-links from his dead
body may be treated as mythical; and, rejecting this story,
there seems no good reason for making much ado about
the manner of his death. Of friends, as distinguished from
mere dinner-table acquaintances, he seems to have had but
few in London : with the exception of the Jameses, one
knows not with certainty of any ; and the Jameses do not
appear to have neglected him in the illness which neither
they nor ho suspected to be his last. Mr. James had paid
him a visit but a day or two before the end came; and it
may very likely liave been upon his report of his friend's
condition tliat the message of inquiry was sent from the
dinner table at which he was a guest. No doubt Sterne's
flourish in Tristram Shandij about his preferring to die
at an inn, untroubled by the spectacle of "the concern of
my friends, and the last services of wiping my brows and
smoothing my pillow," was a mere piece of bravado ; and
the more probably so because the reflection is appropriated
almost bodily from Bishop Burnet, who quotes it as a fre-
quent observation of Archbishop Leighton. But, consid-
ering that Sterne was in the habit of passing nearly half
of each vear alone in London lodgings, the realization of
his wish does not strike me, I confess, as so dramatically
impressive a coincidence as it is sometimes represented.

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LAST DAYS AND DEATH.

123

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According, lif>\vever, to one strange story the dramatic
element gives place after Sterne's very burial to melodrama
of the darkest kind. The funeral, which pointed, after all,
a far sadder moral than the death, took place on Tuesday,
March 22, attended by only two mourners, one of whom is
said to have been his publisher Beckct, and the other prob-
ably Mr. James ; and, thus duly neglected by the whole
crowd of boon companions, the remains of Yorick were
consigned to the " new burying-ground near Tyburn " of
the parish of St. George's, Hanover Square. In that now
squalid and long-decayed grave-yard, within sight of the
Marble Arch and over against the broad expanse of Hyde
Park, is still to be found a tombstone inscribed with some
inferior lines to the memory of the departed humourist,
and with a statement, inaccurate by eight months, of the
date of his death, and a year out as to his age. Dyino-, as
has been seen, on the 18th of March, 17G8, at the ago of
fifty-four, he is declared on this slab to have died on the
13th of November, aged fifty-three years. There is more
excuse, however, for this want of veracity than sepulchral
inscriptions can usually plead. The stone was erected by
the pious hands of " two brother Masons," many years, it
is said, after the event which it purports to record ; and
from the wording of the epitaph which commences, " Near
this place lyes the body," &c., it obviously does not profess
to indicate — what, doubtless, there was no longer anv
means of tracing — the exact spot in which Sterne's re-
mains were laid. But, wherever the grave really was, the
body interred in it, according to the strange story to
which I have referred, is no longer there. That story goes :
that two days after the burial, on the night of the 24th of
March, the corpse was stolen by body-snatchers, and by
them disposed of to M. CoUignon, Professor of Anatomy

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at Cambridge ; that the Professor invited a few scientific
friends to witness a demonstration, and that among these
was one wlio had been acquainted with Sterne, and who
fainted with liorror on recognizing in tlie ah-cady partially
dissected " subject " the features of his friend. So, at
least, this very gruesome and Poc-likc legend runs ; but
it must be confessed that all the evidence which Mr. Fitz-
gerald has been able to collect in its favour is of the very
loosest and vaguest description. On the other hand, it is,
of course, only fair to recollect that, in days when respect-
able surgeons and grave scientific professors had to de-
pond upon the assistance of law-breakers for the prosecu-
tion of their studies and teachings, every effort would
naturally be made to hush up any such unfortunate affair.
There is, moreover, independent evidence to the fact that
similar desecrations of this grave-yard had of late been
very common ^ and that at least one previous attempt to
check the operations of the " resurrection-men " had been
attended with peculiarly infelicitous results. In the St.
James's Chronicle for November 2G, 17G7, we find it re-
corded that " the Burying Ground in Oxford Road, belong-
ing to the Parish of St. George's, Ilanovcr Square, having
been lately robbed of several dead bodies, a Watcher was
placed there, attended by a large mastiff Dog; notwith-
standing which, on Sunday night last, some Villains found
means to steal out another dead Body, and carried off the
very Dog." Body-snatchers so adroit and determined as
to contrive to make additional profit out of the actual
means taken to prevent their depredations, would certainly
not have been deterred by any considerations of prudence
from attempting the theft of Sterne's corpse. There was
no such ceremony about his funeral as would lead them to
suppose that the deceased was a person of any importance,

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VIII.]

LAST DAYS AND DEATH.

125

•'!

or one wlioso body could not be stolen without a risk of
creating undesirable excitement. On the whole, therefore,
it is impossible to reject the body-snatching story as cer-
tainly fabulous, though its truth is far from being proved ;
and though I can scarcely myself subscribe to Mr. Fitz-
gerald's view, that there is a " grim and lurid Shandyism "
about the scene of dissection, yet if others discover an
appeal to their sense of humour in the idea of SterneV
body being dissected after death, I see nothing to prevent
them from holding that hypothesis as a " pious opinion."

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CHAPTER IX.

STEUXE AS A WRITER. THE CHARGE OF PLAGIARISM.

UK. ferkiar's "illustrations."

Everyday experience suffices to show that the qualities
which win enduring- fame for books and for tlieir autliors
arc not always those to which they owe their first popu-
larity. It may with the utmost probability be affirmed
that this was the case with I'ristmm Shandy and with
Sterne. We cannot, it is true, altogether dissociate the
permanent attractions of the novel from those character-
istics of it which have long since ceased to attract at all ;
the two arc united in a greater or less degree throughout
the work ; and this being so, it is, of course, impossible to
prove to demonstration that it was the latter qualities, and
not the former, which procured it its immediate vogue.
But, as it happens, it is possible to show that what may
be called its spurious attractions varied directly, and its
real merits inversely, as its popularity with the public of
its day. In the higher qualities of humour, in dramatic
vigour, in skilful and subtle delineation of character, the
novel showed no deterioration, but, in some instances, a
marked improvement, as it proceeded; yet the second in-
stalment was not more popular, and most of the succeed-
ing ones were distinctly less popular, than the first. They
had gained in many qualities, while they had lost in only
the single one of novelty ; and wc may infer, therefore,

cuAP.ix.] THE CHARGE OF PLAGIARISM. 127

with approximate certainty, tiiat wliat " took tlie town "
in the first instance was, that (juality of tlic book whicii
was strangest at its first appearance. Tiie mass of the pub-
lic read, and enjoyed, or thought tliey enjoyed, when they
were really only puzzled and perplexed. The wild digres-
sions, the audacious impertinences, the burlesque philoso-
phizing, the broad jests, the air of recondite learning, all
combined to make the book a nine days' wonder ; and a
majority of its readers would probably have been prepared
to pronounce Tristram Shandij a work as original in
scLcme and conception as it was eccentric. Some there
were, no doubt, who perceived the influence of Rabelais in
the incessant digressions and the burlesque of philosophy;
others, it may be, found a reminder of Burton in the pa-
rade of learning ; and yet a few others, the scattered stu-
dents of French facctiic of the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries, may have read the broad jests with a feeling
that they had " seen something like it before." But no
single reader, no single critic of the time, appears to have
combined the knowledge necessary for tracing these three
characteristics of the novel to their respective sources ; and
none certainly had any suspicion of the extent to whicli
the books and authors from whom they were imitated had
been laid under contribution. No one suspected that
Sterne, not content with borrowing his trick of rambling
from llabelais, and his airs of erudition from Burton, and
his fooleries from Bruscambille, had coolly transferred
whole passages from the second of these writers, not only
without acknowledgment, but with the intention, obvious-
ly indicated by his mode of procedure, of passing them
off as his own. Nay, it was not till full fifty years after-
wards that these daring robberies were detected, or, at any
rate, revealed to the world ; and, with an irony which Sterno

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[CIUP.

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liiiuMlf uouM Iiavo approciatcd, it was reserved for a sin-
cere admirer of the luiniourist to play the part of detec-
tive. Ill 1812 Dr. John Ferrlar published his Illustrations
of Sterne, and ti'e prefatory sonnet, in which he solicits
pardon for ins too minute investig-ations, is sufficient proof
cf the curiously reverent spirit in which he set about his
dainasjincc task :

" Sterne, for whose sake I plod through miry ways
Of antic wit, and quibbling niiizcs drear,
Lot not thy sluule malignant censure fear,

If aught of inward mirth my search betrays.

Long slept that mirth in dust of ancient days,
Erewhile to Guise or waaton Valois dear," &c.

Tims commences Dr. Ferriar's apology, whicli, however,
can hardly be held to cover his offence ; for, as a matter
of fact, Sterne's borrowings extend to a good deal besides
"mirth;" and some of the most unscrupulous of these
forced loans are raised from passages of a perfectly seri-
ous imp :)rt in the originals from which they are taken.
^ Here, howevei, is the list of authors to whom Dr. Fer-
riar holds Sterne to have been more or less indebted:
Kabelais, J3eroaldc do Yerville, Bouchet, Bruscambille, Scar-
ron. Swift, an author of the name or pseudonym of "Ga-
briel John," Burton, Bacon, Blount, Montaigne, Bishop Hall.
The catalogue is a reasonably long one ; but it is not, of
course, to be supposed that Sterne helped himself equally
freely from every author named in it. His obligations to
some of them are, as Dr. Ferriar admits, but sliglit. From
Rabelais, besides his vagaries of narrative, Sterne took, no
doubt, the idea of the Tristra-pcccUa (by descent from the
"education of Pantagruel," through "Martinns Scrible-
rus"); but though lie has appropriated bodily the passage
in which Friar John attributes the beauty of his nose to

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IX.]

DR. FERRIAR'S " ILLUSTRATIONS."

129

the pectoral conformation of his nurse, ho may be said to
have constructively acknowledged the debt in a reference
to one of the characters in the Rabelaisian dialogue.'

Upon IJeroalde, again, upon jyAubignu, and upon Bou-
chet he has made no direct and verbatim depredations.
From Brusca'^- 'lie he seems to have taken little or noth-
ing but the not very valuable idea of the tedious butfoonr
cry of vol. iii. c. 30, ct sqq. ; and to Searron he, perhaps,
owed the incident of the dwarf at the theatre in the Sen-
timental Journey, an incident which, it must be owned, ho
vastly iin[)roved in the taking. All this, however, does not
amount to very much, and it is only when we come to Dr.
Fcrriar's collations of Tristra.a Shamhj with the Anatomy
of Melancholy that we begin tu understand what feats
Sterne was capable of as a plagiarist. He must, to begin
with, have relied with cynical confidence on the conviction
that famous writers are talked about and not read, for ho
sets to work with the scissors upon Burton's first page :
" Man, the most excellent and noble creature of the world,
the principal and mighty work of God; wonder of nature,
as Zoroaster calls him ; audacis naturw miracuhim, the
marvel of marvels,- as Plato ; the abridgment and epitome
of the world, as Pliny," jkc. Thus Burton ; and, with a

' "Tlicro is no cau.-ic Imt, one," said my Uncle Toln-, " wiiy one
man's nose is longer than auutlier, but because that God pleases to
have it so." "That is Grangousier'a solution," said my father.
" 'Tis He," continued my Uncle Toby, " who makes us all, and frames
and puts us together in such forms . . . and for sucii ends as is
agreeable to Ilis infinite wisdom." — Trhtram Shandii,\o\.m.c.A\.
" Par ce, repondit Graugousier, (pi'ainsi Dieu I'a voulu, lequel nous
fait en cette forme et cette lin selon divin arl>itre." — lialxhih, book i.
c. 41. In another place, however (vol. viii. c. 3), Sterne has borrowed
a whole passage from this French humourist without any acknowl-
edgment at all.

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130

STERNE.

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few adaitions of his own, and the substitution of Aristotle
for Plato as tlic author of one of the descriptions, thus
Sterne: " WIio made Man with powers which dart liim
from heaven to earth in a moment— that i,^reat, that most
excellent and noble creature of the world, the miracle of
nature, as Zoroaster, in liis book TrfpJ <pvaiu)c, called him—
the Shekinah of the Divine I'resence, as Chrysostom— the
imago of God, as Moses- the ray of Divinity, as Plato—
the marvel of marvels, as Aristotle," »kc.' And in the
same chapter, in the "Fragmen upon Whiskers," Sterne
relates how a "decayed kinsman" of the Ladv Baussiere
'' ran begging, bareheaded, on one side of her palfrey, con-
juring her by the former bonds of friendship, alliance, con-
sanguinity, ifec— cousin, aunt, sister, mother— for virtue's
sake, for your own sake, for mine, for Christ's sake, re-
member me! pity me!" And again he tells Iiow a ''de-
vout, venerable, hoary-headed man" thus beseeched her:
'"I beg for the unfortunate. Good my lady, 'tis for a
prison— for an hospital; 'tis for an old man— a poor man
undone by shipwreck, by suretyship, by fire. I call God
and all His angels to witness, 'tis to clothe the naked, to
feed the hungry— 'tis to comfort the sick and the broken-
hearted.' The Lady Baussiore rode on.'"

]]ut now compare this passage from the Anatomy of
Melancliohj :

"A poor (locaycd kinsman of his sets upon him by the way, in all
his jolliiy, and runs begging, bareheaded, by him, conjuring him by
those former bonds of friendship, alliance, consanguinity, &e., ' uncle,
cousin, brother, father, show some pity for Christ's " sake, pity a
i^ick man, an old man,' &c. ; he cares not — ride on: pretend sick-
ness, inevitable loss of limbs, plead suretyship or shipwreck, fire,
common calamities, show thy wants and imperfeelions, take' God

' Trktram Shandy, vol. v. c. 1.

•- Ibid.

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DR. FERRIAUS " ILLUSTRATIONS."

181

and all IIl.^ angels to witness . . . put up a pupplication to liini in
the name of a tliou.sand orphans, an liospital, a spittle, a prison, .is
he goes by . . . rido on.'

Hardly n casual coincidonco this. IJiit it is yet more
unpleasant to find that the mock philosophic reficctions
with which Mr. Shandy consoles himself on Bobby's
death, in those delii^htfiil chapters on that event, are not
taken, as they profess to l ,, direct from the sa2;c3 of an-
tiquity, but have bcf « conveyed tlirough, and "conveyed"
from. Burton.

" When Agrippina was told of her son's deatii," says
Sterne, " Tacitus informs us that, not being able to mod-
erate lier passions, she abruptly broke off her work."
Tacitus doe'*, it is true, inform us of this. But it was un-
doubtedly Jjurton {Anat. Mel., p. 213) wlio informed Sterne
of it. So, too, when Mr. Shandy goes on to remark upon
death that " 'Tis an inevitable chance — the first statute in
Magna Charta — it is an everlasting Act of Parliament, my
dear brother — all must die," the agreement of liis v'cws
with those of Burton, who had himself said of death, " 'Tis
an inevitable chance — the first statute in Magna Charta —
an everlasting Act of Parliament — all nmst die,'"'' is even
textually exact.

In the next passage, however, the humourist gets the
better of the plagiarist, and we are ready to forgive the
theft for the happily comic turn which lie gives to it.

Burton :

" Tally was much grieved for his daughter TuUioIa's death at first,
until such time that he had confirmed his mind by philosophical pre-
cepts ; then he began to triumph over fortune and grief, and for her
reception into heaven to be much iiiove Joyed than before he was
troubled for her loss."

' Burton : Anat. Mel, p. 269.

2 Ibid., p. 215.

132

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Sterne ;

"When Tully was Itcrcft of his diiu<,'litcr, at (irst he laid it to his
heart, he hstened to tlie voice of nature, and nKuhdated his own unto
it. my Tullia ! my dau-;liter ! my eliild !— Still, still, still— 'twas
my Tullia, my Tullia ! Methiuk.s I see my Tullia, I hear my Tullia,
I talk with my Tullia. JUit as soon a.s he began to look into the
stores of philo.-ophy, and comhkr how maun cxcclknt i/iiw/s nwjht he
mid iij)on the occasion, nobody on earth can conceive, sayn the great
orator, how hiiiijiy, how joyful it made me."

"Kingdoms and provinces, cities and towns," continuca
Burton, " have their periods, and are consunied." " Kin<v.
doins and [)rovinces, and towns and cities," exehiinis Mr.
Shandy, throwing the sentence, like the "born orator"
his son considered hini, into tlie rhetorical interrogative,
"liave they not their periods?" "Where," he pro'cecds,
" is Troy, and Mycente, and TJiebes, and Delos, and I'er-
sepolis, and Agrigentum ? What is become, brother Toby,
of Nineveli and Babylon, of Cyzicnm and Mytilene ? The
fairest towns that ever the sun rose upon " (and all, with
the curious exception of Mytilene, enumerated by Burton)
" are now no more." And then the famous consolatory
letter from Scrvius Sulpicius to Cicero on the death of
Tullia is laid under contribution — Burton's rendering of
the Latin being followed almost word for word. " Return-
ing out of Af^ia," declaims Mr. Shandy, " when I sailed
from ./Egina towards Megara" (when can this have been?
thought my Uncle Toby), " I began to view tiic country
round about. .Egina was behind me, Megara before," kc,
and so on. down to the final reflection of the philoso[)her,
"Hemembcr that thou art but a man;" at which point
Sterne remarks coolly, "Now, my Uncle Toby knew not
that this last paragraj ii was an extract of Servius Sulpici-
us's consolatory letti r to Tully "—the thing to be really

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DR. FEUUIAUS "ILLUSTRATIONS."

133

Toby,
Tl»

known boini;- tliat the parnurapli was, in fact, Scrviiis Snl-
picins lilterod through IJiiitoii. Again, and still (jnotincf
from tlic AtKttomy of Melanchobj, Mr. Sliandy remarks
liow "the Tiiracian.s wept wIkh a child was born, and
feasted and made merry when a man went Miit of the
worUl; and with reason." He then goes on to lay pred-
atory hands on that fine, .sad pas.sao'c in Lucian, which
Dnrtoii liad quoted before liim : *' I.s it not better not to
lumber at ail, than to eat ? not to thirst, tlian to take physic
to cure it?" (why not " tiian to drink to satisfv tliir.st?"
as Lucian wrote and IJurton translated). " Is it not better
to be freed from cares and ao'ue.s, love and melancholy, and
tlic other hot and cold fits of life, than, like a o-alled trav-
eller who comes weary to his inn, to be bound to begin
his journey afresh ?" Then, closing liis Burton and open-
ing his IJacon at the Esnay on Death, he adds : " There is
no terror, brother Toby, in its (Death's) looks but what it
borrows from groans and convulsions, and " (here parody
forces its way in) "the blowing of noses, and the wiping
away of tears with the bottoms of curtains in a sick man's
bed-room;" and with one more theft from Burton, after
Seneca: "Consider, brother Toby, when we are, death i^
not; and when death is, we ■ not," this extraordinary
cento of plagiarisms concludes?.

Not that tliis is Sterne's only raid upon the quaint old
writei- ' I he has here made such free u.^e. Several

othci liistanees of word for word appropriation might be
(|uoted from this and the succeeding volumes of l^ristram
Shattdy. The apostro] ^c to "blessed lit>alth," in c. xxxiii.
of vol. V. is taken direct from the Anatomy of Melancholy ;
so is the phrase, " lie iias a gourd for his liead and a pip-
pin for his heart," in c. ix. ; su is the jest about Franciscns
Ribera's computation of the amount of cubic space required

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[chap.

by the souls of the lost; so is Ililarion the hermit's com-
parison of his body with its unruly passions to a kicking
ass. And there is a passage in the Sentimental Journey,
the " Fragment in the Abderitans," which sliows, Dr.
Ferriar thinks— though it docs not seem to inc to show
conclusively— that Sterne was unaware that what he was
taking from Burton had been previously taken by Burton
from Lucian.

There is more excuse, in the opinion of the author of the
lUustnitions, for the literary thefts of the preacher than
for those of the novelist ; since in sermons, Dr. Ferriar
observes drily, " the principal matter must consist of repe-
titions." But it can hardly, 1 think, be admitted that the
kind of "repetitions" to which Sterne had recourse in the
pulpit— or, :it any rate, in compositions ostensibly prepared
for the pulpit— are quite justifiable. Professor Jebb has
pointed out, in a recent volume of this series, that the de-
scription of the tortures of the Inquisition, which so deep-
ly moved Corporal Trim in the famous Sermon on Con-
science, was really the work of Bcntley ; but Sterne has
pilfered more freely from a divine more famous as a
preacher than the great scholar whose words he appropri-
ated on ihat occasion. " Then shame and grief go with
her," he exclaims in his singular sermon on "The Levitc
and his Concubine;" "and wherever she seeks a shelter
may the hand of Justice shut the door against her!" an
exclamation which is taken, as, no doubt, indeed, was the
whole suggestion of the somewhat strange subject, from
the Contonphitions of Bishop Hall. Aiid so, again, wc
find in Sterne's sermon the following:

" MoiiT well becomes the heart of all Tliy creatures ! but most of
Thy servant, a Levite, who offers up so many daily saciUlces to Thee
for the tiaiK^grcssious of Thy people. But to little purpose, he would

IX.]

DR. FERRIAR'S "ILLUSTRATIONS."

185

add, have I served at Thy altar, where my business was to sue for
mercy, had I not learned to practise it."

And in Hall's ContemjHations the following :

" Mercy becomes well the heart of any man, but most of a Levite.
He that had helped to offer so many sacrifices to God for the multi-
tude of every Israelite's sins saw how proportionable it was that man
should not hold one sin unpardonable. He had served at the altar
to no purpose, if he (whose trade was to sue for mercy) had not at all
learned to practise it."

Sterne's twclftli sermon, on the Forgiveness of Injuries,
is merely a diluted commentary on the conclusion of Hall's
"Contemplation of Joseph." In the sixteenth sermon, the
one on Shimei, we find :

" There is no small degree of malicious craft in fixing upon a sea-
son to give a mark of enmity and ill will: a word, a look, which at
one time would make no impression, at another time wounds the
heart, and, like a shaft flying with the wind, pierces deep, which,
with its own natural force, would scarce have reached the object
aimed at."

This, it is evident, is but slightly altered, and by no
means for the better, from the more terse and vigorous
language of the Bishop :

" There is no small cruelty in the picking out of a time for mis-
chief : that word would scarce gall at one season which at another
killeth. The same shaft flying with the wind pierces deep, which
against it can hardly find strength to stick upright."

l>ut enough of these pieces de conviction. Indictments
for plagiarism are often too hastily laid ; but tlierc can be
no doubt, I should imagine, in the mind of any reasonable
being upon the evidence hero cited, that the offence in this
case is clearly proved. Nor, I think, can thero be much
question as to its mvral complexion. For the pilferings

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STERXE.

[chap.

from Bishop Hall, at any rate, no shadow of cx-cuse can,
so far as T can sec, be alleged. Sterne could not possibly
plead any better justification for borrowing Hall's tlionghts
and phrases and passing them off upon his hearers or read-
ers as original, than he could plead for clainiing the au-
thorship of one of the Bishop's benevolent actions and
representing himself to the world as the doer of the good
deed. In the actual as in the hypothetical case there is a
dishonest appropriation by one man of the credit — in the
former case the intellectual, in the latter the moral credit
— belonging to another: the offence in the actual case be-
ing aggravated by the fact that it involves a fraud upon
the purchaser of the sermon, who pays money for what he
may already have in his library. The plagiarisms from
Burton stand upon a slightly different though not, I
think, a much more defensible footing. For in this ease it
has been urged that Sterne, being desirous of satirizing ped-
antry, was justified in resorting to the actually existent
writings of an antique pedant of real life ; and that since
Mr. Shandy could not be made to talk more like himself
than Burton talked like kha, it was artistically lawful to
put Burton's exact words into Mr. Shandy's mouth. It
makes a difference, it may be said, that Sterne is not here
speaking in his own person, as he is in his Sermons, but
in the person of one of his characters. This casuistry,
however, does not seem to me to be sound. Even as re-
gards the passages from ancient authors, which, while
quoting them from Burton, he tacitly represents to his
readers as taken from his own stores of knowledce, the
excuse is hardly sufficient; while as regards the original
reflections of the author of the Anatomy of Melancholy
it obviously fails to apply at all. And in any case there
could be no necessity for the omission to acknowledge the

I. I

[chap.

IX.]

DR. FERRIAR'S "ILLUSTRATIONS."

debt. Even admitting that no more characteristic reflec-
tions could have been composed for Mr. Shandy than were
actually to be found in Burton, art is not so exacting a
mistress as to compel the artist to plagiarize against his
will. A scrupulous writer, being also as ingenious as
Sterne, could have found some means of indicating the
source from which he was borrowing without destroying
the dramatic illusion of the sceno.

But it seems clear enough that Sterne himself was trou-
bled by no conscientious qualms on thi.-* subject. I'erhaps
the most extraordinary instance of literary effrontery which
was ever met with is the passage in vol. v. c. 1, which
even that seasoned detective Dr. Ferriar is startled into
pronouncing "singular." Burton had complained that
writers were like apothecaries, who " make new mixtures
every day," by " pouring out of one vessel into another."
"We weave," he said, "the same web still, twist the same
rope again and again." And Sterne incohimi r/ravitate
asks: "Shall we forever make new books as apothecaries
nuike new mixtures, by pouring only out of one vessel into
another? Are we forever to be twisting and untwisting
the same rope, forever on the same track, forever at the
same pace?" And this he writes with the scissors actually
opened in his hand for the almost bodily abstraction of
the passage beginning, " Man, the most excellent and no-
ble creature of the world !" Surely this denunciation of
plagiarism by a plagiarist on the point of setting to work
could only have been written by a man who looked upon
plagiarism as a good joke.

Apart, however, from the moralities of the matter, it

must in fairness bo admitted that in most cases Sterne is no

servile copyist. He appropriates other men's thoughts and

phrases, and with them, of course, the credit for the wit,

K 1 10

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138 STERNE. [chap.ix

the truth, the vigour, or tlic learning which cliaractcrizes
them ; but he is seldom found, in Tristram Shandi/, at any
rate, to have transferred them to his own pages out of a
mere indolent inclination to save himself the trouble of
composition. He takes them less as substitutes than .as
groundwork for his own invention — as so much material
for his own inventive powers to work upon ; and those
powers do generally work upon them with conspicuous
skill of elaboration. The series of cuttings, for instance,
which he makes from Burton, on the occasion of Bobby
Shandy's death, are woven into the main tissue of the dia-
logue with remarkable ingenuity and naturalness ; and the
bright strands of his own unborrowed humour tly Hashing
across the fabric at every transit of the shuttle. Or, to
change the metaphor, we may say that in almost every in-
stance the jewels that so glitter in their stolen setting were
cut and set by Sterne himself. Let us allow that the most
expert of lapidaries is not justified in stealing his settino-s;
but lot us still not forget that the jewels are his, or permit
our disapproval of his laxity of principle to make us un-
just to his consummate skill.

CHAPTER X.

STYLE AyB GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS.

SENTIMENT.

-HUMOUR AND

To talk of "the style" of Sterne is almost to play one of
tliosc tricks with language of which he himself was so
fond. For there is hardly any definition of the word
which can make it possible to describe him as having anv
style at all. It is not only that he manifestly recognized
no external canons whereto to conform the expression of
his thoughts, but ho had, apparently, no inclination to in-
vent and observe — except, indeed, in the most negative of
senses — any style of his own. The "style of Sterne," in
short, is as though one should say " the form of Proteus."'
He was determined to be uniformly eccentric, rec'ularlv
irregular, and that was all. His digressions, his asides
and his fooleries in general would, of course, have in any
case necessitated a certain general jerkiness of manner;
but this need hardly have extended itself habitually to the
structure of individual sentences, and as a matter of fact
lie can at times write, as he docs for the most part in his
Sermons, in a style which is not the less vigorous for be-
ing fairly correct. But as a rule his mode of expressing
liimself is destitute of any pretensions to precision ; and
in many instances it is a perfect marvel of literary slip-
shod. Nor is there anv ground for believing that the

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[chap.

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slovenliness was invariably intentional. Sterne's trnly
liidoous French — French at which even Stratford-atte-
iSnwc would liave stood. ao-hast— is in itself sr.llicient evi-
•IcncL' of a natural insensibility to f-Tammatical accuracy.
Here there can be no suspicion of desio-ned defiance of
rules; and more than one solecism of rather a serious kind
in his use of F:nglish words and jihrases affords conrirni-
atury testimony to the same point. His punctuation is
fearful and wonderful, even for an age in which the ra-
tloimJc of punctuation was more imperfectly understood
than it is at present; and this, though an ai)parently slio-ht
matter, is not without value as an indication oi uavs of
thought. But if we can liardly describe Sterne's style as
being in tlic literary sense a style at all, it has a very dis-
tinct coUoqiilal cliaracter of its own, and as such it isnear-
ly as much deserving of praise as from the literaiy point
of view it is open to exception. Chaotic as it is in the syn-
tactical sense, it is a perfectly clear vehicle for the convey-
ance of thought : we are as rarely at a loss for the meaning
of one of Sterne's sentences as wo are, for very different
reasons, for the meaning of one of Macaulay's." And his
language is so full of life and colour, his tone so an.mated
and vivacious, that we forget we are reading and not Iktcn-
in(j, and we are as little disposed to be exacting in respect
to form as though we were listeners in actual fact. Sterne's
manner, in short, may be that of a bad and careless writer,
but it is the manner of a first-rate talker; and this, of
com iihanccs rather than detracts from the unwearying
charm of his wit and humour.

To attempt n precise and final distinction between these
two last-named qualities in Sterne or any one else would
be no very hopeful task, perhaps; but those wlio have a
keen perception of either find no great difficulty in dis-

[CIIAP.

X.] STYLE AND GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS.

criminatino-, as a matter of feolinf,^ between the two. And
wliat is true of the fjualitifs tlioinsclvcs is true, mutatiH
mutandis, of tlic men by whom they have been most con-
spicuously displayed. Some wits liave been humourists
also; nearly all humourists have been also wits; yet the
two fall, on the whole, into tolerably well-marked 'classes,
and the ordinary uncritical jud2;ment would, probablv, en-
able most men \o state with sufficient certainty the class to
which each famous name in the world's literature beh.no-s.
Aristophanes, Shakspeare, Cervantes, Moliere, Swift, FieTd-
ino". Lamb, Kichter, Carlyle: widely as these writers differ
from each other in style and ofenius, the least skilled read-
er would hardly need to be told that the list which includes
them all is a catalogue of humourists. And Cicero, Lu-
cian, Pascal, Voltaire, Congrcve, Pope, Sheridan, Courier,
Sydney Smith — this, I suppose, would be recoo-nized at
once as an enumeration of wits. Some of these humour-
ists, like Fieldino-, like Kichter, like Carlyle, are always, .u
almost always, humourists alone. Some of these wits, like
Pascal, like Pope, like Courier, are wits with no, or but
slisrlit, admixture of humour; and in tlic classification of
these there is of course no difficulty at all. liut oven with
the wits who very often give us hu; lour also, and with the
humourists wlio as often delight us -itli their wit, we sel-
dom find ourselves in any doubt as t(. the real and more
essential affinities of each. It is not by the wit which \\a
has infused into his talk, so much as by the humour wii'.
which lie has delineated the character, that SiiakspearG
lias given his Falstaff an abiding place in our memories.
It is not the repartees of Pcnedick and Beatrice, but the
imm rtal fatuity of Dogberry, that the name of Much Ado
About Nothing recalls. Xone of the verbal quips of Touch-
stone tickle us like his exquisite patronage of William and

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142

STERXE.

[chap.

)■

I',',

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tho fascination wliicli lie exercises over tlic niclancliolv
Jaqiics. And it I. the same tln-ono-Jiont all Sliakspeare.
It is of tlie Ininionrs of Bottom, and Launce, and Shallow,
■■md Sly, and Ag'uecheek ; it is of the Jang'hter that tivads
upon the heels of horror and pity and awe, as we listen to
tho Porter in Macbeth, to the Gravc-dio-ircr in Jhmht, to
the Fool in Lcar—\i is of these tliat we think when 'we
think of Shakspearc in any otiier bnt liis pnrely poetic mood.
Whenever, that is to say, we think of him as anvthino- but
a poet, we tlimk of liim, not as a wit, but as a iinmt»nrist.
So, too, it is not the da.i^o-or-thrnsts of the Drapicr's Letters,
but the broad ridicule of the Voyarfc to Luputa,t\xQ savajre
irony of the Voyar/e to the Iloui/hnhnms, thixt we associate
n-itli the name of Swift. And, conversely, it is the cold,
cpio-rammatic glitter of Cono-rcve's dialog-ae, tlie fizz and
crackle of the fireworks which Sheridan serves out with un-
discriminatino- ],and to the most insignificant of liis charac-
ters—it is this wliich stamps the work of these dramatists
with characteristics far n.orc marked than any which be-
long to them in right of humorous portraiture of human
foibles or ingenious invention of comic incident.

The place of Sterne is unmistakably among writers of
the former class. It is by his humom-— his'^humour of
character, his dramatic as distinct from his critical de-
scriptive iWso?2rt/ humour— though, of course, he possesses
this also, as all humourists must— that he lives and will live.
In Tristram Shanchj, as in the Sermons, there is a suffi-
ciency of wit, and considerably more than a sufficiency of
liumor„His reficetion, innuendo, and persiflage ; but it is the
actors in his almost plotless drama who have established
their creator in his niche in the Temple of Fame. ^Yc
•-•annot, indeed, be sure that what has given him his hold
upon posterity is what gave him his popularity with his

[chap.

v.]

HUMOUR AND SEXTIMENT.

148

contoin})ora.'ics. On tlic contrary, it is, perhaps, more
probahlo that he owed his first success witii tlic i)iiblic of
Ills (lay to those eccentricities wliicli are for us a little too
consciously eccentric— those artifices which fail a little too
conspicuously in the ars cehimli artcm. But however these
tricks may have pleased in days when such tricks were new,
they much more often weary than divert ns now ; and I
s'ispect that many a man whose delii>ht in the Corporal
and his master, in ]]ridi,a't and her mistress, is as fresh as
ever, declines to accompany their creator in those perpet-
ual dif];rcssions into nonsense or semi-nonsense the fashion
of which Sterne borrowed from Kabelais, without Kabe-
lais's excuse for adopting it. To us of this day the real
charm and distinction of the book is due to the marvellous
combination of vio-om- and subtlety in its portrayal of
character, and in the purity and delicacy of its humour.
Those last two apparently paradoxical substantives arc
chosen advisedly, and employed as the most convenient
way of introducing that disagreeable question which no
commentator on Sterne can possibly shirk, but which ev-
ery admirer of Sterne must approach with reluctance.
There is, of course, a sense in which Sterne's humour —
if, indeed, we may bestow that name on the form of jocu-
larity to which I refer — is the very reverse of pure and
delicate : a sense in which it is inipure and indelicate in
the highest degree. On this it is necessary, however brief-
ly, to touch ; and to the weighty and many-counted in-
dictment which may be framed against Sterne on this
head there is, of course, but one possible plea — the plea
of guilty. Nay, the plea must go further than a mere
admission of the offence; it must include an admission
of the worst motive, the worst spirit as animating the of-
fender. It is not necessary to my purpose, nor doubtless

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144

STERNE.

[ciiAr.

cono-onial to tlie taste of the reader, that I should enter
upon any critical analysis of this (jnality in the author's
work, or compare liini in this respect with tiic two oth-
er j,neat humourists wlio Iiavc been tho worst ofTonders
in the same way. In one of tiiosc hij^dilv interostinir criti-
cisms of En-Iish literature which, cven\vhen tlioy most
conspicuously miss tho mark, are so instructive to Knnlish-
uun, M. Taine has instituted an elaborate comparison— very
iJiucli, I need hardly say, to the advantajre of the latter-
bet we.-n the indecency of Swift and that of Rabelais—
that "i;ood -iant," as bis countryman calls him, - who
rolls himself joyously about on his dun-hill, thinkinrr no
evil." And no doubt the world of literary moialists"wi]l
always bo divided upon the question— onJ mainly of na-
tional temperament— whether mere animal spirits or seri-
ous satiric purpose is tho best justification for otFenccs
against cleanliness. It is, of course, only tho former theo-
ry, if either, which could possibly avail Sterne, and it would
need an unpleasantly minute analysis of this characteristic
in his writino;.s to ascertain how far M. Taine's eloquent
defence of Rabelais could be made applicable to his case.
But tho inquiry, one is glad to think, is as unnecessary as
It wouM be disagreeable ; for, unfortunately for Sterne, he
must be condemned on a qiuuditative comparison of in'dc-
cency, whatever may be his fate when compared with
these other tw,) great writers as regards the quality of
their respective transgressions. There can be no denying,
I mean, that Sterne is of all writers tho most permeatecl
and penetrated with impurity of thought and suagestion ;
that in no other writer is its latent presence inoro con-
stantly felt, even if there be any in whom it is more often
openly obtruded. The unclean spirit pursues him every-
where, disliguring his scenes of humour, demoralizin«r his

(IIAP.

X.]

IIL'MUUll AND SENTIMENT.

14&

passaj.,'os of sorious reflection, dcbasiiiix oven liis senti-
mental intcrhidos. His coarseness is very often as threat
a blot on iiis art as on liis morality — a tliiiit;' wjiieli can
very rarely bo said of either Swift or liabelais; and it is
sometimes so distinctly fatal a blemish from the juirely
literary point of view, that one is amazed at the critical
faculty which could have tolerated its presence.

But when all this has been said of Stcrnci's humour it
still remains true that, in another sense of the words " puri-
ty " and "delicacy," he possesses humour more pure and
delicate than, perhaps, any other writer in the world can
show. For if that humour is the purest and most deli-
cate which is the freest from any admixture of farce, and
produces its eflfects with the lii,ditest touch, and the least
oblio-ations to ridiculous incident, or what may bo called
the "physical tjfrotesquc," in any shape — then one can
point to passa_!>-cs from Sterne's pen which, for fulfilment
of these conditions, it would be difficult to match else-
where. Strange as it may seem to say this of the literarv
Gilray who drew the portrait of Dr, Slop, and of the liter-
ary Grimaldi who tormented Phutatorius with the hot
chc ,tnut, it is nevertheless the fact that scene after scene
may be cited from Tristram Shandy, and those the most
dclio-htful in the book, which are not only free from even
the momentary intrusion of either the clown .-r the carica-
turist, but even from the presence of "comic properties"
(as actors would call them) of any kind : scenes of which
the external settinjv is of the simplest possible character,
while the humour is of that, deepest and most penetrative
kind which springs from the eternal incongruities of hu-
man nature, the ever -recurring cross -purposes of hunian
lives.

Carlylc classes Sterne with Cervantes a-non^- the o-reat

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STERNE.

[chap.

humourists .,f tlio world; and fmm one, and tlint the
most important, point of view the praise is n,,t oxtrava-
,U'«''tit. l\y no .>thcT writer besides Sterne, prriiaps, sinee
the days of the Spanish hnmonrist, liave the vast incon-
gruities of human character been set forth with so mas-
terly a hand. It is in virtue of the new insiyiit wliich his
Immonr opens to ns of the immensity and variety of man's
life that Cervantes makes ns foel that he is r',reat : not
delii.htfnl merely— not even eternally deiii-I.tful ..niv, and
secure of immortahty through the peremi'ial human need
of joy— hut f/nat, but immortal, in ri_n-ht of that wiiich
makes Shakspeare and the Greek dramatists in.mortal,
namely, the power, not alone over the pleasure-lovinrr part
of man's nature, but over that equally universal but^iioro
cndurini; eleuRMit in it, his emotions of wonder and of
awe. It is to this greater power— this control over a
greater instinct than the human love of joy, that Cer-
vantes owes his greatness : and it will be found, thouol, it
iDay seem at first a hard saying, that Sterne shares" this
powecwith Cervantes. To pass from Quixote and Sanclio
to Walter and Toby Shandy involves, of course, a startlino-
change of dramatic key— a notable lowering of dramatic
tone. It is almost like passing from poetry to prose : it
IS certainly passing from tlie poetic in spirit and surround-
ings to the profoundly prosaic in fundamental conception
and in every individual detail. But those who do not
allow accidental and external dissimilarities to obscure for
them the inward and essential resemblances of things,
must often, I think, have experienced from one of the
Shandy dialogues the same sort of impression that they
derive from some of the most nobly humorous colloquies
between the knight and his squire, and must have been
conscious through ail outward differences of kev and tone

[CIIAP.

IIUMOUU AND SENTIMENT.

117

of ft common element in otvli. It is, of course, :i resem-
blance o( relations arid not of personalities; for llioii-;!!
there is something of tlie Kniuht of I.ii Manclia in Mr.
Shandy, there is nothing- of Saiicho about his brother,
liut the serio-comic game of cross-purposes is the same
between both couples; and what one may call the irony
of human intercourse is equally profound, and pointed
with equal subtlety, in each. In the Spanish romance, of
course, it is not likely to be missed. It is enough iu itself
that the deranged brain which takes windmills for giants,
and carriers for knights, and Kosinanti! for a Buccpliahi-.
has lived upon Saucho Tanza— the crowning i)roof of its
mania — as the fitting squire of a knight-errant. To him
— to tliis compound of somnolence, shrewdness, and good
nature— 1< : -;-, creature with no more tincture of romantic
idealisn than .. wine-skin, the knight addresses, without
misgivi I1-. his lufly dissertations on the glories and the
duties 0.' v'Mivalr;- — the squire responding after his fash-
ion. And iius ti.ose two hold converse, contentedly iu-
comprcheusible to each other, and with no suspicion that
they are as incapable of interchanging ideas as the in-
habitants of two different planets. With what heart-
stirring mirth, and yet with what strangely deeper feel-
ing of the intinitc variety of human nature, do we follow
their converse throughout! Yet Quixote and Sancho are
not more life-like and human, nor nearer together at one
point and farther apart at another, than arc Walter
Shandy and his brother. The squat little Spanish peasant
is not more gloriously incapable of following the cliivalric
vagaries of his master than the simple soldier is of grasp-
ing the philosoiihic crotchets of his brother. Both couples
are in sympathetic contact absolute and complete at one
point ; at another they are " poles asunder " both of them.

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148

STERXE.

[tn^p.

I<^

And in both contrasts there is that sense of futilitv and
faihire, of alienation and inisnnderstanding— that element
of luulerlyino- pathos, in short, which so strano'ely i>.ives its
keenest salt to luiniour. In both alike there is the same
sug'g-estion of the Infinite of disparity bonnding the finite
of resemblance— of the Incommensurable in man and nat-
nre, beside which all minor uniformities sink into insi^--
nilicance.

The pathetic clement which underlies and deepens the
humour is, of course, produced in the two cases in two
exactly opj)osite ways. In both cases it is a picture of
hmnan simplicity— of a noble and artless nature out of
harmony with its surroundiiio-s— which moves us ; but
whereas in the Spanish romance the simplicitv is that of
the incompris, in the English novel it is that of the man
with whom the incompris consorts. If tliere is pathos as
well as humour, and deepening the humour, in the figure
of the distraught knight-errant talking so hopelesslv over
the head of his attached squire's morality, so too there is
pathos, giving depth to the humour of the eccentric phi-
losopher, shooting so hopelessly wide of the intellectual
appreciation of the most affectionate of brothers. One's
sympathy, perhaps, is even more strongly appealed to in
the latter than in the former case, because the effort of the
good Captain to understand is far greater than that of the
Don to make himself understood, and the conceni of the
former at his failure is proportionately more marked than
tlnit of the latter at his. And the general rapport between
one of the two ill-assorted pairs is much closer than that
of the other. It is, indeed, the tantalizing approach t.) a
mutual understanding which gives so much more subtle
H zest to the humour of the relations between the two
brothers Shandy than t.j that which arises out of the re-

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[chap.

.X.]

HUMOUR AND SENTIMENT.

149

lations between the pliilosoplior and his wife. Tlic broad
comedy of the dialo^Mies between Mr. and Mrs. Sliandy is
irresistible in its way: but it is broad comedy. Tlio
philosojjher knows that liis wife does not compreliend
him : she knows that slie never will ; and neither of them
nuich cares. The husband snubs lier openly for lier mental
defects, and she with perfect placidity accepts his rebukes.
"Master," as lie once complains, "of ono of the finest
chains of reasoning- in the world, he is unable for the soul
of him to Q-ct a sino-le link of it into the head of his wife;"
but we never hear him lamenting in this serio-comic fash-
ion over his brother's inability to follow his processes of
reasoning. That is too serious a matter with both of
them ; their mutual desire to share each other's ideas and
tastes is too strong ; and each time that the philosopher
shows his impatience with the soldier's fortification-hobbv,
or the soldier breaks his honest shins over one of the phi-
losopher's crotchets, the regret and remorse on either side
is equally acute and sincere. It must be admitted, how-
ever, that Captain Shandy is the one who the more fre-
quently subjects himself to pangs of this sort, and who is
the more innocent sufferer of the two.

From the broad and deep humour of this central con-
ception of contrast flow as from a head-water innumerable
rills of comedy through many and many a page of dia-
logue ; but not, of course, from this source alone. Uncle
Toby is ever delightful, even when his brother is not near
him as his foil ; the faithful Corporal brings out another
side of his character, upon which we linger with equal
pleasure of contemplation ; the allurements of the Widow
AVadman reveal him to us in yet another — but always in a
captivating aspect. There is, too, one need hardly say, an
abundance of humour, of a high, though not the highest,

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150

STERNE.

[chap.

I 1!^

( ;

iv; II

order in tlic minor characters of the story— in Mrs. Shan-
dy, in the fascinating widow, and even, under the coarse
lines of tlic physical caricature, in the keen little Catholic
Slop himself. But it is in Toby Shandv alone that hu-
mour reaches that supreme level wliich it is only capable
of atta.nino- nhen the collision of contrasted (jualities in a
human character produces a correspondino- conflict of the
emotions of mirth and tenderness in the' minds of those
who contcinj)lato it.

_ This, however, belongs more rightfully to the considera-
tion of the creative and dramatic clement in Sterne's o-en-
ins; and an earlier place in the analysis is claimed" by
that power over the emotion of pity upon which Sterne
beyond cpiestion, prided himsdf more highlv than upon
any other of his gifts. He preferred, we can plainlv see,
to think of himself, not as the great humourist, but as the
great sentunontalist; and though the word "sentiment"
had something oven in his day of the depreciatory mean-
ing which distinguishes it nowadays from " pathos " there
can be little doubt that the thing appeared to Stc.-ne to be
on the whole, and both in life and literature, rather admil
rable than the reverse.

■ AVhat, then, were his notions of true "sentiment" in
literature? Wo have seen elsewhere that he repeats-it
would appear nnconsciously-and commends the canon
winch Horace {.ropounds to the tragic poet in the words:

"Si vis me flere, dolondimi
I nmuiii ipsi lib!: tunc ti.a me infortunia hodont."

And that canon is sound enough, no doubt, in the sense
1" ^vI^ch It was meant, and in its i-elatlon to the person to
wbom It was addressed. A tragic d, „na, peopled with
heroes who set forth their woes in frigid and unimpas-

[chap.

X.]

HUMOUR AND SEXTIMEXT.

161

sionod verso, will unquestionably leave its audience as cold
as itself. Nor is this true of drama alone. All poetry,
indeed, whether dramatic or other, [)resni)i.oses a sympa-
thetic unity of emotion between the poet and those whom
he addresses ; and to this extent it is obviously trne that
he mnst feel before they can. Horace, who was (what
every literary critic is not) a man of tlio world and an
observer of hnman nature, did not, of course, mean that
this capacity for fcelintr was all, or even tlie eliief part, of
th-3 poetic faculty, lie must have seen manv an "intense"
young Roman mak-e that pathetic error t)f the vouni;- in all
countries and of ail periods— the error of mistakin<,r the
capacity of emotion for the gift of expression. He did,
however, undoubtedly mean that a poet's power of affect-
ing others presup[)oses passion in himself; and, as regards
die poet, he was right. But his criticism takes no account
whatever of one form of appeal to the emotions which has
been brought by later art to a high pitch of perfection,
but with which the personal feeling of the artist has not
much more to do than the " passions " of an auctioneer's
cL.k have to do with the compilation of his inventorv. A
poet himself, Horace wrote for poets; to him the pathetic
implied the ideal, the imaginative, the rhetorical ; he lived
before the age of Realism and the Realists, and would
scarcely have comprehended either the men or the method
if he could have come across them. Had he d(me so, how-
ever, he would have been astonished to find his canon re-
versed, and to have perceived that the primary condition
of the nvilist's success, and the distinctive note of those
writers who have pressed genius into the service of real-
ism, is that they do not share— that they are imalterablM
and ostentatiously free from— the emotions to which they
appeal in their readers. A fortunate accident has enabled

I'j

.\ '

(

!
1

1 • ,1
, 1

1
1 '

'i
1 i|

1, 1.1
K

15-.

STERNE.

[chap.

us to compare the treatment which the world's greatest
trag'ic poet and its greatest master of realistic tragedy liave
respectively applied to virtnally the same subject"; and tlic
two metiiods arc never likely to be again so' impressively
contrasted as in Kinr/ Lear and Le Fere Goriot. But, in
truth, it must be impossible for any one who feels Balzac's
power not to feel also iiow it is heightened by Balzac's
absolute calm— a calm entirely ditf.Ment from that stern
con)posure which was merely n point of style and not an
attitude of the lieart with the old Greek tragedians— a
calm which, unlike tlicirs, insulates, so to speak^ and is in-
tended to insulate, the wiiter, to the end that his individu-
ality, of which only the electric current of sympathy ever
makes a reader conscious, may disappear, an<] the charac-
ters of the drama stand forth the more life-like from the
complete concealment of tlie liand that moves them.

Of this kind of art Horace, as has been said, knew noth-
ing, and his canon only applies to it by the rule of contra-
ries. Undoubtedly, and iu spite of the marvels which one
great genius lias wrought with it, it is a form lower than
the poetic — essentially a prosaic, and in many or most
hands an unimaginative, form of art ; but for this very rea-
son^ that it demands nothing of its average practitioner
but a keen eye for facts, great and small, and a knack of
graphically recording them, it has become a far more com-
monly and successfully cultivated form of art than any
other. As to the question who arc its practitioners, it
would, of course, bj the merest dogmatism to commit
one's self to any attempt at rigid classification in such a
matter. There are few if any writers wlio can bo describ-
ed without qualification either as realists or as idealists.
Xearly a!! of them, probably, are realists aL one !i:oment
and in one mood, and idealists at other moments and in

ii.i

[chap.

X.]

HUMOUR AXD SENTIMENT.

158

otlicr moods. All that need be insisted on is that the
niethods of the two forms of art arc essentially distinct'
and that artistic failure must result from any attempt to
combine them ; for, whereas the primary condition of suc-
cess in the one case is that the rea<ler should feel the sym-
pathetic presence of the writer, the primary condition of
success m the other is that the writer should elTace him-
selt trom the reader's consciousness altoo-ethcr. And it is
I think, the defiance of these conditions which explains
wl.y so much of Sterne's deliberately pathetic writino. i.
froin the artistic point of yi.w, a faihirc. Tt is this which
makes one feel so much of it to be strained and unnatural,
and which brings it to pass that some of his most ambi-
tious efforts leayo the reader indifferent, or even now and
then contemptuous. In those passa^i^es of pathos in which
the effect is distinctly sought by realistic means Sterne is
perpetually ignoring the "self-denying ordinance" of his
adopted luethod-perpetually obtruding his own indiyi.iu-
ahty, and begg,..^^ us, as it were, to turn from the picture
to tlie artist, to cease gazing for a moment at liis toucliino-
creation, an.l to admire the fine feeling, the exquisitely
■sympathetic nature of tlie man who created it. Xo doubt
as we must in fairness remember, it was part of Ids " hu-
mour "-in Ancient Pistol's sense of the word— to do this •
It is true, no doubt (and n truth which Sterne's most fa-
mous critic was too prone to ignore), that his sentiment is
not always meant for serious;' nay, the yery word "senti-

' Surely it was not so meant, for instance, in the passage a'>out

... ti.o corner of Monsieur Dessein's coaeh-vani. Mi.eh indeed wis
nc.^,. saj, for It, h.U something n.i,..: and..,.:/:;'™
W.II roscuo Misery out of her distress, I i.ate ti>e man who can i,e a
cl...rl of^ti.en,. ' •' D,.es anvbod,V' asks Tliackeray in straugeiy mat-

(

15 i

STEliNE.

[chap.

I'\

,1 I
III. ij.

Mjfif

^^B

il' f

!! i |r

: 1

1 '

mental " itself, tliono-h in Sterne's day, of course, it Lad
acquired hut a part of its present disparagiiii; siu'Dilicance,
is a suflicient proof of that. Lut there are, iievertheloss,
plenty of passages, both in Tristnim Shambj and the ,sV/i-
timcntal Journey, wliere the intention is wholly and un-
mixedly pathetic— where the snnio is not for a nionicut
meant to compete with the tenr — wlilch are, nf^vcrtlieless,
it must he owned, complete failures, and failures, traceable
with much certainty, or so it ,soei;is to me, to \Uy artistic
error above-meiitioned.

In one fa.muis case, indeed, the failure can liardly be de-
scribed as (.tlier than iudicrous. The fiiruro of the dis-
trauirlit Maria of Moulines is tenderly drawn ; the accesso-
ries of the picture — her goat, her dog, htr pipe, her song
to the ^'irgin— -though a hulo thcalrica!, peihaps, are >kil-
fully touched in; and so lung as the S^nlinKiiial Traveller
keeps our attention fixed upon her and them the scene
prospers well enough. ]]ut, after having bidden us duly
note how "the tears trickled down her checks," the Trav-
eller continues: "I sat down close by lier, and ^hiria let
me wipe them away as they fell with my handkerchief.
I then steeped it in my ows;— and then in hers— and then
in mine— -and then I wiped Iiers again ; and as 1 did it I
felt such undescribahlo emotions within me as, I am sure,
could not be accounted for fr(»m any combinations of mat-
ter and motion." The reader of this may well ask him-
self in wonderment whether he is really expected to make

ter-of.fact fashion, "believe tiiat this is a real sentiment? tliat iliis
hixury of generosity, this gallant rescue of Misery— out of an old
cab— is <,'cnuine feeling?" Xoboily, wo should say. I5ut, on the
other liand, docs anybody— or did anybody before Thackeray— sug-
gest tiiat it was meant to pass for genuine feeling ? Is it not an ob.
vious piece of mock pathetic ?

' i ■.»!

1^^,

[chap.

X.]

HUMOUR AND SEXTIMEXT.

1C5

a thii-a in tho lachrymose group. Wo look at the passacjo
a^aiii, and more carofnily, to see if, after all, we may not
be intende.l to lau<4li, and not to cry at it; but on findinL^
as clearly a|)j)ears, that we actually are intended to cry at
it the templMtiun to lauo-li becomes almost irresistible.
We proceed, however, to the account of Maria's wander-
ings to Homo and back, and we come to the pretty j.assago
which follows :

"How slic had homo it, and liow Am liad got supported, slio rould
not tell; l)iit (Jod tem])ers the wind, said Miuia, to the slioni laiui).
Shorn iiideoii ! and to tlio (jiiiek, said I; and wast thou in my own
hind, wlieio I liave a eotta.go, I would fake tiiec to it, and slieltci" tliee ;
thou shouldst eat of my own bread and drink of my own eiin ; I
would 1)0 kin.l to thy Syhio ; in all thy weaknesses and wanderings
I would seek after thee, and bring th.'o baek. When the sun went
down I would say my prayers ; and wlien I had done thou shouldst
play thy evening-song upon thy pipe; nor would the inecnse of my
sacrifiee be worse aeeepted for entering heaven along with that of a
broken heart."

But then follows more whimpcrino":

"Nature melted within mo [continues Sterne] as I said this; and
Maria observing, as I took out my handkerehief, that it was steeped
too nnieh already to be of us(«, would needs go wash it in the stream.
And where will you dry it, Maria V said I. I'll dry it in my bosom,
said she ; 'twill do mo good. And is your heart still so warm', :Maria ?
said I. I touehed upon tho string on whieh hung all her sorrows.
She looked with wistful disorder for some time in my faee ; and then,
without saying anything, took her pipe and played iicr soi'vice tu the
Virgin."

Whicli arc wc meant to look at— tlio .sorrows of Maria ?
or the sensibilities of the Sentimental Traveller? or the
condition of the pocket-handkerchief? I think it doubt-
ful whether any writer of the first rank has ever perpe-
trated so disastrous a literary failure as this scene ; but the

1 :>i)

STEHXK.

[chap.

i'lf

\ '

\r llf-'i

iiiMiii cause of that failure appears to nic 'not doiihtful at
all. The artist lias no busiiioss witliiii tlio IVanio of tlic
picture, and his intrusion into it lias spoilt it. The method
adopted from the commencement is osteiitatioiislv objec-
tive: wo are taken straio-ht into Maria's presence, and hid-
den to look at and to pity the unhappy maiden as t/c-
scribed by the Traveller win, met her. Xo attempt is
made to place us at the outset in sympathy with him; he,
until he thrusts himself before us, with his streamin.o- eyes,'
and his drenched poeket-handkerehief, is a mere re[.o'rtei'
of the scene before him, and he and his tears are as much
out of place as if he were the compositor who set up the
type. It is not merely that we don't want to know how
the scene affected him, and that we resent as an imperti-
nence the elaborate account of his tender emotions; we
don't wish to be reminded of his presence at all. Fur, as
we can know nothino- (effectively) of Maria's sorrows 'ex-
cept as ii'iven in her appearance— the historical recital of
them and their cause beino- too curt and bald to be able
to move us— the best chance for moviiio- our compassion
fur her is to make the illusion of her presence as dramati-
cally real as possible; a chance which is, therefore, com-
pletely destroyed when the author of the illusion insists
on tlirustino- himself between ourselves and the scene.

JJut, in truth, this whole episode of ^hiria of Moulines
was, like more than one of Sterne's efforts alter the pa-
thetic, condemned to failure from the very conditions of
its birth. These abortive efforts are no natural growth
of his artistic genius; they proceed rather from certain
morbidly stimulated imimlses or his moral nature which
he forced his artistic genius to subserve. He liad true
pathetic power, simple yet subtle, at his command; but
it visited him unsought, and by inspiration from without.

^'U

i^i^

X.]

HUMOUR AXD SEXTIME.\T.

16V

It oaino wlion l.o wa.s in the dra.nnfc and not i„ tlie in-
trospoct.vo n.ood; when ho wa.s thinking honestly of his
characters, and not of himself. Ent he was, unfortunatolv
too prone-and a lon.g course of n.oral sclf-indnl^ence
I-acl conhrmed hnn in it-to the habit of caressin" Ins
oun sens.b.hties; and the result of this was always t". .et
1'i.n upon one of those atten.pts to he pathetic ^f ,../;,,
pn.se of which Maria of Moulines is one example, and
the too oe ebrated dead donkey of Xan,pont another. " It
- agreeably and skilfully <lone, that dead jackass," writes
J .ackeray ; '< like M de Soubise's cook on the ean.pai.a,
Sterne dresses ,t, and serves it np quite tender, and wUh
a very pnp.ante sauce. But tears, and fine feelinos, and
a ^vl^te pocket-handkerchief, and a funeral sennon, and
'orses and feathers, and a procession of nn.tes, and a
hoarse w.th a dead donkey inside! I'sha ! Mounte-
•■"> ^ . I I not n^ne thee one penny-piece for that trick,
donkey and all." That is vigorous ridicule, and not whni:

sened. Ihcre js less of artistic trick, it seems to n.e, and
"ore of natural foible, about Sterne's literarv sentiment,
than Ihackeray was ever willing to believe; and lea:, find
notlung worse, though nothing better, in the dead ass of
^an.pont than in Maria of Moulines. I do not think there
IS any conscious simulation of feeling in this Namnont
scone; ,t ,s that the feeling itself is overstrained-that
S erne, hugg.n., ,, „„„,^ , -^ ,^^^,^ sensibilities, mistook
theu^ value in expression for the purposes of art The
Sentunental Traveller does not obtrude hin.self to the
same extent as in the scene at Moulines; but a little con-
.d rat.on of the soene will show how much Sterne re-
l>ed on the mere presentment of the fact that here was
an unfortunate peasant who had lost his dumb companion

I '•'.

•rii'

1.W

STEKXE.

[chap.

.1 './

Ill

aiul hcio a temlcr-lioartotl gentleman loi.kinii' on and pitv-
iiiu- him. As for any atuinpts tu bring ont, by objective
dramatic toiiclics, cither tlie grievoiisness of tlu' bereave-
ment or the <-rief of tlie mourner, sii,;h attempts as are
made to do this are eitliur commonplace or "one step in
advance" of the siiblinn.'. Take this, for instance: "The
!>)oiinier was sitting npon a stnnc bcncli at the do.>r. with
hi* t.-s's pannel and its bririle un one side, which he took
ill irom time to time, then laid tliein down, looked at
them, and shook Iiis head, lie then took th crust of
bread out of his wall.t again, as if to cat it; held it some
time in Ids jiand, then laid it upon the bit of his ass's
bridle— !.v,l 1 ■ rfully at the little arrangement he had
made- -and tlien gave a sigh. The simplicity of his grief
drew numbers about him," ilo. Simplicity, indird, of a
marvt'Ilous sort wliich could show itself by so extraordina-
ry a piece of acting as this ! Is there any critic who candid-
ly thinks it natural— I do not mean in the sense of mere
every -day probability, but of conformity to the laws of Im-
man character? Is it true that in any country, among any
people, liowever emotional, grief— real, unaffected, un-self-
conscious grief— ever did or ever could display ilself by
such a tri k as that of laying a pio^^e of bread on Hie bit
of a dead ass's bridle? Do w, uoi feel that if wi had
been on the point of offering comfort or alms te ;Iie
mourner, and m\v him go through this extraordinary piece
of pantomime, we should have buttoned u\) our' hearts,
and pockets forthwith ' Sentiment, again, sails very n. at
the wind of the ludicrous in the reply to the Traveller's
remark th;tt the nunirner had ben a merciful master t.>
th<3 dead a . " Ala^ !" the lattei .says, " I thought so when
ho was ahve, but now that he is dead 1 i'-ink otherwise.
I ':;ar the weight of myulf.nnd my afflictions have been

[rHAP.

X.]

IIUMULU AND .SENTIMENT.

169

too mncli for liim." And the sccno ends flatly enough
with the scia f morality: '"Sliamo on llio world!' said
I to myself. i>id wo love t-acli other as this poor soul
loved his ass, 'twould be something.' "

TIk; whole incident, in short, is one of those examples
of the deliberate-pathetic with which Sterne's lii^hly natural
art had least, and his hi^ddy artificial nature most, to do.
lie is never so unsiioccssful as when, after formally announC'
in-jf, as it were, that lie means to be touchini,', he proceeds
to select his subject, to marshal his characters, i ^M'oi\p his
accessories, and with painful and [)ainfuliy apparent clabo-
ration to work up liis scene to the weepini^ point. There is
no obviousness of su^estion, no spontaneity of treatment
about this " iX'ad Ass "episode; indeed, there is some
reason to believe that it was one of those most hopeless of
efforts — the attempt at the mechanical repetition of a form-
er li iumph. It is by no means improbalile, at aiiv rate, that
the df iss of Xanipont owes its presence in the Scntl-
mcntalJonrney to the reception met with by the live ass of
Lyons in the seventh volume of Tristram Shamb/. And \
what an astonishing difference between the two sketches!

'"Thus a poor ass, wlio luul just turned in, witli a couple of large
panniers upon his baeic, to collect eleemosynary turnip-tops ami cab-
bage-leaves, and stooil dubious with his two fore-feet on the inside of
the threshold, and witli his two hinder feet towards the street, :is not
Unouing very well whether he would go in or no. Nuw, 'tis an ani-
mal (lie in what hurry I may) I cannot hiiir to strike. There is a
patient endurance of sutl'erings rote so unall'eetedly iti his looks and
carriage, uliieh pleads so mightily for him that it always <lisarnis me,
and to that degree that I do not like to speak unkindly :o him ; on
tiic contrary, meet him where I will, in town or country, in cart or
mider panniers, whether in liberty or bondage, I Iiaveevei somethin"'
civil to say to him on my part; and, as one worti begets anothi' i if
he li -i little to do as I), I generally '"i" into conversation witli uuu ;

; '

' 5

)

t.'.'

■ i

If.o

and

STKRNK,

siiri'I

y never is niy ini;i<'inaf

fjiuiLxcs from the ctdiin<'s of 1

ion »n bii.sv as in fi

[ciur.

aniiriu' liis ro-

eany nio not deep cnou-,'!), in Hvinc fi

"■■^ CO'iiitcniinn>— iiiid ^\hv^v tl

llO.-iO

and feclin;,' wliat U natural (
iijuin tiie occasion.

•oin

my own iu'art into liis.

i'li ass (o tiiinii, as hiH as a

t'ouu; IIoiu'siv! Haid I

pnu'ticable to pass betwixt hini and tl

vv fruin« out y Ti.o ass twisted his Lead roumi; ,o i.'^;

man,
>*oeinL;- it «as im-

H'frato, aif tlioii I

or conMiij' in

Weil

i< plied I, we'll wait

"p the street.

head tiioii;rhtfully about,

understand thee perfectly, answered I : if t|

in this affair he will eu h'el tli

a minute for thy driver. H,, turned his
and looked wistfidly the oppoMtc wnv. I

lou takest a

nuniite, and if it s

:ive.

fell

00 to death. Well, a

'ij; step

, a niniuii i^ l»iit a

't down as ill spent. II

low-creature a druhbin- it .^hall „ot i,

this iliscour:

o was catin-r the st.in of

ure I

e went on, and, in t!,e little peevi^l

an ariiehoko a>

•e'wixt hunjrcr and u

I contentions of nat-

muuth half a do/eii ti

nsavounness, had dropped it out of 1

Jack ! said I, thou h
blow, I fear, for its

and picked it uji a<

lis

n. (iod htlp tli(

life is to others,
as hitter, I da
thou h

niae

ast not a friend, pcrha]

ast ,1 bitter Itrcakfast on't, and

w-af,'es-'tis all, nil bitterness to th

"«)«• thy mouth, if one knew the truth of
ly, as soot (for he had cast asid

Ami

nianv a bitter

"hatever

it. is

e tl

aioon. In saying this I jjulled

'S ni all this world that «il!

'0 stem), and

nvi

U'e IV

.just purchased, and

tell

ive hnu one; and, at tlii.-

out a paper of •em, whieh I had

mg it, my heart smites me that tl

mon. lit that I am

the conceit of seeing how
nevoh

an ass would eat a

lore was more of pl. asant

rv in

■nee m giving him one, whiel

macaroon, than of be-

ass had eaten his n

beast was lieuvv loaded, his I

acaroon I pressed him t

1 presided in the act. Ul

o come 111.

len the
le poor

hung rather backwards, and :i/l p,ille,l
niy hand, fie looked up j

s .-^eemed to tremble under him 1

with it; but if \

ou will, von m

at his halter it broke short
lensive in my face. 'Don't thrash me

'in do,' said I. 'I'll bed -d.

Well inin;lit Thackeray say of tl
critic wlio refii.scs to see in it wit 1

nature .speaking, and a real sentiment

lis passatve that, "the
, Ininiour, patho.sa Liiid

deed to nio\

e and to please." It is, in t

and its excellence is due to its

nuist be Imrd in
nith, excellent:

of tl

possessintr nearlv every one

osc qnalities, positive and negative, ^vhicl

1 the two

friiAP.

in'MOlH AND SENTIMKXr.

101

otl.oi- 8<-0MPs lihow .j.i„tc'(I nro witlioiit. Tl

not hiu-o obtniilo liiiiisolf, d

ocs

119 cxqnisitoly coini)a.s.sioiiato nat

10 author docs
I'.ot iinportiiiie us to adiniro

at oiicu amuses
■ibt)

II re-

us and enlist-

; on tilt' contrary, lie

our synipatliifs hy that

y Innnorous piece of self-ai.alysis, in whi.-h he's!

Iiow laru:(' ar. adii)i.vtiiro of cu
bencv(

lows

olfiico. riio iiicidont, too, is well cl

nosity was contained in Jijs

concurrence of circumstances I

loson. Xo forced

•rinns it about : it is sueh as
any man m.^ht have n.et with anywhere in his travels, and
It IS iiandled in a simple and manly fashion. The reader
H uut/> the writer throu,,hout ; and their common mood of
half-humorous pity is .M.staiued, unforced, but unbroken,
from first to last.

One can hardly say as much for another of the much-
Miioted pieces from the .SeuhmcutalJo'nne>/~iho descrip.
tion of the ca^ed starling. The passage is ingeniously
worked into its context; and if wo were to consider it a's
only „,tendc<l to sorve the purpose of a sudden and dra-
uiat.c discomfiture of the Traveller's somewhat inconsider-
ate morali/niu's ,„, captivity, it wouhl be well .no,,.!,
Lut, regarded as a substantive appeal to one's em<.ticms;
It IS open to the criticisms which apply to must other of
bterne s too deliberate attempts at the pathetic. The de-
tails of the pi.-ture are too much insiste.l on, and there is
too much ..f self-consciousness in the artist. Even at the
very close of the story of Le Fevre's death-finelv told
though as a whole, it is-therc is a jarring note. ' Even
wlule the dyino: „,an is brcathinu- his |,,.i o.ir sleeve is
witched as we stand at his bedside, and our attention
forcibly diverted from the departing- .soldier to the literary
nigemnt.es of the man who is dcscribino- ],is P„d :

•autj, but tl.e cause of ,t, wliich let you at o.kc into I.ls soul, and
8

l:t

,1 I

; H

H /

f , '

J:!

1G2

STEKXE.

[cnAP.

sl.ouo.vou tl.e ..oodness of his nature. To ti.is there was something
n I„s looks, and vuico, and ..anuer, supera.ldc.l, whid. oternallv bec-k-
onj.d to the un omnmte to eou.e and take .shelter under hin> ; lo that
before .nvLuele Toby had half finished the kind olfer.s lu- Jas n.ak-
.ng to the father ha.l the .on insen.sibly pre.^sed up elo,.e to hi.s knee.
a.Hi .ad taken hohl of the b,.ea.t of hi.s eoat, an.I ,vas pullin. it-'
-jvds hnn The blood and splrit.s of Le Fevre, uid.h L. C!n^
cold and ..iou- wuh.n him, and were retreating to their la.^t citadel"
he heart, ra. ed baek ; the fihn forsook his eyes for a n.o.nent
ooked up w,shfullv ,n n.y Unele Toby's faee, then east a look upon
lu.> boy-a..d that hgament. fine as it was, was never broken."

How excellent all tl.at is! and Ih.w ,H.rfeetlv wonW the

scene l.avo ended l.ad it closed with the ten.le.- and i.oetic

image which thns describes the dyin.i, soldier's con.nienda-

lon of his orphan boy to the care of his brother-in-anns '

J>ut what of tliLs, whicii closes tiic scene, in fact?

'' Xivturo instantly ebbed again ; the filn, ret.irned to its r.laee • the
pulse flut te,.ed - stopped - went on - throbbed - stoppei a.^ai'n -
moved, stoj.ped. Shall I go on? Xo."

lA't those admire this who can. To ,ne I confess it
seems to spoil a touchino- and simj.le death-bed scene by a
piece of theatrical trickery.

The sum, in fact, of the whole matter appears to be,
that the sentiment on which Sterne so prided hin.self-the
acute .sensibilities which he reoanled with such oxtraordi-
I'.-iry complacency, were, as has been before observed the
vveakness, and not the strength, of his pathetic stvie
AM.en Sterne the arti.st is uppermost, when he is suiTey-
n.u: his characters with that penetrating eve of his and
above all when he is allowing his subtl." and tend,..' hu-
"K.ur t.) play upon them unrestrained, he can louHi the
springs of compassionate emotion in us with a poten- and
•">.n M.g hand. JJut when Sterne the man is uppermost-

[chap.

X.J

IlL'MOUIl AND SEXTIMEXT.

163

when he l.s lookino- inward and not outward, contcmplatiiii?
his own fcelinus instead of those of his personaoes, liis
cunnin:,^ fails him altoo-ethcr. lie is at his best in"pathos
when ho is most the humourist; or ratlier, we mav ahnost
say, his pathos is never good unless when it is efosely in-
terwoven with liis humour. In this, of course, there is
nothiiig at all surprising-. The only marvel is, that a man
wIkj was such a master of the humorous, in its hicrhest and
deepest sense, should seem to have so little understood liow
near tou-ether lie the sources ..f tears and lauohter on the
very way-side of man's mysterious life.

h '

$ ii

ClIAriER XI.

CHEATIVK A.VO D.AMATIO ..OWEK.-rLAOE IX EXOLISH

MTEHATUUE.

Si-DTLE as is Sterne's luunour, and trne as, in its proper
>"oods, ,s Jus p..thos, it is not to tl.cse but to Iho parent
g.t roni wlucl, they spran.cr, and porl.ap.s to onlv ..ne spe-
cial .hsplay of that gift, that lie ouos his in,n,ortaiif v. AVo
a-v accnston.ed to bestow so lightly this last hypu-bulic
honom-hyporbolic ahvays, even when wc- are speakin.
of a llon.er or a Shakspeare, if only we project the vision
far cnongh fo-ward throngh tinu-that the eoniparative
ease w.th which it is to be earned ]«as itself con.e to he
exaggerated. There are so n.any " .l.athless ones " abont
-It I may pnt the matter fan.iliarly-in conversation and
I" l.terature that we .w, into the way of thinl<in,- that
hey are really a considerable body in actnal fact, and that
tue works winch have trinniphed over death are far n.ore
"".nerous still. The real tn.tl, however, is, that not only
^'••^= those who reach posterity a very select cn.pany in-
^ oed, bnt most of then, have come ninch nearer n.issin-r
their destiny than is popularly suppose,!. Of the dozen or
score of writers in one century wh.un their own conteni-
por u-.es fondly decree immortal, one-half, perhaps, n.ay be
rcn.en.hored in the next; winio of the creations which
were honoured with the diplonui of immortalitv a verv

CHAP. XI.] CREATIVE AND DRAMATIC i x»W

ER.

h\:>

much smaller
fift)

proportion as a rule survive. Only some
per cent, of the prematurely laurel-crowned reach the
.uoal ; and often even upon t/ieir brows there flutter but a
few ..ray leaves of the Hy. A single poem, a solitary
drama— nay, perhaps one isolated fiomv, poetic or dra-
matic-avails, and but barely avails, to keep the immortal
fn.m puttino- on mortality. Hence we need tliinlc it no
disparagement to Sterne to say that he lives not so much
m virtue of his creative power as of one ft-reat individual
creation. His imao-inative insio-ht into character in o-en-
oral was, n.. doubt, considerable ; his drauo-htsmanship,
whether as exhibited in the rou-h sketch or in the finished
portrait, is unquestionably im.st viuorous; but an artist
•nay put a hundred striking fi,o.,„.os „pon his canvas for
one that will linger in the memory of those who have ..aze.l
upon It ; and it is, after all, I think, the one figure of"( \-,p-
tain Tobias Shandy which has graven itself 'indelibly on
the memory of mankind. To have made this single addi-
tion to the imperishable types of human character em-
bodied HI the world's literature may .seem, as has been said,
but a light matter to those who talk with light exa-.rora-
tion of the achievements of the literary artist; butif we
exclude that one creative prodigy among men, who has
poople.l a whole gallery with imaginar- Vings more real
than those of Jlesh and blood, we shall find that very few
archetypal creations liave sprung from anv single liand.
Now, My Uncle Toby is as much t!ie archetvpe"''of ..'uile-
less good nature, of affectionate simplicity, a.s'llamlet'is of
^irresolution, or lago of cunning, or Shvlock of race-hatred •
and he contrives to preserve all the characteristics of an'
ideal tvpc amid surn-undings of inten.sely prosaic realism,
with uluch he hiinscif, moreover, considered as an individ-
ual character in a specific story, is in complete accord. If

\l\

'V\

lit

1 ;

IGG

IJ!,

STERXE.

[ciup.

|l;: i

any uiio he disposed to underrate tl.e creative and dramatic
power lo wl.ici, this testilies, let liiin consider Low it l.as
<'on,.uonly fared with tlioso writers of prose fiction who
liavc attempted to personify a virtue in a man. Take the
work of another famous EnoHsh humourist and sentimen-
talist, and compare Uncle Toby's manly and dio-nitled gen-
tleness of heart with the unreal ",n,,.sh" of the IJrothers
<:heeryljle, or the fatuous benevolence of Mr. JMckwick.
We do not believe in the former, and we cann..t but de-
spise the latter. But Captain Shandy is realitv itself,
within and without; and though we smile at his naivete
and may even laugh outright at his boyish enthusiasm for
Ills military hobby, we never cease to respect him for a
moment. There is no shirking or softening of the comic
aspects of his character; there could not be^ of course, for
Sterne needed him more, and used him more, for his pur-
poses as a humourist than for his purposes as a scntimen--
tahst. Nay, it is on the rare occasions when he deliber-
ately sentimentalizes with Captain Shandy that the Cap-
tain IS the least delightful; it is then that the hand loses
Its cunning, and the stroke strays; it is then, and only
then, that the benevolence of the good soldier seems to
verge, though ever so little, upon affectation. It is a pity,
for instance, that Sterne should, in illustration of Captain'
Shandy's kindness of heart, have plagiarized (as he is said
to have done) the incident of the tormenting fly, caught
and put out of the window with the words "Oct thee
gone, poor devil ! Why should I harm thee ? The world
is surely large enough for thee and me." There is some-
thing too much of self-conscious virtue in the apostrophe.'
This, we feel, is not the real Uncle Toby of Sterne's objec-
tive mood ; it is the Uncle Toby of the subjectifying sen-
timentalist, surveying his character through the'faire me-

i f i

< '

[chap.

XLJ

CREATIVE AND DRAMATIC TOWER.

107

dinm of his own hypcrtropliicd sensibilities. These lapses,
liowever, aiv, foitiinatcly, rare. As a rule wc sec the wor-
thy Cai)taiii only as he appeared to liis creator's keen dra-
matic eye, and as he is set before us in a thousand ex<nii-
sitc touohes of dialogue— the man of simple mind and
soul, profonndly unitnai^nnativc and unphilosophieal, but
lackinn; not in a certain shrewd cominon-sonse; "ex(|uisit('iy
naif, and dolii^htfully mal-a-propos in his observations, hnt
always pardonably, never foolishly, so; inexhaustiblv ami-
able, but with no weak amiability; homely in his'ways,
but a perfect ,i;-cntlenian withal; in a word,"the most win-
nino- and lovable i>ersoiiality that is to be met with, surely,
in the whole rano-o of fiction.

It is, in fact, with Sterne's general delintations of char-
acter as it is, 1 have attempted to show, with his particular
passages of sentiment, lie is never at his best and truest
—as, indeed, no writer of fiction ever is or can be— save
when he is allowing his dramatic imagination to play the
most freely upon his characters, and thinking Ica^t about
himself. This is curiously illustrated in his handling of
what is, perhaps, the next most successful of the uncari-
catured portraits in. the Shandy gallery— the presentment
of the liev. Mr. Yorick. Nothing can bo more perfect in
its way than the {)icturc of the " lively, witty, sensitive, and
heedless parson," in chapter .\. of the first volume of Tnts-
tram Shand,/. Wc seem to sec the thin, melancholy figure
on the rawboned horse— the apparition which could "nev-
er present itself in the village but it caught the attention
of old and young," so that " labour stood still as lie passed,
the bucket hung suspended in the mitldle of the well, the
spinning-wheel forgot its round ; even chuck-farthing' and
shuffle-cap themselves stood gaping till he was out of
sight." Throughout this chapter Sterne, though dcscrib-

I ; i

i ,

!l 'i

168

STERXE.

fciIAP.

i^'taiioo, as it

iriir liiinself. is projcctiiii? Iiis i)or.sonaIity to a d

wc'iv, and ooiitcmi.latiiiL,^ it drainatioallv ; and tlio result

exccllont. WIk^u in tho next cliai)t<.r" ho kr.,„K-s "]

cal

S(.) t

vn-

() s

peal

who

n tl

imaginary) wrono's impels him to look i

10 rolloctiou upon lijs (l.ipo-cly

luvard, the imai

al.lo .•OMsetjaenco follows; and tlioui,^h Yoriel. ..
prai.r.l (loath-scene, with p:iii,renius at his bed-sid
deemed from entire failure hv

Iv s mueli 1)0

is re-

ui adujixture of the humor-

ous with its attempted pathos, we ask oursolves with ,
wonder what the unhappiness— or the death itself
that matter— is '-all about." The
l)posed to have broken Yorick's 1

1 some

for

o wrono-s which were

fectly specified (a comic proof, bv tl

leart are most imper-

entll

le way, of Sterne'

■e a[)sorption in himself, to the confusi„„ „f ].,
l'ers„nal knowlo.li-e with that of the reader), and tl
conditions of enlistini^ the road

lis own
le rirst

fullille.

Ihit

obt

ers sympathies are left

un-

it IS coni

parativoly seldoui ihat this foible of Stcr

nidos it^olf upon the strictly narrativo aiid ,1
parts of his work ; and, next to the abidin-' d

interest of h

and colour of I

powers of fascination ov

lie

ramatic

i.uiM and

principal lininv, it is by tlio admirable life
exerjises iiis stron^-pst

IIS scones that he

Sterne's alfoctations, and t
consciousness when he is speakiiii;' in I

a reader. IVipotual as

are

iresome as is I

lis eternal self-
lis own jH-rson, yet

when once th.- dramatic instinct fairly lavs hold „f ]

there is n

foro-ot hii

) writer who ever make

iim

II ill the i)resence of his charact

'^ lis more completely

can l)rin^' them and their surround

words, before us with such coi

ers — none who
iiiu'*^, their looks and

ivinciiin' force of realit)

c wonders sometimes whether Sterne himself

'f the hi^h dramat

Would ca

II 1

ic excellence of

H 'carpenter's scenes"— -t I

was awitre
any of what actors

le mere interludes

[chap.

XI.J

CItKATlVK AM) DRAMATIC POWEH.

169

introdiiot'il to amuse us while the stage is Imuir prepared
for one of those more elaborate and (iclibcrate displays of
pathos or huMjour, wliich do not always turn out to l)e
unuiixed successes wjien they come. Sterne prided liim-
•sclf vastly upon the incident of Le Fevre's death ; but I
dare say that there is many a modern reader who would
rather iiave lost this highly-wrought piece of domestic
drama, than that other excpiisite little scene in tlie kitchen
of the inn, when Corporal Trim toasts the bread whieh the
sick lieutenant's son is preparini-- for ids father's i>osset, while
" Mr. Vorick's curate was smoking a pipe by the fire, biit
said not a word, good or bad, to comfort the youth." The
whole scene is absolute life; and the dialogue between the
Corp.Tal and the parson, as related by the formci' to his
master, with Captain Shandy's comments thereon, is almost
Shaksi)earian in its excellence. Saw-s the Corporal :

"When tl.o lieutenant luui taken l.is ,^h,^ of sack ami toast he
felt h.niseir ii little .wived, an.l sent down into tl.o kitchen to let n.e
know that in al.out ten niiniites he should bo glad if I would step
upstairs I l.dieve, said the landlord, he is goin- to say his pray-
ers, for there was a Look laid on the ehair hy the bed-side, and as I
shut the door I saw him take up a eushi,,,.. J thought, .said the cu-
rate, that you p.ntlen.en of the army, Mv. Trim, never said vo.u- pray-
ers at all. 1 heard the poor -entl.'uian say his prayers last ni-lit
said the landla.iy, very devoutly, and with my own cars, or I eo'uKl
•ot lm^e believed it. Are you sure of it? replied the eurate. A
.ol,.',er. an' please your reverence, said I, pravs as often (of his own
accord) as a parson ; an.l when he is fiK'htin- for his king, and for
his own hie, and for l,ls honour too, he has the most reason to pray
to(Jod of any one in the wholv AOild. 'Twas well said of thee Trim"
said .ny Tnele T '.y. Hut wh-n a soldier, said I, an' please voi.r r.-v'
erenee. has been .>c,.:> 1...T for twelve hours together in the tren.lie.
up to his knees in e< !<! vator-.,r engag.^d, said 1, for months to-eth-
or in long and dangerous maivhes ; harassed, perhaps, in his rear to-
day; hara.>-ing others to-morrow; detached here; counternuindeJ

I ]

111

STERNE.

[chap.

there ; resting this nif^ht out upon his arms ; l.eat up in hi. ^hht tho
next; benmnlKxl in his joints; perhaps witho.it straw in his t.ut to
cnecl on. flu.] must say liis prau-rs liow and when he ran I l.o-
hove, saul l-h.r I was pi,,ue,i, quoth the Corporal, for the reputation
of the army-I Inlieve, an't please your reverenee, sai.l I, that when
a sohher gets tin.e to pray, he prays as heartily a.s a parson-thou-'h
"..t w,th ail his fuss and hypoerisy. Thou shouMst not i.ave said
that, rrun, saul n.y Tnele Toby; for (Jod only knows who is a hvpo-
er.te an.! who is n<.t. At the great and general review ..f „; ui
^■"'•i'-ral, at the day of judgn.ent (and not till then) it will l,o seen
who have done their duties in this world an.l who have n„t, and we
shall be advaneed, T.iu., aeeordingly. I hope we shall, .ai.l Trim
It IS in the Serij.ture, said my Unelo Toby, and I will .how it thee in
the monnng I„ the nu.antin.e, we n,ay depend upon it,Trin,. fur our

coudort, said my Unele Toby, that (Jod Ahuightv is so ,. i ;,„,1 iu.t

a governor of the world, that if we have but done our duties in it it
«dl never be inquired into whether we have done then, in a ,vd eoat
or a b^ek one I hope not, said the Corporal. IJut go on, said n.v
Lnele Toby, with thy story."

AVc ini-1,t almost fancy ourselves listoninrr to that ,10-
l>lo pi-o.so c,>lIo.]„y between tlic disi.ui.sea kin..' .-.n.! l.is
^^old.ers on tlio nii-l.t 'oefore A-ineourt, in Jlcnr,/ V \,h1
tl.ouj^h Sterne does not, of course, often reach' this level
of dramatic dionity, there arc passa,i,a-.s in abun.lanco in
which his dialoo-„e assumes, throuoh sheer for-'u of indi-
vidualized character, if not all the diijnitv, at anv rate all
the impressive force and simplicity, of the "irrand >tv!e "
Taken altonvther, however, his place in En-lish lett.-rs
is hard to fix, and hi.s tenure in human memoiv hard to
determine. Hitherto ho has held his own, with 'the .M-ent
writers of his era, hut it has been in virtue, as T have at-
tempted to show, of a contribution to the literarv posses-
sions of mankin.l whieh is as uni.juely limited in amount as
It IS exceptionally perfect in .juality. One cannot but feel
that, as rei^ards the sum of his titles to recollection, his

«l

[chap.

XI.]

PLACE IS EXOLISII LITEIiATUJtE.

171

I'amc stands far below oithor of those other two which
|n the course of the last century acMe.l tho.nselves to
ti c highest rank anion.- the classics of Knoli.I, ]„„„our

h t'TV"? rlr '^' "^'""'^^'"-^' ''^^ ""^^ *''^ -'•'-» '■ —
..te.ost of iMokhng; and, to say notlm.^r of his vast intol-

edual n.fer.or,ty to Swift, he never so nmch as approach-
^ to pi,,,,,,, ,f ,y,rlu.t\n^ coucernn.ent to .nin which
Sw.t. hamlh^ wuh so terrible a fascination. Certainlv no
cnthus.as Uc G.bbon of the future is ever likdv to snV of
f^tcrno s p.otures of human manners" that th'ey will 'out-
ne the pahux- of the Eseurial and the In.pcrial Eaolo of
he House of Austria. Assuredly no one will ever tin 1 i,.
this so-called En.li>h antitype of the Cure of Meudon
any of the deeper .p.alities of that gloomy and eo,un.and-
>.g spmt which has been finely conipared to the "soul of
I.abela.s haUia»s In .vWu" Nay, to descend even to mi-
nor aptitudes, Sterne cannot tell a story as Swift an.I Fidd-

'■^^ can t.ll one; and his work is not assured of life as
To>n e/o..v and ^/«//;.,,', Travefs, considered as stories
lone, would be assured of it, even if the one were strip-
ped of IS cheerful humour, and the other disarmed of its
savage allegory. And hence it might be rash to predict
that Sterne s days will be as long iu the land of lit.rarv
n.e.nory as the two great writers aforesaid. iJanked, a's
J'o still ,s, among "Kugli.sh classics," ho under-oe. I sus-
pect, even n.ore than an English classic's ordi^arv share-
|.t reverential neglect. Among those who talk abmit him
I'e has, 1 should imagine, fewer readers than Kidding, and
very much fewer than Swift. Xo, is l.e Hkelv to increase
l.ur number as lime goes on, but rather, perh^.ps, the con-
tmry. Indeed, the only (juestion is whether with tin- lai.s,
-f years he will not, like other writers as famous in their
day, become yet more of a mere name. For there is still

! i-

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Ji:

1' 1

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ill

'tj

.i^

•i ■ it
'I t'

17l'

STERNE.

[CHAI-.

o{ course, a further stage to \vhioh I. ■ may dc. line. That
ohject of so much empty inouth-h.a.our, the Kn<c!sh clas-
sic of the last an! earlier centuries, present , hinis, If for
classification under three distinct catei;ories. There is the
<-la8s who arc still read in a certain me.-isure, thou-h i„ „
nuich smaller measure than is preten.led, by the ^rrcat bodv
of ordinarily well-educated men. Of this class, the two
.•nithors whose names I have alivady cited, Swift and Fi.Id-
n.ir, are typical examples; and it mav be taken to include
(.oldsnuth also. Then cn^.s the das. ,>f those whom the
ordinarily well-educated public, whatever thev mav pretend
read really very little or not at all; and in thi^ class wc'
may couple Sterne with Addison, with Smolk-tt, an.l, ex-
cept, of course, as to JioUnso Crn.soe-uulcs, indeed, our
M'se boys have outgrown him among other pleasures of
boyhood-with Defoe. ]Jut below this there is yet a third
class of writers, who arc not only read by none but the
critic, the connoisseur, or tlu hist rian of literature, but
arc scarcely read even by them, excpt from -uiositv or
" in the way of business." The type of this class is Kich-
ardson ; and one cannot, I say, help asking whether ho will
hereafter have Sterne as a companion „f his dusty solitude
Arc rnstnuH ^haud,, an.l the Sentimental Journn, des-
tined to des.vnd from the second class into the third—
from the region of partial into that of total negloct, and to
have their portion with Clarissa llarlowe and Sir Charles
Grandison? The unbounded vogue which they enjoyed
in their time will not save them ; for sane and sober critics
compared Kiehardson in his day to Shakspcare, and Dide-
rot broke forth into prophetic rhapsodies upon the immor-
tality of his works which to us in these davs have become
absolutely pathetic in their felicity of falsified prediction
Seeing, too, that a good three -fourths of the attractions

i,,p

[CIUI'.

PLACE IX ENGLISH LITEUATrHK.

17:?

which Won Stcrno his contemporary popuhirity luv now so
much doaU woij,'lit of doml matter, and that thu vital re-
siduum is in amount so small, tlic fato of liichardson might
seem to be but too clo'^o h, ' ] l,i,n. Yet it is dinicult to
''Hieve that this fato w ' . .-uito overtake hiiu. His
>ci iimciit may have most); cased— it probablv has (•( .,ed
—to stir any emotion at all in f!,. se days; bui then" is an
imperishable element in his htmioiir. And thoi,-h the
circle of his readers may have no tendency to increase, one
can hanlly suppose that a charm, wldch those who still
feel it 1.<1 so keenly, will ever enurcly cease to captivate;
or that time can iiave any power over a perfume which so
wonderfully retains th- pnnijent freshness of its frai,'rance
after the lapse of >l years.

THE END.

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PREFACE.

The ciiief materials for a life of Swift are to l)e found in
his writings and correspondence. The best edition is tho
second of the two edited by Scott (1814 and 1824).

In 1751 lord Orrery published Remarks npon the Life
and Wriiings of Dr. Jonathan Stvift. Orrery, burn 1707,
had known Swift from about 1732. His remarks give
the views of a person of quality of n.ore ambition than
capacity, and more anxious to exhibit his own taste than
to give full or aceurat-^ information.

In 1754 Dr. Delany published Observations vpon Lord
Orrery's Remarks, intended to vindicate Swift aj^ainst
some of Orrery's severe judgme:.- . Delany, born about
1G85, became intimate with Swift soon after the Dean's
final settlement in Ireland. He was then one of the au-
thorities of Trinity College, Dublin. He is the best con-
temporary authority, so far as he goes.

In 175G Deane Swift, grandson of Swift's uncle, God-
win, and son-in-law to Swift's cousin and faithful guar-
dian, Mrs. Whiteway, published an Essay upon the Life,
Wriiings, and Character of Dr. Jonathan Swift, in which
he attacks both his predecessors. Deane Swift, born
about 1708, had seen little or nothing of his cousin till
the year 1738, when the Dean's faculties were decaying.

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His book is foolish and discursive. Doanc Swift's son,
Thcopliiiiis, C(;niiiuinicatcd a good deal of doubtful matter
to Scott, on the authority of family tradition.

In 1705 irawkcsworth, who had no personal knowl-
edge, prefixed a life of Swift to an edition of the works
which adds nothing to our information. In 1781 John-
son, wlien publishing a very perfunctory life of Swift as
one of the poets, excused its shortcomings on the ground
of having already communicated liis thoughts to Ilawkes-
worth. The life is not only meagre but injured by one
of Johnson's strong prejudices.

In 1785 Thomas Sheridan produced a pompous and
dull life of Swift. He was the son of Swift's most inti-
mate companion during the whole period subsequent to
the final settlement in Ireland. The elder Sheridan, how-
ever, died in 1738; and the younger, born in 1721, was
still a boy when Swift was becoming iuibccilc.

Contemporary writers, except Delany, have thus little
authority ; and a number of more or less palpably ficti-
tious anecdotes accumulated round their hero. Scott's
life, originally published in 1814, is defective in point of
accuracy. Scott did not investigate the evidence minute-
ly, and liked a good story too well to be very particular
about its authenticity. The book, however, shows his
strong sense and genial appreciation of character ; and re-
mains, till this day, by far the best account of Swift's
career.

A life which supplies Scott's defects in great measure
was given by William Monck Mason, in 1819, in liis Ilis-
tory and AtJiguitics of the Church of St. Patrick. Monck
Mason was an indiscriminate admirer, and lias a provok-
ing method of expanding undigested information into
monstrous notes, after the precedent of Bayle. But he

niEFACE.

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examined facts with the utmost care, and every biographer
must respect his authority.

In 1875 Mr. Forster publislicd the first instalment of a
Life of Sivift. Tliis book, which contains tlie results of
patient and thorough inquiry, was unfortunately inter-
rupted by Mr. Forster's death, and ends at the beginning
of 1711. A complete Life by Mr. Henry Craik is an-
nounced as about to appear.

Besides these books, I ought to mention an Ef"- upon
the Earlier Part of the Life of Sivift, by the Rev, Jolin
Barrett, B.D. and Vice-Provost of Trinity College, Dublin
(London, 1808); and The C/osinr/ Years of Dean Swift's
Life, by W. R. Wilde, M.R.I, A., F.R.C.S. (Dublin, 1849).
This last is a very interesting study of the medical aspects
of Swift's life. An essay by Dr. Bucknill, in Brain for
January, 1882, is a remarkable contribution to the same
subject.

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CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. p,„„

Eakly Years 1

CHAPTER II
Moor Park and Kilroot 12

CHAPTER III.
Earva' Writings 33

CHAPTER IV.
Laracor and London 51

CHAPTER V.
TiiE Harley Administration 77

CHAPTER VI.
Stella and Vanessa 117

CHAPTER VII.

Wood's Halfpence 14-5

CHAPTER VIII.
Gullh-er's Travels i66

CHAPTER IX.
Decline • 183

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SWIFT.

CIIAPTER I.

EARLV YEARS.

Jonathan Swift, tlic famous Dean of St. Patdck's, was
the descendant of an old Yorkshire family. One brancli
had migrated soutlnvards, and in the time of C'liarles I.
Thomas Swift, Jonathan's grandfatlier, was Vicar of
Goodrich, near Ross, in ITerefordshire, a fact commemo-
rated by the sweetest singer of Queen xVnne's reign in the
remarkable lines :

" Jonathan Swift
Had the gift
By fathori^o, mothcrigo,
And by brotherij^e,
To come from Gotlieridge."

Thomas Swift married Elizabeth Dryden, niece of Sir
Erasmus, the grandfather of the poet Dryden. By her
he became the father of ten sons and four danglitcrs. In
tlic great rebellion lie distinguished himself by a loyalty
which was the cause of obvious complacency to iiis de-
scendant. On one occasion he came to the governor of a
town held for the King, and being asked what he could
do for his Majesty, laid down his coat as an offering.
The governor remarked that his coat was worth little.

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[chap.

"Then," said Swift, "take my waistcoat." The waist-
coat was lined with three linndred broad pieces — a hand-
some offerinu; from a poor and {)]nndered clergyman. On
another occasion he armed a ford, tlirou<«'h wliich rebel
cavalry were to pass, by certain pieces of iron with four
spikes, so contrived that one spike must alwavs be upper-
most (cd/frops, in short). Two hundred of the enemy
were destroyed by this stratagem. The success of the
rebels naturally led to the ruin of this Cavalier clergyman ;
and the recoid of liis calamities forms a conspicuous arti-
cle in Walker's S'iferinr/s of (he Clcrr/ij. He died in
1058, before the advent of the better times in which he
might have been rewarded for his loyal services. His
numerous family had to struggle for a living. Tlic eldest
son, Godwin Swift, was a barrister of Gray's Inn at the
time of the Restoration : he was married four times, and
three times to women of fortune; his first wife had been
related to the Ormond family ; and this connexion in-
duced him to seek his fortune in Ireland — a kingdom
which at that time suffered, amongst other less endurable
grievances, from a deficient supply of lawyers.' Godwin
Swift was made Attorney-General in the palatinate of
Tipperary by the Duke of Ormond. He prospered in his
profession, in the subtle parts of which, says his nephew,
he was " perhaps a little too dexterous ;" and he engaged
in various •^[)eculations, having at one time what was then
the very iarge income of 3000/. a year. Four brothers
accompanied this successful Godwin, and shared to some
extent in his prosperity. In January, lOGG, one of these,
Jonathan, married to Abigail Erick, of Leicester, was ap-
pointed to the stewardship of the King's Iims, Dublin,
pnrtly in consideration of tlie loyalty and suffering of
' Deane Swift, p. 1 5.

[CIIAP.

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EARLY YEARS.

his family. Some fifteen niontlis later, in April, 10G7, lie
died, leaving his widow with an infant daughter, and seven
months after her husband's death, November 30, 16G7 she
gave birth to Jonathan, the younger, at 7 Iloey's Court,
Dublin.

The Dean " hath often been heard to say " (I quote his
fmgment of autobiography) "that he felt the consequences
of that (his parents') marriage, not only through the whole
course of his education, but during the greater part of his
life. This quaint assumption that a man's parentao-e is
a kind of removable accident to which may be attribTited
a limited part of his subsequent career, betrays a charac-
teristic sentiment. Swift cherished a vague resentment
against the fates which had mixed bitter ingredients in
his lot. Ue felt the place as well as the circumstances of
Ins bath to be a grievance. It gave a plausibility to the
offensive imputation that he was of Irish blood. " I hap-
pened," he said, with a bitt.-ness born of later sufferin.rs,
"by a perfect accident to . oorn here, and thus I anl^a
Toague, or an Irishman, or what people please." Else-
XV hero he claims England as properly his own country;
"although I happened to be dropped here, and was a year
old before I left it (Ireland), and to mv sorrow did not die
before I came back to it." His infancy brought fresh griev-
ances. He was, it seems, a precocious muf delicate child,
and his nurse became so much attached to him, that havin^r
to return to her native Whitehaven, she kidnapped the vear"-
old infant out of pure affection. When his mother knew
her loss she was afraid to hazard a return voyage until
the cluld was stronger; and he thus remained neaWv three
years at Whitehaven, where the nurse took such care of
his education that he could read any chapter in the Bible
before he was three years old. His return must have been

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speedily followed by liis motlier's departure for her native
Leicester, ller sole dependence, it seems, was an annuity
of 20^. a year, which had been bou!j;ht for her by her
husband upon their marriage. Some of the Swift family
seem also to have helped her, but, for reasons not now
discoverable, she found Leicester preferable to Dublin,
even at the price of parting from the little Joualhan,
Godwin took him off her hands and sent him to Kil-
kenny School at the age of six, and from that early
period the child had to grow up as virtually an orplian.
His mother through several years to come can have been
little more than a name to him. Kilkenny School, called
the " Eton of Ireland," enjoyed a high reputation. Two
of Swift's most famous contemporaries were educated
there. Congrevc, two years his junior, was one of his
schoolfellows, and a warm friendship remained when both
had become famous. Fourteen years after Swift had left
the school it was entered by (icorge Berkeley, destined to
win a fame of the purest and highest kind, and to come
into a strange relationship to Swift. It would be vain to
ask what credit may be claimed by Kilkenny School for
thus " producing " (it is the word used on such occasions)
the greatest satirist, the most brilliant writer of comedies,
and the subtlest metai)hysician in the English language.
Our knowledge of Swift's experiences at this period is
almost confined to a single anecdote. " I remember," he
says incidentally in a letter to Lord Bolingbrokc, " when I
was a little boy, I felt a great fish at the end of my line,
which I drew up almost on the ground; but it droi)ped in,
and the disappointment vexes me to this very day, and I
believe it was the type of all my future disappointments." '
' lloiiilers may remember a clever adaptation of this incident in
Lord Ljtton's My Novd.

EARLY YEARS.

Swift, indeed, was still in the schoolboy stage, according
to modern ideas, when he was entered at Trinity College,
Dublin, on t' '; same day, April 24, 1G82, with a cousin,
Thomas (•^v- ; Swift clearly found Dublin uncongenial;
thouo-h thriv. is still a wide margin for uncertainty as to
precise facts. His own account gives a short summary
of his academic history:

" I3y the ill-treatment of his nearest relations " (he says)
" he was so discouraged and sunk in his spirits that lie
too much neglected his academic studies, for some parts
of winch lie had no great relish by nature, and turned him-
self to reading history and poetry, so that when the time
came for taking his degree of Bachelor of Arts, although
he had lived with sreat resjularitv and due observance of
the statutes, he was stopped of his degree for dulness and
insufficiency ; and at last hardly admitted in a manner little
to his credit, which is called in that college speciali (jratiay
In a report of one of the college examinatiouo, discovered
by Mr. Forster, he receives a bene for his Greek and Latin,
a male for his " philosophy," and a ncgligcnter for his the-
ology. The " philosophy " was still based upon the old
scholasticism, and proficiency was tested by skill in the arts
of syllogistic argumentation. Slieridan, son of Swift's in-
timate friend, was a student at Dublin s^iortly before the
Dean's loss of intellectual power ; the old gentleman would
naturally talk to the lad about his university recollections;
and, according to his hearer, remembered with singular ac-
curacy the questions upon which he had disputed, and re-
peated the arguments which had been used, " in syllogistic
form." Swift at the same time declared, if the report be
accurate, that he never had the patience to read the pages
of Smiglecius, Burgersdicius, and the other old-fashioned
logical treatises. When told that they taught the art of

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[chap.

reasoning, he declared that he could reason very well
without it. He acted upon this principle in his exer-
cises, and left the Proctor to reduce his arguiucnt to the
proper form. In this there is probably a substratum of
truth. Swift can hardly be credited, as Berkeley might
have been, with a precocious perception of the weakness
of the accepted system. When young gentlemen are
plucked for their degree, it is not generally because they
ar(^, in advance of their age. But the aversion to meta-
ph}sics was characteristic of Swift through life. Like
many other people who have no turn for buch specula-
tions, he felt for them a contempt which may perhaps
be not the less justitied because it does not arise from
familiarity. The bent of his mind was already sufficiently
marked to make him revolt against the kind of mental
food which was most in favour at Dublin ; though he
scorns to have obtained a fair knowledge of the classics.

Swift cherished through life a resentment against most
of his relations, llis uncle Godwin had undertaken his
education, and had sent him, as we see, to the best places
of education in Ireland. If the supplies became scanty, it
must be admitted that poor Godwin had a sufficient ex-
cuse. Each of his four wives had brought him a family
— the last leavino- him seven sons: his fortunes had been
dissipated, chicily, it seems, by means of a speculation in
iron-works; and the poor man himself seems to have been
failing, for he "fell into a lethargy" in 1688, surviving
some live years, like his famous nephew, in a state of iin-
becility. Decay of nand and fortune coinciding with the
demands of a rising family might certainly be some apolo-
gy for the neglect of one amongst many nephews. Swift
did not consider it sufficient. " Was it not your uncle
Godwin," he was asked, " who educated you T' " Yes,"

EARLY YEARS.

said Swift, after a pause ; " lie p;ave mc the education of a
dog." " Then," answered the intrepid inquirer, " you have
not the gratitude of a dog." And perhaps that is our nat-
ural impression. Yet wc do not know enough of the facts
to judge with confidence. Swift, whatever his faults, was
always a warm and faithful friend ; and perhaps it is the
most probable conjecture that Godwin Swift bestowed his
charity coldly and in such a way as to hurt the pride of
the recipient. In any case, it appears that Swift showed
his resentment in a manner more natural than reasonable.
The child is tempted to revenge himself by knocking his
head agriinst the rock which has broken his shins ; and
with equal wisdom the youth who fancies that the world
is not his friend tries to get satisfaction by defying its
laws. Till the time of his degree (February, 1680), Swift
had been at least regular in his conduct, and if the neglect
of his relations had discouraged his industry, it had not
provoked him to rebellion. During the three years which
followed he became more reckless, lie was still a mere
lad, just eighteen at the time of his degree, when he fell
into more or less irregular courses. In rather less than
two years he was under censure for seventy weeks. The
offences consisted chicHy in neglect to attend chapel and
in '' town-haunting," or absence from the nightly roll-call.
Such offences pcrhafis appear to be more flagrant than
they really are in the eyes of college authorities. Twice
he got into more serious scrapes. lie was censured (March
16, 1687), along with his cousin, Thomas Swift, and several
others, for " notorious neglect of duties and frequenting
*the town.'" And on his tventy-first birthday (Nov. 30,
1688) he' was punished, along with several others, for ex-

■ Possibly tliis was his cousin Thomas, but the probabilities ara
clearly in favour of Jonathan.
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citing domestic dissensions, despising the warnings of the
junior Dean, and insulting that official by contemptuous
words. The offondcis were suspended from tlieir degrees,
and inasmuch as Swift and another were the worst offend-
ers {odhuc intolcrabilius se f/esscrant), they were sentenced
to ask pardon of the Dean upon their knees publicly in
the hall. Twenty years later' Swift revenged himself
upon Owen Lloyd, the junior Dean, by accusing him of
infamous servility. For the present Swift was probably
reckoned amongst the black sheep of the academic Hock.*
This censure came at the end of Swift's university ca-
reer. The three last years liad doubtless been years of
discouragement and recklessness. That they were also
years of vice in the usual sense of tlie word is not proved ;
nor, from all that we know of Swift's later liistory, does
it seem to be probable. There is no trace of anything
like licentious behaviour in his wliole career. It is easier
to believe witli Scott that Swift's conduct at this period
might be fairly described in the words of Johnson when
speaking of his own university experience : " Ah, sir, I
was mad and violent. It was bitterness that they mistook
for frolic. I was miserably poor, and I thought to fight
my way by my literature and my wit; so I disregarded
all power and all authority." Swift learnt another and a
more profitable lesson in these years. It is indicated in
an anecdote which rests upon tolerable authority. One

' In the Sho7't Character of T7io>nm, Earl of Wharton.

' It will be seen that I accept Dr. Barrett's statements, Earlier
Part cf tht Life of Swift, pp. 13, 14. His arguments seem to mc
sufficiently clear and conclusive, and tliey are accepted by Monck
Mason, though treated contemptuously by Mr. Forster, p. 34. On
the other hand, I agree with Mr. Forster that Swift's complicity in
the Ten-w Filius oration is not proved, though it is not altogether
improbable.

[CUAP.

EARLY YEARS.

dav, as ho was gazino; in inelanclioly mood from liis win-
dow, his pockets at their lowest ebb, ho saw a sailor star-
ing about in the college courts. How hai)py should I bo,
he thought, if that man was inquiring for ino with a pres-
ent from my cousin Willoughby ! The dream came true.
The sailor came to his rooms and produced a leatlicr bag,
sent by ids cousin from Lisbon, with more money than
poor Jonathan had ever possessed in his life. The sailor
refused to take a part of it for his trouble, and Jonathan
hastily crammed the money into his pocket, lest the man
should repent of his generosity. From that time forward,
lie added, he became a better economist

The Willoughby Swift here mentioned was the eldest
son of Godwin, and now settled in tlie English factory at
Lisbon. iSwift speaks warmly of his " goodness and gen-
erosity " in a letter written to another cousin in 1094.
Some help, too, was given by his uncle Williau), who was
settled at Dublin, and whom he calls the "best of his re-
hitions." In one way or another lie was able to keep liis
head above water; and ho was receiving an impression
which grew with his growth. The misery of dependence
was burnt into his soul. To secure independence became
his most cherished wish; and the first condition of inde-
pendence was a rigid practice of economy. We shall see
hereafter how deeply this principle became rooted in Lis
mind ; here I need only notice that it is the lesson which
poverty teaches to none but men of strong character.

A catastrophe meanwhile was approaching, which in-
volved the fortunes of Swift along with those of nations.
James IL had been on the throne for a year when Swift
took his degree. At the time when Swift was ordered to
kneel to the junior Dean, William was in f^ngland, and
James preparing to tly from Whitehall. The revolution

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of 1688 meant a breaking up of tlic very fonndatlons of
political and social older in Ireland. At the end of 1688
a stream of fiigitives was pouring into England, whilst
the English in Ireland were gathering into strong {)laccs,
ahand(Miing their property to the bands of insurgent
jieasants.

Swift fled with liis fellows. Any prospects which lie
may have had in Ireland were ruined with the ruin of his
race. The loyalty of liis grandfather to a king who pro-
tected the national Church was no precedent for loyalty
to a king who was its deadliest enemy. Swift, a Church-
man to the backbone, never shared tbo leaninir of manv
Anglicans to the exiled Stuarts ; and his early experience
was a pretty strong dissuasive from Jacobitism. lie took
refuge with his mother at Leicester. Of that mother we
hear less than we eouid wish ; for all that wo hear suggests
a brisk, wholesome, motherly body. She lived cheerfully
and frugally on her pittance; rose early, worked with her
needle, read her book, and deemed herself to be " i-ich and
happy "—on twenty pounds a year. A touch of her son's
humour appears in the only anecdote about her. She
came, it seems, to visit licr son in Ireland shortly after he
had taken possession of Laracor, and amused herself by
persuading the woman with whom she lodged that Jona-
than was not lier son but her lover. Her son, though
separated from her through the years in which filial affec-
tion IS generally nourished, loved her with the wholo
strength of his nature; ho wrote to her frequently, took
pains to pay her visits " rarely less than once a year ;"
and was deeply affected by her death in 1710. "I have
now lost," he wrote in his pocket-book, " the last barrier
between mo and death. God grant I may be as well pre-
pared for it as I confidently believe her to have been ! If

[chap.

!•]

EARLY YEARS.

the way to Heaven be through piety, truth, justice, and
charity, she is there."

The good lady had, it woukl seem, some little anxieties
of the ooinnion kind about her son. She thought him rij
danger of falling in love with a certain IJetty Jones, who,
liowever, escaped the perils of being wifo to a man of
genius, and married an innkeeper. Some forty years
later, Cetty Jones, now Perkins, appealed to Swift to help
her in some family difficulties, and Swift was ready to
"sacrifice five pounds" for old acquaintance' sake. Other
vague reports of Swift's attentions to women seem to have
been Hying about in Leicester. Swift, in noticing them,
tells his correspondent that he values " his own entertain-
ment beyond the obloquy of a parcel of wretched fools,"
which he i' solemidy pronounces " to be a fit description of
the inhabitants of Leicester. He had, he admits, amused
himself with flirtation ; but he has learnt enough, " with-
out going lialf a mile beyond the University," to refrain
from thoughts of matrimony. A "cold temper" and the
absence of any settled outlook are sufficient dissuasivcs.
Another phrase in the same letter is characteristic : " A
person of great honour in Ireland (who was pleased to
stoop so low as to look into my mind) used to tell me that
my mind was like a conjured spirit, that would do mis-
chief if I did not give it employment." lie allowed him-
self these little liberties, he seems to infer, by way of dis-
traction for his restless nature. But some more serious
work was necessary, if he was to win the independence so
earnestly desired, and to cease to be a burden upon his
mother. Where was he to look for help ?

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MOOR PAUK AND KILROOT.

ITow was this "conjured spirit" to fiiul occupation?
The proverbial occupation of sucli beiuu'.s is to cultivate
despair by weaving ropes of saud. Swift felt himself
strong ; but he liad no task worthy of his strength : nor
did he yet know precisely where it lay: he even fancied
that it might bo. in the direction of Pindaric Odes.
Hitherto liis energy liad expended itself in the question-
able shape of revolt against constituted authority. But the
revolt, whatever its precise nature, had issued in the rooted
determination to achieve a genuine independence. The
political storm which had for the time crushed the whole
social order of Ireland into mere chaotic anarchy had left
bim an nprooted waif and stray — a loose fragment without
any points of attachment, except the little household in
Leicester. Ilis mother might give him temporary shelter,
but no permanent home. If, as is probable, he already
looked forward to a clerical career, the Church to which
he belonged was, for the time, hopelessly ruined, and in
danger of being a persecuted sect.

In this crisis a refuge was offered to him. Sir William
Temple was connected, in more ways than one, with the
Swifts. He was the son of Sir John Temple, Master of
the Rolls in Ireland, who had been a friend of Godwin
Swift. Temple himself had lived in Ireland in early days,

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MOOR PARK AND KILROOT.

ami had known the Swift family. His wife was in some
way rehitod to Swift's niotlic-r; ami he was now in a pe-
s', ion to hdp tho youiiu; man. Temple is a remarkable
figure amono'st the statesmen of that generation. There
is sometiiimi^' more modern abont him than belongs to his
century. A man of cultivated taste and cosmopolitan train-
ing, he had the contempt of enlightened persons for the fa-
naticisms of his times. He was not the man to suffer per-
secution, with IJa.xter, for a creed, or even to lose his head,
with Russell, for a party. Yet, if he had not the faith
which animates enthusiasts, he sincerely held political the-
ories — a fact sufHeient to raise him above the thoroui-h-
going cynics of the court of the Restoration. His sense of
honour, or the want of robustness in mind and tempera-
ment, kept him aloof from the desperate game in which
the politicians of the day staked their lives, and threw away
their consciences as an incumbrance. Good fortune threw
him into the comparatively safe line of diplomacy, for
which his natural abilities fitted him. Good fortune, aided
by discernment, enabled him to identify himself with the
most respectable achievements of our foreign policy. He
had become famous as the chief author of the Triple Alli-
ance, and the promoter of the marriage of William and
Mary. He had ventured far enough Lnto the more troub-
lous element of domestic politics to invent a highly ap-
plauded constitutional device for smoothing the relations
between the crown and Parliament. Like other such de-
vices it went to pieces at the first contact ^vith realities.
Temple retired to cultivate his garden and write elegant
memoirs and essays, and refused all entreaties to join again
in the rough struggles of the day. Associates, made of
sterner stuff, probably despised him ; but from their own,
that is, the selfish point of view, he was perhaps entitled to

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SWIFT.

[c'lUP.

Imiijli last. JIo oscapctl at least witli unMomishcil lionoiir,
and enjoyed the cultivated retiroiiieiit which statestncn so
often fjfofo^is to desire, and so seldom achieve. In i)rivatc
lie had man)' estimable (jualities. He was frank and sen-
sitive ; he had won diplomatic triumphs by disrcuardini,'
the pedantry of otlicial iiilcs; and he had an C(jual, tlioiij^'h
not ;m equally intelli,u;ent, contempt for the pedantry of
the schools. His style, tliough often slipshod, often an-
ticipates the puw -'ul simple Eng-lish of the Ad<lison pe-
riod, and delii-'htcd Charles Lamb by its delicate flavour of
aristocratic assumption. He had tlie vanity of a "person
of quality "—a lofty, dijLifnifled air, which became his flow-
in;; periwii,^, and showed itself in his distinijuishcd feat-
ures. \)n'u in youth a stronjr vein of romance displayed
itself in his courtship of Lady Temple, and ho seems to
have been correspondingly worshipped by her and liis
sister, Lady Giffard.

Tiic personal friendship of William could not induce
Temple to return to public life. His only son took oflice,
but soon afterwards killed himself from a mei-bid sense of
responsibility. Temple retired finally to Moor Park, near
B'arnham, in Surrey; and about the sanio time received
Swift into his family. Long afterwards John Temple, Sir
William's nephew, who had quarrelled with Swift, gave an
obviously spiteful account of the terms of this engagement.
Swift, he said, was hired by Sir AN'illiam to read to him
and bo his amanuensis, at the rate of 20^. a year and his
board; but "Sir William never favoured him with his
conversation, nor allowed him to sit down at table with
him." The authority is bad, and we must be guided by
rather precarious inferences in picturing this important
period of Swift's career. The raw Irish student was
probably awkward, and may have V o'\ .)i&ajri.eeab!o in

u.]

MOOR PARK AND KILROOT.

some matters. Forty years later \vc find, fr<.in his cor-
resi)on(loncc with Gm ami the Duchess .!' (Jicensbcrry,
tliat his views as to th (listribiition of fi ,.>'.;on8 between
knives and forks were lamentably unsi'ttled; and it is
probable that ho may in his youth have been still more
heretical as to social 'onventiun There were more serious
difficulties. The ditloronco which separated Swift from
Temple is not easily measurable. How can wc ex/Jfjijerate
the distance at which a lad, fresh from college and a re-
nicte provincial society, would look up to the distinguished
diplomatist of sixty, who had been intimate with the two
last kings, and was still the confidential friend of the n ign-
ing king, who had been an actor in the greatest scenes,
not only of English but of European history; who had
been treated with respect by the ministers of Louis XIV.,
and in whose honour bells had been rung and banquets
set forth as he passed through the great Continental '-ities?
'Temple might have spoken to him, without shocking
proprieties, in terms which, if I may quote the [)rov. rbial
phrase, would be offensive "from God Almighty to a
black beetle."

" Sliall I believe a spirit so divine
Was cast in the same mould with mine ?"

is Swift's phrase about Temple, in one of his first crude
poems. Wc must not infer that circumstances which
would now be offensive to an educated man— the seat at
the second table, the predestined congeniality to the ladies'-
maid of doubtful reputation— would have been equally
offensive then. So long as dependence upon patrons was
a regular incident of the career of a poor scholar, the cor-
responding regulations would be taken as a matter of
course. Swift was not necessarily more degraded by be-

/■

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SWIFT.

[CIIAP.

ing a dependent of Temple's than Locke by a similar po-
sition in Shaftesbury's family. But it is true that such a
position must always be trying, as many a governess has
folt in more modern days. The position of the educated
dependent must always have had its specific annovances.
At this period, when the relation of patron and client was
being rapidly modified or destroyed, the compact would
be more than usually trying to the power of forbearance
and mutual kindliness of the parties concerned. The rela-
tion between Sir Koger do Coverley and the old college
friend who becatne his cliaplain meant good feeling on
both sides. When poor Parson Supple became chaplain
to Squire Western, and was liable to be sent back from
London to Basingstoke in searcli of a forgotten tobacco-
box, Supple must have parted with all self-respect. Swift
has incidentally given his own view of the case in his
Esscnj on the Fates of Clergymen. It is an application of
one of his favourite doctrines— the advantage possessed by
mediocrity over genius in a world so largely composed o'f
fools. Eugenio, who represents Jonathan Swift, fails in
life because as a wit and a poet he has not the art of win-
ning patronage. Corusodes, in whom wc have a partial
likeness to Tom Swift, Jonathan's college contemporary,
aiui afterwards the chaplain of Temple, succeeds by servile
respectability. He never neglected chapel or lectures: he
never looked into a poem : never made a jest himself, or
laughed at the jests of others ; but he managed to insinuate
himself Mito the favour of the noble family where his sis-
ter was a waiting-woman ; sliook hands with the butler,
taught the page his catechism; was sometimes admit-
ted to dine at the steward's table ; was admitted to read
prayers, at ten shillings a month ; and, by winking at his
patron's attentions to Iiis sister, gradually crept into better

[chap.

1I.J

MOOR PARK AND KILROOT.

appointments, married a citizen's widow, and is now fast
mounting towards the top of the ladder ecclesiastical.

Temple was not the man to demand or reward services
so base as those attributed to Corusodes. Nor docs it
seem that he would be wanting in the self-respect which
prescribes due courtesy to inferiors, though it admits of a
strict regard for the ceremonial outworks of social dignity.
He would probably neither pernnt others to take liberties
nor take them himself. If Swift's self-esteem suffered, it
would not be that he objected to offering up the con-
ventional incense, but that he might possibly think that,
after all, the idol was made of rather inferior clay. Tem-
ple, whatever his solid merits, was one of the showiest
statesmen of the time ; but there was no man living with,
a keener eye for realities and a more piercing Insight inco
shams of all kinds than this raw secretary from Ireland.
In later life Swift frequently expressed his scorn for the
mysteries and the "refinements" (to use his favourite
phrase) by which the great men of the world conceal the
low passions and small wisdom actually exerted in affairs
of state. At times he felt that Temple was not merelv
claiming the outward show of respect, but setting too high
a value upon his real merits. So when Swift was at the.
full flood of fortune, when prime ministers and secretaries
of state were calling him Jonathan, or listening submis-
sively to his lectures on " whipping-day," he reverts to his
early experience. "I often think," he says, when speak-
ing of his own familiarity with St. John, "what a splutter
Sir William Temple makes about being Secretary of State."
And this is a less respectful version of a sentiment ex-
pressed a year before : " I am thinking what a veneration
we had for Sir W. Temple because he might have been Sec-
retary of State at fifty, and here is a young fellow hardly

I III I

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SWIFT.

[chap.

thirty in tliat employment." In the interval there is an-
other cliaracteristic outburst : " I asked Mr. Secretary (St.
John) what the devil ailed him on Sunday," and warned
him " that I would never be treated like a schoolboy ; that
I iiad felt too much of that in my life already (meanino- Sir
W. Temple); that I expected every great minister who
honoured me with his acquaintance, if he lieard and saw
anything to my disadvantage, would let me know in plain
words, and not put me in pain to guess by the change or
coldness of his countenance and behaviour." The day af-
ter this effusion he maintains that he was right in what
he said : " Uon't you remember how I used to be in pain
when Sir ^\". Temple would look cold and out of humour
for three or four days, and I used to suspect a hundred
reasons? I have plucked up my spirits since then ; faith,
he spoUed a fine gentleman." And yet, if Swift some-
times thought Temple's authority oppressive, he was I'cady
to admit liis substantial merits. Temple, he says, in li[s
rough marginalia to Burnet's History, " was a mail of
sense and virtue;" and the impromptu utterance probably
reflects his real feeling.

The year after liis first arrival at Temple's, Swift went
back to Ireland by advice of physicians, who " weakly im-
agined that his native air might be of some use to recover
his health." It was at this period, we may note in passing,
that Swift began to suffer from a disease which tormente'd
him through life. Temple sent with him a letter of intro-
duction to Sir Robert Southwell, Secretary of State in
Ireland, wliich gives an interesting account of their pre-
vious relations. Swift, said Temple, had lived in his
house, read for him, written for him, and kept his small
accounts. He knew Latin and Greek, and a little P>ench ;
wrote a good hand, and was honest and dilio-ont. His

ft-

MV,

[chap.

11.]

MOOR PARK AND KILROOT.

whole family had iong been known to Toni[>Ie, wlio would
be glad if Southwell would give hiai a clerkshi]i, or get
him a fellowship in Trinity College. The statement of
Swift's qualifications has now a rather comic sound. An
applicant for a desk in a merchant's office once com-
mended himself, it is said, by the statement that his style
of writing combined scathing sarcasm with the wildest
flights of humour. Swift might have had a better claim
to a place for which such qualities were a recommendation ;
but there is no reason, beyond the supposed agreement of
fools to regard genius as a disadvantage in practical life,
to suppose that Swift was deficient in humbler attainments.
Before long, liowever, he was back at Moor Park ; and a
period followed in wliich his discontent witii the position
probably reached its height. Temple, indeed, must have
discovered that his young dependent was really a man of
capacity. lie recommended him to William. In 1G92
Swift went to Oxford, to be admitted ad cundcm, and
received the M.A, degree; and Swift, writing to thank
his uncle for obtaining the necessary testimonials from
Dublin, adds that he has been most civilly received at
Oxford, on the strength, presumably, of Temple's recom-
mendation, and that he is not to take orders till the King
gives him a prebend. He suspects Temple, however, of
being rather backward in the matter, " because (I sup-
pose) he believes I shall leave him, and (upon some ac-
counts) he thinks me a little necessary to him.'' Wil-
liam, it is said, was so far gracious as to offer to make
Swift a captain of horse, and instruct him in the Dutch
mode of eating asparagus. By this lust phrase hangs an
anecdote of later days. Faulkner, the Dublin printer, was
dining with Swift, and on asking for a second supply of

asparagus was told by the Dean to finish what he had on
11

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SWIFT,

[chap.

His plate. " What, sir, cat my stalks ?" " A v, sir ; Kincr
AVilliani always ate his stalks." *' And were you,"' asked
FiUiJkuoi-'s hearer, Avhen he related the storv, " were you
blockhead enough to obey him ?" "Yes," replied Faulk-
ner, " and if you had dined \vith Dean Swift ielc-h-tett
you would have been obliged to eat your stalks too!"
For the present Swift was the recipient not the imposer
of stalks; and was to receive the first shock, as he tells
us, that helped to cure him of his vanity. The question of
the Triennial Bill was agitating political personages in the
early months of 1693. William and his favourite minis-
ter,the Earl of Portland, found their Dutch experience in-
sufficient to guide them in the mysteries of English con-
stitutionalism. Portland came down to consult Temple
at Moor Park; and Swift was sent back to explain to the
great men that Charles I. had been ruined, not by consent-
ing to short Parliameats, but by abandoning the ri-'ht to
dissolve Parliament. Swift says that he Avas " well versed
in English history, though he was under twenty-one years
old." (lie was really twenty-five, but memory naturally
exaggerated his youthfulness.) His arguments, however
backed by history, failed to carry conviction, and Swift
had to unlearn some of the youthful confidence which
assumes that reason is the governing force in this world,
and that reason means our own opinions. That so youno'
a man should have been employed on such an errand
shows that Temple must have had a good opinion of his
capacities; but his want of success, however natural, was
felt as a grave discouragement.

That his discontent was growing is clear from other
indications. Swift's early poems, whatever their defects
have one merit common to all his writings— the merit of
a thorough, sometimes an appalling, sincerity. Two poems

[chap.

11.]

MOOR PARK AND KILROOT.

wliich begin to display his real viirour are dated at the end
of 1C93. One is an epistle to his schoolfellow, Congrcvc,
expatiatino-, as some consolation for tlie cold reception of
the Double Dealer, upon the contemptible nature of town
critics. Swift dc-cribcs, as a type ot the whole race, a
Farnhani lad who had left school a year before, and had
just returned a "finished spark" from Londun—

"StockM witli tlie latest gibberish of the town."

This wretched little fop came in an evil hour to provoke
Swift's hate :

" My hate, whose lash just Heaven has long decreed
Slifll on a day make sin and folly bleed."

And he already applies it with vigour enougli to sliow
that with some of the satirist's power he has also the
indispensable condition of a considerable accumulation
of indignant wrath against the self-appointed arbiters of
taste. The other poem is more remarkable in its personal
revelation. It begins as a congratulation to Temple on
his recovery from an illness. It passes into a description
of his own fate, marked by singular bitterness. He ad-
dresses his muse as

" Malignant goddess ! bane to my repose,
Thou universal cause of all my woes."

She is, it seems, a mere delusive meteor, with no real being
of her own. But, if real, why does she persecute him I

" Wert thou riglit woman, tliou should'st scorn to look
On an abandou'd wreteli by liopos forsook :
Forsook Iiy hopes, ill fortune's last relief,
Asaign'd for life to unremitting giief ;
For let Heaven's wrath enlarge these weary days
If hope e'er dawns the smallest of its rays."

■

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22 SWIFT. [CUP.

And he goes on to declare, after some vigorous lines :

" To tlieu I owe that fatiil bout of iniiul,
Still to unhappy, restless thoughts inclined :
To tliec what oft I vainly strive to hide,
Tliat scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride;
From thee, whatever virtue takes its rise,
Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice."

The sudden gush as of bitter waters into the dulcet,
insipid current of conventional congratulation gives addi-
tional point to the sentiment. Swift expands the last
couplet into a sentiment which remained with him through
life. It is a blending of pride and remorse; a regretful
admission of the loftiness of spirit which has caused his
misfortunes; and we arc puzzled to say whether the pride
or the remorse be the most genuine. For Swift always
unites pride and remorse in his consciousness of his own
virtues.

The "restlessness" avowed in these verses took the
practical form of a rupture witli Temple. In his anto-
biographical fragment he says that he had a scruple of
entering into the Church merely for support, and Sir AVil-
liam, then being Master of the Rolls in Ireland,' offered
him an employ of about 120/. a year In that office ; whore-
ui)on Mr. Swift told liim that since he had now an oppor-
tunity of living wltliout being driven into the Church for
a maintenance, he was resolved to go to Ireland and take
holy orders. If the scruple seems rather finely spun for
Swift, the sense of the dignity of his profession is thor-
oughly characteristic. Nothing, however, is more decep-
tive than our memory of the motives which directed dis-
tant actions. In his contemporary letters there is no hint
of any scruple against preferment in the Church, but a do-
' Temple liad the reversion of his father's office.

I '

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[CUAP.

ri.J

MOOR PARK AND KILROOT.

M., ?

elded objection to itisiiflicient prefennent. It is possible
tliat Swift was confusill^^ dates, and tliat the scniplo was
quieted when he failed to take advantage of Temple's in-
terest with Southwell. Having declined, ho felt that he
had made a free cliolce of a clerical career. In 1G92, as
wc have seen, he expected a prebend from Temple's inllu-
cncc with William. But his doubts of Temple's desire or
power to serve Iiim were confirmed. In Jnne, 1G9-1, he
tells a cousin at Lisbon : " I have left Sir W. Temple a
month ago, just as I foretold it you ; and everything hap-
pened exactly as I guessed. He was extremely angry I
left him ; and yet would not oblige himself any further
tlian upon my good beliaviour, nor would promise any-
thing firmly to me at all ; so that everybody judged I did
best to leave him." lie is starting in four days for Dub-
lin, and intends to be ordained in September. The next
letter preserved completes the story, and implies a painful
change in this cavalier tone of injured pride. Upon going
to Dublin, Swift had found that some recommendation
from Temple would bo required by the authorities, lie
tried to evade the requirement, but was forced at last to
write a letter to Temple, which nothing but necessity
could have extorted. After explaining the case, he adds :
" The particulars expected of me are wliat relates to morals
and learning, and the reasons of quitting your honour's
family; that is, whether the last was occasioned by any ill
actions. They are all left entirely to your lionour's mercy,
though in the past I think I cannot reproach myself any
farther than for iiijinnilics. This," he adds, " is all I dare
beg at present from your honour, under circumstances of
life not worth your regard ;" and all that is left him to
wish (" next to the health and prosperity of your honour's
family") is tliat Ilcaven will shov/ him some day the on-
C 2* ^ I

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[CIIAP.

liortunity of making Lis acknowledgments at "yoiu' hon-
our's" feet. This seems to be the only occasion on which
we find Swift confessing to any fault except that of being
too virtuous.

The apparent donbt of Temple's magnanimity implied
in the letter was, happily, not verified. The testimonial
seems to have been sent at once. Swift, in any case, was
ordained deacon on the 28th of October, 1G94, and priest
on the loth of January, 1095. Probably Swift felt that
Temple had behaved with magnanimity, and in any case it
was not very long before he returned to ?,Ioor Park. ]Ie
had received from Lord Capcl, then Lord Deputy, the small
prebend of Kilroot, worth a^'out 100/. a year. Little is
knowfi of his life as a remote count. y clergyman, except
that he very soon became tired of it.' Swift soon
resigned his prebend (in March, 1098), and managed to
obtain the succession for a friend in the neio-hbourhood.
But before this (in May, 1090) he had returned to Moor
Park. lie had grown weary of a life in a remote district,
and Temple liad raised his offers. He was glad to be
once more on the edge at least of the great world in which
alone could be found employment worthy of his talents.
One other incident, indeed, of which a fuller account would
be interesting, is connected with this departure. On the
eve of his departure ho wrote a passionate letter to
" Varina," in plain English Miss Waring, sister of an old
college chum. He " solemnly offers to forego all " (all
his English prospects, that is) " for her sake." He does
not want her fortune; she shall live where she pleases,

' It may bo noticed, in illustration of the growth of the Swift
legend, that two demonstrably false anecdotes — one imputing a
monstrous crime, the other a romantic piece of benevolence to Swift
—refer to this period.

,1.]

MOOR PARK AND KILROOT.

till lie has " piisliccl liis advancctncnt " and is in a position
to marry her. The letter is full of true lovers' protesta-
tions; roproaelies for her coldness; hints at possible causes
of jealousies; declarations of the wortlilessness of ambition
as compared with love ; and denunciations of her respect
for the little disguises and affected contradictions of her
sex, inlinitcly beneath persons of her pride and his own ;
paltry maxims calculated only for the " rabble of human-
ity." " ]>y heaven, Varina," ho exclaims, " you arc more
experienced and liave less virgin innocence than I." The
answer must have been unsatisfactory; though, from ex-
pressions in a letter to his successor to the prebend, we
see that the atfair was still going on in 1099. It will
come to light once more.

Swift was thus at Moor Park in tiic summer of 1096.
He remained till Temple's death in January, 1099. We
hear no more of any friction between Swift and his
patron ; and it seems that the last years of their connex-
ion passed in harmony. Temple was growing old; his
wife, after forty years of a happy marriage, had died dur-
ing Swift's absence in the beginning of 1095; and Tem-
ple, though he occms to liave been vigorous, and in spite
of gout a brisk walker, was approaching the grave. lie
occupied himself in preparing, with Swift's help, memoirs
and letters, which were left to Swift for posthumous
publication. Swift's various irritations at Moor Park
have naturally left a stronger impression upon his history
than the quieter hours in which worry and anxiety might
be forgotten in the placid occupations of a country life.
That Swift enjoyed many such Iiou is tolerably clear.
Moor Park is described by a Swiss traveller who visited
it about 1091' as the "model of an agreeable retreat."
' M. Maralt. See appendix to Courtenay's Life of Tanple.

11 ^

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['lUP.

Toinplo's household was free from the coarse convivialities
of the boozini-- fox-huiitiiii,' sijuires ; whilst the recjlleotion
of its modest neatness made the " niao'iiiticent palace" of
I'etworth seem pompous and overpowenii<r. Swift him-
self K-membered the Moor I'ark o-,.,rd,.|is, tI?o special pride
of Templ(;'s retirement, with affection, and tried to imitate
them on a sn.all scale in his own i^^arden at Lararor. .Moor
Tark is on the cdy-e of the great heaths which tietoh
southward to llindhead, and northward to Aldershot and
Chobham llidyes. Thono'h we can scarcely credit him
with a modern taste in scenery, he at least anticipated the
modern faith in athletic exercises. Aecordinir to J >eane
Swift, he used to run up a hill near Temi)le's and back
again to his study every two liours, doing the ilistance
of half a mile in six minutes. In later life he preached
the duty of walking with admirable perseverance to his
friends. He joined other exercises occasionallv. "My
Lord,'' he says to Archbishop King in 1721, " I row after
health like a waterman, and ride after it like a postboy,
and with some little success." But hr had the character-
istic passion of the good and wise for walking. He men-
tions incidentally a walk from Farnham to London, thirty-
eight miles; and has some association with the Golden
Farmer'— a point on the road 'r-m which there is still
one of the loveliest views in the southern counties, across
undulating breadths of heath and meadow, woodland and
down, to Windsor Forest, St. George's Hill, and the chalk
range from Guildford to Epsom. Perhaps he might have
been a mountaineer in more civilized times; his poem on
the Carberry rocks seems to indicate a lover of such
scenery ; and he ventured so near the edge of the cliff upon

' Tl.c public-house at tlio point thus iiamcl on the Ordnance map
IS now (I ivgrct to say) culled the Jolly Farmer.

[< Il.VI'.

u.]

MOOR TARK AND KILROOT.

!S7

his stoinacli, that his servants had to drag him l, \ his

heels. Wo find him proposing to walk to Chester at the
rate, I regret to r,ay, of only ten miles a day. In such
rambles, wc arc told, he used to put up at wayside; inns,
where "lodgings for a penny" were advertised; briliiug
the maid with a tester to give him clean sheets and a bed
to himself. The love of the rough humour of waggoners
and hostlers is supposed to have been his inducement to
this practice, and the refined Orrery associates his coarse-
ness with this lamentable i)racticc ; but .nmidst the roar
of railways we may think more tolerantly of the humoiira
of the road in the good old days, when each village had
iis humours and traditions and quaint legends, and when
homely maxims of unlettered wisdom were to be picked
up at rustic firesides.

Recreations of this kind were a relief to serious study.
In Tem[ile's library Swift found abundant occupation. " I
am often," ho says, in the first period of his residence,
"two or three months without seeing anybody besides
the fau)ilv." In a later fragment, wo find him livinix
alone " in great state," the cook coming for his orders for
dinner, and the revolutions in the kingdom of the rooks
amusing his leisure. The results of his studies will be
considered directly. A list of books read in 1G97 gives
some hint of their general nature. They arc chiefly
classical and historical. lie read Virgil, Homer, Horace,
Lucretius, Cicero's Epistles, Petronius Arbiter, yElian,
Lucius Florus, Herbert's Henry VIII., Sleidan's Com-
mentaries, Council of Trent, Camden's Elizabeth, Jjurnet's
Histonj of the Reformation, Voiturc, Blackmore's Prince.
Arthur, Sir J. Davis's poem of The Soul, and two or three
travels, besides Cyprian and Irenajus, We may note the
absence of any theological reading, except in the form of

rii

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SWIFT.

[ciup,

coclosiastical liistory; nor docs Swift study philosophy of
whidi ho seems to have had a.s.iflicicnt dose in ])ublin
History sooins always to have been his faveuiite studv, and
It would naturally Jiave a lari,^' part in Temple's library.

One matter of no small imi)ortanee to Swift remains
to ho mentioned. Ten)ple's family ineluded other depen-
dents besides Swift. The -little parson cousin," To,n
Swift, whom his ijreat relation always mentions with
contempt, became chaplain to Temple. Jonathan's sister
was for some time at Moor Park. iJut the inmates of tbo
family most interesting to ns were a Jiebecca Din-ley—
who was in some way related to the famiK—and Esther
Johnson. Esther Johnson was the dau-hter of a merchant
of respectable family who died yoiini?. Jler mother was
known to Lady Gitfard, Temple's attached sister; and
after her widowhood went with her two dauohtcrs to live
with the Temples. lAIrs. Johnson lived as servant or com-
panion to Lady Gitfard for many years after Temple's
death ; and little Esther, a remarkably brio^ht and pretty
child, was brou-ht up in the family, and\-eceivcd under
Temple's will a sufficient legacy for her support. It was
of course, guessed by a charitable world that she was a
natural child ^f Sir William's; but there seems to be no
real ground . the hypothesis.' She was born, as Swift
tells us, on March 13, 1081 ; and was, therefore, a little
over eight when Swift first came to Temple, and fifteen
when he returned from Kilroot.' About this age, he tells

_ 'The most direct statement to this effect was ma.Ic in an article
in the acHdcman's Ma<jazim for 1757. It professes to speak with au-
thority, but nicludes such palpable blunders as to carry little wei<^ht
I am not certain whether this means 1C81 or 1681-82 I h^ave
assumed the former date in mentiouing Stella's age; but the other
IS equally possible.

fll

mm-

[riup

II.]

MOOR PARK AM) KILJiOOT.

us, she irot ovor an inf.uitilc delicacy, " grew into perfect
healtli, ; m1 was looked upon as ono of the most beautifnl,
gracefui, and ai^rconl . ^ouni? women in London. Her
hair was blacker than a raven, and every feature of her
face in perfection.*' Ilcr conduct and character were
Cf|iially remarkable, if wo may trust the tutor who taus,dit
her t' write, ffuidcd her education, and came to rej^'ard her
with an affection which was at once the happiness and the
misery of his life.

Temple died January 26, 1099; and "with him," said
Swift at the time, "all that was good and amiable among
men." The feeling was doubtless sincere, though Swift,
■when moved very deeply, used less conventional phrases.
He was thrown once more upon the world. The expectations
of some settlement in life had not been realized. Tenipio
had left him 100/., the advantage of publishing his post-
humous works, which might ultimately bring in 200/.
more, and a promise of preferment from the King. Swift
had lived long enough upon the "chameleon's food."
His energies were still running to waste ; and he suffered
the misery of a weakness due, not to want of power, but
want of opportunity. His sister writes to a cousin that
her brother had lost his best friend, who liad induced
lam to give up his Irish preferment by promising prefer-
ment in England, and had died before the promise had
been fulfilled. Swift was accused of ingratitude by Lord
Palmcrston, Temple's nephew, some thirty-five years later.
In reply, he acknowledged an obligation to Temple for
the recommendation to William and the legacy of his
papers ; but he adds : " I hope you will not charge my
living in his family as an obligation ; for I was educated to
little purpose if I retired to his house for any other motives
than the benefit of his conversation and advice, and the

I'l

^ 1

'Hi

r n

,i'

is ! j'

SWIFT.

[chap.

opportunity of pursuing my studies. For, being born to
no fortune, I was at his deatli as far to seek as ever ; and
perhaps you will allow that I was of sonic use to him."
Swift seems hero to assume that liis motives for living
with Temple are necessarily to be estimated by the results
which he obtained. ]}ut, if he expected more than he
got, he docs not suggest any want of good-will. Temple
had done his best; William's neglect and Temple's death
had made good-will fruitless. The two might cry quits :
and Swift set to work, not exactly with a sense of injurv,
but i)robably with a strong feeling that a large portion
of his life had been wasted. To Swift, indeed, misfort-
une and injury seem equally to have meant resentment,
whether against the fates or some personal object.

One curious document must be noted before consider-
ing the writings which most fully reveal the state of
Swift's mind. In the year 1G99 lie wrote down some
resolutions, headed "When I come to be old." They are
for the most part pithy and sensible, if it can ever be sen-
sible to make resolutions for behaviour in a distant future.
Swift resolves not to marry a young woman, not to keep
young company unless they desire it, not to repeat stories,
Jiot to listen to knavish, tattling servants, not to bo too
free of advice, not to brag of former beauty and favour
with ladies, to desire some good friends to inform liim
when he breaks these resolutions, and to reform accord-
ingly ; and, finally, not to set up for observing all these
rules, for fear he should observe none. These resolutions
are not very original in substance (few resolutions are),
though they suggest some keen observation of his elders;
but one is more remarkable: "Not to be fond of chil-
dren, 0)' let them come near me hurdhjy The words in
"italics are blotted out by a later possessor of the paper,

\k^

u.]

MOOR PARK AND KILROOT.

shocked, doubtless, at the harslincss of tlic scntinient.
" Wc do not fortify ourselves with resolutions against
what wc dislike," says a friendly commentator, "but
against what wc feel in our weakness wc have reason to
believe wc arc really too much inclined to." Yet it is
strange that a man should regard the purest and kindliest
of feelings as a weakness to which he is too much in-
clined. No man had stronger affections than Swift; no
man suffered more agony when tlu^y were wounded ; but
in his agony he would commit what to most men would
seem the treason of cursino* the affections instead of sim-
ply lamenting the injury, or holding the affe'";tion itself
to be its own sutlicient reward. The intense personality
of the man reveals itself alternately as seltishness and as
" altruism." He grappled to his lieart those whom he
really loved " as with hoops of steel ;" so firmly that they
became a part of himself ; and that lie considered himself
at liberty to regard his love of friends as lie might regard
a love of wine, as something to be regretted when it was
too strong for his own happiness. The attraction was in-
tense, but implied the absorption of the weaker nature
into his own. His friendships were rather annexations
than alliances. The strongest instance of this character-
istic was in his relations to the charming girl who must
have been in his mind when he wrote this strange, and
unconsciously prophetic, resolution.

ill

1 1'

h :,\

.1 'v\ .

CHAPTER III.

EARLY AVRITIXGS.

Swift came to Temple's liouse as a raw student. He left
it as tlic author of one of the most remarkable satires ever
written. Ills first efforts hnti been unpromisino- cnouoh.
Certain Pindaric Odes, in which the youthful aspirant
imitated the still popular model of Cowley, are even comi-
cally prosaic. The last of them, dated 1691, is addressed
to a queer iVthenian Society, promoted by a John Dun-
ton, a speculative bookseller, whose Life and Errors is
still worth a glance from the curious. The Athenian So-
ciety was the name of John Dunton himself, and two or
three collaborators who professed in the Athenian Mer-
cury to answer queries rano-ing over the whole field of
human knowledge. Temple was one of their patrons, and
Swift SLiit them a panegyrical ode, the merits of which
are sulliciently summed up by Dryden's pithy criticism:
"Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet." Swift disliked
and abused Dryden ever afterwards, though he may have
had better reasons for his enmity than the child's dislike
to bitter medicine. Later poems, the Epistle to Conrfreve
and that to Temple already quoted, show symptoms of
growing power and a clearer self-recognition. In Swift's
last residence with Temple ho proved unmistakably that
he had learnt the secret often so slowly revealed to great
writers, the secret of his real strength. The Talc of a

CHAP. III.]

EARLY WHITINGS.

I t M:

Tub was wifitten about 169G; part of it appears to liavc
been seen at Kilroot by liis friend, Waring, Varina's
brother; the Battle of the Bonks was written in 1097.
It is a curious proof of Swift' indifference to a literary
reputation that both worlds remained in nianuscrij)t till
1704. The "little parson cousin," Tom Swift, ventured
some kind of claim to a share in the authorship of the
Tale of a Tub. Swift treated this claim with the utmost
conten)pt, but never explicitly claimed for himself the
authorship of what some readers hold to be his most
jiowerful work.

The Buttle of the Books, to wliicli wc may first attend,
sprang out of the famous controversy as to the relative
merits of the ancients and moderns, which began in PVance
with Perrault and Fontenellc ; which had been set ii'oinij
in England by Sir W. Temple's essay upon ancient and
modern learniug (lG92),and which incidentally led to the
warfare between Bentley anel Wotton on one side, and
Boyle and his Oxford allies on the other. A full account
of this celebrated discussion may be found in Professor
Jcbb's Bentley ; and, as Swift only took the part of a
light skirmislier, nothing more need be said of it in tliis
place. One point alone is worth notice. The eagerness
of the discussion is characteristic of a time at which tlie
moderu s])irit was victoriously revolting against the an-
cient canons of taste and philosophy. At iirst sight we
might, therefore, expect the defenders of anti(]uiiy to be
on the side of authority. In fact, however, tin; argument,
as Swift takes it from Temple, is reversed. Temple's the-
ory, so far as he had any consistent tiieory, is indicated in
the statement that the moderns gathered " all their learn-
iug from books in tlie universities." Learning, he sug-
gests, may weaken invention ; and people who trust to the

!- S

s^^'IFT.

[CUAP.

cliarily of otlicrs will always be poor. Swift accepts and
enforces this doctrine. The Battle of the Books is an ex-
pression of tliat contenij)t for })C(liUits which he had learnt
in Dublin, and whicii is expressed in the ode to the AthC'
nian Society. I'liilosophy, he tells ns in that precious pro-
(biction," seems to have borrowed some ungrateful taste of
doubts, im[tertincnce, and niceties from every aye through
wliicli it passed " (this, I may observe, is verse), and is now
a "medley of all ages," " her face patched over with mod-
ern pedantry.'' The moral finds a more poetical embodi-
ment in the famous apologue of tlic Bee and the Spider
in the Battle of the Books. The beo had got itself entan-
gled in the spider's web in the library, whilst the books
were beginning to wrangle. The two have a sliari) dis-
pute, which is summed up by ^Esop as arbitrator. The
spider represents the moderns, who spin iheir scholastic
pedantry out of their own insides; whilst the bee, like
the ancients, goes direct to nature. The moderns produce
nothing but " wrangling and satire, much of a nature with
the spider's [)oison, which, however they pretend to spit
wholly out of themselves, h imj)rovcd by the same arts, by
feeding upon the insects and vermin of the age." We,
the ancients, " profess to nothing of our own beyond our
wings and our voice: that is to say, our flights and our
language. For the vest, wliatever we have got has been
bv inlinite labour and research, and ranging throim'h every
corner of nature; the diflerence is that, instead of dirt
and jioisou, we have rather chosen to fill our hives with
honey and wax, thus furnishing mankind with the two
noblest of things, which arc sweetness and light."

The JIumeric battle which follows is described with in-
finite s[)irit. Pallas is the patron of the ancients, whilst
Momus undertakes the cause of the moderns, and appeals

' \

ni.]

EARLY WRITINGS.

for help to the malignant deity Criticism, who is found in
her den at the top of a snowy mountain, extended upon
the spoils of niimlierless half-devoured volumes. ]>y her,
as she exclaims in the regulation soliloquy, children be-
come wiser than their parents, beaux become politicians,
and schoolboys judges of philosophy. She flies to her
darling Wotton, gathering up her person into an octavo
compass; her body grows white and arid, and splits in
pieces with dryness ; a concoction of gall and soot is
strewn in the shape of letters upon her person ; and so
she joins the moderns, " undistinguishable in shape and
dress from the divine Bentley, Wotton's dearest friend."
It is needless to follow the fortunes of the fight which
follows ; it is enough to observe that Virgil is encoun-
tered by his translator Dryden in a helmet " nine times
too large for the head, which appeared situate far in the
hinder part, even like the lady in the lobster, or like a
mouse under a canopy of state, or like a shrivelled beau
within the penthouse of a modern periwig ; and the voice
was suited to the visage, sounding weak and remote ;" and
that the book is concluded by an episode, in which IJent-
loy and Wotton try a diversion and steal the armour of
Phalaris and .Esop, but are met by Boyle, clad in a suit
of armour given him by all the gods, who transfixes
them on his spear like a brace of woodcocks on an iron
skewer.

The raillery, if taken in its critical aspect, recoils upon
the author. Dryden hardly deserves the scorn of Virgil ;
and Bentley, as we know, made short work of Phalaris
and Boyle. But Swift probably knew and cared little for
the merits of the controversy. lie expresses his contempt
with characteristic vigour and coarseness; and our pleas-
ure in his display of exuberant satirical power is not in-

'!'!

I'ii

: ■';

SWIFT.

[CIIAP.

jiu'cd by Iiis <jl)vions misconception of tlie merits of tlie
case. Tlic initlaii'<>'ing spirit of the writinsj, the fortiliiy
and inu'emiity of the illustrations, do as much as can be
done to g'ive lastiiic; vitality to what is radically (to my
taste at least) a rather dreary form of wit. The Battle
nf the Jiool'fi is the best of the travesties. Nor in the brill-
iant a>>aiilt upon c;reat najnos do wc at present sec any-
thing; more; than tlic buoyant consciousness of power, com-
mon in tli(^ unsparino- judgments of youth, nor cdg'ed as
yet by any real bitterness. Swift has found out that the
world is full of luunbugs; and gc-os forth hewing and
liacking with superabundant energy, not yet aware that
he too may conceivably bo a fallible being, and still less
that the humbugs may some day prove too strong for
him.

The same qualities arc more conspicuous in the far
greater satire, the Tale of a Tub. It is so striking a per-
formance that Johnson, who cherislied one of his stubborn
prejudice-; against Swift, doubted whether Swift could
have written it. "There is in it," he said, "such a vigour
of mind, such a swarm of thoughts, so much of nature,
and art, and life." The doubt is clearly witliout the least
foundation, and the estimate upon which it is based is
generally disputed. The Tale of a Tab has certainly not
achieveil a reputation equal to that of Gtillirer's Travels,
to the merits of wdiicli Johnson was curiously blind. Yet
I think that there is this mucli to be said in favour of
Johnson's tlieory, namely, that Swift's style reaches its
highest ])()int in the earlier work. There is less flagging;
a greater fulness and pressure of energetic thought ; a
power of hitting the nail on tlie head at the iirst blow,
which has declined in the work of his maturer years, when
life was weary and thought intermittent. Swift seemn

III.]

EARLY WRITINGS.

to bavc felt this himself. In the twilight of his intellect
he was seen turninij over the pao'es and murmuring to
himself, "Good God, what a genius I had when I wrote
that book!" In an apology (dated 1700) he makes a
statement which may help to explain this fact. "The
author," he says, "was then (1C90) young, his invention
at the height, and his reading fresh in his head. By the
assistance of sojiie thinking and much conversation, he
had endeavoured to strip himself of as many prejudices
as he could." lie resolved, as he adds, " to proceed in a
manner entirely new ;" and he afterwards claims in the
most positive terms that through the whole book (in-
cluding botli the ^ale and the battle of the books) he has
not borrowed one " single hint from any writer in the
world."' No writer has ever been more thorouo;hlv origi-
nal than Swift, for his writings are simply hitnself.

The Tale of a Tub is another challenge thrown down
to pretentious pedantry. The vigorous, self-confident in-
tellect has found out the emptiness and absurdity of a
number of the solemn formuhe which pass current in the
world, and tears them to pieces with audacious and re-
joicing energy. He makes a mock of the paper chains
with which solemn professors tried to fetter his activity,
and scatters the fragments to the four winds of Heaven.

' Wotton first accused Swift of liorrowiiig t!io idea of the battle
from a French hooI<, by one Coutray, called Jlifitoirc Poltiijue de
la Giiirre nonvcUancnt dklarve oiire Ics Ancieiis cf Moihrnes. Swift
declared (I have no doubt truly) that ho had never seen or lieard of
tliis book. But Coutray, like Swift, uses the scheme of a mock
Homeric l)attle. The book is prose, but begins with a poem. The
resemblance is much closer than Mr. Forster's language would imply ^
but I agree with him that it does not justify Johnson and Scott in
regartling it as more than a natural coincidence. Every detail is
dilferent.

'• t|

I III

';!

! 'If

SWIFT.

[CIIAP.

In one of tlic first sections lie announces the philosophy
afterwards expounded by Ifei'r Teufelsdrockli, according
to wliich "man himself is but a micro-coat;" if one of the
suits of clothes called animals "bo trimmed up with a
gold chain, and a red gown, and a white rod, and a jiert
look, it is called a Lord Mayo'-; if certain ermines and
furs be placed in a certain position, we style them a judge;
and so an apt conjunction of lawn and black satin we
entitle a bishop." Though Swift does not himself de-
velop this philosophical doctrine, its later form reflects
light upon the earlier theory. For, in truth, Swift's
teaching comes to this, that the solemn plausibilities of
the world are but so many "shams" — elaborate masks
used to disguise tlie passions, for the most part base
and earthly, by which mankind is really impelled. The
"digressions" which he introduces with the privilege of
a humorist bear chiefly upon the literary sham. lie falls
foul of the whole population of Grub Street at starting,
and (as I may note in passing) incidentally gives a curious
hint of his authorship, lie describes himself as a worn-
out pamphleteer who h-is worn his quill to the pith in
the service of the state: "Foursc ,re and eleven pamphlets
have I writ under the reigns and for the service of six-
and-thirty patrons." Porson first noticed that the same
numbers are repeated in GuUive/s Travels; Gulliver is
fastened with "fourscore and cloven chains" locked to
Ills left leg " with six-and-thirty padlocks." Swift makes
the usual onslaught of a young author upon the critics,
with more than the usual vigour, and carries on the war
against Bentley and his ally by parodying Wotton's re-
marks upon the ancients. lie has discovered many omis-
sions in llomcr, " who seems to have read but very su-
perficially either Sendivogus* Behmen, or Anthroposojihia

\l^:

lU.l

EAKLY WHITINGS.

Mar/ta.^'^ Ilomcr, too, never mentions a savcall ; and has
a still worse fault — his "gross ignorance in the conitnon
laws of this realm, and in the doctrine as well as discipline
of the Church of England " — defects, indeed, for which he
has been justly censured by Wotton. Perhaps the most
vig-orcu and certainly the most striking of these digres-
sions IS that upon "the original use and improvement of
madness in a commonwealth.'" ^ust in passing, as it were.
Swift gives the pith of a whole system of misanthropy,
ihougii he as yet seems to be rather indulging a play of
fancy than expressing a settled conviction. Happiness, he
says, is a "perpetual possession of being well deceived.''
The wisdom which keeps on the surface is better than
that which persists in officiously prying into the under-
lying reality. " Last week I saw a woman Hayed," he
observes, "ant you will hardly believe how much it
altered her person for the worse." It is best to be
content with patching up the outside, and so assuring
the "serene, peaceful state" — the sublimest point of
felicity — "of being a fool amongst knaves." lie goes
on to tell us how useful madmen may be made : how
Curtius may be regarded equally as a madman and a
hero for his leap into the gulf; how the raging, blas-
pheming, noisy inmate of Bedlam is fit to have a regi-
ment of dragoons ; and the bustling, sputtering, bawling
madman should be sent to Westminster Hall ; and the
solemn madman, dreaming dreams anil ^ing best in the
dark, to preside over a congregation of Dissen*^^ers ; and
how elsewhere you may find the raw material of the

' This was a treatise by Thomas, twin brother of Henry VauRhan,
the " Silurist.'-' It led to a controversy with Henry More. Vaupihan
was a Rosierucian. Swift's contempt for mysteries is characteristic,
Sendivogus was a famous ulcliemist (1560—1046).
D 3

Ml.

I 'if

' V:

« ^i

1,1 ,

It .i

SWIFT.

[chap.

niordiarit, tlio courtier, or the monurcli. AVe are all
niad.Mon, a.i.l liappy so far as mad : ddusion and peace
of mind jro togetlier; an.l the more truth we know, the
more shall we recoj.-nize tlicat realities are liideous. Swift
only plays with his i)aradoxes. He lauo-hs without trou-
bling himself to decide whether his irony tells against the
theories wliich he ostensibly espouses, or tliose "which lie
ostensibly attacks. J]ut he has only to adopt in serious-
ness the fancy with which he is dallying, in order to
graduate as a finished pessimist. Th'ese, however, are
interruptions to the main thread of the book, which is
a daring assault ui)on that serious kind of ,>e,hintry
whicli utters itself in tlieological systems. The three
brothers, Peter, M.irtin, an.l Jack, represent, as we all
know, the Koman Catholic, the Anglican, and the Puri-
tanical varieties of Christianity. TJiey start with a new
coat provided for each by their father, and a will t.,
explain the right mode of wearing it; and after some
years of faithful observance they fall in love with thi>
three ladies of wealth, ambition, and pride, get into ter-
ribly bad ways, and make wild work of the coats and the
will. They excuse themselves for wearing shoulder-knots
by picking the separate letters S, II, and so forth, out of
separate words in the will, and as K is wanting, discover
It to be synonymous with C. They reconcile themselves
to gold lace by remembering that when they were bovs
they heard a fellow say that he had heanl their father's
man say that he would advise lus sons to get gold lace
when they had money enough to buy it. Then as the
will becomes troublesome in spite of exegetical ingenuity
tlic eldest brother finds a convenient codicil whicircan be
tacked to it, and will sanction a new fashion of fiamc-col-
oured satin. The will expressly forbids silver fringe on the

III.J

KAKLY WiUTINGS.

coats; but thoy discover that the word mcaninj; silver
friiii^e may also si,i;'iiify a broomstick. Ami by sucli
duvicos they ,u;o *>ii iii< rrily for a time, till iVUr sots up
to be the solo heir and iiisisrts upon the obcdiciicu of his
brethren. His performances in this position are tryini,' to
their temper. " Whenever it happened that any roj^uo of
Nowirate was condemned to be hanj-ed, Peter would oHer
hini a pardon for a certain sum of money; which, when
the poor caitilT liad made all shifts to scrape up ami send,
his lordshi[» would return a pi(3ce of paper in this f()rm :

" ' Tu all mayors, sheriffs, jailors, constables, biiililfs, Iwmg--
mcn, ite. — Whereas we are informcw that A. B. remains in
the hands of you or some of you, under the sentence of
death : We will and command you, uj)on siyht liereof, to
let the said prisoner depart to his own habitation, whether
lie stands condemned for murder, itc, &c., for which this
shall bo your sufficient warrant; and if you fail hereof,
God damn you and yours to all eternity; and so we bid
you heartily farewell. — Your most humble man's man,
Emperor Peter.'

"The wretches, trusting to this, lost their lives and
their money too." Peter, however, became outrao-eouoly
proud, lie has been seen to take "three old high-
erown'.d hats and clap them all on his head three-storey
hio-h, with a hiii^e bunch of keys at his girdle, and an
anoling-rod in his 'land. In which guise, whoever went
to take him by the hand in the way of salutation, Peter,
with much grace, like a well-educated spaniel, would pre-
sent them with his foot ; and if they refused his civility,
then ho would raise it as high as their chops, and give
him a damned kick on the mouth, which has ever since
been called a salute."

l*eter receives his brothers at dinner, and lias nothing

y !

SWIFT.

[chap.

served lip l,ut ii brown loaf. "Come," he says, "fall on
and .spare not; here is excellent ijood mutton," and ho
helps them each to a slice. The brothers remonstrate,
.■•ml try to point out that they see only bread. They
argue for some time, but have to jrivo i„ to a conclusive
argument. " ' Look ye, gentlemen,' cries ] Vter, in a ra.^e,
'to convince you what a couple of blind, positive, igno-
rant, wilful puppies you are, i will use but this 8imj)le ar-
gument. J5y (J— it is true, good, natural mutton as any
in Leadrnhall Market; and G— confound y.ni both eter-
nally if you offer to believe otherwise.' Such a Ihunder-
ing proof as this left no further room for objection ; the
two unbelievers began to gather and pocket up their mis-
take as hastily as they could," and have to admit besides
that another large dry crust is true juice of the grape.

The brothers Jack and Martin afterwards fall out, and
Jack is treated to a storm of ridicul- much in the same
vein as that directed against Pctor; and, if less pointed,
certainly not less expressive of conteii>pt. I need not fur-
ther follow the details of uhat Johnson calls this "wild
book," uhich is in every page brimful of intense satirical
power. I must, however, say a few words upon a matter
which is of great importance in forming a clear jud<-ment
of Swift's character. The Tak of a Tab was univrrsallv
attributed to Swift, and led to many doubts of his ortho-
doxy and even of his Christianity. Sliarpe, Archbishop of
^ ork, injured Swift's chances of preferment bv insinuating,
such doubts to Queen Anne. Swift bitterly \-escnted the
imputation. He prefixed an apology to a later edition, in
\vhich he admitted that he had said some rash thino-s- but
declared that he would forfeit his life if any one opinion
contrary to morality or religion could be fairly deduced
from the book. He pointed out that he had attacked no

Mil

III.]

EARLY WRITINGS.

Anglican doctrine. His ridicule spares Martin, and is
^iointed at IVtcr and Jacli. Like every satirist wlio ever
wrote, iic does not attaclc the use but tlic abuse; and as
tli(^ Church of Kniijland represents for blni tlie purest em-
bodiment of tlie trutli, an attacjv upon tlie abuses of reliir-
ion meant an attack upon otlier cluavlies oniy in so far
as tiioy diverj,'cd from this model. Critics liave accepted
tliis apoloyy, atid treated poor Queen Anno and lier ad-
visers as representing sin)ply tlie prudery of the tea-table.
The question, to my thinking, docs not admit of quite so
simple an answer.

If, in fact, we ask what is the true object of Swift's au-
dacious satire, the answer will depend partly upon our own
estimate of the truth. Clearly it ridictdes "abuses;" but
one man's use is another's abuse, and a dogma may ap-
pear to us venerable or absurd according t(j our own creed.
One test, liowever, may l)e suggested which may guide our
decision. Tmagine the T<t/e of a Tub to be read by liishop
Sutler and by Voltaire, who called Swift a Ruhdais per-
fectioniie. Can any one doubt that the believer wouUl be
scandalized and the scoffer find himself in a thoroughly
congenial element? Would not any believer shrink from
the use of such weapons even though directed against his
enemies? Scott urg(!s that the satire was useful to the
High Church party because, as he says, it is ' vortant for
any institution in Britain (or anywhere else, . • may add)
to have the laughers on its side. But Scott was too saga-
cious not to indicate the obvious reply. The condition of
having the laugbci i your side is to be on the side of
the laughers. Advocates of any serious cause feel that
there is a danger in accepting sueb an alliance. 'Ihe
laughers who join yon in ridiculing your enemy are by
no means pii>dged to refrain from luughing in turn at the

!n ■!*>

f a

.* r.

Ml I

1 ; I

I !
•I ,

SWIFT.

[chap.

Jauglicr. Wlicn Swift liad ndicnled all the Catliolic and
all tlio Puritan dogmas in the most uiispnrii:^ fashion,
could he be suiv that the Thirty-nine A) tides would es-
cape scot-free? The Catholic theory of a Church possess-
ing divine authority, the I'uritan theory of a divine voice
addressing- the individual soul, suggested to him, in their
concrete embodiments at least, nothing but a horse-laugh.
Could any one be sure that the Anglican embodiment of
the same theories might not be turned to equal account by
the scoffer? AVas the true bearing of Swift's satire in fact
limited to the deviations from sound Church of England
doctrine, or might it not be directed against the very vital
principle of the doctrine itself?

Swift's blindness to such criticisms was thoroughly char-
acteristic, lie professes, as we have seen, that he liad need
to clear his mind of real prejudices. He admits that the
process might be pushed too far; that is, that in abandon-
ing a i)rcjudice you may be losing a principle. In fact,
the prejudices from which Swift had sought to free him-
self — and no doubt with great success — were the prejudices
of other people. For them he felt unlimited contempt.
]iut the jn-ejudice which had grown up in his mind,
strengthened with his strength, and become intertwined
with all his personal affections and antipathies, was no
longer a prejudice in his eyes, but a sacred principle. The
intensity of his contempt for the follies of others shut his
eyes effectually to any similarity between their tenets and
his own. His principles, true or false, were prejudices in
the highest degree, if by a prejudice we mean an opinion
cherished because it has somehow or other become ours,
though the " somehow " may exclude all reference to rea-
son. Swift never troubled himself to assign any philo-
sophical basis for Ids doctrines; having, indeed, a hearty

1:1 I

in.]

EARLY WKITIXGS.

contempt for philosophizing in general. He clung to the
doctrines of his Church, not bcciiusc he could give abstract
reasons for his belief, but simply because the Church hap-
pened to be his. It is equally true of all his creeds, polit-
ical or theoloii'ical, that he loved them as he loved his
friends, simply because they had become a part of him-
self, and wore, therefore, identified with all his hopes, am-
bitions, and aspirations, public or private. We shall see
hereafter how fiercely he attacked the Dissenters, and how
scornfully he repudiated all arguments founded upon the
desirability of union amongst Protestants. To a calm
outside observer differences might appear to be superficial;
but to him no difference could be other than radical and
profound which in fact divided him from an antagonist.
In attacking the Presbyterians, cried more temperate
people, you are attacking your brothers and your own
opinions. No, replied Swift, I am attacking the cor
ruption of my principles; hideous caricatures of myself;
caricatures the more hateful in proportion to their apparent
likeness. And therefore, whether in political or theologi-
cal warfare, ho was sublimely unconscious of the possible
reaction of his arguments.

Swift took a clutracteristic mode of showing that if upon
sopie points he accidentally agreed with the unbeliever,
it was not from any covert sympathy. Two of his most
vigorous pieces of satire in later days are directed against
the deists. In 1708 he published an Argumod to prove
that the ahollshbig of Christianiti/ in England may, as
things noio stand, be attended ivith some inconveniences,
and perhaps not jwoduce those many good effects proposed
thereby. And in 1713, in the midst of his most eager
])olitical warfare, he published Afr. CoUins's Discourse of
F'reetliinking, put into 2)lain English, by way of abstract.

' ■ It I

'?']

SWIFT.

[CIIAI'.

i I

for use of the poor. No one who reads these pamphlets
can deny tliat the keenest satire may be directed against
infidels as well as against Christians, The last is an
admirable parody, in which poor Collins's arguments are
turned against himself with ingenious and provoking irony.
The first is, perhaps, Swift's cleverest application of the
same method. A nominal religion, ho urges gravel v, is of
some use, for if men cannot be allowed a God to revile or
renounce, they will speak evil of dignities, and may even
come to "retleot upon the ministry." If Christianity
were once abolished, the wits would be deprived of their
favourite topic. " Who would ever have suspected Asgil
for a wit or Toland for a philosoplier if the inexhaustible
stock of Christianity had not been at hand to provide
them with materials?" The abolition of Christianity,
moreover, may possibly bring the Church into danger, fo?
atheists, deists, and Socinians have little zeal for the pres-
ent ecclesiastical establishment ; and if they once get rid of
Christianity, they may aim at setting up Presbyterianisra.
Moreover, as long as we keep to any religion, we do not
strike at the root of the evil. The freethinkers consider
that all the parts hold together, and that if you pull out
one nail the wliole fabric will fall. Which, he says, was'
happily expressed by one who heard that a text brought
in proof of the Trinity was differently read in some an-
cient manuscript; whereupon he suddenly leaped through
a long sorites to the logical conclusion : " Why, if it bo
as you say, I may safely .... drink on and defy the
parson,"

A serious meaning nndcrlies Swift's sarcasms, Collins
had argued in defence of the greatest possible freedom of
discussion, ajid tacitly assumed that such discussion would
lead to disbelief of Christianity. Opponents of the libera)

III.J

EARLY WRITINGS.

school had answered by claiming his first principle as
their own. They argued that religion was based upon
reason, and would be strengthened instead of weakened
by free inquiry. Swift virtually takes a different position.
lie objects to freethinking because ordinary minds are
totally unfit for such inquiries, "The bulk of mankind,"
as he puts it, is as " well qualified for flying as thinking;"
and therefore free-thouglit would lead to anarchy, atheism,
and immorality, as liberty to fly would lead to a breaking
of necks.

Collins rails at priests as tyrants upheld by imposture.
Swift virtually replies that they are the sole guides to
truth and guardians of morality, and that theology should
be left to them, as medicine to physicians and law to law-
yers. The argument against the abolition of Christianity
takes the same ground. Religion, however little regard
is paid to it in practice, is, in fact, the one great security
for a decent degree of social order; and the rash fools
who venture to reject what they do not understand are
public enemies as well as ignorant sciolists.

The same view is taken in Swift's sermons. lie said
of himself that he could only preach political paniphlcts.
SeverftJ r^ the twelve sermons preserved are in fact directly
aime -^^ome of the political and social grievances which
he v^iid habitually denouncing. If not exactly "pam-
phlets," they are sermons in aid of pamphlets. Others
are vigorous and sincere moral discourses. One alone
deals with a purely theological topic : the doctrine of the
Trinity. Ilis view is simply that " men of wicked lives
would be very glad if there were no truth in Christianity
at all." They therefore cavil at the mysteries to find some
excuse for giving up the whole. lie replies in effect that
there must be mystery, though not contradiction, every-
3*

I -I

I i

)■■

If'

I '*

I ^<;

' .1

SWIFT.

['"HAP.

Avliore, and tliat if we do not accept humbly what is taufrht
in the >^criptnrcs, we must give up Christianity, and con-
sequently, as he liohis, all moral obligation, at once. The
cavil is merely the pretext of an evif conscience. Swift's
reliyion thus partook of the directly practical nature of
his whole character. He was absolutely indifferent to
speculative philosophy. He was even more indifferent to
the mystical or imaginative aspects of religion. He loved
downright concrete realities, and was not'thc man to lose
himself in an Oh.aHltudo! or in any train of thought or
emotion not directly bearing upon the actual business of
the world. Though no man had more pride in his order
or love of its privileges. Swift never emphasized his pro-
fessional character. He wished to be accepted as a man
of the world and of busmess. He despised the unpracti-
cal and visionary typo, and the kind of religious utterance
congenial to men of that type was abhorrent to him. He
shrank invariably too from any display of his emotion, and
would have felt the heartiest contempt for the senti-
nientalism of his ,lay. At once tlie proudest and most
sensitive of men, it was his imperative instinct to hide
his emotions as much as possible. In cases of great ex-
citement he retired into some secluded corner, where, if
lie was forced to fed, he could be sure of hiding his
feelings. Ho always masks his strongest passions under
some ironical veil, and thus practised what his friends
regarded as an inverted hypocrisy. ]\>lany tells us that
he stayed for six months in Swift's house before discover-
ing that the Dean always read prayers to his servants at a
fixed hour in private. A deep feeling of solemnity showed
Itself in his manner of performing public religious exer-
cises; but Delany, a man of a very different temperament,
blames his friend for carrying his reserve in all such mat'

U ' !t

in.]

EARLY WRITINGS.

ters to extremes. In certain respects Swift was ostetita-
tious enough ; luit this intense dislike to wearing his
heart upon liis sleeve, to laying bare the se"-"ts of his
atTections before unsympathetic eyes, is one oi ais most
indelible characteristios. Swift could never have felt the
slightest sympathy for the kind of preacher who courts
applause by a public ovhibition of intimate joys and sor-
rows; and was le.-s afraid of suppressing some genuino
emotion than of showing any in the slightest degree un-
real.

Although Swift took in the main what may be called
the political view of religion, he did not by any means
accept that view in its cynical form, lie did Jiot, that is,
hold, in Gibbon's famous phrase, that all religions were
equally false and equally useful. Ilis religious instincts
were as strong and genuine as they were markedly un-
demonstrative. He came to take (I am anticipating a
little) a gloomy view of the world and of human nature.
lie had the most settled conviction not only of the mis-
ery of human life but of the feebleness of tlie good ele-
ments in the world The bad and the stupid are the
best fitted for life as we find it. Virtue is generally a
misfortune ; the more we sympathize, the more cause we
have for wretchedness; our affections give us the purest
kind of happiness, and yet our affections expose us to
sufferings which more than outweigh the enjoyments.
There is no such thing, he said in his decline, as "a fine,
old gentleman ;" if so-and-so had had either a mind or a
body worth a farthing, " they would have worn him out long
ago." That became a typical sentiment with Swift. His
doctrine was, briefiy. that : virtue was the one thing which
deserved love and admiration; and yet that virtue, in this
hideous chaos of a world, involved misery and decay,

SWIFT.

[ciiAP. m.

t. ,. ,

I I

' > !

■ M'-u

What would be tlic loirical result of such a creed I do not
presume to say. Certainly, we should guess, soiuethino-
more pessimistic or Mauicluean than suits the ordinary
interpretation of Christian doctrine. ]5ut for Swift this
state of mind carried with it the necessity of clinoing to
some religious creed: not because the creed held out
l)romises of a better hereafter— for Swift was too much
absorbed in the present to dwell much upon such beliefs—
but rather because it provided him with some sort of fixed
convictions in this strange and disastrous muddle. If it
did not give a solution in terms intelligible to the human
intellect, it encouraged the belief that some solution ex-
isted. It justified him to himself for continuing to re-
spect morality, and for going on living, when all the game
of life seemed to be decidedly going in favour of the
devil, and suicide to be the most reasonable course. At
least, it enabled him to associate himself with the causes
aud principles which ho recognized as the most ennobling
element in the world's " mad farce ;" and to utter himsell
in formula} consecrated by the use of such wise and good
beings as had liitherto shown themselves amongst a
wretched ^ race. Tlaced in another situation, Swift, no
doubt, might have put his creed— to speak after the
Clothes Philosophy— into a different dress. The sub-
stance could not have been altered, unless his whole
character as well as his particular opinions had been
profoundly modified.

CHAPTER IV.

LARACOR AND LONDON.

Swift at the age of thirty-one had gained a small amount
of cash and a promise from William. He applied to the
King, but the great man in whom he trusted failed to de-
liver his petition ; and, after some delay, he accepted an
invitation to become chaplain and secretary to the Earl of
Berkeley, just made one of the Lords Justices of Ireland.
lie acted as secretary on the journey to Ireland; but,
upon reaching Dublin, Lord I^erkeley gave the post to
another man, who had persuaded him that it was unfit for
a clergyman. Swift next claimed the deanery of Dcrry,
which soon became vacant. The secretary had been
bribed by 1000/. from another candidate, upon whom the
deanery was bestowed ; but Swift was told that he might
still have the preference fur an equal bribe. Unable or
unwilling to comply, he took leave of Berkeley and the
secretary, with the pithy remark, "God confound you
both for a couple of scoundrels." lie was partly p icified,
however (February, ITOO), by the gift of Laracor, a illage
near Trim, some twenty miles from Dublin. Two ether
small livings, and a prebend in the cathedral of St.
Patrick, made up a revenue of about 230/. a year.' The
income enabled him to live ; but, in spite of the rigid
economy which he always practised, did not enable him

■ See Forster, p. 117.
16

<■'

\ i

l!!

SWIFT.

[chap.

to save. xMarringo uiuler such circn instances would have
meant the ahatKlonmeiit of an ainhitioii.s career. A wife
and family wouKi have anchored him to his country par-
son ai^e.

This may help to explain an unpleasant episode which
followed. I'oor Varina had resisted Swift's entreaties,
on the ground of her own ill-health and Swift's want of
fortune. She now, it seems, thought that the economical
difficulty was removed by Swift's preferment, and wished
the marriage to take place. Swift replied in a letter,
which contains all our information, and to which I can
apply no other epithet than brutal. Some men might
feel bound to fulfil a marriage engagement, even when
love had grown cold; others migiit think it better to
break it off in the interests of both parties. Swift's plan
was to offer to fulfil it on conditions so insulting that no
one with a grain of self-respect could acce[)t. In his let-
ter he expresses resentment ^or Miss Waring's previous
treatment of him ; he reproaches her bitterly with the
company in which she lives— including, as it seems, her
mother; i;o young woman in the world with her income
should "dwindle away her health in such a sink and
among such family conversation." lie explains that he is
still poor; he doubts the improvement of her own health ;
and he then says that if she will submit to be educated so
as to be capable of entertaining him : to accept all his
likes and dislikes: to soothe his ill-humour, and live
cheerfully wherever lie pleases, he will take her without
inquiring into her looks or lier income. " Cleanliness in
the first, and competency in the other, is all I look for."
Swift could be the most persistent and ardent of friends.
But, when any one tried to enforce claims no longer con-
genial to his feelings, the appeal to the galling obligation

»v.]

LARACOR AND LONDON.

stunt,' him into ferocity, and brought out the most l*rutal
sido of his imperious nature.

It was in the course of the next year that Swift took a
step which has sometimes been associated with tliis. The
death of Temple had left Esther Johnson homeless. The
small fortune loft to her by Temple consisted of an Irish
farm. Swift sui'-tjested to her that she and her friend
Mrs. Dingley would j^et better interest for their money,
and live more cheaply, in Ireland than in England. This
change of abode naturally made people talk. The little
parson cousin asked (in 1706) whether Jonathan had been
able to resist the charms of the two ladies who had
marched from Moor Park to Dublin " with full resolution
to engage him." Swift was now (iVOl) in his thirty-
fourth year, and Stella a singularly beautiful and attractive
girl of twenty. The anoujalous connexion was close, and
yet most carefully guarded against scandal. In Swift's
absence, the ladies occupied his apartments at Dublin.
When he and they were in the same place they took sep-
arate lodgings. Twice, it seems, they accompanied him
on visits to England. But Swift never saw Esther John-
son except in presence of a third person ; and he incident-
ally declares in 1726 — near the end of lier life — that he
had not seen her in a morning " these dozen years, except
once or twice in a journey." The relations thus regulated
remained unaltered for several years to come. Swift's
duties at Laracor were not excessive. He reckons his con-
gregation at fifteen persons, " most of them gentle and all
simple." He gave notice, says Orrery, that he would read
prayers every Wednesday and Friday. The congregation
on the first Wednesday consisted of lurasolf and his clerk,
and Swift began the service, " Dearly beloved Roger, the
Scripture moveth you and nie," and so forth. This being

■111

Iff!

i 'l I

I'li

■,VJ

i «l

SWIFT.

')!'

!■ |{

f i

[CUAP,

attributed to Swift is siipposetl to bo an exquisite piece of
facetiousnoss; but we may Iiopo that, as Scott jrivos us
reason to think, it was really one of the drifting jests that
stuck for a time to the skirts of the famous^ Iniinorist.
What is certain is, that Swift did his best, with narrow
means, to improve tlie living—rebuilt the liouse, laid out
tlie i^arden, increased the j,'lebo from one acre to twenty,
and endowed the livinjr with tithes boujrht by himself.
He left the tithes on the remarkable condition (sujrnested,
probably, by his fears of I'resbyterian ascendancv) tliati
if another form of Christian religion should become the
established faith in this kingdom, they should go to the
poor— excluding Jews, atheists, and iuHde's Swift be-
came attached to Laracor, and the gardens which he plant-
ed in huniblc imitation of Moor VnvV ; lie made friends
of some of the neighbours; though ho detested Trim,
whcre^ " the people were as great rascals as the gentle-
men ;" but Laracor was rather an occasional retreat than
a centre of liis interests. During the followin- years
Swift was often at the Castle at Dublin, and passed"consid-
erable periods in London, leaving a curate in cliarge of the
minute congregation at Laracor.

He kept upon friendly terms with successive Viceroys.
He had, as we liave seen, extorted a partial concession 'of
his claims from Lord Berkeley. For Lord Berkeley, if we
may argue from a very gross lampoon, he can have felt
nothing but contempt. But ho had a high respect for
Lady ]Jcrkeley ; and one of the daughters, afterwards
Lady Betty Germaine, a very sensible and kindly woman,
retained his friendship through life, and in letters written
long afterwards refers with evident fondness to the old
days of familiarity. He was intimate, again, with the
famiJy of the Duke of Ormond, who became Lord Lieu-

IV.]

LAUAC'OU AND LONDON'.

tenant in 170.3, and, afyaln, was tlio close friend of t)n(> of
the d an u;! iters, lie was deeply grieved by her death a
few years later, soon after her marriage to Lord Ashhurn-
ham. " I hate life," he says characteristically, " when I
think it exposed to such accidents; and to sec so many
thousand wretclies burdening the earth when such as her
die, makes mc think God did never intend life f(*i' a bless-
ing." AVhen Lord Pembroke succeeded Ormond, Swift
still continued chaplain, and carried on a queer commerce
of punning with Pembroke. It is the Hrst indication of
a habit which lasted, as we shall see, through life. One
might be tempted to say, were it not for the conclusive
evidence to the contrary, that this love of the most mechaii-
ical variety of facetiousncss implied an absence of any
true sense of humour. Swift, indeed, was giving proofs
that he possessed a full sliare of that ambiguous talent.
It would be difficult to find a more i)erfect performance of
its kind than the poem by which he amused the Berkeley
family in 1700. It is the Petition of Mrs. Frances Har-
ris, a cliambcrmaid, who had lost her purse, and whose
peculiar style of language, as well as the unsympathetic
comments of her various fellow -servants, are preserved
with extraordinary felicity in a peculiar doggerel invented
for the purpose by Swift. One fancies that the famous
Mrs. Harris of Mrs. Gamp's reminiscences was a [diantasmal
descendant of Swift's heroine. He lays bare the workings
of the menial intellect with the clearness of a m.tster.

Neither Laracor nor Dublin could keep Swift from
London.' During the ten years succeeding 1700 he must

' He was in England from April to September in 1701, from April
to November in 1702, from Novembc, 1 703, till May, 1704, for an un-
certain part of 1705, and again for over fifteen months from the end

of 1707 till the begiiuiing of 1709.
E

!' I

•'•-*"™-'-'- •iiiiiimiiiiiiiiiii I

SWIFT.

[ciup.

i' M

liave passed over four in England. In the last period
mentioned he was actinj; as an ajrent for the Clnirch of
Ireland. In the others he was attracted l.y pleasnrc! or
ambition. IJo l,ad already many introdnetions t.. Lon-
don society, thron-h Temple, through the Irish Viceroys,
and thn ugh Congrevo, the most famous of then livinrr
wits. . '^

A successful pamphlet, to bo presently mentioned, help-
ed his rise to fame. London society was easy of access
for a man of Swift's (|ualities. The divisions of rank were
doubtless more strongly marked than now. Vet society
was relatively so small, and concentrated in so small a
space, that admission into the upper circle meant an easy
introduction to every one worth knowing. Any notice-
able person became, as it were, member of a club which
had a tacit existence, though there was no single place of
meeting or recognized organization. Swift soon became
known at the coffee-hc uses, which have been sui)erseded
by the clubs of modern times. At one time, according to
a story vague as to dates, he got the name .f tlie " mad
parson " from Addison and others, by his habit of taking
half-an-hour's smart walk to and fro in the coffee-house']
and then departing in silence. At last he abruptly ac-
costed a stranger from the country : " Pray, sir, do you
remember any good weather in the world ?'' " Yes, sir "
was the reply, "I thank God I remember a great deal of
good weather in my time." " That," said Swift, " is more
than I can say. I never remember any weather that was
not too hot or too cold, or too wet or too dry ; but, how-
ever God nlmighty contrives it, at the end of' the year 'tis
all v<ry well ;" with which sentiment lie vanished. ' What-
ever his introduction. Swift would soon make himself felt.
The Tale of a Tub appeared- with a verv complimentary

ir.J

LAKACUU AND I-ONDON.

di'dication to Snincra — in 1704, nml revealed powers be-
yond the rivalry ot any liviiiu; ?'uthor.

In the year l7()o Swift bucaine intimate \vi''i Addison,
who wrote, in a copy of his Travels in Itnly : "'To Jona-
than Swift, Ihe most ayrccable cuiiipanion, the truest friend,
and the r/reatest r/enius of his age, this UK>rk is presented by
his most hutnhle servant the author.'''' Thouii,'h the word
"genius" had scarcely its present strent'th of incaninf^,
the phrase certainly implies that Addison knew Swift's
authorshi{) of the Tale, and with all his decorum was not
repelled by its audacious satire. The pair formed a close
friemlship, which is honourable to both. For it proves
that if Swift was imperious, and Addison a little too fond
of the adulation of " wits and Templars," each could enjoy
the society of an intellectual ecpial. They met, we may
fancy, like absolute kings, accustomed to the incense of
courtiers, and not inaccessible to its charms; and yet glad
at times ti' throw aside -calo i.id associate with each other
without jealousy. Ad lison, we i:now, was most charming
when talking to a sin^Wo companion, and Delany repeats
Swift's statement that, oi'ti -x'-. f jey spent their evenings
together, they never wishea for a third. Steele, for a time,
was joined in what Swift calls a triumvirate; and though
political strife led to a complete breach with Steele and
a temporary eclipse of familiarity with Addison, it never
diminished Swift's affection for his great rival. "That
man," he said once, " has virtue enough to give reputation
to an age," and the phrase expresses liis settled opinion.
Swift, however, had a low opinion of the society of the
average " wit." " The worst conversation 1 ever lieard in
my life," he says, " was that at Will's collee-house, where
the wits (as tliey were called) used formerly to assemble;"
and he speaks with a contempt recalling Pope's satire

\\\

»i' *' V

l;:.l

I 7' I

'ii

4 Ir

SWIFT.

[chap.

tipon t].o " little senate " of the absurd self-importance and
the foolish adulation of the students and Tenij.lars who
listened to these oracles. Others have suspected that many
famous coteries of which literary people are accustomed
to speak with unction probably fell as far short in reality
of their traditional pleasantness. Swift's friendship witj,
Add.sou was partly due, we may fancy, to ditlerenee in
temper and talent, which fitted each to be the complement
of the other. A curious proof of the mutual -ood-will is
i^.veu by the history of Swift's Pniucis and Philcnwn. It
IS a humorous and agreeable enough travesty of Ovid- a
bit of good-humoured pleasantry, which we nlay take as it
was intended. The performance was in the spirit of the
tune; and if Swift had not the lightness of touch of his
contemporaries, Prior, Gay, Parnell, and Tope, he perhaps
makes up for it by greater force and directness. Put the
piece IS mainly remarkable because, as he tells us, Addison
"ladc him " blot out four score lines, add four score, and
alter four score," though the whole consisted of only 178
verses.' Swift showed a complete absence of the ordinary
touchiness of authors. His indifference to literary fame a's
to Its pecuniary rewards was conspicuous. He' was too
proud, as he truly said, to be vain. Hi, sense of dio-nity
restrained him from petty sensibility. When a cler<rvman
regretted some emendations whicli had been hastify su<r-
gosted by himself an<l accepted by Swift, Swift .'eplied
that It mattered little, and that he would not give grounds
by adhering to his own opinion, for an imputation of van-
ity If Swift was egotistical, there was nothing ,petty even
in his egotism.

' Mr. Forstor found tl.o ori^Mnal MS., and gives us the exact tunn-
bm: .,.. on.i,te.I,44 uddud, 22 altered. The whole ,vns 178 lines
Vtcr the oiHis.sioiis.

IV.]

LARACOR AND LOXDOX.

A piece of facctiousncss started by Swift in tlio last
of his visits to London has become famous. A cobbler
called Partridt^c had set up as au astroloi^cr, and published
predictions in the style of Zadktcrs Almanac. Swift
amused himself in the beginning of IVOR by publishing
a rival prediction under the name of Isaac Bickerstaff.
BickcrstalY professed that he would give verifiable and
definite predictions, instead of the vague oracular utterances
of his rival. The first of these predictions announced the
a|)[)r()aching death, at 11 p.m., on March 29, of Partridge
himself. J>irectly after that day aj)pearcd a letter "to
a person of honour,'' announcing the fulfilment of the
prediction by the death of Partridge within four hours of
the date assigned. Partridge took up the matter serious-
ly, and indignantly declared himself, in a new almanac, to
be alive. Pickerstaff retorted in a humorous Vindication,
arguing that Partridge was really dead; tha^ his con-
tinuing t(j write almanacs was no proof to the contrary,
and so forth. All the wits, great and small, took part in
the joke: the Portuguese IiKpiisition, so it is said, were
suflSciently taken in to condemn Bickerstaff .<> the flames;
and Steele, who started the Tatkr whilst the joke was afoot,
adopted the name of Bickerstaff for the imaginary author.
Dutiful biographers agree to admire this as a wonderful
piece of fun. The joke docs not strike me, 1 will confess,
as of very o\(juisite flavour; but it is a curious illustration
of a peculiarity to wiiich Swift owed some of his power,
and which seems to have suggested many of the mythical
anecdotes about him. His humour very easily took the
form of practical joking. In those days the mutual un-
derstanding of the little cliijue of wits made it easy to
get a hoax taken up by the whole body. Tlicy joined
to persecute poor Partridge, as the undergraduates at a

f'l

'■ i

SWIFT.

[CUAP.

modcn. colloo-c niiglit join to tease soino obnoxious
tradesman. Swift's peculiar irony fitted him to take
the lead ; f„r it impHed a singuhir pleasure in realizing
the minute consetjuences of some given Iiypothesis, and
working out in detail some grotesque or striking theory.
The love of practical jokes, which seems to have accon'i-
panied him through life, is one of the less edifying mani-
festations of the tendency. It seems as if he could not
quite enjoy a jest till it was translated into actual tangible
fact. The fancy does not sulllce him till it is realTzed.
If the story about "dearly beloved Roger" be true, it is
a case in point. Sydney Smith would have been content
with suggesting that such a thing might be done. Swift
was not satisfied till lie had done it.^ And even if it be
not true, it has been accepted because it is like the truth.
We could almost fancy that if Swift had tl.ouo-ht of
Charles Lamb's famous quibble about walking on an
empty stomach ("on whose empty stomach T') he would
have liked to carry it out by an actual promenade on real
human flesh and blood.

Swift became intimate with Irish Viceroys, and with
tlie most famous wits and statesmen of London. But
he received none of the good things bestowed so freely
upon contemporary men of letters. In 17u5 Addison,
Ills intimate friend, and his junior by five vears, had
sprung from a garret to a comfortable office. Otlier'men
passed Swift in the race. He notes significantly, in 1 708
that " a young fellow," a friend of his, had just received
a sinecure of 400/. a year, as an addition to another of
300/. Towards the end of 1704 he hail alreadv com-
plained that he got "nothing but the good words and
wishes of a decayed ministry, whose lives and mine wilt
probably wear out before they can serve either my little

'■^.

' m

IV.]

LARACOR AND LONDON.

hopes, or their own ambition." Swift still remained in
his own district, "a licdgo-parson," flattered, caressed, and
neglected. And yet he held,' that it was easier to provide
for ten men in the Church than for one in a civil em-
ployment. To understand his claims, and the modes by
which he used to enforce them, we must advert briefly to
the state of J]nn;lish politics. A clear apprehension of
Swift's relation to the ministers of the day is essentia! to
any satisfactory estimate of his career.

Tlic reign of Queen Anne was a period of violent party
spirit. At the end of 1703 Swift humorously declares
that even the cats and dogs were infected with the Whig
and Tory animosity. Tlic " very ladies " were divided into
High Church and Low, and, " ont of zeal for religion, liad
hardly time to say their prayers." The gentle satire of
Addison and Steele, in the Spectator, confirms Swift's
contemporary lamentations as to the baneful effects of
party zeal upon private friendship. And yet it has been
often said that the party issues were hopelessly confound-
ed. Lord Stanliopc argues — and he is only repeating
what Swift frequently said— that Whigs and Tories had
exchanged principles." In later years Swift constantly
asserted that lie .'backed the Whigs in defence of the
true Whig faith. lie belonged, indeed, to a j)arty almost
limited to himself: for he avowed himself to be the
anomalous liybrid, a Iligh-church Whig. We, nmst there-
fore, inquire a little furtlier into the true meaning of the
accepted shibboleths.

Swift had come from Ireland saturated with the preju-

' Soc letter to rcterl)orougli, May 0, 1711.

' In most of tlieir principlos the two parties soom to iiavc shifted
opinions sinee their institution in the reign of Chuiles II. — Exumincr,
No. 4:5, May a 1, 1711.

'i i •

SWIFT.

[cnAP.

•rn !

ir I

is;

'■ 1

dices of his caste. Tlic highest Tory in Ireland, as ho
told William, would make a tolerable Whig i„ pjnc^.
land. For the English colonists in Ireland "the expul-
sion of James was a condition, not of party success but
of existence. Swift, whose personal and Vamily inter-
ests were identified with those of the English "in Ire-
land, could repudiate James with his whoje heart, and
I'eartily accepted the Kevolution ; lie was, therefore, a
Whig, so far as attachment to "Kevolution princi].Ies"
was the distinctive badge of Whiggi.m. Swift despised
James, and ho liated Topery from first to hist. Contempt
and hatred with him were never equivocal, and in this
case they sprang as much from his energetic sense as
from liis early prejudices. Jacobitism was becoming a
sham, and therefore offensive to men of insight into facts.
Its ghost walked the earth for some time longer, and at
times aped reality; but it meant mere sentimentalism or
vague discontent. Swift, when asked to explain its per-
sistence, said that when he was in pain and King on his
right side, he naturally turned to his left, though he mi-ht
have no prospect of benefit from the change.' The couirtrv
squire, who drank healths to the king over the water, was
tired of the Georges, and shared the fears of the tvpical
Western, that his lands were in danger of beino- sJnt to
Hanover. The Stuarts had been in exile long enouoh to
win the love of some of their subjects. Sufficient"time
had elapsed to erase from sliort memories the true cause of
their fall. Squires and parsons did not cherish less warmly
the privileges in defence of which they had sent the last
Stuart king about his business. Rather the privileges had be-
come so much a matter of course that the very Fear of any
assault seemed visionary. The Jacobitism of later days

' Delany, p. 211.

] I

ir.]

LARACOR AND LONDON.

did not mean any discontent with Revolution principles,
but dislike to the Revolution dynasty. The Whig, indeed,
argued with true party logic that every Tory must be a
Jacobite, and every Jacobite a lover of arbitrary rule. In
truth, a man might wish to restore the Stuarts without
wishing to restore the principles for which the Stuarts had
been expelled : he might be a Jacobite without being a
lover of arbitrary rule ; and still more easily might he be
a Tory without being a Jacobite. Swift constantly asserted
— and in a sense with perfect truth — that the revolution
liad been carried out in defence of the Church of Eng-
land, and chielly by attached members of the Church. To
be a sound Churchman was, so far, to be pledged against
the family which had assailed the Church.

Swift's Whiggism would naturally be strengthened by
his personal relation with Temple, and with various Whigs
whom he came to know through Temple. l>ut Swift, I
have said, was a Churchman as well as a Whig ; as staunch
a Churchman as Land, and as ready, I imagine, to have
gone to the block or to prison in defence of his Church
as any one from the days of Laud to those of Mr. Green.
For a time his zeal was nou called into play ; the wiir ab-
sorbed all intercuts. Marlborough and Godolphin, the
great heads of the family cli(jue which dominated poor
Queen Anne, had begun as Tories and Churchmen, s^ip-
ported by a Tory majority. The war had been dictated
by a national sentiment ; but from the beginning it was
really a Whig war : for it was a war against Louis,
Popery, and the Pretender. And thus the great men
who were identified with the war began slowly to edge
over to the party whose principles were the war princi-
ples; who hated the Pope, the Pretender, and the King of
France, as their ancestors had hated Philip of Spain, or as

i ', ft

mam

pfl

W'fi

m ^

1 1

.1 f

L .i^

SWIFT.

[chap.

ti.e.r .loscon.l.nnts Late.l Napoleon. The war meant alR
anec w.th the Dutch, who had been the martyrs and wer'e
the .-ntln.s.a.stic defenders of toleration and free-thon<.ht •
nnd ,t forced Eno^lish ministers, almost in spite of them-
selves, H.to the ,nost successful piece of states.nanship of
the ce,.tury, the U.don with Scotland. Now, Swift hlted
;..o Dutch and hated the Scotch with a vehen.ence that
x'comes ahnost ludicrous. The margin of his ]]nrnet was
scnl.bled over with cxecations a-ainst the Scots. " Most
damnable Scots," " Scots hell-hounds," " ScniH. do.."
cursed Scots still," "hellish Scottish do^^s," are a ♦ow'of
iiis spontaneous tlow.rs of speech. His preju.lic.s are the
Pivjud.ces of his class intensified as all passions were in-
tosihed in him. Swift regar.led Scotchmen as the n.ost
Virulent and dangerous .f all Dis.,entors; they wore repre-
sented to him by th. insh lV.sbyterians,'the n.Lal
I'vas of Ins Churc. lie reviled the T .ion, because it
in.p led ti.o recognition by the State of a s.-f uhi-;. r...
.ffHrdcd the Church of England as little belter ih.n a
manu^Mation of Antichrist, And, in tin. sense. Swift's
sympa;: ncs ..ere with ,he Tories. For, in truth, the real
contrast i>etwocn Whigs and Tories, in respect of which
Hero IS a P'.leet continuity of principle, depen.l.d upon the
fact th.L u.o ^Vl^gs reflected the sentiments of the middle
classes, the "monied men" and the Dissenters; whilst the
lories reflected the sentiments of the land and tlu Ciuircl.
1-ach party might occasionally adopt the conimonplaces or
accept the measures generally associated with its anta^.o-
n.sts; l,nt at bottom the distinction was between souire
and parson on one side, tradesman and banker <>n the
other.

The domestic politics of the reign of Anne turned ,ipon
this difference. The history is a history of the gradual

IV.]

LAUACOK AND LCNDON.

sliiftini^ of govorninent to the Whig side, and the grow-
ing alienation of the clergy and squires, accelerated by a
system which caused the fiscal burden of the war to fall
chiefly upon the land. Hearing this in mind, Swift's
conduct is perfectly intelligible. His first plunge into
politics was in 1701. Poor King William was in the
thick of the perplexities eaused by the mysterious per-
verseness of English politici'^ns. The King's ministers,
supported by the House of Lords, had lost the command
of the House of Commons. It iiad not yet come to bo
understood that the Cabinet was to be a mere committee
of the House of Commons. The personal wishes of the
sovereign, and the alliances and jealousies of great court-
iers, were still highly important factors in the j)olilical
situation ; as, indeed, both the composition and the sub-
sequent behaviour of the Commons could be controlled to
a considerabli! extent bv Iciritimate and other influences
of the Crown. The Commons, unable to make their
will obeyed, proceeded to impeach Somers and other
ministers. A bitter struggle took place between the
two Houses, which was suspended by the summer re-
cess. At this crisis Swift published his Discourse on the
Dissensions in Athens and Home. The abstract political
argument is as good or as bad as nine hundred and
ninety-nine out of a thousand political treatises — that is
to say, a repetition of familiar commonplaces; and the
mode of applying precedents from ancient politics would
now strike us as pedantic. The pamphlet, however, is
dignified and well-written, and the application tu the im-
mediate dilliculty is pointed. His argument is, briefly,
that the House of Commons is showing a factious,
tyrannical temper, identical in its nature with that of a
single tyrant and as dangerous in its consequences; that

> H

' i,

I. 1;

SWIFT.

[chap.

\'> ■•

it lias, tluTofore, ceased to reflect tlie opinions of its con-
stitiHiits, and lias endangered the sacred balance between
the three primary elements of our constitution, upon
which its safe working depends.

The pamplilet was from beginning to end a remon-
strance against the impeacliments, and therefore a de-
fence, of the Wliig lords, for whom suniciently satisfac-
tory parallels arc vaguely indicated in Tericlcs, Aristides,
and so forth. It was "greedily bought;" it was attrib-
uted to Somcrs and to the great AVhig bishop, Jiurnet,
who had to disown it for fear of an impeachment. An
Irish bishop, it is said, called Swift a " very positive young
man" for doubting Burnet's authorship ; whereupon'Swift
had to claim it for himself. Youthful vanity, according
to his own account, induced him to make the admission^
which would certainly not have been withheld bv adult
discretion. For the result was that Somers, Halifax, and
Sunderland, three of the great Whig junto, took him up,
often admitted him to their intimacy, and were liberal in
promising him "the greatest preferments" should they
conie into power. Before long Swift had another oppor-
tunity which was also a temptation. The Tory House
of Connnons had passed the bill against occasional con-
formity. Ardent partisans generally approved this bill,
as it was clearly annoying to Dissenters. It was directed
against the practice of qualifying for office by taking the
sacrament according to the rites of the Church of Eng-
land without permanently conforming. It might be fairly
argued— as Dofue argued, though with questionable sin-
cerity—that such a temporary compliance would be really
injurious to Dissent. The Church would profit by such
an exhibition of the flexibility of its opponents' pr' iciples.
Passions were too much heated for such arguments ; and

IV.]

LARA(V)R AND LOXDOX.

in tlif winter of lVO;5-'04, pcoplo, says Swift, talked of
notliini: else, lie was " mio-lilily urtjod hv sdiuo i,nvat
peoplo" to publisli his opinion. An artrnniont from a
powi'rfiil writer, and a cicruTnian, a^'ainst tlic hill would
1)0 very useful to his Wliio- friends. 15ut Swift's Hin-h
Ciuiroh j)rejudices made !iim liesitate. The Whiu; lead-
ers assured him that nothing- should induce them to vote
anjainst the bill if they expected its rejection to hurt the
Church or "do kindness to the Dissenters." IJnt it is
precarious to aro-no from the professed intentions of
statesmen to their real motives, and yet more precarious
to aro-ue to the consequences of their actions. Swift
iuicw not what to think. lie resolved to think no
more. At last he made up his mind to write ao-ainst
the bill, but he made it up hro late. The bill failed to
pass, and Swift felt a relief in dismissino- this delicate
subject. He mio'ht still call himself a Whin:, and exult
in the growth of Whio-o-isni. Meanwhile he pereuadetl
himself that the Dissentors and their troubles were be-
neath his notice.

They were soon to come again to the front. Swift
came to London at the end of 1707, charged with a mis-
sion on behalf of his Church. Qiiccn Anne's Bounty was
founded in 1704. The Crown restored to the Church the
first-fruits and tenths whicli Henry VIIT. had diverted
from the papal into his own treasury, and appropriated
them to the augmentation of small livings. It was jiro-
posod to get the same boon for the Church of Ireland.
The whole sum amounted to about 1000/. a year, with a
possibility of an additional 2000/. Swift, who had spoken
of this to King, the Archbishop of Dublin, was now to
act as solicitor on behalf of the Irish clergy, and lioped to

make use of his influence with Somcrs and Sunderland.
17

I li 1

) .

1 • >

' 1

, 1

i
4

(

.i' I

(18

SWIFT.

The iionjotiation was to give liiin more trouble I'lan lie
foresaw, and initiate liiiii, l.efure lie had done with it, into
certain secrets ..f cabinets and councils whieh he as yet
v.MT imperfectly appreciate 1. Jlis letters to Kinir, c.n-
tinued over a loni,' period, throw much lii-ht on his mo-
tives. Swift was in Kngland from November, 1707, till
Marrii, 170!». The year 17US was for him, as he says, a
year of suspense, a year of vast importance to his career,
and niarkoU by some characteristic utterances. He hoped
t" use his i >i;.! ucr Uh Soiners, Soiiiers, tl^aigh still
"lit of .liiee. v.-,, the o-ieat oracle of the Whii,^^ ^vliilj-t
Smi-lrrlaiMl uas already Secretary of State. Iii'.Januarv,
1708. tiic bishopric of W'aterford was vacant, and Soiners
tried to obtain the see for Swift. The attempt failed, but
the politieal catastrophe of fi,-^ , vt ,„o„th gave hopes
that the inllucnce of ,Sumers would soo.i be paramount,
llarley, the prince of wirc-pulliiin- anil back-stair intrigue,
had exploded the famous Masham plot. Thounh Uiis
project failed, it w;is "reckoned," says Swift, *' tlit^ o-rcat-
cst piece of court skill that has been acted many years."
Queen Anne was to take advantage of the growing aliena-
tion of the Church party to break her bondage^ to the
Mariboroughs, and change her ministers. Jjut the at-
tempt was [uviiiature, and discomfite*! its devisers. llar-
ley was turned out of ofHce ; Marlborough and (iodolphin
came into alliance with the Whig junto; and the Queen's
bondage seemed more complete than ever. A cabinet
crisis in those days, Jiowever, tudc a long tim(. It was
not till October, 17uy, that the Whigs, backed by a new
I'arliament and strengthened by the vict. v of Oudenardo,
were in full enjoyment of power. Soiners at last became
President of the Council and Wharton Lord Lieulei.ant of
Ireland. Wharton's appoint. uent was specially si^-iilicant

.v.]

LAUACOK AN*n LONDOX.

for Swift, ilo was, as cvlmi \Vlii!];s adiiiittcd, a man of in-
fainoiis character, rcdcomod only by energy and uiitiincli-
inuj fidelity to his party. Ho was licentious and a free-
thinker; his infidelity showi ' Ustif in the grossest out-
ragis against conunon deceii' If he hatl any religious

princi|)le it was a preference « Presbyterians, as sharing
his antipathy to the Church. No man could be more radi-
cally antipathetic to Swift. Meanwhile, the success of
the Whigs meant, in the first instance, the success of the
men from whom Swift had promises of preferment. He
tried to use his inllucnce as he had proposed. In June
ho had an interview about the first-fruit . with Godtilphin,
to whom he had been recommended by Somers and Sun-
derland. Oodolphin replied in vague oflic alisms, suggest-
inir with studied vagueness that iho Irish clersxy must
siiow themselves more grateful than the Knglish. His
meaning, as Swift thought, wa.i that the Irish clergy
should consent to a repeal of the Test Act, regarded by
them and by him as the essential bulwark of the Church.
Nothing definite, howovi • was said; and meanwhile Swift,
though ho gave no sign>, of compliance, continued to hope
for liis own preferment. When the final triumph of the
Whigs came ho was still hoping, though with obvious
qualms as to his position. He begged King (in Novem-
ber, 1708) to believe in his fidelity to the Church. Offers
might be made to him, but " no prosj)ect of making my
fortune shall ever prevail on me to go against what be-
comes a man of conscience and truth, and an entire friend
to the Established Church.'' He hoped that he might be
a} nointed secretary to a projected embassy to Vienna, a
'<>n wh'u'.h would put him beyond the region of do-
luLin- ' Utics.

Meanwhile lie bad published certain tracts which may

■H

SWIFT.

[ S\

\\ ' '

t i jjl 'l

U li. |J

I I '

;i J

" II

•\

K^t
\'>\

[t'liAr.

.0 takoM as tho .nanifcsto of his faith at tho tin.e when
lii^ I.n.icii.i.vs ucio iH.in- most scvordv teste.!. \Vo„l,l he
'"• ""oM 1.0 n..t saorilia. his fhmrh.na.iship to t!,,. i„tor-
c-ts of the party uith which ho was stiil allied' Tli.ro
"•■"' I'« no douht that hy a., open deelaration of Whi,..
I'nne.ples i„ Ch.in-h .natters-si.ch a deelaration, snv. as
-...Id have satisfied lJ.>rnet_ho uoukl han> .jualilied
in...se|f for pr.f..r,nent, and have been in a position to
command the fnliihnent of tho pn.n.i.ses nKulo by Son.ers
and Sunderland.

The writings in .jnestinn we.'e \h. Anpnnad to .rare
- /ncrmvenienceo/Jho/ishinr, ChManit;, ; -., Pmhrt for
t e Advana uent of R^Ujlon; an-l the Sevthmnt. of a
thurch ofEnrjland Man, The li.sf. as I have said, was
n.ea..t to show that tho satirieal power, which had j?iven
..ironce ,n the Tah of a Tah oonid be applied wiU.out
' M-'ivoeation in defence of Christianitv. The Project is
;t ve.y fore.ble exposition of a text whieh is conimon
cnon.h in all a.^es-nan.ely, that the particular a-e of
the writer is one of unprecedented corrui.tion. It shares
l.owever, with Swift's other writii.irs. the merit of down-
r.-ht sincerity, which convinces ns that the author is not
roi'oat.ng platitudes, but .ivin,,. his own experience and
jeakuiij f. .m conviction. Jlis proposals for a reform,
thouu-h he must have felt then) to be chi.nerical, are con-
ceived in the .spirit common in ihe days before people had
I'oi^uu to talk about the staf,> and the individual. Ho as-
sM.nes thro.io-ho.it that a v.>rous action of the court and
1.0 government will reform the nation. He does not con-
template the now commonplace objection that such a revival
of the 1 untanical sy,stem mi-ht simply stimulate hvpocrisv
I.- expressly declares that relioion may be broiioht inio
faslnon by tlie power of the administration," and assumes

^^•

IV.]

LAHACOU AND LONDON'.

that to hvlu'^ rcliiiioii into fashion is tho same tliiiij; as t)
make men rclij,'ious. Tiiis vicv — suitahio onoui,'h to Sw ift'si
impcriuus temper — wa^ also the p:oneral assumption of tho
time. A siii,'i>;cstiuii thrown out in his pamphlet is gen-
erally saiil t(j have led to tho scheme soon afterwards ear-
ried out under Harloy's administration for hiiiidini; fifty
new ehurohes in London. A more personal touch is Swift's
complaint that the clertxy sacriliec their iuHuence by "se-
questering; themselves" too much, and forminu; a separate
caste. This reads a little like an implied defence of him-
self for freipientino" London coffee- houses, when cavillers
mitrht have arj^'ucd that lie should be at Laracor. IJiit, like
all Swift's utterances, it covered a settled principle. I have
already noticed this peculiarity, which he shows elsewhere
when descrihinix himself as

"A elcriryiimii of ppcpiiil note
Vov .sliiinniiif^ otlieis ol' lii.s coat;
Wliieh iiiiulL' lii-s brctlireii of tlic <:nv>n
Take care Ijctimcs to run him down."

The /Sentiments of a ChurcJi a/ IJnr/land Man is more
significant. It is a smnmary of his unvaryin*^ creed. In
politics lie is a good Whig. He interprets the theory of
passive obedience as meaning obedience to the " legislative
power;" not therefore to the King specially; and he delib-
erately accepts the llevolution on the plain ground of the
snlns jMpuli. His leading maxim is that the "administra-
tion cannot be placed in too few hands nor the Legislature
in too many." But this political liberality is associated
with unhesitating Churchmanship. Sects are mischievou> :
to say that they are mischievous is to say that they ought
to be checked in their begimiing; where they exist they
should be tolerated, but not to the injury of the Church.
F 4*

SWIFT.

[flUP.

!'.,

i !

Ami licnce he roaches liis k>adino- prinoiplo tliat a " £tov.
cninient cannot j^'ivc tliem (sects) too nuicli ease, nor trust
them with too little power." Such doc*"inos dearly and
tersely laid down were little to the taste of the Whiles, who
were more anxious than ever to conciliate the Dissenters.
JUit it was not till the end of the year that Swift a[)plied
his abstract theory to a special case. There had been
various syn)i)tams ,.f a disposition to relax the Test Acts
III hvlaiid. The appointinont of Wharton to be Lord
i-iiMi1('tiaiit was euouidi to alarm Swift, even though his
friend Addison was to be Wharton's secrctarv. In Decem-
ber. 1 7US, he published a pamphlet, ostensibly a letter from
a member of the Irisii to a member of the Knt;lish House
of Commons, in which the necessity of keepiiin- up the
Test was vii,'orously enforced. It is the first of Swift's
political wrifiuL's in which wo sec liis true power. In
those just noticed he is forced to take an impartial tone.
He is tryini? to reconcile himself to his alliance with the
Whins, („• to reeoncilt! the Wliiu's to their protection of
himself. He speaks as a moderator, an<l poses as the dii;-
nitied m.u'alist above all party feelinn-. Hut in this letter
he throws the reins upon his humour, and strikes his oj)-
poneiits full in the face. From his own point of view the
pan)phlct is admirable. He <]Uotcs Cowley's verse :

" Forbid it, Ifi-ivcn, iii.v life slnniM 1)0
Weifilit'd hy ,iiy Iciist I'oiiveiiicucy."

The Irish, by which he means the Enniish, and the Enj?-
lish exclusively of the Srotcli, in Ireland, represent tids
• Milhusiastic lover, and are I'alled upon to sacrifice them-
silves to the political eonveniency of the Whi<>- i)arty.
Suift expresses his usual wrath a_Lfainst the Scots, wjio arc
<';itin^- up the land, boasts of the h.yalty of the Irish

.T.]

LAUACOU AND LONDON.

Cliurcli, and taunts tlic Presbyterians with their tyranny
in former days. Am 1 to be forced, he asks, "t(» keep
my chaiilain disguised like my butler, and steal to prayers
in a b;irk room, as my i;randfatlier used in those times
when the Church of Eni-land was malij^nantf Is not this
;i rippiiii; up of old (|uarrels? On^dit not all Protestants
to unite a,i,'ainst Papists? Xu, the <iiemy is the same as
ever. " It is a^^reed amoiiu' naturalists that a lion is a
lari,'er, a stronj^er, and more danij;crons enemy than a cat;
yet if a man were to have his choice, either a lion at his
foot fast bound with three or four cli.ains, his teeth drawn
out, and bis claws pared to the (piick, or an aiii^ry cat in
full liberty at his throat, he would take no lon^; time to
determine." The bound lion means the Catholic Jialives,
wiiom Swift declares to bo as " inconsiderable as the
women and ehihlren."

Meanwhile the loni? first-fruit-. nc!j;oii:itioii was languid-
ly pr.xcrdinj;. At last it seemed to be achieved. Lord
Pembroke, the outpoint; Lord Lieutenant, seiit Swift
word that the i^rant had been made. Swift reported his
success to .\rchbishop Ivin;.^ with a very pardonable touch
of compla<-ency at his "very little" merit in the matter.
But a bitter disappointment followed. The promise made
had never been fuUilled. In March, 1709, Swift iiad ai^ain
to write to the Archbishop, recountinj; his failure, his at-
tempt to remonstrate with Wharton, the new Lonl Lii'u-
tenant, and tlie too certain collapse of the whole business.
The failure was complete; the promised boon was not
•rranted, and Swift's chance of a bisho{)ric had iiretty well
vanished. Halifax, the ureat Whi^ Miecenas, and the Bufo
of Pope, wrote to him in his retirement at 1 )ublin, tleclar-
infr that he had " enterci! into a confederacy wiiii Mr.
Addison" to urge Swift's claims upon Government, and

( I

SWIFT.

[f'lIAP.

spcalviny- of th,. (lcelinin.tr hoaltli of S,>utli, then a prcben-
<lan- of Westminster. Swift eiulorsed this: " I Joel; m. this
K tier a-< a Irne urio-inal of eoiirtiers and eoiiit piuinlses,"
an.l wrote in a vchuiie he ha.l ben-uvd from the same per-
>"ii that it was the only favonr " he ever received from
I'i'ii '"• his party." In the Ia>t months of his stav he had
sufTered cruelly from his old -iddiness, and he'wtnt to
Irchind, after a visit to his niotiier in Leicester, in snlli-

eiently j.-Ioomy n 1; retire.l to Laracor, and avoided

any intercourse witli the authorities at the Castle, except-
inii' always Addison.

To this it is necessary to ad<l one remark. Swift's
vcMsioi, of tlu' St. .IT is substantially that which I have
-iven. and it is every wliero confirmed hy contemporary
letters. It shows that he separated from the Whig party
when at the heiudit of their power, and separaUnl because ho
thoui;-ht them oppo.,cd to the Cluircii principles which he
advocated from lirst to last. It is most unjust, therefore,
to spe.-.Iv (,r Swift as a deserter from the Whins, because

he aft.-rwards joined t hi- Chiircii party, whih shared all his
stron-vst prejudi.'cs. 1 am s<. tVr from seeiiin- any o-round
for such u chari-'e, tli.at 1 believe tiiat few men have ever
adhered more strictly to the i)rinciples with which they
Iiave starte.I. Hut such charovs have <.-enerally an element
of truth; and it is easy here to point out what was the
r.ally weak point in Swift's position.

SwitVs writin--*, witl; one or two trillint; exceptions,
were ..ri-inally anonymous. As they were verv apt t.i
produce warrants for the apprehension of publisher and
author, tiie precaution was natural enou.,di in later years.
The mask was often merely ostensibi,- ; a sullicient pro-
tcction a-ainst le,i,Mi prosecution, but in reality .■overin^'
an oprn s.cret. Wl, -u in the Sentiments of ariatrch oj

' i

!<^!

LARACOR AND LONDON.

Eiiylaad Man Swift professes to conceal his name car
fully, it may ho doubted how far this is to he taken s.,
riously. ]>nt he went much further in the letter on the
Test Act. lie inserted it {)assau;e intended really to hlind
his adversaries hy a suLrii'estion that Dr. Swift was likely
to write in favour of al)olishin<4 the Test; and he even
complains to Kin^ uf the unfairness of Liiis treatment.
His assault, therefore, upon the supposed NN'hiij; policy
was clandestine. This may possibly be justified ; he
might even urge that he was still a Whig, and was warn-
ing ministers against measures which they had not yet
adopted, and from which, as he thinks, they may still be
deternd by an alteration of the real Irish feeling.' He
complained afterwards that he was ruined — that is, as to
liis chances of preferment from the party — by the suspi-
cion of his authorship of this tract. That is to say, he was
"ruined" by the discovery of his true sentiments. This
is to admit that he was still ready to accept preferment
from the men whose supposed policy he was billeily at-
tacking, and that lie resented their alienation as a grievance.
The rest'utmcnt, indeed, was niost bitter and pertinacious.
He tur?ied savagely u|ion his old friends because they would
not make him a bishop. The answer from their point of
view was eonelusivc. Jle had made a bitter and covert
attack, and \w could not at once «'lain» a merit from
Churchmen for defending the Church against the Whigs,
and revile the Whigs for not rewarding him. IJut inc ; .-
sistency of this kind is characteristic of Swift. He thought
the Whigs scdiindrels for not patronizing him, and not
the less sctiundrels because their conduct was consistent
with their own scounilrelly princijiles. People who ditlor
from me must be wicked, argued this consistent egotist,
' Li'ttiT to Kill'.', .JMiiiiiinCi, ITo'J.

1 1 M

!!•

SWIFT.

[CIIAP. IV.

and their refusal to reward me is only an additional wick-
edness. The ease appeared to him as thou-^di he had been
a Nathan sternly warnin^i,' a David of his i^ins, and for tiiat
reason deprived of honour. David could not have urged
ids sinful desires as an excuse for ill-treatment uf Nathan.
And Swift was inclined to class indifference to the welfare
of tlie Chutch as a sin even in an avowed Whii,'. Yet he
ha.l to ordinary minds forfeited any ri-rht to make non-
fulfilment a ijrievance, when he ought to have regarded
performance as a disgrace.

CIUrTER V.

THE IIARLEV ADMINISTRATION.

In the autumn of 1710 Swift was approaching the cnJ of
his forty-tliirtl yoar. A man may well feci at forty-two
that it is lii^li time that a post should have been assijifned
to him. Should an opportunity he then, an<l not till
then, put in his way, he feds that he is tlirowino; for
heavy stakes; and that faihnv, if failure should follow,
would 1)0 irretrievable. Swift had beon lomjini!; vainly
for an openin_<(. In the remarkable letter (of April, 1 V2-2)
from which I have quoted the aneedotc of the lost tisli, he
says that '"all my endeavours from a boy to distinguish
myself were only for want of a threat title and fortune, that
1 mii,dit be used like a lord by those who have an ()i)inion
of my parts; whether rii;ht or wrou2; is no great matter;
and so the, reputation of wit or great learning does the
olliee (if a blue ribatul or of a eoach and six horses."
The phrase betrays Swift's scornful self- mockery ; that
inverted hypocrisy which led him to call his motives l)y
their worst names, and to disavow what he might have
been sorry to see denied by others. Jiut, like all that
Swift says of himself, it also expresses a gcmiine convic-
tion. Swift was and)itious, and his ambition meant an
absolute need of imposing his will upon ott'.ers. He was
a man born to rule; not to alTect thought, but to control

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SWIFT.

['■IIAP

oondncf. Ho was, il,(.rcf..ro, unable to tun] f„l| o.vnpa,
tion, tliouo-l, 1„. uii^ht scrk occasional .listraction, in liter-
ary pursuits. Archbishop Kin-, who had a stran-c knack
<'f miiatin- his corn.sp,.n,h-nt-not, it sccn.s, witliout ir.-
trnt.on — annoyed Swift intensely in 1711 bv advisin-^
bun (ino.t suporflu-.tisly) to ,^H profennont, and witii that
viiew to write a serious treatise upon some tlieolo-ical
M<"-tion. Swift, who was i„ the thick of his "roat
I'ohtjeal stniir-le, answered that it was alisunl t.; a"sk a
■nan floatin^;; at soa what he meant to do wh.n he .rot
.'shore. " Let him get there Hrst and rest an.l ,l,v hh,,-
selt, and then look about liim." To find firm footin-
ann.lst the welter of political intri-ues was Swift's fir.rt
object. Once landed in a deanery he mi-ht beo-i„ to think
about writit.j.; but he never atten.pte.l, like manv ium in
Ins [.oHtion, to win i.referment throu.ijh literary" acl.ieve-
laents. To a man of such a temperament his career nnist
so far have been cruelly vexatious. We are ocierallv
torced to jud-e of a man's life by a few leadin- im-idents'-
and we may be .lisposed to infer too hastily that the
passions roused on tlu.se critical occasions co'loured the
whole tenor of every-day existence. Doubtless Swift was
"-t always frettin- over fruitless prospects. [[..•w-.s
often ,.aliu- his dinnrr i„ p,,,,.,. and ,,uiet, and ev.n
a>Mus,n- hin.self with watchin- the Moor I'ark r.-oks or
the Liracor trout. Vet it is (rue that, so far as a n.an's
I'appiness dep..nds upon the co,is,Mousness of a satisfactory
I'luplovment of his faeulties, wluMher with a vh-w to .dory
nr >..l..l .•omf..,t, Swift ha.l abundant causes n( discoiUent.
•'"• ".■'•njured spirit" was still weavini,. ropes of sand.
•"'•l'» y..ars h,. ha.l bcM, -h-pendent upon T.-mple, and
Ih. Miu-n-K.s t.. nvt upon his own ieu-s had been fruitless.
On Temple's death he mana-ed Nsh.Mi past thirty fo wrin^r

'4 I''
L It

v.]

TliK IIAIJLKV ADMINISTUATION.

from foitiiiic ;i position of bare iiidepcndoncp, not of
satisfyinj^ activity — li« liad not o-ainod a fiilcnnn from
which to move the world — but only a bare startinu-i-oint
whence ho mii^ht continue to work. Tiie promises from
jun-eat men had come to nothlni^. He mi^ht pcrha[)s liave
realizeil tliem, could he have consented to bci faithless to
his dearest convictions; the consciousness that lie had so
far sacriliced his position to Iiis princi[)lcs pive him no
comfort, thouuh it nourished his pride. His enforced
reticence produced an irritation ai:;ainst the ministers
whom it had been intended to conciliate, which deepened
into bitter resentment for their nei>Iect. The year and a
half passed in Ireland durino; ITOO-'IO was a period in
which his day-dreams must have iiad a liacku'round of dis-
appointed hopes. '• 1 stayed above half the time," he
savs, '"in one scurvy acre of oround, and I always left it
with rci;ret." Hi; shut himself up at Laracor, and nour-
i^hrd ;i j^rowini;' indignation against the party represented
liy Wharton.

Yet events were niovint; rapidly in Knuland, and open-
ing: a new path for his ambition, 'I'Iil; \Vhi<:,s were in
full possession of power, though at the price of a p-owiuiX
ali'Miation of all who were weary of a nevcr-cndiii::: war.
or liostile to the Whii^ policy in Church and State. The
leaders, though warned by Somcrs, fancieil that they would
strenifthen their position by attackinir the defeaced enemy.
The prosecu*', >n of Sacheverell in the winter of ITOO-'IO,
if not direct^:! ly personal spite, was meant to iiitimiilate
the hi^h-tlyiii'j: rories. It enabled the Whit^ leaders to
indul^'e Ml a vast (luantity of admirable constitutional
rhetoric; but it supplied viie Hitr'li ( 'ii!--''h party with a
martyr and a cry, and i^avc lii* needed impetus to the
ijn wintr discontent. The Qm;n took heart to revolt

.iil

( !

SWIFT.

[cifAP.

V i ■

aijaiiist the Marlhoroinjjlis ; tlio Wlii;,^ Ministry wore tiirn-
(•<! out of otlicc; llarley booamc Chancellor of the Ex-
chec|ner in Aui^ust; and the rarlianicnt was dissolved in
September, 1710, to be replaeed in November by one in
which the Tories had an overwhelmini;- majority.

We ;ire left to j-iiess at the feelings with whieh Swift
contemplated these ehan!,n>s. Their elfect upon his pcr-
.sonal prospects was .still problematical. In spite of liis
wrathful retirement, there w;is no open breach between
him and the Whi^s, i[o had no personal relations with
the new possessors of power, JIarley and St. John, the
two chiefs, were unlcnown to iilin. And, according to his
own statement, he started for Kn_o-land once nxire with
trreat reluctance in order ai,'ain to take up the weary first-
fruits negociation. Wharton, whose hostility had inter-
cepted the proposed bounty, went with his party, and was
succee(hxl by the High Church Duke of Ormond. The
political aspects were propitious for a renewed application,
and Swift's ])revious employment pointed him out as the
most desirable agent.

And now Swift suddenly conies into full light. For
two or thret! years we can trace his movements day by
day; follow the development of his hopes and fears;
and see him more clearly than ho could be seen by al-
most any of his contemporaries. The famous Journal to
SU//(i—A scries of letters written to Esther Johnson and
Mrs. Dingley, froni Sei)tember, 1710, till April, 171;}— is
the main and central source of information. Before tell-
ing tlic story a word or two may be said of the nature of
this document, one of the most interesting that ever
threw light u|)on the liistory of a man of genius. The
Journal is one of the very few that were clearly written
without the faint. -t thought of ))ublication. There is no

v.]

THE IIAULEY ADMINISTRATION'.

indication of any suoh intention in the Journal to Stella.
It novor occnrrod to Swift that it conlcl ever be seen by
any but the persons primarily interested. The journal
rather shuns politics; they will not interest his corre-
spondent, and he is afraid of the post-otllce clerks — then
and lon<^ afterwards often employed as sj)ies. Inter-
views with ministers have scarcely more proniineiice than
the petty ineidtnts of his daily life. AVc are told that he
discussed business, but the discussion is not reported.
Much more is o'.'i led which mii^ht have been of the
hijfhest interest. •', e hear of meetini:fs with Addison;
not a phrase of Addison's is vouchsafed to us; we ^o to
tlie door of Ilarley or St. John ; we fjret no distinct vision
of the men who were the centres of all observation. N'or,
ac;ain, are th jre any of those introspective passau;es which
ji;ive to some journals the interest of a confession. What,
then, is the interest of the Journal to Stella? One
clement of strange and singular fascination, to be con-
sidered hereafter, is the prattle with his correspondent.
For tlR! rest, our interest depends in great measure upon
the reflections with which we must ourselves clothe the
bare skeleton of facts. In reading the Journal to Stella
we may fancy ourselves waiting in a parliamentary lobby
during an excited debate. One of the chief actors hurries
out at intervals; pours out a kind of hasty bulletin; tells
of some thrilling incident, or indicates some threatening
symptom ; more fre(iuently he seeks to relieve his anxie-
ties by indulging in a little personal gossip, and only in-
terjects such comments upon politics as can be compressed
into a hasty ejaculation, often, as may be supposed, of the
imprecatory kind. Yet he unconsciously betrays ids
hopes and fears; he is fresh from the thick of the fight,
and we {jcrceive that his nerves are still (piivering, and

t fe

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SWIFT.

[ciur

that his jilirases are ijloui.iir with the nnloiir of the struir-
ulc llupos and fears are lonj? since faded, and the strurr-
i-lc itself is now hut a war (if plianlonis. Yet, with the
lic'lj) id' the J»urii<il an<l contenipouiry documents, we can
revive for the niouient the decayin^^ iinai>es, and cheat
ourselves into the niouieiitary persuasion that the fate of
tlie wc.ild depends upon Ilarley's success, as wo now hold
il to dei»eiid iipMii Mr. (iladstoiie's.

Swift reached London <'U Septeniher 7, 171 '»; the po-
litical revolution was in full action, thoui^h I'arli.unent
was not yet dissolved. Tiie Wiiiys were "ravished to
see liiiu;" they clutched at him, he says, like dro\siiin<^
men at a i\\\>^, and the liicat men made him their
'*cluin>y apoloi-ies." Godolphin was "short, drv, and
morose;" Somers tried to make explanations, which Swift
received with studied coldness. The ever-coiirleou Hali-
fax li'ave him dinners, and asked him to <lrink t-i t' .
resiiiTcctiou of the Whim's, which Swift refused unless he
Would add "to their information." Halifax persevered in
his attentions, and was always entrcatinij him to i;o down
to Hampton Court; "which will cost me a ijuinea to liis
servants, and twelve shillings coach hire, and I will sec
him haii-vd first." Swift, liowcver, retained his old
fricii.lship with the wits of the jtarty ; dined with Addi-
son at his retreat in Chelsea, and sent a trifle or two to
the Titllc): The elections heo-an in October; Swift Iiad
to drive ll.vouo-h a rabble of Westminster electors, judi-
ciously riMi-ceinir with their sentiments to avoid dead cats
and b! .k'M glasses; and though Addison was elected ("I
l>elieve,' 'ays Swift, " if he had a mind to be chosen
king, he would hardly be refused"), the Tories were tri-
uniphaiit in every direction. And, meanwhile, the Tory
leaders were delightfully civil.

v.]

TIIH ilAUI,EV ADMIMSTUATIOX.

On iliii tth of UilobiT SwifL was intriHlucod t«» Ilarlcv.
Uotliriir liiiiiM'lf .lor ;i,.-.l (with uin' liaMc tnitli) "as a
• lisconU'iiU'il per n. > v, a-, ill usci fur not lu'luix W'lii;;'
t'lioiii^h." 'i hi' \un,y \\ hiu- laiiinitahlv confess, he savs,
their ill ii ,ii;c of him, "hut I tuiml theip not." Their
cuiifessioii oaine loo latf. llarley had leeci 1 'lini with
open aril . and won, not only Swift's a^^'i' ut his

warm jHisonal ah hment. The fact i.- idispiitai)l( ,
thoiiifh ther curious, llarley ap|»ears to ,.> a. . .shiftv
and feeble politician, an inarticulate orator, wanlint; in
principles and resolution, who made it his avt)wed and
ahnost only rule of conduct that a politician should ii\c
from hand to month.' Vet hi.i prolonj^td intlii c in
Parhamcnt seems to indicate some personal attraction,
which was perceptible to his contemporaries, thouc;h rather
IMizzlintx to us. Ail Swift's paneiryri - l. i\ the secret in
obscurity, llarley seems, indeed, t.. been cminentlv

res[)cctable and dcconjusly relii,nou> i.jc in personal

intercourse, and able to say nothinu nucIi a wav as to
sutrifest profundity instead of emptiness. His reputation
as u party mana<];er was immense ; and is partly justified
by ' "^ (piick recounition of Swift's extraordinary <|iialili-
catii He had inferior scribblers in his pay, including,',

as wo renieinbcr with roivrot, the shifty Defoe. iJut he
wanted a man of jcjemiine ability and character. Some
months later the tninisters told Swift that the\ had been
afraid of none but him, and resolved to have him.

They oot him. llarley had received him " with the
o-reatcst kindness and respect ima'^iiiable." Three days
later (()ctt)bcr 7) th(> lirst-friiits business is di-'ussed, and
Harley received the |>rt>posals as warmly as became a
friend of the Church, besides overwhelmiiii;- Swift with
' Swift to KiiiiT, Jiilv 1-^, 1711.

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SWIFT.

[CHAP.

civiliti(>s. Swift is to bo introduced to St, John; to dino
with lliirley next Tuesday; and, after an interview of
four hours, the niinister sets liini down at St. James's
Coffee-house in a liackncy coach, " All this is odd and
comical !" exclaims Swift ; " he knew my Christian name
very well," and, as we hear next day, bei^i>-ed Swift to come
to him often, but not to his levee: "that was not a i)laee
for friends to meet." On the 10th of October, within a
week from the first introduction, Ilarley promises to ti'et
the first-fruits business, over which the Wliigs had hii^fu'led
for years, settle(l by tiie followino- Sunday. Swift's exul-
tation breaks out. On the 14th he declares that he stands
ten times better with the new people than ever Jie did with
the old, and is forty times more caressed, Tho triutnph is
sharpened by reveni^c. Notlmir^, he says, of the sort was
ever compassed so soon ; " and purely done by my per-
sonal credit with Mr, Ilarley, wlio is so excessively obligint^
that I know not what to make of it, unless to .show the
rascals of tin; ether side that they used a man unworthily
who deserved better." A passao'o on November 8 sums up
his sentiments, " Why," he says in answer to something
from Stella, "should the Whim's think I came from Ire-
laud to leave them ? Sure my journey was no secret! I
protest sincerely, I did all T could to hinder it, as the Dean
can tell you, thouu'li now I do not repent it. But who the
devil cares what they think ? Am I under oblit^ations in
the least to any of them all ? Rot them for ungrateful dogs ;
I will make them repent their usage before I leave this
place." The thirst for vengeance may not be edifying ;
the political zeal was clearly not of the purest; but, in
truth. Swift's party projiulices and his personal resent-
ments arc fused into indissoluble unity. Hatred of AViiig
principles and resentment of Whig " ill usage " of himself.

'»aL(«^t

v.]

THE TTARLEY ADMINISTRATION.

arc one and the same thing. Meanwhile, Swift was able (on
November 4) to announce his triumph to the Archbishop.
lie was greatly annoyed by an incident of which he must
also have seen tlie humorous side. The Irish bishops had
bethought themselves after Swift's departure that he was
too much of a "Whig to be an eflfective r.olicitor. They
proposed, therefore, to take the matter out of his hands
and apply to Orniond, the new Lord Lieutenant. Swift
replied indignantly; the thing was done, however, and he
took care to let it be known that the whole credit belonged
to Ilarley, and of course, in a subordinate sense, to himself.
Official formalities were protracted for months longer, and
formed one excuse for Swift's continued absence from Ire-
laud; but wo need not trouble ourselves with the matter
further.

Swift's uirprecedented leap Into favour meant more than
a temporary success. The intimacy with Ilarley and with
St. John rapidly developed. Within a few months Swift
had forced his way into the very innermost circle of
official authority. A notable quarrel seems to liave given
the final impulse to his career. In February, 1711, Ilar-
ley offered him a fifty-pound note. This was virtually
to treat him as a hireling instead of an ally. Swift re-
sented the offer as an intolerable at. . it. He refused to
bo reconciled without ample apology and after long en-
treaties. His pride was not appeased for ten days, when
the reconciliation was sealed by an invitation from Harley
to a Saturday dinner.' On Saturdays the Lord Keeper
(Ilarcourt) and the Secretary of State (St. Jolm) dined

' These dinners, it niuy he noticed, seem to have been iield on
Thursdays when Ilarley had to attend the court at Windsor. This
may lead to some confusion with the Brothers' Club, which met on
Thursdays during the parliamentary session.

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S\VIFT.

[chap.

aloiio will. Ilarlcy ; " and at last," says Swift, in reporting
the event, " tliey have consented to let me among them on
that day." lie goes next day, and already chidos Lord
Kivers for presuming to intrude into the"^ sacred circle.
" They cull n)e nothing but .IcM.nthan," ho aads ; " and I
said I believed they would leave me Jonatuan, as they
found me." These dinners were continued, though they
became less select, llarley called Saturday his " whip-
ping-day," and Swift was the heartiest wielder of the
lash. From the same February, Swift began to dine
regularly with St. Jr-hn every Sunday ; and we may nc^te
it as some indication of the causes of his later preference
of llarley, that on one occasion he has to leave St. John
early. The company, he says, were in constraint, because
he would suffer no man to swear or talk indecently in his
presence.

Swift had thus conquered the ministry at a blow. What
services did he render in exchange? His extraordinary in-
fluence seems to have been due in a measure to sheer force
of personal ascendency. No man could come into contact
with Swift without fee ing that magnetic influence. Bat
he was also doing a more tangible service. In thus ad-
mitting Swift to their intimacy llarley and St. John were,
in fact, paying homage to the rising power of the pen.
I'olitical writers had hitherto been hirelings, and often lit-
tle better than spies. No preceding, and, we mav add, no
succeeding, writer ever achieved such a position' by such
means. The press has become more powerful as a whole,
but no particul' presentativc of the press has made such
a leap into po- Swift came at the time when the in-

fluence of po'litiea' writing was already gie; ', and when
the pcrs(j";il favour of a prominent minister could still
work miracles, llarley made him a favourite of the old

v.]

THE IiAKLEY ADMIMSTIIATION.

stamp, to reward his supremacy in tlic use of the new
weapon.

Swift liad begun in October by aveno-in<v liimsclf upon
Godolpliin's coldness, in a copy of lludibrastic verses about
tlie virtues of Sid Ilainct the mat^ician's rod — that is, the
Treasurer's stalf of oflice — wliich had a wonderful success.
lie fell savai>-ely upon the hated Wharton not lono- after,
in what he calls " a damned libellous pamphlet," of which
2000 copies were sold in two days. Libellous, indeed, is
a faint epithet to describe a production wliich, if its state-
ments be true, proves that Wharton deserved to be hunted
from society. Charges of lying, treachery, atlicism, Pres-
byterianism, debauchery, indecency, shameless indifference
to his own reputation and his wife's, the vilest corruption
and tyranny in his government, are piled upon liis victim
as thicldy as they will stand. Swift docs not expect to
sting Wharton. " I neither love nor hate him," he says,
"If I Sv;e liim after this is published he will tell mc ' that
ho is damnably mauled;' and then, with the easiest transi-
tion in the worl .1, ask about the weather or the time of
day." Wharton miglit possibly think that abuse of this
kind might almost defeat itself by its own virulence. But
Swifi !,.id already begun writings of a more statesmanlike
and effective kind.

A paper war was already raging when Swift came to
London. The Examiner had been started by St. John,
with the help of Atterbury, Prior, and others; and o})-
posod for a short time by Addison, in the Whif/ Exami-
ner. Harley, after granting the first-fruits, had told Swift
that the great want of the ministry was "some good pen,"
to keep up the spirits of tlie party. The Examiner, how-
ever, was in need of a firmer and more regular manager ;
and Swift took it in hand, his first weekly article appear-
ed ;-)

b' I

SWIFT.

[chap.

if'

r "

I, I
if

I I

!■
%

ing November 2, IVIO, his last on June 14, 1711. His
Examiners acliievcd an immediate and unprecedented suc-
cess. And yet, to say the truth, a modern reader is apt to
find tlicm decidedly heavy. No one, indeed, can fail to
perceive the masculine sense, the terseness .-uid precision
of the utterance. And yet many writiiiijs which produced
loss effect are far more readable now. The explanation is
simple, and applies to most of Swift's political writinftv,.
They are all rather acts than woi'ds. They are blows
struck in a party contest, and their merit is to be gauged
by their effect. Swift cares nothing for eloquence,^or Tog-
ic, or invective— and little, it must be added, for veracity—
so long as ho hits his mark. To judge him by a merely
literary standard is t(. judge a fencer by the grace of his
attitudes. Some high literary merits are implied in ef-
ficiency, as real grace is necessary to efiicicnt fencing ; but,
in either case, a clumsy blow which reaches the heart is
better than the most dexterous flourish in the air. Swift's
eye is always on the end, as a good marksman looks at
nothing but the target.

What, then, is Swift's aim in the Examiner? Mr.Kino--
lako has told us h..w a great journal throve by discover-
ing what was the remark that was on every one's lips, and
inaking the remark its own. Swift had the more digni-
fied task of really striking the keynote for his party, "lie
was to put the ministerial theory into that form in" which
it might seem to be the inevitable utterance of strong
common-sense. Ilarley's supporters were to see in Swift'1
phrases just what they would themselves have said — if
they had been able. The shrewd, sturdy, narrow preju-
dices of the average Englishman were to be pressed into
the service of the ministry, by showing how admirably
they could be clothed in the ministerial formulas.

[Cli;

THE liARLEY ADMINISTRATION.

The real question, nfijain, as Swift saw, was tlie question
of peace. \Vlii<r and Tory, as he said afterwards,' wero
really obsolete word^s. The true point at issue .vas peace
or war. The purpose, therefore, was to take up his
iiround so that peace niiffht be represented as the natural
policy of the Church or Tory party, and war as the natu-
ral fruit of the selfish AViiisxs. It was necessary, at the
same time, to show that this was not the utterance of
high-thing Toryism or downright Jacobitism, but the
plain dictate of a cool and impartial judgment, lie was
not to prove but to ta^ )r granted that the war had be-
come iiitolerably burdensome ; and to express the grow-
ing wish for peace in terms likely to conciliate the great-
est number of supporters. He was to lay down the plat-
form which could attract as many as possible, both of the
zealous Tories and of the lukewarm Whigs.

Measured by their fitness for this end, the Examiners
are admirable. Their very fitness for the end implies the
absence of some qualities which would have been more
attractive to posterity. Stirring appeals to patri(jtic sen-
timent may suit a Chatham rousing a nation to action ;
but Swift's aim is to check the extravagance in the naiuc
of selfish prosaic prudence. The philosophic reflections
of IJurkc, had Swift been capable of such reflection, would
have flown above the heads of his hearers. Even the
polished and elaborate invective of Junius would have
been out of place. No man, indeed, was a greater master
of invective than Swift, lie shows it in the Examiners
by onslaughts upon the detested Wharton. He shows,
too, that he' is not restrained by any scruples when it
comes in his way to attack his old patrons, and he adopts
the current imputations upon their private character. Ho
' Letter to a Whig Lord, 1712.

II ' '

SWIFT.

[chap.

could roiiixlly accuse Cowpor of biiramy, and Somors—
tlie Soiner.s nliom lie liad elaborately prniseu 5oine veais
before in the dedication to the Talc of a Tuh—of the
most aboiiiiiiablo perversion of justice. Jiut these an;
taunts thrown out .y the way. The substance of the
artich-s is not invective, but profession of political faith.
Oni- (Treat name, indeed, is of necessity a.ssailed. Marl-
borouoh's fame was a tower of stren(,Tth for the Whigs.
His duchess and hh cclleajruos had fallen; but whilst mir
was still raiding it seemed impossible to dismiss the great-
est living oommander. Yot whilst Marlborough was still
in power his inlluenco might be used to bring back his
party. Swift's treatment of this great adversary is signif-
icant. He constantly took credit for having suppressed
inuny attacks' upon Marlborough. lie was convinced
that it would be dangerous for the country to dismiss a
general whoso very name carried victory." He felt that it
was dangerous for the party to make an unreserved attack
upon the popular hero. Lord Rivers, he says, cursed the
Kramincr to him for speaking civdly of Marlborough;
and St. John, upon hearing of this, replied that if the
counsels of such mon as Rivers were taken, the ministry
"would be blown up in twenty-four hours." Yet Marl-
borough was the war personified, and the way to victory
lay over Marlborough's body. Xor had Swift any regard
for the man himself, who, he says,' is certainly a vile man,
and has no sort of merit e.vcept the military— as "covet-
ous as hell, and as ambitious as the prince of it."* The
whole case of the ministry implied the condemnation of
Marlborough. Most modern historians would admit that
continuance of the war could at this time be desired only
' Jonnud to Shlla, Fob. (i, 1712, ami Jan. 8 and 25, 1712.
•'/A., Jan. 7, 1711. =* /A., Jan. 21, 1712. « 7/.., Doc. ai, 1710.

»5V '

■J

TIIK IIAIU.EY ADMINISTHATIOX.

by fanatics or iiitorostod per

sons.

psychologist iiiiylit

ainust! liinisL'if by iiuinirinu' wliat wore tlio actual motives
of its advocates* in \vli;it dogrocs personal ambition, a
misguided patriotism, or some more sordid passions were
blended. Dut in tin; ordinary dialect of political warfare
there is no room for such refinements. The theory of
Swift and Swift's patrons was simple. The war was the
creation of the Whig "ring;" it was carried on for their
own purposes by the stock-jobbers and "monied men,"
wliosc rise was a new political phenomenon, and who
bad introduced the diabolical contrivance of public debts.
The landed interest .and the Church had been hoodwinked
too long by the union of corrupt interests supported by
Dutchmen, Scotchmen, Dissenters, freethinkers, and other
manifestations of the evil princi[)le. Marll)orough was
the head and patron of the whole. And what was Marl-
borough's motive? The answer was simple. It was
that which has been assigned, with even mon^ eni^jhaais,
by Macaulay — avarice. The 2Tth Examiner (February
8, 1711) probably contains the conn)liments to which
Rivers objected. Swift, in fact, admits that Marlborough
had all the great qualities generally attributed to him;
but all are spoilt by this fatal blemish. How far the ac-
cusation was true matters little. It is put at least with
force and dignity, and it expressed in the pithiest shape
Swift's genuine conviction, that the war now meant cor-
rupt self-interest. Invective, as Swift knew well enough
in hlis cooler moments, is a dangerous weapon, apt to re-
coil on the assailant unless it carries conviction. The
attack on Marlborough does not betray personal ani-
mosity, but the duliber and the highly plausible judg-
ment of a man determine.! to call things by their right
names, and not to be blinded by military glory.

i!,

> ^

\ \

'■Hi

■

1
1

lll^

i i'

•.>2

SWIFT.

[chap,

lis, indeed, is one of tiic points upon wliioli Swift's
'roryisni was unlike that of some later peiiods. Ho
always dislilvod and despised soldiers 'and their trade.
" It will no doubt be a mighty comfort to (Mir grand-
children," he says in another pamphlet,' "when they see
a few rags hung up in Westminster JJall which cost a
hundred millions, whereof tlwy are paying the arrears,
ti. boast as beggars do that their grandfathers were rich
and great." .\nd in other respects he has some right to
cl.'iim the adhesion of thorough Whigs. His personal at-
tacks, indeed, upon the party have a questionable sound.
In his zeal he constantly forgets that the corrupt ring
which he denounces were the very men from whom ho
expected preferment; "I well remember," lie .says' else-
where, "the clamours often raised during the late reign
of that party (the Whigs) against the leaders by those
wlio thought their merits were not rewarded; and they
had, no doubt, reason on their side, because it is, no doubt,
a misfortune to forfeit honour and conscience for noth-
ing" — rather an awkward remark from a man who was
calling Somers "a false, deceitful rascal" for not giving
him a bishopric! His eager desire to make the "un-
grateful dogs" repent their ill usage of him promjjts
attacks which injure his own character with that of his
former associates. Hut he has some ground for saying
that Whigs have changed their principles, in the sense
that their dislike of prerogative and of standing armies
had curiously declined when the Crown and the army
came to be on their side. Their enjoyment of power
had made them soften some of the prejudices learnt in
days of depression. Swift's dislike of what we now call

Conduct of the Allies.

" Advice to October Club.

'^\ik

•J

THE IIAULEY ADMINISTRATION'.

" inilitai'ism" cally wotit deeper than any party senti-
ment ; and in that sense, as \vc shall hereafter see, it had
really most affhiity with a Radicalism whieh would have
shocked AVhigs and Tories alike. ISiit in this particular
case it fell in with the Tory sentiment. The masculine
vitijour of the Ex<(minrrs served the ministry, who were
scarcely less in danujer from the excessive zeal of their
more bigoted followers tlian from tiic resistance of the
Whig minority. The pig-headed country squires had
formed an October Club, to muddle themselves with beer
and politics, and hoped — good, lioncst souls — to drive
ministers into a genuine attack on the orrupt practices
of their predecessors. All Ilarlcy's ^kill in intriguing and
wire-pulling would be needed. The •ministry, said Swift
(on Ma'-ch 4), "stood like an isthmus" between Whigs
and violent Tories, lie trembled for the result. They
are able seamen, but the tempest "is too great, the ship
too rotten, and the crew all against them." Soniers had
been twice in the Queen's closet. The Duchess of Som-
erset, who had succeeded the Duchess of Marlborough,
might be trying to play Mrs, Masham's game, Ilarley,
"though the most fearless man alive," seemed to be
nervous, and was far from well, " Vray God preserve
his health," says Swift; "everything depends upon it."
Four days later Swift is in an agony, " My heart,"
he exclaims, " is almost broken." Ilarley had been stab-
bed by Guiscard (March 8. 1711) at the council-board.
Swift's letters and journals show an agitation in which
personal affection seems to be even stronger than polit-
ical anxiety. " Pray pardon my distraction," he says to
Stella, in broken sentences. " I now think of all his
kindness to me. The poor creature now lies stabbed in
his bed by a desperate French Popish villain. Good

*, t

1 1

^:il </

SWIFT.

[CIIAI-.

Jii^Iit, and (rod hless yoii hotli, aiul pity ino ; I want
it." lie wrote to Kinj,' uiulcr the same excitement.
Ifarlcy, lie says, "has always treated uu-. with the ten-
dirness oi a parent, and never refused me any favour I
asked for a friend; therefore I hope your Grace will ex-
cuse the character of this letter."' He apolon-izes aijaiu
in a postscript for his confusion ; it must be imputed to
the "violent pain of mind 1 am in — (greater than ever I
felt in my life." The dan!4-er was not over for three
weeks. The chief effect seems to have been that llarlev
became popnl;ir as the intended victim of an hypothetical
Topish conspiracy; he introduced an applauded timmcial
schrine in ParlianuMit after his recovery, and was soon
afterwards made Earl of Oxford by way of consolation.
"This man," exclaimed Swift, "has jjjrown by persecu-
tions, turninirs out, and stabbinos. What waitiiii,' and
crowdinn- ;uid bowinof there will be at his levee!"

Swift had meanwhile (April 20) retired to Chelsea "for
the air," luni to have the advautaijc of a com[)ulsory walk
into town (two miles, or 574H ste[)s, each way, he calcu-
lates). Jle was liable, indeed, to disappointment on a
rainy day, when "all the three stao'c-coaches " were taken
up by the "cuniiiui;- natives of Chelsea;" but he g-ot a
lift to town in a gentleman's coach for a shillino;. lie
bathed in the river on the hot nio-hts, with his Irish ser-
vant, Patrick, standim^- on the bank to warn off passino-
lioats. The said I'atrick, who is always ^-cttin-- drunk,
whom Swift cannot iind it in his heart to dismiss in
Kiii-'land, who atones for his general carelessness and
lying by buying a linnet for Dingley, making it wilder
ilian ever in his attempts to tame it, is a characteristic
ligure in the journal. In Jnne Swift gets ten days' holi-
day at WycOiube, and in the summer he goos down pretty

I'
i

v.]

THE IIARI.RV ADMIXISTIJATIOX.

often witli tho ministers to ^'iiulsor. IIo ouno t<» town
in two honrs and forty minutes on one occasion : " twenty
miles arc nothins^ here." Tlie journeys are desoribed in
one of the happiest <>f his occasional poems:

" 'Tis (let nie see) tlu'oo vimus or more
(OctohiT next it will 1)0 four)
Since Hailcy hid me (iist iittcm!,
And elioso me for lui liunililc i'ncnc' :
Would take nie in liis cueh to cliiit,
And <iiiestioii niu of this or thiit:
As 'What's o'eloeUV and 'How's the wiiidV*
' Whose chariot's that we left huhind V
Or gravely try to read tlu- lines
Writ underneath the country signs.
Or, ' Have you nothing new to-day
From J 'ope, Troni rarnell, or from Gay V
Such tattle often entertains
My lord and me as far as Staines,
As once a wee!; we travel down
To Windsor, and again to town,
Where all that [)asscs inter van
Might be proclaimed at Charnt; Cross."

And when, it is said, St. John was disgusted by the frivo-
lous amusements of his companions, and his political dis-
courses miiilit be interrupted by Ilarlcy's exclamation,
"Swift, I am up; there's a eat" — the first who saw a cat
or an old woman winning the game.

Swift and Ilarley were soon playing a more exciting
o-ame. Prior had been sent to France, to renew peace
negotiations, with elaborate mystery. Even Swift was
kept in ignorance. On his return I'rior was arrested by
ofHcious custom-house ofHcers, and the fact of his journey
became public. Swift took advantage of the general in-
terest by a pamphlet intended to '* bite the town." Its
5*

tl-M

^md

li J'

It. '
I

111'

ill,' » I

SWIFT.

[chap.

politic;!] purpose, according to Swift, was to " furnisli fools
with .sonictliino- to t.-iik of;'' to draw a false scent across
tiic trail of the angry and suspicious Whigs. It seems
difficult to believe that any such effect could be produced
or anticipated ; but the pamphlet, which purports to be ati
account of Trior's journey given by a French valet, desirous
of passing himself off as a secretary, is an amusing example
of Swift's power of grave simulation of realities. The peace
negotiations brought on a decisive political struggle, I'ar-
liament was to meet in September. The Whigs^ resolved
to make a desperate effort. They had lost the" House of
Commons, but were .still strong in the Peers. The Lords
were not affected by the rapid o.scillations of public opin-
ion. They were free from some of the narrower prejudices
of country squires, and true to a revolution which gave the
chief power for more than a century to the aristocracy ;
while the recent creations had ennobled the great Wliig
leaders, and tilled the Bench with Low Churchmen. Marf-
borough and Godolphin had come over to the Whig junto,
and an additional alliance was now made. Nottingham
iiad been passed over by llarley, as it .seems, for hi^'s ex-
treme Tory principles, fn liis wrath he made an agree-
ment with the other extreme. By one of the most dis-
graceful bargains of party history Nottingham was to join
the Whigs in attacking the peace, whilst the AVliigs were
to buy his support by accepting the Occasional Conformity
Bill— the favourite High Church measure. A majority in
the House of Lords could not, indeed, determine the vic-
tory. The Government of England, says Swift in lYlS,'
"cannot move a step whilst the House of Commons coii-
tiiuies to dislike proceedings or persons employed." But
the plot went further. The House of Lords might bring
' Bcliavioiif of Qintn's Muiish-y.

THE IIAllLEY ADMINISTRATION'.

about a deadlock, as it had done before. The Queen, hav-
ing thrown off the rule of the Duchess of Marlborough,
had souii-bt safety in the rule of two mistresses, Mrs,
Mashaui and the Duchess of Somerset. The Duchess of
Somerset was in the Whig interest, and her influenct! with
the Queen caused the gravest anxiety to Swift and the min-
istry. She might induce Anne to call back the Whigs, and
in a new House of Commons, elected under a Whig min-
istry wielding the crown intlucnce and ap[)ealing to the
dread of a discreditable peace, tlic majority might be re-
versed. Meanwhile Prince Eugene was expected to pay a
visit to England, bringing fresh proposals for war, and
stimulating by liis presence the enthusiasm of the Whigs.
Towards the end of September the Whigs began to
pour in a heavy fire of pamphlets, and Swift rather
meanly begs the help of St. John and the law. But
he is confident of victory. Peace is certain, and a peace
" very much to the honour and advantage of iMigland."
The Whigs are furious; "but well wherret them, I war-
rant, boys." Yet he has misgivings. The news comes of
;' i failure of the Tory expedition against {Quebec, which
was to have anticipated the policy and the triumphs of
Chatham. Ilarley only laughs as usual ; but St. John is
cruelly vexed, and begins to suspect his colleagues of sus-
pecting him. Swift listens to both, and tries to smooth
matters ; but he is growing serious. " T am half weary of
them all," ho exclaims, and begins to talk of retiring to
Ireland. Harley lias a slight illness, and Swift is at once
in a fright. " We are all undone without him," he says,
"so pray for him, sirrahs 1" Meanwhile, as the parlia-
mentary struggle comes nearer, Swift launches the pam-
phlet which has been his summer's work. The Conduct
of the Allies is intended to prove what he had taken for

I s

'■ 11

1 '

»(

SWIFT.

[c'lIAT.

grantctl in the Examiners. It is to show, tliat is, that tlie
war lias ceased to he demaiRled by national interests. We
"uuhl, always to have been anxiiiaries ; we chose to become
[>rincii)ais; and liave yet so conducted the war that all
the advantages have gone to the Dutch. The explanation,
of conrse, is the seltislmess or corruption of the great Whig
junto. The pamphlet, forcible and terse in the highest
degree, had a snceesh due in part to other circumstances.
It was as much a state paper as a pamphlet ; a manifesto
obviously inspired by the ministry, and containing the
facts and papers whicli were to serve in the coming de-
bates. It was published on November 27 ; on December 1
the second edition was sold in five honrs ; and by the end
of January 11,000 copies had been sold. The parliament-
ary strnggle began on December 7 ; and the amendment to
the address, declaring that no peace conld be safe wliich
left Spain to the Bourbons, was moved by Nottingham, and
carried by a small majority. Swift liad foreseen this dan-
ger ; he had begged ministers to work up the njajority ;
and the defeat was (hie to Barley's carelessness. It w"as
Swift's temper to anticipate though not to yield to the
worst. lie conld see nothing but ruin. Every rumour
increaseil his fears. The Queen had taken the hand of
the Duke of Somerset on leaving the House of Lords, and
refused Shrewsbury's. She must be going over. Swift,
in his despair, asked St. John to find him some foreign
post, where he might be out of harm's way if the Wjiigs
should triumph. St. John laughed and affected courag^,
but Swift refused to be comforted. Ilarley told him that
" all would be well ;" but Ilarley for the moment liad lost
his contidence. A week after the vote he looks upon the
ministry as certainly ruined; and "God knows," he adds,
"what may be the consequences." By degrees a little

TFIE HAIILEY ADMIXISTHATION'.

liMjx' began to appear; tlionti'h the ministry, as Swift stiil
lieid, could expect notliiiig till the Ducliess of Somerset
was turned out. By way of accelerating this event, lie
hit u[)on a plan, which ho had reason to repent, and which
iiDlhing but his excitement could explain. lie composed
and printed one of his favourite squibs, the Windsor
Prophecy, and though Mrs. Masham persuaded him not to
publish it, distributed t(.)0 many copies for secrecy to be
possible. In this production, now dull enough, he calls
the duchess "Carrots," as a delicate hint at her red hair,
and says that she murdered her second husband.* These
statements, even if true, were not conciliatory; and it was
folly to irritate without injuring. Meanwhile reports of
ministerial plans gave him a little courage ; and in a day
or two the secret was out. lie was on his way to the
post on Saturday, December 28, when the great news
came. The ministry had resolved on something like a
coup d'etat, to be long mentioned with horror by all ortho-
dox Whigs and Tories. " I have broke open my letter,"
scribbled Swift in a cotfec-house, " and tore it into the
bargain, to let you know that we are all safe. The Queen
has made no less than twelve new peers .... and has
turned out the Duke of Somerset. She is awaked at last,
and so is Lord Treasurer. I want nothing now but to see
the Duchess out. But we shall do without her. We are
all extremely happy. Give me joy, sirrahs !" The Duke
of Somerset was not out; but a greater event ha{)pened

' There was enough plausibility in this scandal to give it a sting.
The duchess had left her second husband, u Mr. Tiiynne, iuunodiate-
ly after the niari'iago ceremony, and fled to Holland. There Count
Coniugsnuuk paid her his addresses, and, coming to England, had
Mr. Thynne shot l)y ruffians in Tall Mall. Kee the curious case in
the State Trials, vol. ix.

Ul)

1:1'

i):

100

SWIFT.

[chap,

Nvitl.in three days : the Duke of Marlboroiiol, was removed
from all his employments. The Tory victory was for the
time complete.

Here, too, was the culminatino- point of Swift's career
Fifteen months of encro-etic elfort had been crowned with'
success, lie was the intimate of the greatest men in the
country, and the most powerful exponent of their policy
No man in Eno-ja.ul, outside the ministry, enjoved a
wider reputation. The ball was at his feet, and no posi-
tion open to a clero-yman beyon.l his hopes. Yet from
this period begins a decline. He continued to write, pub-
iishmo- numerous squibs, of which many have been lost
and occasionally firing a gun of heavier metal. But noth-
ing came from him having the authoritative and master-
ly tone of the Conduct of the Allies. His health broke
down. At the beginning „f April, 1712, he was attacked
by a distressing complaint; and his old enemy, giddiness
gave him frecpient alarms. The daily journal ceased, and
was not fairly resumed till December, though its place is
partly supplied by occasional letters. The' political con-
test had changed its character. The centre of interest was
transferred to Utrecht, where negotiations began in Jan-
nary, to be protracted over fifteen months: the ministry
iiad to satisfy the demand for peace, without shockino- the
national self-esteem. Meanwhile jealousies were rapidly
developing themselves, which Swift watched with ever-
growing anxiety.

Swift's personal influence remained or increased. lie
drew closer to Oxford, but was still friendly with St
John ; and to the public his position seemed more im-
posmg than ever. Swift was not the man to bear his
I'o.iours meekly. In the early j^eriod of his acquaintance
with St. John (February 12, l7ll) he sends the Prime

\>A

[c'lIAP.

T.J

TUE IIAllLEY ADMINISTUATIOX.

101

Minister into tlio House of Commons, to tell tlio Secretary
of State that " I would not dine with him if he dined
late." He is still a novice at the Saturday dinners when
the Duke of Shrewsbury appears : Swift whispers that he
docs not like to see a stranger among them; and St.
John has to explain that the Duke has written for leave.
St. John then tells Swift that the Duke of Buckingham
desires his acciuaintance. The Duke, replied Swift, has
not made sufiicient advances : and he always expects great-
er advances from men in proportion to their rank, Dukes
and great men yielded, if only to humour the pride of
this audacious parson: and Swift soon came t») be pes-
tered by innuiuerable applicants, attracted by his ostenta-
tion of influence. Even ministers applied through him.
"There is not one of them," he says, in January, 1713,
" but what will employ me as gravely to speak for them
to Lord Treasurer as if I were their brother or liis." He
is proud of the burden of influence with the great, though
he affects to complain. The most vivid picture of Swift
in all his glory is in a familiar passage fr(jm IVishop Ken-
nett's diary :

"Swift," says Konnett, iu 1713, "came into the coffee-house, and
had a bow from everybody but me. When I came to the auteeham-
ber to wait l)efore prayers Dr. Swift was the principal man of talk
and l)usines,-i, and acted as Minister of Recjuests. He wa.s soliciting
the Earl of Arran to spealc to his brother, the Duke of Ormond, to
f^et a chaplain's place established in the ,i,'arrison of Hull for Mr.
Fiddes, a clergyman in that neighbourhood, wiio had lately been in
jail, and published sermons to pay fees. He was promising Mr.
. Thorold to undertake with my Lord Treasurer that according to his
petition he should obtain a salary of 200/. per annum, as minister of
the English Church at Rotterdam. He stopped F. Gwynne, Esq..
going in with the red bag to the Queen, and told him aloud he had
something to sav to bun from my Lord Treasurer. He talked with

\l\

102

SWIFT.

[CIIAP.

the son of Dr. Davciiiuit to be scut abroad, and took out his pocket-
book and wrote down several tilings as memoranda to do for him.
lie turned to tlie lire, and took out his p;old wateh, and teliiuj^ iiini
tlie time of day, eoniiilained it. was verv late. A i^'entleniau said, 'it
was too fast.' ' IIow eau I lielp it,' says tlie Doetor, 'if tlio court-
iers i(i\(i me a waUh that won't go right V Then he instructed a
young nobleman that the I)est poet in England was Air. Pope (a Pa-
pist), who had begun a translation of Homer into English verse, for
which, he said, he must have them all subscribe. 'For,' says he,
'the auth( r nhnll not l)egin to print till I hai'c a thousand guineas for
him.' Lord Treasurer, after leaving the (Jueen, came through the
room, beckoning Dr. Swift to follow him; both went off just before
prayers."

There is undoubtedly something offensive in this blus-
tering self-assertion. " No man," says Johnson, witli his
usual force, "can pay a more servile tribute to the great
tlian by suffering his liberty in their presence to aggran-
dize him in his own esteem." Delicacy was not Swift's
.strong point ; his compliments are as clumsy as his in-
vectives arc forcible ; and he sliows a certain taint of vul-
garity in his intercourse with social dignitaries. lie is,
perhaps, avenging himself for the Immiliations received at
Moor Park, lie has a Napoleonic ab.sence of magnanimity.
lie likes to relish his triumpli ; to accept the pettiest as
well as the greatest rewards; to flaunt his splendours in
the eyes of the servile as well as to enjoy the conscious-
ness of real power. But it would be a great mistake to
infer that this ostentatiousne.ss of authority concealed real
servility. Swift preferred to take the bull by the horns.
lie forced himself upon ministers by self-assertion ; and he
lield them in awe of liim as the lion-tamer keeps down the
latent ferocity of the wild beast. lie never takes \m eye
off his subjects, nor lowers his imperious demeanour. lie
retained his intlucncc, as Johnson observes, long after his

[CIIAP.

V.J

THE IIAllLEY ADMLNLSTKATiOX.

103

services had ceased to bo useful. And all this dcinonstiva-
tive patronage meant real and eneri^^etic work. We may
note, for example, and it incidentally confirms Kennett's
accurac)-, that lie was really serviceable to Davcnant,' and
tliat Fiddes n'ot the chaplaincy at Hull. No man ever
threw himself with more energy into the service of his
friends, lie declared afterwards that in the days of his
credit he had done fifty times more for fifty people, from
whom he had received no obligations, than Temple had
done for him.' The journal abounds in proofs that this
was not overstated. There is '' INlr. Harrison," for ex-
ample, who has written " some mighty pretty things."
Swift takes him up; rescues him from the fine friends
who are carelessly tempting him to extravagance ; tries to
start him in a continuation of the Taller; exults in getting
liim a secretaryship 'ibroad, which he declares to be " the
prettiest post in Europe for a young gentleman ;" and is
most unaffectedly and deeply grieved when the poor lad
dies of a fever. He is canying 100/. to his young friend,
when he hears of his death. " I told Parnell T was afraid
to knock at the door — my mind misgave me," he says. On
his way to bring help to Harrison he goes to sec a " poor
poet, one Mr. Diaper, in a nasty garret, very sick," and
consoles him with twenty guineas from Lord Bolingbroke.
A few days before he has managed to introduce Parnell to
Harley, or rather to contrive it so that "the ministry de-
sire to be acquainted with rarnell, and not Parnell with
the ministrv." His old schoolfellow Congrcvc was in
alarm about his appointments. Swift spoke at once to
Harley, and went off immediately to report his success to
Congrcvc : " so," he sa}s, " I have made a worthy man

* Letters from Smalridgo ami Dr. Davenaut in 1713.
- Letter to Lord Paluierston, Januury>29, 1726.
H

I '

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' i .^Ki

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'ill

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: ,i

ii'

104

SWIFT.

[tllAP.

easy, and that is a good day's work.'" One of the latest
letters in his journal refers to his attempt to serve his
other schoolfellow, Berkeley. " I will favour h . . as
much as I can," he says; "this I think I am bound to in
honour and conscience, to use all my little credit towards
helping forward men of worth in the world." He was
always helping less conspicuous men ; and he prided him-
self,^ with justice, that he had been as helpful to Whigs as
to Tories. The ministry complained that he never Tame
to them " without a Whig iu his .sleeve." Bosid(>s his
friend Congreve, he recommended Kowe for preferment,
and did his best to protect Steele and Addison. No man'
of letters ever laboured more heartily to promote the inter-
ests of his fellow-craftsmen, as few have ever had similar
opportunities.

Swift, it is plain, desired to use his influence magnifi-
cently. He hoped to make his reign memorable bv splen-
did patronage of literature. The great organ of 'munifi-
cence was the famous Brothers' Club, of which he was
the animating spirit. It was founded m June, 1711,
during Swift's absence at Wycombe ; it was intended to
" advance conversation and friendship," and obtain patron-
age for deserving persons. If, was to include none but
wits and men able to help wits, and, "if we go on as we
began," says Swift, "no other club in this town will be
w'orth talking of." In March, 1712, it consisted, as Swift
tells us, of nine lords and ten commoners.' It excluded

' .rmie 22, 1711.

2 Tlie list, so far as I can make it out from refoieiiocs in the jour-
nal, appears to include more names. One or two had probably re-
tired. The peers are as follows : The Dukes of Shrewsburv (perhaps
only suggested), Orniond, and Ik-aufort; Lords Orrerv, Kivers Dart-
"H.uth, Dupplin, Masham, Bathurst, and Lansdowne "(the last three

[c'lur.

v.]

THE IIAULEV ADMINISTRATION.

105

lliirley and the Lord Keeper (Ilarcourt), apparently as
tliey were to be tlic distributors of the patronuife ; but it
iiiehided St. Jolin and several leadinsj ministers, Ilarlev's
son and son-in-law, and llarcourt's son ; whilst literature
was represented by Swift, Arbuthnot, Trior, and Friend, all
of whom were more or less aetively employed by the min-
istry. The club was, therefore, composed of the ministry
and their dependents, though it had not avowedly a politi-
cal colouring. It dined on Thursday during the parlia-
mentary session, when the political squibs of the day were
often laid on the table, including Swift's famous Windsor
Prophecij, and subscriptions were sometimes collected for
such men as Diaper and Harrison. It tlourished, however,
for little more than the first season. In the winter of
l7l2-'lo it began to sutler from the connnon disease of
such institutions. Swift began to complain bitterly of the
extravagance of the charges. lie gets the club to leave
a tavern in which the bill' " for four dishes and four, first
and second course, without wine and drink," had been
211. Gs. 9>d. The number of guests, it seems, was fourteen.
Next winter the charges are divided. " It cost me nine-
teen shillings to-day for my club dinner," notes Swift, De-
cember 18, 1712. "I don't like it." Swift had a high
value for every one of the nineteen shillings. The meet-
ings became irregular: Ilarley was ready to give promises,
but no patronage ; and Swift's attendance falls off. Indeed,
it may be noted that he found dinners and suppers full of
danger to his health. He constantly complains of their

were of the famous twelve); and tlie coiiiinoners are Swift, Sir II.
Raymotid, Jaciv Ilill, Disney, Sir W. Wyiulhani, St.Jolin, Prior, Friend,
Arbutiuiot, Hurley (son of Lord Oxford), and Ilarcourt (^o\\ of Liird
Ilarcourt).

' February, 28, 1712.

f « i ■■

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106

SWIFT.

[('IIAI'.

after-effects ; and partly, pi'Hiaps, for tliat reason lie early
ceases to frec|iu'iit colfoe- houses. I'crliaps, loo, his con-
tempt for eolfee-honso society, and the inereasinLf dii-'iiitv
which made it desira1)lc to keep possible applicants at a
distance, had much to do with this. The Hrothers' Club,
however, was loui: remembered by its niend)ers, and in
later year- they often address each otlur by the ohl fra-
ternal title.

One desiirn which was to have sio-nalized Swift's period
of power suirn-ested the only paper which Ik; had ever pub-
lished with his name. It was a " proposal for correctiiii--,
improvinj;, and ascertain in^- the EnoHsh lanunaj^a'," pub-
lished in May, 1712, in the form of a letter to Ilarlcy.
The letter itself, written offhand in six hours (February 21,
1712), is not of mu<-h value; but Swift recurs to the sub-
ject frequently enouo-h to show that he really Imped to be
the founder of an Eno-|ish Academy. Had Swift been his
own minister instead of the driver of a minister, the proj-
ect might have been started. The rapid development of
the political struo'o'le sent Swift's academy to the limbo
provided for such thinsrs; and few Knglish authors Avill
reo-ret the failure of a scheme unsuitcd to our natural idio-
syncrasy, and calculated, as I fancy, to end in nothinir but
lan_or£^iix ation of pedantry. )

One remark, meanwhile, recurs which certainly struck
Swift himself. He says (Ma)ch 1 7, 1 712) that Sachcvcrell,
the Tory martyr, has come to him for ])atronage, ard ob-
serves that when he left Ireland neither of them could
have anticipated such a relationship. "This," he adds,
" is the seventh I have now provided for since I came, and
can do nothing for myself." Hints at a desire for prefer-
ment do not appear for some time ; but as he is constantly
speaking of an early return to Ireland, and is as regularly

THE IIAIILEY ADMIXISTUATIOX.

107

iirld h:\r]i }^\■ tlic oiitiTatics of tlio ministry, tlierc must
li.'ivo lu'c'ii at least an iniplled proiulsr. A hint lia-l l»i'on
irivcM that 111' mlu-lit he ina(U' chaplain to llarlev, when tin'
minister hwAiun; Karl oi Oxford. " I will ho no man's
chaplain alivo," ho says. I In remarks about the same time
(May 2:5, l^ll) thai it " wonhl look extremely little" if
he U-turned without womo distinction ; hut he will not he<,'
lor prcfcriiu'iit. The ministry, he says In the followint;
August, only want him for one hit of business (the Con-
ihii-t of the Allies, presumably). Wiien that is done he
will take his leave of them. " 1 never p;ot a i)enny from
them nor expect it." The only post for which he made
a direct application was that of liistoriou-rapher. He had
made considorable preparations for his so-calh'd Ilistori/
of the Last Four Years of Qnevti Awie, which appeared
posthumously, and whi(!h may be described as one of hio
political pamphlets without the vigour'— a dull statement
of facts put too'ether by a partisan affectino; the historical
character. This application, however, was not made till
April, 1714. when Swift was possessed of all the prefer-
ment that he was destined to receive. lie considered in
his hauj^hty way that he should be entreated rather than
entreat; and ministers wer(>, perhaps, slow to give lam
anythiiio- which could take him away from them. A secret
iuHueticc was at work against him. The Talc (fa Tub
was brouglit up against him ; and imputations upon his
ortliodoxy were common. Nottingham even revenged
himself l>v (h-scribing Swift in the House of Lords as a
divine " who is hardly suspected of being a Christian."

' Its ;iuthci>ticity was dotibtcHl.but, as I think, quite gnituitously,
by Johnson, by Lord StMnliopu, iuul, as Stanhope says, by Macauhiy.
The duhiess is easily explicable by the cireuniritauces of the compo-
sition.

!.H

1!.

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108

SWIFT.

[niAi'.

Such iiisiim.itions wore also tiirnod to nccount by the
Duchess of Suiuerset, who retained her infhiencc over
Anno in^ spite of Swift's attacks. His journal in tlie win-
ter of 1712-'! n shows jrrowinc: <liscontcnt. In Deceniher,
1712,1)0 resolves to write no more till soniethin^r is dono
for him. He will jret under shelter l)cforo lie .nakos more
enemies. Jj,- declares that ho is "soliciting' nothini.-" (Feb-
niary 4, I 71:5), but he is tjr.nvinrj iuipatient. Ilarley is
kinder than ever. " Mi-rhtj Lind !" exclaims Swift, " with

a ; less of civility and more of interest;" or, as he

puts it in one of his favourite " [)roverb8" soon afterwards
" my grandmother used to sav : '

' More of your iiiiiufi,
And liss of your (liriiii<r.'"

At last Swift, hearing tliat he was again to be parsed over,
gave a positive intimation that he woidd retire if nothin.r
was done; adding that he sli(,uld c.)mi)]ain of Ilarley (or
nothing but iKglocting to inform him sooner of the hope-
lessness of his position.' Tlie Dean of St. Patrick's was at
last promoted to a bishopric, ;ind Swift appointed to the
ya.'ant deanery. The warrant was signed on April 23, and
in June Swift set out to take possession of his deanery.
It was no great prize; he would have to pav 1000/. for
the house and fees, and thus, he savs, it would be three
years before ho would be the richer for it ; and, more-
over, it involved what he already described as "banish-
ment " to a country which he hated.

His state of mind when entering upon liis preferment
was painfully depressed. " At my iirst cominu'," he writes
t.) Miss Vanhomrigh, " T thought I should have died with
discontent; and was horribly melancholy while they were

' April i;{, 1713.

l.W.

•]

THE IIAUI-KY ADMIMSTUATION.

lO'J

installiiiL!; iiu; ; but it bej^iiis to wcnr off and clianijo to
iliilnoss." Tliis depression is sitii;ul!ir, wlieii \vc ivincin-
Ih'i- tliiit Swift was retiirniujj; to tiie woman fur whom lio
had tho stron.«,n!st atT.'ctioii, and from whom ho had liecii
separated for wcivly i '-co years; and, moreover, tlial lie
was rcturniiiif as a famous and a successful man. lie
-^(■ems to have been receivol witli some disfavour by a
society of Whiii proclivities, lie was sulTerini;' from a
fresh reiiiiM of ill-health; and, besides the absence from
the political strut^ules in which ho was so keenly interest-
ed, ht could not think . f them without deep anxiety.
ITe returned to London in October at tho earnest r.M|uest
of political friends. Matters wore looking' serious; and
though the journal to Stella was not again taken up, \ «•
can pretty well trace tho events of tho following period.

There can rarely have been a loss congenial p '''• '>r
colleagues than Ilarley and St. John. Their unioi,
that of a still more brilliant, daring, and seif-.'onli nt
Disraeli with a very inferior edition of Sir Robert 1 1,
with smaller intellect and exaggerated infirmities. Tli<
timidity, procrastination, atid "refinement" of tho Troa^
uror were calculated to exasperate his audacious colleagii
I'rom the earliest period Swift had declared that over,
thing depended upon tho go^ d mutual understanding of
the two ; he was frightened b every symptom of discord,
and declares (in August, 1711) that he has ventured all his
credit with the ministers to rensovc their differeneos. lie
knew, as ho afterwards said (October 20, 1711), that this
was the way to be sent back t- • his willows at Laracor,
but everything must bo risked in such a case. When
difficulties revived next year ho lioped that he had made
a reconciliation. ]>ut the disc "d was too vital. The
victory of the Tories brought on serious danger. They

1 .

I Ml

III,

SWIFT.

[CIIAI',

Iji

V '

! •

I 11 !) t

liad come into power to malcc peace. Tliey Iiad made it.
'Vhc next question was that of the succession of the crown.
Here they neitlier reflected tlie o-cneral opinion of the
nation nor were agreed amongst themselves, llarley, as
wc now know, had flirted with the Jacobites; and IJoling-
broke was deep in treasonable plots. The existence of
such plots was a secret to Swift, who indignant Iv denied
their existence. When King hinted at a })ossible danger
to Swift from the discovery of St, John's treason, he in-
dignantly replied that he must liave been "a inost false
mid vile man " to join in anything of the kind.' lie pro-
fesses elsewhere his conviction that there were not at this
period five hundred Jacobites in England; and "amongst
tliese not six of any quality or consequence.'" Swift's
sinc(!rity, here as everywhere, is beyond all suspicion ; but
his conviction proves incidentally that he was in the dark
as to the " wheels within wheels " — the backstairs plots,
by which the administration of his friends was hampered
and distracted. With so many causes for jealousy and
discord, it is no wonder that the political world became a
mass of complex intrigue and dispute. The Queen, mean-
while, might die at any moment, and some decided course
of action become imperatively necessary. Whenever the
Queen was ill, said llarley, people were at their wits' end ;
as soon as she recovered they acted as if she were im-
mortal. Yet, though he complained of the general inde-
cision, liis own conduct was most hopelessly undecided.

It was in the liopes of pacifying these intrigues that
Swift was recalled from Ireland, lie plunged into the
tight, but not with liis old success. Two i)amphlets which
he published at the end of 1713 are indications of his

' Letter to King, December 1 0, 1 V 1 C .

''■ Inquiry into the Behaviour of the Queen's last Ministry.

v-l

THE IIARLEY ADMINISTUATIOX.

Ill

state of mind. One was an attack upon a wild no-[)()perv
shriek emitted by Bishop Burnet, wliom he treats, says
Johnson, " like one wlioni lie is i;-hid of an opportunity to
insult." A man who, like Bnrne-t, is on friendly terms
with those wlio assail the privile!:;;es of liis order nuist often
expect such treatment from its zealous adherents. Yet the
scornful assault, which finds out weak places enough in
Burnet's mental rhetoric, is in painful contrast to the dig-
nified argument of earlier pamphlets. The other pam-
[)hlet was an incident in a more painful contest. Swift
had tried to keep on good terms with Addison and Steele.
lie had prevented Steele's dismissal from a Commissioner-
ship of Stamps. Steele, however, had lost his place of
(Jazettcer iov an attack upon llarley. Swift persuaded
llarley to be reconciled to Steele, on condition that Steele
should apologize. Addison prevented Steele from making
the required submission, " out of mere spite," says Swift,
at the thought that Steele should require other help —
rather, wc guess, because Addison thought that the sub-
mission would savour of party intidelity. A coldness fol-
lowed. "All our friendship is over," said Swift of Addi-
son (March G, 1711); and though good feeling revived
between tlie principals, their intinuu-y ceased. Swift,
swept into the ministerial vortex, pretty well lost sight of
Addison ; though they now and then met on civil terms.
Addison dined with Swift and St. John upon April 3,
1718, and Swift attended a rehearsal of Cato — the only
time when we see him at a theatre. Meanwhile the ill
feelinir to Steele remained, and bore bitter fruit.

Steele and Addison had to a great extent retired from
politics, and during the eventful years 1'711-'I2 were
chietlv occupied in the politically harmless Spectator.
But Steele was always ready to find vent for his zeal ;

I !

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112

SWIFT.

[chap.

I ?!

I !

and in 1713 ho fell foul of the Uxa miner in the Guardian.
Swift had long ceased to write Examiners or to be respon-
sible for the conduct of the paper, thongli he still occa-
sionally inspired the writers. Steele, naturally enough,
supposed Swift to be still at work; an.] in defending a
daughter of Steele's enemy, Nottingham, not only sug-
gested that Swift was her assailant, but added an insinua-
tion that Swift was an infidel. The impntation stung
Swift to the (]uiek. lie had a sensibility to personal at-
tacks, not rare witli those wlio most freelv indulge in
them, which was ridiculed bv tlie easv-iroino- Harlev. An
attack from an old friend— from a friend whose good opin-
ion he still valued, though their intimacy had ceased; from
a friend, moreover, whom in spite of their separation lie
had tried to protect; and, Jinally, an attack upon tlie ten-
derest part of his character, irritated liini beyond measure.
Some angry letters passed, Steele evidently regarding Swift
as a traitor, and disbelieving his professions of innocence
and liis claims to active kindness; whilst Swift felt Steele's
ingratitude the more deeply from the apparent plausibility
of the accusation. If Steele was re.-'Ily unjust and ungen-
erous, we may admit as a partial excu>e that in such cases
the less prosperous combatant lias a kind of right to bitter-
ness. The quarrel broke out at the time of Swift's appoint-
ment to the deanery. Soon after the new Dean's return to
England, Steele was elected member for Stockbridge, and
rushed into political controversy. Ilis most conspicuous
performance was a frothy and pomjjous pamphlet called
the Crisis, intended to rouse alarms as to French invasion
and Jacobite intrigues. Swift took the opportunity to re-
venge himself upon Steele. Two \yM\\\)\\hu~ The impor-
tance of the " Guardian " considered, and The Public Spirit
of the Whiijs (the latter in answer to the Crisis)— t^vo tierce

v.]

THE IIAKLEY ADMIMSTIJATIOX.

Hi;

attacks upon Steele personally and politically. Swift's feel-
ing conies ont sufficiently in a remark in the ilrst. lie re-
verses the saying abont Craniner, and says that he may
affirm of Steele, " Do liirn a good turn, and he is your
enemy for ever." There is vigorous writing enough, and
eifective ridicule of Steele's literary stvle and political
alarniisni, l>ut it is i)ainfully obvious, as in the attack
upon Burnet, that personal animosity is now the predom-
inant instead of an auxiliary feeling. Swift is anxious be-
yond all things to mortify and humiliate an antagonist.
And he is in proportion less efficient as a partisan, though
more amusing, lie lias, moreover, the disadvantage of be-
ing politically on the defensive, lie is no longer proclaim-
ing a policy, but endeavouring to disavow the policy at-
tributed to his party. The wrath which breaks forth, and
the bitter personality with which it is edged, were far more
calculated to irritate his opponents than to disarm tbo
lookers-on of their suspicions.

Part of the furv was no doubt due to the a'rowinir un-
soundness of his political position. Steele in the beginning
of 1714 was expelled from the House for the Crisis ; and
an attack made upon Swift in the House of Lords for an
incidental outburst against the hated Scots, in his reply to
the Crisis, was only staved off by a manoeuvre of the min-
istry. Meanwhile Swift was urging the necessity of union
upon men who hated each other more than they regarded
any public cause whatever. Swift at last brought his two
patrons together in Lady Masham's lodgings, and entreated
them to be reconciled. If, he said, they woul ^ agree, all
existing mischiefs could be remedied in two minutes. If
they would not, the ministry would be ruined iu two
months, liolingbroke assented ; Oxford characteristically
shuffled, said "all would be well," and asked Swift t<> dine

I m

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114

SWIFT.

[chap.

witli liim next day. Swift, however, said tliat lie would
not stay to see the inevitable catastroplie. It was liio
natural instinct to hide his head in such moments; his
intensely proud and sensitive nature could not bear to
witness the triumph of liis enemies, and he accordingly
retired at the end of May, 1714, to the quiet parsonage
of Upper Letcombe, in Berksliire. Tiie public wondered
and speculated ; friends wrote letters describing the scenes
which followed, and desiring Swift's help ; and he read,
and walked, and chewed the cud of melancholy reflection,
and thought of stealing away to Ireland, lie wrote, liow-
ever, a very remarkable pamphlet, giving his view of the
situation, which was not published at the time; events
went too fast.

Swift's conduct at this critical point is most noteworthy.
The pamphlet (Free llioughts tqxm the Present State of
Ajfalrs) exactly coincides with all his private and public
utterances. His theory was simple and straightforward.
The existing situation was the culminating result of
llarley's policy of refinement and procrastination. Swift
two years before liad written a very able remonstrance
'■vith the October Club, who had sought to y>ush Harley
into decisive measures; but though he preached patience
he reallv sympathized with their motives. Instead of
making a clean sweep of his opponents, Ilarley had left
many of them in ofiice, either from "refinement" — that
over-subtlety of calculation which Swift thought inferior
to plain common sense, and which, to use his favourite
illustration, is like the sharp knife that mangles the paper,
when a plain, blunt paper-knife cuts it properly — or else
from inability to move the Queen, which he had foolishly
allowed to pass for unwillingness, in order to keep up the
appearance of power. Two things were now to be done:

\s. \

[chap.

v.]

THE IIARLEY ADMINISTRATIOX.

U'l

first, a clean sweep should be made of all Whigs and Dis-
soiiters from ofHcc and from the army; secondly, the
Court of Hanover should be required to break off all in-
tercourse with the Opposition, on which condition the
heir-presumptive (the infant Prince Frederick) might be
sent over to reside in P:ngland. Briefly, Swift's policy
''/as a policy of "thorough." Oxford's vacillations were
the great obstacle, and Oxford was falling before the alli-
ance of Bolingbroke with Lady Masham. Boiiiigbroke
might have turned Swift's policy to the account of the
Jacobites ; but Swift did not take this into account, and
in the Free Thoughts he declares his utter disbelief in any
danger to the succession. What side, then, sliould ho
take? He sympathized with Bolingbroke's avowed prin-
ciples. Bolingbroke was eager for his help, and even
hoped to reconcile him to the red-haired duchess. But
Swift was bound to Oxford by strong personal affection ;
by an affection which was not diminished even by the fact
that Oxford had procrastinated in the matter of Swift's
own preferment ; and was, at this very moment, annoying
him by delaying to pay the 1000/. incurred by his in-
stallation in the deanery. To Oxford he had addressed
(November 21, 1713) a letter of consolation upon the
death of a daughter, possessing the charm which is given
to such letters only by the most genuine sympathy with
the feelings of the loser, and by a spontaneous selection
of the only safe topic— praise of the lost, equally tender
and sincere. Every reference to Oxford is affectionate.
When, at the beginning of July, Oxford was hastening to
his fall, Swift wrote to him another manly and dignified
letter, professing an attachment beyond the reach of ex-
ternal accidents of power and rank. The end came soon.
Swift heard that Oxford was about to resiu'n. He wrote

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SWIFT.

[niAP V.

at once (July 25, 1714) to propose to accompany him to
his country liouse. Oxford replied two days later in a
letter oddly characteristic, lie begs Swift to come with
him : " If I have not tired yon tete-a-tete, fling away so
much of your time upon one who loves you ;" and then
rather spoils the pathos by a bit of hopeless doggerel.
Swift wrote to Miss Vanhomrigh on August 1. "I have

~ CD

been asked," he says, " to join with those people now in
power; but I will not do it. I told Lord Oxford I would
go with him, when he was out; and now he begs it of
me, and I cannot refuse him. I meddle not with his
faults, as he was a Minister of State ; but you know his
personal kindness to me was excessive ; he distinguished
and chose me above all other men, while he was great, and
his letter to me the other day was the most moving im-
aginable."

An intimacy which bore such fruit in time of trial was
not one founded upon a servility varnished by self-asser-
tion. No stauncher friend than Swift ever lived. But
his fidelity was not to be put to further proof. The day
of the letter just quoted was the day of Queen Anne's
death. The crasl) which followed ruined the "people
now in power " as effectually as Oxford. The party with
which Swift had identified himself, in whose success all
his hopes and ambitions were bound up, was not so much
ruined as annihilated. "The Earl of Oxford," wrote
Bolingbroke to Swift, "was removed on Tuesday. The
Queen died on Sunday. What a world is this, and how
docs fortune banter us I"

iii^i

CHAPTER VI.

STELLA AND VANESSA.

The final crash of the Tory administration found Swift
approaching the end of his forty-seventh year. It found
him, in his own opinion, prematurely aged both in mind
and body. His personal prospects and political hopes
were crushed. *' I have a letter from Dean Swift," says
Arbuthnot in September ; '* he keeps up his noble spirit,
and though like a man knocked down, you may behold
him still with a stern countenance and liming a blow at
his adversaries." Yet his adversaries knew, and he knew
only too well, that such blows as he could now. deliver
could at most show his wrath without gratifying his
revenge. He was disarmed as well as "knocked down."
He writes to Bolingbroke from Dublin in despair, " I
live ft country life in town," he says, " see nobody and go
every day once to prayers, and hope in a few months to
grow as stupid as the present situation of affairs will
require. Well, after all, parsons arc not such bad com-
pany, especially when they are under subjection ; and I
let none but such come near me." Oxford, Bolingbroke,
and Ormond were soon in exile or the Tower; and a let-
ter to Pope next year gives a sufficient picture of Swift's
feelings. "You know," he said, "how well I loved both
Lord Oxford and Bolingbroke, and how dear the Duke of

! *

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118

SWIFT.

[chap.

Ormond is to mc; do you imagine I can bo easy Avl)ile
their enemies are endeavouring- to take off their liead.s?—
I nunc et versus tecum mcditare canoros /" "You are to
understand," he says in conchision, "that I live in the
eorner of a vast unfurnished iiousc; my family consists
of a steward, a groom, a helper in the stable, a" footman,
and an old maid, who are all at board wages, and when I
do not dine abroad or make an entertainment (which last
is very rare), 1 eat a mutton pie and drink half a pint of
wine ; my amusements are defending my small dominions
against the archbishop, and endeavouring to reduce my
rebellious choir. Perditur hcvc inter misero lux.'' In an-
other of the dignified letters which show the finest side
of his .iature he offered to join Oxford, whose intrepid
behaviour, he says, "has astonished every one but me,
who know you so well." But lie could do nothing be-
yond showing sympathy ; and he remained alone asseHing
his authority in his ecclesiastical domains, brooding over
the past, and for the time unable to divert his thoughts
into any less distressing channel. Some verses written
in October "in sicKness" give a remarkable expression
of his melancholy :

" 'Tis true— then why should I repine
To see my Hfe so fast decline ?
But wliy obscurely here alone,
Where I am neither loved nor known ?
My state of health none care to learn,
My life is here no soul's concern,
And those with whom I now converse
Without a tear will tend my hearse."

Yet wc might have fancied that his lot would not be
so unbearable. After all, a fall which ends in a deaneiy
5^^^^HllklH]iii2i£!^s- His friends, though h^ii^d^^^d.

[chap.

VI.]

STELLA AND VANESSA.

119

survived ; and, lastly, was any one so likely to shed tears
upon liis hearse as the woman to whom he was finally
returning? The answer to this question brings us to a
story imperfectly known to us, but of vital importance in
Swift's history.

Wc have seen in what masterful fashion Swift took pos-
session of great men. The same imperious temper shows
itself in his relations to women. lie required absolute
submission. Entrance into the inner circle of his affec-
tions could only bo achieved by something like abase-
ment; but all within it became as a part of himself, to
be both cherished and protected without stint. His
affectation of brutality was part of a system. On first
meeting Lady Burlington, at her husband's house, he
ordered her to sing. She declined. He replied, "Sing,
or I will make you ! Why, madam, I suppose you take
me for one of your English hedge-parsons ; sing when I
tell you !" She burst into tears and retired. The next
time he met her he began, " Pray, madam, arc you as
proud and ill-natured as when I saw you last?" She
good - humouredly gave in, and Swift became her warm
friend. Another lady to whom he was deeply attached
was a famous beauty, Anne Long. A whimsical treaty
was drawn up, setting forth that "the said Dr. Swift,
upon the score of his merit and extraordinary qualities,
doth claim the sole and undoubted right that all per-
sons whatever shall make such advance to him as he
pleases to demand, any law, claim, custom, privilege of
sex, beauty, fortune or quality to the contrary notwith-
standing;" and providing that Miss Long shall cease the
contumacy in which she has been abetted by the "Van-
homrighs, bu< " ^ allowed in return, in consideration o^" der
being "a Lady of the Toast," to give herself the reputation
I 6* "

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SWIJ-T.

[chap.

of being one of Swift's acquaintance. Swift's affection for
Miss Long is tonciiinrrly cxpressetl in private papers, an.)
in a letter written upon her death in retirement and
poverty. Ho intends to put up a monument to lier mem-
ory, and wrote a notice of her, "to serve her memory,"
and also, as he characteristically adds, to spite the brother
who had neglected her. Years afterwards Ijo often refers
to the "edict" which he annually issued in EnoJand
commanding all ladies to make him the first advances.'
lie graciously makes an exception in favour of the Duch-
ess of Queensbcrry, though he observes incidentally that
he now hates all people whom he cannot command. ' This
humorous assumption, like all Swift's humour, has a
strong element of downright earnest. Ho gives whimsi-
cal pro.ninenco to a genuine feeling. He is always acting
the part of despot, and acting it very gravel v. When he
stays at Sir Arthur Acheson's, Lady Achcson becomes
his pupil, and is "severely chid" when she reads wrong
Mrs. Vendarves, afterwards Mrs. Delany, says in the same
way that Swift calls himself "her master," and corrects
her when she speaks bad English.^ He behaved in the
si.me way to hi« servants. Delany tells us that he was
"one of the best masters in the world," paid his servants
the highest rate of wages known, and took great pains
to encourage and help them to save. But, on engatrino-
them, he aJiv^ys tested their humility. One of their^lu"
ties, he told them, would be to take turns in cleaninrr the
scullion's shoes, and if they objected he sent them Tbout
their business. Ho is said to have tested a curate's docil-
ity in the same way by offering him sour wine. H;« do-
minion was most easily extended over women ; and a long
list might be easily made out of the feminine favourites
' Autobiography, vol. i., p. 407.

TI.]

STELLA

) VAVESS.V.

121

who at all pcriotls of Lis lif Hcre m mon or less intimate
relations with this sclf-appi uted stiltati From the wives
of peers and the daiight >f lord lit tenants <' ^wn to
Dublin tradeswomen with u lastc for rhymiir' i even
scullory-niaids with no tastes at all, a whole h urchy of
female slaves bowed to his rule, and were admitted into
hio-her and lower decrees of favour.

Esther Johnson, or Stella— to give her the name which
she did not receive until after the period of the famous
journals — was one of the first of these worshippers. As
we have seen, he taught her to write, and when he went
to Laracor she accepted the peculiar position already
described. We have no direct statement of their mutual
feelinn^s before the time of the journal ; but one remark-
able incident must be noticed. During his stay in Eng-
land in 1703-04 Swift had some correspondence with a
Dublin clergyman named Tisdall. lie afterwards regarded
Tisdall with a contempt which, for the present, is only
half perceptible in some good-humoured raillery. Tis-
dall's intimacy with " the ladies," Stella and Mrs, Dingley,
is one topic, and in the last of Swift's letters we find that
Tisdall has actually made an offer for Stella. Swift had
replied in a letter (now lost), whioh Tisdall called un-
friendly, unkind, and unaccountable. Swift meets these
reproaches coolly, contemptuously, and straightforwardly.
lie will not affect unconsciousness of Tisdall's meaning.
Tisdall obviously takes him for a rival in Stella's affec-
tions. Swift replies that he will tell the naked truth.
The truth is that "if his fortune and humour served
him to think of that state" (marriage) he would prefer
Stella to any one on earth. So much, he says, he has
declared to Tisdall before, lie did not, however, think
of his affection as an obstacle to Tisdall's hopes. Tisdall

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122

s\viFr.

I'lUP.

had been too poor to marry ; In.t tl.c ofTor of n livin- has
removed that objection; and Swift undertakes to act what
.0 has h.therto aeted, a friendly thon^h passive part.
He liad thou-ht, ho declares, tl.at the aflair had L^onc too
far to be broken of!; he had always spoken of Tisdall in
fnon.lly terms; "no consideration of my own misfortune
'" lo'^Hi.ir so .jrood H friend and companion as licr" shall
prevail upon him to oppose the match, "since it is held
so necessary and convenient a thin.t? for ladies to marry
^nd that ti.«o takes off from the lustre of virgins in all
other eyes but mine."

The letter must have sugjrcsted some doubts to Tisdall
Swift a legos as his only reasons for not being a rival in
earnest his " humour " and the state of his fortune The
last obstacle might be removed at any moment. Swiffs
prospects though deferred, were certainly better than T:.
calls. Unless, therefore, the humour was more insur-
moun able than is often the case, Swift's coolness was
remarkable or ominous. It may be that, as some have
held, there was nothing behind. But another possibilitv
undoubtedly suggests itself. Stella had received Tisdall's
suit so nnfavourably that it was now suspended, and Unt
It finally failed. Stella was corresponding with Swift It
IS easy to guess that, between the "unaccountable" letter
and the contemptuous letter. Swift ha<l heard something
from Stella whic]. put him thoroughly at ease in regard tl
lisdall s attentions. ^

We have no further information until, seven years after-
^vards, we reach the Journal to Stella, and find ourselves
overhearing the " little language." The first editors scru-
pled at a full reproduction of what might strike an un-
friendly reader as almost drivelling; and Mr. Forster re-
printed for the first time the omitted parts of the still

t'HAP.

r,.|

STELLA AND VANESSA.

J 23

accessible letters. The little lan^jimgc U a continuation of
Stellu's infantile prattle. Certain letters arc a ei()lier for
pet names which may be conjectured. Swift calls iiiiuself
i'Ufr, or I'odefar, mcanincr, as Mr. Forstor s^uesses, " Poor,
<■ '■!" Foolish Rogue." Stella, or rather Ksthcr Johnson, is
I'pt, say •♦Poppet." MD, "my dear," means Stella, and
sometimes includes Mrs. Dingley. F\V means *' farewell,"
or "foolish wenches;" Lelc is taken by Mr. Forstor to
moi\n " truly " or " lazy," or " there, there," or to have
" other meanings not wholly discoverable." The phrases
coine in generally by way of leave-taking. " So I got
into bed," ho says, " to write to MD, MD, for wc must
always write to MD, MD, MD, awake or asleep;" and ho
ends, "Go to bed. Help pdfr. Rovo pdfr, MD, MD.
Nite darling rogues." Here is another scrap : " I assure oo
it im vely late now ; but zis goes to-morrow ; and T must
have time to converse with own deerichar MD. Nitc do
deer Sollahs." One more leave-taking may bo enough :
" Farewell, dearest hearts and souls, MD. Farewell, MD,
MD, MD. F\V, F\V, FW. ME, ME. Leie, Lele, Lcle,
Sollahs, Lele."

The roferenco to the Golden Farmer already noted is
in the words, " I warrant oo don't remember the Golden
Farmer neither, Figgarkick Solly," and I will venture to a
guess at what Mr. Forstor pronounces to be inexplicable.'
May not Solly bo the same as " Sollah," generally inter-
preted by the editors as " sirrah ;" and " Figgarkick "
possibly be the same as Pilgarlick, a plirase which ho
elsewhero applies to Stella,' and whicn the dictionaries
say means " poor, deserted creature ?"

' Forstor, p. 108.

' October 20, 1711. The lust use I have observed of this word ia
ill a letter of Curlyle's, November 7, 1824 : "Strange pilgarlic-lookiiig
figures."— Froudo's Life of Carlyle, vol. i., p. 247.

fi*'

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SWIFT.

[CUAP.

Swift says that as he writes his language he " makes up
his mouth just as if he was speaking it." It fits the
affectionate caresses in wliicli he is always indulgino-.
Nothing, indeed, can be more charming than tlic playful
little prattle which occasionally interrupts the oossip and
the sharp utterances of hope or resentment. In the snatches
of leisure, late at night or before he has got up in the
morning, he delights in an imaginary chat; for a few
minutes of little fondling talk help him to forget his
worries, and anticipate the happiness of reunion, lie
caresses her letters, as he cannot touch her hand. "And
now let us come and see what this saucy, dear letter of
MD says. Come out, letter, come out from between the
sheets ; here it is underneath, and it will not come out.
Come out again, I says; so there. Here it is. What
says Pdf to me, pray ? says it. Come and let me answer
for you to your ladies. Hold up your head then like a
good letter." And so he begins a little talk, and prays
that they may be never separated again for ten days
whilst he lives. Then he follows their movements in
Dublin in passages which give some lively little pictures
of their old habits. " And where will you go to-day ? for
I cannot be with you for the ladies." [He is off sight-
seeing to the Tower and Bedlam with Lady Kerry anlj a
friend.] " It is a rainy, ugly day ; I would have you send
for Wales, and go to the Dean's ; but do not play small
games when you lose. You will be ruined by Manilio,
Basto, the queen, and two sn)all tramps in red. I confess
it is a good hand against the player. But, then, there
are Spadilio, Punto, the king, strong trumps against you,
which with one trump more are three tricks ten ace ; for
suppose you play your xManilio— 0, silly, how I prate and
cannot get away from MD in a morning. Go, get you

[CUAP.

TI.J

STELLA AND VANESSA.

125

gone, dear naughty girls, and let me rise." He delights,
again, in turning to account his queer talent for making
impromptu proverbs :

" Be you lords or be you carls.
You must write to naughty girls."

Or again :

" Mr. White and Mr. Red
Write to M.D. when a-bed ;
Mr. Black and Mr. Brown
Write to M.D. when you are down;
Mr. Oak and Mr. Willow
Wrice to M.D. on your pillow."

And here is one more for the end of the year :

" Would you answer M.D.'s letter
On New Year's Day you will do it better;
For when the year with M.D. 'gins
It without M.D. never 'lins."

** These proverbs," he explains, " have always old words in
them ; lin is leave ofiL"

" But if on New Year you write nones
M.D. then will bang your bones."

Reading these fond triflings we feel even now as
though we were unjustifiably prying into the writer's con-
fidence. What are we to say to them? We might sim-
ply say that the tender playfulness is charming, and that
it is delightful to find the stern gladiator turning from
party warfare to soothe his wearied soul with these tender
caresses. There is but one drawback. Macaulay imitates
some of this prattle in his charming letters to his younger
sister, and there we can accept it without difficulty. But
Stella was not Swift's younger sister. She was a bcar.ti-
fui and clever woman of thirty, when he was in the prime

->'»' III

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126

SWIFT.

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[chap,

of his powers at forty-four. If Tisdall could have soon
the journal lie would have ceased to call Swift " unac-
countable." Did all this caressing suggest nothing to
Stella? Swift does not write as an avowed lover; Ding-
ley serves as a chaperone even in these intimate confi-
dences; and yet a word or two escapes which certainly
reads like something more than fraternal affection. He
apologizes (May 23, 1711) for not returning: "I will say
no more, but beg you to be easy till Fortune takes her
course, and to believe that MD's felicity is the great goal
I aim at in all my pursuits." If such words "addressed
under such circumstances did not mean " I hope to make
you my wife as soon as I get a deanery," there must have
been some distinct understanding to limit their force.

But another character enters the drama. Mrs. Van-
homrigh,' a widow rich enough to mix in good society,
was living in London with two sons and two daughters,
and made Swift's acquaintance in 1708. ITcr "eldest
daughter, Hester, was then seventeen, or about ten vears
younger than Stella. When Swift returned to Londo'n, in
IV 10, he took lodgings close to the Vanhorarighs, and
became an intimate of the family. In the daily reports
of his dinner the name Van occurs more frequently than
any other. Dinner, let us observe in passing, had not
then so much as now the character of a solem'n religious
rite, implying a formal invitation. The ordinary 1iour
was three (though Harley with his usual procrastination
often failed to sit down till six), and Swift, when not pre-
engaged, looked in at Court or elsewhere in search of an
invitation. He seldom failed; and when nobody else
offered lie frequently went to the " Vans." The name of

' Lord Orrery instructs us to pronounce this name Vanmmeury.

[chap,

VI.]

STELLA AND VAxNESSA.

127

seen

unac-

ng to

Ding-

the daughter is only mentioned two or three times;
whilst it is, perhaps, a suspicious circumstance that he
ver often makes a quasi-apology for his dining-place. "I
was so lazy I dined where my new gown was, at Mrs.
Vanhomrigh's," he says, in May, 1711; and a day or two
later explains that he keeps his "best gown and periwifr"
there whilst he is lodging at Chelsea, and often dines
there " out of mere listlessness." The phrase may not
have been consciously insincere; but Swift was drifting
into an intimacy which Stella could hardly approve, and,
if she desired Swift's love, would regard as ominous.
When Swift took possession of his deanery he revealed
his depression to Miss Vanhomrigh, who about tliis time
took the title Vanessa; and Vanessa, again, received his
confidences from Letcombe. A full account of their re-
lations is given in the remarkable poem called Cadenus
and Vanessa, less remarkable, indeed, as a poem than as
an autobiographical document. It is singularly character-
istic of Swift that we can use what, for want of a better
classification, must be called a love poem, as though it
were an aflSdavit in a law-suit. Most men would feel
some awkwardness in hinting at sentiments conveyed by
Swift in the most downright terms ; to turn them into a
poem would seem preposterous. Swift's poetry, however,
is always plain matter of fact, and we may read Cadenus
(which means of course Decanus) and Vanessa as Swift's
deliberate and palpably sincere account of his own state
of mind. Omitting a superfluous framework of mythol-
ogy in the contemporary taste, we have a plam story of
the relations of this new Heloisc and Abelard. Vanessa,
he tells us, united masculine accomplishments to feminine
feace; the fashionable fops (I use Swift's own words as
much as possible) who tried to entertain her with the

128

SWIFT.

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[chap.

tattle of the day, stared when she replied by applications
of Plutarch's morals. The ladies from the purlieus of St.
James's found her reading Montaigne at her toilet, and
were amazed by her ignorance of the fashions. Both
wore scandalized at the waste of such charms and talents
due to the want of so called knowledge of the world.
Meanwhile, Vanessa, not yet twenty, met and straightway
admired Cadenus, though his eyes were dim with study
and his health decayed. He had grown old in politics
and wit; was caressed by ministers; dreaded and hated
by half mankind, and had forgotten the arts by which he
had once charmed ladies, though merely for amusement
and to show his wit* Ue did not understand what was
love ; he behaved to Vanessa as a father migiit behave to
a daughter :

" That innocent delight he took
To see the virgin mind her book
Was but the master's secret joy
In school to hear the finest boy."

Vanessa, once the quickest of learners, grew distracted.
He apologized for having bored her by his pedantry, and
offered a last adieu. She then startled him by a confession.
He had taught her, she said, that virtue should never be
afraid of disclosures ; that noble minds were above com-
mon maxims (just what he had said to Varina), and she
therefore told him frankly that his lessons, aimed at her
head, had reached her heart. Cadenus was utterly taken
aback. Her words were too plain to be in jest. He was
conscious of having never for a moment meant to be other
than a teacher. Yet every one would suspect him of in«
tcntions to win her heart and her five thousand pounds.

' This simply repeats what he says in his first published letters
about his tlirtations at Leicester.

[chap.

VI.]

STELLA AND VANESSA.

129

plications
eus of St.
oilet, and
IS. Both
id talents
lie world,
'aiglitway
ith study
n politics
nd hated
■which he
nusement
what was
iehave to

Istracted.

ntry, and
nfession.

never be j

)ve com-

and she -^

d at her '

ly taken

He was a
be other
m of in< i

pounds. '

ed letters

He tried not to take things seriously. Vanessa, however,
became eloquent. She said that he had taught her to love
great men through their books; why should she not love
the living reality? Cadenus was flattered and half con-
verted. He had never heard her talk so well, and admit-
ted that she had a most unfailing judgment and discerning
head. He still maintained that his dignity and age put
love out of the question, but he offered in return as much
friendship as she pleased. She replies that she will now
become tutor and teach him the lesson which he is so
slow to learn. But — and here the revelation ends —

" But what success Vanessa met
Is to the world a secret yet."'

Vanessa loved Swift; and Swift, it seems, allowed him-
self to be loved. One phrase in a letter written to him
during his stay at Dublin, in 1713, suggests the only hint
of jealousy. If you are happy, she says, " it is ill-natured
of you not to tell me so, except 'tis what is inconsistent
with mine." Soon after Swift's final retirement to Ireland,
Mrs. Vanhomrigh died. Her husband had left a small prop-
erty at Celbridge. One son was dead ; the other behaved
badly to his sisters ; the daughters were for a time in money
difficulties, and it became convenient for them to retire to
Ireland, where Vanessa ultimately settled at Celbridge. The
two women who worshipped Swift were thus almost in pres-
ence of each other. The situation almost suggests comedy;

' The passage which contains this line was said by Orrery to cast
an unmanly insinuation against Vanessa's virtue. As the accusation
has been repeated, it is perhaps right to say that one fact sufficiently
disproves its possibiUty. The poem was intended for Vanessa alone,
and would never have appeared had it not been published after her
death by her own direction-

f M

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130

SWUT.

[chap.

I '( if

but, unfoi'tuiiatcly, it was to take a most tragical ana still
partly mysterious development.

The frai,niicntary corrcspondonce between Swift and
Vanessa establishes certain facts. Their intercourse was
subject to restraints. He begs her, when he is starting
for Dublin, to get her letters directed by some other hand"^
and to write nothing that may not be seen, for fear of
" inconveniences." The post-office clerk surely would not
be more attracted by Vanessa's hand than by that of such
a man as Lewis, a subordinate of Ilarley's, who liad for-
merly forwarded her letters. He adds that if she comes
to Ireland he will see her very seldom. , " It is not a place
for freedom, but everything is known in a week and mag-
nified a hundred times." Poor Vanessa soon finds the trutli
of this. She complains that she is amongst " strange, pry-
ing, deceitful people ;" that he flies her^ and will give no
reason except that they are amongst fools and must sub-
mit. His reproofs are terrible to her. " If you continue
to treat me as you do," she says soon after, " you will not
be made uneasy by me long." She would rather have
borne the rack than those "killing, killing words" of his.
She writes instead of speaking, because when she ventures
to complain in person "you are angry, and there is some-
thing in your look so awful that it shakes me dumb "—a
memorable phrase in days soon to come. She protests
that she says as little as she can. If he knew what she
thought, he must be moved. The letter containing these
phrases is dated 1714, and there are but a few scraps till
1720; we gather that Vanessa submitted partly to the ne-
cessities of the situation, and that this extreme tension was
often relaxed. Yet she plainly could not resign herself or
suppress her passion. Two letters in 1720 are painfully
vehement. He has not seen her for ton long weeks, she

VI.]

STELLA AND VANESSA.

131

says in bcr first, and she 1ms only had one letter and one
little note with an c.xcnso. She will sink under his " pro-
digious neglect." Time or accident cannot lessen her in-
expressible passion. " Put iny passion under the utmost
restraint; send me as distant from you as the earth will
allow, yet you cannot banish those charming ideas which
will stick by me whilst I have the use of memory. Nor
is the love I bear yon only seated in my soul, for there is
not a single atom of my frame that is not blended with it."
She thinks liim changed, and entreats him not to suffer her
to " live a life like a languishing death, which is the only
life I can lead, if you have lost any of your tenderness for
mo." The following letter is even more passionate. She
passes days in sighing and nights in watching and think-
ing of one who thinks not of her. She was born with
" violent passions, which terminate all in one, that inex-
pressible passion I have for you." If she could guess at
his thoughts, which is impossible ("for never any one liv-
ing thought like you "), she would guess that he wishes her
"religious" — that she might pay her devotions to heaven.
"But that should not spare yon, for was I an enthusiast,
still you'd be the deity I should worship." "AVhat marks
are there of a deity but what you are to be known by
— you are (at?) present everywhere; your dear imago is
always before my eyes. Sometimes you strike me with
that prodigious awe, I tremble with fear; at other times
a charming compassion shines through your countenance,
which moves my soul. Is it not more reasonable to adore
a radiant form one has seen than one only described?"'
The man who received such letters from a woman whom

' Compare Pope's Elolm to Ahdanl, which appeared in IVIY. If
Vanessa had read it, slie miglit almost be suspected of borrowing;
but her phrases seem to be too genuine to justify the hypothesis.
21

■I

r " "

tAl

'^ ^^ i mmmt m - -

(It'

132

SWIFT.

[chap.

■II t

lie at least admired and esteemed, who felt that to respond
Mas to administer poison, and to fail to respond was to in-
flict the severest pangs, mnst have been in the cruellest of
dilemnias. Swift, we cannot doubt, was grieved and per-
plexed. His letters imply embarrassment; and, for I'lo
most part, take a lighter tone; he suirgests his univ,'r -d
Piuacea of exercise; tells her to fly from the spleen in-
stead of courting it ; to read diverting books, and so forth :
advice more judicious, probably, than comforting. There
are, however, some passages of a different tendency. There
IS a mutual understanding to use certain catch-words which
recall the " little language." He wishes that her letters were
as hard to read as his, in case of accident. "A stroke
thus . . . signifies everything that mav be said to Cad,nt
the beginning and conclusion." And she uses this Avrit-
ten caress, and signs herself— his own "Skinacrc." There
are certain "questions," to which reference i.s occasionally
made ; a kind of catechism, it seems, which he was ex-
pected to address to himself at intervals, and the nature
of which must bo conjectured. He proposes to continue
the Cmhnus and Vancssa~a proposal which makes her
hapiy beyond " expression "—and deljo-hts her by recall-
ing a number of available incidents. IJo recurs to them
in his last letter, and bids her "go over the scenes of
Windsor, Cleveland liow, Rider Street, St. James's Street
Kensington, the Shrubbery, the Colonel in France, &c.
Cad thinks often of these, especially on horscback,''as I
am assured." This prosaic list of names recall, as we find,
various old meetings. And, finally, one letter contains
an avowal of a singular kind. "Sovez a-suree," he savs
after advising her "to quit this scoundrel island," ''que

• Scott appropriately quotes Hotspur. The phrase is apparently
a huit at Swift's usual recipe of exercise.

TI.l

STELLA AND VANESSA.

183

jamais pcrsonnc dii niondc a etc aimoc, lionoiee, cstiiiit'c,
adoix'C par votrc ami quo voiis." It seems as tlioui^-li lie
were compelled to tlirow lier just a crumb of comfort
here ; but, in the same breath, he has begged lier to leave
him forever.

If Vanessa was ready to accept a " gown of forty-four,"
to overlook his infirmities in consideration of liis fame,
w' ^ should Swift have refused ? Why condemn her to
undergo this " languishing death " — a long agony of unre-
quited passion ? One answer is suggested by the report
that Swift was secretly married to Stella in IVIC. Tlio
fact is not proved nor disproved;' nor, to my mind, is the
question of its truth of much importance. The ceremony,
if performed, was nothing but a ceremony. The only
rational explanation of the fact, if it be taken for a fact,

' I cannot here cli5cn--3 the cvitloiiee. Tlie orij^Inal statements are
in OnHry, p. 22, i;o. ; Atmni, p. 52 ; Dam Sid/f, p. <);3 ; Slnndaii, p.
282 ; Motuk iHrlrlq/, p. xxxvi. Seott acceptoil tlio marriage, and tlie
cvitlencc upon which he relied was criticised by Moncli Mason, p, 297,
&e. Moiielv Jtason makes some good points, and especially dimin-
ishes the value of the testimony of Bishop Berkeley, showing Ijy
dates that he could not have lieard the story, as his grandson afTu'ms,
from Bishop Ashe, who is said to liave performed the ceremony. It
probably came, however, from Berkeley, who, we may add, was tutor
to Ashf's son, and had special reasons for interest in the story. Ou
the whole, the argument for the marriage comes to this : that it was
commonly nportcd by the end of Swift's life, that it was certainly
believed by hi,-, ... ;:n;ite friend Delany, in all probability by the elder
Slieridan and by Mrs. Whiteway. Mrs. Sican, who told the story to
Sheridan, seems also to be a good witness. On the other hand. Dr.
Lyon, a clergyman, who was one of Swift's guardians in his imbecil-
ity, says that it was denied by Mrs. Dingley and by Mrs. Brent, Swift'd
old house-keeper, and by Stella's executors. The evidence seems to
mc very indecisive. Much of it may be dismissed as mere gossip,
but a certain probability remains.

i'l

■! I

:i.

ist

SWIFT. [chap.

must h^^ that Swift, liaviufr rcsolvofl not to marry, ca\

Stci

' B'

2ila tliis security, that ho would, at least, marry no one
else. Thoui-h his anxiety to liiuj the eonnexiunwith Va-
nessa may only mean n dread of idle ton,iri,cs, it is at least
hiuhly probable tliat Stella was the person from whom ho
specially desired to keep it. Yet his poetical ad-lresscs to
Stella upon her birthday (of wliich the first is dated 1710,
and the last 17:i7) arc clearly not the addresses of a lover.
Both in form and substance they are even pointediv in-
tended to express friendship instead of love. They read
like an expansion of his avowal to Tisdall, that her Jharms
for bin), though fo- no one else, could not bo diminislied
by her growino- o'Ui without marriage, llo ad(h'esses her
with blunt affection, and tells her plainly of her growing
size and waning beauty ; comments cveiMipon her defects
of temper, and seems expressly to deny that he loved licr
in tho usual wav :

" Tliou, Stella, wcrt no longer young
When first for tliee my harp I strung,
Without one word of Cupid's darts.
Of killing eyes and bleeding hearts;
With friendship and esteem possess'd,
I ne'er admitted love a guest."

AVo may almost say that ho liarps upon tho theme of
•'friendship and esteem." Tlis gratitude for licr care of
liim is pathetically expressed ; he admires her with the
de\otion of a brother for tho kindest of sisters; his plain,
prosaic lines become poetical, or perliaps something better;
but there is an absence of the lover's strain which is only
not, if not, ostentatious.

The connexion with Stella, whatever its nature, gives
tlio most intelligible explanation of bis keeping Vanessa

[fir A p.

VI.]

STELLA AND VAXESHA.

135

at a (.listanco. A collision between ins two slaves niiglit
bo disastrous. And, as the story goes (for wo are every-
wlioro upon uncertain ground), it canic. In 17l>1 poor
Vanessa bad lost b<!r only sister' and coiwpanion : licr
brothers were already dead, and, in her solitude, she would
naturally bo more than ever eager for Swift's kiiubiess.
At last, in 172.1, she wrote (it is said) a letter to Stella,
and asked whether she was Swift's wife." Stella replied that
fhe was, and forwarded Vanessa's letter to Swift. How
Swift could i.scnt an attempt to force his wishes lias
been sc n in the letter to Varlna. He rode in a fury to
Celbridgc. His countenance, says Orrery, could be terri-
bly expressive of tlic sterner passions, rroniinent eyes —
"azure as the heavens" (says Pope) — arched by bushy
black eyebrows, could glare, we can believe from his por-
traits, with the green fury of a cat's. Vanessa had spoken
of the "something awful in his looks," and of his killing
words. Ho now entered her room, silent with rage, threw
down lier letter on the table, and rode off. He had struck
Vanessa's death-blow. She died soon afterwards, but lived
long enough to revoke a will made in favour of Swift and
leave her money between Judge Marshal and the famous
Bishop Berkeley. Berkeley, it seems, had only seen her
once in his life.

The story of the last fatal interview has been denied.
Vanessa's death, though she was under thirty-five, is less
surprising when we remember that her younger sister
and both her brothers had died before her; and that her
health had always been weak, and her life for some time
a languishing death. That there was in any case a terribly

' Monck Mason, p. 310, note.

'■* This is Sheridan's story. Orrery speaks of the letter as written
to Swifl himself.
K ^

\ f.

h'ij

'i t

, 1

' i

if J

I 'I.

.in;'

I ' i

130 SWIFT. [chap.

lr;iu-ic climax to the lialf-writton romance of Cadcnus and
I'ancssa is ct-rtaiji. Vanessa rcciucKted that the pucin antl
the letters mii,'lit be puhhshed by her executors. Bcrkoloy
^iippri'sscl the hitters for the time, and they were not pub-
Jislicd in full until Scott's edition of Swift's works.

Whatever tlic facts, Swift had reasons enough for bit-
ter regret, if not for deep remorse. lie retired to liidc
liis head in some unknown retreat; absolute seclusion was
tliL! only solace to his gloomy, wounded spirit. After two
months he returned, to resume his retired habits. A no-
riod followed, as wc shall see in the next chapter, of fierce
i)olitical excitement. For a time, too, he had a vague liopo
of escaping from his exile. An astonishing literary suc-
cess increased his roi)utati(jn. ]Jut another )nisfortunc ap-
proaciied, Avhich crushed all hope of happiness in life.

In 1720 Swift at hist revisited England. Jle writes
in July that he has for two months been anxious about
Stella's liealth, and as usual feared the worst. He has seen
through the disguises of h letter from Mrs. Dingley. His
lieart is so sunk that he will never be the same man again,
but drag on a wretched life till it pleases God to cairiiim
away. Then in an agony of distress he contemplates l»er
death ; he says that he could not bear to be present ; ho
should be a trouble to her, and the greatest torment to
Iiimself. lie forces himself to add that her deatu must
not take place at the deanery, lie will not return to find
her just dead or dying. "Nothing but extremity could
make mo so familiar with those terrible words applied to
so dear a friet>d." "I think," he says in another letter,
'' that tlicre is not a greater folly than that of entering
into too strict a partnership or friendsliip with the los's
of wliich a man must be absolutely miserable; but es-
pecially [when the loss occurs] at an age when it is too

\m (

[ritAP.

all hitn

Ti.] STELLA AND VANESSA. 137

late to cnpii^c in n new fricndshij)." The morbid feeling
wliioli could withhold a iii.iii fiMiii nttcndint;; a friend's
deathbed, or allow him to rej^ret the affcotion to which his
pain was due, is but too characteristic of Swift's egoistic
attachments. Yet wc forgive the ra^h phrase, when we
read liis passionate expressions of as^ony. Swift returned
to Ireland in the autumn, and St'-lla struirt^led through the
winter. He was again in England in the following sum-
mer, and for a time in better s[)irits. Vnxt once more the
news comes that Stella is probably on her deathbed ; and
he replies in letters which we read as wc listen to groans
of a man in sorest agony. He keeps one letter for an
hour before daring to open it. He does not wish to live
to see the loss of the person for whose sake alone life was
worth preserving. " What have I to do in the world .■ I
never was in sucii agonies as when I received your letter
and had it in my pocket. I am able to hold up my sorry
head no longer." In another distracted letter he repeats,
in Latin, the desire that Stella shall not die in the deanery,
for fear of malignant misinterpretations. If any marriage
had taken place, the desire to conceal it liad become a
rooted passion.

Swift returned to Ireland, to find Stella still living. It
is said that in t))'^; last period of her life Swift offered to
make the marr' ^ public, and that she declined, saying
that it was now .00 late.' She lingered till January 28,
1728. lie sat down the same night to write a few scat-
tered reminiscences. lie breaks down ; and writes again

' Scott heard tlii3 from ^Irs. Whitewav's grandson. Sheridan
tells the story as though Stelki hud lieggod fur pubHcity, and Swift
cruelly re l used. Delany's statement (p. 56), which agrees with Mrs.
Whiteway's, appears to be on g'wd authority, and, if true, proves the
reality of the niannage.

i •

I f

r !■ i

138

SWIFT.

[chap.

during the funeral, whicl, lie is too ill to attcnrl. Tl.c
fn.-inentaiy notes give us the most authentic account o^
Stella, and show, at least, what she appeared in the eyes
of her lifelong f,iend and protector. We may believe
tliat she was intelligent and charming, as we can be cer-
tain that Swift loved her in every sense but one. A lock
of her hair was preserved in an envelope in which he had
written one of those vivid phrases bv which he still lives
in our memory : " Only a woman's hairr What does it
mean? Our interpretation will depend partlv upon what
we can see ourselves in a lock of bM.ir. IJut'l think that
any one who judges Swift fairly will read in those four
words the most intense utterance of tender affection, and
of pathetic yearning for the irrevocable past, strano-dv
blended with a bitterness springing, not from remorsc^ut
indignation at tiie cruel tragi-comedv of life. The Des-
tini...s laugh at us whilst they torture us ; they make cruel
scourges of trifles, and extract the bitte.")st passion from
our best affections.

Swift was left alone. Before we pass on we must
briefly touch the problems of this strange history. It was
a natural guess that some mysterious cause condemned
Swift to his loneliness. A story is told by Scott (on poor
evidence) that Delany went to Archbishop King's library
about the time of the supposed marriage. As he entered
Swift rushed out with a distracted countenance. Kincr
was in tears, and said to Delany, "You have just met the
most unhappy man on earth; but on the subject of his
wretchedness you must never ask a question." This has
been connected with a guess made by somebody that
Swift had discovered Stella to be his natural sister. It
can be shown conclusively that this is impossible; and
the story must be left as picturesque but too hopelessly

•'s\%]

[CUAP.

VI.]

STELLA AND VANESSA.

139

vague to gratify any inforcncc wliatcvcr. Wc know with-
out it tliat Swift was unhappy, but wc know nothing of
any definite cause.

Another view is tliat there is no mystery. Swift, it is
said, retained through life tlic position of Stella's "guide,
philosopher, and friend," and was never anything more,
Stella's address to Swift (on his birthday, 1721) may be
taken to confirm this theory. It says with a plainness
like his own that he had taught her to despise beauty
and hold her empire by virtue and sense. Yet the theory
is in itself strange. The less love entered into Swift's
relations to Stella, the more difllcult to explain his behav-
iour to Vanessa. If he regarded Stella only as a daughter
or a younger sister, and she returned the same feeling, ho
had no reason for niaking any mystery about the woman
who would not in that case be a rival. If, again, wc ac-
cept this view, we naturally ask why Swift " never admitted
love a guest." lie simply continued, it is suggested, to
behave as teacher to pui)il. He tliought of her when she
was a woman as ho had thought of her when she was a
child of eight years old. I>nt it is singular that a man
should be able to preserve such a relation. It is quite
true that a connexion of this kind mav blind a man to
its probable consequences ; but it is contrary to ordinary
experience that it should render the consequences less
probable. The relation might explain why Swift should
be off his guard ; but could hardly act as a safeguard.
An ordinary man wlio was on such terms with a beautiful
girl as are revealed in the Journal to Stella would have
ended by falling in love with her. Why did not Swift?
We can only reply by remembering the " coldness " of
temper to which lie refers in liis first letter, and his asser-
tion that he did not understand love, and that his frequent

i*' 1

i ] i

;l'4

•'lull

140

SWIFT.

[chap.

flirtations never meant more than a desire for distraction.
T]ie affair witli Varina is an exception; but there are
S-roiinds for holding that Swift was constitutionally indis-
posed to the passion of love. The absence of anv traces
of such a passion from writings conspicuous for their
amazing sincerity, and (it is added) for their freedoms
of another kind, has been often noticed as a confirmation
of this hypothesis. Yet it must be said that Swift could
be strictly reticent about his strongest feelings— and was
specially cautious, for whatever reason, in regard to his
relation with Stella.'

If Swift constitutionally differed from other men, we
liave some explanation of his strange conduct. Hut wc
must take into account other circumstances. Swift had
very obvious motives for not marrying. In the first place,
he gradually became almost a monomaniac upon the ques-
tion of money. Uh hatred of wasting a penny unneces-
sarily began at Trinity College, and is prominent in all his
letters and journals. It coloured even his politics, for a
conviction that the nation was hrpeles.lv ruined is one of
his strongest prejudices. He kept accounts down to lialf-
pcnce, and rejoices at every saving of a shillinf^ The
passion was not the vulgar desire for wealth of the rri'^
nary miser. It sprang from the conviction store ■ ,r.
in all his aspirations that money meant independence.
Wealth," he says, -is liberty; and liberty is a blessino-
fittest for a philosopher-and Gay is a slave just by two
thousand pounds too little.- Gay was a duchess's lap-
dog; Swift, with all his troubles, at least a free man.
Like all Swift's prejudices, this became a fixed idea which

• IJosicies Scott's remarks (see vol. v. of his life) see Orrery, Let.
tiT U) ; Dcane Stvi/f, p, 93 ; Sheridan, p. 207.
" JA'fter to /'oy^, July 16, 1728.

I ^''

[ciup.

VI.]

STELLA AND VANESSA.

was always gatlicring strength. lie did not love money
for its own sake, lie was even magnificent in liis o-ener-
osity. lie scorned to receive money for his writings ; he
abandoned the profit to his printers in compensation for
the risks they ran, or gave it to his friends. His charity
was splendid relatively to his means. In later years he
lived on a third of his income, gave away a third, and
saved the remaining third for his posthumous charity' —
and posthumous charity which involves present saving is
charity of the most unquestionable kind. His principle
was, that by reducing his expenditure to the lowest possi-
ble point, he secured his independence, and could then
make a generous use of the remainder. Until he had re-
ceived his deanery, however, he could only make both ends
meet. Marriage would, therefore, have meant poverty,
probably dependence, and the complete sacrifice of his
ambition.

If under these circumstances Swift had become eno-afrcd
to Stella upon Temple's death, he would have been doing
wliat was regularly done by fellows of colleges under the
old system. There is, however, no trace of such an en-
gagement. It would be in keeping with Swift's character,
if we sliould suppose that he shrank from the bondage of
an engagement; that he designed to marry Stella as soon
as he should achieve a satisfactory position, and meanwhile
trusted to his influence over her, and thought that he was
doing her justice by leaving her at liberty to marry if she
chose. The close connexion must have been injurious to
Stella's prospects of a match ; but it continued only by
her choice. If this were, in fact, the case, it is still easy
to understand why Swift did not marry upon becoming
Dean. He felt himself, I have said, to be a broken man.

' Sheridan, p. 23.

( i

n r

* I

i.^

142

SWIFT.

[chap.

His prospects were ruined, and his health precarious.
This last fact requires to be remembered in every estimate
of Swift's character. His life was passed under a Damo-
cles' sword. He suffered from a distressing illness which
lie attributed to an indigestion produced by an over-con-
sumi»tion of fruit at Temple's when ho was a little over
twenty-one. The main symptoms were a giddiness, which
frequently attacked liim, and vras accompanied by deaf-
ness. It is quite recently that the true nature of the com-
plaint has been identified. Dr. Buckniil' seems to prove
that the symptoms arc those of '' Labyrinthine vertigo,"
or Meniere's disease, so called because discovered by Me-
niere in 1861. The references to his sulferings, brou2;ht
together by Sir William Wilde in 1849,' arc frequent in
all his writings. It tormented him for days, weeks, and
months, gradually becoming more permanent in later year..
In 1V31 he tells Gay that his giddiness attacks him con-
stantly, though it is less violent tlian of old ; and in 173(3
he says that it is continual. From a much earlier period
it had alarmed and distressed him. Some pathetic entries
are given by Mr. Forstcr from one of his note-books :
"December 5 (1708).— Horribly sick. 12th.— Much bet-
ter, thank God and M.D.'s prayers. . . . April 2d (l709).
Small giddy fit and swimming in the head. M.D. and
God help me. . . . July, 1710.— Terrible fit. God knows
v.hat may be the event. Better towards the end." The
terrible anxiety, always in the background, must count for
much in Swift's gloomy despondency. Though he seems
always to have spoken of the fruit as the cause, he must
have had misgivings as to the nature and result. Dr.
Buckniil teils us that it was not necessarily connected

* Brain for JanUcary, 1882.

" Closiiiff Years of Bean Swift's Life.

'«>>u|iia-.abA{e^JH)^9^ HjUmm

[chap.

•rccarious,

7 estimate

a Daiiio-

css wliicli

ovcr-cou-

littlc over

OSS, wliicli

by doaf-

tlio com-

to prove

vertigo,"

d by Me-

=, brought

equeiit in

ccks, and

,ter year 5.

him coii-

1 in I73i3

er period

ic entries

Ic-books :

ducli bct-

\ (1709).

M.D. and

)d knows

il" The

count for

lie seems

he must

ult. Dr.

onnected

■]

STELLA AND VANESSA.

143

with the disease of the brain wliich nltiinatcly came upon
him ; but he may well have thought that this disorder of
the head was prophetic of such an end. It was, probably,
in 1717 that he said to Young, of the Kiyht 21iou()hts, ''I
shall be like that tree : I shall die at the top." A man
haunted perpetually by such forebodings might well think
that marriage was not for him. In Cadenus and Vancsm
he insists upon his declining years with an emphasis which
scenes excessive even from a man of forty-four (in 1713
he was really forty-five) to a girl of twenty. In a singu-
lar poem called the Progress of Marriage he treats the
sup{)0,sed case of a divine of fifty -two marrying a lively
girl of fashion, and speaks with his usual plainness of the
})robable consequences of such folly, AVe cannot doubt
that hero as elsewhere he is thiidung of himself, lie was
fifty -two when receiving the passionate love-letters of Va-
nessa ; and the poem seems to be specially significant.

This is one of those cases in which we feel that even
biographers arc not omniscient; and I must leave it to my
readers to choose their own theoi'v, onlv suo'^'cstinf that
readers too are fallible. But we may still ask what judg-
ment is to bo passed upon Swift's conduct. Both Stella
and Vanessa suffered from coming within the sphere of
Swift's imperious attraction. Stella enjoyed his friendship
through her life at the cost of a partial isolation from
ordinary domestic liappincss. She might and probably
did regard his friendship as a full equivalent for the sacri-
fice. It is one of the cases in which, if the actors be our
contemporaries, we hold that outsiders arc incompetent to
form a judgment, as none but the principals can really
know the facts. Is it better to be the most intimate
friend of a man of genius or the wife of a commonplace
Tisdall ? If Stella chose, and chose freelv, it is hard to say
7*

;

'a':

' (<

II M

144

SWIFT.

[chap. ti.

that she was mistaken, or to Wame Swift for a fascination
which ho could not but exercise. The tragedv of Vanessa
Mi-gests rather different reflections. Swift's duty was
phiin. Orantiujr vvl,at seems to be probable, tliat Vanessa's
passion took liim by surprise, and tl;at lie thought liimself
disqualified for marriage by infirmity and weariness of life,
lie sliould have made his decision perfectly plain. He
sliould liave forbidden any clandestine relations. Furtive
caresses— even ou paper— understandings to carry on a
l>rivate correspondence, fond references to old mcetino-s,
were obviously calculated to encourage her passion, fie
should not only have pronounced it^ to be liopeless, but
n.ade her, at whatever cost, recognize the liopelcssness.
Ihis 18 where Swift's strength seems to have failed him.
He was not intentionally cruel; he could not foresee the
fatal event; he tried to put her aside, and he felt the
"shame, disappointment, grief, surprise," of which ho
speaks on the avowal of her love. He gave her the most
judicious advice, ami tried to persuade her to accept it.
But he did not make it effectual. He shrank from inflict-
ing pain upon her and upon himself. He could not de-
prive himself of the sympathy which soothed his gloomy
melancholy. His affection was never free from the cc^oistic
clement which prevented him from acting unequivocallv,
as an impartial spectator would have advised him to act, or
as he would have advised another to act in a similar case.
And therefore, when the crisis came, the very strength of
his affection produced an explosion of selfish wrath, and
he escaped trom the intolerable position by strikino- down
the woman whom he loved, and whose love for hhii had
become a burden. The wrath was not the less fatal be-
cause It was half composed of remorse, and the energy of
the explosion proportioned to the strength of the fedino-
Nvhich had held it in chnck, ' °

[chap. VI.

CHAPTER Vir.

> 1^

WOODS HALFPENCE.

In one of Scott's finest novels the old Camcronian preacher,
wl)o had been left for dead by Claverhouse's troopers,
suddenly rises to confront his conquerors, aTid spends his
last breath in denouncing the oppressors of the saints.
Even such an apparition was Jonathan Swift to comfort-
able Whigs who were flourishing in the place of Ilarlcy
and St. John, wlicn, after ten years' quiescence, he sud-
denly stepped into the political arena. After the first
crushing fall he had abandoned partial hope, and con-
tented himself with establishing supremacy in his chap-
ter. But undying wrath smouldered in liis breast till time
came for an outburst.

No man had ever learnt more thoroughly the lesson,
"Put not your faith in princes;" or had been impressed
with a lower estimate c' the wisdom displayed by the
rulers of the world, lie i ad been behind the scenes, and
knew that the wisdom of great ministers meant just enough
cunning to court the ruin which a little common sense
would have avoided. Corruption was at the prow and
folly at the helm. The selfish ring which he had de-
nounced so fiercely had triumphed. It had triumphed, as
he held, by flattering the new dynasty, hoodwinking the
nation, and maligning its antagonists. Tlie cynical theory

I;;,

110

SWIFT.

(cirAP.

of politics was not for liim, as for some comfortable
cynics, an abstract proposition, wliicli mattered very little
to a sensible man, bnt was cmboditd in tlie bitter wrath
with which ho regarded his triumphant adversaries. I'es-
simism is perfectly compatible with bland enjoyment of
the good things in a bad world ; but Swift's pessimism
was not of this typo. It meant energetic hatred of
definite things and people who were always before liim.

With this feeling he had come to Ireland; and Ireland
—I am speaking of a century and a half ago— was the
opprobrium of PJnglish statesmanship. There Swift had
(or thought he had) always before him a concrete exanjplc
of the basest form of tyranny. By Ireland, I have said,
Swift meant, in the first place, the English in Ireland.'
In the last years of his sanity lie protested indignantly
against the confusion between the "savage old^Irish"
and the English gentry, who, he said, were much better
bred, spoke better English, and were more civilized than
the inhabitants of many English counties.' He retained
to the end of his life his antipathy to the Scotch colonists.
lie opposed their demand for political equality as fiercely
in the last as in liis first political utterances. He con-
trastcd them unfavourably^ with the Catholics, who had,
indeed, been driven to revolt by massacre and confiscation
under I'uritan rule, but who were now, lie declared, " true
Whigs, in the best and most proper sense of the word,"
and thoroughly loyal to the house of Hanover. Had
there been a danger of a Catholic revolt. Swift's feelings
might have been different; but he always lield that they
were "as inconsiderable as the women and children,"
mere "licwers of wood and drawers of water," ''out of all
' Letter to Pope, July ]8, 1Y37.
^ Catholic lieasoHs for licjualing the Test.

.1.1

•fmmBKKffvmm

(chap.

VII.]

WOOD'S HALFPENCE.

14V

capacity of doing any miscliiof, if they were ever so well
inclined.'" Looking at tlicin in this way, he felt a sin-
cere compassion for their misery and a bitter resentment
against their oppressors. The English, ho said, in a
remarkable letter," should be ashamed of their rei)roache9
of Irish dulness, ignorance, and cowardice. Those defects
were the products of slavery. lie declared that the poor
cottagers had " a much better natural taste for good sense,
humour, and raillery than ever I observed among people
of the like sort in England. But the millions of oppres-
sions they lie under, the tyranny of their landlords, the
ridiculous zeal of their priests, and the misery of the
whole nation, have been enough to damp the best spirits
under the sun." Such a view is now commonplace
enough. It was then a heresy to English statesmen, who
thought that nobody but a Papist or a Jacobite could ob-
ject to the tyranny of Whigs.

Swift's diagnosis of the chronic Irish disease was thor-
ougiily political. lie considered that Irish misery sprang
from the subjection to a government not intentionally
cruel, but absolutely selfish ; to which the Irish revenue
meant so much convenient political plunder, and which
acted on the principle quoted from Cowley, that the
happiness of Ireland should not weigh against the " least
conveniency " of England. He summed up his views in a
remarkable letter,' to be presently mentioned, the substance
of which had been orally communicated to Walpole. He
said to Walpole, as he said in every published utterance :
first, that the colonists were still Englishmen, and entitled
to English rights ; secondly, that their trade was delib-

' Letters on Sacramental Test in 1738.

'•' To Sir Charles Wigan, July, 1732.

* To Lord Peterborough, April 21, 1726.

4»

148

SWIFT.

fcriAP.

ft
Ml

>\y

iii'i

I)'

ii'

i
1*

cratcly crushed, purely for tlio benefit of the English
of Eiii-land ; thirdly, that all valuable preferments were
bestowed upon men born in England, as a matter of
course; and, finally, that in consequence of this the
upper classes, deprived of all other openings, were forced
to rack-rent their tenants to such a degree that not one
farmer in the kingdom out of a hundred "could afford
shoes or stockings to his children, or to eat flesh or drink
anything better than sour milk and water twice in a year;
so that the whole country, except tho Scotch plantation
in the north, is a scene of misery and desolation hardly
to bo matched on this side Lapland." A modern reformer
would give the first and chief place to this social misery.
It is cliaracteristie that Swift comes to it as a conseciuenco
from tlie injustice to his own class : as, again, that he
appeals to AValpole, not on the simple groutid that the
people are wretched, but on the ground that they will
be soon unable to pay the tribute to England, which he
reckons at a million a year. But his conclusion might be
accepted by any Irish patriot. Whatever, he says, can
make a country poor and despicable concurs in the case
of Ireland. The nation is controlled by laws to which
it does not consent; disowned by its brethren and coun-
trymen ; refused the liberty of trading even in its natural
commodities; forced to seek for justice many liundred
miles by sea and land ; rendered in a manner incapable
of serving the King and country in any place of lionour,
trust, or profit; whilst the governors have no sympathy
with tho governed, except what may occasionally arise
from the sense of justice and philanthropy.

I am not to ask how far Swift was right in his judg-
ments. Every line which he wrote shows that he was
thoroughly sincere and profoundly stirred by his convic-

[criAP.

10 English
iients were
matter of
■ this the
'cre forced
It not one
mid afford
li or drink
in a year ;
plantation
on hardly
1 reformer
al misery.
nse(]uence
1, that he

that the
thoy will
which he
might bo

says, can

the case
to which
md coun-
ts natural

hundred
incapable
f honour,
sympathy
illy arise

his judg-
t lie was
s convic-

VII.j

WOOD'S IIALFPEXCE.

149

tions. A remarkable pamphlet, publislicd in 1720, con-
tained his first utterance upon the subject. It is an ex-
hortation to the Irish to use only Irish manufactures.
He applies to Ireland the fable of Arachne and Pullas.
The goddess, indignant at being equalled in spinning,
turned her rival into a spider, to spin forever out of her
own bowels in a narrow compass. IIu always, he says,
pitied poor Arachne for so cruel and unjust a sentence,
"which, however, is fully executed upon us by England
with further additions of rigour and severity; for the
greatest part of our bowels and vitals is extracted, without
allowing us the liberty of spinning and weaving tliom."
Swift of course accepts the economic fallacy equally taken
for granted by his opponents, and fails to see that Eng-
land and Ireland injured themselves as well as each other
by refusing to interchange their productions. Hut ho
utters forcibly his righteous indignation against the con-
temptuous injustice of the English rulers, in consequence
of which the "miserable people" are being reduced "to
a worse condition than the peasants in France, or the vas-
sals in Germany and Poland." Slaves, lie says, have a
natural disposition to be tyrants; and he himself, when
his betters give him a kick, is apt to revenge it with six
upon his footman. That is how the landlords treat their
tenantry.

The printer cf tl.=s pamphlet was prosecuted. The
chief justice (Whitshed) sent back the jury nine times
and kept them eleven hours before they would consent to
bring in a " special verdict." The unpopularity of the
prosecution became so great that it was at last dropped.
Four years afterwards a more violent agitation broke out.
A patent had been given to a certain William Wood for
supplying Ireland with a copper coinage. Many com-

'li

•»

'I I

150

SWIFT.

[chap.

ill

':,

|! , ill jl'

plaints hail been mado, and in Scptcinbor, 1723, addresses
were voted l.y tlio Irish Houses of Parlia.uent, dedaring
tiiat the patent had been obtained by eiandcstinc and false
representations; tliat it was mischievous to tho country;
and that Wood had been giiihy of frauds in liis coinaire!
Thoy were pacified by vague promises; but Wal[)oIc went
on with the scheme on the strei.oth of a favourable report
of a committee of the Privy Council ; and the excitement
was ah-eady serious when (in 1724) Swift published the
Lrapier's Letters, which give him his chief title to emi-
nence as a patriotic agitator.

Swift cither shared or took advantage of the general
belief that the mysteries of the currency are unfathoma-
ble to tho human intelligence. They have to do with
that world of financial magic in which wealth may bo
made out of paper, and all ordinary relations of cause and
effect arc suspended. There is, Ijowcver, no real mystery
about the halfpence. The small coins which do not form
part of the Icga' tender may bo considered primarily as
counters. A p. nny is u penny, so long as twelve are
change for a shilling. It is not in the least necessary for
this purpose that the copper contained in the twelve
penny pieces should be worth or nearly worth a shilling.
A sovereign can never be worth much more than the gold
of which it is made. But at the present day bronze
worth only twopence is coined into twelve penny pieces.'
Tlie coined bronze is worth six times as much as the un-
coined. The small coins must liave some intrinsic value
to deter forgery, and must be made of good materials to
stand wear and tear. If these conditions be observed, and
.1 proper number be issued, the value of the penny will be

' The ton of bronze, I am informed, is coined into 108,000 pence-
that is, 450/. Tlic metal is worth about 74/. '

[chap.

,11.]

WOOD'S UALFPEXCE.

101

\ addresses
, do(!lariiirj
c and false

country;
is coinage,
ilpolo went
iblo report
excitement
»li>*Iicd the
lo to cmi-

lic general
nf.'ithonia-
• do with

1 may bo
cause and
il Jnystcry

not form
iiiiarily as
kvelvo are
cssary for
ic twelve
1 sliilling.

the gold
ly bronze
y pieces.'
IS the un-
isic value
iterials to
rved, and
y will be
300 pence ;

no more affected b\ the value of the - apper than the
value of the banknote by that of the pap. r on which it is
written. This opiniuu assuuje.s that the copper coin> can-
not bo offered or demanded in payment uf any but tri-
fling debts. The halfpence coined by Wood seem to have
fulfilled these conditions, and as copper worth tuoponce
(on the lowest computation) was coined into ten half-
pence, worth fu.penco, their intrinsic value was i-ioro
than double that of modern halfpence.

The iialfpence, then, were not objectionable upon this
ground. Nay, it would have been wasteful to make them
more valuable. It would iiave been as foolish to use more
copper for the pence as to make the works of a watch of
gold if brass is equally durable and convenient. But an-
other consequence is equally clear. The effect c I '.food's
patent was that a mass of copper worth about "'',000/.'
l'"A?rnc worth 100,800/. in the shape of halfpenny pieces.
There vas, therefore, a balance of about 40,000/, to pay
for the wpenscs of coinage. It would have been waste to
got rid .'■ this by putting more copper in the coins; but,
i' larg^; a profit arose from the transaction, it wouhl go
to somcb.)dy. At the present day it would be brought
into the national treasury. This was not the way in which
business was done in Ireland. Wood was to pay 1000/. a
year for fourteen years to the Crown.' But 14,000/. still
leaves a large margin for profit. What was to become of

' Simon, in his work on the Irish coinage, makes the profit
60,000/. ; but he reckons tiie copper at Is. a pound, whereas from
the Report of the Privy Council it would seem to be properly Is. 6d.
a pound. Swift and most later writers .say 108,000/., but the right
sum is 100,800/.— ;j60 tons coined into 2s. Or/, a pound.

* Monck Mason says only 300/. a year, but this is the sura men-
tioned in the Report and by Swift.

<II

».J

^ ¥\

^ m

I ^
I

1 Ml '.'

1
■

\\\}'

.! !l

162

SWIFT.

[ciup.

it? According to the admiring biograi)hor of Sir R. Wal-
pole the patent had been orioinally given by Lord Sun-
derland to the Duchess of Kendal, a lady whom the King
delighted to honour. She already received 3000/. a year
in pensions upon the Irish Establishment, and she sold
this patent to AVood for 10,000/. Enough was still left
to give Wood a handsome profit ; as in transactions of
this kind every accomplice in a dirty business expects to
be well paid. So handsome, indeed, was the profit that
"Wood received ultimately a i)ensioa of 3000/. for eight
years— 24,000/., that is— in consideration of abandoning
the patent. It was right and proper that a profit should
be made on the transaction, but shameful that it should be
divided between the King's mistress and William Wood,
and that the bargain should be struck without consulting
the Irish representatives, and maintained in spite of thei'r
protests. The Duchess of Kendal was to be allowed to take
a share of the wretched halfpence in the pocket of every
Irish beggar. A more disgraceful transaction could hardly
be imagined, or one more calculated to justify Swift's view
of the selfishness and corruption of the English rulers.

Swift saw his chance, and went to work in characteristic
fashion, with unscrupulous audacity of statement, guided
by the keenest strategical instinct, lie struck at the heart
as vigorously as he had done in the Examiner, but with re-
sentment sharpened by ten years of exile. It was not safe
to speak of the Duchess of Kendal's share in the transac-
tion, though the story, as poor Archdeacon C(^xe patheti-
cally declares, was industriously propagated. But the case
against Wood was all the stronger. Is he so wicked, asks
Swift, as to suppose that a nation is to be ruined that ho
may gain three or four score thousand pounds? Hampden
went to prison, he says, rather than pay a few shillings

13^^'

VI..]

WOOD'S IIALFrEXCE.

153

wroriirfiilly ; I, says Swift, would rather be hanged than
have all my "property taxed at seventeen shillings in the
pound at the arbitrary will and pleasure of the venerable
Mr. Wood." A simple constitutional precedent might
rouse a Hampden ; but to stir a popular agitation it is as
well to show that the evil actually inflicted is gigantic, in-
dependently of possible results. It requires, indeed, some
audacity to prove that debasement of the copper currency
can amount to a tax of seventeen shillings in the pound on
all property. Here, however, Swift might simply throw the
reins npon the neck of his fancy. Anybody may make
any inferences lie pleases in the mysterious regions of cur-
rency ; and no inferences, it seems, were too audacious for
his hearers, though we are left to doubt how far Swift's
wrath had generated delusions in his own mind, and how
far -lie perceived that other minds were ready to be de-
lilded. Jle revels in prophesying the most extravagant
consequences. The country will be undone; the tenants
will not be able to pay their rents; " the farmers must rob,
or beg, or leave the country ; the shopkeepers in this and
every other town iuust break or starve; the squire will
hoard up all his good money to send to England and keep
some poor tailor or weaver in his house, who will be glad
to get bread at any rate.'" Concrete facts are given to
help tlie imagination. Squire Connolly must have 250
horses to bring liis half-yearly rents to town; and the
poor man will have to p;iy thirty-six of Wood's halfpence
to get a qua-t of twopenny ale.

IIow is this proved ? One argument is a sufficient speci-
men. Nobody, according to the patent, was to be forced
to take Wood's halfpence; nor could any one be obliged
to receive more than livepence halfpenny in any one pay-

' Letter I.

11.

ini«

Bgga Mi

«'i'.'j

164

SWIFT.

[chap.

mcnt. This, of course, meant that the halfpence conld
only be used as change, and a man must pay his debts in
silver or gold whenever it was possible to use a sixpence.
It upsets Swift's statement about Squire Connolly's rents.
But Swift is equal to the emer£rcncy. The rule means,'
ho says, that every man must take fivepence halfpenny in'
every payment, if it be offered; which, on the next pao-g
becomes simply in every payment; therefore, makin-^^n
easy assumption or two, ho reckons that you will recdve
160/. a year in these halfpence; and therefore (by other
assumptions) lose 140/. a year.' It mioht have occurred to
Swift, one would think, that both parties to the transaction
could not possibly be losers. But lie calmly assumes that
the man who pays will lose in proportion to the increased
number of coins ; and the man who receives, in proportion
to the depreciated value of each coin. He does not see,
or think it worth notice, that the two losses obviously
counterbalance each other; and he lias an easy road to
prophesyiniT absolute ruin for everybody. It 'would be
almost as great a compliment to call this sophistry as to
dignify with the name of satire a round assertion that an
honest man is a cheat or a rogue.

The real grievance, however, shows through the sham
argument. " It is no loss of honour," thought Swift " to
submit to the lion ; but who, with the figure of a man,
can think with patience of being devoured alive by a
rat?" Why should Wood have this profit (even if more
reasonably estimated) in defiance of the wishes of the
nation? It is. „ays Swift, because he is an EnHishman
and has great friends. He proposes to meet the"attempt
by a general agreement not to take the halfpence. Briefly
the halfpence were to bo " Boycotted." '

' Letter II.

V«^

[chap.

nee could
s debts in

sixpence,
ly's rents.
Ic moans,
fpeniiy in
loxt page,
lakiug an
ill receive
(by other
icurred to
anrjaction
lines that
increased
roportion
i not see,
obviously

road to
\ould be
ry as to
I that an

he sham
vift, "to

a man,
vo by a
if more

of the
[lishman
attempt
briefly,

VII.]

WOOD'S UALFPExVCE.

155

Before this second letter was written the English minis-
ters had become alarmed. A report of the Privy Council
(July 24, 1724) defended the patent, but ended by recom-
mendino- that the amount to be coined should bo reduced
to 40,000/. Carteret was sent out as Lord Lieutenant to
get this compromise accepted. Swift ivplied by a third
letter, arguing the question of the patent, which he can
" never suppose," or, in other words, which everybodv
knew, to have been granted as a "job for the interest of
some particular person." lie vigorously asserts that the
patent can never make it obligatory to accept the half-
pence, and tells a story much to the purpose from old
Leicester experience. The justices had reduced the price
of ale to three-halfpence a quart. One of them, therefore,
requested that they would make another order to appoint
who should drink it, "for, by God," said he, "I will
not."

The argument thus naturally led to a further and more
important question. The discussion as to the patent
brought forward the question of right. Wood and his
friends, according to Swift, had begun to declare that the
resistance meant Jacobitism and rebellion ; they asserted
th it the L-ish were ready to shake off their dependence
upon the Crown of England. Swift took up the challenge
and answered resolutely and eloquently. lie took up the
broadest ground. Ireland, ho declared, depended upon
England in no other sense than that in which England
depended upon Ireland. Whoever thinks otherwise, he
said, "I, M. B. despair, desire to be excepted; for I
declare, next under God, I depend only on the King my
sovereign, and the laws of my own country. I am so far,"
he added, " from depending upon the people of England,
that, if they should rebel. I would take arms and losc'cvery

166

SWIFT.

[chap.

drop of my blood to hiudcr the Pretender from being
Kini^ of Ireland."

It had '^oen reported th.at somebody (Walpolc presum-
ably) iiad sworn to thrust the halfpence down the throats
of the Irish. The remedy, replied Swift, is totally in your
own hands, "and therefore I have digressed a little
to let you see that by the laws of God, of nature, of
nations, and of your own country, you are and ouo-ht to
be as free a people as your brethren in England." As
Swift had already said in the third letter, no one could
believe that any English patent would stand half an hour
after an address from the English Houses of I'ariiament
such as that which had been passed against Wood's by the
Irish rarliament. Whatever constitutional doubts might
be raised, it was, therefore, come to be the plain question
whether or not the English ministers should simply over-
ride the wishes of the Irish nation.

Carteret, upon landing, began by trying to suppress his
adversary. A reward of 300^. was offered for the dis-
covery of the author of the fourth letter. A prosecution
was ordered against the printer. Swift went to the levee
of the Lord Lieutenant, and reproached him bitterly for
his severity against a poor tradesman who had pubKshed
papers for the good of his country. Carteret answered in
a happy quotation from Virgil, a feat which always seems
to have brought consolation to the statesman of that day:

" Res dura ct regni novitas me talia cogunt
Moliii"

Another story is more characteristic. Swift's butler had
acted as his amanuensis, and absented himself one night
whilst the proclamation was running. Swift thought that
the butler was either treaclierous or presuming upon his

[chap.

rom boinir

Ic prcsum-
lie throats
ly in your

LiC • • • »

nature, of

Olio'llt to

md." As
one could
f an hour
*arhamont
d's by the
bts might
I question
iply over-

ipress liis
the dis-
osecution
the levee
:terly for
pubKshed
swered in
ys seems
that day :

iitler had
ne night
ight that
upon his

VII.]

WOOD'S HALFPEXCE.

187

knowledge of the secret. As soon as the man returned
lie ordered him to strip off his livery and begone. "I am
in your power," ho said, " and for that very reason I will
not stand your insolence." The poor butler departed, but
preserved his fidelity ; and Swift, when the tempest had
blown over, rewarded him by appointing him verger in
the cathedral. The grand jury threw out the bill against
the printer in spite of all Whitshed's efforts ; they were
discharged; and the next grand jury presented Wood's
halfpence as a nuisance. Carteret gave way, the patent
was surrendered, and Swift might congratulate himself
npon a complete victory.

The conclusion is in one respect rather absurd. The
Irish succeeded in rejecting a real benefit at the cost of
paying Wood the profit which he would have made, had
he been allowed to confer it. Another point must bo
admitted. Swift's audacious misstatements were success-
ful for the time in rousing the spirit of the people. They
have led, however, to a very erroneous estimate of the
whole case. English statesmen and historians' have found
it so easy to expose his errors that they have thought his
whole case absurd. The grievance was not what it was
represented; therefore it is argued that there was no
grievance. The very essence of the case was that the Irish
people were to be plundered by the German mistress; and
such plunder was possible because the English people, as
Swift says, never though', of Ireland except when there
was notlung else to be talked of in the coffee-houses.'
Owing to the conditions of the controversy this grievance

- Sec, for example, Lord Stanhope's account. For the other view
see Ml'. Lecky's Ilistori/ of (he Ei<jhkcnth Ccnhmj and Mr. Froude's
EngUsh in Inland.

« Letter IV.

1 41

•i r

158

SWUT.

[chap.

only ca.nc out graclually, and could never be fully stated
Swift could never do more than hint at the transaction!
His letters (mchuling three which appeared after the last
mentioned, enforcing the same case) have often been cited
as models of eloquence, and compared to Demosthenes
We must make some deduction from this, as in the case
of his former political pamphlets. The intensity of his
absorption in the immedinto end deprives them of some
literary merits; and mv. to whom the sophistries are pal-
pable enouo-h, are apt i.> resent theuh Anybody can be
effective in a way, if h,. chooses to iic boldly. Yet in
another sense, it k hard to ovtr-prai c the letters. Tl.ey
have in a high degree the peculiar staiup of Swift's genius :
the vein of tiie most nervous common-sense and'' pithy
assortuwi, with an undercurrent of intense passion the
more impressive because it is ncvor allowed to exhale in
mere rheioric.

Swift's success, the daunlle.s front which he had shown
to the oppressor, made i.ini the idol of his countrvmcn.
A Drapier's Club was formed in his honour, whic'h col-
lected the letters and drank toasts and sano- sono-s to
celebrate their hero. Li a sad letter to Pope, hi 1737 he
complains that none of his equals care for him ; but a^ds
that as he walks tiie streets he lias "a thousand hats and
blessings upon old scores which those wc call the <rentrv
have forgot." The people received him as their diam-
pion. A\hen he returned from England, in 172G bells
M-ere rung, bonfires lighted, and a guard of honour es-
corted lum to the deanery. Towns voted him their
freedom and received him like a prince. When Walpole
spoke of arresting him a prudent friend told the minister
that the messenger would require a guard of ten thousand
soldiers. Corporations asked his advice in elections, and

[CHAI',

vn.j

WOOD'S IIALFrEN'CE.

159

the weavers appealed to liim on questions about tlicir trade.
In ono of his satires' Swift had attacked a certain Ser-
jeant JJettesvvortli :

"Thus at tlie bar the booby Bcttesworth,
Tliough lijilf-a-crown o'erpays his sweat's worth."

Bcttesworth called upon him with, as Swift reports, a knife
in liis pocket, and complained in such terms as to imply
some intention of personal violence. The neighbours in-
stantly sent a deputation to the Dean, proposini? to take
vengeance upon IJettcsworth ; and though he indiiced them
to disperse peaceably, they formed a guard to watch the
house ; and Bcttesworth complained that his attack upon
the Dean had lowered his professional income by 1200/.
a year. A quaint example of his popularity is given by
Sheridan. A great crowd had collected to see an eclipse.
Swift thereupon sent out the bellman to give notice that
the eclipse had been postponed by the Dean's orders, and
the crowd dispersed.

Influence with the people, however, could not bring
Swift back to power. At one time there seemed to be a
gleam of hope. Swift visited England twice in 1726 and
1727. He paid long visits to his old friend Pope, and
again met Bolingbroke, now returned from exile, and try-
ing to make a place in English politics. Peterborough
introduced the Dean to Walpole, to whom Swift detailed
his views upon Irish politics. Walpole was the last man
to set about a great reform from mere considerations of
justice and philanthropy, and was not likely to trust a
confidant of Bolingbroke. lie was civil but indifferent.
Swift, however, was introduced by his friends to Mrs.
Uoward, the mistress of the Prince of Wales, soon to bo-

' " On the words Brother Protestants, &c."
8

1 ? M

160

SWIFT.

[ciup.

' (t

come George II. The Princess, afterwards Queen Caro-
line, ordered Swift to come and see licr, and he complied,
as I,c says, after nine commands. He told lier tliat she
had lately seen a wild boy from Germany, and now he
supposed she wanted to sec a wild Dean" from Ireland.
Some civilities passed ; Swift offered some plaids of Irish
manufacture, and the Princess promised some medals in
return. AVhen, in the next year, George I. died, the Op-
position hoped great things from the change. Pulteney
had tried to get Swift's powerful help for the Craftsman,
the Opposition organ ; and the Opposition hoped to up-
sot Walpole. Swift, who ha.l thought of going to France
for his health, asked Mrs. Howard's advice. She recom-
mended him to stay; and he took the recommendation as
amounting to a promise of support, lie had some hopes
of obtaining English preferment in exchange for his dean-
ery in what he calls (in the date to one of his letters')
"wretched Dublin in miserable Ireland." It soon ap-
peared, however, that the mistress was powerless ; and that
AValpole was to be as firm as ever in his scat. Swift re-
turned to Ireland, never again to leave it : to lose soon af-
terwards liis beloved Stella, and nurse an additional grudge
against courts and favourites.

The bitterness with which he resented Mrs. Howard's
supposed faithlessness is painfully illustrative, in truth, of
the morbid state of mind which was growing upon him.
"You think," he says to Bolingbroko in 1729, "as I ought
to think, that it is time for me to have done with the
world ; and so I would, if I could get into a better before
I was called into the best, and not die here in a ra<re, like
a poisoned rat in a hole." That terrible phrase expresses
but too vividly the state of mind which was now bc-
' To Lord Stafford, November 26, 1V25.

[CIUP.

VII.]

WOOD'S IIALFPEXCE.

161

coming familiar to him. Separated by death and absence
from his best friends, and tormented by increasini^ illness,
he looked out upon a state of thinijs in wlii.-b he could
sec no ground for hope. The resistance to Wood's half-
pence had staved off immediate ruin, but had not cured
the fundamental evil. Some tracts upun Irish affairs,
written after the Drapicr's Letters, suflicieutly indicate hia
despairing vein. "I am," he says in 1737, when propos-
ing some remedy for the swarms of beggars in Dublin, "a
dcsponder by nature;" and he has found out that the peo-
ple will never stir themselves to remove a single grievance.
His old prejudices were as keen as ever, and could dictate
personal outbursts. IIo attacked the bishojis bitterly for
offering certain measures which in his view sacrificed the
permanent interests of the Church to that of the actual
occupants. He showed his own sincerity by refusing to
take fines for leases which would have benefited himself
at the expense of his successors. AVith e<jual earnestness
he still clung to the Test Acts, and assailed the Protestant
Dissenters with all his old bitterness, and ridiculed their
claims to brotherhood with Churchmen. To the end ho
was a Churchman before cvcrytliing. One of the last of
his poetical performances was prompted by the sanction
given by the Irish Parliament to an opposition to certain
" titles of ejectment." He had defended the right of the
Irish Parliament against English rulers ; but when it at-
tacked the interests of his Church his furv showed itself
in the most savage satire that he ever wrote, the Legion
Chib. It is an explosion of wrath tinged with madness:

" Could I from the building's top
Hear the rattling thunder drop,
While the devil upon the roof
(If the devil be thunder-proof)

I-

■ -S

H-

il ir

li ' i

L -M

[CIUP.

162 SWIFT.

Sliould with pokor fiery red
<'rac-k the stones and molt the lead,
Drive tliem down on every Hkull
W'iien the den of thieves i.s full ;
Quite destroy the harpies' n.st,
How might this our isle be blest !"

What follows fully keeps up to this level. Swift flin^rg
filth like a .na.iiac, plunges into feruciuus personalitiel
and ends fitl_\ with the execration—

"May their God, the devil, confound them!"

lie was seized with one of his fits whilst writing the poem
and was never afterwards capable of sustained composition.'
Some further pau.phlets-cspecially one on the State
01 iiciand— rr-peat and enforce his views. One of them
requires special mention. The Modest Proposal (written
in 1729) for Preventing the Chihhcn of Poor Pcoph in
Ireland from heimj a Burden to their Parents or Country—
the proposal being that they should be turned into articles
of food— gives the very essence of Swift's feeling, and
IS one of the most tremendous pieces of satire in exi.rtence.
It shows the (juality already noticed. Swift is burning
with a passion the glow of whieh makes other passions
fook cold, as it is said that some bright lights cause other
illuminating objects to ,,.,t a shadow. Vet his face is
absolutely grave, and he details his plan , calmlv as a
modern projector suggesting the importation o\ Australian
meat. The superficial coolness i,„iy be revolti ■ to ten-
der-hearted people, and has, indeed, led to con.; .uuatior of
the supposed lerocity of the author almost a^ ,>urprisi' .
the criticiMus which can sec in it nothing but an exqui.ue
^.oce of h>..nour. It i . in truth, fearful to read even now.
l.t wo ca:. forgive and even sympathize when we take it

[chap.

VII.

WOOD'S HALFl'KN

103

■iw'ih flings
^rsoiialities,

tijc poem,
inposition.
the State
Q of tlieui
^ (written
People in
Country —
to articles
cling, and
existence.
^ burning
passions
use other
is face is
miy as a
lustraiian
; to ton-
uatio? of
)risi

exqui.',ui;
v(ii\ now.
take it

for wliat it rcilly is — tiie most ooniploto expression of
burning iti<lignatioii against iiitolcrablo wrongs. It utters,
indeo'l, a soriou.s C(»nviction. " I confess myself," says
Swift 1 a rotnarkablo paper,' "to be touched witli a very
sensii.i pleasure when I hear of a mortality in any coun-
try paiish or village, wh(>re the wretches are forced to pay
for a filthy cabin and two ridges of potatoes treble the
worth ; brought up tu steal and beg for want of work ;
to whom death would bo the best thing to bo wished
for, on acount both of themselves and the jMiblic." lie
remarks in the same place on the l.iinentable contradic-
tion presented in Ireland to the maxiii. that the "p.oplo
are the riches of i nation," and the Mothst Proimsal is
the fullest comment on this melancholy retli'ftion. After
many visionary proposals ho has at last hit u|)on the phm,
whi<;h has at least the advantage that b\ adoitting it " wo
can incur no danger of disobliging England. For this
kind of commodity will not bear exportation, the flesh be-
ing of too tender a consistence to admit a long continuance
salt, although, perhaps, 1 could name a country which
would be glad to eat up a whole nation without it."

Swift once asked Delany^ whether the "c irupl-ons
and villanies of men in power did not oat his flesh and
exhaust his spirits?" "No," said Delany. "Why, how
can you liolp it?" said Swift. " Decauso," replied I), ;.iny,
" I am commanded to the contrary— /rc< not thyself he-
cause of thr unyodlyy That, like other wise maxims, is
capable of an ambiguous application. As Delany took it,
Swift might perhaps have replied that it was a very com-
fortable maxim — f.a' the ungodly. Ilis own application of
Scripture is different. It tells us, he says, in his proposal
for using Irisli manufactures, that "oppression makes a
' Majriiiis Controlled in Inland. * Delanv, p. 1 18.

It i

:'i ^ §i

164

SWIFT.

[tiur.

wise man m/i.l" If, tlicrofoiv, some men are not mad, it
must l.o becatisc tliey are imt wise. In truth, it i» chamc-
teiistit; of Swift that I,.; could never learn the i^rcat Jesson
of sul.nii.ssion even to the inevitable, llu eould nut, liko
an easv-jroing Delany, submit to oppression whioh mi^'l;t
possibly be resisted with suecuss ; but as little eouldi.e
•submit wlien all resistance was hopeless. His raj,^-, which
could ti.id no belter outlet, burnt inwardly and d"'ove him
mad. It is very interesting to compare Swift's wrathful
(h'nuneiMti..ns with lierkelcy's treatnuiit of the same before
in the (Querist (1735-';J7). Derkeky ., full of luminous
suggestions upon cconomieal (juestions which are entirely
beyond Swift's mark. He is in a region quite above the
s<.phi.-5tries of llic Bropur'n Letters. He sees equally the
terrible grievance that no people in the world is so beggar-
ly, wretela'd, and destitute as the common Irisiu IJut^he
thinks all eomi)laints against tlio English rule useless, and
therefore foolish. If the English restrain our trade iU-ad-
visedly, is it not, he asks, plainly our interest to ;icc(Mnmodate
ourselves to them ? (No. 1;}«.) If ive we not the advantage
of English protection without sharing English responsibili-
ties? He asks " whether England doth not really love us
and wish well to us as bone of her bone and flesh of her
riesh i and whether it be not oia- part to cultivate this love
and affection all manner of ways ?" (Nos. 322, 323.) One
can fancy how Swift must have received this' characteris-
tic suggestion of the admirable iJerkeley, who could not
bring himself to think ill of any one. Berkeley's main
contention is, no doubt, sound in itself, namely, that tlie
welfare of the country really depended on the industry
an<l economy of its inhabitants, and that such qualities
would Jiave made the Irish comfortable in spite of all
English restrictions and Government abuses. But, then,

[CIUP.

itot inad, it
it is chanie-
^rcat lesson
I1.I lint, lilvo
liicli iiiii;I:t
e couM ho
ni,i,n', which

drove him
's wrathful
aiiK! before
f luminous
ire entirely

above the
.'(jually the
so bei,^gar-
i. iJut he
soless, and
■ade ill-ad-
onnnodate
advantay;e
sponsibili-
ly love us
osh of her
i this love
2'i.) One
liaracteris*
could not
ey's main
, that tlio

industry

qualities
ite of all
iiit, then,

vu.j

Moods iiALFrKNCK.

Swift mii^'ht well have answered that such general

16.-

maxims

arc 11

lie. It is all very well fur divines to tell people to
become good, and to find out that then they will be
happy. But how are they to be n)ade good f Arc th^'
Irish fntrinsically worse than other men, or is their 1 zi-
ness and restlessness due to special and ren)ovable ci re 'di-
stances ? In the latter ease is there not more real v.ilue
in attackiiiLC tangible evils than in propounding general
maxims and calling upon all men to submit to oppression,
and oven to believe in the oppressor's good-will, in the
name of Christian charity ? To answer those (pjcstions
would he to plunge into interminable and h(»peless con-
troversies. Meanwhile, Swift's tierci; indignation against
English oppression might almost as well h;ive been directed
against a law of natine for any immediate result. Whether
the rousing of the national spirit was any benefit is a cjues-
tion which I must leave to others. In any case, the work,
however darkened by personal feeling or love of class-priv-
ilege, expressed Jis hearty a hatred of oppression as ever
aninuitod % hujmui being.

'A.

' 'I

'^V il

,1 ,i

CHAPTER VIII.

" U I. L I V E r' S T K \ V E L S."

1! : ii'

The winter of 1713-'! 4 passed by Swift in England was
full of anxiety ami voxatioii. He found time, liowever,
to join ill a reiiiarkal'k- literary association. The so-called
Scrildenis Clnl) docs not appear, indeed, to have liad anv
detiiiitc origan izat ion. The risiiisr yomiif wits. Pope and
<Jay, both of tliciii born in KiHS, were already becoiiiiiii,'
famous and were taken up by Swift, .still in the zenith of
his political power. Parncll, a fi-w years their .senior, had
hi\-u introduced by Swift to Oxfonl as a convert from
W hiu^isiii. All three became intimate with Swift and
Arbiithiiot, the most learned and amiable of the whole
circle of Swift's friends. Swift declared him to have
every fi^iality that could make a man amiable and useful,
with bill one defect — ]w. had '"a sort of slouch in his
walk." lie was loved and respected by every one, and was
one of the most distini,niished of the Protliers. Swift and
Arbutliiiot and their three juniors discussed literary plans
in the midst of the o;r(»win<f political excitement, l-'veii
Oxford used, as Pope tells us, to amuse himself during
the very crisis of Ins fate by scribbliiiij verses and talkini;
nonsense with the members of this informal club, and
some doi,'^-ercI lines excliaiiifcd with him remain as a speci-
men — a poor one, it is to l>c hoped — of their intercourse.

gland was
, liowovor,
e so-called
3 liad any
Pope and
bccominij

zenith of
eiiior, had
icrt from
jwift and
he whole

to havi'
1(1 tisofiil,
•li in his
', and was
•iwift and
•ary ]>ians
it. Hvcn
If diirintj
d talkiiiu:
'luh, atid
s a spoci-
(M'courso.

CHAP. VIII.]

" GULLIVER'S TRAVELS."

107

The fainilianty thus l)ci,nin t-ontinued through the life of
the members. Swift can have scon very little of Pope.
lie hardly niade his ac(Hiaintancc till the latter part of
1713; they parted in the summer of 1714; and never
met an;ain exce[)t in Swift's two visit.s to KiiL;laiid in
l72(5-':i7. Yet tlieir correspondence show.s an alTectiou
which wa.s, no doiiht, hei<;htened by the consciousness of
each that the friendship of his most famous contemporary
author was creditable; but which, upon Swift's side, at
least, was thorouo-hly sincere and cordial, and strengthened
with advancing years.

Tiic final cause of the club was supposed to lie the
composition of a joint-stock satire. AVe learn from an
interesting letter' that Pope formed the original design ;
though Swift thought that Arl)uthnot was the only one
capable of carrying it out. The scheme was to write the
memoirs of an imaginary pedant, who had (hibl)le(l with
equal wrong-headed ness in all kinds of Isuowledge ; and
thus recalls Swift's early performances — the Batlle of the
Books and the Talc of a Tub. Arbuthnot begs Swift to
work upon it during his melancholy retirement at Let-
combe. Swift had other things to occupy his mind; and
upon the dispersion of the party tlio club fell into abey-
.•mce. Fragments of the original plan were carried out by
lV>pe and Arbuthnot, and form part of the ^fls^c^anies,
to which Swift contributed a number of poetical scraps,
published under Pope's direction in 17l'0-'27. It seems
probable that GuUivvr originated in Swift's mind in the
ci/ursc of Til ls m editaTrolTs upon Scriblerus. The composi-
tion of Gulliver was one of the occupations by which he
atnused himself after recovering from the jrrpat shock of

' It is in tlie Korstcr library, and, I believe, unpublished, in answer
to Arbutlinot's letter mentioned in tiie text.
M 8*

^ iVi

108

SWIFT.

[cnAP.

liis "fjxilo." lie worked, as lie sooins always to have
•lone, slowly and interniittentlv. I'art of lirobdinirnaf at

I s, was in oxist-

Icast, as wc learn from a letter of Vanessi

ence by 1722. Swift brought the whole manuscript to

ilniflaiid in 1720, aiid it was published anonymously in

the fullowintj winter. Th

instant;

success w

ovorwhelmiiiir. "I will make (»ver all my profits" (in a
work then beinj^ published) "to you," writes Arbuthnot,
" for the property of Gulliver's Travels, which, I believe,
will have as great a run as John Runyan." The anticipa-
tion was amply fuUilled. (rul/iverti Travels is one of
the very few books some knowledge of which may be
fairly assumed in any one who reads anytliing. Yet some-
thing nust be said of tli^; secret of the astonishing success
of this uiii(jue performance.

One remark is obvious. Gulliver's Travels (omitting
certain passages) is almost the most delightful children's
book ever written. Yet it has been equally valued as an
umivalled satire. Old Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough,
was "in raptures with it," says Gay, "and can dream of
nothing else." She forgives his bitter attacks upon her
jiarty in consideration of his assault upon human nature.
He gives, she declares, " the most accurate " (that is, of
course the most scornful) "account of kings, ministers,
bishops, and courts of justice that is possible to be writ."
Another curious testimony may be noticed. Godwin, when
tracing all evils to the l)aneful effects of government, de-
clares that the author of Gulliver showed a " more pro-
found insight into the true principles of political justicf-
than any preceding or contemporary author." The play-
ful form was unfortunate, thinks this grave philosopher,
as blinding y.iankind to the "inestimable wisdom" of the
Work. This doiible triumph is remarkable. \Vc may not

[chap.

to have
iiignag at
i in cxist-
iscript to
nously in
loous and
ts" (in a
rbiitlinot,
I believe,
anticipa-
? one of

may be
fet some-

g success

omitting
jhildrcn's
icd as an
borough,
ih'cam of
ipon her
1 nature.
lat is, of
iiinistors,
bo writ."
in, wlicn
nent, de-
ore p ro-
ll justice
'ho play-
osopher,
" of the
may not

Tin.]

' GULLIVER'S TRAVELS.'

169

I !

share tlic opinions of the cynic, f the day, or of the rev-
olutionists of a later generation, but it is strange that they
should be fascinated by a work which is studied with de-
light, without the faintest suspicion of any ulterior meaning,
by the infantile mind.

The charm of Callli'er for the young depends upon an
obvious quality, which is indicated in Swift's report of
the criticism by an Irish bishop, who said that " the book
was full of improbable lies, and for his part he hardly
believed a word of it." There is something pleasant in
t_[ic_intcnse gravi ty of the narrative, wliicli recalls and may
liave been partly suggested by JRohinson Crusoe, though
it came naturally to Swift. I h.ave already spoken of
his delight in mystification, and ^i e d e t a i 1 1 kI r eal i z.atj o n of
pure fiction seems to have been delightful in itself. The
Partridge pamphlets and its various practical jokes are
illustrations of a tendency which fell in with the spirit of
the time, and of whicli Gulliver may be regarded as the
highest manifestation. Swift's peculiarity is in the curious
sobriety of fancy, which leads him to keep in his most
daring flights upon the confines of the possible. In the
imaginary travels of Lucian and Rabelais, to which Gul-
liver is generally compared, we frankly take leave of the
real world altogether. We are treated with aibitrary
and monstrous combinations which may be amusing, but
which do not challenge even <• semblance of belief. In
Gulliver this is so little the case that it can hardly be saiil
in strictness that the fundamental assumptions are even
impossible. Why should there not be creatures in liu-
juan form with whom, as in Lilliput, one of our inches
represents a foot, or, as in Brobdingnag, one of our feet
represents an inch ? The assumption is so modest that
we are presented — it may be said — with a definite and

K- r

■M

if? A

)■

I '.

(

L I

170

SWIFT.

[chap.

:!;;t/'t'r-,''''^'"^""^'"^ - other fietitio..
w..M,s,to doa w.th a state of things i„ which fhe i.na.n-
nat.on ,s bew.i.iercl, but with one i„ whioh it is agroeal^y
stnm,late.l U e have certainly to consider an extr;;.. and
exceptional case, but one to which all the ordinary laws
of hmnan nature are still strictly applicable. I,', ^'ol.
anos tnHe,/J£«7;o;«.^^wo are presented to bein-s ei.^ht
^agues ,n height and endowed with seventy-twcTsen^s.
tor \<.lta>res purpose the stupendous exaggeration is
necessary, fo, he wishes to insist upon the niinuteness of
.uman capac.fes. P.nt the assun,ption, of course, dis-
q lal.hes us fro.n takmg any intelligent interest in a re'non
where no precedent is available for our guidance. Ve
are .n the air; anything and everything is possible. But
.Sw.ft ,nodestly varies only one element in the proble.n
mag.ne g.ants and dwarfs as tall as a house or as low as
a footstool, and let us sec what comes of it. That is a
plan), almost a mathe.natical, problem ; and we can, there-
fore, judge h.s success, and receive pleasure from the in-
i?enuity and verisimilitude of his creations.

''^yhen J^.u have once thought of big men and little

; 1 ";' f^'""";- f""^''-'>' -'-^'N "it is easy to do

.e rest 1 he hrst step n.ight, perhaps, seem in this case

to be the eas.est; yet n.body ever thought of it before

:' ■ Tl ' 'T T '"' •^'"'''•^'' ^'^-1 f-t-n.

oc There .s no other fictitious worl.l the denizens of

which have become so real for us, an.l which has supplied

so many .mages fau,iliar to every educated mind. IJ„t

apparent ease is due to the extren.e consistency an.l

o r,d judgment of Swift's realization. TI,e_conclLons
ffeo^m<n^.a^ro^^^^^ dalT^t^hen

hey are once drawn we agree that they could not have
been otherwise; and infer, rashly, that anybody else coul.J

VIII.]

" GULLIVEKS TRAVELS."

171

liHvc drawn tliem. It is as easy as lyinj,' ; l.iit cvcm-v hody
who has seriously tried the experiment knows that oven
lying is hy no means so easy as it appears at first sii;ht.
In fact, Swift's success is something uni()Mo. Tiie cliarin-
Jn«jj)laiiMlM^^jtyMj^^^ throughout the two first

{•arts, commends itself to children, who enjoy definite con-
crete images, and arc fascinated l.y a world whi.-h is at
once full of marvels, surpassing Jack the Giant Killer and
the wonders seen by Sindbad, and yet as obviously and un-
deniably true as the adventures of Robinson Crusoe him-
self. Nobody who has read the book can ever forget it ;
and we may add that besides the childlike pleasure wliicli
arises from a distinct realization of a strange world of
fancy, the two first books are sutHciently good-humoured.
Swift seems to be amused, as well as amusing. Thev
were probably written during the least intolerable part <^f
his exile. The period of composition includes the years
of the Vanessa tragedy and of the war of Wood's half-
pence; it was finished when Stella's illness was becoming
constantly more threatening, and published little more
tlian a year before her death. The last books show
Swift's inost savago^tompc'i- ; but we may JK.pe tliat,Tn
spite of disease, cTisappointments, and a growing alienation
from mankind. Swift could still enjoy an occasioii;ii piece
of spontaneous, unadulterated fun. lie could still torget
his cares, and throw the reins on the neck of his fancy.
At times there is a certain cliarm even in the characters.
Every one has a liking for the giant maid-of-all-work,
(JIumdalelitch, whose aifection for her playthino- is a
(juaint inversion of the ordinary relations between Swift
and liis feminine adorers. The grave, stern, irascible man
can relax aftei a sort, though his strange idiosyncrasy
comes out as distinctly in his relaxation as in his passions.

'f!

1 wm

i
tt.

I i

172

^wn-T.

I will not dwell upon this aspect of Gul/iver, which is
obvious to every one. There is anotlicr question which
we are forco.l to ask, an.l whicli is not very easy to an-
swer. \yhat ,loes G>,/lirer mean? It is clearlv'a satire
—hilt who and what arc its objects? Swift states his
..wn Mew very une.juivocally. "I heartily hate and de-
tost that animal called man," he says,' "althou<,Hi I heart-
ily rove John, Peter, Thomas, and so forth." He declares
that man is not an mumal rationale, but only rathnh
rapar; and he then adds, ''Upon this great fo.mdation
of misanthropy .... the whole building of mv travels is
erected." " If the world had but a dozen Arlmthnots in
It he says in the same letter, " I would burn my travels "
Ho mduli,'es ,„ a similar reflection to Sheridan.' ' "Expect
no more from man," he says, "than s.ich an anin.al is ca-
pable of, and you will every day find my description of
., yahoos more resembjin- You should think and deal
with every num as a villain, without calling bin. so, or
Iflymg from Imn or valuino; him less. This is an old true
^sson. In spite of these avowals, of a kin.l whi<.h, in
Sw, t, must not be taken too literally, we find it rather
f'nnl to a.lmit that the essence of GuUiver can be an ex-
pression of thi... doctrine. The tone becomes morose and
sombre, and even ferocious; b.it it has been disputed
whether in any ease it can be regarded simply as an
utterance of misanthropy.

Gullivers Travels belongs to a literary genus full of
grotes<p,e and anomalous forms. Its form is deriv(.<l from
some of the imaginary travels of which Lucian's True His-
^o/-y— itself a burlesrp.e of some early travellers' tales-is
the first example. But it has an affinity also to such books
' Letter to Pope, September 29, 1725.
* Letttr to Sheriilnn, September IK 1726.

\' ■ I

[chap

VIII. ]

" GULLIVERS TRAVELS."

17a

as Bacon's Atlantis and More's Utopia; and, again, to
l ater pliilosopliji-al romances like Candlde and RasHcld n ;
and not least, perhaps, to the ancient fables, such as /I'c//-
iKird the Fox, to wliich Swift refers in tlic Tale of a Tah.
It may be com[»ared, again, to the /'//r/Ww'.v /'rof/ress and
tlie whole family of allegories. The full-hlown allegory
resemhles the game of chess said to have been played bv
some ancient monarch, in which the pieces were replaced
by real Imman beings. The movements of the actors were
not determined by the passions proper to their character,
but by the external set of rules imposed upon them by the
game. The allegory is a kind of picture-writing, popular,
like picture-writing at a certain stage of development, but
wearisome at more cultivated periods, when we prefer to
have abstract theories conveyed in abstract language, and
limit the artist to the intrinsic meaning of the images in
which he deals. The wh"K' class of more or less allegorical
writing has thus the peculiarity that something more is
meant than meets the ear. Part of its meaning depends
upon a tacit convention in virtue of which a beautiful
woman, for example, is not simply a beautiful woman, but
a!^o a representative of Justice and Charity. And as any
such convention is more or less arbitrary, we are often in
perplexity to interpret the author's meaning, and also to
judge of the propriety of the symbols. The allegorical
intention, again, may be more or less present, and such a
book as Gulliver must be regai.hil as l\ing somewhere
iietwcen the allegory and the dinrt revelation of truth,
whicli is more or less implied in the work of everv
genuine artist. Us true purpose has thus rather puzzled
criti.'.. Tlazlitt' urges, for example, with his usual brill-
iancy, ti vt Swift's purpose was to "strip empty pride
' Lectures on the Ene/Hsh Poets,

' i

. h

til

1 - Kl^

( t

!« i

i 1

174

SWIFT.

•mil <:ran(l('iir of t!

■stances throw aroiin<l tlifin." S

tlio scale

[Ci.

.VI'.

10 iniposinir air wliidi external

so as to sliow tho insio-nifi
.•If

wift, accord i

circiim-

iii,<;lv, varies

ot our sdf-lovo. He .Iocs this xviti

oanco or tho i'rossness

oision ;" he tries an o.vp

1 " "latlieniatical pre-

with tho result that "noti

nment u|»oii huuian nat

lire

and

left
can

in iiis system [)ut wisd

"""IT solid, noti

'iiij,' valiiahle is

■villi; olT the tleet of Illcfu

"III and virtue." So (

iiilliver s

aimed at national "I
to c< insider which of tl

orv

■^cu is "a iiiortifviiiir stroke,
"After that

, we have only

riyht.

10 oontending parties was in tl

Ilazlitt nafurall

nocent in such a eonelu
torn ofT the world, and

y can see nothin;r misanthropical

sion.

or in-

le I

only imposture c

nask of imposture

view, which has no dotil.t its trutl

!in complain. Thi.-

doubts. AV

I, siio-i^ests some obvioii.>

to the <juesti„n of riu'lit and

!ire iK.t invited, as a matter of fact t

o attend

r.lef.

iscu.

«ron.r,as between Lilliput and

tween these miserable \

10 real sentiment in Swift is tl

liat a war be-

and theref

>ygmies IS, in itself, contemptible

"i'<Nas 1,«. infers, war between i
IS eepially contemptible. The truth is that

lien six feit liii,di

solution of the problem may be called matl
cise, the precision doc
ment. If

ilthouL-h Swift's

lematicallv pre-
s not extend to th(," supposed 'ar<ru-

we insist upon tivatiiu; the ouest

strict loiric, the only ond

piestion as Olio of

iision which could be drawn fi

le interest of the hu

(7u/nm- is the very safe one that tl „

drama does not depend upon the size of tl
pygmy or a giant endowed with all our f,

oin

man

thoughts would b

le actors. A
iiictions an<l

e exac

normal stature. Tt does not

regions to teach us so much. And if

shown us in his pictures the real essence of'h

tly as interesting as a being of tl
require a journey to imaginary

lie

wo say that Swift has

only say for liim what

might bo said witl

uman life, we

» cijual force of

[til A p.

vni.J

"GULLIVER'S TRAVELS."

17f.

Shakspcarc or Balzac, or any i^ivat artist. The baro proof
that the essence is not depeiidcnt iipun the external con-
dition of size is siipertliious and irrelevant ; and we niii-t
admit that Swift's method is childish, or that it does not
adlune to this strict loj^ical canon.

Ilazlitt, however, comes nearer the truth, as I tliink.
when lie says that Swift takes a view of iuiniaii nature
such as mii^ht he taken by a being of a hioher sphere.
That, at least, is Ids j)urpose; only, as I tliink, he j)ursu(s
it by a neylect of "scientific reasoninrr." The use of the
machinery is simply to brinn; us into a conjjenlal frame of
mind. He strikes the key-note of contempt by his imagery
of dwarfs and giants. We despise the petty cpiarrels of
beings six inches high; and therefore we are [)repared to
<lespise the wars carried on by a Marlborough and a Eugene.
We transfer tlie contemj)t based upon mere size to the mo-
tives, which are the same in big men and little. The argu-
ment, if argument there be, is a fallacy; but it is cquallv
efficacious for the feelings. Vou sec the pettiness and
cruelty of the Lilliputians, who want to conquer an em-
pire defended by toy-ships; and you are tacitly invited to
consider whether tlie bigness of French men-of-war makes
an attack upon them more respectable. The force of the
satire depends ultimately upon the vigour with whicli Swift
has described the real passions of human beings, big or lit-
tle. He really means to express a bitter contempt for states-
men and warriors, and seduces us to his side, for the mo-
ment, by asking us to look at a diminutive representation
of the same beings. The quarrels which depend iq)oii the
difference l)etween the high-boots and the low-heeled shoes,
or upon breaking eggs at the big or little end ; the party
intrigues which are settled by cutting capers on the tiirht-
rope, are meant, of course, in ritlicule of political and re-

. t

i:iti

SWliT.

f i!

' i

I i

i . I

1'* i

[

rilAP

i^'i«>iis parties; niid its iovcv (' pciuls ui

coiivictiuii tli.it tl

)nii ..iir pnviou-

luii tli.it the party-<iuaiTols between mir li'lli.ws arc,
ill faet, e.jually coiiteinptiblc. Swift's 8ii!ire is eongonial
to the mental altitude ..f all \n1,o have pei>n ulod them-
selves that nier, are, in faet, a set uf contenptibi • f.mls and
knaves, in whose qiiairels and nintiial shiugliterinLjs the wIm-
aihl OMud eonid not persuade themselves tu take a serious
interest. He " proves" nothing, mathennitieally or ..ther-
wise. If yon do no! share his sentiments there is nothing,'
Ml tiio mere alteration of the scale to convince you Iha^
thoy arc ri,i.-ht; yon may say, with Ilazlitt, that" heroism
i- as admirable in u Mllipntian as in a ]}robdinj,niai;ian,
and believe that war calls forth j.atriotisni, and o"f ten ad-
vances civilizatio.i. \VhiiLJ?>ufti,asj;eall^ doiie is to i.ro-
i:'^'L%J''H 'i>.'H-^*'"^-Al^'?lJ!'^^s I'i^ spcciesji'nmuber of
oxcecdjnsl^_effectiyo_sj,nljiili i^^ thfi^^utteratico of hi>
conteni£t. A child is simi iy i»muscd with Bii,^endians
and Littleendians; a pliilo.upher thinks that the .piestions
really at the bottom of ( 'linreh (piarrels arc in reality of
more serious import; b> i th, cynic wlio has learnt to
disbelieve in^ the nubility or wi.dom of t^ •• great mass of
bi> species finds a most convenient metaphor for express-
in- l.js disbelief. In this way Gul/ivn-n Travels contains
a whole gallery of caricatures thoroughly congenial to the
dospisers of humanity.

In JJrnbaingnag Swift is generally said to be looking,
as Scott expresses it, through the other end of the tele-
scope. He wishes to show the grossness of men's passions,
as before he has shown their pettiness. Some of the in-
'•idents are devised in this sense ; but we may notice that
in lirobdingnag he recurs to the Lilliput view. He gives
such an application to his fable as may be convenient,
without bothering liimself as to logical consistency. He

W^ w

\'t,

IniAP

VIM.]

"GULLIVKliS TJi.VVELS."

points out, indeed, the disi,Mistiii,ir appcaranrcs which woiil-i
l-e presented ' . a nja|riiilicd huiiiaii hody ; l.ut the Kiiii,'
-f l}rohdin.^nla^r h)oks down iip.,ii Gulliver, just as (Millive'
looked down upon the Lilliputians. The monarch sum.
"P his vic-w o.nphati ally enough by sayinj;, after lisicnin!,'
to (jullivcr'8 version . I rn history, that " the bulk of

your natives appeal • ;,. bo the most pernicious race

of little odious veiiu, hat Xatur.' ever suffered o crawl
upon the face of the eailh. In Lillipui and Urobdini;-
nag, how-ever, the satire scarcely goes beyond pardonal-K-
limits. The details are often simply amusing, such a-
Gnlliver's fear, when he gets home, of trampling upon the
pygmies wliom he sees arouiid him. And even the .severest
satire may he taken without offence by every one who
believes that pett motives, folly and s'elfishness, play a
largo enougli ,iuman life to justify some indignant

e.\aggcration>. , i„ the later parts that the feri.citv

of the man ni uself more fully. The ridicule of the
inventors in tl liiird book ^s, as Arbuthnot said at once,
the least successful part of the whole; not oidy because
Swift was getting beyond his knowledge, and beyond the
range of his strongest antipathies, but also because tliere is
52j£!lai^l'9^i»S^\»io.iilpIausibility of the earlier books!
The voyage to the ilouyhnhnms, whid) forms the best
part, is more powerful, but more painful and repulsive.

A word nmst here be said of the most unpleasant par;
of Swift's character. A morbid interest in the physically
disgusting is sh own in several of his wrifii.o -s. Some minor
pieces, which ought t- have been burnt, sinij.ly make the
gorge rise. Mrs. Pilkuigion tells us, and we can for once
believe '.or, that one "poem" actually made her mother
sick. It is idle to e.xcuso this on the ground of contem-
porary free.h)m of speech. His contemporaries were

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178

SWIFT.

[chap.

! L

I »

1^ ■

I !'

licartily diso-ustcd. Indeed, though it is true that they
revealed certain propensities more openly, I sec no reason
to think that such propensities were really stronger in them
than in their descendants. The objection to Swift is not
that he spoke plainly, but that he brooded over filth un-
necessarily. No parallel can be found for his tendency
even in writers, for example, like Smollett and Fielding,
who can be coarse enough when they please, but who*e
freedom of speech reveals none of Swift's morbid tendency.
His indulgence in revolting images is to some extent an
indication of a diseased condition of his mind, [)erhaps of
actual mental decay. Delany says that it grew upon him
in his later years, and, very gratuitously, attributes it to
Pope's influence. The peculiarity is the more remarkable,
because Swift was a man of the most scrupulous personal
cleanliness. He was always enforcing this virtut with
special emi)hasis. He was rigorously observant of decency
in ordinary conversation. Delany once saw liim "fall
into a furious resentment" with Stella for "a very small
failure of delicacy." So far from being habitually coarse,
he pushed fastidiousness to the verge of prudery. It is
one of the superficial paradoxes of Swift's character that
this very shrinking from filth became perverted into an
apparently opposite tendency. In truth, his intense re-
pugnance to certain images led him to use them as the
only adequate expression of his savage contempt. Instances
might be given in some early satires, and in the attack
upon Dissenters in the Ta/e of a Tub. His intensity of
loathing leads him to besmear his antap-onists with filth.
[le lH^oim-sJ]s^vus^^ ]^\^ d iso-ust.

As his misanthropy deepened lie applied the same iriS'iod
to mankind at large. He tears aside the veil of decency
to show the bestial elements of human nature ; and his

I. i\\

5 \}

[chap.

that they
no reason
^r in them
'ift is not
p filth iin-

tondency

Fielding,
lit whose
tendency,
extent an
erhaps of
ipon him
ites it to
iiavkable,

personal
tut with
' decency
Im "fall
3ry small
y coarse,
y. It is
ictcr that

into an
tense re-
n as the
[nstances
10 attack
■nsity of
ith filth.
■ disnrust.

■ c

! method
decency
and his

vm.J

"GULLIVER'S TRAVELS.'

17«

characteristic irony makes him preserve an apparent calm-
ness during the revolting exhibition. His state of mind
IS strictly analogous to that of some religious ascetics, who
stimulate their contempt for the flesh by fixino- their gaze
upon decaying bodies. They seek to check "the love of
beauty by showing us beauty in the grave. The cynic in
Mr. Tennyson's poem tells us that every face, however
full —

" radded round witli flesh and blood,
Is but moulded on a skull."

Swift— a practised self-tormentor, though not in the
ordinary ascetic sense-mortifies any disposition to admire
his fellows by dwelling upon the physical necessities which
seem to lower and degrade human pride. Beauty is but
skin deep ; beneath it is a vile carcase. He always sees
the " flayed woman " of the Tale of a Tub. The thouoht
IS hideous, liateful, horrible, and therefore it fascinates
him. He loves to dwell upon the hateful, because it jus-
tifies li s hate. He nurses liis mi.santhropy, as he mioht
tear liis flesh to keep his mortality before his eyes.

The Yahoo is the embodiment of the bestial element
•n man ; and Swift in his wrath takes the bestial for
the predominating element. The hideous, filthy, histf.
monster yet asserts its relationship to him in the most
humiliating fashion: and he traces in its conduct the
resemblance to all the main activities of the human beino-
Like the human being, it fights and squabbles for the
satisfaction of its lu.st, or to gain certain shiny yellow
stones; it befouls the weak and fawns upon th'e stron<r
with loathsome compliance; shows a strange love of dirt"
and incurs diseases by laziness and gluttony. Gulliver
gi^ves an account of his own breed of Yahoos, from

winch it seems that they differ from the subjects of the
34

•■J

p.!

if p i;,'

ijii

ill i

» 1-

■,

1 ■

til'

180

SWIFT.

[chap.

I Ml

Ilouylinlinnis only by showing the same propensities on
a larger scale ; and justifies his master's remark, tliat all
th.ir institutions are owino- to "gross defects in reason,
and by consequence iu virtue." The Ilouyhnhnms, mean-
while,' represent Swift's Utopia: they prosper And are
happy, truthful, and virtuous, and therefore able to dis-
pense with lawyers, physicians, ministers and all the otiicr
apparatus of an eifete civilization. It is in this doctrine,
as I may observe in passing, that Swift falls in with God-
win and the revolutionists, though they believed in human
perfectibility, while they traced every existing evil to the
impostures and corruptions essential to all systems of gov-
ernment. Swift's view of human nature is too black to
admit of any hopes of their millennium.

TIjc full wrath of Swift against his species shows iiself
in this ghastly caricature. Tt is la-nentablc and painful,
though even here wc recognize the morbid perversion of
a noble wrath against oppression. One other portrait in
Swift's gallery demands a moment's notice. No poetic
picture in Dante or Milton can exceed the strange power
of his prose description of the Struldbn.gs— those hideous
immortals who arc damned to an everlasting life of driv-
elling incompetence. It is a translation of the affecting
myth of Tithonus into the repulsive details of downright
prose. It is itllc to seek for any particular moral from
those hideous phantoms of Swift's dismal Inferno. They
embody the terror which was haunting his imagination as
old ago was drawing upon him. The sight, he says him-
self, should reconcile a man to ' .. The mode of recon-
ciliation is terribly characteri.... , Life is but a weary
business at best; but, at least, we annot wish to drain so
repulsive a cup to the dr.gs, when even the illusions which
cheered us at moments have been ruthlessly destroyed.

!l '■ i

<L'I

[(.'HAP.

VIII.]

" GULLIVER'S TRAVELf

181

■'.tics on
that all

1 reason,
IS, mcaii-
-'>.nd arc
! to dis-
lic other
doctrine,
itlt God-
n luunan
il to the
s of gov-
black to

)\vs iiself
, painful,
orsion of
ortrait in
fo poetic
go power
e hideous

2 of driV"
aifecting

lownright
oral from
io. They
illation as
says him-
i of rccon-
a weary
) drain so
ons which
iestroycd.

Swift was but too clearly prophesying the mclancliolv de-
cay into which he was hiinsolf to sink.

The later books of Gnllivcr have been in some sense
excised from the popular editions of the Travels. The
Yahoos, and Ilouyhnhnms, and Struldbrugs are, indeed,
known by name almost as well as the inhabitants of Lilli-
put and Brobdingnag ; but this part of the book is cer-
tainly not reading for babes. Lt was, probably, written
during the years when he was attacking public corruption,
and when his private happiness was being destroyed — wlien,
therefore, his wrath against mankind and against his own
fate was stimulated to the highest pitch. Readers who
wish to indulge in a harmless play of fancy will do well
to omit the last two voyages, for the _stram of misan-
th ropy which breat hes in_ thcin is simply oppressive.
They are, probably, the sources from which the popular
impiession of 8'vift's character is often derived. It is
important, therefore, to romei/.ber that they were wrung
from him in later years, after a life tormented by constant
disappointment and disease. Most j eople hate the mis-
anthropist, even if they are forced to admire liis power.
Yet we must not be carried too far by the words. Swift's
misanthropy was not all ""noble. We generally prefer
flattery even to sympathy. We like the man who is blind
to our faults better than the man who sees them and yet
pities our distresses. We have the same kind of feeling
for the r(.ce as we have in our own case. Wc are attract-
ed by the kindly optimist who assures us that good pre-
dominates in everything and everybody, and believes that
a speedy advent of the millennium must reward our mani-
fold excellence. We cannot forgive those who hold men
to be " mostly fools," or, as Swift would assert, mere
brutes in disguise, and even carry out that disagreeablo

182

SWIFT.

[chap. vm.

It? ^

opinion in detail. There is soincthing uncomfortable, and
ihcretore repellent of sympathy, in the mood which dwells
upon the darker side of society, even though with wrath-
ful indignation against the irremovable evils. Swift's
hatred of oppression, burning and genuine as it was, is no
apology with most readers for his perseverance in assert-
ing its existence. *'S[)euk comfortable things to '^s" is
the cry of men to the prophet in all ages; and he who
would assfiult abuses must count upon offending many
who do not approve them, but who would, therefore, prefer
not to believe in them. Swift, too, mixed an amount of
egoism with his virtuous indignation which clearly lowers
his moral dignity. He really hates wrongs to his race;
but his sensitiveness is roused when they are injuries to
himself, and committed by his enemies. The indomitable
spirit which made him incapable even of yielding to neces-
sity, which makes him beat incessantly against the bars
which it was hopeless to break, and therefore waste pow-
er-, which might have done good service by aiming at the
unattainable, and nursing grudges against inexorable ne-
cessity, limits our sympathy with hia better nature. Yet
some of us may take a different view, and rather pity
than condemn the wounded spirit so tortured and pervert-
ed, in consideration of the real philanthropy which under-
lies the misanthropy, and the righteous hatred of brutality
and oppression which is but the seamy side of a generous
sympathy. At least, wo should be rather awed than re-
pelled by this spectacle of a nature of magnificent power
struck down, bruised and crushed under fortune, and yet
fronting all antagonists with increasing pride, and com-
forting itself with scorn even when it can no longer injure
its adversaries.

■'V

CHAPTER IX.

DECLINE.

Swift survived liis final settlement in IrelaT^d for more
than thirty years, thouo-h diirincf tic last five ^r six it was
but the outside shell of him that lived. During every
day in all those years Swift must have eaten and drunk,
and somehow or other got through the twenty-four hours.
The war against Wood's halfpence employed at most a
few months in 1724, and all his other political writings
would scarcely fill a volume of this size. A modern jour-
nalist who could prove that he hal written as little in six
months would deserve a testimonial. Gulliver .s Travels
appeared in 1727, and ten years were to pass before his
intellect became hopelessly clouded. How was the re-
mainder of his time filled ?

The death of Stella marks a critical point. Swift told
Gay in 1723 that it had taken three years to reconcile
him to the country to which he was condemned forever.
He came back " with an ill head and an aching heart.'"
He was separated from the friends he had loved, and too
old to make new friends, A man, as he says elsewhere,*
who had been bred in a coal-pit might pass his time in it
well enough ; but if sent back to it after a few months in
upper air he would find content less cany. Swift, in fact,

J To Bolingbroko, May, Hid.
« To Tope nnd Gay, October 15, 1726.
N 9

ill

: 1

m;|

,(.

I m

( I

*-r'

181

SWIFT.

[chap.

never became resigned to the " coal-pit," or, to use anotlier
of his phrases, the " wretched, dirty dog-hole and prison,"
of which he could only say that it was a " place good
enough to die in." Yet ho became so far acclimatized as
to shape a tolerable existence out of Lie fragments left to
him. Ii'telligent and cultivated men in Dublin, especially
amonost the clero'v and the Fellows of Trinity College,
gathered round their famous countryman. Swift formed
a little court; he rubbed up his classics to the academical
standard, read a good deal of history, and even amused
himself with mathematics. lie received on Sundays at
the deanery, though his entertainments seem to have been
rather too economical for the taste of his guests. " The
ladies," Stella and Mrs. Dingley, were recognized as more
or less domesticated with hiin. Stella helped to receive
his guests, though not ostensibly as mistress of the house-
hold ; and, if we may accept Swift's estimate of her social
talents, must have been a very charming hostess. If some
of Swift's guests were ill at ease in presence of the imperi-
ous and moody exile, we may believe that during Stella's
life there was more than a mere semblance of agreeable
society at the deanery. Her death, as Delany tells us,' led
to a painful change. Swift's temper became sour and un-
governable ; his avarice grew into a monomania; at times
he o-rudo-ed even a single bottle of wine to his friends.
The giddiness and deafness which had tormented him by
tits now became a part of his life. Reading came to be
impossible, because (as Delany thinks) his obstinate refusal
to wear spectacles had injured his sight. He still strug-
gled hard against disease; he rode energetically, though
two servants had to accompany him, in case of accidents
from giddiness; he took regular " constitutionals " up and

1 Delany, p. 144.

[chap.

IX.]

DECLINE.

185

down stairs when he could not go out. Ills fruMids thought
that ho injured himself by ovcr-oxcrcisc, and the battle
was necessarily a losing one. Gradually the gloom deep-
ened ; friends dropped off by death, and were alienated by
his moody temper; he was surrounded, as thoy thought,
bv desi<>nin<>' svpoi)hants. llis cousin, Mrs.AVhitewav, who
took care of him in his last years, seems to have oeen both
kindly and sensible; but ho became unconscious of kind-
ness, and in 1741 had to be put under restraint. Wc may
briefly lill up some details in the picture.

Swift at Dublin recalls Napoleon at Elba . The duties
of a deanery arc not supposed, I believe, to give absorbing
employment for all the faculties of the incunibent; but an
empire, however small, may be governed ; and Swift at an
early period set about establishing his supremacy within
his small domains. He maintained his prerogatives against
tin archbishop, and subdued his chapter. His inferiors
submitted, and could not fail to recognize his zeal for the
honour of the body. But his superiors found him less
amenable. He encountered episcopal authority with his
old haughtiness. He bade an encroaching bishop remem-
ber that he was speaking "to a clergyman, and not to a
footman.'" He fell upon an old fr.'end, Sterne, the Bish-
op of Cloghcr, for granting a lease to some "old fanatic
knight." He takes the opportunity of reviling the bish-
ops for favouring" two abominable bills for beggaring and
enslaving the clergy (which took their birth from hell),"
and says that he had theieupon resolved to have "no more
commerce with persons of such prodigious grandeur, who,
I feared, in a little time, would expect me to kiss their
s.lpper."" He would not even look into oach, lest he

' Bishop of Meath, May 22, 1*710.
■•> To Bishop of Cloghcr, July, 1*733.

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SWIFT.

[ciup.

should sec such <a thing <ns a bishop — a sight that would
strike him with terror, lu a bitter satire he describes Sa-
tiin as the bishojy to whom the rest of the Irish l»eru'h are
suflfragans. His theory was that the English (jovcriimciit
always appointed admirable divines, but that unluckily all
the new bishops were murdered on llounslow Heath by
highwaymen, who took their robes and patents, and so
usurped the Irish sees. It is not surprising that Swift's
episcopal acquaintance was limited.

In his deanery Swift discharged his duties with despotic
benevolence. He performed the services, carefully criti-
cised young preachers, got his nuisical friends to help jjim
in regulating his choir, looked carefully after the cathedral
repairs, and improved the revenues at the cost of his own
interests. His pugnacity broke out repeatedly even in
such apparently safe directions. He erected a monument
to the Duke of Schomberg after an attempt to make the
duke's descendants pay for it themselves. He said that if
they tried to avoid the duty by reclaiming the body, he
would take up the bones, and put the skeleton " in his
register office, to be a memorial of their baseness to all
posterity.'" He finally relieved his feelings by an epitaph,
which is a bitter taunt against the duke's relations.

Happily, he gave less equivocal proofs of the energy
which he could put into his duties. His charity was un-
surpassed both for amount and judicious distribution.
Delany declares that in spite of his avarice he would give
five pounds more easily than richer men would give as
many shillings. " I never," says this good authority, " saw
poor so carefully and conscientiously attended to in my
life as those of his cathedral." He introduced and carried
out within his own domains a plan for distinguishing the
' To Carteret, May 10, 1728.

saw

1X.J

DECLIXE.

187

deserving poor by badges— in nticipation of modern
sclioincs for "organization of charity." AVith the first
five hundred pounds wliich he possessed he formed a fund
for granting loans to industrious tradesmen and citizens,
to be repaid by weekly instalments. It was said that by
this scheme ho had been the means of putting more than
two hundred families in a comfortable way of living.' He
had, .says Delany, a whole "seraglio" of digressed old
women in Dublin; there was scarcely a lane in the whole
city where ho had not such a "mistress." JIo saluted
them kindly, inquired into their affairs, bought trifles from
them, and gave them such titles as Tullagowna, Stnmpa-
-lympha, and so forth. The phrase "seraglio" may re-
mind us of Johnson's establishment, who hns shown his
prejudice against Swift in nothing more than in misjudg-
ing a charity akin to his own, though apparently directed
with more discretion. The " rabble," it is cle:iv, might be
grateful for other than nolitical services. To personal de-
pendents he was equally liberal. lie supported his wid-
owed sister, who had married a scapegrace in opposition
to his wishes. He allowed an annuity of 52/. a year to
Stella's companion, Mrs. Dingley, and made her suppose
that the money was not a gift, but the produce of a fund
for which he was trustee. He showed the same 'ibcrality
to Mrs. Kidgway, daughter of his old housekeeper, ]\Irs.
Bront, paying her an annuity of 20/., and giving her a
bond to secure the payment in case of accidents. Consid-
ering the narrowness of Swift's income, and that he seems
also to have had considerable trouble about obtaining his
rents and securing his invested savings, we may say that
his so-called "avarice" was not inconsistent with unusual

' Substance ' a speech to the Mayor of Dublin. Franklin left
a fum of nion. . ..u be employed in a similar way.

■ I

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188

SWIFT.

[chap.

}

1 i

?! il

iniiiiiticcncc. lie pared liis personal cxpemliturc to the
(jiiick, not that lie might bo rich, but that he might bo
liberal.

Though for one reason or other Swift was at open war
with a good many of the higher classes, his court was
not without distinguished favourites, The most conspic-
uous amongst them were Delany and Sheridan. IK-Iany
(10H5-1708), when Swift iirst knew him, was a Fellow of
Trinity College. lie was a scholar, and a man of much
good feeling and intelligence, and eininently agre^ublc in
society ; his theological treatises seem to have been fan-
ciful, but he could write pleasant verses, and had great
reputation as a college tutor. lie married two rich wives,
and Swift testilies that his good qualities were not the
worse for his wealth, nor his purse generally fuller, lie
was so much given to hospitality as to be always rather
in difliculties. lie was a man of too much amiability and
social suavity not to be a little shocked at some of Swift's
savage outbursts, and scandalized by his occasional impro-
prieties. Yet be appreciated the nobler qualities of the
stauncb, if rather alarming, friend. It is curious to
remember that his second wife, who was one of Swift's
later correspondents, survived to be tlic venerated friend
of Fanny Bnrney (1752-1840), and that many living
people may thus remember one who was fan)iliar with
the latest of Swift's female favourites. Swift's closest
friend and crony, however, was the elder Sheridan, the
ancestor of a race fertile in genius, though unluckily his
son, Swift's biographer, seems to have transmitted without
possessing any share of it. Thomas Sheridan, the elder,
was the typical Irishman — kindly, witty, blundering, full
of talents and imprudences, careless of dignity, and a child
in the ways of the world, lie was a prosperous school-

[CIIAP.

IX.]

DECLINE.

lid

master in Dublin when Swift first made liis acquaintance
(about 1718), so prosperous as to decline a less precarious
post, of which Swift got hlui the offer.

After the war of Wood's lialfponcc Swift became
friendly with Carteret, whom ho n-spocted as u man of
^•enuiiic ability, and who had besides the virtue of l)einu-
thorouo;hly distrusted by Walpole. When Carteret was
asked how lie had succeeded in Ireland lie replied that
he had pleased Dr. Swift. Swift took advantao-,. ,,f tin-
mutual ^-ood-will to recommend several promisiui;- elerirv-
inen to Carteret's notice. Ho was specially warm in be-
half of Sheridan, who received the first vacant llvinr,' and
a chaplaincy. Sheridan characteristically spoilt his own
chances by preaching a sermon, upon the day of the
accession of the Hanoverian family, from the tcvt, "Suf-
ficient unto the day is the evil thereof." The sermon was
not political, and the selection of the text a pure accident;
but Sheridan was accused of Jacobitism, and lost his chap-
laincy in consequence. Though generously conqjcnsated
by the friend in whose pulpit he had committed l!,is
"Sheridanism," he got into dillieultics. His school fell
off; he exchanged his preferments for others less prefer-
able; he failed in a school at Cavan, and ultimately the
poor man came back to die at Dublin, in 17:38, in dis-
tressed circumstances. Swift's relations with him were
thoroughly characteristic. He defended liis cause ener-
geiically ; gave him most admirably good advice in rather
dictatorial terms; admitted him to the closest familiarity,
and sometimes lost his temper when Sheridan took a lib-
erty at the wrong moment, or resented the liberties taken
by himself. A queer character of the "Second Solomon,"
written, it seems, in 1729, shows the severity with which
Swift could sometimes judge his shiftless and impulsive

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190

SWIFT.

[chap.

friend, and the irritability witli which he could resent
occasional assertions of independence, "lie is extremely
proud and captious," says Swift, and "apt to resent as an
affront or indignity what was never intended for either,"
but what, WG must add, had a strong likeness to both.
One cause of poor Sheridan's troubles was doubtless that
assigned by Swift. M-.s. Sheridan, says this frank critic,
is " the most disagreeable beast in Europe," a " most filthy
slut, lazy and slothful, luxurious, ill-natured, envious, sus-
picious," and yet managing to govern Sheridan. This es-
timate was apparently shared by her husband, who makes
various references to her detestation of Swift. In spite
of all jars. Swift was not only intimate with Sheridan and
energetic in helping him, but to all appearance really loved
him. Swift came to Sheridan's house when the workmen
were moving the furniture, preparatory to his departure
for Cavan. Swift burst into tears, and hid himself in a
dark closet before he could regain his self-possession. lie
paid a visit to his old friend afterwards, but was now in
that painful and morbid state in which violent outbreaks
of passion made him frequently intolerable. Poor Sheri-
dan rashly ventured to fulfil an old engagement that he
would tell Swift frankly of a growing infirmity, and said
something about avarice. "Doctor," replied Swift, signif-
icantly, "did you never read Gil B/asT When Sheridan
soon afterwards sold his school to return to Dul)lin, Swift
received his old friend so inhospitably that Sheridan left
him, never again to enter the house. Swift, indeed, had
ceased to be Swift, and Sheridan died soon afterwards.

Swift often sought relief from the dreariness of the
deanery by retiring to, or rather by taking possession of,
his friends' country houses. In 1725 he stayed for some
months, together with "the ladies," at Quilca, a small

. * ,1! ^

IX.]

DECLINE.

191

country hou.sc of Sheridan's, and compiled an account of
the dcHcioncics of the establishnient— meant to be con-
tinued weekly. Broken tables, doors without locks, a
chimney stuffed with the Dean's o-reat-coat, a solitary pair
of tongs forced to attend all the fireplaces and also to take
the meat from the pot, lioles in the floor, spikes protrud-
ing from the bedsteads, are some of the items ; whilst the
servants are all thieves, and act upon the proverb, " The
worse their sty, the longer they lie." Swift amused him-
self here and elsewhere by indulging his taste in landscape
gardening, without the consent and often to the annoy-
ance of the proprietor. In 1V28— the year of Stella's
death— he passed eight months at Sir Arthur Acheson's,
near Market Hill. He was sickly, languid, and anxious to
escape from Dublin, where he had no company but that of
his "old Presbyterian housekeeper, Mrs. Brent." He had,
liowever, energy enough to take the household in hand
after liis usual fashion. He superintended Lady Acheson's
studies, made her read to him, gave her plenty of good
advice; bullied the b -^ler; looked after the dairy and the
garden, and annoycu oir Arthur by summarily cutting
down an old thorn-tree. He liked the place so much that
he thought of building a house there, which was to be
called Drapier's Hall, but abandoned the project for
reasons which, after his fashion, he expressed with great
frankness in a poem. Probably the chief reason was the
very obvious one which strikes all people who are tempted
to build; but that upon which he chiefly dwells is Sir
Arthur's defects as an entertainer. The knight used, it
seems, to lose himself in metaphysical moonings when he
should have been talking to Swift and attending to his
gardens and farms. Swift entered a house less as a guest
than a conqueror. His dominion, it is clear, must have
9*

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'11

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192

SWIFT.

[chap.

I :/

M '!

become biirclensomc in his later years, wlieu lils temper
was becoming savage and his fancies more imperious.

Such a man was the natural prey of sycophants, who
would bear his humours for interested motives. Amongst
Swift's numerous clients some doubtless belonged to this
class. The old need of patronizing and protecting still
displays itself; and there is something very touching in
the zeal for his friends wh'oh survived breaking health and
mental decay. His correspondence is full of eager advo-
cacy. Poor Miss Kelly, neglected by an unnatural parent,
comes to Swift as her natural adviser, lie intercedes on
behalf of the prodigal son of a Mr, Fitzllcrbert in a letter
which is a model of judicious and delicate advocacy. His
old friend, Barber, had prospered in business; he was Lord
Mayor of London in 173;5, and looked upon Swift as the
founder of his fortunes. To him, "my dear good old
friend in the best and worst times," Swift writes a scries
of letters, full of pathetic utterances of his regrets for old
friends amidst increasing infirmities, and full also of ap-
peals on behalf of others. He induced Barber to give a
chaplaincy to Pilkington, a young clergyman of whose
talent and modesty Swift was thoroughly convinced, Mrs,
Pilkington was a small poetess, and the pair had crept
into some intimacy at the deanery. Unluckily, Swift had
reasons to repent his patronage. The pair were equally
worthless. The husband tried to get a divorce, and the
wife sank into misery. One of her last experiments was
to publish by subscription certain *' Memoirs," which con-
tain some interesting but untrustworthy anecdotes of
Swift's later years,' He had rather better luck with Mrs.
Barber, wife of a Dublin woollen-draper, who, as Swift says,
» See also the curious letters from Mrs. Pilkington in Richardson's
correspondence.

IX.]

DECLINE.

193

was "poetically given, and, for a woman, had a sort of
genius tliat way." lie pressed Iicr claims not onlv npon
Im- namesake, the Mayor, but upon Lord Carteret, Lady
Betty Germaine, and Gay and his Duchess. A forced
letter t.^ ■ leen Caroline in Swift's name on behalf of This
poetess 'urally raised some suspicions. Swift, lio\,'ever,
must nave been convinced of her innocence. Ho con-
tinued his interest in her for years, during whicli we arc
glad to find that slic gave up poetry for selling Irish linens
and letting lodgings at Bath ; and one of Swift's last acts
before his decay was to present her, at her own request,
with the copyright of his Polite Conversations. Every-
body, she said, would subscribe for a work of Swift's, ami
It would put her in easy circumstances. Mrs. Barber
clearly had no delicacy in turning Swift's liberality to
account; but she was a respectable and sensible woman,
and managed to bring up two sons to professions. Liber-
ality of this kind came naturally to Swift, lie provided
for a broken-down old officer, Captain Creichton, by com-
piling Iiis memoirs for him, to be published by subscrip-
tion. "I never," he says in 1735, "got a farthing by
anything I wrote— except once by Pope's prudent man-
agement." This probably refers to Gulliver, for wliich he
seems to have received 200^. He apparently gave his
share in the profits of tlie Miscellanies to the widow of a
Dublin printer.

A few words may now be said about these last writ-
ings. In reading some of them we must remember his
later mode of life. He generally dined alone, or with old
Mrs, Brent, then sat alone in his closet till he went to bed
at eleven. The best company in Dublin, ho said, was
barely tolerable, and those who had been tolerable were
now insupportable. He could no longer read by candle-

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194

SWIFT.

[chap.

i I'

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'i;t'

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light, and his only rcsonrce was to write rnbbish, most of
which he burnt. The merest trifles that he ever wrote,
he says in 1781, "are serious philosophical lucubrations
in comparison to what I now busy myself about." This,
however, was but the development of a lifelono; practice.
His favourite maxim, Vii'c la hagatcUe, is often quoted by
Pope and Bolino broke. As lie had punned in his- youth
with Lord Berkeley, so he amused himself in later years
bv a constant interchano-e of trifles with his friends, and
above all with Sheridan. Many of these trifles have been
preserved; they range from really good specimens of
Swift's rather sardonic humour down to bad riddles and
a peculiar kind of playing upon words. A brief specimen
of one variety will be amply sufficient. Sliei'idan writes
to Swift : " Times a re veri de ad nota do it oras hi tingat
(dmi e stated The words separately are Latin, and arc to
be read into the English — "Times arc very dead; not a
doit or a shilling at all my estate." Swift writes to
Sheridan in English, which reads into Latin, " Am I say
vain a rabble is," means. Amice venembilis—;\nd so forth.
Whole manuscript books are still in existence filled with
jargon of this kind. Charles Fox declared that Swift
must be a good-natured man to have had such a love of
nonsense. We may admit some of it to be a proof of
good-humour in the same sense as a love of the back-
gammon in which he sometimes indulged. It shows, that
is, a willingness to kill time in company. But it must be
admitted that the impression becomes different when we
think of Swift in his solitude wasting the most vigorous
intellect in the country uj)on ingenuities beneath that of
the composer of double acrostics. Delany declares that
the habit helped to weaken his intellect, llather it
•showed that liis intellect was preying ;ipon itself. Once

■*v

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IX.]

DECLINE.

196

more we have to think of the "conjured spirit" and the
ropes of sand. Nothing can well be more lamentable.
Books full of this stuff impress us like products of the
painful ingenuity by which some prisoner for life has
tried to relieve himself of the intolerable burden of soli-
tary confinement. Swift seems to betray the secret when
he tells Bolingbroke that at his age " I often thought of
death; but now it is never out of my mind." He repeats
this more than once. lie does not fear death, he savs:
indeed, he longed for it. His regular farewell to a friend
was, "Good-night; I hope I shall never see you again."
He had long been in the habit of "lamenting" his birth-
day, though, in earlier days, Stella and other friends had
celebrated the anniversary. Now it became a day of un-
mixed gloom, and the chapter in which Job curses the
hour of his birth lay open all day on his table. " And
yet," he says, " I love la hcKjatdle better than ever."
Rather we sliould say, "and therefore," for its truth the
only excuse for such trifling was the impossibility of find-
ing any other escape from settled gloom. Friends, indeed,
seem to have adopted at times the theory that a humour-
ist must always be on the broad grin. They called him
the " laughter-loving" Dean, and thought Gulliver n " mer-
ry book." A strange effect is produced when, between
two of the letters in which Swift utters the bitterest aff-
onies of his soul during Stella's illness, we have a letter
from Bolingbroke to the " tliree Yahoos of Twickenham"
(Pope, Gay, and Swift), referring to Swift's "divine sci-
ence, la haf/atellc;' and ending with the benediction,
" Mirth be with you !" From sucli mirtli we can only
say, may Heaven protect us, for it would remind us of
nothing but the mirth of Redgauntlet's companions when
they sat dead (and danmed) at their ghastly revelry, and

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196

SWIFT.

[CHAP.

their lauglitcr passed into such wild sounds as made the
daring piper's " very nails turn blue."

It is not, however, to be inferred that all Swift's recrea-
tions were so dreary as this Anglo-Latin, or that his facc-
tiousncss always covered an aching heart. There is real
humour, and not all of bitter flavour, in some of the trifles
which passed between Swift and his friends. The most
famous is the poem called The Grand Question Debated,
the question being whether an old building called Hamil-
ton's Bawn, belonging to Sir A. tVcheson, should be turned
into a malthouse or a barrack. Swift takes the opportu-
nity of caricaturing the special object of his aversion, the
blustering and illiterate soldier, though he indignantly
denies that he had said anything disagreeable to his hos-
pitable entertainer. Lady Acheson encouraged him in
writintr such " lampoons." Her taste cannot have been
very delicate,' and she, perhaps, did not perceive how a
rudeness which affects to be or'y playful may be really
offensive. If the poem shows tliat Swift took liberties
with his friends, it also shows that he still possessed the
strange power of reproducing the strain of thought of a
vulgar mind which he exhibited in Mr. Harris's petition.
Two other works which appeared in these last years arc
more ren)arkablc proofs of the same j;)ower. The Com-
plete Collection of Genteel and Inrjcnious Conversation and
the Directions to Servants are most singular perform-
ances, and curiously illustrative of Swift's habits of
thought and composition. lie seems to have begun tliem
during some of his early visits to England. He kept
the'" by him and amused himself by working upon them,
though they were never quite finished. The Polite Con-
versation was given, as we have seen, to Mrs. Barber in his

' Or she would hardly linvc wti'Lten the Paner/i/ric.

.X.]

DECLLXE.

197

later years, and the Directions to Servants came into the
printer's hands wlien he was ah-eady imbecile. They
show how closely Swift's sarcastic attention was fixed
through life upon the ways of his inferiors. They are a
mass of materials for a natural history of social absurdi-
ties, such as Mr. Darwin was in the habit of bestowinrj
upon the manners and customs of worms. Tlic differeuce
is that Darwin had none but kindlv feelin2;s for worms,
whereas Swift's inspection of social vermin is always
edged with contempt. The Conversations are a marvel-
lous eollection of the set of cant phrases which at best
have sup{)lied the absence of thought in society. Inci-
dentally there are some curious illustrations of the cus-
toms of the day ; though one cannot suppose that any
human beings had ever the marvellous flow of pointless
proverbs with which Lord Sparkish, Mr. Neverout, Miss
Notable, and the rest manage to keep the ball incessantly
rolling. The talk is nonsensical, as most small-talk would
be, if taken down by a reporter, and, according to modern
standard, hideously vulgar, and yet it flows on with such
vivacity that it is perversely amusing:

^^Lady Atmccrall. But, Mr. Xevcroiit, I wonder why such a hand-
some, straight young gentleman as you don't get some rich widow ?

^^ Lord Sparkish. Straiglit! Ay, straight as my leg, and that's
Tookcd at the knee.

'■^ Xevcrout. Truth, madam, if it Iiiid rained ricli widows, none
would fall upon nic. Egad, I was born under a threepenny planet,
never to be worth a groat."

And so the talk flows on, and to all appearance night flow
forever.

Swift professes in his preface to have sat many hundred
times, with his table-book ready, without catching a single
phrase for his book in eight hours. Truly he is a kind of

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198

SWIFT.

[chap.

Boswell of inanities, and one is amazed at the quantity of
thouiilit which must have gone into this elaborate trifling
upon tiifles. A similar vein of satire upon the emptiness
of writers is given in his Tritical Essay nj)on the Faculties
of the Human Mind; but tliat is a mere skit compared
with this strange performance. The Directions to Servants
shows an equal amount of thought exerted upon the va-
rious misdoings of the class assailed. Some one has said
that it is painful to read so minute and remorseless an
exposure of one variety of human folly. Undoubtedly it
suggests that Swift must have appeared to be an omni-
scient master. Delany, as I have said, testifies to his
excellence in that capacity. Many anecdotes attest the
close attention which he bestowed upon every detail of
his servants' lives, and the humorous reproofs which he
administered. " Sweetheart," he said to an ugly cook-
maid who had overdone a joint, "take this down to
the kitchen and do it less." "That is impossible," she
replied. "Then," he said, " if you must commit faults,
commit faults that can be mended." Another story tells
how, when a servant had excused himself for not cleaning
boots on the ground that they would soon be dirty again,
Swift made hitn apply the same principle to eating break-
fast, which would be only a temporary remedy for hunger.
In this, as in every relation of life, Swift was under a
kind of necessity of imposing himself upon every one in
contact with bun, and followed out his commands into
the minutest details. In the Directions to Servants he has
accumulated the results of his experience in one depart-
ment ; and the reading may not be without edification to
the people who every now and then announce as a new
discovery that servants are apt to be selfish, indolent, and
slatternly, and to prefer their own interests to their mas-

iX.]

DECLINE.

199

tcrs'. Probably no fault could be found with the modern
successors of eighteenth -century servants which has not
already been exem])litiod in Swift's presentment of that
p;olden n^c of domestic comfort. The details are not al-
tofrether pleasant ; but, admitting such satire to be legiti-
mate, Swift's performance is a masterpiece.

Swift, however, left work of a more dignified hind.
Many of the letters in his correspondence arc admirable
specimens of a perishing art. The most interesting are
those which passed between him, Pope, and IJoIiiigbroke,
and which were published by I'ope's contrivance during
Swift's last period. "I look upon us three," says Swift,
" as a peculiar triumvirate, who have nothing to expect or
fear, and so far fittest to converse with one another." Wc
may, perhaps, believe Swift when he says that he " never
leaned on his elbow to consider what he should write"
(except to fools, lawyers, and ministers), though wc cer-
tainly cannot say the same of his friends. Pope and
Bolingbroke are full of affectations, now transparent
enough ; but Swift in a few trenchant, outspoken phrases
dashes out a portrait of himself as impressive as it is in
some ways painful. We must, indeed, remember, in read-
ing his inverse hypocrisy, his tendency to call his own mo-
tives by their ugliest names — a tendency which is specially
pronounced in writing letters to the old friends whose very
names recall the memories of past happiness, and lead him
to dwell upon the gloomiest side of the present. There is,
too, a characteristic reserve upon some points. In his last
visit to Pope, Swift left his friend's liouse after hearing the
bad accounts of Stella's health, and hid himself in London
lodgings. He never mentioned his anxieties to his friend,
who heard of them first from Sheridan ; and in writing

afterwards from Dublin, Swift excuses himself for the
O

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200

SWIFT.

[chap.

desertion by referring to liis own ill-liealth — doubtless a
true cause ("two sick friends never did well together")
— and his anxiety about his affairs, without a word about
Stella. A phrase of Bolingbroke's in the previous year
about " the present Stella, whoever she may be," seen.s
to ])rove that he too had no knowledge of Stella except
from the poems addressed to the name. Thero were
depths of feeling which Swift could not lay bare to the
friend in whose affection he seems most thoroughly to
have trusted. Meanwhile he gives full vent to the scorn
of mankind and himself, the bitter and unavailing hatred
of oppressi(m, and above all for that strange mingling of
pride and remorse, which is always characteristic of his
turn of mind, When he leaves Arbuthnot and Pope he
expresses the warmth of his feelings by declaring that ho
will try to forget them. lie is deeply grieved by the death
of Congrevo, and the grief makes him almost regret that ho
ever had a friend. lie would give half his fortune for the
temper of an easy-going acquaintance who could take up or
los>„ a friend as easily as a cat. " Is not this the true happy
man ?'' The loss of Gay cuts him to the heart ; he notes on
the letter announcing it that he had kept the letter by liim
five days " by an impulse foreboding some misfortune." He
cannot speak of it except to say that he regrets that long
living has not hardened him, and that he expects to die
poor and friendless. Pope's ill -health "bangs on his
spirits." His moral is that if he were to begin the world
again he would never run the risk of a friendship Avith
a poor or sickly man — for he cannot harden himself.
'* Therefore I argue that avarice and hardness of heart
are the two happiest qualities a man can acquire who is
late in his life, because by living long we must lessen our
.■^nends or may increase our fortunes." This bitterness is

ir]

DECLINE.

201

equally apparent in regard to the virtues on which ho
most pridoil liiinself. Ills patriotism was owing to "po"-
fcct rage and resentment, and the mortifying sight of
slavery, folly, and baseness;" in which, as he says, ho is
the direct contrary of I'ope, who can despise folly and hate
vice without losing his temper or thinking the worse of
individuals. *' Oppre; sion tortures him," and means bit-
tor hatred of the concrete oppressor. lie tells Barber in
1V38 that for three years ho has been bul the shadow of
his former self, and has entirely lost his memory, " except
when it is roused by perpetual subjects of vexation."
Commentators have been at pains to show that such sen-
timents are not philanthropic; yet they are the morbid
utterance of a noble and affectionate nature soured by
long misery and disappointment. They brought their
own punishment. The unhappy man was fretting him-
self into melunchoiv, and was losing all sources of conso-
lation. " I have nobody now left but you," he writes to
Pope in 1730. His invention is gone; he makes projects
which end in the manufacture of waste paper; and what
vexes him most is that his " female friends have now for-
saken him." " Years and infirmities," he says in the end
of the same year (about the date of the Lcf/ion Club),
"have quite broke me; I can neither read, nor write, nor
remember, nor converse. All I have left is to walk and
ride." A few letters arc preserved in the next two years
— melancholy wails over his loss of health and spirit —
pathetic expressions of continual affection for his " dearest
and almost only constant friend," and a warm request or
two for services to some of his acquaintance.

The last stage was rapidly approaching. Swift, who
had alsvays been thinking of death in these later years,
bad anticipated the end in the remarkable verses On the

■ ; !

.•I

aos

SWIFT.

[chap.

1 1

' :\

Death of Dr. Swift. This and two or throe other per-
formances of about the same period, especialiy the
RhapHodij on Poetry (l73;J) and tlic Verses to a Ladi/,
are Swift's chief title to be called a poet. How far that
n»ino can be conceded to liim is a question of classifica-
tion, Hwift's oriijinality ajipeais in the very fact tliat
he rc(iuir('s a mvv class to be made for him. lie justified
Jjryden's rem.ii'U in so far as he was never a poet in tho
sense in which Milton or Wordsworth or Shelley or even
Dryden liimself were poets. His poetry may be called
rhynied pro***' and sliould, perhaps, bo put at about tho
same level in ihe scale of poetry as Hud'ibrus. It di tiers
from prose, not simply in beini; rhymed, but in that the
metrical form seems to be the natural and appropriate
mode of utterance. Some of the purely sarcastic and hu-
morous phrases xcci\\\ Hndibrits more nearly, than anytliino;
else; as, for examj)le, the often quoted verses upon siiiall
critics in the Rhai)sodij •

" Tlio vermin only tease anil pinch
Their foes superior hy an ineh.
So naturalists observe a flea
Has smaller fleas that on him pi .\v,
And these have smaller still to bite 'em,
And so proceed ad wjiititiim.''^

In tho verses on his own death the suppressed passion,
the p;low and force of feeling whicli we perceive behind
the merely moral and prosaic phrases, seem to elevate the
work to a hi<>-hcr level. It is a mere running of every-day
lanffuaire into easv-going verse; and vet the strangely min-
gled pathos and bitterness, the peculiar irony of whicli he
was the great master, affect us with a sentiment which
may be called poetical in substance more forcibly than

IX.]

DECLINE.

ao8

far more dii^niticJ and iit some sense irnaf^inativc perform-
ances. Wliatevcr name \vc may please to <j;\\o. such work,
Swift 1ms certainly struck liome, and makes an impression
which it is ditHcult to compress inl-: a few phrases. It is
the essence of U that is given at c •• : length in the cor-
respondence, ;ind stints from a comment upon Kochefou-
cauld's con<f( iiinl maxim ahout the misfortunes of our
friends. \]c tells liow his accjuaintancc wat<'h his decay,
tacitly cono;i\uulating themselves that "it is not yet so bad
with us ;" how, when he dies, they laiigli at the absurdity
of his will :

" To |iiil(lic uses ! Tlu'ie's a whim !
Wliiit liad tho public done iuv him?
Mcio envy, avarice, and pride,
He gave it all — but first he died."

Then we have the comments of Queen Caroline and Sir
Robert, and the rejoicings of Grub Street at the chance of
passintr off rubbish bv calling it his. His friends are
really touched :

" Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbutlinot a day ;
St. John himself will scarce forbear
To bite his pen and drop a tear ;
The rest will give a shrug and cry,
♦ 'Tis pity, but we all must die !' "

The ladies talk over it at their cards. They 'lave learnt
to show their tenderness, and

" Receive the news in doleful dumps.
The Dean is dead (pray what is trumps ?) ,
Then Lord have mercy on his soul !
(Ladies, Pll venture for the vok.)"

The poem concludes, as usual, with an impartial char-

i'ltl

i I!

'4i I

■

i '

11!

2U4

SWIFT.

[chap.

acter of the Dean. lie claims, with a pride not unjustifia-
ble, the power of indepcntlence, love of liis friends, hatred
of corruption, and so forth ; admits that he may have liad
" too mucli satire in liis vein," tliongli addino- the very
questionable assertion tliat he " lashed tlic vice but spared
the name." Marlborough, Wharton, Burnet, Steele, Wal-
pole, and a good many more, might liavc had something
to say upon that head. The last plirase is significant:

" He gave tlie little wealth he had
To build a house for fools and mad ;
And showed by one satiric touch
Xo nation nccded.it so much —
That kingdom he hath left his debtor,
I wish it soon may have a better !"

For some years, in fact. Swift had spent mucli thought
and time in arranging the details of this bequest. lie ul-
timately left about 12,000/., with which, and some other
contributions, St. Patrick's Hospital was opened for fifty
patients in the year 1757.

The last few years of Swift's life were passed in an al-
most total eclipse of intellect. One pathetic letter to Mrs.
Whitcway gives almost the last touch : " I have been very
miserable all night, and to-day extremely deaf and full of
pain. I am so stupid and confounded that I cannot ex-
press the mortification I am under both of body and mind.
All I can say is that I am not in torture ; but I daily and
hourly expect it. Pray let me know how your liealth is
and your family. I liardly understand one word I write.
I am ure my days will be very few, for miserable they
must be. If I do not blunder, it is Saturday, July 26,
1740. If I live till Monday, I shall liope to see you, pcr-
hai)s for the last time." Even after this he occasionally

[chap.

IX.]

DECLINE.

206

fcliowod gleams of his former intelligence, and is said to
have written a well-known epigram during an outing with
his attendants :

" Behold a proof of Irish sense !
Here Irish wit is seen !
When nothing's left that's worth defence
They build a magazine."

Occasionally he gave way to furious outbursts of vio-
lent temper, and once suffered great torture from a swell-
ing in tlio eye. But his general state seems to have been
apathetic ; sometimes he tried to speak, but was unable
to find words. A few sentences have been recorded. On
hearing that preparations were being made for celebrating
his birthday he said, " It is all folly ; they had better let
it alone." Another time he was heard to mutter, " I am
what I am ; I am what I am." Few details have been
given of this sad period of mental eclipse ; nor can we
regret their absence. It is enough to say that he suffered
occasional tortures from the development of the brain-dis-
ease ; though as a rule he enjoyed the paiidessncss of tor-
por. The unhappy man lingered till the 19th of October,
1745, when he died quietly at three in the afternoon, after
a night of convulsions. He was buried in St. Patrick's
Cathedral, and over his grave was placed an epitaph, con-
taining the last of those terrible phrases which cling to
our memory whenever his name is mentioned. Swift lies,
in his own words,

" Ubi saeva indignatio
Cor ulterius lacerare nequit."

"What more can be added ?

h'l

,'Vil

THE END.

J : ll

II.^::

. ' :!

ti''

11 ^S J^ H

ll ■■ I

ji,il

HUME

T. II. HUXLEY

,>.

ii! •

I 'I

r 1^

' ^'

li:i hII^

L -11; ^

lilf '■

r if l'

CONTENTS.

PART I— HUME'S LIFE.
CHAPTEr 1.

P.'.SI

EARLY LIIK : LITERAUY AND POLITICAL WRITINGS ... 1

CHAPTER II.

LATER YEARS : THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 2.7

PART II.— HUME'S PHILOSOPHY.
CHAPTER I.

THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF PHILOSOPHY 46

CHAPTER II.

THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND 59

CHAPTER III.

ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS 72

CHAPTER IV.

THE CLASaiFICATIOX AND THE NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL

OPERATIONS 87

CHAPTER V.

MENTAL PHt> OF ANIMALS 101

j i

h s

i ■

1 '^It

' ''

ii ii

ryj.

5..'-
I .

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER VI.

PAOB

language: PnOPOSITIOXS conxkunixg xecessauy tiuttiis 112

CHAPTER VII.

ORDEU OP NATUUE : MIUACLES . . .

• • • • . a

12?

CHAPTER VIII,
theism: EVOLUTION op theology 138

CHAPTER IX.

THE SOUL : THE DOCTMNE OP IMMOKTALITY 163

CHAPTER X.
volition: liberty and necessity

CHAPTER XI,

THE principles OP MOUALS . . ,

181

• • I • . 19<3

PAOB

UYTIUTTIIS 112

. . . , 127

• • • • luo

... 163

■ti

.^|^

,:)^ :

... 181

' "1

;

HUME.

PART I

nUME'S LIFE.

ClIAl'TEU I.

EARLY LIFE : LITERARY AND POLITICAL WRITINGS.

David Hume was born in Edinburgli on the 26th of April
(O.S.), 1711. His parents were then residing in the parisli
of tlie Tron Cliurch, apparently on a visit to the Scottish
capital, as the small estate which his father, Joseph llnmc,
or Jroiiie, iaherited, lay in Berwickshire, on the banks of
the Whiiadder, or Whitewater, a few miles from the bor-
der, and within sight of English gronnd. The paternal
mansion was little more than a very modest farmhonse,'
and tlii^ property derived its name of Ninewells from a

' A pictiiro of the house, taken from Drumnioncrs History of No-
hie Britixh F<nnilirs, is to be seen in Chambers's Book of Dai/s (April
2t3th) ; and if, as Drummond says, "It is a favourable specimen of
the best Scotcli lairds' houses," all th. .n be said is that the worst
Scotch lairds must have been poorlv lodged indeed.
20

lit

! I I]

■ I

lf'|,.A

HUME.

, iJ

fin'

* !

* '

•

[chap.

considerable spriin,^ wliieh broiilvs out on tlie slope in
front of the house, and falls into the WhitaddiT.

Both mother and father eanie of ^ood Scottish families
—the paternal line running back to Lord Home of Dou<,'-
las, who went over to France with the Douglas during the
Freneh wars of Henry V. and AT., and was killed at^ the
battle of Verneuil. Joseph Hume died when David was
an infant, leaving himself and two elder children, a brotli-
er and a sister, to the care of their mother, who is de-
scribed by David Hume in J/y Own Life as "a woman
of singular merit, who, though young and han<lsonie, de-
voted herself entirely to the rearing and education of her
children." Mr. Uurton says : " Her i)ortrait, which I have
seen, represents a thin but pleai^;ing countenance, expres-
sive of great intclleetuid aeuteness;" and as Hume told
Dr. lilaek that she liad " precisely the same constitution
with himself" and died of the disorder wiiich proved
fatal to him, it is probable that the (jnalities inherited
from his mother had much to do with t!>o future philos-
opher's eminence. It is curious, however, that her esti-
mate of her son in her only recorded, and perhaps slightly
apocryphal utterance, is of a soi lewhat unexpected char-
acter. " Our ])avie's a line, good-natured crater, but un-
common wake-minded." The first part of the judgment
was indeed veriHed by "Davie's" whole life; but one
might seek in vain for sigu: of what is commonly un-
derstood as " weakness of mind " in a man who not only
showed himself to be an intellectual athlete, but wlio had
an eminent share of practical wisdom and t^nacitv of
purpose. One would like to know, however, when it' was
that Mrs, Hume committed herself to this not too flatter-
ing judgment of her younger son. For as Hume reached
:he mature age of four-and-thirty before he obtained any

[CIUP.

pc in

CHILDHOOD AND EDUCATION

C slo

sit families
of Doiijr.
tluiiiii; the
IkMl at the
l)avi(l was
n, a hrotli-
.vlio is do-
'a woman
ilsomo, do-
it >n of her
ich I have
20, cxpres-
Iiune told
)nstitution
.'h proved

inherited
ire pliilos-

hcr csti-
<s sliolitly
:;t('<] char-
r, hut un-
jiuli;mcnt

but one
lonly nn-

not only

who had
naeity of
en it was
)0 flattor-
Q reached
lined any

employment of sutlicicnt importance to on it tl, • mea-
i,'ru pittance oi a middlina,' laird's youni^ei '• li«'r into
decent maintenance, it is not improbable ii.at a shrewd
Scot's wife may have thoui^ht his devotion to phili)sophy
and poverty to be due to mere intirmity of purpt)S(>. IJnt
she lived till 1740, lonp; enou<^h to see more than the
dawn of her son's literary fame and official importance,
and probably changed her mind about "Davie's" force of
character.

David ITumc appears to liave owed little to schools
or universities. There is some evidence that he entered
the Greek class in the University of Edinburj^h in 1723
— when he was a boy of twelve years of atje — but it is
not known how long his studies were continued, and he
did not graduate. In 1727, at any rate, he was living at
Ninewells, and already possessed by that love of learning
and thirst for literary fame, which, as Mi/ Own Life tells
us, was the ruling passion of his life and the chief source
of his enjoy4nents. A letter of this date, addressed to
his friend Michael Ramsay, is certainly a most singular
production for a boy of sixteen. After sundry quotations
from Virgil, the letter proceeds : —

" The perfectly wise man that outbraves fortune, is much
greater thr.n the husbandman who slips by her ; and, indeed,
this pastoral and saturnian happiness I have in a great meas-
ure come at just now, I live like a king, pretty much by
myself, neither full of action nor perturbation— 7no/^cs somnos.
This st^ate, however, I can foresee, is not to be relied on. lly
peace of mind is not sufficiently confirmed by philosophy to
withstand the blows of fortune. This greatness and eleva-
tion of soul is to be found only in study and contempla-
tion. This alone can teach us to look down on human ac-
cidents. You must allow [me] to talk thus like a phiJoao-

:i;(

I'i

t M

i)t

i. )

IIL'MK.

[( ilAP.

phcr: 'tis a subject I thiuk much on, and could talk all day

long of."

if^

I I

I- ^ !^

■I 1^ " r

If David talked in this strain to his mother, lior ton^'ue
probably gave utterance to "Bless the bairn!" and, in
her {)rivato soul, the epitlut " >vake-niinded" may then
have recorded itself. Uiit, though few lont'y, thoU|^ht-
ful, studious boys of sixteen give vent to their thoughts
in sueh stately periods, it is probable that the brooding
over an ideal is commoner at this age tiian fathers and
mothers, busy with the cares of practical life, arc apt to
imagine.

About a year later, Hume's family tried to launch him
into the profession of the law ; but, as he tells us, " while
they fancied I was poring upon Voet and Vinnius, Cicero
and \irgil were the authors which I was secretly devour-
ing," and the attempt seems to have come to an abrupt
termination. Nevertheless, us a very competent author-
ity' wisely remarks: —

'i I

" There appear to have been in Hume all the elements of
wliich a good lawyer is made : clearness of judgment, power
of rapidly aeiiuiring knowledge, untiring industry, and dia-
lectic skill : and if Ids mind had not been preoccupied, ho
might hav "dlen into tlic gv.lf in which many of the world's
greatest gt .ises Ho buried — i)rofessional eminence; and
might have left behind ]>im a reputation limited to the tra-
ditional recollections of the Parliament-house, or associated
with important decisions. lie was through life an able,
clear-headed man of business, and I have seen several legal

' Mr. Joliii Hill Burton, in his valuable Life of Hume, on which, I
ncL'il hiivdly say, I have drawn freely for the materials of the present
biographical sketch.

[t HAP.

ilk all dav

jcr toiii^uo
!" and, in
may tlicn
, tliought-
■ tlu)ii«;'lits
lii'oodincf
itlicrs and
arc apt to

lunch him
us, " while
ins, Cicero
ly devonr-
an abrupt
it author'

Icments of
ent, power
', and dia-
cupied, ho
he -world's
Dncc ; and
to the tra-
associatcd
e an able,
veral legal

on which, I
the present

FALSE STARTS.

documents, written in his own hand and evidently drawn by
hiniac'lt". They stand the test of <f('ii( nil jtrotV'sslonal obser-
vation; and their writer, by prepariiijf documents of facts
of such a character on his own responsil)ility, showed that
he had consideral "onfldencc in his ability to ailhero to
the forms adecpiate for the occasion. He talked of it as 'an
ancient prejudice industriously propaj^ated by the dunces
In all countries, that a man of /jcnins is unfit for huniiicss,''
and he showed, in his general conduct through life, that ho
did not choose to come voluntarily under this proscription."

Six years lonjjcr llunic remained at Nincwclls before he
made another attempt to embark in a practical career —
this time commerce — and with a like result. For a few
months' trial proved that kind of life, also, to be hopeless-
ly against the grain.

It was while in London, on his way to Bristol, where
he proposed to commence his mercantile life, that Hume
addressed to some eminent London pliysician (probalily,
as Mr. Burton suggests. Dr. George Cheyne) a remarkable
letter. Whether it was ever sent seems doubtful ; but it
shows tliat philosophers as well as poets have their Wer-
tcrian crises, and it presents an interesting parallel to John
Stuart Mill's record of the corresponding period of his
youth. The letter is too long to be given in full, but a
few quotations may suffice to indicate its importance to
those who desire to comprehend the man.

"You must know then that from my earliest infancy I
found always a strong inclination to books and letters, i.-a
our college education in Scotland, extending little further
than the languages, ends commonly when we are about four-
teen or fifteen years of age, I was after that left to my own
choice in my reading, and found it incline me almost equal-
ly to books of reasoning and philosophy, and to poetry and

..iv

1-"

6 HUME. [chap.

the polite autliors. Every one wiio is acquainted eitlier witli
the phik)Sophcrs or critics, knows that there is nothing yet
established in either of these two sciences, and that they
contain little more than endless disputes, even in the most
fundamental articles. Upon examination of these, I found a
certain boldness of temper growing on me, which was not
inclined to submit to any authority in these sulyects, but led
me to seek out some new medium, by which trutli might be
established. After much study and reflection on this, at last,
when I was about eighteen years of age, there seemed to be
opened up to me a new scene of thought, which transport-
ed me beyond measure, and made me, with an ardour natu-
ral to young men, throw up every other pleasure or business
to apply entirely to it. The law, which was the business I
designed to follow, appeared nauseous to me, and 1 could
think of no other way of pushing my fortune in the world
but that of a scholar and philosopher. I was infinitely hai)py
in this course of life for some months ; till at last, about the
beginning of September, 1739, all my ardour seemed in a
moment to be extinguished, and I could no longer raise my
mind to that pitch which formerly gave me such excessive
pleasure."

This " decline of soul " Ilumc attributes, in part, to his
being smitten with tlie beautiful representations of virtue
in the works of Cicero, Seneca, and Plutarch, and being
thereby led to discipline liis temper and his will along
with liis reason and understanding,

"I was continually fortifying myself with reflections
against death, and poverty, and shame, and pain, and all the
other calamities of life."

And he adds, very characteristically : —

" These, no doubt, arc exceeding useful when joined with
an active life, because the occasion being presented along
with the reflection, works it into the soul, and makes it take

TRIES MERCANTILE LIFE.

n deep impression ; but, in solitude, they serve to little other
purpose than to waste the spirits, tlie force of the mind meet-
iii<,^ no resistance, but wasting itself in the air, like our arm
when it misses its aim."

Along with all tliis mental perturbation, symptoms of
scurvy, a disease now almost unknown amon;;; landsmen,
but which, in the days of winter, salt meat, before root
crops flourished in the Lothians, greatly plagued our fore-
fathers, made their appearance. And, indeed, it may be
suspected that physical conditions were, at first, at the bot-
tom of the whole business; for, in 17,31, a ravenous appe-
tite set in, and in six weeks, from being tall, lean, and raw-
boned, Hume says he became sturdy and robust, with a
ruddy complexion and a cheerful countenance — eating,
sleeping, and feeling well, except that the capacity for in-
tense mental application seemed to be gone. He, there-
fore, determined to seek oat a more active life; and,
though he could not and would not " quit his pretensions
to learning but with liis last ])rcath," he resolved "to lay
them aside for some time, in order the more effectually to
resume them."

The careers open to a poor Scottish gentleman in those
days were very few ; and, as Hume's option lay between a
travelling tutorship and a stool in a merchant's office, he
chose the latter.

" And liaving got recommendation to a considerable trad-
er in Bristol,! am just now liastening thither, with a resolu-
tion to forget myself, and everytliing tiiat is past, to engage
myself, as far as is possible, in that course of life, and to toss
about tlic world from one pole to the other, till I leave this
distemper beliind me.'''

' One cannot but be reminded of young Descartes' renunciation of
study for soldiering.

HUME.

[chap.

i i I

'. >'

;

But it was all of no use — Nature would have licr way
— and in tlie middle of 1736, David Hume, aged twenty-
throe, without a profession or any assured means of earn-
ing a guinea ; and having doubtlos.., by his apparent vac-
illation, but real tenacity of purpose, once more earned the
title of " wake-minded " at home ; betook himself to a for-
eign country.

" I went over to France, with a view of prosecuting my
studios in a country retreat : and there I laid that phui of
liie which I have steadily and successfully pursued. I re-
solved to make a very rigid frugality supply my dclicicncy
of fortune, to maintain unimpaired my independency, and to
regard every object as contemptible except the improvement
of my talents in literature.'"

Hume passed through Paris on his way to lUieinis,
where ho resided for some time ; though the greater part
of his three years' stay v/as spent at La Fleche, in fre-
quent intercourse with the Jesuits of the famous college
in which Descartes was educated. Here he composed
his first work, the Treatise of Human Nature; though it
would appear, from the following passage in the letter to
Cheyne, that he had been accumulating materials to that
end for some years before he left Scotland.

"I found that the moral philosophy transmitted to us by
antiquity laboured under the same inconvenience that has
been found in their natural philosophy, of being entirely hy-
pothetical, and depending more upon invention than experi-
ence : every one consulted his fancy in erecting sciiemes of
virtue and happiness, without regarding human nature, upon
which every moral conclusion must depend."

' My Own Life,

[chap.

c her way
cd twenty-
is of earn-
larent vac-
canicd the
If to a fur-

icuting my
lilt phui of
ued. I rc-
deticicncy
ncy, und to
ipi'ovement

Rheiins,
rcater part
he, ill frc-
)iis college
composed
though it
le letter to
als to that

d to us l:)y
:g that has
Mitirelv hy-
lian experi-
sciicmes of
ature, upon

RESIDENCE IX FRANCE.

This is the key-note of tlie Treatise; of whicli Ilnnio
himself says apologt^tically, in one of his letters, that it
was planned before le was twenty-one and composed be-
fore he had reached the aye of twentv-five,*

Under these circumstances, it is probably the most re-
markable philosophical work, both intrinsically and in its
effects upon the course of thought, that has ever been
written. Berkeley, indeed, published the Essay 2owards
a New Theory of Vision, the Treatise Concerniiuf the Prin-
ciples of Human Knowledge, and the Three Dialogues, be-
tween the ages of twenty -four and twenty-eight ; and thus
comes very near to Hume, both in precocity and in intlii-
cnce; but his investigations are more limited in their
scope than those of his Scottish contemporary.

The first and second volumes of the Treatise, contain-
ing Book I, " Of the Understanding," and Book II., " Of
the Passions," were published in January, 1739." The
publisher gave fifty pounds for the copyright; wliich is
probably more than an unknown writer of twenty-seven
years of age would get for a similar work at the present
time. But, in other respects, its success fell far short of
Hume's expectations. In a letter dated the 1st of June,
1739, he writes: —

' Letter to Gilbert Elliot of Minto, 1751. "So vast an undcrtak-
iiig, planned before I was ouc-and-twenty, and composed before twen-
ty-iive, must necessarily be very defective. I have repented my liastc
a hmulred and a hundred times."

^ So says Mr. Burton, and that ho is right is proved by a letter of
Hume's, dated February 13, 171?!', in which he writes, " 'Tis now a
fortnight since my book w.is published." But it is a curious illus-
tration of the value of testimony, that Hume, in J/}/ Own Life, states :
"In the end of 1738 I published my Treatise, and immediately went
down to my mother and my brother."

l' :

■ j :

■!;(

:|.

F )

HUME.

[chap.

"I am not much in the liumour of such compositions at
present, liaving received news from London of tlie success
of my P/iilo»>]i/i I/, which is but indifferent, if I may judge by
the sale of tlie book, and if I may believe my bookseller."

This, liowever, indicates a very different reception from
that wliich Hume, looking through the inverted telescope
of old age, ascribes to the Treatise in My Own Life.

" Never literary attempt was more unfortunate than my
Treatise of JInmaii Katuve. It fell deadborn from the press
Avithout reacliing such a distinction as even to excite a mur-
mur among the zealots."

As a matter of fact, it was fully, and, on the whole, re-
spectfully and appreciatively, reviewed in the Historij of
the Works of the Learned for November, 1739.' Who-
ever the reviewer may have been, he was a man of dis-
cernment, for he says that the work bears " incontestable
marks of a gi'eat capacity, of a soaring genius, but young,
and not yet thoroughly practised;" and he adds, tliat we
shall probably have reason to consider " this, compared
with the later productions, in the same light as we view
the juvenile works of a Milton, or the first manner of
a llapliael or other celebrated painter." In a letter to
Ilutcheson, Ilumo merely speaks of this article as " some-
what abusive;" so that liis vanity, being young and cal-
low, seems to have been correspondingly wide -mouthed
and hard to satiate.

It must be confessed that, on this occasion, no less than
on that of his other publications, Ilumc exhibits no small
share of the craving after mere notoriety and vulgar suc-
cess, as distinct from the pardonable, if not honourable.

' Burton, Life, vol. i. p. 109.

[chap.

!■]

FORSAKES nilLOSOPIlY.

isitions at
lie success
' judge ijy
;scller."

tion from
telescope

I than my
I the ]n'c\^s
ite a mur-

whole, re-
Vmtorij of
.' \Vlio-
111 of dis-
Diitcstable
ut younu',
S that we
compared
> we view
lanner of

letter to
.s " somc-

aud cal-
• mouthed

less than

no small

ilU'ar suc-

noumble,

ambition for solid and enduring fame, which would have
harmonised better with his philosophy. Indeed, it ap-
pears to be by no means improbable that this peculiarity
of Hume's moral constitution was the cause of his grad-
ually forsaking philosophical studies, after the publication
of the third part {On Morals) of the 'Treatise, in 1740,
and turning to those political and historical topics which
were likely to yield, and did in fact yield, a much better
retui'u of that sort of success which his soul loved. The
Philosophical Essays Conccrninr/ the Human Understand-
ing, which afterwards became the Inqidrt/, is not much
more than an abridgment and recast, for popular use, of
parts of the Trcatie, -with the addition of the essays on
Miracles and on J-,ocessity. In style, it exhibits a great
improvement on the Treatise; but tlio substance, if not
deteriorated, is certainly not improved. Hume does not
really bring his mature powers to bear upon his early
speculations, in the later work. The crude fruits have not
been ripened, but they have been ruthlessly pruned away,
along with the branches which bore them. The result is
a pretty shrub enough ; but not the tree of knowledge,
with its roots firmly fixed in fact, its brandies perennially
budding forth into new trutlis, which Iluino might have
reared. Perhaps, after all, worthy Mrs. Hume was, in the
highest sense, right. Davie was "wake -minded," not to
see that the world of philosophj' was his to overrun and
subdue, if he would but persevere in the work he had be-
gun. But no — he must needs turn aside for " success " :
and verily he had his reward; but not the crown he might
liavc won.

In 1740, Hume seems to have made an acquaintance
which rapidly ripened into a life-long friendship. Adam

Smith was at that time a boy student of seventeen at the
B

li ^

' i

m ■

I ■

I '■■ ;

HUME.

[chap.

University of Glasgow; and Ilumc sends a copy of tlio
Treatise to " Mr. Smith," appai-ently on the recommenda-
tion of the well-known lliitchcson, Professor of Moral
IMiilosophy in the university. It is a remarkable evi-
dence of Adam Smith's early intellectual development,
that a youth of his age should be thought worthy of such
a present.

In 1741 Hume published anonymously, at Edinburgh,
the first volume of Unsai/s Moral and Political, wliich was
followed in 1V42 by the second volume.

These pieces are written in an admirable style, and,
though arranged without apparent method, a system of
political philosophy may be gathered from their contents.
Thus the third essay. That Politics may he reduced to a
Science, defends that thesis, and dwells on the impoi'tance
of forms of government.

" So great is the force of laws and of particular forms of
government, and so little dependence have they on the hu-
mours and tempers of men, that consequences almost as gen-
eral and certain may sometimes be deduced from tliem as
any which the raatliematical sciences afford us." — (III. 15.)
{Sec p. 45.)

Iliimc proceeds to exemplify the evils which inevitably
flow from universal suffrage, from aristocratic privilege,
and from elective monarchy, by historical examples, and
concludes : —

"Tiiat an hereditary prince, a nobility without vassals,
and a people voting by their representatives, form the best
monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy." — (III. 18.)

If we reflect that the following passage of the same es-
say was ^vritten nearly a century and a half ago, it would

[chap.

opy of tlic
:omniciKl;i-
' of Moral
•kablo cvi-
velopmcnt,
hy of such

Sdinburgli,
wliicli was

style, and,
system of
r contents.
luced to a
niportance

r forms of
on tlie liu-
ost as gcn-
n them as
—(III. 15.)

inevitably

privilege,

nplcs, and

lit vassals,
n the best

3 same cs-
, it Avouid

'•]

POLITICAL DOCTRINES.

seem that whatever other changes may have taken place,
political warfare remains in statu quo : —

" Those who cither attack or defend a minister in such a
government as ours, wiicre tlie utmost liberty is alloweil, al-
ways carry matters to an extreme, and exaggerate his merit
or demerit with regard to the public. His enemies arc sure
to charge him with the greatest enormities, both in domes-
tic and foreign management; and there is no meanness or
crime of which, in their judgment, he is not capable. Un-
necessary wars, scandalous treaties, profusion of public treas-
ure, oppressive taxes, every kind of muladminiatration is as-
cribed +o liim. To aggravate the charge, his pernicious con-
duct, it is said, will extend its baneful influence even to pos-
terity, by undermining the best constitution in the world,
and disordering that, wise system of laws, institutions, and
customs, by which our ancestors, during so many centuries,
have been so happily governed. He is not only a wicked
niinistcr in himself, but has removed every security provided
against wicked ministers for the future.

" On the other hand, the partisans of the minister make
his panegyric rise as high as the accusation against him, and
celebrate his wise, steady, and moderate conduct in every
part of his administration. The honour and interest of the
nation supported abroad, public credit maintained at home,
persecution restrained, faction subdued : the merit of all
these blessiugs is ascribed solely to the minister. At the
same time, he crowns all his other merits by a religious care
of the l:)est government in the world, Avhich he has preserved
in all its parts, and has transmitted entire, to be the happi-
ness and security of the latest posterity."— (III. 2G.)

Hume sagely remarks that the panegyric and the accu-
sation cannot both be true ; and, that what truth there
may be in either, rather tends to show that our much-
vaunted constitution does not fulfil its chief object, which

i- )

iim.

w,^

1 1 ^

,■

s 1 .

HUME.

[chap.

is to provide a remedy against maladministration. And
if it does not —

" \vc arc rather belioklcn to any minister who undermines
it and affords us the opportunity of erecting a better in its
place."— (III. 28.)

The fifth Essay discusses the Origin of Government : —

"3Ian, born in a family, is com2)el]ed to maintain society
from necessity, from natural inclination, and from habit.
The same creature, in his farther progress, is engaged to es-
tablish political society, in order to administer justice, with-
out which there can be no peace an\ong them, nor safety, nor
mutual intercourse. We are therefore to look ujion all the
%'ast apparatus of our government as having ultimately no
other object or purpose but the distribution of justice, or, in
other words, the support of the twelve judges. Kings and
parliaments, fleets and armies, ofliccrs of the court and rev-
enue, ambassadors, ministers and i)rivy councillors, are all
subordinate in tlie end to this part of administration. Even
the clergy, as their duty leads them to inculcate morality,
may justly be thought, «o far as regards this world, to have
no other useful object of their institution." — (III. 37.)

The police theory of government lias never been stated
more tersely : and, if tlicre were only one stato in the
world ; and if we could be certain by intuition, or by the
aid of revelation, that it is wrong for society, as a corpo-
rate body, to do anything for the improvement of its mem-
bers, and thereby indirectly support the twelve judges, no
objection could be raised to it.

Unfortunately the existence of rival or inimical nations
furnishes " kings and parliaments, fleets and armies," with
a good deal of occupation beyond the support of the
twelve judges ; and, though the proposition that the Stato

nmcut : —

!•]

POLITICAL DOCTRINES.

has no business to meddle with anything but the admin'
istration of justice, soeins sometimes to be regarded as an
axiom, it can hardly be said to bo intuitively certain, in-
asmuch as a great many people absolutely repudiate it;
while, as yet, the attempt to give it the authority of a rev-
elation has not been made.

As Hume says wlt'i profound truth in the fourth essay,
On the First Principles of Government : —

"As force is always on the side of the governed, the gov-
ernors luive nothing to support them Init oi)ini()n. It is,
iheretbre, on opinion only that government is founded; and
this maxim extends to the most despotic and most military
governments, as well as to the most free and tlie most pojju-
lar."— (III. 31.)

But if the whole fabric of social organisation rests on
opinion, it may surely be fairly argued that, in the inter-
ests of self-preservation, if for no better reason, society
has a right to see that the means of forming just opinions
are placed within the reach of every one of its members ;
and, therefore, that due provision for education, at any
rate, is a right and, indeed, a duty, of the state.

The three opinions upon which all government, or the
authority of the few over the many, is founded, savs
Hume, are public interest, right to power, and right to
property. No governmenl permanently e.xist unless

the majority of the citizens, who are *,he ultimate deposi-
tary of Force, are convinced that it serves the general in-
terest, that it has lawful authority, and that it respects in-
dividual rights : —

"A government may endure for several ages, though the
balance of power and the balance of property do not coin-
cide. . . . But where tlic original constitution allows any

I Hi

'"n

HUME.

[chap.

B * '

l» '¥

' 1

share of power, though small, to an onlei' of men who pos-
sess a hii>;c share of i)roperty, it is easy for them <,'rr,<lually
to stretch their authority, and bring the balance of power to
coincide Avith that of property. This has been the case with
the House of Commons in England." — (III. lU.)

Hume then points out that, in liis time, the authority of
the Commons was by no means ecpiivalcnt to tlie proper-
ty and pi)Wi'r it represented, and proceeds : —

"AVere the members obliged to receive instructions from
their constituents, like the Dutch depu'^^ies, this would en-
tirely alter the case; and if such inime" ,e power and riches
as those of all the Connnons of Great Britain were brought
into the scale, it is not easy to conceive that the crown
could eithc'r influence that multitude of people, or withstand
that balance of property. It is true, the crown has great in-
fluence over the collective body in Ihe elections of memljcrs;
but wen; this influence, which at present is only exerted
once in seven years, to be employed in bringing over the
people to every vote, it would soon be wasted, and no skill,
popularity, or revenue could support it. I must, therefore,
be of opinion that an alteration in this particular would in-
troduce a total alteration in our government, would soon
reduce it to a pure republic; and, perhaps, to a republic of
no inconvenient form." — (III. 35.)

Viewed by the light of subsequent events, this is sure-
ly a very remarkable example of political sagacity. Tiic
members of the House of Commons are not yet delegates;
but, with the widening of the sulfrage and tlie rapidly
increasing tendency to drill and organise the electorate,
and to exact definite pledges from candidates, they arc
rapidly becoming, if not delegates, at least attorneys for
committees of electors. The same causes are constantly
tending to exclude men, who combine a keen sense of self

»•]

ruLITICAL rUOGNOSTICATIONS.

rciipcct with lari^c intolloctual capacity, from a position in
which tiic one is as constantly ofTcndcd as the otiicr is
neutralised. Notwithstandiiiijf the attempt of (Jeor^e tiic
Third to resuscitate t!ie royal authority, Hume's foresii-ht
lias been so completely justified that no one now dreams
of the crown exerting the slii^htcst intluenco upon elec-
tions.

In the seventh essay, Hume raises a very interesting
discussion as to the probable ultimate result of the forces
which were at work in the Jhitish (Joustitution in liie
lirst part of the eighteentL -.'cntury : —

"Tliere has been a siuhlon and scnsiljle clian^t! in the
o[)iuions of men, within tliese hist fifty years, by tlio prog-
ress of learning and of liljcrty. iMost people in lliis ishmd
liave divested themselves of all superstitious reverence to
names and authority; the clergy have mucli lost their
crcilit ; their pretensions and doctrines liave been much
ridiculed; and even religion can scarcely support itself in
the world. Tlu; mere name oi' liii<j commands little respect;
and to talk of a king as God's vicegerent on earth, or to
give him any of those magnificent titles M'hieh formerly
dazzled mankind, would Imt excite laughter in e'cry one.''
—(III. 54.)

In fact, at the present day, the danger to monarchy in
Britain -would appear to lie, not in increasing love for
eipiality, for which, except as regards the hiw, English-
men liavc never cared, but rather entertain an aversion ;
nor in any abstract democratic theories, upon which tlie
mass of Englishmen pour tlie contempt witli wliich tlicy
view theories in general ; but in the constantly increas-
ing tendency of monarchy to become slightly absurd,
from the ever-widening discrepancy between modern po-
litical ideas and the thcorv of kingship. As Hume ob-
37

H-

.11'

HUME.

[CIIAP.

ill his time, peoplo liad loft olT makln']: lu'liovo
that iv kin!? was a dilTcTeiit spccios of in.in from otlioi

serves, even

men

(1, since his dav, more an(

1 more sucli make-be

lieves Imve become impossible; nntiitho maintenanee of

kin,^•ship in eomini; ,uei

rations seems likely to depend

.■ntir

ly npoii whether it is tlic oviiertd opinion that

hereditary presid-nt --f our virtnal republic will serve the

«^'

ral interest better than an ele(!tivc one or no

t. Tl

tendency of pnblic feelinu" in this direction is patent, but

blic is to be the tinal j-tai,'e

pu
it (b-es not follow that a repu
of our ti-overnuuMi

t. In fact, Hume thinks not: —

" It is well known tliat every government must come to
:i period, and tlial deatli is unavoidable to the political, as
well as to the animal body. But, as oiu' kind of death may
be preferalile to another, it may be in(iuired, whether it be
more desirable for tlie British constitution to terminate in
a popular government, or in an absolute monareliy ? Here,
I woubl frankly declare, that though liberty be preferable
to slavery, in alnu)st every case; yet I should rather wi-h to
see an absolute monarch than a republic in this islan.b For
let us consider what kind of repul)lic we have reason to
expect. The (juc-tion is not concerning any tine imaginary
republic of which a man forms a plan in Ins closet. Tin re
is no doubt Imt a popular governnuMit may be imagined
more perfect than an al)S()lute monarehy, or even than our
present constitution. But what reason have we to ex])cct
that any such government will ever l)e esta])lishcd in Great
Britain, upon the dissolution of om- monarchy? If any
sin^de person acquire power enough to take our constitution
to pieces, and put it up anew, he is really an absolute mon-
urch; and we hav.' already bad an instance of this kind,
sufficient to convince us that sucIj a person will never resign
Ins power, or establish any free government. Matters, there-
fore, must be trusted to their natural jirogress and opeia
tion'; and the House of Commons, accoi'ding to its present

ffllAP.

; believe
II other
ii;ikc-l)i'-
laiK'i' of

(It'lKlul

1 that a
ervc the
.t. The
tent, liut

lul St!li,'0

come to
litical, as
ualli may
\\vr it l»o
iiinato in

i Here,
)referat.)lo
r \\\<]\ to
!i(l. For
reason to
nian'iuary
t. Til. re
imagined

than our
to expect
i ill Great
If any
iistitntion
lute mon-
this kind.
vcr resign
;crs, there-
nil opera
ts present

r<)I,'TI("A L I'UOGNOSTICVTiUXfJ.

constitution, mn<t he the .nily legislature in sm'h a popular
government. The ineonvcnienecs attending sneh a situa-
tion of alVairs present themselves hy thousand.s. If the
House of Commons, ill such u case, ever dissolve itself, which
is not to he expected, we may look for a civil war every
election. If it continue itself, we shall snlV.'r all the tyranny
of a fiction subdivided into new factions. And, as such
a violent government cannot long subsist, we shall at last,
after many convulsions and civil wars, find repose in al>.,o-
l„t,. moiiarchv, which it would have been happier for ns to
have established peaeeal)ly from the beginning. Absolute
monarchy, therefore, is the easiest death, the true Eutnamm,,
of the British cimstitution.

" Thus if we have more reason to be jealous of monarchy,
because the danger is more imminent from that (piarter,
we have also reason to be more jealous of popular govern-
ment, because that danger is more terrible. This may teach
us a lesson of moderation in all our political controversies."
—(HI. 55.)

One may admire tlie sagacity of these speculations, and
the force and clearness with wliieh they arc expressed,
without altof^cthcr agreeing with tliein. Tiiat an analogy
between the social and bodily organism exists, and is, in
many respects, clear and full of instrnotivc suggestion, is
nndeniablc. Yet a state answers, not to an individual,
but to a generic typo ; and there is t reason, in tlie nat-
ure of things, why any gencrie type nild die out. The
type of the pearly lYautilus, liighly organised as it is, has
persisted with biit little change from the Silurian i poch
till now; ,, so long as terrestrial conditions remain
approximately similar to what they arc at present, there
is no more rL\ason why it should cease to exist in tlie next,
than in the past, lumarcd million years or so. The true
^rramd for doubting the possibility of the establishment

I' y

r^;

^'im '

ji'

HUME.

[CHAP.

of absolute monav
to have passct

_.l,y in Britain is, that opinion seems

"{throno-li, and loft far behind, the stage at

hich such a change won

jd be possible; and the true

for doubting^he permanency of a republic, if it is

;tablished, lies in the fact, that a republic requires

far hioher standard of morality and

reason

ever es

for its maintenance a

of intelligence in the men

form of governmen

abers of the state than any other

t. Samuel gave the Israelites a

because they were not righteous enon
one, ^vith a pretty plain warning o"

kins

f\\ to do without
f what thev were to

rxpe

■ct

from the gift. And, up to this time, the progress

rid

of such republics as have been established in the worl
has not been such as to lead to any confident expectation
that their foundation is laid on a sutliciently secure sub-
soil of public spirit, morality, and intelligence. On the
"ontrarv,they exhibit examples of personal corruption and
of puliiical protligacy as fine as any hotbed of despotism
has ever produced; while they fail in the primary duty
of the administration of justice, as none but an effete des-
potism has ever failed.

Hume has been accused of departing, in his old age,
from the liberal principles of his youih ; and, no doubt, he
was careful, in the later editions of the Esmys, to expunge
cvervthino- that savoured of democratic tendencies. But
the passao-e just quoted shows that this was no recanta-
tion, but simplv a confirmation, by his experience of one
of the most debased periods of English history, of those
evil tendencies attendant on popular government, of which,
from the first, he was fully aware.

Tn the ninth essav, On the Parties of Great Untani,
there occurs a passage which, while it atfords evidence of
the marvellous change which has taken place in the social
condition of Scotland since 1741, contains an assertion re-

[CIIAP.

I seems
staije at
;hc trno
•, if it is
requires
ility and
uy other
5 a Icing
without

WL'VC to

progress
lie Avorld
pcctation
:ure sub-
On the
ption and
lespotism
lary duty
jffetc des-

old ago,

doubt, he

^ expunge

^ies. But

recanta-
ice of one
r, of those
,, of which,

it Britain,
vidence of

1 the social
ssertion re-

THE CONDITIOX OF SCOTLAND.

spectinj

• the state of the Jacobite party

at that time, whicli

at first seems surprismg : —

" As violent things have not commonly so long a duration
moderutc, we actually llnd tliat the Jacobite party i

us,and that the distine-

most entirely vanished liom ainon

tiou of Court and C'(>«/<//7/,^vhich is but creeping in at Lon

don, is tlie onlv one that is ever

mentioned in this kingdom.

Beside the violence and openness of the Jacobite ]
other reason has perhaps contriljuted to pr

)artv. an-

duc

e so su

dden

and so visil>le an alteration in this part of Britain. There
are only two ranks of men among us ; gentlemen who liave
some fortune and education, and the meanest slaving poor;
without any considerable numl)cr of that middling rank ot
men which abound more in England, both in cities and in
the country, than in any other part of the world. The slav-
ing poor are incapable of any principles; gentlemen may be
converted to true principles by time and experience. Tl>c
middlin.-- rank of men have curiosity and knowledge enough
to form principles, Ijut not enough to form true ones, or cor-
rect any prejudices that they may have imbibed. And it is
amon<v the middling rank of people tliat Tory principles do
at present prevail most in England."-(ni. 80, note.)

Considering that the Jacobite rebellion of 1745 broke
out onlv foui" years after this essay was published, the as-
sertion \hat the Jacobite party had "almost entirely van-
ished in 1741" sounds strange enough; and the passage
which contains it is omitted in the third edition of the is's-
s«ys, Pi^^li^l'^^^ "^ 1'-^^- Nevertheless, Hume was proba-
bly rio-ht, as the outbreak of '45 was little better than a
Highland raid, and the Pretender obtained no important
following in the Lowlands.

No less curious, in comparison with what would be said
nowadays, is Hume's remark in the Essay on the Rise of
the Arts and Sciences that —

•il

V] I,

HUME.

[CIIAP.

hiri

^ij

" The English arc become scnsil)le of the scaiulnlous li-
centiousness of their stage from the example of the French
decency and morals.'' — (III. 135.)

And it is perhaps as surprising to bo told, by a man of
Hume's literary power, that the first polite prose in the
En^•lisll lang-uag-o was written by Swift. Locke and Tem-
ple (with whom Sprat is astoundingly conjoined) " knew
too little of the rules of art to be esteemed elegant writ-
ers," and the prose of Bacon, Harrington, and MiUon is
** altogether stiff and pedantic," llobbes, who, wliethcr
he should be called a " pulitc" writer or not, is a master of
vigorous English ; Clarendon, Addison, and Steele (the las*;
two, surely, were "polite" writers, in all conscience) aro
not mentioned.

On the subject of JVntional Character, about which
more nonsense, and often very mischievous nonsense, has
been and is talked than upon any other topic, Hume's
observations arc full of reuse and shrewdness. He dis
tino'uishes between the moral and the physical causes of
national character, enumerating under the former —

"The nature of the government, the revolutions of public
aflairs, the plenty or penury in wliicli people live, tlie situa-
tion of tlie nation with regard to its neighbours, and such
like circumstances."— (HI. 'I'lTh)
and under the latter : —

"Those ([ualities of the air and climate, which are sup-
posed to work insensibly on the temper, by altering tlie tone
and habit of the body, nnd giving a particular complexion,
which, though reflexion and reason may sometimes overcome
it, will yet prevail among the generality of mankind, and
have an intlucuce on their manners."— (III. 225.)

While admitting and exemplifying the great inllucncc
of moral causes, Jlumc remarks —

[CIIAP.

liilous U-
i French

I man of
>e in the
iiil Toni-
[) " knew
juit writ-
Milton is

whether
iiaster of

(the has^-.
ence) aro

it which
>ense, has
, Hume's
He dis
causes of

of pul)lic
tlio situa-
and such

1 arc sup-
l;' the tone
implexion,
. overcome
ikind, and

) iuihicncc

NATIONAL CHARACTER.

. As to physical causes, I am inclined to <^"^t dt^o
of their operation in this particular; nor do I tlunk that
men owe anything of their temper or genius to the air, food,
or climate."— (III. 237.)

Ilumo certainly would not have accepted the "rice the-
orv" in explanation of the social state of the Hindoos
and, it may be safely assumed, that he won d not have
had recourse to the circumamhicnce of the "melancholy
„viin"to account for the troublous history of Ireland.
He supports his views by a variety of strong arguments,
among which, at the present conjuncture, it is worth noting
that the following occurs—

- Where any accident, as a difference in language or relig-
ion keeps two nations, inhabiting the same country, Irom
.ni^ing with one another, they will preserve during several
centui-ies a distinct and even opposite set of manners. The
inteo-rity, gravity, and l)ravery of the Turks l^n-m an exact
contest to the deceit, levity, and cowardice of the modern
Greeks."-(III. 23:1)

The question of the influence of race, which plays so
great a part in modern political speculations, was hardly
broached in Hume's time, but he had an inkling of its im-

■..,rtancc : — .

' "I am apt to suspect the Negroes to be naturally inferior
to tlic Whites. There scarcely ever was a civilised nation
of that complexion, nor even any individual, eminent either
in action or speculation. . . . Such a uniform and constat,
difference [between the negroes and the whites] could not
luippen in so many countries and ages, if nature had not
made an original distinction between these l>rccds of men.
. In Jamaica, indeed, tliey talk of one Negro as a man
of parts and learning; bnt it is likely he is admired for
slender accomplishments, like a parrot ^Ndio speaks a ftW
words plainly."-(in. 236.)

1(11

',' 'I ' I '

HUME.

[chap.

The Essays met with the success they deserved. Iliinio
wrote to Henry Home in June, 17-12 : — •

" The Essaj's are all sold in London, as I am informed
by two letters from English gentlemen of my acfiuaintancc
There is a demand for them; and, as one of them tells me,
Innys, the great bookseller in Paul's Churchyard, wonders
there is not a new edition, for he cannot find copies for liis
customers. I am also told that Dr. Butler has everywliere
recommended them ; so that I hope that they Mill liavc
some success."

Hume had sent Butler a copy of the Treatise, and liad
called upon him in London, but hn was out of town ; and
being shortly afterwards made Bishop of Bristol, Hume
seems to have thought that further advances on his part
might not be well received.

Greatly comforted by this measure of success, Hume re-
mained at Ninewells, rubbing up his Greek, until 1745;
when, at the mature age of thirty-four, he made his entry
into practi(\'il life, by becoming bear-leader to the Marrjuis
of Annandale, a young nobleman of feeble body and fee-
bler mind. As might have been predicted, this venture
was not more fortunate than his previous ones ; and, af-
ter a year's endurance, diversified latterly with pecuniary
squabbles, in wliirh Hume's tenacity about a somewhat
small claim is remarkable, the engagement came to an
eu7.

;f* ]i:-

[chap.
Uiinic

ii.l

LATER YEARS.

CHAPTER II.

LATER years: THE HISTORY OK ENGLAND.

In 1V44, Hume's friends bad endeavoured to procure ins
nomination to the Chair of "Ethics and pneumatic phi-
losophy " ' in the University of Edinburgh. About this
matter he Avritcs to his friend William Mure :—

"The accusation of heresy, deism, scepticism, atheism,
&c., &c.. &c., Avas started against me ; but never took, being
bore down by the contrary authority of all the good compa-
ny in town."

If the "good company in town" bore down the first
three of these charges, it is to be hoped, for the salce of
their veracity, that they knew their candidate chiefly as
the very good company that he always was ; and had paid
as little attention, as good company usually does, to so
solid a work as the Trcotlsc. Hume expresses a naive
surprise, not unmixed with indignation, that Ilutcheson
and Lecchman, both clergymen and sincere, though liberal,
professors of orthodoxy, should have expressed doubts as

1 " rnoumatic philosophy" must not be confounded \\\i\\ the ,!io-
ory o[ fhi^tic fluids; thougli, as Scottish chairs havo, before now,
combined natural with civil liistory, the mistake would be pardon.
able.

'!»:

j,..; ,

■-v

HUME.

[chap.

III

II u

to his fitness for becoming a professedly rrcsbytorian
tcaelier of rresbvterian voiitli. The town council, iiowcv-
cr, would not have him, and filled ujt the place with a safe
nobody.

In May, 174G, a new prospect opened. General St.
Clair was appointed to the command of an expedition to
Canada, and he invited Hume, at a week's notice, to be
his secretary ; to which ofiicc that of iudge-advocate was
afterwards added.

lluinc writes to a friend : " The ofiicc is very genteel,
10s. a day, perquisites, and no expenses;" and, to another,
he speculates on the chance of procuring a company in an
American regiment. " But this I build not on, nor in-
deed am I very fond of it," he adds ; and this was fortu-
nate, for t.ie expedition, after dawdling away the summer
m port, was suddenly diverted to an attack on L'Orient,
where it achieved a huge failure and returned ignomini-
onsly to England.

A letter to Henry Home, written when this unlucky ex-
pedition was recalled, shows that Hume had already seri-
ously turned his attention to history. Referring to an
invitation to go over to Flanders with the General, ho
says :

"Had I any fortune which would give me a prospect of
leisure and opportunity to prosecute my Insforicitl j»'q/ects,
nothing could be more useful to me, and I should pick up
more literary knowledge in one campaign by being in the
General's family, and being introduced frequently to the
Duke's, than most ' crs could do after many years' service,
But to what can ;> ihis serve ? I am a philo^opiier, and so
I sui)i)ose must continue.''

But this vaticination was shortly to prove erroneous.
ilunie seems to have made a very fuvourable impression on

» !.>

[CIUP.

"•]

OFFICIAL Ari'OINTMEXTS.

General St. Clair, as he did ii[)()ii every one witii whom ho
came into personal contact; for, beiii^' chari>"ed with a mis-
sion to the court of Turin, in 174S, the General insisted
upon the a{)pointnient of Hume as his secretary. lie fur-
ther made him one of his aides-de-camp ; so that the })hi-
losopher was obliged to encase his more than portly, and
by no means elegant, fioure in a military uniform. Lord
Charlemont, who met him at Turin, says he was " dis-
guised in scarlet," and that he wore his uniform " like a
fjrocer of the train-bands." Ilume, always ready for a
joke at his own expense, tells of the considerate kindness
Avith which, at a reception at Vienna, the Eniprcss-dowa-
Ijcr released him and his friends from tl;e necessity of
nalking backwards. " \\'e esteemed ourselves very much
obliged to her for this attention, especially my compan-
ions, who were desperately afraid of my falling on them
jjnd crushing them."

Notwithstanding the many attractions of this appoint-
ment, llumc writes that he leaves liorac "with infinite re-
gret, where I had treasured up stores of study and plans
of thinking for many years;" and his only consolation is
that the opportunity of becoming conversant with state
affairs may bo profitable : —

"I sliall liave an opportunity of seeing courts and camps:
and in can aiccrward be so liappy as to atta^ i leisure and
other opportunities, this knowledge may even ♦:urn to ac-
count to nic as a man of letters, wliicli I confess uas always
been tlie sole oliject of my ambition. I have long had an in-
tention, in my iii)er years, of composing some history ; and I
question not but some greater experience in the operations
of the field and the intrigues of the cabinet will be rcrpii-
site, in order to enable me to speak with judgment on these
subjects."

C o*

.1'

'11 i

UUME.

[chap.

lliiinc returned to London in 1'749, and, diirlni,' Iiia
stay there, his motlier died, to liis heartfelt sorrow. A
curious story in eonneotion with tliis event is told hy Dr.
(Jarlyle, wlio knew Iluine well, and whose authority is per-
fectly trustworthy.

" >rr Boyle hcarin<? of it, soon after went to his apartment,
for tliey lodj^ed in tlie same house, wlii're lie found him in
tlie deepest ailliction and in a Hood of tears. After the usual
topies and eondolenees Mr. Boyle said to him, '31 v friend,
you owe this uneonunon grief to haviui;- thrown off the prin-
ciples of religion; for if you had not. you would have been
consoled with the tirui l)elief that tlie good lady, who was
not only the best of mothers, but the most pious of Christians,
was completely happy in tlie realms of tlie just,' To which
David replied, 'Though I throw out my siieculations to
entertain the learned and metaphysical ^vorld, yet in other
things I do not think so ditfereiitly from the rest of the
world as you imagine." "'

If Ilumc had told this story to Dr. Carlyle, the latter
would have said so ; it must therefore have come from
Mr. Boyle; and one would like to liave the opportunity
of cross-examining that gentleman as to Hume's exact
words and their context, before implicitly aeee[)ting his
version of the conversation, Mr. ]'>oyle's experience of
niankind must have been small, if lie had not seen the
firmest of believers overwlielmed with grief by a like loss,
and as completely inconsolable. Iluine may have thrown
off Mr. lioyle's "principles of religion," but he was none
the less a very honest man, perfectly open and candid, and
the last person to use ambiguous phraseology, among liis
friends ; unless, indeed, he saw no other way of putting a
stop to the intrusion of unmannerly twaddle amongst the

[('IIAP.

«■]

DIALOGUES OX NATLRAL RELIGION.

2tf

bitter-sweet incmonos stirred in his ufToctionate nature by
so heavy a blow.

The Philosop/tical Ussai/s or Inquiry was publislied in
1748, while llimie was away with General St. Clair, and
on his return io Kn^•land he had the niortiticatiun to lind
it overlooked in the hubbub caused by Mid<lleton's Freo
Inquinj, and its bold handling- of the topie of the iiWy
on Miracles, by which Jlume doubtless expected the pub-
lic to be startled.

Ik'twcjn 1749 and l7ol, llunie resided at Ninewells,
with his brother and sister, and busied himself with the
composition of his most finished, if not his most impor-
tant works, the Dlalof/ucs on Natural Hclir/lon, the In-
quiry Conccrniny the Principles of Morals, and the Polit-
ical Discourses.

The Dialoyucs on Natural Reliylon were touched and
re-touched, at intervals, for a quarter of a century, and
were not published till after Hume's death : but the In-
quiry Concerniny the '.'riaciples of Morals appeared in
1751, and the Political Discourses in 1752. Full refer-
ence will be made to the two former in the exposition of
Hume's philosophical views. The last has been well said
to be the "cradle of political economy: and much as
that science has been investigated and expounded in later
times, these earliest, shortest, and simplest developments
of its principles are still read with delight even by those
who are masters of all the literature of this great sub-
ject." '

The Wealth of Nations, the masterpiece of Hume s
close friend, Adam Smith, it must be remembered, did not
appear before 1770, so that, in political economy, no less

' Burton's Life of David Hume, i. p. 354.

U I'

1 c - :
It ' ',

(

; if-

i 3

■ i

HUME.

IC'IIAP.

tlinn in pliilosopliy, Ilumc was an original, a ilariiij^, and
a fertile innovator.

The Political A^mti/s liatl a great and rapid t^ucccsM;
translated into French in IVOM, and ajjjain in 1754, they
conferred a European reputation upon their author; and,
what was more to the purpose, intluenced the later Frenelj
Hchool of economists of the eighteenth century.

By this time, IJiimo had not only attained a high repu-
tation ii. the world of letters, but he considered himself a
man of ijulependent fortune. His frugal hahits had eini-
bled him to accumulate jC1,000, and he tells Michael Ilam-
say in 1751 : —

"While interest remains as at present, I lisivc £50 a year,
a livmdred pounds' worth of books, great store of linens and
line elotlies, and nc ir ClOO in my pocket; along with order,
frug.ility, a strong s])irit of independency, good health, a
I'ontented luunour, and an unabated love of study. In these
circumstances I must esteem myself one of tln' haj^py and
fortunate ; and so far from l)eing willing to draw my ticket
over again in the lottery of life, there are very few prizes
with which I would make an exchange. After some delil)-
cration, I am resolved to settle in Edinburgh, and hope I
shall be able with these reveimes to say with Horace :—

' Est bona librorum et proviste frugis in annum
Copia.' "

It would be difHcnlt to find a better example of the
honourable independence and clieerful self-reliar.ce which
should disting^iish a man of letters, and which character-
ised Ilumc throughout his career. l>y liononrable effort,
the boy's noble ideal of life became the man's reality ;
and, at forty, Hume liad the liappincss of tinding that lie
had not wasted his youth in the pursuit of illusions, but

[flUP.

n.]

INDEl'EXDEXCi: AND SELF-RELIANCE.

that "the solid certainty of waking bliss" lay befort;
him, in the free play of his powers in their ai>i)ropriatc
sphere.

In 1751 Ilinne removed to Edinburiih, and took up his
iibode on a llat in one of those prodigious houses in the
Lawnmarket, whieh still excite the admiration of tourists;
afterwards nioviniv to a house in the Canongjite. His sis-
ter joined him, adding £;]0 a year to the conunon stock ;
and, in one of his charmingly playful letters to Dr. Cle-
phane, he thus describes his establishment, in 175:?.

"I sliall exult and triumph to you a little that I have now
at last— being turned of tbrty, t ) my own honour, to that of
learning, and to that of the present age— arrived at the dig-
nity of being a householder.

"About seven months ago, I got a house of my own, and
completed a regular iamily, consisting of a head, viz., myself,
and two inferior meml)ers, a maid and a cat. My sister has
since joined me, and keeps me company. With frugality, I
can reach, I find, cleanliness, warmth, light, plenty, and con-
tentment. Wiiat would you have more i Independence ? I
iiavc it in a supreme degree. Honour? That is not alto-
■-•ether wanting. Grace ? That will come in time. A wife ?
That is none of the indispensable requisites of life. Books?
That is one of them : and I have more than I can use. In
short, I cannol find any pleasure of consequence which I
am not possessed of in a greater or less degree; and, with-
out any great ciTort of philosophy, I may be easy and satis-
fied.

"As there is no happiness without occupation,! have be-
gun a work w hich will occupy me several years, and which
yields me much satisfaction. Tis a History of Britain from
the Union of the Crowns to the present time. I have al-
ready linished the reign of King James. ]\Iy friends flatter
me (!)y this I mean that they don't flatter me) that I have
succeeded."

f ;i

I S

'»i

I J

! I i ' »

HUME.

[CIUP.

In 1752, the Faculty of Ailvocatcs elected Ilnmo their
libraiiaii, an onic( whioli, thoii-j;!! it yielded little eniulii-
,„(.nt — the salary was only forty pounds a year — was
valuable, as it placed the resources of a laru;e library at his
dis'osal. The proposal to give Ihnue even this paltry
place caused a great outcry, on the old score of inlidelity.
IJut as Hume writes, in a jubilant letter to Clephane (Feb-
ruary 4, 1752) : —

"I carrittl llic election ])y a considerable majority....
What is more cMnionliniiry, the cry of religion could not
hinder the hidies from being violently my partisans, and I
owe my success in a great measure to tlieir soiicitationg.
One has l)n)kc olf all conunercc with her lover because he
voted against me ! And Mr. Lockhart, in a speech to the
Faculty, said there was no walking the streets, nor even eu-
joying one's own lireside, on account of their iu)portunute
zeal. The town -ays that even his lied was not sale for him,
thougli his wife was cousin-german to my antagonist.

"Twas vulgarly given out that the ontcst was between
Deists and Christians, and when the sews of my success
came to the ])layhouse, the whi'^per rose that the Clu-istians
were d( feated. Are you not surprised that we could keep
our popularity, notwithstanding this nuputation, which my
friends could not deny to be well founded ?"

It would seem that the " good company " was less en-
terprising ill its asseverations in this canvass than in the
last.

The first volume of the Hhlonj of Gnat Britain, con-
taininri the reign of James L and Charles /., was published
in 1754. At first, the sale was large, especially in Edin-
burgh, and if notoriety jw se was Hume's object, he at-
tained it. But he liked applause as well as fame, and, to
his bitter disappointment, he says : —

[CUAP.

mo tlicir
e cm uln-
ar — was
iry at his
is paltry
nliilclity.
lue (Fob-

ority

coukl not
ns, and I
ic'itulions.
L'cuuse lie
■li to tlie
• even eu-
poi'tiuiiito
e lor him,

St.

1 between
iv succesa
Christians
;Mihl keep
wliich my

s loss cn-
an in tlio

itain, con-
publishcd
■ in Edin-
!ct, he at-
ic, and, to

INDEPEXDEXT SYMrATIIY.

"I was assai!"d by one cry of reproach, di«ai)pr( hation,
and even detestation : KniTlish, Seoti li, and Irish, Whi<^ and
Tory, Cliurehman ami SL-ctary, Freetiiinker ad U('li<,donist,
Patriot and Courtier, united in their rage against the man
wiio had presumed to shed a generous tear for tlie fate of
Charles Land tlie Earl of Stralford; and after the tlrst ebul-
litions of tlieir fury wore over, what was still mt)re mortify-
ing, the book seemed to fall into oblivion. Mr. Miliar told
mo that in a twelvemonth he sold only forty-tive coj.ies of
it. I .scarcely, indeed, heard of one man in the three king-
doms, consideral)le for rank or letters, that could emlure the
book. 1 nuist only except the primate of England, Dr. Her-
ring, and the primate of Ireland, Dr. Stone, which seem two
odd exceptions. These dignified prelates separately sent me
messages not to be discouraged."

It certainly is odd to think of David llumo being com-
forted in ills affliction by the independent and sponta-
neous sympathy of n njjir of archbishops. IJnt the in-
stincts of the dign'tiod prJ/tes ijuidcd tliem rightly; for,
as the great paint r "t" .Eng,'rb history in "Whig pigments
has been careful ti- pdnt oni,' Hume's historical picture,
though a great work 'lawu 7 a master hand, has all the
lights Tory, and all the shades AVhig.

Hume's ecclesiastical enemies seem to have thought that
their opportunity had now arrived; and an attempt was
made to get the General Assembly of iVoO to appoint
a committee to inquire into his writings. ]>ut, after a
keen debate, the proposal was rejected by fifty votes to
seventeen. Hume does not appear to have troubled liim-
self about the matter, and docs not even think it worth
mention in 3/>/ Own Life.

In 1750 he tells Clephane that he is worth €1,600 ster-

- Lord Macaulav, Article on E'lstory, Edinbnrf/h Heview, vol Ixvii.
28

!■{

: ...

* <j

1 1

I ft ' -f'

III I.

» t

HUME.

[CIIAP.

liiii;, ami consoqucntly master of an income which must
have been weaUli to a man of liis fruo;al liabits. In the
same year, he piibHslicd the second vohinie of the Jfisto-
ri/, wliioh met witli a much better reception than the first;
and, in 1V57, one of his most remarkable works, the I^at-
ural History of Relir/ion, api)cared. In tlie same year, he
resigned liis office of librarian to the Faculty of Advo-
cates, and he projected removal to London, probably to
superintend the publication of the additional volume of
the Ilistorij.

"I sliall certainly be in London next summer; and proba-
bly to remain there during life : at least, if I can settle my-
self to my mind, which I l)cg you to have an eye to. A
room in a sober, discreet fauiily, who would not be averse to
admit a sober, discreet, virtuous, regular, quiet, good-natured
man of a bad character — such a room, I say, would suit me
extremely." '

The promised visit took place in the latter part of tlUi
year l7o8, and he remained in the metropolis for the
greater part of 1759. The two volumes of the Jlistor,/
of J^niilund under the Home of Tudor were jjublished in
London, shortly after Hume's return to Edinburgh; and,
according to his own account, they raised almost as great
a clamour as the first two had done.

Busily occupied with the continuation of his historical
labours, Hume remained in f^dinburgh until 170:}; when,
at the re()uest of Lord Hertford, who was going as am-
bassador to France, he was appointed to the eml)assy ;
with the promise of the secretaryship, and, in the mean-
while, performing the duties of that office. At first,
Hume declined the offer; but, as it was particularly hon-

' Letter to Clophanc, 3rd September, 1757.

[CUAP.

liicli must
s. In tlie
the Jfisto-
1 the first ;
i, the JVat-
le year, he
of Advo-
•obubly to
vohiiiie of

111(1 proba-
scttle my-
•yc to. A
.' averse to
)(l-nutured
111 suit me

art of th(j
s for th«
10 Jlistori/
iblislied in
rgh ; and,
it as great

historical

5:3 ; when,

lU" as ain-

enibassv :

the niean-

At first,
larly lion-

II.]

SECRETARY OF THE FRENCH EMBASSY,

ourablc to so well abused a man, on account of Lord Hert-
ford's liioh reputation for virtue and piety,' and no less
advaiitat,reous by reason of the increase of fortune which
it secured to liini, he eventually accepted it.

In France, Hume's reputation stood far higher than in
Britain ; several of his works had been translated ; he had
exchanged letters with Montesquieu and with Ilelvetius;
Rousseau had appealed to liim ; and the charming Ma-
dame de Boufflers had drawn him into a correspondence,
marked by almost passionate enthusiasm on her part, and
as fair an imitation of enthusiasm as Hume was capable
of, on his. In the extraordinary mixture of learning, wit,
luimanity, frivolity, and profligacy which then character
ised the highest Frcncli society, a new sensation was
worth anything, and it mattered little whether the cause
thereof was a philosopher or a poodle ; so "^lume had a
great success in the l*arisian world. Great nobles feted
liiin, and great ladies were not content unless the "gros
David" was to be seen at their receptions and in their
boxes at the theatre. "At the opera hi-: broad unmean-
ing face was usually to be seen entre deux joUs minois"
says Lord Charlemont." Hume's cool head was by no

» " You must know that Lord Hertford has so high a character
for pioty, that his taking ine by the hand is a kind of regeneration
to nie, and all past offences are now wiped off. But all tliose views
are trilling to one of my age and temper." — Hume to Ehiumchtone,
9th January, l'?G4. Lord Hertford had procured him .1 pension of
.£200 a year for life from the King, and the secretaryship was worth
£1,000 a year.

2 Madame d'Epinay gives a ludicrous account of Hume's per-
formance when pressed into a fabkaii, as a Sultan liotween two
blavcs, personated for the occasion by two of the prettiest women
in Paris: —

" U les regarde atteutivcmcnt, il sc frappc Ic ventre et his geuoux

■ n '

!l^l

.f\

J i

If' i (i

>■ i

PIUME.

[chap.

means turned,- but he took tlie o^oods the gods {.nnided
with nnicli satisfaction, and every wliere won golden opin-
ions by his unaffected good sense and thorough kindness
of 1 1 cart.

Over all this part of Hume's career, as over the surpris-
ing episode of the quarrel witli Kousseau, if that can be
called quarrel wjiich was lunatic malignity on liousseau's
side and thorough generosity and patience on IJume's, I
nuay pass lightly. The story is admirably told by Mr.
Burton, to whose volumes I refer the reader. Nor need I
dwell upon Hume's short tenure of ofhce in London, as
Under-Secretary of State, between 1707 and 1769. Suc-
cess and wealth are rarely interesting, and Hume's case is
no exception to the rule.

According to his own description, tlio cares of official
life were not ovcrwhehnino-.

f • i

".'My way of life here is very uniform and 1)y no means
disagreeal.le. I have al! the lorenoou in the Secretary's
house, from ten till three, Mhen there arrive from time to
time messengers that bring me all the secrets of the king-
dom, and, iiKbcd, of Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. "l
am seldom hurried; but have leisure at intervals to take up
n book, or write a private letter, or converse with a iViend
that may call for me ; and from dinner to bed-time is all my
own. If you add to this that the person with whom I Imvc
the chief, if not only, transactions, is the most reasonable,
equal -tempered, and gentleman- like man imaginable, and

j\ pliisieurs reprises ot no trouvo jamais autre elinse h l..,ir dire (,uo

Eh In,,}.' m(.s ,l,mo!sMs.—Eh him! vnnn voU,i dour J-JI, him!

vom roih) . . . rou.s voihl iri i' Cetto plirasc dura un .|iiart d'heure
sans ((u'il put en sortir. Une (I'dies .^o leva (Pin, patience : Ali, .iit-
elie, Je iu'eu L-tois l)ien doutee, eet lionimo n'ost boa qu'u mango'r du
vcau '."—Burton's Lift of J/uinr, vol. ii, p. '22i.

I 1

n.J

SUCCESS AND WKALTII.

Liuly Aylesbury tiie same, you will certainly think I have no
reason to complain ; and I am far from complainiui,'. I only
shall not re^nx't when my duty is over; because t^^o me tlii^
situation can lead to notiiin^', at least in all probability : and
readiui;-, and saunlerinir, and loun^ring, and dozinir, which I
call thiiddng, is my supreme happiness— I mean my full con-
tentment."

Hume's duty was soon over, and lie returned lo Ed-
inburo'li in 17G9, "very opulent" in the possession of
£1,000 a year, and determined to take wliat remained to
liim of life pleasantly and easily. In October, 1709, he
writes to Elliot. —

" I have been settled here two months, and am here body
and soul, without casting the least thought of regret to

London, or even to Paris I live still, and mus't for a

twelvemonth, in my old house in Jume8"s Court, which is
very cheerful and even elegant, but too small to display my
great talent }V,r cookery, the science to which I intend to ad-
dict the remaining years of my life. I have just now Iving
on the table before me a receipt for making wupe a la irine,
copied with my own liand; for beef and cabbage (a charm'
ing dish) and old mutton and old claret nobody excels me.
I make also she- pVliead broth in a manner that Mr. Keith
speaks of for eight days after; and the Due dc Xivernoia
would bind himself apprentice to my lass to learn it. I
have already sent a challenge to David Moncreifi-: you will
see that in a twelvemonth he will take to the writing of
history, the ticld I have descted ; for as to the giving of
dinners, he can now have no further pretensions. I should
have made a very bad use of my abode in Paris if I could
not get the better of a mere provincial like him. All my
friends encourage me in this ambition; as thinking it will
redound very mucli to my hone ur."

In 1770, Hume built himself a house in the New Town

i a

.1 ».

111: ME.

[fiup.

! ■!

^.%

>\ I ,11, it .

■■■11 I

of Edinburgh, wliicli was tlien springing up. It was the
first house in tlie street, and a frolicsome young lady
chalked upon the wall "St. Davius Street." Hume's
servant complained to her master, who replied, "Nev-
er mind, lassie, many a better man has been made a
saint of before," and the street retains its title to this
day.

In the following six years, the house in St. David's
Street was the centre of the accomplished and refined so-
ciety which then distinguished Edinburgh. Adam Smith,
Blair, and Ferguson were within easy reach; and what
remains of Hume's correspondence with Sir Gilbert Elliot,
Colonel Edmonstonc, and Mrs. Cockburn gives pleasant
glimpses of his social surroundings, and enables us to
understand his contentment with his absence from the
more perturbed, if more brilliant, worlds of Paris and
London.

Towards London, Londoners, and indeed Englislimen
in general, Hume entertained a dislike, mingled with con-
tempt, which was as nearly rancorous as any emotion of
his could be. During his residence in Paris, in 1764 and
1765, he writes to Blair: —

"Tlie taste for literature is ncitlier decayed nor depraved
here, us with the barbarians who inhabit the banks of the
Tlianies.''

And he speaks of tlie "general regard paid to genius and
learning" in France as one of the points in which it most
differs from England. Ten years later, he cannot even
tliank Gibbon for liis History without the left-handed
comi)liment, that lie should never have expected such an
excellent work from the pen of an Englishman. Early
in 1765, Hume writes to Millar: —

'^:^ ff :

«•]

DISLIKE OF ENGLISHMEN.

"The rage and prejudice of i)artie.s frighten me, and, above
all, this rage against the Scots, which is so dishonourable,
and indeed so infamous, to the English nation. We hear
that it increases every day without the least appearance of
provocation on our part. It has frequently made me resolve
never in my life to set foot on English ground. I dread, if
I should undertake a more modern history, the impertinence
and ill-manners to which it would expose me; and I was
willing to kn(.w from you whether former prtjudices l:ad so
far subsided as to ensure me of a good reception."

Ills fears were kitidly appeased by Millar's assurance that
the Englisjj were not prejudiced against the Scots in gen-
eral, but against the particular Scot, Lord Bute, wlio was
supposed to be the guide, philosopher, and friend, of both
Dowager Queen and King.

To care nothing about literature, to dislike Scotchmen,
and to be insensible to the merits of David Hume, was a
combination of iniquities on the part of the English na-
tion, which would have been amply sufficient to rulfle the
temper of the pliiiosopliic historian, who, witliout being
foolishly vain, liad certainly no need of wliat has been
said to be the one form of prayer in which liis country-
men, torn as they are by tlieological differences, agree ;
'■ Lord ! gie us a gude conceit o' oursels." But when, to
all this, these same Southrons added a passionate admira-
tion for Lord Chatham, who was in Hume's eyes a char-
latan ; and filled up the cup of their abomination., by
cheering for " Wilkes and Liberty," Hume's wrath knew
no bounds, and, between 1768 and 1 770, he pours a per-
fect Jeremiad into the bosom of liis friend Sir Gilbert
Elliot.

" Oh ! how I l.-ng to see America and the East Indies re-
volted, totally and finally— the revenue reduced to halt—

'i ]'.!

ii ■

HUME.

[ciup.

public credit fully discrcditea by bankniptcv-tlic third of
Lond(Mi in ruins, and the rascally mob subdued! I think
1 lun not too old to despair of being witness to all these
blessings.

"I am deligiitcd to see the daily and hourly progress of
madness and folly and wickedness in England. The con-
summation of these cpialities are the true ingredients for
making a fine narrative in history, especially if followed by
some signal and ruinous convulsion-as I hoi)e v, iii soon !)e
the case with that pernicious people !''

Even from tlic secure haven of James's C'.-uit, the male-
diction^ continue to pour forth : —

"Nothing but a rebellion and bloodshed uill open the
eyes of that deludtd people; though wei. they alone con-
cerned, I think it is 1,0 matt.M' v>hat becomes of them.
Our government has become a rhimr=-a, an 1 is too perfect
iu point of liberty, for so rude u lm>^t as an Encrli^ihman;'
who is a man, a bad animal too, corrupt, d by al»ovc a eou-
tnrv of licentiousness. The mislbrtunc is that ihh liberty
• an soircely be retrenched without danger of being entirely
lost : a( l.ast the fital effects of licentiousness must first be
inad„ nfjlpuble by some extreme mischitf vesultin-' from it
I imy vish that the catastrophe should nither fall on our
posterity, but it hastens on with such large strides as to
leave little room for hope.

"I am running over again the last edition of mv History-
in order to correct it still further. I cither soften or ex-
punge many villainous seditious Whig strokes which had
crept into it. I wish that my indignation at the present
madness, encouraged by lies, calunmies, imposture, and every
mfm.ous act usual among popular leaders, may not throw
me into the opposite extreme."

A wise wisli, indeed. Posterity respectful] v concurs
therein ; and subjects Hume's estimate of England and

It, the male-

".]

HUME'S LAST ILLNESS.

things English to such modifications as it would probably
have undergone liad the wish been fulfilled.

In 1775 Hume's health began to fail; and, in the
spring of the following year, his disorder, which appears
to have been luemorrhage of the bowels, attained sucli a
height that he knew it must be fatal. So he made his
will, and wrote My Own L'f-; the conclusion of which is
one of the most cheerful, simple, and dignified leave-tak-
ings of life and all its concerns, extant.

"I now reckon upon a speedy dissolution. I have suf-
fered very little pain from my disorder; and, wliut is more
strange, have, notwithstanding the great decline of my per-
son, never suffered a moment's abatement of spirits ; inso-
much that were I to name tlie period of my life which I
should most choose to pass over again, I might be tempted
to iK)int to this later period. I possess the ^sanie ardour as
ever in study and the same gaiety in company ; I consider,
besides, that a man of sixty-iivc, by dying, cuts off only a few
years of infirmities; and though I see many symptoms of
my literary reputation's breaking out at last with additional
lustre, I know that I could have but few years to enjoy it.
It is diflicult to be more detaclicd from fife than I am at
present.

"To conclude liistorically with my own character, I am,
or rather was (for that is the style I nmst now use in 'speak-
ing of myself, whicli emboldens me the more to speak my
sentiments) ; I Mas, I say, a man of mild dispositions, of
command of temper, of an open, social, and cheerful humour,
capable of attachment, but little susceptible of enmity, and
of great moderation in all my passions. Even my love of
literary fune. my ruling passion, never soured my temper,
notwithstanding my frequent disappointments. '^ly com-
pany was not unacceptai)le to the young and careless, as
well as to the studious and literary; and as I took a partic-
ular pleasure in the company of modest women, I had no

I. 1

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IS'!

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IIUME.

[chap.

. reason to he .l.splcascl witli the reception I met with from
l.nn In a word, though most men anywise eminent have
tomul reason to complain of .ahnnny, I never was touched
or even attackc.l by her baleful tooth; and thou-h I wan-
tonly exposed myself to the rage of i,oth civil and relirMous
factions they seen.ed to bo disarmed in my behalf ofU.eir
wonted t,n-y. My friends never had occasion to vindicate
ju>y one c,rcun.stance of my character and con.luct; not
b t t ,at the zealo s, we may well suppose, wouM have l>een
g. d o invent and propagate any story to n.y disadvantage,
but they could never find any which they thought woidd
wear the face of probability. I cannot say there fs no van-
ity in making this funeral oration of myself, but I hope it is
no u „,„p,ac.d one; and this is a matter of fact which is
easily cleared and ascertained."

Hume died in Edinburgli on the 25th of Aurrust 1770
and, a few days later, Ins body, attended by a great con-
course of people, who seem to have anticipatcd'for it the
fate appropriate to the remains of wizards atul necro-
mancers, was deposited in a spot selected by himself in
an^ old burial-ground on the eastern slope o^ the Cal'ton

From the summit of this hill, there is a prospect un-
equalled by any to be seen from the midst of a .nvat city
Westward lies the Forth, and beyond it, din.l/blue, the
far away Highland hills; eastward, rise the bold contours
ot Arthurs Seat and the rugged crags of the Castle rock
w.th the grey Old Town of Edinburgh ; while, far below,'
.from a maze of crowded thoroughfares, the hoarse mur-
mur of the toil of a polity of energetic men is borne upon
the ear. At times, a man may be as solitary here as in
a vontable wilderness; and may meditate nndisturbedlv
upon the epitome of nature and of man-the kingdoms
ot this world— spread out before him.

[chap.

let with from
-'niiiu'iit liavc
was touched
"ii^h I wau-
iiid rcliirious
lialf of their
to vindicate
oiKhict; not
d have been
isadvantagc,
)Uglit Avould
e is no van-
I hope it is
ict whicli is

Jgiist, 1776,
great con-
1 for it tlio
and iiecro-
liiiuself, in
the C-alton

'ospcct un-
groat city,
y bhio, tlie
d contours
'astlc rock,
far below,
:)arso niur-
'orno upon
lioro as in
isturbedlv
kingdoms

"•]

TUE GRAVE OX THE CALTOX HILL.

Surely, there is a fitness in the choice of this last rest-
ing-place by the philosopher and historian, who saw so
clearly that these two kingdonis form but one realm, gov-
erned by uniform laws and alike based on impenetrable
darkness and eternal silence : and, faithful to the last to
that profound veracity which was the secret of his philo-
sophic greatness, he ordered that the simple Roman tomb
which marks Lis grave should bear no inscription but

DAVID HUME
Born 1711. Died 1770.

Leamng it to posterity to add the rest.

It was by the desire and at the suggestion of my friend,
the Editor of this Series, that I undertook to attemi)t to
help posterity in the difficult business of knowing what to
add to Hume's epitaph; and I might, with justrcc, throw
upon him the responsibility of my apparent presump-
tion in occupying a place among the men of letters, who
are engaged with him, in their proper function of writing
about English Men of Letters.

That to which succeeding generations liavo made, arc
making, and will make, continual additions, liowever, is
Hume's fame as a philosopher; and, though I know
that my plea will add to my offence in some quarters, 1
must plead, in extenuation of my audacity, that philos-
ophy lies in the province of science, and not in that of
letters.

In dealing with Hume's Life, I have endeavoured, as far
as possible, to make him speak for himself. If the ex-
tracts from his letters and essays which I have given do
not sufficiently show what manner of man he was, I am
^^ 3

i %i

nil

HUME.

[cnAP.

sure tliat notl.inrr I couM say would make the case plain-
er. 1.1 tlio exposition of Jhune's philosophy winch fol-
lows, I have pursue,! the same plan, and I have applied
myself to the task of selecting and arran-h.rr i„ system-
atic order, the passages whieli appeared to n.c to .-ontain
the clearest statements of J fume's oi)inion.s.

I should have been glad to be able to confine mvself to
this duty, and to limit my own comments to so n'uieh as
was ; • -lijluly necessary to connect mv excerpts. Jk^e
mil tiK.e, however, it must be confessed'that ju.u-c is seen
of n.y thread than of Hume's beads. My excuse must
b« an ineradicable- tendency to try to make thin-^s clear-
while, I may fuither hope, that there is nothing in what I
may have said whi.h i- i- n^istont with tlie logical de-
velopment of Hume's principles.

My authority for the facts of Hume's life is the admi-
rable biography, published in l84o.by Mr. Jolin Hill Bur-
ton. The edition of Hume's works from which all cita-
tions are mad.> is that publishrd by JJlack and Tait in Ed-
"il-.rgh, in I82(i. In this edition, the Essays are reprint-
ed from the edition of 1777, corrected by the author for
the press a shr.rt time before his death. It is well printed
HI four handy volum,^s; and as my copy has lon^^ been in
my possession, and I>e.-.rs marks of much rcadin- it would
have been troublesome for me to refer to any other. But
for the convenience of timsr who possess some other edi-
tion, the following table of the contents of the cditi..n ,.{
18:i«, with the paging of the four volumes, is given:—

VOLUME T

Tkeatisf op Hum.\n Nature.

B. . I. oj the Uiu,. .tunding, p. 5 to the end, p. 347.

CONTENTS OF WORKS.
VOLUMK ir.

TnEATFSK or Hr.MAN NaTUUE.

Rook II. Of tli. (Scions, p. 3—1). 215.

Book III. W J/ -m//*, p. 2 10— 2). 4 15.

Dialogues coNCEnNiNo Natiiial RELioiox,p.4lO-p.54a

Ari'EXDIX TO THE TiJEATISE, p. 551— p. 5G0.

VOLUMi: III.

Essays, Moual axd Poi.nicAi.,p.3— p. 282.

Political Discouuses, p. 285— p. 579.

VOLUME IV.

An Inquiry concernino Human Understanding p 3-

p. 233.

An iNCiUIRY CONCERNING THE PlUNCIPLKS OP lAIoRU. 1)

'-337-p.4;)l.

The Natural II. ouy of Religion, p. 435-p. 513.

Additional Essays, j). 517— p. 577.

As the volume and tlie page of the vohime arc -iven in
my reforcnoos, it ^vill be easy, by the help of this table, to
learn where to look for any passage cited, in differently ar-
ranged editions.

rutip

PART II.

RUME'ti PJIILOSOPIIY.

>• i

[,I:H

CHAPTER I.

THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF PIIILOSOPIIV.

Kant has said that the business of phihjsophy is to an-
swer three questions; Wliat can I know? What ouij;ht I
to do? and For what may 1 hope? But it is pretty plain
that tliese three resolve tlienisclvcs, in the long run, int.>
the first. For rational expectation and moral action are
alike based upon beliefs ; and a belief is void of justifi-
cation unless its subject-matter lies within the boundaries
of possible knowledsi;e, and unless its evidence satisfies
the conditions wliich i vperience imposes as the cjuarantce
of credibility.

Fundamentally, tlien, philosophy is the answer to the
question. What can I know ? and it is by applying itself
to this prolilem, that philosophy is properly distinu'uished
as a special dcjiartment of scientific rescardi. ^Vhat is
commonly called science, wliether mathematical, physical,
or biolojrical, consists of the answers which mankind

CHAl'. I. J TllK OUJECT AND SCOPE OF PHILOSOPHY.

have hocn able to giv(3 tu the

inquiry, AVhat do I know ?

Ihey turnish us with the resuhs of th. nu'ntal opera,
tions which constitute thinkini;; while philosophv, i„ the
stricter sense of the term, inquires into the foun.h.tion
of the hrst principles which those operations assume or
imply.

Hut thouirh, by reason of tlio special purpose of phi-
losophy, Its .iistinctness from other branches of scientiHe
investigation may be properly vindicated, it is easy to
sec that, from the nature of its subject-matter, it is in-
timat<-ly and, indeed, inseparably connected with one
hranch of science. For it is obviously impossible to
answer the question, What can we know ^ unL-ss, in the
hrst place, there is a clear understandiui,^ as to what is
meant by knowle<|o:e; and, having settled this point, the
next step ,s to inquire how we come bv that which we
allow to be knowled-,.; for, upon the replv, turns the
answer to the further question, whether, from the nature
of the case, there are limits to the knowable or not.
While, finally, inasmuch as \\hat can I know? not onlv
refers to knowledge of the past or of the present, but t"o
tiie conhdent expectation which we call knowled..-e of the
fut-:re; it is necessary to ask, further, what jusiitication
can be alleged for trustiii.- to the guidance of our expec-
tations in practical conduct.

It surely needs no argumentation to show, that tlie first
probl.-m cannot be approached without the examination
of the contents of the mind; and the determination of
how much of these contents may be called knowlod-e
Nor can the second problem be dealt with in any other
fashi,),,; for it is only by the observation of the growth
of knowledge that we can rationally hopp to discover how
knowledge grows. But the solution of the third problem

'Jl>

HUME.

I't ♦

[chap.

simply involves the discussion of the data obtained by the
investigation of the foreji^oini; two.

Tims, in order to answer three out of the four subordi-
nate (juestions into which What can 1 know ? breaks up,
we must have recourse to that investiijation of mental
phenomena, the results of which are embodied in the sci-
ence of psycholoufv.

rsyehol.,o-y is -i part of the science of life or biolofxy,
whicli diifcrs from the other branches of that science,
merely in so far as it deals with the psychical, instead of
the physical, i»henomena of life.

As there is an anatomy of the body, so there is an anat-
omy of the mind ; the psycliolooist dissects mental phe-
nomena into elementary states of consciousness, as tlie
anatomist resolves liml)s into tissues, and tissues into cells.
The one traces the development of complex oro-ans from
simple rudiments; the other follows the buildino- up of
complex conceptions out of simpler constituents of
thoug-ht. As the physiologist incjuires into the way in
which the so-called "functions" of the body arc perform-
ed, so the psycholoo-ist studies the so-called "faculties"
of the mind. Even a cursory attention to the ways and
works of the lower animals sun-n-ests a comparative anat-
omy and physioloixy of the mind; and the doctrine of ev-
olution presses for application as much in the one field as
in the other.

But there is more than a parallel, there is a close and
intimate connexion between psycholoiry and physiology.
No one doubts that, at any rate, some mental states are
dependent for their existence on the performance of the
functions of particular bodily organs. There is no seeing
without eyes, and no hearing without ears. If the origin
of the contents of the mind is truly a i»hilosophical prob-

THE OIUECT AM) SCOPE OF I'lIILOSOI'IIY

11>

lerii, then tlic philosopher who attempts to (h'al with that
prohlcm, without acM|uaintiii_ij; himself with the phvsiol-
oiry of sensation, has no more intelligent conceittion uf
his business than tlie [)hysiolotrist, who thinks he can dis-
cuss locomotion, without an acquaintance with the prin-
ciples of mechanics; or resj)irati()n, without some tincture
of chemistry.

On whatever tfround we term physioIouT, science, psy-
choloiiy is entitled to the same appellation; and the
method of invest iu;ation which elucidates tl;o true rela-
tions of the one set of phenomena will discover those of
the other. Hence, as philosophy is, in o-reat measure, the
exponent of the loo-ical consetpiences of certain data es-
tablished by psycholoixy; and as psycholoijfy itself dilfers
from pliysical science only in the nature of its subject-
matter, and not in its method of invcstii^'atioii, it would
seem to be an obvious conclusion, that philosophers are
likely to be successful in their iiupiiries, in proportion as
they arc familiar with the application of scientific method
to loss abstruse subjects; just as it seems to require no
elaborate demonstration that an astronomer, wlio wishes to
comprehend the solar systen), would do well to acquire a
preliminary acquaintance with the elements of physics.
And it is accordant with this presumj.tion, that the men
who have made the most important positive additions to
l»liiIosophy, such as Descartes, Spinoza, and Kant, not to
niciition more recent examples, have been deeply imbued
with the spirit of physical science; and, in some cases,
such as those of Descartes and Kant, have been lar^•ely
acquainted with its (h'taiis. On the other hand, the
founder of l^.sitivism no less admirably illustrates the
connexion of scientific incapacity with philosophical in-

comnetence. In truth, the laboratorv is the fore-court of
29

.!t

I I. ,!

I I ;

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y i

Hi: ME.

[( HAT

the teiiipk- of philosopliy ; and wlioso has not offered sac-
rifices and underijone purification tliorc, h;is little chance
of admission into the sanctuarv.

Obviot'rt as these considerations may appear to l)e, it
would he wronu: to ii,nior(! the fact that their force is hy
no means universallv admitted. On the contrary, the
necessity for a pmper psyeliolon-jcal and plivsi()ion;ical
traininti: to the student of philosophy is denied, on the
one hand, hy the "pure metaphysicians," who attempt to
base the theory of knowiiiu- upon su])poscd necessary and
uniycrsal truths, and assert that scientific observation is
impossible unless such truths are already known (»r im-
plied: which, to those who are not "pure metaphysi-
cians," seems very much as if oni' should >ay that the fall
of a stone cannot be observed, unless tlie law of !;Tavita-
tion is already in the mind of the observer.

On the other hand, the I'ositivists, so far as they accept
the teachinu's of their master, roundly assert, at any rate
ill words, that observation of the min.l is a thinu' iidierent-

ly impossible ii, it«;"lf, and that p-yelioloii'v i> a chimera

a phant.'ism ue„.M'ated by tlir fenneiitatiun of the dn^^'s of
thi'oloo'v. Nevertheless, if M. <',.iiitc had been aske(l what
he meant by •' pliysio|o.j,ie cerebrale," excej»t that which
other j)eo])le call " psycholo^'y ;" and how he knew aiiy-
thino- about the functions of the brain, except by that
very "observation interieure," which he (h-dares to be an
absurdity — it seems prol.iable that he would have found it
hard to escape (he admission that, in vilipcndinrf psyehol-
o<;y, he had been propoundin'^ solemn nonsense.

It is assure<llv one . f Hume's e-reatcst merits that he
clearly recoeiiised the fact that philosophy is based upon
psyeholoiry; and that the in-piiry into the contents and
the operations of the mind must be condueted upon the

I.] THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF PIIILOSOIMIY.

same principles as a pliysical investit,^iti()ii, if what lie calls
the "moral philosopher" would attain results of as firm
and definite a character as those wliich reward tiie "natu-
ral pliilosoplier." ' TIk; title of his first work, a ''Treatise
of Human Nature, her,<i an Attempt to ini-oduce the Ex-
perimental method of Reamniny into Moral Subjects,''
•^ufliciontly indicates the point of view from wliich Iluine
regarded philosophical problems; and lie tells us in the
preface, that liis object has been to promote the construc-
tion of a "science of man."

" 'Tis evident that all the sciences have a relation, groater
or less, to human nature; and that, however wido any of
them may seem to run from it, they still return back by one
passage or another. Even Mnthemutics, Natural Philos,q>hy,
and Natural lldigion are in some measure dei)endent on the
science of Max ; since they lie under tiie cognizance of men,
and are judged of by their powers and qualities. 'Tis im-
possible to tell what changes and improvements we might
make in these sciences were we thoroughly accpiainted with
the extent and force of human understanding, and could ex-
plain the nature of the ideas .we employ and of the opera-
tions we perform in our reasonings, . . . To me it seems evi-
dent that the essence of mind being etpially unknown to us
with that of external bodies, it must I)e equally impossible
to form any notion of its powers and qualities otherwise tiian
from careful and exact experiments, and the observation o
those particular eflects wliich result from its ditferent cir-

' In a letter to Ilutclicson (.'"Jeptonihor ITtli, lT:iO) Hmno roii.iu'ks :
—"There arc <iiiTorent ways of exaininiii;,' the niiinl as \w\\ as the
body. One may consider it either as an anatomist or as a painter:
either to discover its most secret springs and principles, or to de-
scribe the grace and beauty of its actions;" and he proceeds to jus-
tify his own mode of looking at the moral sentiments from the anat-
omist's point of view.

i :-

-fl

II I' ME.

[CHAl-.

cuinstancos ami situations. And though we must endeavour
to wiulvr ail our principles as universal as possil)le, Ijy trac-
in<r up our expcrinu'nts t.. tlie utmost, and rxpluinin^' all cf-
ll't'ts iVoni the simplest and I'ewrst causes, 'tis still certain we
cannot go beyond experience; and any liy[)()tliesis that pre-
tends to discover the ultimate original (pialities ofhuman
nature, ought at Hrst to be rejected as presumptuous and
cliimcrical. . . .

• Hut if this impossibility of explaining ultimate priuci-
ples should be esteemed a defect in the science of man, I
will venture to afrirm. that it is a defect common to it with
all the sciences, and all the arts, in which we can employ
ourselves, whether they be such as are cultivated in the
schools of the philosophers, or practised in the shops of the
meanest artisans. None of them can go beyond exiieriencc,
or establish any princijiles which are not founded on that
authority. Moral pliilosophy has, indeed, this peculiar dis-
advantage, which is not fotmd in natural, that in collecting
its experiment.s it cannot make them purposely, with i)re-
meditation,and after such a mannev as to satisfy itself con-
cerning every particular dimculty which may arise. When
I am ut a loss to know the eHeets of one body upon another
in any situation, I n.-ed oidy put them in that situation, and
observe what results from it. Hut should I endeavour to
clear up in the same manner any' doubt in moral philoso-
phy, I>y j.lacing myself in the same case with that which I
consider, 'tis evident this reflection and premeditation would
so disturl) the operation f)f my natural principles, as must
reu.ler it impossible! to form any just conclusion from the
phenomenon. We must, therefore, glean up our experinu'nts
in this science from a cautious observatiem of human life,
and take them as they appear in the common course of the

' The nmnnor in whioh Hiuno eoiistantly refeis to tlio results of
the ol)siTvati.m of the cohtonts and the processes of his own mind
deaily shows that ho has here inadvertently overstated the case.

ih'

■ j THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF I'UJLOSOI'HV. m

world, by mcn-s belmviour in company, in affairs, and in
l.on- pleasures Where experiuu.nts of tins kin.l an> i <
ously collected and con.pared, we n.ay hope to estal.li.s on
tl-m a sconce .Inch will not be inferior in certainty and
w.l be nu.eh superior in utility, to any other of luun 'c-o m
prehension; -(I. pp. 7_n.^ 'man com

All science starts with hypotheses- in other words
with assumptions that arc unproved, while they niav be'
and often are, erroneous ; but which are better than iioth-
in-^- tl.o seeker after order in the maze of phenomena.
And the historical progress of every science depends on
.e criticism of hypothesos-on the ,rrad«al strippino- off,
tluit IS, of their untrue or superHuous parts-until d.ere
romams only that exact verbal expression of as much as
we know of the fact, and no more, which constitutes a
perfect scieutihc theorv.

I'l.ilosophy has followed the same course aa other
»"-anches of scientific investij^ation. The memorable s..,-
Viee rendered to the cause of sound thinking, bv Descartes
consisted in this: that he laid the foundation'of modern
plul.>sopliical criticism by his in-pihy into the nature of
cc'rta.nty. It is a clear result of the invcstitrat.on started
hy Descartes, tliat there is one thin,,, of which no doubt
can -0 entertained, for he who should pretend to doubt it
would thereby prove its existence ; and that is the mo-
nientary consciousness we call a present thoucrht or feel-
•"ir; that IS safe, even if all other kinds of certainty arc
meivly more or less probable inferences. ]Jerkelc; and
Wke, each in his way, applied philosophical criticism in
other directions; but they always, at any rate professed-
y, followed the Cartesian maxim of admiuinij no proposi-
tions to be true but such as are clear, distinct', and evident
oven while their arguments stripped off many a layer of

♦ .';

|{ ' »

i i

flM

HUME.

[CUAP.

; 1,

■■;(

it n:

■! I

■' V

I;'.' I I'

V ^ f ■

hypotlK'tieal assumption which their fp-oafc prodocossor had
l<'ft untouched. No one has more clearly stated the aims
of tiie critical philosopher than Locke, in a passai;(,' of the
famous A\'s<ii/ coDcernhiff Hainan Ifndentandinii, whicli,
perhaps, 1 ou^ht to assume to be well known to all Eui,^-
li^h readers, but which so probably is unknown to this
full-crammed and much-examined y:eneration that 1 vent-
ure to cite it :

'• Ifl>y this in<iuiry into the nature of the understanding I
can discover tiie powers thereof, how liir they reach, to wiiat
tliiiQi;s they are in any <U'gree jjroportionate, and wlicre tiiey
full us. I suppose it may be of use to prevail with the busy
mind of man to be more cautious in meddlini;- witli thini,'s
exceeding its conjprchension : to stop when it is at the ut-
most extent of its tether; and to sit down in quiet ignorance
of those tlnngs whicli, upon examination, are proved to be
ix'vond the reach of our capacities. AVc should not tlieu,
periiaps, he so forward, out of an affectation of universal
Unowleduc to raise (piestions and i)erp]ex ourselves and oth-
ers witli disputes al)out tilings to which our understandings
are not suitetl. and of which we cannot frame in our minds
any clear and distinct ])erception. or wiiereof (as it has, per-
haps, too often happened) wc have not any notion at all. . . .
Men may tiM<l matter sullicieiit to husy their heads and cm-
ploy their hand:! with variety, delight, and satisfaction, if
they will not boldly ijuarrel with tiieir own constitution and
throw away the blessings their hands are filled with l)ecause
they .ire not ])ig enough to grasp everything. We shall not
have much reason to complain of the narrowness of our
minds, if we will imt employ them aliout what may he of use
to us: for of that they are very ra[)al»le; and it will be an
unpardonable, as well as a childish peevislmess, if we uniler-
value the advantages of our knowledge, and neglect to im-
prove it to the ends for which it was given us, l)ecause there
are some things that are set out of the reach of it. It will

it ''

I.J THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF l>i;!i.()SOrHy. C5

1)0 no excijso to an idle juul nntoward servant who would
not attend to his business by candleli-rlit, to i)lead that lie
had not broad sunshine. Tlie candle that is set up in us

shines bright enough for all our i)uri)oscs Our busuiess

here is not to know all things, but those which concern our
conduct." '

Ilunie develops the same fundamental conception in a
soniewliat dilferent way, and with .-i more definite indica-
tion of the practical beneHts wliich may be expected from
n critical philosophy. Tiic first and second parts of the
twelfth section of the Inr/nh-f/ arc devoted to a condem-
nation of excessive scepticism, or Pyrrhonism, with which
Hume couples a caricature of the Cartesian doubt; but, in
tlic third part, a certain "mitio:ated scepticism" is recom-
mended and adopted, under the title of "academical phi-
losophy." After poiiilino- out that a knowlediri^ of the
intirmities of the human understandinj;, even in its mo.st
perfect state, and when most ac(Mirate and cauti.,us in its
determinations, is the best check upon the tendency to
dogmatism, Hume continues :—

"Another species oi mitigated scepticism, which mav l)e of
advantage to mankind, and which may be the natural result
ot the Pvuuno.MAN doubts and scruples, is the limitation of
our mquuus to such subjects as are best adapted to the nar-
row capacity ')f hmnan understanding. The imnf,imti,m of
man is natu.-a!.> s.;,li,ne. delighted with whatever is rcn.ote
and extraor.Iinu: y. and running, without control, int.. the
inost distant parts of space and time in order to avoid the
objects which custom has rendered roo f^uniliar to it A
i^wv^i ji„hmcut (.bscrves u vr^U-.tvy metuo.l, and. avoid!,,-
all distant and high iiuiuiiies, onuses itself co common life^

' Locke, .-J;* Bisaii conm-nituj Humau C,HJmtandinn,Yiookl cliai..
1. JJH.S.O. '^ '

lU'ME.

fcilAl'.

I i

and to such suhjccts as fall tmdcr daily ])ractip(. and cxiKri-
cnce; leaving the more suhlimo topics to the enil.elli^lMuent
ol poets and orators, or to the arts of priests and poh'tieians.
'lo hrin.ir ns to so salntary a (ktennination. notiiin-^ can be
more servieeal.le than to be (mee timro.iiii.lv eonvbice<l of
the io.ee of the PvuunoNrAN doubt, and of the hnp..ssibility
that anythin- but the sticng p„wer of natural instinct could
free us fi„n, i(. Those who have a propensity to philosophy
^Vlll still continue their researches; because thev rellect that
besides the iinmediate pleasure attendin,!-- such an occupa-
tion, philosophical decisions are notl.in.ir |„it the reflections
of co.nnum life, methodised and corrected. Hut they will
never be tempted to n-o beyond common lif.^.so Ion- as they
consider the imperfection of those faculties which they em-
ploy, their n;.in.u- reach, and their inaccurate oi)erations.
^^hlle we cannot give a satisfactory reason why we believe,
niter a thousand expeiinients, that a stone will fall „r fire
burn; can we ever satisly ourselves concerning aiiv deter-
mination which we may form with regard to the origin of
worlds an<l the situation of nature from and to eternitv ^"
—UV. pp. 189-1)0.) "^ '

But further, it is the business of criticism not only to
keep watch over the vagaries of philosophv, but to do" the
duty of police in the whole world of thought. WJicrevcr
it espies sophistry or superstition they are" to be bidden to
stand; nay, tliey are to be followed to their verv .lens and
there apprehended and exterminated, as Ollielio'smothered
Dcsdeuiona, "else she'll betray more men."

Hume warms ii.to ekxpienee as he sets fortli the la-
bours meet for the strength and the courage of the Her-
cules of " mitigated scepticism,"

"Here, indeed, lies thejustest and most plausible objection
against a considerable part of metapliysics, that thev are not
properly a science, but arise either from the fruitless efforts

,,4, ^

|(I!.V1'.

' and cxpori-
niicllisliiuciit
1 i»()litician».
tliiiiLr can I»c!
oiiviiiccd ot"
impossibility
istinct coiikl
) l>liili)S()pIiy
ifllci't tliat,
an occnpa-
o rcfl((ii<iiis
:it liicy will
lonu' as tlicy
c'li tlicy fni-
opcralions.
we liclicvf,
fall or fire
■ any (k'tcr-
e orlLfiu of
• eternity ?"

lot only to
t to do the
Wherever
' b'uldon to
y liens and
sinothcred

rtli the la-
f the Iler-

L" olijcction
ley are not
less efforts

I.J THE OBJECT AND SCOPE OF nilLOSOI'IIY. 57

of I.nnmn vanity, which would penetrate into sul.jects utterly
inaccessible to the und,.rstan.lin- or from the craft of popu-
lar superstitions, which, bcino. i,„able to dcf,.,,,! themselves
on lair -round, raise these entanglino- brambles to cover an.l
protect their weakness. Chased fn.m the open couutrv
these robbers (ly into the forest, and lie in wait to break i^n'
upon every unguarded avenue of the miml ami overu helm
It with reh^anus fears and prejudices. The stoutest auta--
o.Hst,.l he remits hi< wat.h a moment, is oppressed; ami
•»""y. through coNs...:.ice ami folly, open the gates to the
enemies, and willinjrly receive them with reverence and sub-
mission as their legal sovereigns.

" IJut is this a sutKcient reason why philosoplu-rs should
desist Irom such researches and leave superstition still in
possessK.n of her retreat ? Is it not proper to draw an o»-
posit,. conclusion, and perceive the necessity of carrvin- the
war into the most .secret reces.ses of the enemy? . * '^The
only method of freeing learning at once from these aiis'truse
.piestious IS to iiKpiire senously into the nature of human
understanding, and show, from an exact analvsis of its powers
and capacity, that it is by no means tittedVor such remote
and abstruse subjects. We must .submit to this fatigue, in
order to live at case over after; and must cultivate true
metaphysics with some care, in order to destroy the false
and adulterated."— (IV. pp. U), H.)

Near a century and a lialf has elapsed since these hrave
words were shaped by David Hume's pen; and the busi-
ness of carrying the war into the enemy's camp has gone
on but sh)\viy. I.ike other campaigns, it long iaiiguished
for want of a good base of operations, lint since pjiys-
ieal science, in tlie course of the last fifty years, has
brought to the front an inexliaustibl(> supply <»f heavy
artillery of a new pattern, warranted to drive" solid bolts
of fact througii the thickest skulls, things arc h.oking
better; though hardly more than the first faint fiuttering"^

■'■ ''1 #

HUME.

I' !AP.

r ' I'

of the (lawn of the happy day, when -tiporstitioii and laisc
nic'ta[)hy»ifs shall he no more ;iiia roasonahlc lolks jna>
" live at ease," are as yet discernible hy the infants pa his
of tlu' (lUtjtosts.

If, in thus oonccivinj? the object and the limitations of
philosophy, Ilnme shows liimself the spiritual child and
••ontinualor of the work of Locke, ho appears no less
plainly as the parent of Kant and as the prota,<,'onist of
that more modern way of thinking, which lias bn>n called
"aiinosticism," from its profession of an incapacity to
discover the indispensable conditions of either positive
or neo-ative knowledge, in many propositions, respcctinjr
which not only the vulijar, but philosophers of the more
sanguine sort, revel in the luxury of uncjualitied assurance.

The aim of the Kritik tier rvincn Veriumft is •ssentially
the same as that of the Treathc of Human Nat„ri',hy
which, indeed, Kant was led to develop that " critical
philosophy " with which his name and fame arc indissolu-
bly bound up : and, if the details of Kant's critii ism dMTer
from thoso of Hume, they coincide with them in their
main result, which is the linutation of all knowledge of
reality to tli<- world of phenomena revealed to i^s by
experience.

Tli(i philosopher of Konigsberg epitomises the philos-
oph'^r of Ninewells when he thus sums up the uses of
ph)!o;:!ij)hy :

••'Vh" greatest and pcrlinps the sole use of all ])liilosopliy
ot \mv. reason is. after all, merely negative, since it serves,
not as an organon for the enlargement fof knowledge], but
as a discipline (or its dili.nitation ; and instead of discover,
mg truth, has only the modest merit of preventing error.'' •

' Kntik der ranm Vermmft. Ed. Uartenstein, p. 250.

lij

Till COXTENTS W TIIE ML\D.

(>'j

■I

CHAPTER ir.

THE CONTENTH OF THE MIND.

In the laniruiire uf common lif.\ the "mind" is spol«-n
jf as an entity, indopemli nt of tlio bo<ly, tlioii<;lj r ulont
'n and closely connected with it, and endowed uitli nu-
merous "faculties," such as sensihilit), understanding,
memory, volition, which stand in tin Jation to the

mind as the organs do to the body, 'form the func-

tions of feeling, reasoning, ivmembci 1 willing. Of

these functions, some, such as sensat , are supposed to
be merely passive— that is, they ar.' called into existence
by impressions made upon the scn.sitivo faculty by a
material W(.ild of real objects, of which our sensations are
supposed to give us pictures; others, such as tlie memory
and the reasoning faculty, are considered to bo partly pas-
sive and partly active; wlrdo volition is held to bo poten-
tially, if not always actually, a spontanooiis activifv.

Tile popular classification and terminology of the phe-
nomena of consciousness, however, are by no means the
first crude conceptions suggested hy common sense, but
ratluT a legacy, and, in many respects, a sutlicn.ntly (/nm-
nosa /lamflfas, of ancient philosophy, more or less leav-
ened by theology ; which has incorporated itself with the
common thought of lat(>r times, as the vices of the aris-
tocracy or one age become those ..f the mob in the next.

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HUME.

[chap.

F " '■ ^ *■

lfi!l|.

Very little attention to what passes in the mind is suffi-
cient to show that these conceptions involve assumptions
of an extremely hypothetical character. And the first
business of the student of psychology is to get rid of such
prepossessions ; to form conceptions of mental phenome-
na as they are given us by observation, without any hypo-
thetical admixture, or with only so much as is definitely
recognised and held subject to confirmation or otherwise ;
to classify these phenomena according to their clearly
recognisable eliaractors; and to adopt a nomenclature
which suom'sts notiiing beyond the results of observation.
Thus chastened, observation of the mind makes us ac-
quainted with nothing but certain events, facts, or phe-
nomena (whichever name be preferred) which pass over
the inward field of view in r-ipid and, as it may appear on
careless inspection, in disorderly succession, like the shift-
ing patterns of a kaleidoscope. To all these mental phe-
nomena, or states of our consciousness,' Descartes gave
the name of " thoughts,"" wliile Locke and Berkeley
termed them " ideas," Hume, regarding this as an improp-
er use of the word " idea," for which he proposes another
employment, gives the general name of "perceptions" to
all states of consciousness. Thus, whatever other signifi-

' " Conseiousnessos " woiilil be a better name, but is awkward. I
have elsewhere proposed jysychoscs as a substantive name for mental
phenomena.

' As this has been denied, it may be as well to give Descartes's
v/ords: "Par Ic mot de penser, j'eiitends tout ee que se fait dans
nous de telle sorte que nous I'aperecvons immediatemcnt "^ar nous-
memcs : c'cst pourquoi non seulcmcnt entendre, vouloir, imaginer,
mais aussi sentir, c'est le memo chose ici que penser." — Frinapcs de
Fhifosophie. Ed. Cousin. 57.

" Toutes les proprietcs que nous trouvons en la chose qui pense
ne sont quo des fa9ons difforcntes do penser."— /iff/. 96.

[chap.

:i.]

THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND.

cation wc may see reason to attacli to tlie word "mind,''
it is certain that it is a naine which is employed to denote
a series of perceptions; just as the word "tunc," v.liat-
ever else it may mean, denotes, in tlic first place, a succes-
sion of musica! notes. Iluine, indeed, goes further than
others when he says that —

" Wliat wo call a mind is nothing but a heap or collection
of different perceptions, united together by certain relations,
and supposed, though falsely, to l)c endowed with a perfect
simplicity and identity." — (I. p. 268.)

Witli this " nothing but," however, he obviously falls into
the primal and perennial error of philosophical specula-
tors — dogmatising from negative arguments. He may be
right or wrong ; but the most he, or anybody else, can
prove in favour of his conclusion is, that we know nothing
more of the mind than that it is a series of perceptions.
Whether there is something in the mind that lies beyond
the reach of observation ; or whether perceptions them-
selves arc the products of something which can be ob-
served and which is not mind; are questions whicli can
in nowise be settled by direct observation. Elsewhere,
the objectionable hypothetical element of the definition
of mind is less prominent: —

" The true idea of the human mind is to consider it as a
system of different percei)tions, or different existences, which
are linked together by the relation of cause and effect, and
mutually produce, destroy, influence, and modify each other.
... In this respect I cannot compare the soul more properly
to anything than a republic or commonwealth, in whicli the
several members are united by the reciprocal ties of govern-
ment and subordination, and give rise to other persons who
propagate the same republic in the incessant changes of its
parts."— (I. p. 331.)

. ( I

UUME.

[CUAP.

^^1

\ V' ^

But, leaving the question of the proper definition of
mind open fc- tlic present, it is further a matter of di-
rect, observation that, when wo take a general survey of
all our perceptions or states of consciousness, they natu-
rally fall into sundry groups or classes. Of these classer,
two arc distinguished by Hume as of primary importance.
All "perceptions," he says, arc either ^^ Impressions'^ or

"/(/ms." ,. ,

Under "hnpressions" he includes " all our more lively

perceptions, Avhen ^^o hear, sec, feel, love, or will ;" in oth-
er words, " all our sensations, passions, and^ emotions, as
they make their first appearance in the soul.' —(I. p. 15.)
" Ideas," on the other hand, are the faint images of
impressions in thinking and reasoning, o" of antecedent

i(lo*is

Both impressions and ideas may be oither simple, when
they are incapable of further analysis, or eomplex, when
they may be resolved into simpler constituents. All sim-
ple ideas arc exact copies of i)npressions ; but, in complex
ideas, the arrangement of simple constituents may be dif-
ferent from that of the impressions of which those simple
ideas are copies.

Thus the colours red and blue and the odour of a rose
arc .'dimple impressions; while the ideas of blue, of red,
and of rose-odour are simple copies of these impressions.
But a red rose gives us a complex impression, capable
of resolution into the simple impressions of red colour,
rose-scent, and numerous others; and we may have a com-
plex idea, which is an accurate, though i copy of this
complex impression. Once in possession of the ideas
of a red rose and of the colour blue, wc K.ay, in imagi-
nation, substitute blue for red; and thus obtain a com-
plex idea of a blue rose, wh'ch is not an actual copy of

u.j

THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND.

Hij

mi v\

sions or

any complex impression, though all its elements are such
copies.

Ilumc lias been criticised for makincf the distinction
of impressions and ideas to depend upon their relative
htrengtii or vivacity. Yet it would be hard to point out
nny other character by which the things signified can be
distinguished. Any one who has paid attention to the
curious subject of what are called "subjective sensations"
will be familiar with, examples of the extreme difficulty
which sometimes attends the discrimination of ideas of
sensation from impressions of sensation, when the ideas
are veiy vivid or tlic impressions arc faint. Who lias not
" fancied " he heard a noise ; or has not explained inatten-
tion to a real sound by saying, " I thought it was nothing
but my fancy?" Even healthy persons are much more
liable to botli visual and auditory spectra— that is, ideas
of vision ;ind sound so vivid that they are taken for new
impressions — than is commonly suppos-d; and, in some
diseased states, ideas of sensible objects m.:y assume all
the vividness of reality.

If ideas are nothing but copies of impressions, arranged,
either in the same order as that of the impressions from
which they arc derived, or in a different order, it follows
that the ultimate analysis of the contents of the mind
turns upon that of the im])re.<sions. According to Hume,
these are of two kinds: either they are imj)re.ssi<)iis of sen-
sation, or they are i;,ipressions of retlcction. The former
are those aff ''-acd by the five senses, together with pleas-
ure and pain. The latter arc the passions or the emotions
(which Hume employs as equivalent terms). Thus the
elementary states of consciousness, the raw materials of
knowledge, so to speak, arc either sensations or emotions ;
and whatever we discover in the mind, beyond these cle

ti4

HUME.

[CIIAT

! ,'■ k

mcntary states of consciousness, results from the combina-
tions and the metamorphoses wliich they undergo.

It IS not a little strange that a thinker of Hume's capac-
ity should have been satisfied with the results of a ])sy-
choiogical analysis which regards some obvious com])ounds
as elements, while it omits altogether a most important
class of elementary states.

With respect to the former point, Spinoza's masterly
examination of the Passions in the third part of the
Uthics should have been known to Hume.' But, if he
had been accpiainted witli that wonderful piece of psy-
chological anatomy, he would have learned that the emo-
tions and passions are all complex states, arising from the
clo;>e association of ideas of pleasure or pain with other
ideas ; and, indeed, without going to Spinoza, his own
acute discussion of the passions leads to tlie same result,^
and is wholly inconsistent with his classification of those
mental states among the primary uncompounded materials
of consciousness.

' On tho whole, it is ploasant to find satisfactory evidence tliat
Iliurio knew uothiiifi of the works of Spino/.a ; for die invariably
abusive manner in which he refers to that tyj)e of the philosophic
hero is only to be excused, if it is to be excused, by sheer ignorance
of his life and work.

'M'o: example, in discussing piide and humility, Hume says:—
" According as our idea of ourselves is more or less advantageous,
we feel either of these opposite affections, and are elated by pride
or dejected with humility; . . . when self eiUers not into the con-
sideration there is no room either for pride or luniiility." That is,
pride is pleasure, and humility is pain, associated with certain con-
ceptions of one's self; or, as Spinoza puts it :— " Superbia est do
se pnc amore sui plus justo scntire" ("amor" being " hrtitia con-
comitante idea -ansa) externa^"); and " Ilumilitas est tristitia orta
ex eo quod homo suam iinpotentiam sive imbecillitatem contem-
|)latur '*

ill

[CIIAI'

combiuji-

le's Ciipac-
iti a psy-
iinpouiuls
imporUuit

inastorly
rt of the
But, if lie
e of psy-

tlie emo-
■ from the
vith other
, his own
nc result,'^
1 of those
1 materials

i'idcnco that

invariably

1 philosophic
er ignorance

nne says ; —
Ivantagcous,
ted hy pride
into the con-
■." That, is,
certain con-
orl)ia est do
" liftitia con-
tristitia orta
tein contonv

1,.]

THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND.

If "Hume's "impressions of reflection" arc excluded
from amonjf the primary elements of consciousness, noth-
ing is left but the impressions afiordcd by the live senses,
with pleasure and pain. Putting aside the nmscular sense,
which had not come into view in Hume's time, the ques-
tions arise whether these are all the simple undecomposa-
ble materials of thought ? or whether others exist of which
Hume takes no cognizance.

Kant answered the latter question in the affirmative, in
the Krltik dcr reinen Vernunft, and thereby nuidc one of
the greatest advances ever effected In philosophy; thon^'i
it nuist be confessed that the German philosopher's expo-
sition of his views is so perplexed in style, so burdened
with the weight of a cumbrous and uncouth scholasticism,
that it is easy to confound the unessential parts of his sys-
tem with those which arc of profound importance. His
baffo'ai'-e train is bigger than his army, and the student
who attacks him is too often led to suspect he has won
a position when he has only captured a mob of useless
camp-followers.

In his Principles of Psychology, ]\Ir. Herbert Spencer
appears to me to have brought out the essential truth
wdiich underlies Kant's doctrine in a far clearer manner
than any one else; but, for the purpose of the present
summary view of Hume's philosophy, it must suffice if I
state the matter in my own way, giving the broad out-
lines, without entering into the details of a large and diffi-
cult discussion.

When a red light flashes across the field of vision, there

arises in the mind an " impression of sensation " — which

we call red. It appears to mo that this sensation, red, is a

Romet'.iing which may exist altogether independently of

any other impression, or idea, as an individual existence.
30

t^ii,

■y-'f

■i

HUME.

[chap,

It is perfectly conceivable that a sentient being should
have no sense but vision, and that he should have spent
his existence in absolute darkness, with the exception of
one solitary flash of red light. That momentary illumina-
tion would sutlicc to give him the impressioi: under con-
sideration ; and the whole content of his consciousness
might be that impression ; and, if he were endowed with
memory, its idea.

Such being the state of affairs, suppose a second flash of
red light to follow the first. If there were no memory of
the latter, the state of the mind on the second occasion
would simply be a repetition of that which occurred be-
fore. There would be merely another impression.

But suppose memory to exist, and that an idea of the
first impression is generated ; then, if the supposed sen-
tient being were like ourselves, there might arise in liis
mind two altogether new impressions. The one is the
fcelinf of the sncccssioii of the two impressions, the other
is the feeling of their similarity.

Yet a third case is conceivable. Suppose two flashes
of red light to occur together, then a third feeling might
arise which is neither succession nor simiLu'ity, but that
which we call co-existence.

These feelings, or their contraries, are the foundation
of everything that we call a relation. They are no more
capable of being described than sensations are ; and, as
it appears to me, they are as little susceptible of analysis
into simpler elements. Like simple tastes and smells, or
feelings of pleasure and pain, they are ultimate irresolv-
able facts of conscious experience ; and, if we follow the
principle of Hume's nomenclature, they must be called
impressions of relation. But it must be remembered that
they differ from the other impressions, in requiring the

[chap.

12 should
ave spent
leption of
illuiuina-
udcr con-
sciousness
»wcd with

id flash of
icmory of
I occasion
currcd be-
II.

lea of the
Dosed sen-
•iso in his
)iio is the
the other

wo flashes
ing might
•, but that

foundation
c no more
c ; and, as
of analysis

smells, or
te irresolv-
follow the

be called
ibcrod that
|uiring the

II.]

THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND.

pre-cxistcnce of at least two of the latter. Though devoid
of the slightest resemblance to the other impressions, they
arc, in a manner, generated by tliein. In fact, we may re-
gard them as a kind of impressions of impressions ; or as
the sensations of an inner sense, which takes cognizance
of the materials furnisliod to it by the outer senses.

Hume failed as coin[)lctely as his predecessors had dune
to recognize the elementary character of impressions of
relation ; and, when he discusses relations, he falls into a
chaos of confusion and self-contradiction.

In the Treatise, for example (Book I., § iv.), resem-
blance, contiguity in time and space, and cause and effect,
are said to be the " uniting principles among ideas," " the
bond of union " or "associating quality by which one idea
naturally introduces another." Iluine aftirms that —

" These qualities produce an association among ideas, and
njion the appearance of one idea naturally introduce anoth-
er," They are " the principles of union or cohcsiou among
our simple ideas, and, in the imagination, supply the place of
that inseparable connection by which they are united in our
memory. Here is a kind of attraction, which, in the mental
world, will be found to have as extraordinary effects as in
the natural, and to show itself in as many and as various
forms. Its eft'ects are everywhere conspicuous ; but as to its
causes tliey are mostly unknown, and must be resolved into
original qualities of human nature, which I pretend not to
explain."— (I. p. 29.)

And at the end of this section Hume goes on to say —

" Amongst the effects of this union or association of ideas,
there are none more remarkable than those complex i ; '^
which are the common subjects of our thought and reasor.
ing, and generally arise from some principle of union among
4

i--

HUME.

[(•IIAP.

our simple ideas. These complex ideas may be resolved into
rclatloitu, modes, and sulstanccti.'" — {Ibid.)

I ;

r li

In the next section, which is devoted to Relations, they
are spoken of us qualities "by which two ideas arc connect-
ed toirether in the imagination," or " which make objects
admit of comparison," and seven kinds of relation are
enumerated, namely, resemblance, ideutily, space and time,
quantitif or number, degrees of quality, contrariety, and
cause and effect.

To the reader of Hume, whose conceptions are usually
so clear, definite, and consistent, it is as unsatisfactory as
it is surprising to meet with so much questionable and ob-
scuro phraseology in a small space. One and the same
thing, for example, resemblance, is first called a " quality
of an idea," and secondly, a *' complex idea," Surely it
cannot be both. Ideas which have the qualities of "re-
semblance, contiguity, and cause and effect," are said to
"attract one another" (save the mark!), and so become
associated ; though, in a subsequent part of the Treatise,
Hume's great effort is to prove that the relation of cause
and effect is a particular case of the process of association ;
tliat is to say, is a result of the process of which it is sup-
posed to be the cause. Moreover, since, as Hume is never
weary of reminding his readers, there is nothing in ideas
save copies of impressions, the qualities of resemblance,
contiguity, and so on, in the idea, must have existed in
the impression of which that idea is a copy; and therefore
they nuist bo cither sensations or emotions — from both of
which classes they are excluded.

In fact, in one place, Hume himself has an insight into
the real nature of relations. Speaking of equality, in the
sense of a relation of quantity, he says —

[CIUP.

solved into

it ions, they
re conncct-
ike objects
L'lation are
; aiul time,
arietif, and

are usually
sfactory as
ble and ob-
1 the same
a " quality
Surely it
ics of "re-
are said to
so become
ic Treatise,
m of cause
issociation ;
li it is sup-
ue is never
ig in ideas
iscmblance,
existed in
d therefore
)m both of

nsight into
lity, in tlic

THE CONTEXTS OF THE MIND.

" Since equality is n relation, it is not, strictly st^"aking, a
property in the figures themselves, but arises merely iVoiu the
comparison which the mind makes between them." — (I. p. 70,)

That is to say, when two impressions of equal figures
arc present, there arises in the mind a tcrtiiun quid, which
is the perception of equality. On his own principles,
Hume should therefore have placed tliis " perception "
among the ideas of reflection. However, as wc have seen,
he expressly excludes everything but the emotions and the
passions from this group.

It is necessary, therefore, to amend Hume's primary
"geography of the mind" by the excision of one terri-
tory and the addition of another; and the elementary
states of consciousness will stand thus : —

A. Impressions.

A. Sensations of

a. Smell.

b. Taste.

c. Hearing.

d. Sight.
€. Touch.

/. Resistance (the muscular sense).

B. Pleasure and Pain.
c. Relations.

a. Co-existence.

h. Succession.

c. Similarity and dissimilarity.

B. Ideas.

Copies, or reproductions in memory, of the foregoing.

And now the question arises, whether any, and if so,
what, portion of these contents of the mind are to be
termed " knowledge."

■I.

I i

HUME.

[niAP.

\il ^

!•:• y

According; to Locke, *' Kiiowlodgo is the perception of
the nurecment or disai^reeiiient of two ideas;" and J I nine,
tlioui,di lie does not say so in so many worUs, tacitly ac-
cepts tlio ilt'finition. It fuliuws that neither siiii[>le sen-
sation, nor simple emotion, constitutes knowledge; but
that, when impressions of relation are added to these im-
pressions, or their ideas, knowleduje arises; and that all
knowledi^e is the knowledge of likenesses and uulikc-
nesses, eo-existences and successions.

It really matters very little in what sense terms arc
used, so long as the same meaning is always rigidly at-
tached to them; and, therefore, it is hardly worth while to
quarrel with this generally accepted, though very arbitrary,
limitation of the signification of " knowledge." But, on
the face of the matter, it is not obvious why the impres-
sion we call a relation should have a better claim to tho
title of knowledge than that which we call a sensation or
an emotion ; and the restriction has this unfortunate re-
sult, that it excludes all the most intense states of con-
sciousness from any claim to the title of " knowledge."

For example, on this view, pain, so violent and absorb-
ing as to exclude all other forms of consciousness, is not
knowledge ; but becomes a part of knowledge the mo-
ment we think of it in relation to another pain, or to
some other mental phenomenon. Surely this is somewhat
inconvenient, for there is only a verbal difference between
having a sensation and knowing one lias it : they arc sim-
ply two phrases for the same mental state.

But tho " pure metaphysicians " make great capital out
of the ambiguity. For, starting with the assumption that
all knowledge is the perception of relations, and finding
themselves, like mere common-sense folks, very much dis-
posed to call sensation knowledge, they at once gratify

[ciup.

roptioH of
tnd II nine,

tacitly ac-
iiiilik' scn-
jdn'c; but

tliosc iin-
(I thiit all
11(1 unlike-

II.]

THE CONTENTS OF THE MIND.

that disposition and save tlioir consistency, by declaring
that even the .simplest act of sensation contains two terms
and a relation — the sensitive subject, the sonsigenous ob-
ject, and tiiat mastcrfid entity, the Itlijo. From which
i^rcat triad, as from a gnostic Trinity, emanates an end-
less procession of other logical shadows and all tiie Fata
Morf/ana of philosophical dreamland.

terms arc
rigidly at-
h while to
arbitiarv,
' But, on
he imprcs-
hn to the
nsation or
ilunatc ro-
cs of con-
ledge."
id absorb-
ess, is not
i the mo-
laiii, or to
somewhat
c between
y are sim-

apital out
ption that
id finding
much dis-
co gratify

( i

11 . (-,
Jf

f'' iiS

1
1

)

■ I

HUME.

[chap.

1 ^. 1 ■

' . k

CILVPTER III

ORIGIX OF THE IMPRESSIONS.

Admitting that the sensations, the feelings of pleasure
and pain, and those of relation, are the primary irresolva-
ble states of consciousness, two further lines of investiga-
tion present themselves. The one leads us to seek the
origin of these " impressions ;" the other, to inquire into
the nature of the steps by which they become metamor-
phosed into those compound states of consciousness which
so largely enter into our ordinary trains of thought.

With respect to the origin of impressions of sensation,
Hume is not quite consistent with himself. In one place
(I. p. 117) he says that it is impossible to decide "wheth-
er they arise immediately from the object, or are produced
by the creative power of the mind, or are derived from
the Author of our being," thereby implying that realism
and idealism are equally probable hypotheses. But, in
fact, after the demonstration by Descartes, that the im-
mediate antecedents of sensations are changes in the ner-
vous system, with which our feelings have no sort of re-
semV'lance, the hypothesis that sensations "arise innnedi-
atcly from the object" was out of court; and that Ilumo
fully admitted the Cartesian doctrine is apparent when he
says (I. p. 272) :—

[CIIAP.

III.]

ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIOXS.

" All our perceptions are dependent on our organs and the
disposition of our nerves and animal spirits.'"

And attain, tliougli in relation to anotlier question, he ob-
serves : —

pleasure
irrcsolva-
invcstiga-
seek the
piiro into
nictamor-
3SS whicli
lit.

sensation,

3ne place

"wlieth-

[)roduced

ed from

t realism

But, in

the im-

thc ncr-

rt of rc-

iinmcdi-

it llumc

when he

"There are three different kinds of impressions conveyed
by the senses. The first are those of the figure, bulk, motion,
and solidity of bodies. The second those of colours, tastes,
smells, sounds, heat, and cold. The third are the pains and
pleasures that arise from the application of objects to our
bodies, as by the cutting of our flesh •with steel and such
like. Both philosophers and the vulgar suppose the first of
these to have a distinct continued existence. The vulgar
only regard the second as on the same footing. Both phi-
losophers and the vulgar again esteem the third to be mere-
ly perceptions, and consequently interrupted and dependent
beings.

" Now 'tis evident that, whatever may be our philosoph-
ical opinion, colour, sounds, heat, and cold, as far as appears
to the senses, exist after the same manner with motion and
solidity; and that the difference we ike between them, in
this resjiect, arises not from the mere perception. So strong
is the prejudice for the distinct continued existence of the
former qualities, that when the contrary opinion is advanced
by modern i)hilosophers, people imagine they can almost re-
fute it from their reason and experience, and that their vei7
senses contradict this philosophy, 'Tis also evident that
colours, sounds, «fcc., are originally on the same footing with
the pain that arises from steel, and pleasure that proceeds
from a fire; and that the difference betwixt them is founded
neither on perception nor reason, but on the imagination.
For as they are confessed to be, both of them, nothing but
perceptions arising from the particular configurations and
motions of the parts of body, wherein possibly can their dif-
ference consist? Upon the whole, then, we may coucludo

•'I

I \

'H,

: ;■ §

HUME.

[chap.

that, as far as the senses are judges, all perceptions are the
same in the manner of their existence."— (I. p. 250, 251.)

The last words of this passage arc as much Berkeley's
as Hume's. But, instead of following Berkeley in his de-
ductions from the position thus laid down, Hume, as the
preceding citation shows, fully adopted the conclusion to
which all that we know of psychological physiology tends,
that the origin of the elements of consciousness, no less
than that of all its other states, is to be sought in bodily
changes, the seat of which can only be placed in the brain.
And, as Locke had already done with loss effect, he states
and refutes the arguments commonly brought against the
possibyity of a casual connexion between the modes of
motion of the cerebral substance and states of conscious-
ness, with great clearness : —

" From tliese hypotheses concerning the mUtance and local
conjunction of our perceptions we may pass to another, which
is more intelligible than the former, and more important
than the latter, viz., concerning the cause of our perceptions.
Matter and motion, 'tis commonly said in the schools, how-
ever varied, are still matter and motion, and produce only a
difference in the position and situation of objects. Divide
a body as often as you please, 'tis still body. Place it in
any figure, nothing ever results but figure, or the relation of
parts. i\rove it in any manner, you still find motion or a
change of relation. 'Tis absurd to imagine that motion in
a circle, for instance, should be nothing l)ut merely motion
in a circle-, while motion in another direction, as in an el-
lipse, should also be a passion or moral reflection; tluit the
shocking of two globular particles should become a sensa-
tion of pain, and that the meeting of the triangular ones
should afford a ])leasurj. Now as these difi"erent shocks and
variations and mixtures are the only changes of which mat-

[chap.

tions are the
150, 351.)

li Berkeley's
cy in his de-
luiue, as the
lonchision to
iology tends,
iiicss, no less
<'ht in bodily
in the brain,
ect, he states
t against the
ic modes of
of conscious-

tance and local
uothcr, which
M'c important
r perceptions,
schools, how-
roduce only a
ccts. Divide
. Place it in
he relation of
I motion or a
hat motion in
merely motion
II, as in an el-
tion; that the
come a sensa-
iangular ones
■nt shocks and
of which mat'

III.]

ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS.

ter is susceptible, and as these never aflFord us any idea of
thought or perception, 'tis concluded to be impossible that
thought can ever be caused by matter.

"Few have been able to withstand the seeming evidence
of this argument; an'"' t nothing in the world is more easy
•than to refute it. VV ccd only reflect upon what has been
proved at large, that we are never sensible of any connexion
between causes and effects, and that 'tis only by our expe-
rience of their constant conjunction we can arrive at any
knowledge of this relation. Now, as all objects which are
not contrary are susceptible of a constant conjunction, and as
no real objects are contrary, I have inferred from these prin-
ciples (Part III. § 15) tliat, to consider the matter a priori,
anything may produce anything, and that we shall never dis-
cover a reason why any object may or may not be the cause
of any other, however great, or however little, the resem-
blance may be betwixt them. This evidently destroys the
precedent reasoning concerning the cause of thought or per-
ception. For though there appear no manner of connection
betwixt motion and thought, the case is the same with all
other causes and effects. Place one body of a pound weight
on one end of a lever, and another body of the same weight
on the other end ; you will never find in these bodies an^
principle of motion dependent on their distance from the
centre, more than of thought and perception. If you pre-
tend, therefore, to prove, n priori, that such a position of bod-
ies can never cause thought, because, turn it which way you
will, it is nothing but a position of bodies : you must, by the
same course of reasoning, conclude that it can never produce
motion, since there is no more apparent connection in the one
than in the other. But, as this latter conclusion is contrary
to evident experience, and as 'tis jjossiblc we may have a like
experience in the operations of the mind, and may perceive
a constant conjunction of thought and motion, you reason
too hastily when, from the mere consideration of the ideas,
you conclude that 'tis impossibie motion can ever proauce
P 4*

UUME.

[chap.

-'''}•

i' It

i ■ i

thought, or ii different ijosition of parts give rise to a differ-
ent passion or reflection. Nay, 'tis not only possible we may
have such an experience, but 'tis certain we have it ; since
every one may perceive tliat the different dispositions of his
body change his thoughts and sentiments. And should it
lie said that this depends on the union of soul and body, I"
would answer, that we must separate the question concern-
ing the substance of the mind from that concerning the
cause of its thought; and that, confining ourselves tl the
latter question, we find, by the comparing their ideas, that
thouglit and motion are different from each other, and by
experience, that they are constantly united ; which, being all
the circumstances that enter into the idea of cause and ef-
fect, when api)lied to the operations of matter, we may cer-
tainly conclude that motion may be, and actually is, the
cause of thought and perception."— (I. pp. 314_31g.)

The upsliot of all this is, that tlie " collection of per-
ceptions;' whicli constitutes the mind, is really a system
of effects, the causes of wliich are to be sought in aiitoce-
dent changes of tlie matter of the brain, just as the " col-
lection of motions," wliich we call flying, is a system of
effects, the causes of which are to be sought in the modes
of motion of the matter of the muscles of the wings.
^ Hume, however, treats of this important topic only in-
cidentally. He seems to have had very little acquaintance
even with such physiology as was current in his time. At
least, the only passage of his works bearing on this sub-
ject, with which I am acquainted, contains nothing but a
very odd version of the physiological views of Descartes : —

"When I received the relations oi rescmlhncc. contiguity
ann carnation^ as principles of union among ideas, without
examining into their causes, 'twas more in prosecution of my
lirst maxim, that we must in the end rest conten^od with

j.i • \ I

[chap.

3 to a dificr-
iil)lc we may
ive it ; since
iitions of his
ul sliould it
and body, I
on conccrn-
ccrning- the
.'Ives to tlie
■ ideas, that
her, and by
3h, being all
I use and ef-
ve may aer-
ially is, the
JIG.)

ion of per-
y a system
t in antoce-
s the "col-
i system of

the modes
nngs.

ic only in-
(]uaintance

time. At
1 this siib-
lilno; but a
'scartes : —

contiijuity,
IS, without
ition of my
ni'.od with

m.J

ORIGIN OF THE DirRESSIONS.

experience, than for want of something specious and plausi-
ble which I might have displayed on that subject. 'Twould
have bf-en easy to have made an imaginary dissection of the
brain, and have shown why, upon our conception of any idea,
the animal spirits run into all the contiguous traces and rouse
up tlie other ideas that are related to it. But though I have
neglected any advantage which I might have drawn from
this topic in explaining the relations of ideas, I am afraid I
must here have recourse to it, in order to account for the
mistakes that arise from these relations. I shall therefore
observe, that as the mind is endowed with the power of ex-
citing any idea it pleases; whenever it despatches the spir-
its into that region of the brain in which the idea is placed;
these spirits always excite the idea, when they run precisely
into the proper *^races and rummage that cell which belon<i-s
to the idea. But as their motion is seldom direct, and natu-
rally turns a little to the one side or to the otlier; for this
reason the animal spirits, falling into the contiguous traces,
present other related ideas, in lieu of that which the mind
desired at first to survey. Tills change we are not always
sensible of; but continuing still the same train of thought,
make use of the related idea wliich is presented to us antl
employ it in our reasonings, as if it were the same with what
we demanded. This is the cause of many mistakes and soph-
isms in philosophy, as will naturally be imagined, and as it
would be easy to show, if there was occasion."— (I. p. 88.)

Perhaps it is as well for Hume's fame that the occasiorn
for further physiological speculations of this sort did not
arise. But, while admitting the crudity of his notions
and the strangeness of the language in which tlioy are
couched, it must in justice be remembered, that what arc
now known as the elements of the pliysiology of the ner-
vous system were hardly dreamed of in tlie first half of
the eighteenth century ; and, as a further set-off to Hume's
credit, it must be noted that he grasped the fundamental

HUME.

[chap.

I >; »i

f- 1

ir.

( ' !

truth, that the key to the comprehension of mental oper-
ations lies in the study of the molecular changes of the
nervous ai)paratus by which they are originated.

Surely no one who is cognisant of the facts of the case.,
nowadays, doubts that the roots of psychology lie in the
physiology of the nervous system. What we call the op-
erations of the mind arc. functions of the brain, and tlic
materials of consciousness are products of cerebral activi-
ty. Cabanis may have made use of crude and misleading
phraseology when he said that the brain secretes thought
as the liver secretes bile; but the conception which that
much -abused phrase embodies is, nevertheless, far more
consistent with fact than the popular notion that the
mind is a metaphysical entity seated in the head, but as
independent of the brain as a telegraph operator is of his
instrument.

It is hardly necessary to point out that the doctrine
just laid down is what is commonly caller^ iuaterialisni.
In fact, I am not sure that the adjective " crass," which
appears to have a special charm for rhetorical sciolists,
would not be applied to it. But it is, nevertheless, true
that the doctrine contains nothing inconsistent with the
purest idealism. For, as Hume remarks (as indeed Des-
cartes had observed long before) : —

'"Tis not our body we perceive when we regard our limbs
and members, but certain impressions wliich enter by the
senses ; so that the ascribing a real and corporeal existence
to these impressions, or to their objects, is an act of tlie mind
as difficult to explain as that [the external existence of ob-
jects] wliich we '^xamine at present."— (I. p. 249.)

Therefore, if wo analyse the proposition that all mental
phenomena are the effects or products of material phe-

[chap.

mental opcr-
langes of the
ed.

s of tlie case,,
)gy lie in the
e call tlie op-
)i'ain, and the
.H'ebml activi-
id niislcadino'
rctcs thono-lit
n wliich tliat
ess, far more
ion tliat tlio

head, bnt ab-
ator is of his

the doctrine
material ism.
n-ass," wliich
ical sciolists,
rthcless, true
cnt witli the
indeed Dcs-

ird our limbs
enter by the
"cal existence
: of the mind
stence of ob-

it all mental
laterial phc-

in.]

ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS.

nomena, all that it means amounts to this ; that whenever
those states of consciousness which we call sensation, or
emotion, or thought, come into existence, complete investi-
gation will show good reason for the belief that they are
preceded by those other phenomena of consciousness to
which wc give the names of matter and motion. All ma-
terial changes appear, in the long run, to be modes of mo-
tion ; but our knowledge of motion is nothitig but that of
a change in tlie place and order of our sensations ; just as
our knowledge of matter is restricted to those feelings of
which we assume it to be the cause.

It lias already been pointed out that Hume must have
admitted, and in fact does aduiit, the possibility that the
mind is a Leibnitzian monad, or a Fichtean world-gener-
ating Ego, the universe of things being merely the pict-
ure produced by the evolution of the phenomena of con-
sciousness. For any demonstration that can be given to
the contrary effect, the " collection of perceptions " which
makes up our consciousness may be an orderly phantas-
magoria generated by the Ego, unfolding its 'successive
scenes on the background of the abyss of nothingness ; as
a firework, which is but cunningly arranged combustibles,
grows from a spark into a coruscation, and from a corus-
cation into figures, and words, and cascades of devouring
fire, and then vanisl'.es into the darkness of the night.

On the other hand, it must no loss readily be allowed
that, for anything that can be proved to the contrary,
there may be a real something which is the cause of all
our impressions; that sensations, though not likenesses,
arc symbols of that sometliing ; and that the part of that
something, which wo call tlie nervous system, is an appa-
ratus for supplying us with a sort of algebra of fact, based
on those symbols. A brain may be the machinery by

/ 1 '

I .^i

IIUxME.

[CUAP.

which the material uiiivorsc becomes conscious of itself.
But it is important to notice that, even if this conception
of the universe and of the relation of consciousness to its
other C()mi)onents should be true, we should, nevertheless,
be still bound by the limits of thought, still unable to refute
the arguments of pure idealism. The more completely the
materialistic position is admitted, the easier it is to show
that the idealistic i)ositiun is unassailable, if the idealist
contines himself within the limits of positive knowledge.

llumo deals with the questions whether all our ideas
are derived from experience, or whether, on the contrary,
more or fewer of them are innate, which so much exer-
cised the mind of Locke, after a somewhat summary fash-
ion, in a note to the second section of the Inquiry : —

" It is probable that no more was meant by those who de-
nied innate ideas, than that all ideas were copies of our im-
pressions; thougli it must be confessetl that the terms wliich
they employed were not chosen with sucli caution, nor so ex-
actly detlned, as to prevent all mistakes about their doctrine.
For what 's meant by innate? If innate be ecpuvaient to
natural, tlien all the percei)tions and ideas of the mind must
be allowed to be innate or natural, in whatever sense we take
the latter word, whether in opposition to what is uncommon,
artificial, or miraculous. If by innate be meant contempo-
rary with our Jjirth, the dispute seems to be frivolous; nor
is it worth while to inquire at Avhat time thinking begins,
whether before, at, or after our birth. Again, the word idea
seems to be commonly taken in a very loose sense by Locke
and otiicrs, as standing for any of our perceptions, our sensa-
tions and passions, as well as thoughts. Now in this sense I
should desire to know what can be meant by asserting that
self-love, or resentment of injuries, or the passion between the
sexes is not innate ?

i ,

[CUAP.

JUS of itself.
s coiicoj)tiun
usnoss to its
nevortlielcss,
iblc to refute
iiipletely the
t is to show
tlie idealist
cnowledge.

ill our ideas
he Contrary,
much oxer-
niniary fash-
uu-i/: —

I lose who de-
PS of our iiu-
tcrins which
m, nor so cx-
leir doctrine,
iquivalcnt to
e mind must
ensc we take
■i uncommon,
it contempo-
ivolous; nor
king begins,
le word idea
ise by Locke
IS, our schsa-
1 tliis sense I
sscrting that
between the

n..]

ORIGIN OF THE IMPRESSIONS.

" But admitting tliesc terms, impressions and ideas, in the
sense ' .>ve explained, and understanding by ituuife wiiat
is orig :.;i(. or coi)ied from no precedent i)erception, then we
may assert tluit all our impressions are innate, and our ideas
not innate.''

It would seem that llumc did not think it worth while
to acquire a comi)rehension of the real points at issue in
the controversy which lio thus carelessly dismisses.

Yet Descartes has defined what he means by innate
ideas with so much precision, that misconception ought to
have been impossible, lie says that, when he speaks of
an idea being " innate," he means that it exists potentiallv
in the mind, before it is actually called into existence by
whatever is its ap[)ropriate exciting cause.

"I have never either thought or said," lie writes, "tluit
the mind has any need of innate ideas [idecs naturclles]
wliich are anything distinct from its faculty of thinking.
But it is true that observing that there are certain tlioughts
which arise neither from external objects nor from the deter-
mination of my will, but only from my faculty of thinking ;
in order to mark the dilfereuce between tlie ideas or the
notions which are the forms of tliese thoughts, and to dis-
tinguish them from the others, which may be called extra-
neous or voluntary, I have called them innate. But I liave
used this term in the same sense as when we say that gener-
osity is innate in certain families ; or that certain maladies,
such as gout or gravel, are innate in others; not that chil-
dren born in these families are troubled with such diseases
in their mother's womb, but because they are born with tlie
disposition or the faculty of contracting them." '

' Rcmarqucs do Reno Descartes siir iin certain placard imprlm6

aux Pays Bus vers la fin de raun6e, 1647.— Descartes, (Envns. Ed.
Cousin, X. p. 71.
81

1.1

^:4i|

' I,

HUME.

[chap.

His troublesome disciple, PiOijins, liavinrj asserted that
;ill our ideas come from observation or tradition, Descartes
remarks : —

■ I

■ l^ »-.C:

I f !

''So thoroughly erroneous is this assertion, that whoever
Ims a proper eoniprehenslon of the action of our senses,
and understands i)reciscly the nature of that which is trans-
mitted I)y tliem to our thinking faculty, will rather aliirm
that no ideas of things, such as arc formed in thought, are
brought to us I)y the senses, so that there is nothing in our
ideas which is other than innate in the mind (iKitnrd d I'cs-
prit), or in the faculty of thinking, if only certain circum-
stances are excepted, which belong only to'experienee. For
example, it is experience alone which causes us to judge that
such and such ideas, now present in our minds, arc related
to certain things which are external to us ; not in truth, that
they have been sent into our mind by these things, such as
they are, by the organs of the .senses; but because these or-
gans have transmitted something which has occasioned the
mind, in virtue of its innate power, to form them at this time
rather than at another. . . .

''Nothing passes from external objects to the soul except
certain motions of nnitter {mouvcmens corporeh), but neither
these motions, nor tlie figures wl.ich they produce, are oon-
ceived by us as tiiey exist in the sensory organs, as I have
uilly explained in my 'Dioptrics;' whence it follows that
even the ideas of motion and of figures are innate (natiirelle-
ment en iwu,). And, a fortiori, the ideas of pain, of colours
ot soimds, and of all similar things must be innate, in order
tliat the mind may rcjiresent them to itself, on the occasion
ot certain motions of matter with which they liave no re-
sLMublance."

^Vhoever denies what is, in fact, an inconceivable prop,
osition, tliat .sensations pass, as such, from the external
world into the mind, must admit the conclusion here laid

[chap.

ssortccl that
n, Descartes

hat whoever
our senses,
ioh is tnins-
iither allinn
thought, arc
:liing in our
(itnrcl (\ VcS'
ain circum-
rience. For
1 judge that
, are rehited
1 trutli, that
igs, such as
se these or-
asioned tlio
at this time

soul except
but neitlicr
ce, are oon-
3, as I have
bllows that
3 {naturelle-
of colours,
te, in order
le occasion
lave no re-

able prop-
e external
1 here laid

III

■]

ORIGiy OF THE IMl'UESSIOXS.

down by Descartes, that, strictly speakinjr, sensations, and,

a fortiori, all the other contents of the mind, are innatt

accordance with the

Or, to state the matter in accoruance witli the views pre-
viously expounded, that they are products of the iidicrent
properties o: the thinking organ, in whi(d» they lie poten-
tially, before they arc called into existence by their appro-
priate causes.

But if all the contents of the mind are innate, what is
meant by experience ?

It is the conversion, by unknown causes, of these in-
nate potentialities into actual existences. The organ oi
thought, prior to experience, may be compared to an un-
touched piano, in which it may be properly said that mu-
sic is innate, inasmuch as its mechanism contains, poten-
tially, so many octaves of nuisical notes. The unknown
cause of sensation which Descartes calls the "je ne sais
quoi dans les objets" or "choses telles qu'elles sont;" and
Kant the "Noumenon" or "Ding an sich;" is represented
by the musician, who, by touching the keys, converts the
potentiality of the mechanism into actual sounds. A note
so produced is the equivalent of a single experience.

All the melodies and harmonies that proceed froin the
piano depend upon the action of the musician upon the
keys. Tlicre is no internal mechanism which, wlicn cer-
tain keys are struck, gives rise to an accompaniment of
which the musician is only indirectly the cause. Accord-
ing to Descartes, however— and this is what is generally
fixed upon as the essence of his doctrine of innate ideas—
the mind possesses sucli an internal mechanism, by which
certain classes of thoughts are generated, on the occasion
of certain experiences. Such thoughts arc innate, just as
sensations are innate ; they are not copies of sensations,
any more than sensations are copies of motions; they are

' r

f'.

«'

i'i

mm:.

[cii.iP.

li !

invai'ial.ly .irmic-ratcd in the mind, wl.en certain expori.
•■nees arise in it, j-.ist as sensati..ns are invariaMv uenerate.l
when certain bodily motions take plaee ; they 'are nniver-
«^'. .iia«iniich as they arise under tiio same eonditions .n
'• ,1 Bieii ; thev arc necessary, because their j^cnesis under
tu^mi conditions i invariable. These innate thoucrhts are
what. De-^cartes terms "venr«'-s" or truths; that is, beliefs
—and his notions respecting thorn are plainly set forth .11
a passat^e of tiie J^roicipcs.

"Tims far I have tli^^r-usscd that Avhieh we know as
thinos: it remuins that 1 liou'.d speak of that wliieli we
itnow as truths. For example, when we think that it is im-
possible to make anythin.uj out of not!, in- we do not imag-
ine that this proposition is a tliin^r whi^.i, j.xists, or a jjn.peT--
ty of something, but we tak.; it for a certain eternal truth,
which liiis its seat in the mind {pcnsce), and is called a eoui-
mcm notion or an axiom. Similarly, when we affirm that it
is impossil)le that one and the same thinir should exist and
not exist at the same time; that that which luis been created
should not JKivc been created; that lie who thinks mnst ex-
ist while lie thinks; and a number of other like proposi-
tions—these are only truths, and not things which exist out-
side our thouglits. And tliere is such a number of these
that it would be wearisome to enumerate them : nor is it
necessary to do so, because we cammt fail to know them
when the occasion of thinking about thtm presents itself,
and we are not blinded by any prejudices."

It would a[)pear that Locke was not move familiar with
Descartes' writings than llumo seems to have been ; for,
viewed in relation to the passages just cited, the argu-
ments adduced in his famous polemic against innate ideas
arc totally irrelevant.

It has been shown that Hume practically, if not in so

MI.l

ORIGIN- or TIFF. IMPRKSSIOXS.

many words, lulmits tin- jiistico of Descartes' nssertion
that, strietly spoaKinuf, sensations are innate; that is to
say, that they are the product of the reaction of th" or-
uaii of tlic mind on the stiimil, of an "unknown - uus. "
wliicli is Descartes' " je no sais .,i,oi." Therefore, li.o dif-
ference hotwei a Descartes' opinion and that of Hume re-
solves itself into this: (iiven sensation-experiences, can ail
the contents of consciousness he derived from the collo-
cation and metamorphosis <»f these experiences? Or, are
new elements of consciousness, product of an innate po-
tentiality distinct from sensihility, added to these ? Hume
atlirnis the former position, Descartes the latter. If the
analysis of the phenomena of consciousness jriveii in the
precedinor pacros is correct, Hume is in error; while the
father of modern philosophy had a truer insijjht, thouoh
he overstated the case. For want of sutlicieutly scurehini;
psychoIo<rical invcstiojations, Descartes was led to suppose
that innumerable ideas, the evolution of which in the
course of experience can be demonstrated, were direct or
innate products of the thinkin;;- faculty.

As has been already pointed (»ut, it is tlie fjreat merit
of Kant that lie started afresh on the track indicated by
Descartes, and steadily upheld the doctrine of the exist-
ence of elements of consciousness, which are neither sensc-
oxporicnces nor any modifications of thojn. We may de-
mur to the expression tl .^t space and time are forms of
«ensory intuition ; but it imperfectly represents the great
fact that co-existence and succession are mental phenom-
ena not given in the mere sense-experience.'

' " WW kiitineu uns kcinen GoKcnstand deiikcn, ohne durch Kate-
gorien ; wir konneii keiueii godiichten Gcgcnstand crkennen, ohne
'.iiiroli Aiischamingon, die joiuMi Hogriiren oiitsprechcii. Nun sind
alle unsere Anschauungcn siniilieli, uiid dieso Erkenntniss, so furn

HUME.

[chap.

(ler Gegonstand derselbon gcgcben ist, ist cnipiriscli. Enipirische
Erkenntni:jri aber ist Erf.ilining. Folglich ist uns keinc Eiliciint
ni:^s a priori moglicii, als lodiglicli von Gegenstiindea niuglicher
Erfahrung.

" Abcr dicsc Erkcnntniss. die bloss aiif Gegenstiviide dcr Erfahrung
oingosehiT.nkt ist, ist daruni nielit alio von der Erfahrung entlelnit
sondern was sowohl dio reinen Anschauungen, als die reinen Vor-
standesbcgritfe betrifft, so sind sio Elemcnte dor Erkonntniss dio in
uns <t priori angetrolfon worden."— 7i>«7;i- dcr reinen Vcmunft. Me-
)nenf(irk/in\ ]). lo3.

Without a glossary explanatory of Kant's terminology, this pas-
sage would be hardly intelligible in a translation ; but it may be par-
ajihrased thus : All knowledge is founded npon experiences of sensa-
tion, but it is not all derived from those experiences ; inasmuch as
the impressions of relation ("rcine Anschauungen;" " rcine Vorstan-
desbegrilTe") have a potential or a priori existence in us, and bj
their addition to seuse-experieuces, constitute knowledge.

J|:i

iv.l NOMLNCLATURE OF MENTAL OPEKATIOXS.

CHAPTER IV.

THE CLASSIFICATION AND THE NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL

OPERATIONS.

If, as has been set forth in the prccedinf^ cliaptcr, all men-
tal states are effects of physical causes, it follows that what
are called mental faculties and operations arc, properly
speaking, cerebral functions, allotted to definite, though
not yet precisely assignable, parts of tlie brain.

These functions appear to be reducible to three groups,
namely : Sensation, Correlation, and Ideation.

The organs of the functions of sensation and correla-
tion arc those portions of the cerebral substance, the mo-
lecular changes of which give rise to impressions of sen-
sation and impressions of relation.

The changes in tlie nervous matter which brinfj about
the effects which we call its functions, follow upon sonic
kind of stimulus, and rapidly reaching their maximum, as
ra})idly die away. The effect of the irritation of a nerve-
fibre on the cerebral substance with which il is connected
may be compared to the pulling of a long bell-wire. The
impulse takes a little time to reach the bell ; the bell rings
and then becomes quiescent, until another pull is given.
So, in the brain, every sensation is the ring of a cerebral
particle, the effect of a momentary impulse sent along a
nerve-fibre.

s i;

f I

- 1 (I '."1

t ff^j ! ^ , * 'rt ■ ■

1 ■

HUME.

[chap.

If there were a complete likeness between the two
terms of this very rouo-h and ready comparison, it is ob-
vious that there could be no such thing as memory. A
bell records no audible sign of having been rung iivc min-
utes ago, and the activity of a sensigenous cerebral par-
ticle might similarly leave no trace. Under these circum-
stances, again, it would seem that the only impressions of
relation which could arise would be those of co-existence
and of similarity. For succession implies memory of an
antecedent state.'

But the special peculiarity of the cerebral apparatus is,
that any given function which has once been performed
is verv easily set a-going again, by causes nu)rc or less
different from thosf- to Avhich it owed its origin. Of the
mechanism of this generation of images of impressions or
ideas (in Hume's sense), which may be termed Ideation,
we know nothing at present, though the fact and its re-
sults are familiar enough.

During our waking, and many of our sleeping, liours,
in fact, the function of ideation is in continual, if not con-
tinuous, activity. Trains of thought, as we call them,
succeed one another without intin-mission, even when the
starting of new trains by fresh sense-impressions is as far
as possible prevented. The rapidity and the intensity of
this ideational process are obviously dependent upon phys-
iological conditions. The Avidest differences in these re-
spects arc constitutional in men of different tempera-
ments ; and are observable in oneself, under varying con-
ditions of hunger and repletion, fatigue and freshness,

1 It is not wortli while, for tlio present purpose, to consider wheth-
er, as all nervous action oeoupios a sensiljlc time, the (hiration of one
iinnressioii niisrht not overlau that of the impression which follows it.
in Uie case supposed.

[CIUP.

IV.]

NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL OPERATIONS.

>n the two
311, it is ob-
iicmory. A
ng five min-
X'l'cbral par-
licsc circum-
pvessions of
co-cxistcnce
3inovy of an

ipparatus is,
1 performed
iiore or less
.■in. Of the
ipresslons or
led Ideation,
t, and its rc-

■ping, hours,
,1, if not con-
3 call them,
LMi when the
ons is as far

intensity of
t upon phys-

in these rc-
}nt tempera-
vary ino" con-
id freshness,

'onsidor wlieth-
iliinition of one
hich follows it.

calmness and emotional excitement. The influence of
diet on dreams; of stimulants upon the fulness and the
velocity of the stream of thought ; the delirious phantasms
generated by disease, by hashish, or by alcohol — will oc-
cur to every one as examples of the marvellous sensitive-
ness of the apparatus of ideation to purely pliysical
influences.

The succession of mental states in ideation is not for-
tuitous, but follows the law of association, which may be
stated thus : that every idea tends to be followed by some
other idea which is associated with the first, or its im-
pression, by a relation of succession, of contiguity, or of
likeness.

Thus the idea of the word horse just now presented
itself to my mind, and was followed in quick succession
by the ideas of four legs, hoofs, teeth, rider, saddle, racing,
cheating ; all of which ideas are connected in my experi-
ence with the impression, or the idea, of a horse and with
one another, by the relations of contiguity and succession.
No great attention to what passes in the mind is needful
to prove that our trains of thought are neither to be ar-
rested, nor even permanently controlled, by our desires or
emotions. Nevertheless they are largely influenced by
them. In the presence of a strong desire, or emotion, the
stream of thought no longer flows on in a straight course,
but seems, as it were, to eddy round the idea of that which
is the object of the emotion, f^very one who has " eaten
his bread in sorrow " knows how strangely the current of
ideas whirls about the conception of the object of regret
or remorse as a centre ; every now and then, indeed, break-
ing away into the new tracks suggested by passing asso-
ciations, but still returning to the central thought. Few
can have been so happy as to have escaped the social bore,

i'l

HUME.

[CIIAP.

whose pet notion is certain to crop np whatever topic is
started ; wliile the tixed idea of the monomaniac is but
the extreme form of the same phenomenon.

And as, on the one hand, it is so hard to drive away
the thono-ht we woukl fain be rid of ; so, upon tlie other,
the pleasant imaginations which we wouhl so gU;dly retain
arc, sooner or latter, jostled away by the cr.nvd of ehiim-
ants for birtli into the world of consciousness; which
hover as a sort of psychical possibilities, or inverse ghosts,
the bodily presentments of spiritual phenomena to be, in
the limbo of the brain. In that form of desire which is
called " attention," the train of thought, held fast, for a
time, in the desired direction, seems ever striving to get
on to another line— and the junctions and sidings are so
multitudinous!

The constituents of trains of ideas may bo grouped in
various ways.
Hume says: —

" We find, by experience, that when any impression has
been present in the mind, it again makes its appearance
there as an idea, and this it may do in two ditferent ways:
either when, on its new appearance, it retains a considcral)lc
degree of its first vivacity, and is somewhat intermediate l)e-
tween an impression and an idea; or when it entirely loses
that vivacity, and is a perfect idea. The laculty by which
we repeat our impressicms in the first manner is called the
inemory, and the other the imagination:'— (l. p. 33, 24.)

And he considers that the only difference between ideas
of imagination and those of memory, except the superior
vivacity of the latter, lies in the fact that those of meiuory
preserve the original order of the impressions fron^. which

( V

[CIIAP.

n" topic is
i:ic is but

Irivc away
tlic other,
udly retain
. of claim-
ss ; which
rse ghosts,
a to bo, in
■c which is
fast, for a
ini>' to get

ings arc so

grouped in

tression has
appearance
fcrent ways :
:onsiclcral)lc
fnicdiate 1)e-
:ntircly loses
ty 1>y wliich
is called the
13,24.)

ctwecn ideas

the superior

3 of memory

from wliich

IV.]

NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL OrERATIONS.

they are derived, while the imagination " is free to trans-
pose and change its ideas."

The latter statement of the difFerenee between memory
and iinagination is less open to cavil than the former,
though by no means unassailable.

The special characteristic of a memory, surely, is net its
vividness ; but that it is a complex idea, in which the idea
of that which is remembered is related by co- existence
with other idea.s, and by antecedence w'*h present im-
pressions.

If I say I remember A. B., the chance acquaintance of
ten years ago, it is not because my idea of A. 1>. is very
vivid — on the contrary, it is extremely faint — but because
that idea is associated with ideas of impressions co-exist-
ent with those w Inch I call A. B. ; and that all these arc
at the end ot the long series of ideas, which represent that
much past time. In truth, I have a much more vivid idea
of Mr. Pickwick, or of Colonel Newcome, than I have of
A. B. ; but, associated with the ideas of these persons, I
have no idea of their having ever been derived from the
world of impressions ; and so they are relegated to the
world of iinagination. On the other hand, the character-
istic of an imagination may properly be said to lie not in
its intensity, but in the fact that, as Hume puts it, " the
arrangement," or the relations, of the ideas arc different
from those in which the impressions, whence these ideas
are derived, occurred ; or, in other words, that the thing
imagined has not happened. In popular usage, however,
imagination is frequently employed for simple memory —
" In imagination I was back in the old times."

It is a curious omission on Hume's part that, while
thus dwelling on two classes of ideas, Memories and /m-
af/wafions, he iias not, at the same time, taken notice of
G

TI 3 1

>l'.\ .|

'1' ^:

•■fll

i i

L; ■ i ■

HUME.

[CUAK

mii

li' ; 'l

a third 2;roup, of no small importance, wliich are ps differ-
ent from imaginations as memories are ; though, like the
latter, they are often confounded with pure imaginations
in general speech. These are the ideas of expectation, or,
as they may be called for tlie sake of brevity, Expeda-
fions ; which differ from simple imaginations in being as-
sociated with the idea of the existence of corresponding
impressions, in the future, just as memories contain the
idea of the existence of the corresponding impressions in

the past.

I'he ideas belonging to two of the three groups enumer-
ated : namely, memories and ex])ectations, present some
features of particular interest. xVnd hrst, with respect to
memories.

In Hume's words, all simple ideas are copies of simple
imjiressions. The idea of a single sensation is a faint, but
accurate, image of that sensation ; the idea of a relation is a
reproduction of the feeling of co-existence, of succession, or
of similarity. But, when complex impressions or complex
ideas are reproduced as memories, it is probable that the
copies never give all the details of the originals with perfect
accuracy, and it is certain that they rarely do so. No one
possesses a memory so good, that if he has only once ob-
served a natural object, a second inspection does not show
him something that he has forgotten. Almost all, if not
ali, our memories are therefore sketches, rather than por-
traits, of the originals— the salient features nrc obvious,while
the subordinate characters are obscure or unrepresented.

T,o\Y, when several complex impressions which are more
o- less different from one another — let us say that out of
ten impressions in each, six are the same in all, and four
arc different from all the rest— are successively presented
to the mind, it is easy to sec what must be the nature of

!? *!

[•c fs diftor-
(rh, like tlic
nag'in.'itions
fetation, or,
ty, Ex pec ta-
in boinu; as-
iTCsponding
contain the
prcssions in

ips cnumer-
•esent some
li respect to

}s of simple
a faint, but
relation is a
accession, or
i or complex
blc that the
with perfect
50. No one
iilv once ob-
>es not show
)st all, if not
or than por-
ibviovis, while
presented,
ich are more
f that out of
all, and four
.'ly presented
he nature of

IV.] NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL OPERATIONS.

the result. The repetition of the six similar ini})ressions
will strengthen the six corresponding: elements of the com-
plex idea, which will therefore accjuire o-reater vividness;
while the four differing impressiuns of each will not only
accpiire no greater strength than they liad at first, but, in
accordance with the law of association, they will all tend
to appear at once, and will thus neutralise oiu^ another.

This mental operation may be rendered comprehensible
by considering what takes place in the formation of com-
pound pliotographs — when the images of the faces of six
sitters, for example, are each received on the same photo-
graphic plate, for a sixth of the time requisite to take one
portrait. The final result is that all those points in which
the six faces agree are brought out strongly, while all
those in which they differ are left vague ; and thus what
may be termed a r/cneric portrait of the six, in contradis-
tinction to a sjjecijic portrait of any one, is produced.

Thus our ideas of single complex impressions are in-
complete in one way, and those of numerous, more or less
similar, complex impressions are incomplete in another
way ; that is to say, they are generic, not specijic. And
hence it follows that our ideas of the impressions in ques-
tion are not, in the strict sense of the word, copies of
those impressions ; while, at the same time, they may ex-
ist in the mind independently of language.

The generic ideas which are formed from several simi-
lar, but not identical, complex experiences are what are
commonly called abstract or (jeneral ideas ; and Berkeley
endeavoured to prove that all general ideas arc nothing but
particular ideas annexed to a certain term, which gives
them a more extensive signification, and makes them recall,
upon occasion, other individuals which are similar to them.
Hume says that he regards this as " one of the greatest

1 ,11

i 1

VI m

|V^

: »

V 11

' \i'i\

V 'U^

! r!

<!.'' !i III:

HUME.

[CIUP.

liiuX the most valuable discoveries that lias been made of
late years in the republic of letters," and endeavours to
confirm it in such a manner that it shall bi " put beyond
all doubt and controversy."

I may venture to express a doubt whether he has suc-
ceeded in his object ; but the subject is an abstruse one ;
and I must content myself with the remark, that thous^h
Berkeley's view appears to be largely applicable to such
generaf ideas as are formed after language has been ac-
quired, and to all the more abstract sort of conce[)tions,
yet that general ideas of sensible objects may nevertheless
be produced in the way indicated, and may exist inde-
pendently of language. In dreams, one sees houses, trees,
and other objects, which are perfectly recognisable as
such, but which remind one of the actual objects as seen
" out of the corner of the eye," or of the pictures thrown
by a badly-focussed magic lantern. A man addresses us
who is like a figure seen by twilight; or we travel through
countries where every feature of the scenery is vague;
the outlines of the hills are ill-marked, and the ivers have
no defined banks. They are, in short, generic ideas of
many past impressions of men, hills, and rivers. An anat-
omist who occuy)ies himself intently with the examination
of several specimens of some new kind of animal, in
course of time acquires so vivid a conception of its form
i:nd structure, that the idea may take visible shape and be-
come a sort of waking dream. But the figure which thus
presents itself is generic, not specific. It is no copy of
any one specimen, but, more or less, a mean of the series;
and therj seems no reason to doubt that the minds of
children before they learn to speak, and of deaf-mutes,
are peopled with similarly generated generic ideas of sensi-
ble objects.

'. y I

[chap.

!cr. made of
ideavours to
■ put beyond

lie has suc-
bstruse one;
that though
\ble to such
has been ac-
conce[)tions,

nevertheless
f exist inde-
houses, trees,
ognisable as
»jects as seen
tures thrown
addresses us
ravel throug-h
ry is vague ;
le . ivcrs have
eric ideas of
rs. An anat-
; examination
of animal, in
n of its form
shape and he-
re which thus
is no copy of
of the series ;
the minds of
f deaf-mutes,
ideas of sensi-

;v.]

NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL OPERATIONS.

It has been seen that a memory is a complex idea
made up of at least two constituents. In the first place,
there is the idea of an object ; and, secondly, there is the
idea of the relation of antecedence between that object
and some present objects.

To say that one has a recollection of a given event and
to express the belief that it happened, are two ways of
giving an account of one and the same mental fact. But
the former mode of stating the fact of memory is prefer-
able, at present, because it certainly does not presuppose
the existence of language in the mind of the rememberer;
while it may be said that the latter does. It is perfectly
possible to have the idea of an event A, and of the events
)^, C, D, which came between it and the present state I],
as mere mental pictures. It is hardly to be doubted that
children have very distinct memories long before they can
speak ; and we believe that such is the case because they
act upon their memories. But, if they act upon their
memories, they to all intents and purposes believe their
memories. In other Avords, though, being devoid of lan-
guage, the child cannot frame a proposition expressive of
belief; cannot say "sugar-plum was sweet;" yet the psy-
chical operation of which that proposition is merely the
verbal expression is perfectly effected. The experience
of the co-existence of sweetness with sugar has produced
a state of mind which boars the same relation to a verbal
proposition as the natural disposition to produce a given
idea, assumed to exist by Descartes as an " innate idea "
would bear to that idea put into words.

" The fact that the beliefs of memory precede the use of
language, and therefore are originally purely instinctive,
and independent of any rational justification, sho* have
been of great importance to Ilume, from its bearing upon

if M

^ .^

HUME.

[fHAP.

his theory of causation ; and it is cnrious tliat ho lias not
adverted to it, but always takes the trustworthiness of
nieniories for granted. It nuiy be worth while brietly to
make good the omission.

That 1 was in i»ain, yesterday, is as certain to me as any
matter of fact can be; by no effort of the imagination is
it possible for me really to entertain the contrary belief.
At the same time, I am bound to admit that the whole
fo\nulation for my belief is the fact that the idea of pain
is indissohibly associated in my mind with the idea of
that much i)ast time. Any one who will be at the trouble
may provide himself with hundreds of examples to the
same effect.

This and shnilar observations are important under an-
other aspect. They prove that the idea of even a single
strong imi)ression nuiy be so powerfully associated with
that of a certain time, as to originate a belief of which the
I'Diitrary is inconceivable, and which may therefore be
properly said to be necessary. A single weak, or iiioder-
ately strong, im[)ression may not be represented by any
memory. But this defect of weak experiences may be
compensated by their repetition ; and what Hume means
by "custom" or "habit" is simply the repetition of ex-
periences —

"wherever the repetition of any pnrticulai' act or operation
produces a i)ropensity to renew the same act or operation,
without being impelled by any reasoning or process of the
understanding, we always say that this propensity is the otf-
I'ect of Cutftom. By employing that word, we pretend not t^)
have given the ultimate reason of such a propensity. Wc
only point out a principle of human nature which is univer-
sally acknowledged, and which is well known by its ef
feets."— (IV. p. 53.)

.i^

[chap.

he lias not
rlhiiR'ss of
e Itriotly to

) me as any
ii;'inatii)n is
[rary belief.
:, tlie wliolc
(lea of pain
the idea of
the trouble
pies to the

it under an-
ven a sinj>;Ie
)eiated with
>f which the
hereforc be
i, or niutior-
ited by any
ices may be
Imno means
tition of ex-

or operation
or operation,
roccss of the
ity is the Qt-
•etend not t(^)
pensity. Wc
ch is univcr-
.'n by its ef-

.v.]

NOMENCLATURE OF MENTAL OPERATIONS.

1*7

It has been shown that an expectation is n oonn)lex
idea which, like a memory, is made u{) of two constitu-
ents. The one is the idea of an object, the other is the
idea of a relation of se<iucnce between that object and
some present object; and the reasoning' which applied to
memories applies to expectations. To have an exj)ecta-
tion' of a given event, and to believe that it will happen,
are only two modes of statint^ the same fact. Again, just
in the same way as we call a memory, put into words, a
belief, so we give the same name to an expectation in like
clothing. And the fact already cite<l, that a child before
it can speak acts upon its memories, is good evidence that
it forms expectations. The infant who knows the mean-
ing neither of " sugar-i)luin " jior of " sweet," nevertheless
is in full possession of that complex idea, which, when he
has learned to employ language, will take the form of the
verbal proposition, "A sugar-plum will be sweet."

Thus, beliefs of expectation, or at any rate their poten-
tialities, are, as nnich as those of memor}', antecedent to
speech, and arc as incapable of justification by any logical
process. In fact, expectations are but memories inverted.
The association which is the foundation of expectation
nmst exist as a memory before it can play its part. As
Hume sa)s, —

'' . . . it is certain we here advance a vcr}' intclligil)le prop-
osition at least, if not a true one, wlien wc assert that after
the constant conjunction of two ol)jccts, lieat and flume, for
instance, weight and solidity, we arc determined by custom

' We give no name to faint memories; but expectations of like
character play so larj:;c a part in human affairs tliat they, together
with the associated emotions of pleasure and pain, are distinguished
as "hopes" or "fears."
33

I f T'l, i

IIUMK.

[fllAE

iilono to oxpcct thfi one from tlic nppcarnnrc of tlic other.
This hypothesis seoiiH even the only one whieli explains the
(liHieulty why wo draw from u thousand instances, nn infer-
ence whicli we are not abh' to dr.iw from one instance, that
is in no respect ditrirent from them." . . .

'' Custom, then, Is the great guide of liuman life. It is that
principle alone which renih-rs our exi)erienec useful to us,
and makes us expect, for the futiu'c, a similar train of events
with those which liave appeared in the past." . . .

'•AH belief of matter-of-fact or real existence! Is derived
merely from some object present to the memory or senses,
and a customary conjunction between that and some other
oltject; or, in other words, having found, in many instances,
that any two kiiuls of objeets, ilauie and hea.,snow and cold,
have always been conjoined together: if thinie or snow be
presented anew to the senses, the mind is carried by custom
to expect heat or cold, and to hlicvc tluit such a quality docs
exist, and will discover itself upon a nearer approach. This
belief is liie necessary result of placing the mind in such cir-
cumstances. It is an operation of the soul, when we are so
situated, as unavoidable as to feel the passion of love when
wc receive benefits, or hatred when we meet with injuries.
All these operations are a species of natural instincts, which
no reasoning or process of the thought and understaniiing
is able either to produce or to prevent." — (IV. pp. 53 — 50.)

The only eomnicnt tl>''t appears needful here is, that
Iluuie has attached sou. lat too exclusive a weight to
that repetition of experiences to wliicli alone tlie tcrni
" custom " can be properly applied. The proverb says
that "a burnt child dreads the fire;" and any one who
will niakc the experiment will find tliat one burning is
quite sulHeient to establish an indissoluble belief that con-
tact with fire and pain go together.

As a sort of inverted memory, expectation follows the
same laws ; hence, while a belief of expectation is, in most

IV.]

\<;ME.\CLATn?E OF MENTAL OPERATIONS,

1)!t

fasos, as lliimo truly says', cstabllslied by custom, or the
ropotitiiiti of weak im[uvMsi(>iis, it may quite well be based
upon .'. siiii>'le stronjj; experience. In the absence uf laii-
irua<;e, a speeitic memory cannot be strciiijtbened by repe-
tition. It is obvious that that whici. uas liai)pened cannot
lia})pen ai,'ain, witb tlio same collateral associations of co-
existence and succession. Hut memories of tlio co-exist-
ence arid succession of impressions are capable of beinir
indetluitely strenixtl encd by tlie recurrence of sirnilat im-
pressions, in the same order, even thou<;h the colhiteral as-
sociations arc totally ditrercnt; in fact, the ideas of those
impressions become generic.

If I recollect that a piece of ice was cold yesterday,
nothing can strengtlien the recollection of tbat particular
fact; on the contrary, it may grow weaker, in the absence
of any recoi.l of it. But if I touch ice to-day and again
find it cold, the association is repeated, and the memory
of it becomes stronger. And, by this very simple process
of repetition of experience, it has become utterly impossi-
ble for us to think of iiaving liandled ice without think-
ing of its coldness. But, that which is, under the one as-
pect, the strengthening of a memory, is, under the other,
the intensification of an exi)ectation. Xot only can we
not think of having touched ice without fcelinjr cold, but
we cannot think of touching ice in tlie future without ex-
pecting to feel cold. An expectation so strong that it
cannot be changed, or abolished, may thus be generated
out of repeated experiences. And it is important to note
that such expectations may be formed quite unconscious-
ly. In my dressing-room, a certain can is usually kept
full of water, and I am in the habit of lifting it to pour
out water for washing. Sometimes the servant lias for-
gotten to fill it, and then I find that, when I take hold of
5*

iY*:

100

HUME.

[CIUP.

tlie liandle, tlic can goes up with a jerk. Long associa-
tion has, in fact, led me to expect the can to have a con-
siderable weight ; and, quite unawares, my muscular effort
is adjusted to the expectation.

Tiic process of strengthening generic memories of suc-
cession, and, at the same time, intensifying expectations of
succession, is what is commonly called verification. The
impression B has frequently been observed to follow the
impression A. The association thus produced is repre-
sented as the memory, A -^ B. AVhen the impression A
appears again, the idea of B follows, associated with that
of the immediate appearance of the impression B. If the
impression B docs appear, the expectation is said to be
verified ; while the memory A -> B is strengthened, and
gives rise in turn to a stronger expectation. And repeat-
ed verification may render that expectation so strong that
its non-verification is incouceivable.

[CIIAP.

v.l

MENTAL PHENOMENA OF ANIMALS.

101

)ng associa-
liavc a con-
scular effort

)nes of suc-
cctations of
it ion. Tlje
follow the
'd is vcprc-
nprcssion A
d with that
B. If the
said to be
thcncd, and
And repeat-
strong that

.i!

CHAPTER y.

MENTAL PHENOMENA OF ANIMALS.

In the course of the preceding chapters attention has
been more than once called to the fact, that the elements
of consciousness and the operations of the mental facul-
ties, under discussion, exist independently of, and antece-
dent to, the existence of lan^'naire.

If any weight is to be attached to arguments from
analogy, there is overwhelming evidence in favour of the
belief that children, before they can speak, and deaf-mutes,
possess the feelings to which those who have acquired the
faculty of speech apply the name of sensations ; that they
have the feelings of relation; that trains of ideas pass
througli their minds; that generic ideas are formed from
spccitic ones ; and that among these ideas of memory
and expectation occupy a most important place, inasmuch
as, in their quality of potential beliefs, thoy furnish the
grounds of action. This conclusion, in truth, is one of
those which, though they cannot be demonstrated, arc
never doubted; and, since it is highly probable and can-
not be disproved, we are quite safe in accepting it as, at
any rate, a good working hypothesis.

But, if we accept it, we nmst extend it to a much wider
assemblage of living beings. Whatever cogency is at-
tached to the arguments in favor of the occurrence of

■']

■ i

;;'

':i

I i ■ ' >

■) '

Pi I; i

iiij

102

HUME.

■lCII.O'.

all the funtlamontal plicnomona of mind in youtig children
and doaf-nuites, an equal force must be allowed to apper-
tain to those which may be adduced to prove that the
higher animals liavc minds. We must admit that Hume
does not express himself too strongly when lie says —

"no trutli a])poars to mc more evident than tluit the beasts
are endowed with thought and reason as well as men. The
arguments are in this case so obvious, that they never escape
the most stupid and ignorant."— (I. p. 333.)

In fact, this is one of the few cases in which the con-
viction which forces itself upon the stupid and the igno-
rant, is fortified by the reasonings of the intelligent, and
has its foundation deepened by every increase of knowl-
edge. It is not merely that the observation of the actions
of animals almost irresistibly suggests the attribution to
them of mental states, such as those which accompany
corresponding actions in men. The minute comparison
which has been instituted by anatomists and physiologists
between the organs which we know to constitute the ap-
paratus of thought in man, and the corresponding organs
in brutes, lias demonstrated the existence of the closest
similarity between the two, not only in structure, as far as
the microscope will carry us, but in function, as far as
functions are determinable by experiment. There is no
question in the mind of any one acquainted with the facts
that, so far as observation and experiment can take us,
the structure and the functions of the nervous system are
fundamentally the same in an ape, or in a dog, and in a
man. And the suggestion that we must stop at the exact
point at which direct proof fails us: and refuse to believe
that the similarity which extends so far stretches yet
further, is no better than a quibble. Ivobinson Crusoe

ig children
I to appcr-
e that the
Lliat lluine
5ays —

the beasts
men. The
ever escai)e

h the con-
l the igno-
llio-ont, and

of knowl-
tlie actions
ribution to
accompany
comparison
liysiologists
ute the ap-.
ling organs
the closest
re, as far as
), as far as
[here is no
th the facts
\n take us,

system arc
■X, and in a
^t the exact
e to believe
retches yet
son Crusoe

y-l

MENTAL niENOMENA OF ANIMALS.

103

did not feel bound to conclude, from the single luiman
footprint which he saw in the sand, that the maker of the
impression had only one leg.

Structure for structure, down to the minutest micro-
scopical details, the eye, the ear, the olfactory organs,
the nerves, the spinal cord, the brain of an ape, or of u
dog, correspond with the same organs in the human sub-
ject. Cut a nerve, and the evidence of paralysis, or of
insensibility, is the same in the two cases ; apply pressure
to the brain, or administer a narcotic, and the signs of in-
telligence disappear in tlic one as in the other. Whatever
reason we have for believing that the changes which take
place in the normal cerebral substance of man give rise to
states of consciousness, the same reason exists for thu be-
lief that the modes of motion of the cerebral substance of
an ape, or of a dog, produce like effects.

A dog acts as if he had all the different kinds of im-
pressions of sensation of which each of us is cognisant.
Moreover, he governs his movements exactly as if he had
the feelings of distance, form, succession, likeness, and un-
likeness, Avith which we are familiar, or as if the impres-
sions of relation were generated in his mind as they are
in our own. Sleeping dogs frequently appear to dream.
If they do, it must be admitted that ideation goes on in
them while they are asleep ; and, in that case, there is no
reason to doubt that they arc conscious of trains of ideas
in their waking state. Further, that dogs, if they possess
ideas at all, have memories and expectations, and those
potential beliefs of which these states are th^ foundation,
can hardly be doubted by any one wlio is conversant with
their ways. Finally, there would appear to be no valid
argument against the supposition that dogs form gene^'ic
ideas of sensible objects. One of the most curious pecu-

"■A
i

104

HUME.

[m.u'.

liai'itics of the doc mind is its inlicrcnt snobbishness,
shown by the regard paid to external rcspcctabiUty. The
dog who barks furiously at a beggar will let a well-dressed
man pass him without opposition. lias he not then a
''generic idea" of rags and dirt associated with the idea
of aversion, and that of sleek broadcloth associated with
the idea of liking ?

In short, it seems hard to assign any good r.';; u.u for
denying to the higher animals any mental state, or process,
in which the employment of the vocal or visual symbols
of Avhich language is composed is not involved ; and com-
parative psychology confirms the position in relation to
the rest of the animal world assigned to man by compara-
tive anatomy. As comparative anatomy is easily able to
show that, physically, man is but the last term of a long
series of forms, which lead, by slow gradations, from the
highest mammal to the almost formless speck of living
protoplasm, whicli lies on the shadowy boundary between
animal and vegetable life ; so, comparative psychology,
though but a young science, and far short of her elder
sister's growth, points to the same conclusion.

In the absence of a distinct nervous system, wc have
no right to look for its product, consciousness ; and, even
in those forms of animal life in which the nervous ap-
paratus has reached no higher degree of development
than that exhibited by the system of the spinal cord and
the foundation of the brain in ourselves, the argument
from analogy leaves the assumption of the existence of
any form of consciousness unsupported. With the super-
addition of a nervous apparatus corresponding with the
cerebrum in ourselves, it is allowable to suppose the ap-
pearance of the simplest states of consciousness, or the
sensations ; and it is conceivable that these mav at first

[rli.vl'.

v.]

MENTAL PHENOMENA OF ANIMALS.

105

^bbishness,
ility. The
k'cll-clrcssccl
lot then a
h the idea
^iatcd with

re:iscni for
or process,
al symbols
; and coni-
rcOation to
y compara-
5ily able to
I of a long
*, from the
X of living
ry between
)sycliolooy,
: her elder

n, we have
; and, even
icrvous ap-
cvclopmcnt
il cord and
I argument
xistence of
I the super-
g with the
)sc the ap-
less, or the
nav at fir^^t

exist, without any power of reproducing them, as memo-
ries; and, consequently, without ideation. Still higher,
an apparatus of correlation may be superadded, until, as
all these organs become more itleveloped, the condition of
the liighcst speechless animals is attained.

It is a remarkable example of Hume's sagacity that he
perceived the importance of a branch of science which,
even now, can hardly be said to exist; and that, in a re-
markable passage, he sketches in bold outlines the chief
features of comparative psychology.

"... any theoi-y, by which we explain the operations of
the understanding, or the origin and connexion of tlic i)as-
sions in man, Avill acquire additional authority if Ave find
that the same theory is requisite to explain the same phe-
nomena in all other animals. We shall make trial of this
with regard to the hypothesis by which we have, in the fore-
going discourse, endeavoured to account for all exper'.men-
tal reasonings; and it is lioped that this new point ( f view
will serve to confirm all our former observations.

"jPw's?. it seems evident that animals, as well as men, learn
many things from experience, and infer that the same events
will always follow from the same causes. By this principle
they become acquainted with the more obvious properties
of external objects, and gradually, from their birth, treasure
up a knowledge of the nature of fire, water, earth, stones,
heights, 'depths, &c., and of the effects which result from their
operation. The ignorance and inexperience of the young are
here plainly distinguishable from the cunning and sagacity
of the old, who have learned, by long observation, to avoid
what hurt them, and pursue what gave case or pleasure. A
horse that has been accustomed to the field becomes ac-
(juainted with the proper height which he can leap, and will
never attempt what exceeds his force and ability. An old
greyhound will trust the more fatiguing part of the chase

•;i

100

HUME.

[chap.

to tlie younger, and •svill ]»l!icc himself so aa to meet the haro
in lier doubh's ; nor arc tlie coiiji'ctures wliich lie forms on
this occasion foundeil on anything- but his observation and
experience.

"This is still more evident from the effects of discipline
and education on animals, who, by the proper application of
rewards and punisiiments, may be tauyht any course of ac-
tion, the most contrary to their natural instincts and propen-
sities. Is it not experience which renders a dog apprehen-
sive of pain when you menace him or lift up the whip to
beat him? Is it not even experience which makes him an-
swer to his name, and infer from sucli an arbitrary sound
that you mean him rather than any of his fellows, and in-
tend to call him, wlien you pronounce it in a certain manner
and with a certain tone and accent ?

''In all tiiese cases we may observe that the animal inters
some fact beyond what immediately strikes his senses; and
that this inference is altogether founded on past experience,
while the creature expects from the present object tiie same
conse(iuences which it has always found in its observation to
result from similar objects.

'' iSeconilhj, it is impossible that this inference of the animal
can be founded on any process of argument or reasoning, by
which he concludes that like events must follow like ob-
jec*', and that the course of nature will always be regular in
its operations. For if there be in reality any arguments of
this nature, they surely lie too abstruse for tlie observation
of such imperfect understandings; since it may well employ
tlie utmost care and attention of a philosophic genius to dis-
cover and observe them. Animals, therefore, arc not guided
in these inferences by reasoning; neither arc children; nei-
ther arc the generality of mankind in their ordinary actions
and conclusions; neither are philosophers themselves, who,
in all the active parts of life, are in the main the same as the
vulgar, and are governed by the same maxims. Nature must
have provided some other principle, of more ready and more

[chap.

ncct the Imro

he forms on

icrvutioii and

of discipline
])pli(';iti()n of
course of ac-
; and propen-
og appreheu-
tlic wliip to
ukes him an-
)itrary sound
lows, and in-
srtain manner

animal infers
5 senses ; antl
^t experience,
jeet tiie same
bservation to

of the animal
reasoning, bj'
How like ob-
be regular in
irguments of
e observation
,- well employ
genius to dis-
rc not guided
;hildren ; nei-
linary actions
mselves, ■who,
le same as the
Nature must
iidy and more

V.J

MENTAL PHENOMENA 01< ANIMALS.

107

general nse and applicaticm; nor can an operation of such
immense conse(pienee in life as that of inferring cil'ects from
causes, be trusted to the uncertain j)rocess of reasoning and
argumentation. Were this doubtful with regard to men, it
seems to admit of no (piestion with regard to the jjrute cre-
ation; and the conclusion being once firmly established in
the one, we have a strong presumption, from all the rules of
analogy, that it ought to 1)0 universally admitted, without
any exception or reserve. It is custom alone -winch engages
animals, from every object that strikes their senses, to infer
its usual attendant, and carries their imagination from the
appearance of the one to conceive the other, in that particu-
lar manner which we denominate lelitf. No other exjjlica-
tion can be given of tlu.j operation in all the higher as well
as lower classes of sensitive beings whicli fall under our uo-
tice and observation.'' — (IV. pp. 123—4.)

It will be observed that Hume appears to contrast the
"inference of tlic animal" with the "process of argument
or reasoning in man." But it would bo a complete mis-
apprehension of his intention, if \vc were to suppose that
he thereby means to imply tliat there is any real differ-
ence between the two processes. The " inference of the
animal" is a potential belief of expectation; tlie process
of argument, or reasoning, in man is based upon potential
beliefs of expectation, whicli are formed in the man exact-
ly in tlie same way as in tlic animal. But, in men endow-
ed with speech, the mental state wliich constitutes the po-
tential belief is represented by a verbal proposition, and
thus becomes what all the world recognises as a belief.
The fallacy whicli Hume combats is that the proposition,
or verbal representative of a belief, lias come to be regard-
ed as a reality, instead of as the mere symbol wliich it
really is; and that reasoning, or logic, which deals with

nothing but propositions, is supposed to be necessarv in
H

\-i ■

I! I ?

I'li'l

1U8

HUME.

[ciur.

order to validate the natural fact symbolised by those
Iiropositions. It is a fallacy similar to that of supposing
that inonoy is the foundation of wealth, whereas it is only
the wholly unessential symbol of property.

In the passage which immediately follows that just
quoted, Ilume makes admissions which might be turned
to serious account against some of his own doctrines:

"But thouglj animals learn many parts of their knowledge
from observation, there are also many parts of it which lliey
derive from the original hand of Nature, which much exceed
the share of capacity they possess on ordinary occasions, and
in wliich they improve, little or nothing. 1)y tlie longest prac-
tice and experience. These we denominate Instincts, and
are so apt to athnire as something very extraordinary and in-
explicable by all the disquisitions of human understanding.
But our wonder will perhaps cease or diminish when we con-
sider that the experimental reasoning itself, which we pos-
sess in common with beasts, and on which the whole con-
duct of life depends, is nothing but a species of instinct or
mechanical power, that acts m us unknown to ourselves, and
in its chief operations is n)t dicectcd by any such relations
or comparison of ideas as are the pi /per objects of our intel-
lectual faculties.

'• Though the instinct be different, yet still it is an instinct
which teaches a man to avoid the tire, as much as that which
teaches a bird, with such exactness, the art of incubation
and the whole economy and order oi" its nursery,""— (IV. p]).
125. 12G.)

The parallel liere drawn between the "avoidance of a
fire " by a man and the incubatory instinct of a bird is
inexact. The man avoids fire when he has had experi-
ence of the pain produced by burning ; but the bird incu-
bates the first time it lays eggs, and therefore before it lias
had any experience of incubation. For the comparison to

I' . n

[CIIAP.

ed by tliosc
)f supposing
as it is only

.s tliat just
it be turned
3ti'ines:

r knowledge
t which they
iiuich exceed
ccasions, and
longest prac-
STiNCTS, and
inary and in-
derstanding.
ihen we con-
liich we pos-
i wliole con-
)f instinct or
urselves, and
Licii relations
of our intcl-

is an instinct
,s tliat Avliich
f incubation
>v -(IV. pp.

)idancc of a
Df a bird is
liad experi-
le bird incu-
.K'foro it has
niparison to

y--]

MENTAL PIIEXOMEXA OF ANIMALS.

JOM

bo admissible, it would be necessary that a man sliould
avoid lire the first time he saw it, which is notoriously not
the case.

The term "instinct" is very vao-nc and ill-defined. It
is commonly ■ -nployed to denote any action, or even feel-
ing, which i;. not dictated by conscious reasoning, whether
it is, or is not, the result of previo:' > experience. It is
"instinct" which leads a chicken just hatched to pick up
a grain of corn ; parental love is said to be "instinctive;"
the drowning man who catches at a straw does it " in-
stinctively ;" and the hand that accidentally touches some-
thing hot is drawn back l)y "instinct." Thus "instinct"
is made to cover everything from a siniple reflex move-
ment, in which the organ of consciousness need not be at
all implicated, up to a complex cond)ination of acts di-
rected towards a definite end and accompanied by intense
consciousness.

But this loose employment of the term "instinct" real-
ly accords with the nature of the thing; for it is wholly
impossible to draw any line of demarcation between refiex
actions and instincts. If a frog, on the fiank of which a
little drop of acid has been placed, rubs it ofT with the
foot of the same side ; and, if that foot be held, performs
the same operation, at the cost of much effort, with the
other foot, it certainly displays a curious instinct. But it
is no less true that the whole operation is a '' v opera-
tion of the spinal cord, -which can be performed quite as
well when the brain is destroyed ; and between which and
simple reflex actions there is a complete series of grada-
tions. In like manner, when an infant takes the breast,
it is impossible to say whether the action should be rather
termed instinctive or reflex.

^Vllat are usually called the instincts of animals are,

t
I"

110

HUME.

[chap.

' \ '

liowevcr, acts of siicli .1 nature that, if tlioy were per-
formed by men, tliey would involve the generation of a
series of ideas and of inferences from them ; and it is a
curious, and ajiparently an ins()hil)le, probleui whetlior tliey
are, or are not, accompanied by cerebral ehan<;es of the
same nature as those which give rise to ideas and infer-
ences in ourselves. AVhen a chicken picks np a grain, for
example, are there, firstly, certain sensations, accompanied
by the feeling of relation between the grain and its own
body; secondly, a desire of the grain ; thirdly, a volition
to seize it? Or, are only the sensational ternu- of . ic scries
actually represented in consciousness?

The latter seems the more probable opinion, though it
must be admitted that the other alternative is i)ossible.
But, in this case, the series of mental states which occurs
is such as would be represented in language uy a series of
propositions, and would afford proof positive of the ex-
istence of innate ideas, m the Cartesian sense. Indeed, a
metaphysical fowl, brooding over the mental operations of
his fully-Hedged consciousness, might appeal to the fact as
proof that, in the very iirst action of his life, he assumed
the existence of the Ego and the non-Ego, and of a rela-
tion between the two.

In all seriousness, if the existence of instincts be grant-
ed, the possibility of the existence of innate ideas, in the
most extended sense ever imagin'- 1 by Descartes, must also
be admitted. In fact, Descartes, as wc have seen, illus-
trates what he means by an innate idea, by the analogy of
Hereditary diseases or hereditary mental peculiarities, such
.as generosity. On the c^her hand, liereditary mental ten-
dencies may justly be termed instincts ; and still more ap-
propriately might those special proclivities, which consti-
tute what we call genius, come into the same category.

[chap.

v.j

MENTAL niFA'OMENA OF AXIMALS.

Ill

y woro pcr-
ciation of a

and it is a
ilu'tlitT tlioy
ii!i;es of the
IS and infcr-

a grain, for
iccouipaniod
[ind its own
r, a volition
of . le scries

n, tliou<;'h it

is possible.

rhich occurs

y a series of

of the ex-

Iiulecd, a

pcratioiis of

) the fact as

he assumed

d of a rela-

The child who is iuipolled to draw as soon as it can
hold a poufil; tlie Mozart who breaks out iiiti) music as
early; the boy Bidder wlio worked out the most compli-
cated sums without learnino- ;irithmetic; the boy Pascal
who c olvcd Euclid out of his own consciousness: all
these may be said to have been impelled by instinct, as
much as a.e the beaver and the bee. And the man of
genius Is distinct in kind from the man of cle\erness, by
reason of tlic working within him of strong ir-ato ten-
dencies — which cultivation may improve, but which it can
no more create than horticulture can mako thistles bear
figs. The analogy between a musical instrument and tlio
mind holds good hero also. Art and industry may got
much music, of a sort, out of a penny whistle ; but, when
all IS done, it has no chance against an organ. The innate
musical potentialities of the two are infinitely different.

ts be grant-
ideas, in the
!s, must also
: seen, illus-
5 analogy of
arities, such
mental ten-
ill more ap-
hich consti-
itegory.

112

ULME,

[ciup.

T'a

ciiArTrii VI.

■i

LANGUAGE — PUOPOSITION'S CONCERNING NECESSARY

TRUTHS.

Tiioucn we may aocopt 11 nine's conclusion that speech-
less animals think, believe, and reason; yet it must bo
borne in mind that there is an important dilTerenco be-
tween the sii,niitieation of the terms when applied to them
and wh'n applied to those animals which possess lan-
liuaiio. The thouifhts of tlic former are trains of mere
feelini,'s; those of the latter are, in aiMition, trains ot tlie
ideas of the sip;ns wliieli represent feelings, and which are
called " words."

A w<n"d, in fact, is a spoken or written sign, the idea of
which is, by repetition, so closely associated with the idea
of the simple or complex feeling which it represents, that
the association becomes indissoluble. No Englishman, for
cxami)le, can think of the word "dog" without imme-
diately having the idea of the group of impressions to
which that name is given ; and, conversely, the group of
impressions immediately calls up the idea of the word
" Jog."

The association of words with im))ressions and ideas is
the process of naming; and language approaches perfec-
tion, in proportion as the shades of diflfcrence between va-
rious ideas and impressions are represented by differences
in their names.

I' '■

1 "v.

^..

[CIUP.

iCESSARY

tli;it speccli-
it must bo
i ill' rot 100 bc-
lird to them
possess laii-
lins of mere
:r;iiiis ot tlie

III which arc

, the idea of
nth the idea
presents, that
^lisliman, for
Jiotit iiniuc-
ipri'ssions to
;hc group of
of the word

and ideas is
;ichcs perfcc-
I between va-

IV ditlerencea

LA\({UAGE.

lift

Tho names of simple impressions and ideas, or of
ji^fDups of eo-existeiit or successive complex impres>i()iirt
and ideas, considered yjer w, are substantives; as redness,
dog, silver, mouth; while the names of impressions or
ideas considered as parts or attributes of a complex whole,
are adjectives. Thus redness, considered as part of the
conn)lex idea of a rose, becomes tho fidjeetive red; Hesh-
oater, as part of the idea »»f a dog, is represented by car-
nivorous; whiteness, as part of the idea of silver, is white;
and so on.

The linguistic machinery for the expression of belief is
called predication ; and, as all beliefs express ideas of rela-
tion, we may say that the sign of predication is the verbal
symbol of a feeling of relation. The words which serve
to iiidicatt! predication arc verbs. If I say "silver" and
then "white," I merely utter two names; but if I inter-
pose betwei'ii them the verb "is," I express a belief in the
co-existence of the feeling of whiteness with tho other feel-
ings which constitute the totality of the complex idea of
silver; in other words, I predicate "whiteness" of silver.

In such a case as this, the verb expresses predication
and nothing else, and is called a copula. liut, in the
great majority of verbs, the word is the sign of a complex
idea, and the predication is expressed only by its ^)rm.
Thus in " silver shines," tho verb " to sliine " is tl ign
for the feeling of brightness, and tho mark of predication
lies in the form " shine-s."

Another result is broui'l bout by the forms of verbs.
By slight moditications they are made to indicate that a
belief, or predication, is a memory, or is an expectation.
Thus "silver s/iouc" exjiresses a memory, "silver will
shine" an expectation.

The form of words which expresses a predication is r.
83

tPl

I'i*

1 I

■

7 *

•^

114

HUME.

[chap.

pn^position. lli'tioo, every pn^lication is the verbal equiv-
alent of a bell ■£ ; and as every belief is either an iniuie-
diate conseiousnyss, a nieniory, or an expeetation, and as
every expeetation is traceable to a memory, it follows that,
in the lonn;" run, all propositions express either immediate
states of consciousness or memories. The proposition
which predicates A of X must mean cither, that the fact
is testified by my present consciousness, as when I say that
two colours, visible at this moment, resemble one another;
or that A is indissolubly associated 'with X in memory;
or that A is indissolubly associated with X in expectation.
But it has already been shown that expectation is only an
expression of memory.

llumc does not discuss the nature of lanyuag'e, but so
much of what remains to be said, concernino; his philo-
sophical tenets, turns upon the value and tlie orio'in of
verbal propositions, that this summary sketch of the rela-
tions of lanL>;uage to the thinking process will probably
not be deemed superfluous.

So large an extent of the field of tliought is traversed
by Hume, in his discussion of the verbal propositions in
which mankind enshrine their beliefs, that it would bo
impossible to follow liim throughout all the windings of
liis long journey within the limits of this essay. 1 pur-
pose, therefore, to limit myself to those propositions which
concern — 1. Necessary Truths; 2. The order of Nature;
-5. The Soul ; 4. Theism ; 5. The Passions and Volition ;
G. The I'rinciplc of Morals.

Hume's views respecting necessary truths, and more
particularly concerning causation, have, more than any
other part of liis teaching, contributed to give him h
prominent place in the history of philosopliy.

I' ; ■

'ii

[chap.

rl);il oquiv-
an iimnc-
iuii, and as
•llows that,
immediate
Droposition
at tiie fact
1 1 say tliat
ic another;
I memory ;
xpectation.
is only an

ige, but so
liis philo-
! orioin of
)f tlie rohi-
il probably

s traversed
lositions in
would bo
.indinrt's of
ly. 1 pur-
;ions which
of Nature;
I Volition ;

and more

than any

ive him h

VI.]

NECESSARY TRUTHS.

115

"All the objools of hnniixn reason and inquiry may natu-
rally l)c dividcil into two kinds, to wit. i;hi'i(>iis of iiiats and
matters of fad. 01" the tlrst kind are tlie sciences of geome-
try, alft-ebra, and arithmetic, and, in short, every athrmation
which is either intuitively or demonstratively certain. T/iat
the square of the In/potlicncuiie h equal to ths square of the two
sideK, is a proposuion which expresses a relation between
these two figures. That three times_tice is equal to the half of
thirty, expresses a relation between these numbers. Propo-
sitions of this kind are discoverable hy the mere operation
of tiiought without dependence on whatever is anywhere ex-
istent in the universe. Though there never were w circle or
a triangle in nature, tin; truths demonstrated by Euclid would
for ever retain tiieir certainly and evidence.

"Matters of fact, which are the second objects of human
reason, are not ascertained in the same manner, nor is an
evidence of their truth, however great, of a like nature with
the foregoing. The contrary of every matter of fact is still
possil)le, because it can never imply a contradiction, and is
conceived by the mind with the same facility and distinct-
ness as if ever so conformable to reality. That the sun will
not rise to-morrow, is no less intelligibU' a proposition, and
implies no more contradietion, than the athrmation that it
will rise. We should in vain, therefore, attemjjt to demon-
strate its falsehood. Were it demonstratively false, it would
imi)ly a contradiction, and could never be distinctly con-
ceived by the mind."— (IV., pp. 33, 38.)

The distinction here drawn between uie truths of ge-
ometry and other kinds of truth is far loss sharply indi-
cated in the Treatise, but as Iluino expressly disowns anv
opinions on these matters but such as are expressed in the
Inquiry, we may confine ourselves to the latter; and it is
needful to look norrowly into the propositions here laid
down, as much stress has been laid upon Ilume's admis-
sion that the truths of mathematics arc intuitively and

(

V I

ur.ME.

[CllAP.

i i"

(Icinonstrativcly certain; in other words, that they are
necessary and, in that respect, differ from all otlier lands
of belief.

What is meant by the assertion that " propositions of
this kind are discoverable by the mere operation of thought
Avithout dependence on what is anywhere existent in the
universe V

Suppose that there were no such things as impressions
of sight and touch anywhere in the universe, what idea
could we have even of a straight line, much less of a tri-
ano-lc and of the relations between its sides? The funda-
mental proposition of all Hume's philosophy is that ideas
arc copied from impressions ; and, therefore, if there were
no impressions of straight lines and triangles, there could
be no ideas of straight lines and triangles. But what we
mean by the universe is the sum of our actual and possible
impressions.

So, again, whether our conception of number is derived
from relations of impressions in space or in time, the im-
pressions must exist in nature, that is, is in experience,
before their relations can be perceived. Form and number
arc mere names for certain relations between matters of
fact ; unless a man had seen or felt the difference between
a straight line and a crooked one, straight and crooked
would have no more meaning to him than red and blue to
the blind.

The axiom, that things which arc ecjual to the same are
equal to one another, is only a particular case of the pred-
ication of similarity ; if there wore no impressions, it is
obvious that there could be no predicates. But what is
an existence in the universe but an impression?

If what are called necessary truths arc rigidly analysed,
they will be found to be of two kinds. Either they do*

I'f'i

[chap.

t they aro
•thcr kinds

ositions of
of thought
tent in the

niprcssions
what idea
•IS of a tri-
Ihc fnnda-
that ideas
there were
:hcre could
:it what Avc
nd possible

• is derived
me, the iin-
cxperience,
iiid number
matters of
ice between
nd crooked
and blue to

le same are
)f the prcd-
ssions, it is
Jut what is

ly analysed,
er they de*

VI.J

NECESSARY TRUTHS.

117

pend on the convention which underlies the possibility of
intelligible speech, that terms shall always have the same
meaning ; or they are propositions the negation of which
implies the dissolution of some association in memory or
expectation, which is in fact indissoluble; or the denial of
some fact of immediate consciousness.

The "necessary truth" A=A means that the percep-
tion which is called A shall always be called A. The
" necessary truth " that " two straight lines cannot inclose
a space," means that we have no memory, and can form
no expectation of their so doing. The denial of the
"necessary truth" that the thought now in mv mind ex-
ists, involves the denial of consciousness.

To the assertion that the evidence of )natter of fact
is not so strong as that of relations of ideas, it may be
justly replied that a great number of matters of fact are
nothing but relations of ideas. If I say that red is unlike
blue, I make an assertion concerning a relation of ideas ;
but it is also matter of fact, and the contrary proposition
is inconceivable. If I remember' something that hap-
pened five minutes ago, that is matter of fact; and, at
the same \ it expresses a relation between the event
remembc '. -id the present time. It is wholly incon-
ceivable to me that the event did not, happen, so that my
assurance respecting it is as strong as tliat which I have
respecting any other necessary truth. In fact, the man is
cither very wise or very virtuous, or very lucky, perhaps
all three, who has gone throuu;h life without accumulatinsx
a store of such necessary beliefs, which he would give a
good dcfil to be able to disbelieve.

It would be beside the mark to discuss the matter fur-

' Hume, however, expressly iucliuies the " records of our memory "
among his matters of fact. — (IV. p. :>:>.)

'1,1

it \ I

,fi

118

IIUMB.

[ciur.

tlier on tlic present occasion. It is sufficient to point out
that, whatever may be the difference l-etween inatheniat-
ical and other truths, tliey do not justify Hume's state-
ment. And it is, at any rate, impossible to })rovc that
the cogency of mathematical first principles is due to any-
thing more than these circumstances; tliat the experiences
with which they are concerned are among the first which
arise in the mind ; that they are so incessantly repeated as
to justify us, according to the ordinary laws of ideation,
in expccving that the associations which t])cy form will bo
of extreme tenacity ; while the fact, that the expectations
based upon tliem are always verified, finishes the process
of welding them togctlier.

Thus, if the axioms of mathematics are innate, nature
would s(>cm to liavc taken unnecessary trouble ; since tlie
ordinary process of association appears to be amply sufii-
cient to confer upon them all the universality and necessity
which they actually possess.

AVhatever needless admissions Hume may have made
respecting other necessary truths, he is quite clear about
the axiom of causation, " That whatever event has a be-
ginning must have a cause ;" whether and in what sense
it is a necessary truth ; and, that question being decided,
whence it is derived.

"With respect to the first question, Hume denies that it
is a necessary truth, in the sen?e that we arc unable to
conceive the contrary. The evidence by which he sup-
ports this conclusion in the Inquiry, I owcver, is not strict-
ly relevant to the issue.

" No object ever discovers, by the qualities which appear
to the senses, citlicr the cause which produced it, or the ef-
fects which will arise from it ; nor can our reason, unassist-

[CIIAP.

point out
inathemat-
ne's statc-
)rovc that
uc to any-
xpcricnccs
lirst wliich
cpcatcd as
f ideation,
rni will bo
;pcctations
lie process

[ite, nature
; since the
inply suili-
d necessity

have made
'lear about
has a bc-
rtliat sense
ig decided,

lies that it

unable to

di lie sup-

> not strict-

lich appear
t, or the cf-
m, unassist'

vi.J

CAUSE AND EFFECT.

119

cd by experience, ever draw any inference concerning real
existence and matter of fact."— (IV. p. ^o.)

Abundant illustrations are given of this assertion, whldi,
in<leed, cannot be seriously doubted ; but it does not fob
lOVr' that, because we are t(.)tally unable to say what cause
preceded, or what effect will succeed, any event, we do
not necessarily suppose that the event had a cause and
will be succeeded by an effect. The scientific investigator
Avho notes a new phenomenon may be utterly ignorant
of its cause, but he will, without hesitation, seek for that
cause. If you ask him why he does so, he will probably
say that it must have had a cause; and thereby imply
that his belief in causation is a necessary belief.

In the 2'rcut'ise Hume, indeed, takes the bull by the
horns :

"... as all distinct ideas are separable from eacli other,
ami as the ideas of cause and effect are evidently distinct,
'twill be easy for us to conceive any object to be non-existent
this moment and existent the next, without conjoining to it
tlie distinct idea of u cause or productive principle." — (I p
111.)

If ITume had been content to state what he believes
to be matter of fact, and had abstained from giving su-
perfluous reasons for that which is susceptible of being
proved or disproved only by personal experience, his po-
sition would have been stronger. For it seems clear that,
on the ground of observation, ho is quite right. Any
man who lets his fancy run riot in a waking dream may
experience the existence at one moment, and the non-ex-
istence at the next, of phenomena which suggest no con-
nexion of cause and effect. Not only so, but it is notori-
ous that, to the unthinking mass of mankind, nine-tenths

■'S

r ■

!
)

,' \- i

120

HUME.

[CIIAP.

of the facts of lifo do not sii!:^<;ost tlio relation ot ciiiisc
and effect; and they [»raetically deny the existence of any
sucli rehition l)y attribntin;;- them to elianee. Fi'W ^,:\m-
bh'i-s but would stare if they were told that the fallino- of
a die on a particular face is as nnich the effect of a <leti-
nite cause as the fact of its fallinii ; it is a proverb that
"the wind bloweth where it listeth ;" and even thoui-l.tful
men usually receive with surprise the Kuji'<i;estion, that the
form of tlie crest of every wave that breaks, wind driven,
on the sea-shore, and the direction of every particle of
foam that Hies before the gale, arc the exact elfects of def-
inite causes; and, as such, must be ca[)able of beintj deter-
mined, d(.'ductively, from the laws of motion and the prop-
erties of air and water. So, again, there are large num-
bers of highly intelligent persons wlio rather [)ride them-
selves on tlieir fixed belief that our volitions have no
cause ; or that the will causes itself, which is either the
same thing, or a contradiction in terms.

Hume's ai'gument iti su]iport of what appears to be a
true proposition, however, is of the circular sort, for the
major premiss, that all distinct ideas are separable in
thought, assunu^s the question at issue.

But tlie question whether the idea of causation is nec-
essary or not, is really of very little importance. For, to
say that an idea is necessary is simply to atVirm that we
cannot conceive the contrary ; and the fact that we cannot
conceive the contrary of any belief may b'^ a presumption,
but is certainly no proof s truth.

In the well-known e [lerimcnt of touching a single
round object, such as a marble, with crossed tingers, it
is utterly impossible to conceive that wc have not two
round objects under them ; and, though light is undoubt-
edly a mere sensation arising in the brain, it is utterly

I'l'i

.(/

[riiAP.

ice of ;iiiy
Few j.-;iui-

fMlliiiii of

of ii (Icti-
)vi'i'l» that

lioui;l.tfiil
1, that the
nd driven,
larticlo of
cts of def-
I'iiiD; detcr-
. the prop-
aru,"e miin-
ride thein-
; Iiavo no

either the

rs to be a
rt, for the
parable in

ion is nec-
;. For, to
in tliat we
we eannot
Dsiiniption,

IX !l silio'lo

fingers, it
not two
s iindoiibt-

is ntterlv

v,,J

CAUSE AND EFFECT.

12\

impossible to com'eive tliat it is not outside llie retina.
In the same way, he who touelies anything witli a rod,
not only is irresistibly led to believe that tlie sensation of
contact is at the end of the rod, but is utterly incapable
of conceiving that this sensation is really in his licad.
Yet that which is inconceivable is manifestly true in all
these eases. The beliefs and the unbeliefs are alike nec-
essary, and alike erroneous.

It is commonly urged that the axiom of causation can-
not be derived from experience, because experience only
proves that many things have causes, whereas the axi-
om declares that all things liave causes. The syllogism,
"many things which come into existence have causes, A
has come into existence: therefore A had a cause," is ob-
viously fallacious, if A is not previously shown to be one
of the " many things.'" And this objection is perfectly
sound so far as it goes. The axiom of causation cannoli
possibly be deduced from any general proposition whicli
simply embodies experience. But it does not follow that
the belief, or expectation, expressed by the axiom, is not
a product of exi)erience, generated antecedently to, and ab
together independently of, the logically unjustifiable lan-
guage in which we express it.

In fact, the axiom of causation resembles all other be-
liefs of expectation in being the verbal symbol of a pun'y
automatic act of the mind, which is altogether oxtra-log-
ical, and would be illogical, if it were not constantly veri-
fied by experience. Experience, as we have seen, stores
up memories; memories generate expectations or beliefs
— why they do so may be explained hereafter by proper
investigation of ('crebral physiology. But, to seek for the
icason of the facts in ilie verbal symbols by which they
are expressed, and to be astonished that it is not to bo

•^1

til

I ; I

122

HUME.

[chap.

fouml tliero, is surely singular; and wliat Huiue did was
to turn attention from the verbal i)roi)usition to the psy-
eliical fact of which it is the symbol.

""When any natural object or event is presented, it is im-
possible for us, by any sagaeily or penetration, to discover, or
even conjecture, Avitliout experience, wliat event will rei^ult
from it, or to carry our foresight beyond that ol)ject, whicli
is immediately present to tlie memory and senses, Even af-
ter one instance or experiment, where we have observed a
l)arti('ular event to follow upon another, we are not entitled
to Jbrm a general rule, or foretell what will happen in like
cases; it being justly esteemed an unpard!)nal)le temerity to
judge of the whole course of nature fron\ one single experi-
ment, however accurate or certain. lUit when one particular
sjjecies of events has always, in all instances, been conjoined
witli another, we make no longer U; y scruple of foretelling
one upon the ajipearance of the other, and of employing that
reasoning whicii can alone assure us of any matter of fact or
existence. We then call the one object C'<iiif<\i\w other Effid-
We supi)ose that there is some connexion between them:
some power in the one, by which it infallibly produces the
other, and operates with the greatest certainty and strongest
necessity. . . . But there is nothing in a number of instances,
ditlerent from every single instance, -which is supposed to be
exactly similar; except only, that after a repetition of simi-
lar instances, the mind is carried by hal)it,upon the ap[)ear-
ancc of one event, to expect its usual attendant, and to be-
lieve that it will exist. . . . The first time a man saw the
connnunication of motion by impulse, as by the shock of two
billiard balls, he could not pronounce that the one event was
connected ^hwi only that it Avas con joined, \\\i\\ the other. Af-
ter he has observed .several instances of this nature, he then
pronounces them to be connected. AVhat alteration has hap-
pened to give rise to this new idea o^ connexion ! Nothing
I'ut that he wow f ah these events to be connected in his in>

i; •• !

[chap.

•'•j

THE LOGIC OF CAUSATION.

12b

did was
llic psy-

, it IS ini-
seovcr, or

ill result
ct, wliifh

Even af-
jscrvod ii
t entitled
n in like
mcrity to
le experi-
[)artieular
conjoined
oretelling
ijing that
of fact or
icr Efa-f.
en llieni :
duces the

strongest
injitances,
»sed to be
n of simi-
le appear-
md to Ijc-
1 saw the
ck of two
event was
thcr. Af-
C-, he then
I has hap-
Nothing
in his iii>

e ono

agination, and can readily foresee tlie existence of tli

iTom the appearance of the other. When we say. therefore,
that one object is connected with another, we mean only that
ey have actpiired a connexion in our thouj-ht. and

to this inference, by which thev I

give rise
)eeome proofs of each oth-

er's existence: a conclusion which is somewhat extraordi-
iiary, but which seems founded on sufficient evidence."— (IV.
pp. 87—89.)

In tho fiftccntli sc 7tion of the third part of the Tmttise,
under tlic head of the Hiilcs h>/ which to Jiuh/e of Causes
and Effects, Hume gives a sketch of the method of allo-
cating effects to their causes, upon wliich, so far as I am
aware, no improvement was made down to the time of the
publication of Mill's Loffic. Of Mill's four methods, that
of uyrecment is indicated in the following passage :—

". . . where several different objects produce the same ef-
fect, it must be by means of some quality which we discover
to be common amongst them. For as like effects imply like
causes, we must always ascribe the causation to the circum-
stance wherein we discover the resemblance."- (I. p. 329.)

Next, the foundation of the method of dfferencc is
stated : —

"The dilTerence in the effects of two resembling objects
must proceed from that particular in which they differ.
For, as like causes always pn)(biee like eflVcts, when in any
instance we find our expectation to be disappointed, we must
conclude that this irregulaiiiy |)rocee(ls from some difference
in the causes. "--(I. p. 230.)

In the succeeding paragraph the method of concomitant
variations is foreshadowed.

"When any object increases or diminishes Avith the in
crease or diminution of the cause, 'tis (o be reoanled as a
I 6*

I t

i,f.

•I

124

IIUMK.

LCIIAP,

y filiJi'

h 1 1

!/' ' i' ■ '

compoiindcMl ftVftt, derived from llic union of tlic several
ditlVri'iit ellects whicli arise from the several ditVerent parts
of the cause. The absence or presence of one part of tlie
cause is lu re supposed to be always attended wltli the ab-
sence or presence of a proportionable part of the cft'ect.
Tliis constant conjunction suiKciently proves that the one
part is tiic cause of the other. We must, however, beware
not to driiW such a conclusion from a few experiments.'"— (I.
p. '^:]0.)

Lastly, the followini; rule, tliouoh awkwardly stated,
contains a su_2;u;estion of the mcthml of residues : —

"... an object which exists for any time in its full perfec-
tion without any elfect, is not the sole cause of that effect,
but rc(iuires to be assisted by some other principle, which
may forward its intluenee and operation. For as like effects
necessarily follow from like causes, and in a contiguous time
and place, their separation for a moment shows that these
causes are not c(miplete ones." — (I. p. 2;.0.)

In addition to tlic bare notion ni necessary connexion
between tbo cause and its effect, we undoubtedly find in
our minds tlie idea of soniethinji; resident in tlic cause
which, as we say, produces tlie effect, and wc call tliis
soniethino- Force, I'ower, or Energy. Hume explains Force
and Tower as tlic results of the association with inanimate
causes of tlic feelino-s of endeavour or resistance which wc
experience, wlien our bodies give rise to, or resist, motion.

If I throw a ball, I have a sense of effort which ends
when the ball leaves my hand ; and, if I catch a ball, I
have a sense of resistance \\hicli comes to an end with
the quiescence of the ball. In the former ease, there is a
.stronu; susiu'cstion of somethinu' having gone from myself
into the ball; in the latter, of something having been re-
ceived from the ball. Lot any one hold a piece of iron

:.l

[chap.

ic several
rent partH
art of tlio
:h tlio ab-
thc cftc'Ct.
t the one
er, Ijcwaro
eiits.'"— (I.

Iv stated,

"nil perfec-
liut otVect,
pic, M'hich
like eilecls
jiKnis time
that these

connexion
Uy find in
tlie cause
! call til is
lains Force
inanimate

wliicli we
t, motion,
•liicli ends
h a ball, I

end with
, tlicrc is a
om myself
g been re-
'ce of iron

VI.]

FORCE, POWER AND EXEUCiY.

125

near a strong niao-net, and the feelinnj that the niatjnct on-
ileavours to pull the iron one way in the same manner as
lie endeavours to pull it in the opj)ositc direction, is very
fetroni;.

As lluinc says : —

"No animal can put external bodies in motion without the
sentiment of a nims,ov endeavour; and every animal has a
sentiment or feeling from the stroke or blow of an external
object that is in motiim. These sensations, which are merely
animal, and from \vlii(!h we can, a ^>r/w/, draw no inference,
we are apt to transfer to inanimate objects, and to suppose
that they have some such feelings whenever they transfer or
receive motion."— (IV. p. 91, note.)

It is obviously, however, an absurdity not less gro-ss
tlian that of suj-posing the scn.satioii of warmth to exist
in a fire, to imagine tliat the subjective sensation of effort
or resistance in ourselves can be present in external ob-
jects, when they stand in the relation of causes to other
objects.

To the argument, that wo have a right to suppose the
relation of cause and effect to contain something more
than invariable succession, bccau.se, when we ourselves act
as causes, or in volition, \v arc conscious of exerting pow-
er; Ilumo replies, that wo know nothing of the feeling
• we call power except as effort or resistance ; and that we
have not the slightest means of knowing whether it has
anything to do with the production of bodily motion or
mental changes. And he points out, as Descartes and
Spinoza had done before him, that when voluntary .notion
takes place, that which we will is no^, the immediate con-
se(juencc of the act of volition, but something wliidi is
separated from it by a long chain of causes and effects.
If the will is the cause ot the movement of a iimb, it can

|:t

120

iir.MK.

[t'llAP.

1)0 so only in tlic sense that tlic guard who <>^ivos tho ordor
to g'o on, is the cause of tho transport of a train troni one
station to anulher.

'*Wo learn \'v m anatomy, that the inunodiate object of
power in voUuitnry motion is not tho member itself which is
niDved, but certain mnsch's and nerves and animal spirits,
and perhai)^ something still more minute and unknown,
thr()U<j[h which the motion is successively propagated, ere it
reach the member itself, wiiose motion is tlie inunodiate ob-
ject of volition. Can there be a more certain proof that the
power l)y which the whole operation is performed, so iar
from being directly and fully known by an inward sentiment
or consciousness, is to the last degree mysterious and unin-
telligible? Here the mind wills a certain event: Innnedi-
ately another event, unknown to ourselves, and totally ilif-
ferent from the one intended, is produced : This event pro-
duces another equally unknow u : Till at last, through a long
succession, the desired event is produced.'' — (IV. p. 78.)

A still strouj^er argument against ascribing an o" jectivo
existence to force or power, on the strength of our sup-
posed direct intuition of [jower in voluntary acts, may bo
urged from the unquestionable fact, that we do not know,
and cannot know, that volition docs cause corporeal mo-
tion ; while there is a great deal to be said in favour of
the view that it is no cause, but merely a concomitant of
that motion. IJnt the nature of volition will be moro
Htly considered hereafter.

[vuw.

Vll.

01{I)KH OF NATLHE: MUIACLES.

121

CIIArTKli VII

OllDKH OF nature: MIRACLES.

If our beliefs of < x{)cetation are based on our beliefs of
memory, ami anticipation is only inverted recollection, it
necessarily follows that every belief of expectation implies
the belief that the future will have u certain resemblance
to the past. I'Vom the first hour of experience, onwards,
this belief is constantly bein^ n ;iiiA il, until old ngc is In-
clined to suspect that experi uc hasi rothino,- new to offer.
And when the experience c f -.neraliiu after j>-eneration
is recorded, and a single book i Hs ■■>■. i lore than Methuse-
lah could have learned, had he .^pent every wakiiio- l,our
of his thousand years in lcaruin!:>' ; wh-i^ appaivnt disor-
ders are found to be only the recurrent pulses of a slow
workiuu' order, and the wonder of a year becomes the
commonplace of a century; when repeated and minute ex-
amination never reveals a break in the chain of causes and
effects; and the whole edifice of practical life is built
upon our faith in its continuity ; the belief that that chain
lias never been broken and will never be broken, becomes
one of the stronovst and most justifiable of human convic-
tions. And it must be admitted to be a reasonable re-
quest, if we ask those who would have us put faith in the
actual occurrence of interruptions of that order, to pro-

■('

(

i 1
f '

i|[n

ti'^l

128

HUME.

[chap.

(Incc evidence in favour of tlicir view, not only equal, l»ut
superior, in \voii>'lit to that which leads us to adopt ours.

This is the essential ar^uuiont of Hume's famous dis-
quisition upon miracles; and it may safely be declared to
be irrefraLi'able. Uut it must be admitted that Hume has
surrounded the kernel of his essay with u shell of very
doubtful value.

The tirst step in this, as in all other discussions, is to
conu^ to a clear uiiderstandini>- as to the meauinu; of the
terms employtxl. Ann'umeutation whether miracles arc
possible, and, if possible, credible, is mere beating- the air
until the argui'rs have agreed what they mean by the word

" miracles."

Hume, with less than liis usual perspicuity, ])ut in ac-
cordance with a couHuou practice of believers in the mi-
raculous, dulines a miracle as a "violation of the laws of
nature," or as "a transgression of a law of nature by a
particular volition of the Deity, or by the interposition of
some invisible agent."

There must, he says, —

"be an unilbrui experience against every miraculous event,
otherwise the evcut would not merit that appellation. And
as an miilbnn experience amounts to a proof, tiie re is here a
direct and full proof, from tlu; nature of the fact, against the
existence of any miracle: nor can sucli a proof i»e destroyed
or tlie miracle rendered credible but by an opposite proof
whicli is superior." — (IV. j). 134.)

Every one of these dicta appears to be open to serious

obji'ctioli,

Tlie word "miracle" — miranihtm — in its primitive
and legitimate sense, simply means something wontlerful.

Cicero applies it as readily to the fancies of philos-
ophers, " I'ortenta et miraeula philosophorum somnian-

i ', I

VII.J

ORDER OF NATURE : MIRACLES.

129

tiiim," as we do to the prodio-ies of priests. And tlio
source of the wonder whidi a miracle excites is the belief,
on the part of those who witness it, that it transcends or
contradicts ordinary experience.

The definition of a miracle as a "violation of the laws
of nature" is, in reality, an employment of lann-u;i<.-e
which, on the face of the matter, cannot he justified." For
"nature" means neither more nor less than that which
is; the sum of phenomena presented to our experience;
the totality of events past, present, and to come. Every
event nmst he taken to he a part of nature, until proof to
the contrary is supplied. And such proof is, from the
nature of the case, impossible.

Hume asks : —

"Why is it more tlian prohal)k' that all men must die:
that lead cannot of itself remain suspended in the air : tliat
fire consumes wood and is extinguished by water; unless it
be that these events are found agreeable to the law of nat-
ure, and there is re(|uire(l a violation of those laws, or, in
other words, a miracle, to prevent them ?"— (IV. p. Di^.)

But the reply is obvh.us; not one of these events is
"more than probable;" th..UMh the probability .nay reach
such a very hio-Ii deirree that, in (^-dinary hin.,nia.ire, we
are justified in saying that the opposite events are impos-
sible. Callino- our often verified experience a "law of
nature" adds nothin.fj to its value, nor in the slii,ditest
dejrrcc increases any probability that it will be verified
ao-ain, which may arise out of the fact of its fre(picnt
verification.

If a piece of lead were to remain suspended of itself in
the air, the occurrence 'would be a "miracle," in the sense
of a wonderful event, indeed ; but no one trained in the

i:'

130

HUME.

CHAP.

J rv n;

;t. ■ i^'\

inetlicds of science would iiniiu,'ine that any law of nature
was really violated thereby, lie would simply set to
work to investio-atc the conditions under which so hig'hly
unexpected an occurrence took place, and thereby enlarge
his experience and modify his hitlierto unduly narrow con-
ce])tion of the laws of nature.

The alternative dohnition, that a miracle is "a trans-
gression of a law of nature by a particular volition of the
Deity, or by tlic interposition of some invisible agent"
(IV. p. l'^4, note), is still less defensible. For a vast num-
ber of jniracles have professedly been worked, neither by
tlie Deity, nor by any invisible agent; but by Beelzebub
and his compeers, or by very visible men.

Moreover, not to repeat what has been said respecting
the absurdity of sui)posing that something which occurs
is a transgression of laws, our only knowledge of which is
derived from the observation of that which occurs ; upon
what sort of evidence can we be justilied in concluding
that a given event is the eflPect of a particular volition of
the Deity, or of the interposition of some invisible (that
is, unperccivablc) agent ? It may be so, but how is the as-
sertion that it is so to be testcid ? If it be said that the
event exceeds the powei- of natural causes, what can jus-
tify such a saying i The day-ily has better grounds for
calling ;i thunderstorm supernatural, than has man, with
his experience of an intinitesimal fraction of duration, to
say that the most astonishing event that can be imagineil
is beyond the sco[)e of natural causes.

J. I:

"Wliatever is intcUigihle mid ciiu l)e distinctly conceived,
implies no coMtradictio'.i. and can never i)e proved lalse by
any demonstration, argunu-nl, or abstract reasoning d 2»'ioviy
- (IV. p. 44.)

[CIIAP.

/ of nature
ply sot to
I so liiii'lilv
by enlarge
arrow oon-

"a trans-
tion of the
jIo agent"

vast nuni-
noltlior by
Ik't'lzebiib

respecting
ich oceurs
)f wliicli is
urs ; upon
concluding
volition of
siblc (that
f is the as-
(l that the
it can jus-
rounds for
man, with
uration, to
' imagined

roMCoived,
.'d false by

vn.J

ORDER OF NATURE: MIRACLES.

131

So wrote Ilunie, with perfect justice, in his Sceptical
Doubts. JJut a niiraelo, in the sense of a sudden and
complete change in the customary order of nature^ is in-
telligible, can be distinctly conceived, implies no contra-
diction ; and, therefore, according to Hume's own show-
ing, cannot be proved false by any demonstrative argu-
ment.

Nevertheless, in diametrical contradiction to his own
principles, llume says elsewhere : —

"It is a nnracle that ;„ dead man should corae to life: be-
cause that has never hccn observed in any age or country.'' — ■
(IV. p. 13i.)

That is to say, there is an uniform experience against
such an event, and therefore, if it occurs, it is a violation
of the laws of nature. Or, to put the argument in its
naked absurdity, that which never has happened never can
liappen, without a violation of the laws of nature. In
truth, if a dead man did come to life, the fact would be
evidence, not that any law of nature had hrou violated,
but that those laws, eve •. when they express the results of
a very long and uniform experience, are necessarily based
on incomplete knowledge, and are to be held only as
grounds of more or less justifiable expectation.

To sum up, the definition of a miracle as a suspension
or a contravention of the order (.f Xature is self-contra-
dictory, because all W(> know of the order of Nature is
derived from oiir observation of the course of events of
which the so-called miracle is a part. On the other hand,
no event is too extraordinary to be impossible; and, there-

fore, if by the term miracles we mean only "extreim

wonderful events," there can Ik- no just ground for deny
ing the possibility of tln-ir ociiivrenee.

1S2

HUME.

[chap.

' ,

rii-

But wlicu we turn from the question of tlic possibility
of miracles, liowever they may be defined, in tlie abstract,
to tliat respecting- tlie grounds upon which we are justi-
fied in believiiii;- any particuhir miracle, IJume's aro-uments
liave a very different vahie, for they resolve themselves
into a simple statement of the dictates of common sense
— which may be expressed in this canon : the more a
statement of fact conflicts with previous experience, the
more complete must be the evidence which is to justify
us in believinn; i(. It is upon this principle that every
one carries on the business of common life. If a man
tells me ho .saw a piebald horse in Piccadill), 1 believe
liim without hesitation. The thim;' itself is likely enoui-ii,
and there is no ima^-inable motive for his deceivino- me.
But if the same [)erson tells inc he observed a zebra there,
I mijvht hesitate a little about acccptino- his testimony, un-
less I were well satisfied, not only as to his previous ac-
quaintance with zebras, but as to his powcr.s and opportu-
nities of observation in the present case. If, Imwover, my
informant assured me that he beheld a centaur trottin«'
down that famous thoroun'hfare, I should emphatically de-
cline to t-redit his statement ; and this even if he were the
most saintly of men and ready to suffer martyrdom in
.support of his belii'f. In such a case, I could, of course,
entertain no doubt of the n-;)od faith of the witness; it
would be only his com|)etency, which unfortunately has
very little to do with n'ood faith or intensity of convic-
tion, which I should presunjo to call in question.

Indeed, I hardly know wh.it testimony would sati.sfy
me of the existence of a live centaur. To put an ex-
treme case, suppose the lati' Johannes Miiller, of lierlin,
the i,n'eatest anatomist and physioloo-ist among- my con-
temporaries, hp.d barely affirmed h(> liad seen a live cen-

w-'ift'

'li

possibility
le abstract,
} are justi-
argumcnts
tliemselvcs
111 on sense
ic more a
rionco, tlio
to justify
tliat every
If a man
, 1 believe
Iv enouii'h,
piving mo.
jbra there,
niony, un-
evious ae-
1 ojiportu-
wover, my
r trotting
tioally (le-
! were tlie
yrdoni in
of course,
itness ; it
lately lias
of convic-

Icl satisfy

ut an ex-

3f Berlin,

my cim-

livc ceil-

vn.j

ORDER OF XATURE: MIRACLES.

133

taur, I .1, >nlcl certainly Imve been .tn^.^rcd by ti.e weight
of an assertion comino- f,om sue), an authoritv. Bnt I

eouM have ...t no further tiKm a suspension of judgment.
!->.•, on the uboks it would have been more probable that
even he had fallen into some error of interpretation of the
tacts which c.une under his observation, than that such an
annua as a crntaur really existed. And nothiuo- short of
a careful mouo.mph, by a hio^hly cou.potent investh-ator
aceonipan,e.I by figures and n.easuren>cnts of .-.ll the^uosi
a.nportant parts of a centaur, put forth under .-ircum
stances which could leave no doubt that falsitieation or
n.isn,terpr,.tation would meet with innnediate exposure,
could possibly enable a man of science to feel that he act-
ed conscientiously in expressin.i. his belief in the exist-
ence of a centaur on the evidence of testimonv.

llns hesitation about admittin.- the existence of such an
'""nial as a .entaur, be it observed, d-,es not deserve re-
I>n)ach, as scepticism, but moderate praise, as mere scien-
Uhc good faith. It need not imply, and it does not, so
tar as I am concerned, any a priori hypothesis that a cen-
taur ,s an impossible anim.J ; or that his existence, if he
did exist, would violate the laws of nature. Indubitablv,
th._oi^anisation of a centaur presents a variety of practic;i
.Idhculties to an anatomist and physiologist; and a good
many of those generalisations of our present experience
Avh.ch we are pleased to call laws of nature, would be upsei
•y the appearance of such an animal, sn that we should
have to frame new laws to cover our extended experience
tverv wise man will a.lmit that the possibilities of nature
are intinite, and include centaurs; but he will not the less
fee It his duty to h<.ld fast, for the present, by the dictum
of Lucretius, "Nam eerte ex vivo (Jentauri non fit ima.-o"
ind to cast the entire burthen of proof, that centaurs e'xiJt

)

■(i

(

j
(

.11 -

■ i :
i

184

HUME.

[chap

on the shoulders of those wlio ask him to believe the
state menu

Judged by the canon- either of connnon sense or of
science, vhieli are indeed i.nc and the same, all "miracles"
are ceii'.iurs, or they would not be miracles; and men of
sense ..;id science will deal with them on the same princi-
ples. No one who wishes to iceep well within the liuiils
of that which he lias a ri;.;lit to assert will allirm that it is
impossible that the sun and moon should ever have bocu
made to appear to stand still in the valley of Ajalon :, or
that the walls of a city should have fallen down at a trum-
])et blast ; or that water was turned into wine ; becauh'i
such events arc contrary to uniform ex[ie!!oncc and violate
laws (jf nature. For auyht he can prove to the contrar\,
s\ich events may appear in the order of nature lo-monow.
But common sense and common honesty alike vtblijve him
to demand from those who would have him believe in tho
actual oc( nronce of such events, evidence of a cogency
proportionate to *bi'ir dcpjiture from probability; evi-
dence at least .>• ftrmjg as that which the man who says
he has .seen ;i ;c:itauv is bound to produce, nnless ho is
content to be thought either more than credulous ur less
than honest.

But arc there anv miracles on record, the evidence for
which fulfils the j-Iain and simple requirements alike of
elementary logic; and of elementary morality?

Hume answers this question without the snndlest hesita-
tion, and with all the authority of a historical specialist: —

"Then; is not to be found.in all history, any miracle at-
testctl by a sullicicnt number of men, of sucli un<iuestioncd
goodness, education, and learning, as to .secure us against all
delusion in themselves; of such undoubted integrity, as to
place them in yond all suspicion of any design to deceive oth*

[CIUP

clicve tlio

;nso or of
miracles"
id iiic'ii of
inc j)rinci-
tliu liiuils

that it is
have i.iOCii
^jaldii ; or
at a trani-
;; because
iivl violate

contrar\ ,
o-inori'ovv.
)bli!'(' him
eve in thu
■I cogency
ility ; ovi-
wlio says
less he is
>us or less

(Icnco for
s alike of

est hcsita-
"cialist : —

niracle at-
HU'stioiied
igainst all
:rity, as to
iceivc otli*

vn.]

ORDER OF NATURE: 3IIRACLES.

135

ers; of such credit and reputation in tlu- eves of mankind,
as to have a great deal to lose in case of their being detected
in any falsehood; and at the same time attesting facts pcr-
lormed in such a public manner, and in so celebrated a part
of the world, as to rendev the detection unavoidable: All
which circumstances are rccpiisite to give us a full assurance
ot the testimony of men."'— (IV. p. liiC.)

These arc grave assertions, but tliey arc least likely to
be challenged by those who iiave made it their business to
weigh evidence and to give their decision under a due
sense of tln^ moral responsibility which they incur in .so
doing.

It is probal)le that few persons wlio proclaim tlieir be-
lief in miracles jiave considered what w..uld be necessary
to justify th;it belief in the ease of a professed modern
miracle-worker. Suppose, for example, it is allirmed that
A.B. died, and that CD. brought him to life again. Let
it be granted that A.B. and CD. are persons" of unim-
peachable honour and veracity ; that CD. is the next heir
to A.B.'s estate, and therefore had a strong motive for
not bringing him to life again; and that all A.B.'s rela-
tions, respectable persons who bore him a strong affection,
or had otherwise an interest in his being alive, declared that
they siiw him die. Furthermore, let A.B. be seen after
his recovery by all his friends and neighbours, and let his
and their depositions, that he is now alive, b(> taken down
before a magistrate of known integrity and acuteness:
would all this constitute even presumptive evidence that
CD. had worked a miracle? Unquestionably not. For
the most important link in the whole chain of evidence is
wanting, an.l tliat is the pr.,of that A. 15. was really .lea<I.
The evidence of ordinary observers on such a point as this
is absolutely worthless. And even medical evidence, un-

■T

f ■

■, ■ I

f '

(

"1"

I M f rj

130

HUME.

[CIIAP,

loss the physician is a person of unusual knowjedu^c and
skill, may have lilllc more value. Unless careful thern)o-
metric observation proves that the temperature has sunk
below a certain point ; unless the cadaveric stitfcnini; of
the muscles has become well established; all the ordina-
ry sitjns of death may be fallacious, and the intervention
of (M). may have had no n>ore to do with A.ll.'s restora-
tion to life than any other fortuitously coincident event.

It may be said that such a coincidence would be more
wondi'rful than the miracle itself. Nevertheless history
acijiiaints us with coincidi'uces as marvellous.

On the 19th of February, 184l', Sir J{obert Sale held
Jellalabad with a small English force, and, daily expecting
attack from an overwhelminjv force of Afghans, liad spent
three months in incessantly labouring to improve the forti-
fications of the town. Akbar Khan hail approached with-
in a few miles, and an onslaught of his army was supposed
to be imminent. That morning an earth(|uakc —

"nearly destroyed tlie town, threw down the greater part of
tlie parapets, the central gate with the ad)oinin<f bastions,
and a part of the new bastion which Hanked it. Three oth-
er bastions were also nearly destroyed, whilst several large
breaches were made in the curtains, and the Peshawur side,
eighty feet long, was quite ])ractical)le, the ditch being tilled,
and the descent easy. Thus in one moment tli(! labours of
three mouths were in a great measure destroyed." '

If .\kbar Khan had happened to give orders for an as-
sault in the early morning of the 19th of February, what
good follower of the Prophet could have (h)ubted tlmt
Allah had lent his aid? As it chanced, however, Mahome-

' Keport of Captain IJroadfoot, garrison engineer, quoted in Kayc'a
A/gfuiitidaii.

* I

[chap.

il tlicrriio-
lias sunk
ffcniiiu; of
10 onliiia-
tervoiition
's restoru-
t event.
. be 111 ore
■;s history

Siile hold
expecting
liad spoilt

the forti-
hod witli-

supposed

va.J

ORDER OF NATUltE: MIRACLES.

137

tan faith in the iiiii\-u-iiloua took another turn ; for the en-
orirotic, dofondors of the post liad rei»airod the daiiiai^e hy
tlio end of the month ; and the enemy, tindini; no sjons of
the earth<|uakc wlien they invested the place, ascribed the
supposed immunity of Jellalabad to Eno-lish witchcraft.

]>ut the conditions of belief dn not vary with time or
place; and, if it is uiideiiiablo that evidence of so com-
plete and weig-hty a character is neediHl, at the present
time, for the establishment of the occurrence of such a
wonder as that supposed, it has always been needful.
Those who study the extant records of miracles with due
attention will judfje for themselves how far it has ever
been supplied.

'ii

lev part of

f liastions,
riirce otli-
•eral large
awur side,
■ini^ filled,
labi)iirs of

for an as-

lary, what

bted th-it

Muliomc-

d in Kaye'a

188

UUME.

[chap.

III

CIIAITEU VITT.

THE-

lOX OF THKOLOCiV.

\i'i. i

•^*rf

llfMK scotiH t.> liavr had but two hearty dislikes: the one
to the Eii4ii>U nation, and tiie other to all the professors
of dou'Miatie theoloo-y. The one aversion he vented only
j)rivately t«. his friends; hut, if ho is over hitter in his
puhlie ntteranoes, it is au;ain; ' , ^ie:^ls in ucner i! and tlioo-
joii'ii'al enthusiasts and fanaties in parlicnlar; if he ever
seems insineere, it is when he wishes to insult thouloijfians
hv a parade of sarcastie respect. One need li'o no further
thin the peroration of the A'.vw/// oit Jfirac/c.s for a ehar-
aeteristie illustration.

'•I am tlie lielter pleased wiili tlu; nietliod of reasoning
here delivered, as I think it may serve to eouibund those
daniierons IViends and disLiuised enemies to the Clirisliuii ir-
Hfjimi wiio have iindertid\en to d tend it by the [irineiples of
lunnan reason. Our most holy reli<;ion is founded on /"/''//,
not on reason, and it is a sure meliiod of e\[)osing it to put

' III a note t.< the Essny on Superstition iind Enthusiasm, llnnie is
eMirl'iil to (Iclino wliat lie means !»y tins tiTin. " Uv priests I under-
staitil only tlic |iii>tenili'rs to inavvi' anil ilomiiiirm, .n 'o a supeiior
sanelity of eliaraclcr, ilistiiut from virtue and "'i.i inorals. These
are very dllfcicnt Iroiii t/irf/;/hi()i,\\h- are set apart to the ear'' of
siiered matters, and tiio eonilui.tiii}; i pulilie d.'\(»(ions witli }: i ater
deoeney and order Tliere is no rank of men inure to bo respected
than the latter."— (III. p. 83.)

I (

[chap.

VIII.

TIIKIS.M; KVOLITIO.V OF HIEOUHiV.

180

s : the one
proft'ssdi's
I'litcd only
ttor in his
1 and tlieo-
li lie over
Jiooloii'ians
no further
lor a t'har-

)iiii(I tliose
'hrixliiin ve-
•iiH'iplus of
1 on F(t-ili,
g it t(J put

sm, Iliinic is
osts I iukKt-
(» a supi'iiiir
nils. Tlio.-^e

till' lilK' of

with j: •! atcr
1)0 resiiocted

it to .such a trial :i.s it is liy no mcan.s titled to endure . . .
the Christian reliufion not only was ;it lirst attended with
miracles, hut even at this day cannot l)elieved by any rea-
sonahle pei-on without one. Merc r. a,son is insutheient to
convince us of its veracity: And u hoi er is moved liy l'\ii(h
to assent to it, is conscious of a continual miracle in his own
person, which subverts all the principles of his understand-
ing, and gives liini a determination to believe what is most
contrary to custom and experience.'"— (IV. pp. l.jJJ, ITjl.)

It is obvious that, hero and clscwhcrn, lluinc, adoptinn;
ft pojMilur confusion of ideas, uses relii'-ion as the etpiiva-
lent of dt)o[niatiL' iheoloii^y; and, therefore, ho >.iys. witii
perfect justice, that "relii>ion is nothiii*;- hut a species «>f
phiiosopliy" (iv. p. 171). Here no doubt lies the root of
his antagonism. The (juarrels of theolou-iiins and pliilo.so-
phers liave not been al)out religion, but about pIiilo,soj)liy ;
ami philosophers not unfreiineiitly sccin to entertain the
same feeling towards theologi "is that sportsmen cherish
towards poachers. "There cannot be two passions n)ore
nearly rcsenjbling each other than hunting and philoso-
phy," says llunie. And philosophic hunters are given to
think that, while they i>ursue truth for its own sake, out
of pure love for the chase (perhaps mingled with a little
hmnan weakness to be thonglit good shots), and by open
and legitimate methods; their theological competitors too
often care merely to .supply the market of establishments;
an I di.sdaln neitlicr the aid of the .snares of superstition,
! r the e vcr of the darkness of ignorance.

' 'ih' •'"<■ i'ouiid.itioii was given for this impressi(»n
V the il writers who.se works liad fallen in

Hume's w.iy, 11 IS dilHcult to account for the depth of
feeling which so good-natured a man manifests on the
subject.

K 7

:lj

1 i '

ill s

1' ■ ;!'■ \

^ I

140

HUME.

[chap

Tliu lio writi's ill the Natiiml I/lsfori/ of RvI'kj'kdi,
with t]Mitc umisiml fu'crhity : —

"The cliicf ohjoctioii to it [the mu'icnl hciithcii inytholo-
g\ ] with rc^iinl to this planet is, tluit it is not iisccrlained
by any Just reason or autiiority. The unrient tradition in-
sisti'd on liy lieathen priests und theoh);>-eiN is hut a weak
foundation: ami transmitted also such a iiund)er of coiitni-
dietoiy reports, supported ;dl of them l»y equal authority,
that it lieeamr al)>olutely impossible to fi\ !i prefertiuu!
umonji- them. A few vohunes. therefore, must contain all
the polemical writii ^s of ])agan priots: And their whole
theoloixy must consist more of traditional stories ami super-
stitious practices than of [)hilosoplii(;d argument and con-
troversy.

"But where theism forms the fundamental principle of
any poj lar religion, that tenet is so conformable to sound
reason, that philosophy is apt to incorporate itself with such
a system of theology. And if the other dogmas of that sys-
tem he contained in a sacred hook, such as the Alcoran, or
be determined 1)y any visible authority, like that of the Ro-
man pontiff, speculative reasoners naturally carry on their
assent, and embrace a theory, which has been instilled into
them by their earliest education, and which also possesses
some degree of consistence and uniformity. But as these
appearances are sure, all of them, to prove deceitful, philoso-
phy will very soon find herself very unccpially ynk(!d with
her new associate; and instead of regulating each principle,
as they advance together, slie is at every turn perverted to
serve the purposes of superstition. For besides the unavoid-
able incoherences, which must be reconciled and adjusted,
one may safely atHrm, that all popular theology, especially
the scholastic, has a kind of appetite for absurdity and con-
tradiction. If that theology went not beyond reason and
eonnnon sense, her doctrines woidd appear too easy and fa-
miliar. Amazement must of necessity be raised; Mystery

[CJIAI'

f Jifli'i/ion,

•n iiiytholo-
iisc'crtiiiiu'd
r:i(liti()n in-
itit ;i weak
r dl' fontni-
I iuitliority,
prcrci'ciK.'i!
contain all
lifir whole
ami siipcr-
it and con-

rincii)lc of
c to sound
i" with such
of that sys-
Alcoran, or
of the Ho-
•y on their
stilled into

j)ossessc3
lit us those
ul, pliiloso-
oked with

1 principle,
erverted to
le unavoid-
1 adjusted,
, especially
y and con-
•eason and
isy and fa-
1 : Mystery

viii.J THEISM; K VOLITION OF TUKdLoc V. m

nffecfed: Darkn.ss and ohsr.u'ity sought after: And a foun-
dation of uKrit alVonled to ihe .1, vout votaries, who .l.siro
an (.pporttinity of subduing their rebellious reason l.v th<.
heliefof the most unintelli{4il)le sophisms.

" Ecclesiastical history sufliciently confirms these rellec-
tions. When a controversv is started, some people always
pretend with certainty to foretell tlie issue. Whichever
opinion, say tliey, is most contrary to plain reason is sm-e to
prevail; even when the jreneral interest of the system re-
'l"ircs not that decision. Thoun-h the reproach of |,ero.sy
may, lor some time, he bandied altoiit among the disputants
It always rests at last on the side of n,,sou. Anv one it is
pretended, that has but learning enough of this kind to
know the .letiuitiou .,f An.tn, Pehujinn, Kra.tiu,, Sorhnan,
SibiUu,,,, Eufui-I,iau,Ki,tovi.,n, .Vonof /< J If,. ,^c., not to men-
tion Proh.tant, whose fate is yet uncertain, will be convinced
ot the truth of this observation. It is thus a svstem becomes
absurd in the end, merely from its being reasonable and
philosophical in the beginning.

"To oppose the torrent of scholastic religion l)y such fee-
ble maxims as these, that it u hnpombk jW the mme thin,, to
le and not to he, that the whole U greater thun a part, that 'two
and three mnh^five, is pretending to stop the ocean with a
bulrush. Will you set up profani; reason against sacred my.s-
tory? No punishment is givat enough for vour impiety.
And the same tires which were kindled for^heiciies will
serve also for the destruction of philosophers."— (IV. pp. 481
—3.)

IToldino; these opinions respecting tlie recognised .sys-
tems of tlicology and their profes.sors, Hume, nevertheless,
•seems to have liad a theoh>gy of his own; that is to .say,
lie veems to have thought (though, as will appear, it i.s
needful for an expositor of his opinions to speak very
^•uardedly on tliis point) tliat the problem of theism i"s
susceptible of scientiiie treatment, with something mon-

i42

III' ME.

[chap.

«r?^

tli.iii a noL;ative result. Ili^ opitilous aro to Ik- <ialliciv(l
fmiu the ck'vontli section of the /iKjiilru (174«); fr.)m
the JJi(t/()ifm.s foiinrnlii;/ Xatnntl Rc/i;/i(>ii, which wviv
written at least as early as IT.")!, tliouiih not pulilishetl till
after liis death; and from the Xulural Jlisluri/ of RvHij-
inii, put)lished in 17 oT.

In the lirst two pieces, the reader is left to judj-'i! for
himself which interlocnt(.r in the dialo^'ue represents the
thouLThts of the aiitiior; hut, for the views [)ut forward in
the last, Hume accepts the responsihility. rnfortunately,
this cssav deals almost wholly with the historical develop-
ment of theological idoas ; and, <ui the cjuestion of the phil-
osojthical founthition of theology, does little more than (>\-
jiress the writer's conti idment with the ari^iiment from
desic;n.

''The wliolc iViune of nature l)esi)eaks an Tntcllitrent Au-
tlior; and no rational in(|uirer can, after serious reth'ction,
suspend his iM'lief a moment with regard tt» the primary
principles of jicnuine Theism :uid IJeiij^ion."— (IV. p. 4'.]ii.)

"Were men led into the api)rchension of invisiiile. intelli-
ffcnt power i>y a contemplation of the works of nature, they
could never possilily entertain any conception l)ut of one
hini^lc l)einu', w ho hestowcd existence and orilcr on tliis vast
machine, and adjusted all its parts accordinu' to one regular
plan or conncctcil system. For tlioujih. to perscms of a cer-
tain turn of minil, it may not appear allo.irclhcr ahsurd that
several independent licinj^s, citdowcd with superior wisdom,
might coi\spire ii\ the contrivance and execution of one reij-
ular plan, yet is this a nufely arliitrary supposition, which,
even if allowed i>ossilile. nmsi lie confessed neither to ho
supported liy prolialdlity nor necessity. -Ml thim;s in ihe
muvcrse are evidently of;, piece. Kverythinu;- is a'.ljustcd
to evervthinu^ One tlcsiuii prevails throughout tiie whole.
And this nuilormilv leads the mind to acknowlc(lge one an-

[('IIAI'.

If ifatlKTcd
■4«); lV.>iii
iliit'h wore
il.lishod till
If of Rtliif-

> JiuIl;'*' for
nvsoiits tlio
for wan I in
FoitiniatLly,
•al (U'Vi liij)-
of the pliil-
)!•(.' than v\-
muMit from

clligont Au-
rt rclh Ttion,
:1k' primary
V'. 1). 4:!.-).)
sihlf, intclli-
natiiiT'. tlicy

l)iit of Olio
on tills vast
one R'lrnlar
)iis of a (TT-
altsunl tliat
ior wisdom,
1 of one rcu;-
itioii, wliicli,
•itlicr to Itc
liniis in ilio

is adjusted

I till' wiioll'.

■dgo one nu-

nn.J THEISM; EVOLUTION' OF TIIEOLOGi',

143

tlior; lic'cansc the (

onccption of dimTont antliors, witlioiit

any distinction of atlril.utcs or operations, serves only to
give perplexity to the inia<riiiatioii, without Ix-stc

satisfaction on the nnderst

Tlins Iluino

)win!'-

iindiiii'-."'— (IV. p. 442)

any

!ip[»ears to have sijieerely aeeopted the tw(
fui;daniental conclusions of the arnnmcnt from deshni

firstly, that a Deity exists; and,

secondly, that Ho pos-

itiinan

sesses attrihutes mon; ,„. j^.ss allied to those of 1
intelligence. ]5ut, at this embryonic stao-e of tlieoloi^y
lime's pro^rress is arrested; and, after a .survev of tl

dev

elopuient of don:ina, his " o-eneral eoroll

•y " is, that—

le whole is a riddle, an eniyma.

tery. Doubt, uncertainty, suspense of jnd

only result of our niost accurate scrutiny cone

n inexplicable niys-

subject. Hut such is tlie frailtv of 1

nieiit, appear the
eriiin<r this

luman reason, and such
the irresistible contagion of opinicm, that even this deliber-

ate doubt could

view, and, opposiiiir ow species of superstition to anotl

■arcely Ik; upheld; diij we not enlarge oui

set them a (piarrellini'-; while w

ler,

and contention,

tlloll;

uiselves, during tlieir fury

lappily make our escape into the calin

'V\x

;\\ obscure, regions of philosophy."— (ly. j, 51:).)
IIS it may l)<> fairly presumed that Hume

us own sentiments in th

expr(>sses

le words of the speech with which

I'liilo concludes the iJiitloffm

"If the whole of natural thcolog
niainlain. resolves itself into one simple, thougl

•y, as some people seem to

and)iguo!is, al least nndelined proposition, Tluit th

1 somewhat

r<i

liHCH ofon/rr ill t/ir iiiiiirrKC pr<>h,il,lii /,

w I'liu.v or

ffif to hniiutn hitillliicKre : If t

Hiir Kiiiiic rciiioti aiiiiJ.i

of extension, variation
all

ords no inference tieit aMVcts human lil

source of any action or forlieaiai

ills proposition be not capal>lc

or more particular explication: If it

e or can be the

ice: And if tin

perfect as it is, can be carrie<i no further than to the I

anai.)trv. im-

mnian

■'

f '

144

HUME.

[clIAI'.

"r II

h i

h>\

I .

intc'lliifcuce, and cannot l)e transt'errod, with any appearance
of proliahility, to tlie otlicr qualities of tlie mind; if this
really lie tlie case, wliat can the most intniisitive. contempla-
tive, and religious man do more than give a plain, philo-
sophical assent to the proposition as often as it occurs, and
believe that the arguments on which it is established exceed
the objections which lie against it '. Some astonishment, in-
deed, will naturally arise from the greatness of the object;
some melancholy from its obsciu'ity; some contcnipt of hu
man reason, that it can give no solution more satisfactory
with regard to so extraordinary and magnificent a (piestion.
IJut believe me, Cleanthes, the most natural sentiment wliich
a well-disposed mind will feel on this occasion, is a lou'dng
desire and expectation that Heaven would be pleased to dis-
sipate, at least alleviate, this profound ignorance, l>y allbrd-
ing some more particular revelation to mankind, and making
discoveries of the nature, attributes, and operations of the
Divine olject of our faith."' -(II. p. 547-8.)

Such being the sum total of Humes conclusions, it
cannot be said that Ills theological burden is a heavy
one. lUit, ii" we turn from the A^atniuil Ifislorif af lic-
iii/ian, to the TfCdtlsc, the JiKjiiIrt/, ami tlu' iJid/of/iics, thi;
.story of what happened to the ass laden with salt, who
took to the water, irresistibly suggests itself. Hume's
tiieisni, such a-< it is, dis.sojves away in the dialectic river,

' It is noiMJIess to (|Uote (lie r.st of tin- iiiiss;i;^e, tii(iii;;li 1 iMiiiidt
rcl'iaiii fidui observing tliiU (lie ii'i-uiiiiMfiiiiiitioii uliidi it font;iiiis,
that a "man of letters" sliuuld bccoine a pliilosoiiiiicai sccptie as
"the first ami most essi'iilial step tow aids being a soiiiul lielievifig
Christian," thoaj;li a(l{ipte<i u"il larj^ely aeteij upon by niiuiy a eliaiii-
pioii of (iillioiioxy in these days, is (luestionulile in taste, if it be
nieanl as a jest, ami more thi.a (piestionable in moralify, if it is to
be taken in earnest. To pretend tliat you believe any doctrine for
no betli'i' reason than thai yon ddiiiit everything else, would be dis
holiest, if it were not prepo,«leious.

[chap.

appciiranco
iiul; if tliis
, cuntt'inplii-
pliiin, pliilo-
(H'curs, and
•lu'd oxcccd
islnuL'iit, in-
tlic ohjcct ;
■in])t of liu-
siitist'actory
a (pu'stioii.
incnt which
is a hjiiLifiiiijf
■ascd to dis-
', liy aiVord-
luid making
ions of the

ichisioiis, it
is a licHvy
U)rij of Rc-
i/ot/iics; the
h salt, who
Hume's
Icctic liver,

ii^li I eiiiinot
li it contiiins,
ill sot'ittle as
Mill lu'iiovin<5
laiiy II ('liain-
iisto, if it 1)0
ity, if it is to
iloftriiie fur
would l>e (ii(«

vr.J TIIKISM; EVULUTIOX OF TllEOLOUY. 145

!^i!uned''"" '' ''^' ^"" '^'" '''^*'' ""'^ "^ "'''^'^ '' ^««
Of the two theistic propositions to which Ilu.nc is com-
m.t od, the first is the aiKrn.-.lon of the existence of^
God, supported by the ar-nnncnt fro.n the nature of cau-
satton In the U.,o,ues, Philo, while pushin, sceptioistn
to Its utmost hunt, ,s nevertheless nmde to say that-

"... where reasonable men treat these sui>jects, the ques-

"t tl c De t3. 11,0 tormer truth, as you will ..l.serve is un
<luc^.on.U e and self-evident. Nothin, exists wit u 1
r^'.Tc o "' on..„al cause of this universe (whatever it I>e)

TIk' expositor of Ilumo, who wishes to do his work thor-
oughly, as far as it goes, cannot but fall into perplexity'

■ A porploxitv .hid, i.s i„crease.i rather than .li,„i„i.she,l hv some
passa-^os n. a h-ttor ,0 (;il,,.,, Elliot of Minto (Ma.eh In ,7r,n

I .nake Cloant es „,.. •„ ..f the dialogue; whatever ,ou a

tq>tal.U t, „,,.. Any i.rojM.ns.ty you in.agine I have to the other
pie crept .„ upon n.e a,ain>, ,„y will; ...d ',i. ,.., ,o„„ ^.^ ,tH[
•>'■••;":'' "" "'•' ."anus...ipt hool, wrote before I was t.^e u" del
...n. pa,...t.

t ad. It l....a„ w.th au anxious seent after ar.u.neuts to eon-

h.m the eoMunon „p,„ion ; .lout.ts ..tole i„, dissipat.i, ren,,. I • were

;M^.. .i.ss,.a,ed, renn.ned a,ai„; and it was a p..,.p.;., .,4:*^^
t hi^M'Tr"' 'r'' ""■'----.-.,. against Zj.

... rood., „,, , ,„„„„,.,^. ,„,,,„,,_^.,^, ^,^^^^,^1 1^^_ ^^^

w tit *!;:;;:':;•'•;'''•''' •••■^'''''■•- ^"-n-r»-i'y."-the.,d,.d:

•Ml ■ -unless tha, pn-p.-uMty were «s strong and unive.-.d as that
" '"■• 'H. n, our ...„.s...s ...d .,xp,,ienee_will still, I a„. afraid be es
^.ned a su.spu..ous foundation. 'Tis here 1 wish for vour as-i nu.
XV e must endeavour to prove that this propensity is son.ewhut dit^ !

^ii

j*:!^:^^

t ■

i I

\-'\

mm:.

wlicn ho contrasts tliis Ijmjvuau;*' '.vitli tliat of tlic sections
of the tliiiil part of the Ttrndst, i iititKnl, 117/// (i Cuitse is
Alirai/s Xrrrnsari/, nud Of thv Idea of Xi'cesmrt/ Connexion.

It is there shown, at Uirge, t hat " every «leinonstratioii
which lias been pro(hice<l for the necessity of a cause is
falhicious and sophistical" (1. p. Ill); it is aftinuotl that
"there is no ahsoluto uov nietaphysical necessity that
every he^iiiiiini; of existence should he attended with such
an nhjcct" [as a cause] (I. p. 227); and it is roundly as-
serted that il is "easy for \is to conceive any ohject to he
non-existent this moment and existent the next, without
conjoining- to it the distinct idea of a cause or pnxhictivc
principle" (I. p. 111). So far from the axiom, that what-
ever lH>u;ins to exist must have a cause of existence, heijitf
"self-evident," as IMiilo calls it, Ilumc spends the greatest
care in showiuL? that it is nothini>' but the product of cus
tom or experience.

And the doubt thus forced upon one, whether TMiilo
ouijjht to be taken as oven, so far, Iluine's mouth -piece,
is increased when we retlecl that we an- dealinin^ with an
acute reasoner ; and that there is no difliculty in drawinij
the dediiiMJo?! from Hume's own delisiition of a cause, that
tlie very plirasc, a " tirst cause," involves a contradiction
in terms, lie lays down that, —

"Tis an cstaltlislied axiom both in natural and moral phi-
losophy, tlnit an object, wiiicli exists for any time in its tull

ont from oar indinntion to timi our ou-u fi<;urcs in the cloud?, our
faces in tin' moon, our passions uml sentiments even in iniininiate
matter. Sucli an inclination may and oiiirht to l)e controlled, and
oan never be u lei;itimate ground of assent." (iturton, Li/r, I., p.
'.VM — .'{.) The pietiirt' of Hume here drawn iino<n\seiously by his own
liand, is uniilu! enough to the popular conception of him as a care-
less scepiie loving doubt for doulitV sake.

[niAF.

iie sections
II Cause Is
Connexion.
lonstration
a cau80 is
IniKHl that
:'ssity that

with siK'li
'oundly as-
lijcct t<;> hi'
xt, without
pnxhiotivo

that wliat-
eiice, hciiii;
he j>;roatcst

IK't of ('US.

■thcr rhilo
>utli-pic'Oo,
\if with ail
ill (IrawiiiLj
cause, tliat
ntradictinii

moral |)hi-
c in its t'uU

clouds", our
ill iiiiuiiiii:it<>
inti'olli'd. ami
in, Li/r, I., [1.
ly bv his <iwu
itn as it care-

V.M.] TIIKISM; EVOLL'TIO.V OF T11K()L0(;V. 147

perfection without producinir another, is not its sole c luse •
but ,« assisted hy sonu- other principle which j.ushes it froni
Its state of inactivity, and makes it exert that energy of which
It was secretly possessed."~{r. p. lOG.)

Now the "first cause" is assumed to have existed from
all eternity, up to the moment at which the universe came
into existence. H.nco it cannot be the sole cause of the
universe; in fact, it was no cause at all until it was "as-
sisted hy .some oth.,r principle;" conseque.itiv the so-called
hrst cause," so far as it produces the universe, is in real-
ity an effect of that otlier principle. Morc.ver, tliou-h
in the person of JMiil.., Hume assumes the axiom "that
whatever he.<,^lus to exist must have a cause," wliioh he de-
nies in the Treatise, he must have seen, for a child may see,
that th(! assumption is of no real service.

Suppose V to be the imagined first cause and Z to he
its effect. Let the letters of the alphabet, a, />, r, ,/, e, /, ,,,
in their order, repr.^sent successive moments of time', and
let .7 represent the particular moment at which the effe.-t
Z makes its appearance. It follows that the cause Y could
not have existe.l "in its full perfection" duriujr the *im<.
o—e, for if it had, then the effect Z would have .-ome into
existence durin- that time, which, bv the hvpoth.-sis, it
(hd not do. The cause Y, therefore, must have come into
existence at/, and if "evcrytliin- that comes into existence
lias a cause," Y must have ha.l a cause .\' opcratiuu' at e ;
X, a cause W operating,' at r/,- and so on m/ lnjh,lh,,„.'

' Kant employs siibslantially the samo arfiumont :- " Wiinic .i.s
hocl.ste Woscn in .lies.T Kctte .k-r ndinKiinKon sfli,,,, so wiinio cs
Mlist cin r.iicl .icr Rcihe .lerscUion scin, un.l ,.(„.„ so wi- ,iic ,,1,.,]..-
rcn (i!u..l,T, .l.-ncn os v,nfr,,sHzt ist, nod, fcrtier,. r„f,M-.„cl,i,n.'cM
wcjfei. scuu's nod. Iiohoren Gnindes orfuhren."— /u-;/,/-. Kd Hart
ensUdn, p. 4 '22.

148

HUME.

[CHAP.

If the only dcinonstr;ilive ar<jfiniu'!it for tlic oxistt'iice
of a Dt'itv, which Iliiino advancos, thus, litcrallv, "•'•kcs
to \vat<-r" in tlie solvent of his philosopjiy, tho roasonint'
from the cvidt'in'o of desijfn does not fare much bettor.
If Iliinii' really knew of any vahd re[)ly to I'liilo's ariiu-
nients in tiie followinu; passages of the Dinhxjues, Ik; has
dealt unfairly by the reader in concealinij it: —

" But liccnuso T know you are not murli swayeil hy names
and ;uillioriti( s I shall endcavoiu' to show you. a little more
distinetly. tlae inconveniences of that Antliropomori)hism
wliieh you liave emltraced; and shall p'-ne that there is
no ijround to sup])o>e a plan of the world to Ik- formed in
the Divine mind, eonsistiu<,' of distinct ideas, ditlerently ar-
ran<;ed, in the same manner as un architect forms in his
liead the plan of a house which he intends to execute.

"It is not easy, I own, to see what is <^aiiu"d by this sup-
position, whether we judije the matt'-r by liatmrn or by Expe-
rience. We are still oMijred to mount hiyhcr, in order to find
the cause of this cause, which you had assigned as satisfac-
tory and conclusive.

"If />'m.w« (I nu'an altstract reason, derived froni inquiries
(( priori) be not alike mute with retrard to all (pu stions con-
cerning cause and etlect, this sentence at least it will venture
to pronounce : That a mental world, or nniverse of ideas, re-
(juires a cause as much as does a material world, or universe
ofolijccts; and, if similar in its arrniiirenicnt. must recpiire
a similar cause. For what is there in this suliject which
should occasion a ditferent conclusion or inference? In an
abstract view, they are entirely alike; and no ditliculty .it-
tends the one supposition, which is not conunon to both of
them.

"Again, when we will needs force Experience to pronounce
some sentence, even on those subjects which lie beyond lier
sphere, neither can she perceive any material dinerence in
this parlicidar between these two kinds of worlds; but finds

[CIIAP.

existence

allv,

g.>es

' reasoniiiij
mil better,
lilo's ariiu-
Kcn, Ik! lias

1 by nanu's
little more
oinorphisin
at there is
formed ia
fcrcntly ar-
nns in his
nite.

y this sup-
)!" by Expc-
"der to find
lis satisfac-

n inquiries
stioiis coii-
rill venture
)t" ideas, re-
iv universe
list re(]uire
jeet which
:c ? In an
fliculty at-

to I)<)tll of

pronounce
M'vond her
Ifcrence in
; but tinds

villi TIIEI.<>f; EVOLITIOX OF TIIKOLOGY. 140

them to be governed by similar principles, and to depend
upon an ecpial variety of causes In their oi)erations. Wo
liave speciinenH in miniature of both of them. Our own
mind rcscmbifs the one; a ve^a.tablc or animal body the
other. Let experience, therefore, jud-e from these samples
Nothing seems more delicate, with regard to its causes, than
tliou-ht: and as these cau.ses never operate in two persons
alter the same manner, so we never find two persons who
think exactly alike. iNor iiuleed does the same person think
exactly alike at any two difi'dcnt periods of time. A difiir-
cnee of age, of the disposition ,.f Ids l,„dy, of weather, of
food, of company, of books, of passions; any of these partic-
ulars, or (>fliers more niiiuite, are sufiieient to alter th<- curi-
ous machinery of thought, and communieate to it very dif-
ferent movements and operations. As far as we can jlidge,
vegetables and animal bodies are not more delicate in their
motions, nor depend upon a greater variety or more curious
adjustment of springs and i)iineipi(s.

'• How, therefore, shall we satisfy ourselves concerning the
cause of that Being whom you suppose the Author of Nature,
or, according to your system of aiithroponiorphism, the i.h'al
world in which you trace the materials Have we not the
same reason to trace the ideal world into another ideal world
or new intelligent principle > Hut if we stop and g„ no
firther; why go so far^ Why not stop at the materisd
world { How can we satisfy ourselves without going on m
Intinitum? And. after all, what satisfaction is th.re hi that
infinite progression^ |,rt u* remember the story of the
Indian jihilosopher and bs . lephant. It was never nioiv
applicable than to the present sul.ject. If the material
world rests upon a similar ideal world, this ith-al world must
rest upon some other; and so on without en<i. -It w.re bet-
ter. tlieref(m>, never to look beytmd tl- • ) r.-scnt riutcrial
world. Hy supposing it to 0(uitain the prim u., ,.<f its order
within itself, we really assert it to be (}od; m-,,! thr, sooner
we arrive at that Divine Being, so much the bettet. When

I I

/,(

150

uuMi;.

[CIIAIV

mff^

you jf() one step bcyor.d tlio nmntlanc systt-in you only (■xiitr
an in(iuisilivc' humour, w liicli it is inipossil))!; cvi-r to satisfy.
To say lliat the (lifltTcnt itlcas which compose the reason
of the Supreme liciug fall into order of themselves and l»y
tlieir own natures, is really to talk without any precise nu-an-
iuix. If it has a meanin-r, I would fain know why it is ni.t
as <,'ooil sense to say that the parts of the material worM
fall into ortler of themselves, and by their own nature. Can
the one oi)ini<)n be intelligible while the other is not so i"
— (ll.j).4(il— 4.)

C'ieanthes, in rei>lyin<,' to IMiilo's discourse, says that
it is very easy to HUswcr his ar<;uments; but, as not un-
fri'ijucntlv Iiappens with controversialists, lie mistakes a
rcplv for an answer, when he declares tliat —

'•Tlu! order and arraufjement of nature, the curious adjust-
ment of final causes, tlie plain use and intention of every part
and oryan; all these bespeak in the clearest langua«,'e (uie
intelli«rent cause or author. The heavens and the earth join
in the same testimony. The whole chorus of nature raises
one hymn to the praises of its Creator."— (II. \>.4(J').)

Thouifli the rhetoric of Cleanthes may I'c adinire<l, its
irrelevancy to the point at issue must be admitted. \N ati-
<leriiin' still further into the region of declamation, lie
works liiiiiselF into a [)assioji :

'• Vou alone, or almost alone, disturb this <,'eneral havmony.
You start abstruse doubts, cavils, and objections: You ask
me what is the <;ause of this cause? I know not : I care not :
that concerns not me. 1 have found a Deity; and here 1
stop my iuipiiry. Let those jfo further who are wi.ser or
ujore enterprisin<,'."' — (II. i). IGC.)

In other words, O Cleanthes, rcasoninn; liavinj^ taken
you as far as you want to go, you decline to advance any

[CIIAI'.

iiily (.'Xi'itr
to satisfy,
tlic rfiisoii
OS uiul l>y
cisc mciiu-
y it is not
rial \v(Jil<l
Uire. t'uii
s not so f

says that
IS nut un-
iiistakt's a

lus ndjust-
cvory i)art

iruat'c one
I'urtli join

tiiiT raises

liuiivil, its
•d. Wan-
iiiatiun, lio

1 liarniony.
: You ask
I care not :
iinil here I
V, wiser or

inijj taken
Ivanee aTiv

Mil J

TIIKISM; EVULLTION OF TIIKUI-OtiV,

131

I'lirtlier; oven tlion^h you fully admit that (he very sanio
ivaxiJiinu; forbids you to sto|) where you are jilcasinl to
cry halt! I>ut this is siinjtly foreinj^ your reason to
ahdicate in favour of your caprice. It is iinpossihic to
imagine that llurnc, of all men in the wcu'ld, could have
rested sati.sHed with sucl.' an act of hi<^li-treason aLjaiiist
the sovercit;'nty of [ihilosojihy. Wc; niay rather conclude
that the last word of the di>-cussion, which he gives to
IMiilo, is also his own,

"It'I am still to remain in utter iirnorance of causes, nnd
can alisolutcly trive an explication of nothinj;. I shall never
csteuin it any advaiita<4e to shove otf for a moment a dilli-
culty, which, you acknowlcd<fc, must inuneiliately, in its full
force, recur upon me. Naturalists,' indeed, very Justly ex-
plain jiarticular ctfccts l»y more general causes, tiioti^li these
general causes should remain in the end totally incxplica-
l)le; hut they never surely thon^dit it satisfactory to explain
a particular etfeet by a particular cause, which was no more
to l>e accounted for than the eirect itself An id'-al system,
arranged of itscll", without a precedent design, is not a whit
more explicable than a material one, which attains its order
in a like manner; nor is there any more dillicidly in the
latter supposition than in the former." — (II. p. 400.)

It is obvious that, if Hume had been pushed, he mu.>t
have admitted that Ids opinion concerning the existence
of a God, and of a certain renioto re.semblance of his intel-
lectual nature to that of man, was an hypothesis wiiieh
iniglit possess more or less probability, but was inca[)able
on his own principles of any approach to demonstration.
And to all attempts to make any [)ractical use of his
theism; or to jtrove the existence of the attributes of

' /. (., Natural philosophers. i

I \

If.

uri

152

iiUMi:

L<nAf.

•r

' 1

infinlto wisiluiii, Ii(>ncvolciico, justice, lun] tlio like, whicli
are usually a<"Tilioil to tlio Deity, hy roason. ho opposes
a seairliitiii; critical iic<;ation.'

The object of tlie speech of the imai^iuary Epicurean
in the eleventh section of the /H7«/r//, entitled O/' (t /'ar-
tkii/or /'niiuiiinrt' an'l />/ a Future State, is to invert the
aririnii.nt of IJishop llntlcr's Ana/o'ff/.

That famous defence of theoloLiv ajjiaiiist tlie <i pi.o-
ri sceptiei>iii of Freethinkers of the ei;j;hteenth century,
wlio I'a-eij their ar<;uuients on the inconsistency of the
revealed sehenio of salvation with the attributes of the
Deity, consists, essentially, in conclusively proving that,
from a moral point of view. Nature is at least as repre-
hensiiiie as orthodoxy. If you tell me, says liutler, in
eflect, that any part of revealed religion nuist bo false
because it is inconsistent with the divine attributes of
justice and mercy ; I boi^ leave to point out to you, that
then' are undeniablo natural facts which are fully open to
the same objection. Since you admit that nature is the
work of <Jod, you are forced to allow that such facts are
consistent with his attributes. Therefore, you must also
admit, thai the i)arallel facts in the scheme of orthodo.vy
arc also consistent with them, and all your ari^uments ti>
the contrary fall to the j^round. Q.K.D. In fact,the solid
sense of Duties i.'fS, the Deism of the Fredhinkors not a
lejUf to stand i ( - . Perhaps, however, he did not rcducm-
ber the wi.;.- '-,s\^\g that "A man seemeth rij,'lit in his
own cause, ba: viiother cometh after and juds^eth him."
Hume's ICpieun an philosopher ailopts the main ariiuuu-nts
of the Anufof/i/, but unfortunately drives them home to a

' Iliimi's K'tter to Mure of Csildwell, contiiiiiin<^ a critirism of
Lcccluiiutr.s sermon (Hurton F. p. Ica), bcuns strongly on tliis poiut.

vm]

rUKlSM; EVOLUTION' OF TFIKOUh;^.

163

conclusion of wl.; h the go..d J: ^hop would 1, ,llv haxc
.ipprovoil.

" r deny n Provideiur, you s.iy, and supreme k<>\ ernor of
tho ^^Mrld. who f,M.id(s the courso of .vents, nud punishes ih
VICIOUS with infamy 1 <lis:.ppointment, and rewai.i^ tl
virtuous with honour nd sue, in all their undeitaki
But suiei^ 1 deny not the eouis, tself of events, whieh li
open to every one's in ,iiry and examination. I ac knowle.j.r,.
that, in the present order of things, virtue is attend,.! win,
more peaee of mind than vice, and meets with a more fav.uir-
nhlc reception fr..,u the world. I am sensiMv that. accord inj,'
to the past .xperience of mankind, friei.lsl.ip is the chief joy
ot human life.and moderation the only sour.c of trau.,uiiiity
and happin, s. I never balance between the virtuous and the
vuMous e.Mirse of life; but am sensible that, to a well -lispos. d
mind, .very advantage is on the side of the form V,„l

what c!in you say more, allowing all vour siippos^ ,„J

reasonings? You tell me, indeed, that this disp „ of

things proceeds from intelligence and design, l! what-
ever if proceeds from, the dispositicui itself, on whieli depends
our happiness and misery, an.l consequently our con.liu-t and
deportment in lif is still the same. It is still open for nu-
ns well as you, t. t. guhitc my behaviour by my experienee
of past events. And if you uflirm that, while a divine prov-
idence is allowed, and a supreme distributive justice in the
universe. I ought to expect sonw nu)re particular reward of
the good, and punishment of the bad, bevond the ordinary
course of events, I lierc lind the same fal'lacv which I have
before endeavoured to detect. You persist in imagining,
that if we grant that divine existence for which yo., so ear'
nestly contend, you may safely infer consequences from it.
and add something to the experienced order of nature, by
arguing from the attributes which you ascribe to vour g.'.ds.
You .se, in m)t to remember that all your rea.soninV's on^^this
subject can only be drawn from elfects to can- s; and that
every argunu-nt, deduced frouj causes to tflect.s, must of ne-

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154

HUME.

[chap.

ceasity he n gross sopliism, since it is impossible for you to
know iinytliiiig of tlio causo, but wliat you have antecedently
not inferreci, but discovered to the full, in the effect.

"But wii.it must a philosopher think of tjiose vain rcason-
ers who. instead of regarding the present scene of things as
the sole ol>ject of their contemplation, so fur reverse the whole
course of nature as to render this life merely a passage to
something further; a porch which leads to a greater and
vastly different building; a prologue which serves only to
introduce the piece, and give it more grace and propriety?
Whence, do you think, can sucli philosophers derive their
idea of the gods? From their own conceit and imagination
surely. For if they derive it from the present phenomena,
it would n(!ver point to anything further, but must be exact-
ly adjusted to tliein. That the divinity mn\ pussihly be en-
dowed with attrilnites which -ve have never seen exerted,
may l)e governed by principles of action whicli we cannot
discover to be satisfied ; all this will freely be allowed. But
still this is mere ^MSfiihiUti/ and hypothesis. We never can
have reason to iiifcr any attrilnites or any principles of ac
tion in him, but so far as wc know them to have been exert-
ed and satisfied.

'•Are there any marTcs of a distrihatirc jnHtlce in the world?
If you answer in the affirmative, I conclude that, since justice
here exerts itself, it is satisfied. If you reply in the negative,
1 conclude that you have then no reason to ascribe justice, in
our bC'ise of it, to the gods. If you hold a medium between
affirmation and negation, by saying that the justice of the
gods at present exerts itself in part, but not in its full extent,
I answer that you have no reason to give it any particular
I'Xtcnt, but only so far as you sec it, at present, exert itself."'
—(IV. p. 1G4— G.)

Tims, the Freetliinkcrs said, the attributes of the Deity
being what they are, the scheme of orthodoxy is inconsist-
ent with them; whereupon Butler gave the crushing re-

■ ii - "i» ffiaafa'Mfi^

:i-

' for you to

iitccedcutly

ct.

«xin rcason-

jf things as

;o tlio whok'

passage to
greater uiul
vcs only to

in'opriety ?
lerive tlieir
imagination
phenomena,
st 1)0 exact-
tsihly be en-
en exerted,

we cannot
owed. But
i never can
iiples of ac-

been exert-

i the icorld?
since jr.stico
lie negative,
)e justice, in
um between
stice of the
s full extent,
y i)articular
:xcrt itself."

f the Deity
is inconsist-
u'ushing re-

nii.]

THEISM; EV^OLUTIOX OF THEOLOGY.

153

ply : Agreeing with you as to tlie attributes of the Deity,
uature, by its existence, proves tliat the things to wliicli
you object arc quite consistent with them. To whom en-
ters Hume's Epicurean with the remark: Then, as nature
is our only measure of the attributes of the Deity in their
practical manifestation, what warranty is tliere for supi)os-
ing that such measure is anywhere transcended ? That the
" other side " of nature, if there be one, is governed on dif-
ferent principles from this side?

Truly on this topic silence is golden; while speech
reaches not even the dignity of sounding brass or tinkling
cymbal, and is but the weary clatter of an endless logoma-
chy. One can but suspect that Hume also had reached
this conviction ; and that his shadowy and inconsistent
theism was the expression of his desire to rest in a state
of mind which distinctly excluded negation, wliilc it in-
cluded as little as possible of allirmation, respecticg a prob-
lem which he felt V^ be hopelessly insoluble.

But, whatever might be the views of the philosopher as
to the arguments for theism, the historian could have no
doubt respecting its many-shaped existence, and the great
part which it has played in the world. Here, then, was a
body of natural facts to be investigated scientifically, and
the result of Hume's inquiries is embodied in the remark-
able essay on the Xatural IlistoDj of Religion. Hume an-
ticipated the results of modern investigation in dcclarinu-
fetishism and polytheism to be the form in which savage
and ignorant men naturally clothe their ideas of the un-
known influences which govern their destiny ; and they
are polytheists rather than monotheists because, —

"... tlie first ideas of religion arose, not from a contem-
plation of the works of naiurc, but from a concern with re-
gard to tlie events of life, and from the incessant hope,« and

^' if

(;

" h t? ''-^

;' h It! -k:
r.:l' fj

156

HUME.

[CIUP.

fears which actuiite the human mind ... in order to carry
men's attention b yond tlic present course oftlMn<,'s, or lead
tliem into any inference concernhig invisible intelliffent pow-
er, tliey must be actuated by nome passion wliieli promjjts
their thought and reflection, some motive which urges their
lirst incjuiry. But what passion shall we have recourse to
for explaining an eifect of such mighty consequence? Not
speculative curiosity merely, or the pure love of truth. That
motive is too refined for such gross apprehensions, and would
lead men into inquiries concerning the frame of nature, a sub-
ject too hirgc and comprehensive for their narrow capacities.
No passions, therefore, can be supposed to work on such bar-
barians, l)ut the ordinary atfections of human life; the anx-
ious concern for liapi)iness, the dread of future misery, the
terror of death, the thirst of revenge, the appetite for food,
and other necessaries. Agitated by hopes and fears of this
nature, especially the latter, men scrutinize, with a trembling
curiosity, the course of future causes, and examine the vari-
ous and contrary events of human life. And in this disor-
dered scene, with eyes still more disordered and astonisiied,
they see the first obscure traces of divinity." — (IV. pp. 443,4.)

The sliape assumed by these first traces of divinity is
that of the shadows of men's own minds, projected out of
themselves by their imaginations : —

' i

! :

. I i
f •■

"There is an universal tendency among mankind to con-
ceive all l)cings like themselves, and to transfer to every ob-
ject those qualities with which they are familiarly acquaint-
ed, and of which they are intimately conscious. . . . The vn-
Liiotni causes which continually employ their thoi ippear-

ing always in the same aspect, are all apprehenc, ^o be of
the same kind or species. Nor is it long before wi ascribe
to them thought, and reason, and passior-, and sometimes
even the limbs and figures of men. in order to brintr them
nearer to a resemblance with ourselves." — (IV. p. 440— 7.)

[CIIAP.

or to cany
igs, or load
ligont pow-
;h i)roini)ts
urti'os thoir
roooiu'sc to
iiice i Not
■mil. That
and would
tiiro, a sub-
capn cities.
II such bar-
; the anx-
nisery, the
e for food,
jars of tliia
L trciiibling
e tlie vari-
this disor-
astonished,
pp. 443, 4.)

divinity is
ted out of

nd to con-

) ovory ob-

y acquaint-

. . The i(n-

• ippear-

.0 be of

wi ascribe

somotimos

)ring thorn

.40-7.)

Ti:i] THEISM; EVOLUTIOX OF THEOLOGY.

Hume a.sks whether polytheism really deserves the n,.
of theism.

167
narao

"Our ancestors in Europe, before tlie revival of letters be-
deved as we do at present, that there was one supreme God
the author of nature, whose power, though in itself uneon'
trollable, was yet often exerted by the interposition of his
angels and subordinate ministers, who executed his sacred
purposes. But they also believed that all nature was full of
other invisible powers: fiiiries, goblins, elves, sprights; beings
stronger and mightier than men, but much inferior to the ce-
lestial natures who surround the throne of God. Now sup-
pose that any one, in these ages, had denied the existence of
God an.l of his angels, would not his impioty justly have de-
served the appellation of atheism, even though he had still
allowed, by some odd capricious reasonin- that the popular
stones of elves and fairies were just and well grounth-d ?
Tnc diflerence, on the one hand, between such . person and
a genuine theist, is infinitely greater than that, on" tho other
between him and one that absolutely excludes all nivKible
nitelhgent power. And it is a fallacy, merely from the casual
resemblance of names, without any conformity of ir.eanino-
to rank such opposite opinions under the same denomimition'
"To any one who considers justly of the ;i...Lter,it will ap-
pear that the gods of the polytheists are no better than the
elves and fames of our ancestors, and merit as little as anv
pious worship and veneration. These pretended reli-ioni^ts
are really a kind of super.- Htious athei.sts, and acknowlo.bre
no being that corresponds to our idea of a Deity No firlt
principle of mind or thought; no supreme government and
administration; no divine contrivance or intention in the
tabnc of the world."— (IV. p. 450— 51.)

The doctrine that you may call an atheist anybody
whose ideas about the Deity d<-. not correspond with your
^wn, is so largely acted upon by persons who are certainly

! \

iki 'I

i\' t !;

158

HUML.

[ciiAJ',

not of ITnme's way of thinking, and probably, so far from
liavinr,' read liim, would sliiuldcr to open any book bearing
bis name, except the Histonj of Emjland, tliat it is sur-
prising to trace the theory of their practice to such a
source.

But on thinking the matter over, this theory seems so
consonant with reason, that one feels ashamed of having
suspected many excellent persons of being moved by mere
malice and viciousness of temper to call other folks athe-
ists, when, after all, they have been obeying a purely in-
tellectual sense of fitness. As ITume says, truly enough, it
is a mere fallacy, because two j)eople use the same names
for things, the ideas of which are mutually exclusive, to
rank such opposite opinions under the saine denomina-
tion. If the Jew says that the Deity is absolute unity,
and that it is sheer blasphemy to say that ITe ever be-
came incarnate in the person of a man ; and if the Trini-
tarian says that the Deity is numerically three as well as
numerically one, and that it is sheer blasphemy to sa}- that
lie did not so become incarnate, it is obvious ei.ough that
each must be logically held to deny the existence of the
other's Deitv. Therefore, that each has a scientific right
to call the other an atheist ; and that, if lie refrains, it is
only on the ground of decency and good manners, which
should restrain an honourable man froiu employing even
scientifically justifiable language, if custom has given it an
abusive connotation. While one must agree with Hume,
then, it is, nevertheless, to be wished that he had not set
the bad example of calling polythcists "superstitious athe-
ists.'' It probably did not occur to him that, by a parity
of reasoning, the Unitarians might justify the application
of the same language to the Ultramontanes, and vice versa.
But, to return from a digression which mav not be whol-

[ciiAP.

SO far from

■)ok bearing

it it is sur-

lo sucb a

ry seems so
I of having
cd by mere

folks athc-
i purely in-
y enough, it
!anie names
exclusive, to

denomina-
)lnte unity,
To ever bc-
f the Trini-
G as well as

to sav that
.'i.ough that
ence of the
cntifie right
['fralns, it is
mors, which
loying even

given it an
ivitli Hume,
had not set
titious atho-

by a parity

application
d vice versa.
ot be whol-

.!■■/

viu.J TIIKLSJI; E\'OLUTIO\ OF TUKOLOr.Y. m

ly unprofitable, Hiiine proceeds to show in what ukuuk r
polytiieistn incorj.orated physical and moral allegories, and
naturally accepted hero-worship; and he sums up' his
views of the first stages of tlie evolution of theoloo-y a.
follows : — '^'^

"These then are the general principles of polytheism
ioundcd in lunnan nature, and little or nothing dependent'
on caprice or accident. As the muses whieli bestow happi-
ness or misery arc in general very little known and very un-
certain, our anxious concern endeavours to attain a deterni..
nate idea of them : and finds no better expedient than to
represent tliem as intelligent, voluntary agents, like our-
selves, only somewhat superior in power and wisdom The
lumted influence of these agents, and their proximity to hu-
man weakness, introduce the various distribution and divis-
ion of their authority, and thereby give rise to alle-orv
The same ])rincij)les naturally deify mortals, superior in pow-
er, courage, or understanding, and product; hero-worship-
together with fabulous history and mythological tradition,'
m all its wild and unaccountable forms. And as an invisi-
ble spiritual intelligence is an object too refined for vub^ar
apprehension, men naturally aflix it to some sensible repn--
sentation; such as either the more conspicuous parts of nat-
ure, or the statues, images, and pictures, which a more re-
fined age forms of its divinities."— (IV. p. 461.)

How did the further stage of theology, monotheism,
arise out of polytheism? Hume replies, certainlv not
by reasonings from first causes or any sort of fine-drawn
logic: —

"Even at this day. and in Europe, ask any of the vulgar
why he believes in an Omnipotent Creator of the world, lie
will never mention the beauty of final causes, of which he is
wholly ignorant: He will not hold out his hand and bid you
contemplate the suppleness and variety of joints in his "fin-

' '\i

)''

f I

■ ■

' I

■•liK

■Mi

lou

HUME.

fciup.

gcrs tlic'ir bonding all one wny, the oountcrpoiso wliicli tlioy
n;ct'ive from tlic tliumi), the soilness and llcsliy parts ol'tlii;
inside of the Iiiind,witli all the other (tirennist.inois which
render tliat member fit for the use to whieii it \vi. destined.
To these he has been long accustomed; and he l)eh()hls
them with listlessness and unconcern. lie will tell you of
tiic s\uld('n and unexpected death of such-a-one; the iidl and
l)ruise of such another; the excessive drought of this sea-
son ; the cold and rains of another. These lie ascribes to
the immediate operation of Providence : And such events
as, with good reasoners. are the chief difficulties in admit ing
a Supreme Intelligence, are with him the sole arguments
for it. . . .

"AVe may conclude, therefore, upon the whole, that since
the vulgar, in nations which have embraced the doctrine
of theism, still build it upon irrational and superstitious
grounds, tliey are never led into that opinion by any proc-
ess of argument, but by a certain train of thinking, more
suital)le to their genius and capacity.

"It may readily happen, in an idolatrous nation, that
though men admit the existence of several limited deities,
yet there is some one God whom, in a particular manner,
they make the object of tiieir worship and adoration. They
may eitiier supi)ose tluvt, in the distribution of power and
territory among the Gods, their nation was subjected to the
jurisdiction of that particular deity ; or, reducing heavenly
objects to the model of things below, they may represent one
god as the prince or supremo magistrate of the rest, who.
thougii of the same nature, rules tliem witli an authority like
that which an earthly sovereign exerts over his subjects and
vassals. "Whether this god. therefore, be considered as their
peculiar patron, or as the general sovereign of heaven, his
votaries will endeavour, by every art, to insinuate themselves
into his favour; and supposing him to be pleased, like tliem-
selves, with praise and fiatter\', there is no eulogy or exagger-
ation which will be spared in their addresses to him. In

^■^i

|i/

fc'lIAl'.

wliicli tlii'y
)!ll'tS ol'tliu
nci'S which
. destined,
lie l)c'li()ltls
tell you of
tlie Ihll and

Dt" this SL'il-

ascribes to

ucli events

1 admit "ing

arginueuts

, tliat since
le doetrine
iperstitious
,' any proc-
king, more

lation, that
ted deities,
ar manner,
ion. Tlioy
power and
ctcd to the
g lieavenly
present one
! rest, who.
thority like
ilyects and
•ed us their
licaven, liis
themselves
, like them-
3r e.xagger-
him. In

vni] THEISM; EVOLUTION UF THEOLOGY. 161

proportion as men's fears or distresses become more tirgent,
they still invent new strains of adulation; and even he°vho
outdoes Ids predecessor in swelling the titles of his divinity,
is sure to be outdone by his successor in newer and more
pompous epithets of ],nuse. Thus they proceed, till at last
they arrive at infmity itself, beyond which there is no furtiier
progress: And it is well if, in striving to get further, and
to represent a magnificent simplicity, they run i.ot into lne.\-
pMcahle mystery, and destroy the intelligent nature of their
deity, on which alone any rational worship or adoration can
be founded. While they confine themselves to the notion
of a perfect being, the Creator of the world, they coincide, by
chance, with the principles of reason and true philosopliy;
though they are guided to that notion, not by reason, of
which they are in a great measure incapable, but by the
adulation and fears of the most vulgar superstition.— (IV n
4G3— 0.) ■**

" Nay. if we sliould suppose, what neve- happens, that a
popular religion were found, in which it was expressly de-
clared that nothing but morality could gain the divine fa-
vour; if an order of priests were instituted to inculcate this
opinion, in daily sermons, and with all the arts of persua-
sion ; yet so inveterate arc the people's prejudices, that, for
want of some other superstition, they would make die very
attendance on these sermons the essentials of religion, rather
than place them in virtue and good morals. The sublime
prologue of Zaleucus' laws inspired not the Locriaus, so for
as we can learn, with any sounder notions of the measures
of acceptance with the deity, than were familiar to the other
Greeks.' —(IV. p. 505.)

It has been remarked that Hume's writings are singu-
larly devoid of local colour; of allusions to the scenes wtth
which he was familiar, and to the people from whom ho
sprang. Yet, surely, the Lowlands of Scotland were more

in his thoughts than the Zephyrean promontory, and the
36

'fll

162

nUME.

[CIIAI'.

li.'ird visage of John Knox pecrclfroin beliiml tlio mask <.f
Zak'ucus, wlicn this passao-o left his pen. Nay, iiiinlit not
an acute Goriuaii critic discern tlierein a rennnisceiice of
that eminently Scottish institution, a "Holy Fair'" where,
as Hume's young contemporary sings : —

" * * * opens out his cauld liarungues
On practice and on morals;
An' ait" the godly pour in thrangs
To gie the jars and barrels
A lift that day.

"What signifies his barren shine
Of moral powers and reason ?
His English style and gesture fine

Are a' clean out of season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,

Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne'er a word o' faith in

That's right that day." '

' Burns published the Holy Fair only ten years after Hume's
death.

i (I

[CIIAI'.

lie lii;i>k (if
, Iiiii;'llt not
niscunco of
lirT' where,

ifter Hume's

JX.J TUE SOLL: TUK UUCTUhNE OF IMMOliTALlTV,

IttH

CIIArTER IX.

THE soul: the uocthine of immortality.

Descartes tmii^^ht that an ahsohite diiforcnce of khul
sopamtes matt';,-, as that which possesses extension, fioui
spirit, as that which thinks. Tiicy not only li.ivo ii.>
character in common, but it is inconceivable' that they
should have any. On the assumption that the attributes
of the two were wholly ditferent, it ap{)eared to be a nec-
essary consequence that the hypothetical causes of tlu'se
attributes — their respective substances — must be totally
different. Notably, in the matter of divisibility, since
that which has no extension cannot be divisible, it seem-
ed that the chose pensante, the soul, must be an indivisi-
ble entity.

Later philosophers, accepting this notion of the soul,
were naturally much perplexed to understand liow, if mat-
ter and spirit had nothing in common, they could act and
react on one another. All the changes of matter being
modes of motion, the difficulty of understanding how a
moving extended material body was to affect a thinking
thing which had no dimension, was as great as that in-
volved in solving the problem of how to hit a nomina-
tive case with a stick. Hence, the successors of Descartes
either found themselves o].;; ,;d, with the Occasionalists,
to call in the aid of the Deity, who was supposed to be

ill ♦'

I(i4

HUME.

[aiAP.

il^

|i I

,lf.

I .

( ,'

II sort 01 _!:,'<)-l)(;t\voon betwixt matter nnd spirit; or tlioy
li:ul rtiMjiirso, with Lcildiitz, to tlie ddctriiic ot prt'-estab-
lislii'd liiinuuiiy, whioli denies any inlliieiiee of the hudy
on tlie soul, or vice versa, and compared matter and spirit
to two clocks 8o accurately regulated to kii p time with
one another, that the one struck whenever the other point-
ed to till' hour ; or, with Berkeley, they aholisjicd the
"suhstanee" of matter altogether, as a superthiily, though
they failed to see that the same arguments eijiially justi-
fied the aholition of soul as another supirHuity, and the
reduction of the universe to a series of events or phenom-
ena; or, finally, with Spinoza, to whom l>erkel<'y makes a
perilously close ap[)roach, they asserted the existence of
only one substance, with two chief attributes, the one
thought, and the other extension.

There remained only one possible position, which, had
it been taken up earlier, mii>ht liavo saved an immensity
of trouble; and that was to alHrm that we do not, and
cannot, know anything about the "substance" either of
the thinking thing or of the extended thing. And
Hume's sound common sense led him to defend this
thesis, which Locke had alrea«ly foreshadowed, with re-
spect to the question of tlie substance of the soul. Hume
enunciates two opinions. The first is that the question
itself is unintelligible, and therefore cannot receive any
answer; the second is that the popular doctrine resj)ect-
ing the immateriality, simplicity, and indivisibility of a
thinking substance is a "true atheism, and will serve to
justify all those sentiments for whicli Spino/a is so uni-
versally infamous."

In supjiort of tlic first opinion, Hume points out that
it 's impossible to attach any definite meaning to the
word " substance " when employed for the hypothetical

[chap.

•it; or they
if pri'-ostal)-
tf tlic I tody
r ainl s[»irit
) time witli
otlior piniit-

)()lisluHl tllL'

lity, timiioh
(jiialiy jii>ti-
ity, and the
or plieiioin-
•'V makes a
jxistcnco of
L's, the Olio

, wliich, had
I iiiiinonsity
lo not, nnd
" either of
\u<^. And
dclVnd this
jd, witli ro-
)ul. llinne
lie <]uestion
receive any
ine respect-
iltilitv of a
ill serve to
I is so uni-

its out that
ling to the
lypothetical

JX.J TIIK SOUL: THE DUCTUINK (»F IMMOIiTAFJTV. 105

suhstnitnni of soul and matter. For if we deline suh-
stanoe as tl- t wl.i. I, may exist hy itself, tiie dclinitio,,
docs not (listinLMiish the soul from percejitioiis. It is
perfectly easy to conceive that states of consciousness are
self-suhsistent. And, if the suhstance of the soul is de-
fined as that in which perceptions inhere, what is meant
by the inherence? Is such inherence conceivable? If
conceivable, what evidence is there of it? And what is
the use of a substratum to thinnfs which, for anythino- we
know to the contrary, are cajiable of existing by them-
selves ?

Moreover, it may be added, supposinj? the soul h.is a
substance, how do we know that it is different IVom the
substance, which, on like gTounds, must be supposed to
underlie the qualities of matter?

Aoain, if it be said that our personal identity requires
the assumption of a substance which remains "the san)e
while the accidents of perception shift and chaiiiie, the
question arises what is meant by personal identity ?

''P^)r my part," says Iluine, '• wjien I enter most hitiinate-
ly into what I eaU w.y«7/. I ulvays stumble on some particu-
lar i)ereeption or otiier, of lieat or cold, lio-l,t or shade, love
or hatred, pain or pleasure. I never can catch m>/H<f/ at any
time without a perception, and never can observe aiiyt]iinj>-
but the perception. -Wiien iny perceptions are removed ihr
any time, as l)y sound sleep, so long am I insensible of mi/-
Si'lf, nnd may l)e truly said not to exist. Ami vere all my
perceptions removeu by deatli.and I could ncitlirr think,
nor feel, nor see, nor love, nor hate, after the dissolution of"
my body, I should be entirely annihilated, nor do I conceive
what is further requisite to make me a perfect nonentity.
If any one. upon serious and unprejudiced reflection, thinks
he has a dill'erent notion oniiniscJf, I must confess I can rea-
son no longer with hiin. All I can allow him is, that he

^•

!*'

Ill

*■]

■— -f

■

1 t

i n

i^n^

it;ti

HUME.

[cllAl-.

limy be in the right as Avell as I, and that we are e.ssentiall}'
(liilercnt in this ])articuhir. lie may perhaps perceive some-
thing- simple and contimicd -wliifli he calls himself, though
I am certain tliere is no siicii jjrinciple in me.

"But setting asiiie some metaphysicians of tiiis kind, I
may venture to affirm ol" the rest of mankind, that they are
nothing hut a bundle or collection of different perceptions,
xvliich succeed one another with an inconceivable rajiidity,
and are in a perpetual tlux and movement. . . . The mind
is a kind of theatre, where several perceptions successively
make their appearance, pass, repass, glide; away, and mingle
in an infinite variety ot postures and situations. There is
properly no simplicity in 't at one time, nor identity in dif-
ferent, whatever natural propension we may have to imagine
tliat simplicity and identity. The comparison of the theatre
must D'jt mislead us. Tiiey are the successive perceptions
only that constitute the mind ; nor have we the most distant
iidtion of tile place where these scenes are represented, or of
tile materials of which it is comjmsed.

•'"What then gives so great a projjcnsion to ascribe an
identity to these successive perceptions, and to suppose our-
selves possessed of an invariable and uninterrupted existence
tiirougli tiie whole course of our lives? In order to answer
this (piestion, we must distinguish between personal identity
as it regards our thought and imagination, and as it regards
our passions, or the concern Ave take in ourselves. The first
is our iiresent sul)ject ; and to cx])lain it perfectly we must
take the matter pretty deep, and account for that identity
wiiich we attribute to plants and animals, there being a
great analogy betwixt it and tiie identity of a self or per-
son."* -(I. p. 321, 322.)

Perfect identity is cxliibitcd by an object which remains
unchanged throngliout a certain time ; perfect diversity
is seen in two or more objects which are separated by in-
tervals of space and periods of time. But in both these

v^tli

'"^

[CIIAI'.

e essentially
rceivo soine-
'isclj\ though

this kind, I
lint they arc
perceptions,
)Ie rapidity.
. The mind
successively
and mingle
s. There is
utitij in dif-
i to imagine
f the theatre
percei)tions
nost distant
euted, or of

ascribe an
uppose our-
xl existence
r to answer
nal identity
.s it regards
. The first
:ly we must
lat identity
're being a
self or pcr-

icli remains
!t diversity
ated by in-
botli these

jx.j THE SOUL : THE DOCTRLXE OF IMMORTALITY. 167

cases there is no sharp line of demarcation between iden-
tity and diversity, and it is impossible to say when an
object ceases to be one and becomes two.

Wlien a sea-anemone multiplies by division, there is a
time during which it is said to be one animal partially di-
vided ; but, after a while, it becomes two animals adherent
together, and the limit between these conditions is purely
arbitrary. So in mineralogy, a crystal of a definite chem-
ical composition may have its substance replaced, particle
by particle, l)y another chemical compound. When does
it lose its primitive identity and become a new thin"?

Again, a plant or an animal, in the course of its exist-
ence, from the condition of an Qsn^ or seed to the end of
life, remains the same neither in form, nor in structure,
nor in the matter of which it is composed : every attribute
it possesses is constantly changing, and yet we say that
it is always one and the same individual. And if, in this
case, we attribute identity without supposing an indivisi-
ble immaterial something to undcrl'" and condition that
identity, why should we need the su^ i,osition in the case
of that succession of changeful phenomena we call the
mind ]

In fact, wo ascribe identity to an individual plant or
animal, simply because there has been no moment of time
at which we could observe any division of it into parts
separated by time or space. Every experience we have of
it is as one tiling and not as two ; and we sum up our ex-
periences in the ascription of identity, although we know
quite well that, strictly speaking, it has not been the same
for any two moments.

So with the mind. Our perceptions flow in even suc-
cession ; the impressions of the present moment are inex-
tricably mixed up with the memories of yesterday and

-i.

.If

1 1 i

168

HUME.

[en A p.

tlic expectations of to-morrow, and all are connected by
the links of cause and effect.

MS I ^-

"... as tlie same individual rcpul)lic may not only chaiij^e
its members, but also its laws and constitutions; in like man-
ner tlie same person may vary Ids cliaracter and disposition,
as well as his impressions and ideas, without losing his iden-
tity. Wliatever changes he endures, his several parts are still
connected by the relation of causation. And in this view
our identity with regard to the passions serves to corrobo-
rate that with regard to the imagination, by the making our
distant percepti(5ns influence each other, and by givingus a
present concern for our past or future pains or pleasures.

"As memory alone acquaints us with the continuance and
extent of this succession of perceptions, 'tis to be considered,
upon tliat account cliiefly, as the source of personal identity.
Had we no memory we never should have any notion of cau-
sation, nor consequently of that chain of causes and effects
which constitute our self or person. But having once ac-
quired this notion of causation from the memory, we can ex-
tend the same cluiin of causes, and consequently the identi-
ty of our persons, beyond our memory, and can comprehend
times, and circumstances, and actions, winch we have entire-
ly forgot, but suppose in general to have existed. For how
few of our past actions are there of which we have any mem-
ory ? Who can tell me, for instance, what were his thoughts
and actiojis on the first of January, 1715, the eleventli of
March, 1719, and the third of August, 1733 ? Or will ho af
t^iU, because lie has entirely forgot the incidents of those
days, that the present self is not the same person with the
self of that time, and by that means overturn all the most
established notions of personal identity? In this view,
thereibre, memory docs not so much produce as discover per-
sonal identity, by showing us the relation of cause and effect
among our different perceptions. Twill be incumbent on
those who affirm that memory produces entirely our person-

V »

[riiAP.

jnnectcd by

only cliange
in like nian-
• lisposition,
ug his idcn-
)arts an; still
in this viow
to corrol;o-
making our
giving us a
casurcs.
inuancc and
considered,
iial identity.
)tioii of cau-
and etll'cts
iig once ac-
, ■\vc can ex-
tlie itlciiti-
:'omi)rehend
have entire-
. For liow
e any nicm-
lis thoughts
dcventh of
■ will he af
ts of those
n Avith the
11 the most
this view,
Uscover per-
3 and efTect
umbent on
our person-

IX.J THE SOUL: THE DOCTRLXE OF IMMORTALITY. 169

nl identity, to give a reason why we can thus extend our
identity beyond our memory.

" The whole of this doctrine leads us to a conclusion whicli
is of great importance ' the present affair, viz., that all the
nice and subtle que>^; h concerning personal identity can
never possibly be dec-, d, and are to be regarded rather as
grannnatieal than as philosophical dilHculties. Identity de-
pends on the relations of ideas, and these relations produce
identity by means of that easy transition they occasion. But
as the relations, and the easiness of the transition may dimin-
ish by insensible degrees, we have no just standard i)y which
we can decide any dispute concerning the time when they
ac(piire or lose a title to the name of identity. All the dis-
putes concerning the identity of connected objects are mere-
ly verbal, except so tar as the relation of parts gives rise to
some fiction or inuiginary principle of union, as we have al-
ready observed.

"What I have said concerning the first origin and uncer-
tainty of our notion of identity, as applied 'to the human
mind, may be extended, with little or no variation, to that of
simplmty. An ol)ject, whose different co-existent parts arc
bound together by a close relation, operates upon the imag-
ination after much tiie same manner as one perfectly simpte
and undivisible, and requires not a much greater stretch of
thought in order to its conception. From this similarity of
operation we attribute a simplicity to it, and feign a prin-
ciple of union as the support of this simi)licity. and the cen-
tre of all the different parts and qualities of the object "—
(I. p. 331—3.)

The final result of Hume's reasoning comes to this: As
we use the name of body for the sum of the phenomena
which make up our corporeal existence, so we employ the
name of soul for the sum of the phenomena which consti-
tute our mental existence ; and we have no more reason,
in the latter case, than in the former, to suppose that there

i ; ; J

Iti

■f

I fill

;;. 1'^

! i)

hi »::

■■ it' < .r
.'Pi, IV
'5 '

170

HUME.

[chap.

is .anything beyond the phenomena wliich answers to the
name. In the case of the sonl, as in that of the body,
the idea of substance is a mere fiction of the imao-ination.
This conchision is nothing but a rigorous ap[)Hcation of
Berkeh'v's reasonini)' concernini; matter to mind, and it is
fully adopted by Kant.'

Having arrived at the conclusion that the conception of
a soul, as a substantive tiling, is a mere figment of the im-
agination ; and tliat, whether it exists or not, we can by no
possibility know anything about it, the inquiry as to the
dura1)ility of the soul may seem supertiuous.

Xevertheless, there is still a sense in wliich, even under
these conditions, sucli au inquiry is justifiable. Leaving
aside the problem of the substance of the soul, and taking
the word " soul '' simply as a name for the series of men-
tal plienomena which make up an individual mind; it re-
mains open to us to ask whether that series commenced
witli, or before, the scries of phenomena which constitute
the corresponding individual body ; and whether it termi-
nates with the end of the corporeal series, or goes on af-
ter the existence of the body lias ended. And in both
cases there arises the further question, whether the excess
of duration of the mental series over that of the body is
finite or infinite.

Hume has discussed some of these questions in the re-
markable essay On the Immortality of the Sonl, which
was not published till after his death, and which seems
long to have remained but little known. Nevertheless,

' " Our internal intuition sliow' no permanent existence, for the
Ego is only the consciousness of my tliinking." " There is no means
whatever l)y which we can learn anything respecting tlie constitu-
tion of tile soul, so far as regards the possibility of its separate ex-
istence." — Kritik voH den Paralo>/ismeii der rtinen Vermuift.

I/l

[chap.

swers to the
)f tlie body,
inia2;ination.
>[)lication of
lid, and it is

jnception of
t of the im-
can by no
ly as to the

, even under
e. Leaving'
, and taking-
ii'ies of inen-
niind; it re-
commenced
h constitute
ler it tcrmi-
goes on af-
ind in both
r the excess
the body is

IS in the re-
So^tI, which
I'hich seems
^evcrtlieless,

Btcncc, for tho
'e is no means
the constitu-
s separate ex«
\unft.

IX.] THE SOUL: THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITV. 171

indeed, possibly, for that reason, its influence lias been
manifested in unexpected quarters, and its xiain .-irgu-
nients have been adduced by archiepiscopal and episcopal
authority in evidence of the value of revelation. Dr.
AVhately,' sometime Archbishop of DulHin, paraphrases
Ilumu, though, he forgets to cite him ; and IJishop Cour-
tenay's elaborate work,'^ dedicated to the Archbishop, is a
development of that prelate's version of Hume's essay.

This little paper occupies only some ten pages, but it
is iiot uonderful that it attracted an acute logician like
Whately, for it is a model of clear and vigorous state-
ment. The argument hardly admits of condensation, so
that I must let Hume speak for himself:—

"By the mere light of reason it seems difficult to prove
the immortality of tlie soul : the arguments for it are com-
monly derived either from metapliysical topics, or moral, or
physical. But in reality it is the gospel, and the gospel
alone, tliat has brought life and immortnlity to light." ^

" 1. .Aletaphysical topics suppose that the soulis immateri-
al, and that 'tis impossii)le for thought to belong to a mate-
rial sul)stance.'' But just metaphysics teach usdiat the no-

• ^vs'v/v o" Some of the Peculiarities of the Christian licUr)icn (Ea-
say I. Revelation of a Future State), by Riehard Whately, D.D., Arch-
bishop of Dublin. Fifth Edition, revised, 184(5.

= The Fntnre States: their Evidences and Nature; coimdcrcd on
Principhs Phiisieal, Moral, and Script urat, with the Design of showing
the Value of the Gospel Revelation, by tlie Right Rev. Reginald Courte-
nay,D.D., Lord Bishop of Kingston (Jamaica), 1857.

=• "Xow that 'Jesus Christ brought life and immortality to light
through tho Gospel,' and that in tho most literal sense, whicli iin-
plies that the revelation of the doctrine is peculiar to his Gospel,
Beems to be at least the most obvious meaning of the Scriptures of
the Xow Testament."— Whately, I.e. p. 27.
" Compare, Of the Immateriality of the Soul, Gection V. of Part

f f 1

172

HUME.

[CUAP.

tion of substance is wholly confused and imperfect; iind that
we iuive no other iilea of any substance, than as an aggre-
gate of particular qualities inhering in an unknown some-
thing. ]\Iatter, therefore, and spirit, are at bottom equally
unknown, and we cannot determine Avhat (pialities inhere in
the one or in the other." They likewise teach us tliat noth-
ing can be decided a priori concerning any cause or etlect ;
antl that experience being the only source of our judgments
of this nature, we cannot know from any other principle,
whether matter, i)y its structure or arrangeuient, may not be
the cause of thought. Abstract reasonings cannot decide
any question of fact or existence. But admitting a spiritual
substance to be dispersed throughout the universe, like the
ethereal iirc of the Stoics, an<I to be the only inherent subject
of tliought, we have reason to conclude, from annhriij, tiiat
nature uses it after the manner she does the other sul)stance,
matter. She employs it as a kind of paste or clay; motlifies
it into a variety of forms or existences ; dissolves after a time
each modification, and from its substance erects a new form.
As the same material substance may successively compose
the bodies of all animals, the same spiritual substance may
compose their minds: Their consciousness, or that system of
thought which they formed during life, may be continually
dissolved l)y death, and notliing interests them in tlie new
modification. The most positive assertors of the mortality
of the soul never denied the immortality of its substance;
and that an immaterial substance, as well as a material, may

IV., Hook I., of the Treatise, ia wliifli Hume concludes (I. p. 81i»)
that, uhetlier it ho matei'iid or immaterial, "ia both cases tiie meta-
physical ari^Minicnts for the iinmortiility of tlie soul are o((UiilIv incon-
clusive; and in both cases the moral arguments and those derived
from the analogy of nature are cciaally strong and convincing."

' "Tlio question again respecting tiie materiality of tlio soul is
one which I am at a loss to understand clearly, till it shall have been
dourly dotorminod vhnt matter h. We know nothing of it, any more
than of mind, except its attributes." — Whately, I.e. p. GO.

[CUAP.

cct; and tliat
as an acfirro-
cnown sonie-
ttoni equally
;ius inhere in
lis tliat noth-
isc or clloct ;
ir judgments
er principle,
, may not l)e
uniot decide
ig a spiritual
ersc, like the
eront subject
amili'ij/, that
er substance,
ay; modifies
i after a time

a new form,
ely comijose
bstancc may
at system of
! continually

in the new
he mortality
s substance;
iiaterial, may

Jes (I. p. 319)
iscs tlio meta-
0(|uiilly incon-
tliose (lorivcd
'inciiig."
)f the soul is
lall have been
f it, any more

ix.l THE SOUL: THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY. 17&

lose Its memory or consciousness, ajipears in part from ex-
perience, if the sold l)e immaterial. Reasoning- from the
common course of nature, and without supposing any new
interposition of the Supreme Cause, which ouglit always to
he excluded from philosophy, «r//rt< is inmrrujitille viud also
he imjenemhle. The soul, therefore, if immortal, existed be-
fore our Ijirth, and if the former existence noways concerned
us, neither will tlie latter. Animals undoubtedly feel, think,
love, hate, will, an,l even reason, though in a more imperfect
manner thaji men : Are their souls a'lso inunatcrial and im-
mortal ?'" '

Ilumo next procoods to consider tlio moral arguments,
and cliiefly

"... those derived from the justice of God, which is sup-
posed to be further interested in the future punishment t "
the vicious and reward of the virtuous."

But if by the justice of God wc mean the same attri-
bute which we call justice in ourselves, then why should
either reward or punishment be extended beyond this
life?' Our sole means of knowing anything is the rea-

' "None of those -vlio contend for the natural immortality of tne
soul . . . have been able to extricate tliemsolves from one difficulty,
viz., that all their arguments apply, with exactly the same force, to
prove an immortality, not only of hnikuMt oven ai planh ; tiiou'gh
in such a conclusion ,:s this they are never willing to aciiuiesce "—
Whately, /.o. p. 67.

^ " Xor arc we therefore authorised to infer n priori, independent
of Revelation, a future state of retribution, from the irregularities
prevailing in the present life, since that future state does not
account fully for these irregularities. It may explain, indeed, how
present evil may be conducive to future good, but not why the .'ood
could not be attained without the evil; it may reconcile with our no-
tions of the divine justice the present prosperity of the wicked, but
it does not account for the existence of the wicked."— Whatelv Ic
;ip. 69, 70. • ' ■ '

f il

II ■,

ill. . '

174

HUME.

[cllAK

soninii; faculty which God lias cjivcn us ; and that rcasoii-
int,' faculty not only denies us any (•onco[)tioii uf a future
state, but fails to furnish a single valid argument in favour
of the belief that the mind will endure after the dissolu-
tion of the body.

"... If any purpose of nature be clear, we may affirm that
the whole scope and intention of man's creation, so far as we
can judge by natural reason, is limited to the present life."

To the argument that the powers of man are so much
greater than the needs of this life require, that they
suggest a future scene in which they can be employed,
Hume replies : —

"If the reason of man gives him great superiority above
other animals, liis necessities are proi)ortional)ly multiplied
upon him; his whole time, his wliole cai)acity, activity,
courage, and passion, find sufficient emplovment in fencino'
against the miseries of his present condition ; and frequently,
nny, almost always, arc too slender for the business assigned
them. A pair of shoes, perhaps, was never yet wrought to
the highest degree of perfection that commodity is capable
of attaining ; yet it is necessary, at least very useful, that
there should be some ])oliticians and moralists, even some
geometers, poets, and philosophers, among mankind. The
powers of men are no more superior to their wants, consid-
ered merely in this life, than those of foxes and liares are,
compared to tlicir wants and to their period of existence.
The inference from parity of reason is therefore obvious."

In sliort, Hume argues that, if the faculties with which
we are endowed are unable to discover a future state, and
if the most attentive consideration of their nature serves
to show that they are adapted to this life and nothing
more, it is surely inconsistent with any conception of jus-
tice that we should be dealt with as if we had all along

[rliAI'.

hat ivMsoii-
of a future!
t in favour
he dissoln-

iiffinn that
30 fur as wo
•vnt life."

'c so nuicli
that they
cniployed,

ority above

iuultij)liecl

y, activity,

ill fencing

fiXHluently,

ss assifjned

ivrought to

is callable

useful, that

even some

cind. The

nts, consid-

. hares are,

" existence.

nious."

vith Avliich
! state, and
ture serves
id nothing
ion of jus-
l all along

IX.] THE GOUL: THE DOCTRINE OF IMMORTALITY. 175

liad ,1 . .,• knowledge of the fact thus carefullv concealed
from u. . W'lmt should we thirdc of the justi.-e of a fa-
ther who gave his son every reason to suppose that a triv-
ial fault would only be visited by a box on the car; and
then, years afterwards, put him ..n the rack for a week for
the same fault?

Again, the suggestion arises, if God is the cause of all
things, he is responsible for evil as well as for g.>od; and
It appears utterly irreconcilable with our notions' of justice
that he should punish another for that which he has, in
fact, done himself. Moreover, just punishment bears a
proportion to the offence, while sulfering whieh is iulinito
IS ipm facto disproportionate to any finite deed.

"Why then eternal punishment for the temporarv oirences
ot so frail a creature as man? Can anv <.ne appr.ne of Al-
exander's rage, who intended to exterminate a whr.le nation
because they had seized his favourite horse Eueophalus?

" Heaven and hell suppose two distinct species of men the
good an<l the bad; but the greatest ],art of mankind float
betwixt vice and virtue. Were one to go roun.l the world
^vlth th<! intention of giving a good supper to the righteous
and a sound <lrubl.ing to the wicked, he would frequently be
embarrassed in his choice, and would find the merits and de-
ments ot most men and women scarcely amount to the value
ot either."'

bo reason also shows, that for man to expect to earn for l.im-
s It by ho praet.ce of vh-tuc, a.ul claim, as his J,..st ri.ht.an imn.or-
: ■' ' ^■:^f '*•;; ''^PP"f «. i^ a most extravagant and groundless
1 n. ens,o„."_AN ,,,tely, I,, p. loi. Ou the other hand, however, the
ArehlMshop sees no unreasonableness in a man's earning for himself
="' Hnmortality of intense unhappiness by the practice "of vice 8o
that hie .s, naturally, a vent.n-e in which you n.av lose all, hut can
e:u-n no.lnng. It n,ay be thought sonunvl.at hard upon mankind if
tUey are pushed into a speculation of this sort, willy-nilly.

ft i

ii (

176

HUME.

[ctTAP.

.l».

Ci '••*

One can l-ut admire the broad Immaiiity and the in-
si^'ht into tlic spriiiLfs of action manifest in this passai>'o.
Com prendre est </ moitle pdrdonner. The niore one knows
of tlie real eonditions whieh determine men's acts, the k'ss
one finds either to praise or blame. For kindly David
Hume, "the damnation of one man is an infinitely jLjreat-
cr evil in the universe than the subversion of a thousand
million of kiiii;'(h)ms." And lie would have felt with his
countryman Ihirns, that even "auld Niekie J5en" should
" hae a chance."

As against those wlio reason for tlic necessity of a
future state, in order that the justice of the Deity may
be satisfied, Hume's argumentation appears unanswerable.
For if tlio justice of God resembles what we mean by jus-
tice, the bestowal of infinite happiness for finite well-do-
ing and infinite niisery for finite ill-doing, it is in no sense
just. And, if the justice of God does not resemble what
we mean by justice, it is an abuse of language to employ
the name of jnstice for the attribute described by it. But,
as against tliosc who clioose to argue that there is nothing
in what is known to ns of the attributes of the Deity in-
consistent with a future state of rewards and punishments,
Hume's ])leadings have no force. Bishop Butler's argu-
ment that, inasinucli as the visitation of our acts by re-
wards ar.d punishments takes place in this life, rewards
and punislnnents must be consistent with the attributes of
the Deity, and therefore may go on as long as the mind
endures, is unanswerable. AVhatever exists is, by the hy-
pothesis, existent by the will of God ; and, therefore, the
pains and pleasures which exist now may go on existing
for all eternity, cither increasing, diminishing, or being
endlessly varied in their intensity, as they are now.

It is remarkable that Hume docs not refer to the senti-

\ii

ind the in-

lis pass;i<>;i'.
Olio knows
cts, IIk,' loss
11(1 ly David
itoly lircat-
a tlioii^aiul
•It with his
on " slionld

L'ssity of a
Doity may
answerable,
ean by jns-
itc well-do-
ill no sense
■iiible what
to employ
jy it. r>ut,
: is notliinfj
e Deity in-
inisliments,
tier's argil-
acts bv re-
fe, rewards
ttributes of
s the mind
by the hy-
orcforo, the
on existing
;', or being
ow.
3 the senti-

IX.] THE SOIL: THK DOCTKIXE OF IMMORTAMTV. HI

inontal arguments for the immortality of the soul whieh
are so mneli in vogue at the present day, and whioh are
based upon our desire for a longer conseious existence than
that whieh n, ure appears to have allotted to us. Perhaps
he did not think them worth notice. For indeed it is not
a little strange, that our strong desire that a certain occur-
rence should happen should be put forward as evidence
that it will liappen. If my intense desire to sec the friend
from whom 1 have parted does not bring him from the
other side of the world, or take me thither, if the motli-
cr's agonised prayer that her child shouhl live has not pre-
vented him from dying; experience ccrtaiiilv affords no
presumption tlmt the strong desire to be alive after death,
which wo call the aspiration after immortality, is any more
likely to be gratified. As Hume truly says, "All doctrines
are to be suspected which are favoured by our passions ;"
and the doctrine, that we are immortal because we should
extremely like to be so, contains the quintessence of sus-
piciousness.

In respect of the existence and attributes of the soul,
as of those of the Deity, then, logic is powerless and rea-
son silent. At the most we can get no further than the
conclusion of Kant : —

'•After we have satisfied ourselves of the vanity of all the
anibitio 's attempts of reason to fly beyond tlit bounds of
experience, enougli remains of practical' value to content us.
It is true that no one may boast that he hwics that God and
a future life exist ; for, if he possesses sucli knowledge, he
is just the man for whom I have long l)een seekingr AH
knowledge (touching an object of mere reason) can b°e com-
numicatcd, an.l therefore I might hope to see my own knowl-
edge increased to this prodigious extent, by liis instructioa.
No; our conviction in these matters is not logkvil, bvt mord,

1( 'I

> /It- VI

178

IILME.

[chap.

Piitainty; and, iiiiismuch as it rests upon sul)jcotivc ^iouihIh
(of uiorul ilLspositioii), I must not (.'vou say, it it morally ccr-
tnf** ' iiiit tllfit' is a Cfoil, and so ou; \)\i\,I <iin monilly ccr-
ifiitl so on, Tliut is to say, the belief in a (Joil antl in
an lur Avorkl is «*'> intciwovon with my moral nature, that
the i 'Wr I'fin no more vani-h than the latter can ever be
torn from me.

"T!io only point to be remarked liere is that this act of
faith of the intellect {Vernuuj'tylaube) assumes the existence
of moral disjiosiiions. If we leave them aside, and suppose a
mind ((uite inditl'erent to w>'>ial laws, the incpiiry started by
iTvason becomes merely a subject for speculation; and [the
conclusion attained] may then indeed be supported by strong
artruiuents from analojjy, Imt not by such as are competent
to overcome persi>tent scepticism.

"There is no one, howevev, who can fail to be interested
in these questions. For, although he may be excluded from
moral influences by the want of a <!rood disposition, yet, even
in this case, enough remains to lead him to fear a divine ex-
istence an<l a future state. To this end, no more is necessary
than that he can at least have no certainty that there is no
such being, and no future life ; for, to make this conclu-siou
demonstratively certain, he must be able to prove the impos-
sibility of both; and this assuredly no rational man can un-
dertake to do. This negative belief, indeed, cannot produce
either morality or good dispositions, but can operate in an
analogous fashion, by powerfully rejiressing the outbreak of
evil tendencies.

" But it will be said, is this all that Pure Reason can do
when it gazes out beyond the bounds of experience ? Noth-
ing more tlnm two articles of faith ? Common sense could
achieve as nuich without calling the philosophers to its
counsels I

" I will not here speak of the service which philosophy
has rendered to human reason by the laborious etibrts of its
criticism, granting that the outcome proves to be merely neg-

:■%■■■■

[( IIAI'.

vc cjrouiuls
lorally ccr-
iDiiilly ccr-
lod and in
laturc, that

nil t'VLl' 1)C

tluM act of
3 existi'iicc
I su|)i)()>t' a
started by
; and [the
1 by strong
competent

interested
hided from
11, yet, even

divine ex-
s necessary
tliere is no
conclusion
the iinpos-
an can un-
ot produce
■rate in an
lUtbreak of

«on can do
;c ? Noth-
cnsc could
lers to its

philosopliy
H'orts of its
iicrely neg-

IX.] TIIK SOU!,: TIIK IMHTKINK OF IMMOKTAMTV. 17!t

ntivc : about that matter somefliing is to I)e said in the fol-
lowing section. But do you then ask, that the k.iowletlge
which interests all men shall trniseend the common muIc-.
standing, and be discovered lor )u only by pliilo-.. h.is^
The very thiiiLr which you nnike u reproach is the best con-
firmation of the justice of the previous conclusions, since it
shows that which could not, at tirst, have been anticipated ;
namely, that in those matters v, 'lich concerii nil men alike,
nature is not guilty of distributing her gifts with parliality;
and that the highest philosophy, in dealing with the most
important concerns of humanity, is able to take us no fur-
ther than the guidance which she allbrds to the commonest
umlerstanding."' '

In short, nothing can bo proved or disproved n spect-
iiig cither the distinct existence, the substance, or the du-
rability of the soul. So far, Kant is at one with J fume.
But Kant adds, as you cannot disprove the iinmortalitv
of the soul, and as the belief therein is very useful for
moral purposes, you may assume it. To whidi, had
lluino lived half a century later, lie would probably have
replied that, if morality has no better foundation than
an assumption, it is not likely to bear much strain ; and,
if it has a better foundation, the assumption rather weak-
ens tlian strengthens it.

As has been already said, Ilumo is not content with
denying that we know -nytliing about the existence or
the nature of the soul; but he carries the war into the en-
emy's camp, and accuses those who affirm the immaterial-
ity, simplicity, and indivisibility of the thinking substance,
of atheism and Spinozism, which are assumed to be con-
vertible terms.

The method of attack is ingenious. Observation ap-

' Kritik dtr rcimn Va-nunft. Ed. Hartenstohi, p. .')47.

'i k

il I

\i t

;

«l

h- . ir

180

HUME.

[('HAP.

pears to acquaint us witli two diflFcrcnt systems of bciuo-s,
and both Spinoza and ortliodo.x pliilosopliors aoroo that
the necessary substratum of each of these is a substance,
in which the plienomena adhere, or of which they are at-
tributes or modes.

" I observe first the universe of objects or of body ; the
sun, moon, and stars : tlie earth, soas, phints, animals, men,
sliips, houses, and other productions either of art or of nat-
ure. Here Spinoza appears, and tells me that tliese are only
modifications, and tiiat the subject in which tliey inhere is
simple, uncompounded, and indivisible. After this I con-
sider the other system of beings, viz., the universe of thought,
or my impressions and ideas. Then I observe another sun,
moon, and stars; an earth and seas, covered and inhabited
by plants and aniuials, towns, houses, mountains, rivers, and,
in short, everything I can discover or conceive in the first
system. Upon my incpiiring concerning tliese, theologians
present them^ielves, and tell me that these also are modifica-
tions, and modifications of one simi)le, uncompounded, and
indivisible substance. Immediately upon -winch I am deaf-
ened with the noise of a hundred voices, that treat the first
h'pothesis with detestation and scorn, and the second with
applause and veneration. I turn my attention to these hy-
potheses to see what may be the reason of so great a partial-
ity ; and find that they have the same fault of being unintel-
ligible, and that, as far as we can understand them, they are
so much alike, that 'tis impossible to discover any absurdity
in one which is not common to both of them." — (I. p. 309.)

For the manner in wliich Hume makes his case good,
' I must refer to tlio original. I'lain people may rest satis-
fied tliat both hypotheses are unintelligible, without phing-
ing any further among syllogisms, the premisses of wliich
convey no meaning, while the conclusions carry no con-
viction.

r. \i

[chip.

of bc'iiiii's,
lyree that
siibstanoe,
loy are at-

X.]

VOLITIOX: LIBERTY AND NECESSITY.

ISA

l)0(ly ; the
iials, men,
or of nat-

are only
inhere is

liis I con-

f tllOllgllt,

other sun,
inliabited
ivcrs, and,

1 tlie first
leologians

inoditica-
ndcd, and
'. am dcaf-
t the tirst
;ond with

these liy-

a partial-
g unintel-
I, they are
absurdity

p. 309.) '

ase good,
rest satis-
ut plung-
of wliich
' no con-

CIIAPTER X.

volition; liberty and necessity.

In the opening paragraplis of the tliird part of tlie sec-
ond book of the Treatise, Hume gives a description of the
will.

_ "Of all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure there
IS none more remarkable than tiie will; and though, proper-
ly speaking, it be not comprehended among the passions yet
as the full understanding of its nature and properties is nec-
essary to the explanation of them, Ave shall here make it the
sulyect of our inquiry. I desire it may be observed, that by
the will I mean nothing but t7w i.tcnial impression we feel
a»dm-e conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to am, new
motion of our hody, or new perception of our mind. This im-
pression, hke the preceding ones of pride and humility, love
and liatred, 'tis impossible to define, and needless to describe
any further."— (II. p. 150.)

Tills description of volition may be criticised on vari-
oils grounds. More especially does it seem defective in
restricting the term " will " to that feeling which arises
when we act, or appear to act, as causes ; for one may
will to strike without striking, or to think of somethinrr
which we have forgotten. "

Every volition is a complex idea composed of two ele-
iiionts : tlie one is the idea of an action ; the other is a
desire for the occurrence of that action. If I will to

I'l i

182

HUME.

[(•irAP

strike, I have an idea of a certain movement, and a de-
sire that that movement shonld take ph\ce ; if I will to
think of any snbject, or, in other words, to attend to that
subject, I have an idea of the subject and a strong desire
that it should remain present to my consciousness. And
so far as I can discover, this combination of an idea of
an object with an emotion is everything that can be di-
rectly observed in an act of volition. So that Hume's
definition may be amended thus: Volition is the impres-
sion which arises when the idea of a bodily or mental
action is accompanied by the desire that the action should
be accomplished. It differs from other desires simply in
the fact that we regard ourselves as possible causes of the
action desired.

Two questions arise, in connexion with the observation
of the phenomenon of volition, as they arise out of the
contemplation of all other natural phenomena. Firstly,
has it a cause, and, if so, what is its cause ? Secondly,
is it followed by any effect, and, if so, what effect does it
produce?

Hume points out, that the nature of the phenomena
we consider can have nothing to do with the origin of
the conception that they are connected by the relation
of cause and effect. For that relation is nothing but an
order of succession, which, so far as our experience goes,
is invariable ; and it is obvious that the nature of phe-
nomena has nothing to do with their order. Whatever it
is that leads us to seek for a cause for every evetit, in the
case of the phenomena of the external world, compels us,
with equal cogency, to seek it in that of the mind.

The only meaning of the law of causation, in the phys-
ical world, is, that it generalises universal experience of
the order of that world ; and if experience shows a sim

[chap

^.J

VOLITION : LIBERTY AND NECESSITY.

1S3

ilar order to obtain among states of consciousness, the law
of causation will properly express that order.

That such an order exists, however, is acknowledged by
every sane man :

" Our idea, therefore, of necessity and causation, arises en-
tirely from the uniformity ol)servable in the operations of
nature, where similar objects are constantly conjoined to-
o-ether, and the mind is determined l)v custom to infer the
one from the appearance of tlie other. These two circum-
stances form tlio whole of that necessity which we ascribe
to matter. Beyond the constant conjunction of similar ob-
jects and the consequent inference from one to the other, we
liave no notion of any necessity of connexion.

" If it appear, therefore, what all mankind have ever al-
lowed, without any dcmbt or hesitation, that tiiese two cir-
cumstances tidce place in the voluntary actions of men, and
in the operations of mind, it nuist follow that all mankind
have ever agreed in the doctrine of necessity, and that they
have liitherto disputed merely for not understanding each
other."— (IV. p. 97.)

But is this constant conjunction observable in human
actions? A student of history could give but one answer
to this question :

" Ambition, avarice, self-love, vanity, friendship, generosity,
public spirit : these passions, mixed in various degrees, and
distributed through society, have been, from the beginning
of the world, and still are, the source of all the actions and
enterprises which have ever been observed among mankind.
"Would yon know the sentiments, inclinations, and course of
life of tlie Greeks and Romans? Study well the temper and
actions of the French and English, You cannot be much mis-
taken in transferring to the former 7nost of the observations
which you have made with regard to the latter. IMankind
are so much the same, in all times and places, that history

I i

■i

184

HUME.

[chap.

informs us cf nothing now or strange in this particular. Its
chief use is only to discover the constant and universal prin-
ciples of human nature, by showing men in all varieties of
circumstances and situations, and furnishing us with mate-
rials from which we may form our observations, and become
acquainted with the regular springs of human action and
behaviour. These records of wars, intrigues, factions, and
revolutions are so many collections of experiments, by which
the politician or moral philosojiher fixes the principles of his
science, in tlu; same manner as the physician or natural phi-
losopher becomes acquainted with the nature of plants, min-
erals, and other external objects, by the experiments which
he forms concerning them. Nor are the earth, air, water,
and other elements, examined by Aristotle and Hippocrates,
more lii'Ce to those which at present lie under our observa-
tion, tliau tiie men described In' Polybius and Tacitus are to
those who now govern the world."' — (IV. p. 97 — 8.)

llumo proceeds to point out that the value set upon
experience in the conduct of alJairs, wlietlier of business
or of politics, involves the acknowledgment that wc base
our expectation of what men will do upon our observation
of what they liave done, and that wc are as firmly con-
vinced of the fixed order of thoughts as wo are of tliat
of things. And, if it be urged that human actions not
unfrequently appear unaccountable and capricious, his re-
ply is prompt: —

"I grant it possible to find some actions which seem to
have no regular connexion with any known motives, and are
exceptions to all the measures of conduct which have ever
been established for the government of men. But if one
could willingly know what judgment should be formed of
such irregular and extraordinary actions, we may consider
the sentiments connnonly entertained with regard to those
irregular events which appear in the course of nature, and

/7i

[chap.

VOLITIOX: LIBERTY AND NECESSITY.

185

the operations of external objects. All causes are not con-
joined to their usual effects with like uniformity. An arti-
ficer, who handles only dead matter, may be disappointed in
his aim, as well as the politician who directs the conduct of
sensible and intelligent agents.

" The vulgar, who take things according to their first ap-
pearance, attribute the uncertainty of events to such an un-
certainty in the causes as make the latter often fail of their
usual influence, though they meet with no impediment to
their operation. But philosophers, observing that, almost in
every part of nature, there is contained a vast variety of
springs and principles, which are hid, by reason of their
minuteness or remoteness, find that it is at least possible the
contrariety of events may not proceed from any contingency
in the cause, but from the secret operation of contrary causes.
This possibility is converted into certainty by further obser-
vation, when they remark that, upon an exact scrutiny, a con-
trariety of effects always betrays a contrariety of causes, and
proceeds from their mutual opjiosition. A peasant can give
no better reason for the stopping of any clock or watch than
to say that it does not commonly go right. But an artist easi-
ly perceives that the same force in the spring or pendulum
has always the same influence on the wheels; but fails of its
usual effect, perhaps by reason of a grain of dust, which puts a
stop to the whole movement. From the observation of sever-
al parallel instances, philosophers form a maxim, that the con-
nexion between all causes and eftects is equally necessary, and
that its seeming uncertainty in some instances proceeds from
the secret opposition of contrary causes." — (IV. p. 101 — 2.)

So with regard to liunian actions: —

"The internal principles and motives may operate in a
uniform manner, notwithstanding these seeming irregulari-
ties ; in the same manner as the winds, rains, clouds, and
other variations of the weather are supposed to be governed
by steady principles; though not easily discoverable by hu-
man sagacity and inquiry." — (IV. p. 103.)

186

HUME.

[chap.

Mcteorolofjy, as a science, was not in existence in
Ilinnc's time, or lie would have loft out the "supposed
to be." In practice, again, what dilference does any one
make between natural and moral evidence ?

"A prisoner who has neither money nor interest, discovers
the impossibility of his escape, as well when he considers the
obstinacy of the gaoler, as the walls and bars with wliich he
is surrounded; and, in all attenij)ts for his freedom, chooses
rather to work upon the stone and iron of the one, than upon
the inflexible nature of the other. The same prisoner, when
ccmdueted to the scaffold, foresees his death as certainly fnmi
the constancy and fidelity of his guards, as from the opera-
tion of the axe or wheel. His mind runs along a certain
train of ideas : The refusal of the soldiers to consent to his
escai)e ; the action of the executioner; the separation of the
liead and body ; bleeding, convulsive motions, and death.
Here is a connected chain of natural causes and voluntary
actions ; but the mind feels no difference between them, in
passing from one link to another, nor is less certain of the
future event, than if it were connected with the objects pre-
sented to the memory or senses, by a train of causes cement-
ed together by what we are pleased to call a vJii/slcal necessi-
ty. The same experienced union has the same effect on the
mind, vhether the united objocts be motives, volition and
actions, or iigure and motion. We may change the names
of things, but their nature and their operation on the under-
standing never change." — (IV. p. 105 — G.)

But, if tlio necessary connexion of our acts witli our
ideas lias always been acknowledged in practice, why the
procli\ity of mankind to deny it words ?

"If we examine the operations of body, and tiie produc-
tion of effects from their causes, we sliall find that all our fac-
ulties can never carry us further in our knowledge of this re-
lation, than barely to observe that particular objects r.re con-

[niAP.

VOLITIOX: LIBERTY AND NECESSITY.

181

stantly conjouml together, and that the miucl is carried, by a
cmtomanj triiimition, from the appearance of tlie one to the
belief of tlie other. But tliougli this concUuion concerning
human ignorance be the result of the strictest scrutiny of this
subject, men still entertain a strong propensity to believe,
that tliey penetrate further into the proviacc of nature, and
perceive sonu'thing like a necessary connexion between cause
and efiect. When, again, they turn their reflections towards
the operations oftlieir own minds, and yk'^io such connex-
ion between the motive and the action, tliey are thence apt
to suppose that there is a difference between the effects
which result from material force, and those which arise from
tliought and intelligence. But, being once convinced that
we know nothing of causation of any kind, than merely the
constant conjunction of objects, and the consequent inference
of the mind from one to another, and finding that these two
circumstances are universally allowed to have place in vol-
untary actions, we may be more easily led to own tiie same
necessity common to all causes." — (IV. pp. 107 — 8.)

The last asvluni of the hard -pressed advocate of the
doctrine of uncaused volition is usually tliat, argue as you
like, he lias a profound and ineradicable consciousness of
v.hat he calls the freedom of his will. But Hume follows
him even here, though only in <a note, as if he thought the
extinction of so transparent a sophism hardly wortliy of
the dignity of his text.

" The prevalence of the doctrine of liberty may be ac-
counted for from another cause, viz., a false sensation, or
seeming experience, which we have, or may have, of liberty
or indilfcrence in many of our actions. The necessity of any
action, whether of matter or of mind, is not, properly speak-
ing, a quality in X\\o agent, l)ut in any thinking or intelligent
neing wlio may consider the action; and it consists chiefly
m tne determination of his thoughts to infer the existeuco
N 9

1 ,'

' ■ i

188

HUME.

[chap.

of that action from some preceding objects; as liberty, when
()l)pose(l to necessity, is notliing Init the want of tliat deter-
mination, and a certain looseness or indifference which we
feel, in passing or not passing, from the idea of any olyect to
tlie idea of any succeeding one. Now we may observe that
though, in rejiecting on human actions, we seldom feel such
looseness or indifference, but are commonly abk- to infer tliem
with considerable certainty from their motives, and from the
dispositions of the agent ; yet it frequently happens that, in
performing the actions themselves, we arc sensible of some-
tliing like it: And as all resembling objects are taken for
eacli other, this has been employed as demonstrative and
even intuitive proof of human liberty. We f'^el that our ac-
tions are subject to our will on most occasions; and imagine
we feel that the will itself is subject to n( Miing, because,
when by a denial of it we are provoked to try, we feel ^hat it
moves easily every way, and produces an image of itself (or
a Vdhiti/, as it is called in the schools), even on that side on
which it did not settle. This image or faint motion, we per-
suade ourselves, could at tliat time have been completed into
the thing itself; because, should tliat be denied, we find uj,. a
a second trial that at present it can. We consider not that
the fantastical desire of showing liberty is here the motive
of our actions.'"— (IV. p. 110, note.)

Moreover, the moment the attempt is made to give a
definite meaning to tlie words, the supposed opposition
between free-will and necessity turns out to be a mere
verbal dispute.

"For what is meant by liberty when applied to voluntary
actions 'i We cannot surely mean that actions have so little
connexion with motive, inclinations, and circumstances, that
one does not follow with a certain degree of uniformity from
tlie other, and that one affords no inference by which we can
conclude the existence of the other. For these are plain
and acknowledged matters of fact. By liljcrty, then, we can

[chap.

X.]

VOLITION: LIBERTY AM) NECESSITY.

189

only nictin a power of acting or not acting according to the de-
terminutions of the icill ; that is, if wc choose to rt'iiuiiu at
rest, wo may ; il' \vc choose to move, we also may. Now this
hypothetical liberty is universally allowed to helony to every
one who is not a prisoner and in chains. Here, then, is no
subject of dispute."— (IV. p. 111.)

Half the controversies about the freedom of tlic will
would have had no existence, if this pithy parai^raph liad
been well pondered by those who oppose the doctrine of
necessity. For tlicy rest upon the absurd presumption
that the proposition, " 1 can do as I like,'' is contradicto-
ry to the doctrine of necessity. The answer is, nobody
doubts that, at any rate within certain limits, you can do
as you like. But what determines your likiiii>s and dis-
likings? Did you make your own constitution J Is it
your contrivance that one thin<^ is pleasant and another
is painful ? And even if it were, why did you prefer to
make it after the one fashion rather than the other? The
passionate assertion of the consciousness of their freedom,
which is the favourite refuge of the opponents of the doc-
trine of necessity, is mere futility, for nobody denies it.
What they really have to do, if they would upset the nec^
cssarian argument, is to prove tk.it they are free to asso-
ciate any emotion whatever with any idea whatever; to like
pain as much as pleasure; vice as much as virtue; in short,
to prove that, whatever may be the fixity of order of the
universe of things, that of thorght is given over to chance.

In the second part of this remarkable essay, Hume consid-
ers the real, or supposed, immoral consequences of the doc-
trine of necessity, premising the weighty observation that

" When any opinion leads to absurdity, it is certainly fa. . ,
but it is not certain that an opinion is false because it is of
dangerous consequeuce." — (IV. p. 112.)

;:■ li

i 'i.

l'^>i

<■(

l'.)0

HUME. L^'UAP.

And, therefore, that the attempt to refute an ophiion by
a picture of its daui^^erous eonsecjuences to religion and
morality, is as illoj^ical as it is reprehensible.

It is' said, in the first plac^, that necessity destroys re-
sponsibility ; that, as it is usually put, we have no right to
praise or blame actions that cannot be helped. Hume's
reply amounts to tliis, tha^ the very idea of responsibility
implies the belief in the necessary connection of certain
actions with certain states of the mind. A person is held
rcsponsibh- only for tliose acts which arc preceded by a
certain intention ; and, as wc cannot see, or hear, or feel,
an intention, we can only reason out its existence on the
principle that like effects have like causes.

If a man is found by the police busy with "jenuny"
and dark lantern at a jeweller's shop door <»ver night, the
magistrate before whom he is brought the next morning,
reasons from those effects to their causes in the fellow's
"burglarious" ideas and volitions, with perfect confidence,
and punishes l»im accordingly. And it is quite clear that
such a proceeding would be grossly unjust, if tlie links of
the logical process were other tlian necessarily connected
togetlicr. The advocate who sliould attempt to get tlie
man off on the plea that his client need not necessarily
have liad a felonious intent, would hardly vuste his time
more if he tried to prove that the sum of alt >;<o angles of
a triangle is not two right angles, but three.

A man's moral responsibility for his acts has, in fact,
nothing to do witli the causation of these acts, but de-
ponds on the frame of mind which accompanies them.
Common language tells us this, when it uses "well-dis-
posed " as the equivalent of " good," and " evil-minded "
as that of " wicked." If A does something which puts B
in a violent passion, it is quite possible to admit that B's

1.1

[chap.

»•]

VOLITION: LIKERTY AND NECESSITY.

191

passion is tlie necessary consequence of A's act, and yet
to believe that JVs fury is morally wroiiy, or that ho oui>ht
to control it. In fact, a calm bystander would reason with
botii on the assumption of moral necessity, lie would
say to A, " You were wrong in doiui,' a thing which yon
knew (that is, of the necesH^y of which you were con-
vinced) would irritate I>." And he would say to 13, "You
«re wrong to give way to passion, for you know its evil
effects " — that is the necessary connection between yield-
ing to passion and evil.

So far, therefore, from necessity destroying moral re-
sponsibility, it is the foundation of all praise und blame ;
and moral admiration reaches its climax in the ascription
of necessary goodness to the Deity.

To the statement of another consequence of the neces-
sarian doctrine that, if there be a God, he must bo the
cause of all evil as mcU as of all good, Hume gives no
real reply — probably because none is possible. lUit then,
if this conclusion is distinctly and unquestionably deduci-
blo from the doctrine of necessity, it is no less unques-
tionably a direct consequence of every known form of
monotheism. If God is the cause of all things, ho must
be the cause of evil among the rest; if he is omniscient, he
nmst have the fo-c-knowledge of evil; if he is almighty,
he must possess the power of preventing or of extinguish-
ing evil. And to say that an all-knowing and all-power-
ful being is not responsible for what happens, because he
only permits it, is, under its intellectual aspect, a piece of
childish ^u^/histry ; while, as to the moral look of it, one
has only to ask any decently honourable man whether,
under like circumstances, he would try to get rid of hi>,
responsibility by such n plea.

Hume's Inquiry appeared in 1748. He does not refer

192

HUME.

[chap.

I't X

\ '1

to \iithony Ci.llitiH' ossny on Lihorty, ixiblislu-a tl.uty-
throo yeiirs before, in Nvl.icli the same .luestion in treated
to the same effect, witli sin,i,'uhir force and lucidity. It
may be said, p.-rhaps, that it is not wonderful that the two
freethinkers should follow the san.e line of reasonm.u; but
„o su.-h theory will account for the fact that in l7n4,the
famous Calvinistic divine, Jonathan Kdwards. I'ros.dent of
the CoUeo-c of New Jersey, produced, in the interests of
the straitest orthodoxy, a demonstration of the necessarian
thesis, which has never been ecjualled in power, and cer-
tainly has never been refuted.

In the ninth section of the fourth part of Kdwards
luqnm/, he hi* to deal with the Arminian objection to
the Calvinistic doctrine that "it makes (Jod the author of
fein-" and it is curious to watch the strurr^lle between the
thoolo./i.-al controversialist, strivlnpr to ward off an admis-
sion w hich he knows will be employed to damage his side,
and the acute logician, conscious that, in some shape or
other, the admission must be made. Beginning with a
Uc quoquo, that the Arminian doctrine involves conse-
quences as bad as the Calvinistic view, ho proceeds to ob-
iect to the term " author of siu," though he ends by ad-
initf- -' that, in a certain ise, it is applicable ; he proves
from S.ripturc that Gou the disposer and ovderer of
^in • and then, by an elaborate false analogy with the
darkness resulting from the absence of the sun, endeavours
to ^ugo-est that he is only the author of it in a negative
scn«erand,ti.Killy,he takes refuge in the conclusion that,
thouoh God is the orderer and disposer of those deeds
which, considered in relation to their agents, arc morally
evil, yet, inasmuch as His purpose has all along been in-
fmitJly good, they are not evil relatively to him

And this, of course, may be perfectly true ; but if true,

[niAP.

X.1

VOLITION' ; LIBEUTY AND NECESSITY

i>.t;!

tliirty-
trtatc'tl
ity. It
tliu two
lii; but
( r)4, the
idont of
rests of
cssarian
mil cer-

^(Iw arils'
ftioii to
iitlior of
,vccii tlio
II acliuis-
his sido,
sliape or
T with a
>s conse-
ds to ob-
is by ad-
lic proves
rderer of
with the
luleavours
I negative
ision that,
CSC deeds
e morally
r been in-

ut if ti'iie,

It is inconsistent with the attribute of onuiipotonce. It
is conceivable that there should be no evil in the world ;
that whicli i» conccivaWc is certainly possible ; if it were
possible for evil to be non-existent, I'l.. jnakor of the
world, who, thoui;h foreknowina; the existence of evil in
that world, did not j)r('Vont it, either did not really dci'.rc
it should not exist, or could not prevent its existence. It
inij;;ht be well for thusi who inveii^'h against the logical
consequences of nccessarianisni to bethink them of the
logical consequences of theism ; which are not oidy the
same when the attribute of Omniscience is ascribed to the
Deity, but wliich bring out, from tlic existence of moral
evil, a hopeless conllict between the attributes of Infinite
Jienevolence and Infinite Power, which, with no less as-
surance, are affir. led to appertain to the Divine IJeing.

Kant's mode of dealing with the doctrine of necessity
is very singular. That the phenomena of the mind follow
fixed relations of cause and effect is, to him, as nncjuestion-
able as it is to Ilumo. But then there is the Dhtfj an
sich, the JVoumcnon, or Kantian equivalent for the sub-
stance of the soul. This, being out of the phenomenal
world, is subject to none of the laws of plienomena, and
is consequently as absolutely free, and as completely pow-
erless, as a mathematical point, in vacuo, would be. Hence
volition is uncaused, so far as it belongs to the noumenon,
but necessary so far as it takes effect in the phenomenal
world.

Since Kant is never weary of telling us that we know
nothing whaievcr, and can know nothing, about the nou-
menon, except as the hypothetical subject of any number
of negative predicates; the information that it is free, in
the sense of being out of reach of the law of causation,

is about as valuable as the assertion that it is neither ffrev,
38 ^

!ii

\ !

194

HUME.

[CUAP.

nor blue, nor square. For practical purposes, it must be
admitted that the inward possession of such a noumenal
libertine docs not amount to much for people whose
actual existence is made up of nothing but definitely
rosTulatcd phenomena. When the good and evil angels
fought for the dead body of Moses, its presence must
have been of about the same value to either of the con-
tending parties, as that of Kant's noumcnon, in the battle
of iinpulses which rages in the breast of man. Metaphy-
sicians, as a rule, are sadly deficient in the sense of hu-
mour, or they would surely abstain from advancing prop-
ositions which, when stripped of the verbiage in which
they arc disguised, appear to the profane eye to be bare
Bhams, naked but not ashamed.

[chap.

XI.]

THE PR1^XIPLES OF MORALS.

195

CHxVPTER XI.

THE PRINCIPLES OF MORALS.

In his autobiography, Hume writes:—

" In the same year [1753] was published at London my In-
quiry concerning the Principles of Morals; which, in my own
opinion (who ought not to judge on that subject), is of all my
writings, historical, philosophical, and literary, incomparably
the best. It came unnoticed and unobserved into the world."

It may commonly be noticed that the relative value
which an author ascribes to his own works rarely airrecs
witli the estimate formed of them by his readers, who
criticise the products, without cither the power or the
wish to take into account the pains which they may have
cost the producer. Moreover, the clear and dispassionate
common sense of the Inquiry concerninrj the Principles
of Morals may have tasted flat after the highly-seasoned
Inqniry concerning the Human Understandincj. Whether
the public like to be deceived or not may be open to
question ; but it is beyond a doubt that they hive to be
shocked in a pleasant and mannerly way. Now Hume's
speculations on moral questions are not so remote from
those of respectable professors, like Ilutcheson, or saintly
prelates, such as Butler, as to present any striking novelty.
And they support the cause of righteousness in a cool, rea
9*

196

IILME.

[ciur,

sonablc, indeed slightly patronising fashion, eminently in
harmony Avith the mind of the eighteenth century ; which
admired virtue very much, if she would only avoid the rig-
our which the age called fanaticism, and the fervour which
it called enthusiasm.

Having applied the ordinary methods of scientific in-
quiry to the intellectual phenomena of the mind, it was
natural that Hume should extend the same mode of inves-
tigation to its moral phenomena ; and, in the true spirit
of a natural philosopher, he conuncnces by selecting a
group of those states of consciousness with which every
one's personal experience must have made him familiar:
in the expectation that the discovery of the sources of
moral approbation and disapprobation, in this compara-
tively easy case, may furnish the means of detecting them
where they are more recondite.

" We shall analyse that complication of mental qualities
wliich form what, in common life, we call peusonal mekit:
We slial' consider every attribute of the mind, which renders
a man an object eitlicr of esteem and aflfectiou, or of hatred
and contempt; every habit or sentiment or faculty, which, if
ascril)ed to any person, imjilies either praise or blame, and
may enter into any panegyric or satire of his character and
manners. The quick sensibility which, on this head, is so
universal among mankind, gives a philosopher sufficient as-
surance that he can never be consideral)ly mistaken in fram-
ing the catalogue, or incurs any danger of misplacing the
objects of his contemplation: He needs only enter into his
own breast for a moment, and consider whether he should
or should not desire to have this or that quality assigned to
liini; and wln^ther such or such an imputation would proceed
from a friend or an enemy. The very nature of langu.ige
guides us almost infallibly in forming a judgment of this
nature; and as every tongue possesses one set of words

[Cllal'.

XI.J

THE rRixcirLES of morals.

19'i

■which are taken in a good sense, and ai' other in the oppo-
site, the least acquaintance with the idii u suffices, without
any reasoning, to direct us in collecting and arranging the
estimable or blamable (lusilities of men. The only oliject
of reasoning is to discover the circumstances, on both sides,
which are common to these qualities; to ol>serve that par-
ticular in which the estimable qualities agree on the one
hand, and the blamable on the other, and thence to reach
the foundation of ethics, and find their universal principles,
from which all censure or approbation is ultimately derived.
As this is a question of fact, not of abstract science, we can
only expect success by following the experimental method,
and deducing general maxims from a comparison of particu-
lar instances. The other scientifical method, where a gen-
eral al)stract principle is first established, and is afterwards
branched out into a variety of inferences and conclusions,
may be more perfect in itself, but suits less the imperfection
of human nature, and is :i common source of illusion and
mistake, in this as well as in other subjects. Men are now
cured of their passion for hypotheses and .systems in natural
philosophy, and will hearken to no arguments but those
which are derived from experience. It is full time they
should attempt a like reformation in all moral disquisitions,
and reject every system of ethics, however subtile or ingen-
ious, which is not fomided on fact and observation." — (IV.
pp. 243—4.)

No qualities give a man a greater claim to personal
merit tlian benevolence and justice ; but if we inquire
why benevolence deserves so much praise, the answer will
certainly contain a large reference to the utility of that
virtue to society ; and as for justice, the very existence of
the virtue implies that of society ; public utility is its sole
origin ; and the measure of its usefulness is also the stand-
ard of its merit. If every man possessed everything he
wanted, and no one bad the power to interfere with such

198

HUME.

[ciuv.

possession ; or if no man desired tint wlncli could damage
his fellow man, justice would have no part to play in the
universe. But as Hume observes : —

" In the present disposition of the human heart, it would
perhaps be difficult to find eomplete instances of such cn-
hirued aftcctions; but still we may ol)serve that the case of
families approaches towards it; and tlie stronger the mut-
ual benevolence is among the individuals, the nearer it ai^-
proaches, till all distinction of property be in a great meas-
ure lost and confounded among them. Between married
persons, the cement of friendship is h\ the laws supposed so
strong as to abolish all division of possessions, and has often,
in reality, the force assigned to it :' And it is observable that,
during the ardour of new enthusiasms, when every principle
is intlamed into extravagance, the community of goods has
fre<piently been attempted ; and nothing but experience of
its inconveniences, from the returning or disguised selfish-
ness of men, could make the imprudent fanatics adopt anew
the ideas of justice and separate property. So true is it that
this virtue derives its existence entirely from its necessary
use to the intercourse and social state of mankind."— (IV. p.

256.)

''Were the liumaT?. cpecics so framed by nature as that
each individual possessed withm himself every faculty requi-
site both for his own preservation and for the propagation
of his kind : Were all society and intercourse cut oiV between
man and man by the primary intention of the Supreme Cre-
ator : It seems evident that so solitary a being would be as
much incapable of justice as of social discourse and conver-

1 Familv aiTectiou in the eigliteentli century may have been
.tron-er tlian in the nineteenth ; ))nt Hume's l.achelor inexperience
can s°urelv alone explain his strange account of the suppositions of
tlic marriago law of that day, and their effects. The law certamly
abolished a:! division of possessions, but it did so by making the
husband solo proprietor.

[CIIA1-.

XI.]

THE PRIXCirLES OF MORALS.

199

sation. Where mutual regard and forl:)earauce serve to no
manner of purpose, tliey would never direct the conduct of
any reasonable man. The headlonu; course of tlie passions
would l)e checked by no rellectiou on future consequences.
x\.ud as each man is here supposed to love himself alone, and
to depend only on himself and his own activity for safety
and happiness, lie would, on every occasion, to the utmost of
his power, challenge the preference aljove every other being,
to none of which lie is bound by any ties, either of nature
or of interest.

" But suppose the conjunction of the sexes to be estab-
lished in nature, a family inunediately arises ; and particular
rules being found requisite for its subsistence, tliese are im-
mediately embraced, though without comprehending the rest
of mankind within their prescriptions. Suppose that sev
eral families unite together in one society, which is totally
disjoined from all others, the rules which preserve peace and
order enlarge themselves to the utmost extent of that socie-
ty ; but becoming then entirely useless, lose their force when
carried one step further. But again, suppose that several
distinct societies maintain a kind of intercourse for mutual
convenience and advantage, the boundaries of justice still
grow larger, in proportion to the largeness of men's views
and the force of their mutual connexion. History, experi-
ence, reason, sufficiently instruct us in tliis natural progress
of human sentiments, and in the gradual enlargement of our
regard to justice in proportion as we become accpiainted
with the extensive utility of that virtue." — (IV. pp. 263 — 4.)

The moral obligation of justice and tlie rights of prop-
erty are by no means diminislied by this exposure of the
purely utilitarian basis on whicli they rest : —

"For what stronger foundation can be desired or con-
ceived for any duty, than to observe that liuman society, or
' ven human nature, could not subsist without the establish-
ment of it, and will still arrive at greater degrees of happi-

1. 1

i \

200

UUME.

I^CIIAP.

ues3 and perfection, the more inviolable the regard is which

is paid to that duty ? . -, , i

"The dilemma seems obvious: As justice evidently tends
to promote pul>lic utility and to support civil society, the
sentiment of justice is either derived from our reflectmg on
that tendenev, or, like hunger, thirst, and other appetites, re-
sentment, love of life, attachment to offspring, and other
passions, arises from a simple original instuict in the human
heart Avhieli nature has implanted for like salutary purposes.
If the latter U> the case, it follows that property, which is the
object of justice, is also distinguished by a simple onguud
instinct, and is not ascertained by any argument or reflection.
But Avho is there that ever heard of such an instinct ? Or is
this a subject in which new discoveries can be made ? We
may as well expect to discover in the body new senses which
had before escaped the observation of all mankind.' —(I\.
pp. 273, 4.)

The restriction of the object of justice to property, in
this passairc, is sinirular. Pleasure and pain can hardly be
included under the term property, and yet justice surely
deals largely with tl-.o withholding of tlic former, or the
inflictioii of the latter, by men on one anotlier. If a man
bars anotlier from a pleasure which lie would otherwise
enjoy, or actively hurts him without good reason, the lat-
ter is said to be iniurcd as much as if his property had
been interfered with. Here, indeed, it may be readily
shown that it is as much the interest of society that men
should not interfere with one another's freedom, or mutu-
ally inflict positive or negative pain, as that they should
not meddle with one another's property, and hence the
obli«-ation of justice in such matters may be deduced.
But^'if a man merely thinks ill of another, or feels mali-
ciously towards him without due cause, he is properly said
to be unjust. In this case it would be hard to prove that

'('!

1^1

is wliich

tly tpmls
jiety, tlio
ctiiii^ on
etitcs, rc-
id other
10 ImuKin
purposes,
lich is the
I oriiiuml
X'tieetion.
t ? Or is
de? We
ses which
d."-(IV.

opcrt}', in
hardly ho
ice surely
or, or the

If a man
otherwise
n, the hit-
perty had
JO readily

that men
, or mutu-
lov should
hence the
I deduced,
feels mali-
)pcrly said
prove that

X..J

THE rRIXCIPLES OF MORALS.

201

any injury is done to society by the evil thought; but
there is no question that it will be stigmatised as an injus-
tice ; and the offender himself, in another frame of mind,
is often ready enough to admit that he has failed to be
just towards his neighbour. However, it may plausibly
be said that so slight a barrier lies between thought and
speech, that any moral quality attached to the latter is
easily transferred to the former ; and that, since open slan-
der is obviously oi)posed to the interests of society, injus-
tice of thought, which is silent slander, must become inex-
tricably associated with the same blame.

But, granting the utiliiy to society of all kinds of be-
nevolence and justice, why should the quality of those vir-
tues involve the sense of moral obligation ?

Hume answers this question in the fifth section, entitled,
Whi/ UtiUty Pleases. He repudiates the deduction of
moral approbation from self-love, and utterly denies that
we approve of benevolent or just actions because we think
of the benefits which they arc likely to confer indirectly
on ourselves. The source of the approbation with which
we view an act useful to society must be sought elsewhere;
and, in fact, is to be found in that feeling which is called
sympathy.

"No man is absolutely indifTerent to the happiness and
misery of others. The first has a natural tendency to give
pleasure, tlic second pain. This every one may find in him-
self. It is not probable that these principles can be resolved
into principles more simple and universal, whatever attempts
may have been made for that purpose."— (IV. p. 294, note.)

Other men's joys and sorrows arc not spectacles at
which we remain unmoved : —

"... The view of the former, whether in its causes or of-

202

UUME.

[CIlAV.

'IP I

n,ii t

fects, like sunshine, or the prospect of wcll-cultivatca phiius
(to carry our pretensions no higher), communicates a secret
joy and satisfaction ; tlie appearance of tlie hitter, like a
h)\vering cloud or Ijarreu landscape, throws a melancholy
damp over the imagination. And this concessu)n being
once made, the difficulty is over; and a natural unforce.l
interpretation of the phenomena of human life will after-
wards, we hope, prevail among all speculative imiuirers."—
(IV. p. 320.)

The moral approbation, therefore, with which we regard
acts of justice or benevolence rests upon their utility to
society, because the perception of that utility, or, in other
words, of the pleasure which they give to other men,
arouses a feeling of sympathetic pleasure in ourselves.
The feeling of obligation to be just, or of the duty of jus-
tice, arises out of that association of moral approbation or
disapprobation witli one's own actions, whicli is what wc
call conscience. To fail in justice, or in benevolence, is to
be displeased with oneself. But happiness is impossible
without inward self-approval ; and, hence, every man who
has any regard to his own happiness aihl welfare, will find
his best reward in the practice of every moral duty. On
this topic Hume expends much eloquence.

"But what philosophical truths can be more advantageous
to society than these here delivered, which represent virtue
in all her genuine and most engaging charms, and make us
approach her Avith case, familiarity, and affection ? The dis-
mal dress falls off, with which many divines and some phi-
losophers have covered her ; and nothing appears but gentle-
ness, humanity, bene ficence, affability ; nay, even at proper
intervals, play, frolic, and gaiety. She talks not of useless
iuisterities and rigours, suffering and self-denial. She de-
Clares that her sole purpose is to make her votaries, and all
mankind, during every period of their existence, if possible,

i' 1 \i\ '

[CTIAU

X..]

THE PRINCIPLES OF MORALS.

208

cheerful iin.l liappy; nor does she ever willinrrly part witli
any pleasure hut in hopes of ample compensation in some
other period of their lives. The sole trouble which she de-
mands is th:-t r^^' just calculation, and a steady preference of
the yreater iiai piness. And if any austere pretenders ap-
proach her, enemies to joy and pleasure, she either rejects
them as hypocrites and deceivers, or, if sho admit them in
her train, tliey arc ranked, liowever, among the least favour-
ed of her voti-ries.

"And. indeed, to drop all figurative expression, what hopes
can we ever have of engi-.ging mankind to a practice which
wo confess full of austerity and rigour i Or what theory of
morals can ever serve any useful purpose, unless it can show,
l.y a particular detail, that all the duties which it recom-
mends are also the true interest of each individual? The
peculiar advantage of he foregoing system secuns to be, that
it furnishes proper mediums for that purpose."— (IV. p. 360.)

In this pa?an to virtue, there is more of the dance meas-
ure than will sound appropriate in the cars of most of the
piJoTims who toil painfully, not without many a stumble
and many a bruise, alon^i,' the rough and steep roads which
lead to the higher life.

Virtue is undoubtedly beneficent ; but the man is to be
envied to whom her ways seem in anywise i.iayful. And,
though she may not talk much about suffering and self-
denial, her silence on that topic may be aconnted for on
the principle fa va sans dire. The calculai; of the
greatest happiness is not performed quite so easily is a
rule of three sum ; while, in the hour of temptation, the
question will crop up, wliether, as something has to be
sacrificed, a bird in the hand is not worth two in the
busli ; whether it may not be as well to give up the prob-
lematical greater happiness in the future for a certain
great happiness in the present, and
O

204 HUME. [ciup.

"■Buy tlic mprry madness of ono hour
With the loiii' irksomcuess of Ibllowhi'^ tiiut'.''*

liVtB >

Tf mankind cannot bo engaged in practieos " full of
austerity and rigour," by the love of righteousness and
the fear of evil, without seeking for other compensation
than that which Hows from the gratification of sucli love
and the consciousness of escape from debasement, they
are in a bad case. For they will assuredly find that virtue
presents no \ery close likeness to the sportive leader of
the joyous hours in Hume's rosy picture; but that si..,
is an awful Goddess, whose ministers are the Furies, and
whose highest reward is peace.

It is not improbable that JIumc woidd liave qualified
all this as enthusiasm or fanaticism, or both ; but he virt-
ually admits it : —

" Now, as virtue is an end, and is desirable on its own ac-
count, without fee or reward, merely for the immediate sat-
isfaction whicli it conveys, it is rc(iuisite tliat there should
be some sentiment which it touches ; some internal taste or
feeling, or whatever you please to call it, which distinguishes
moral good and evil, and which embraces the one and rejects
the other.

"Thus the distinct bouudarics and offices of reason and of
taste are easily ascertained. The former conveys the knowl-
edffe of truth and ildsehood : The latter g'-cs the sentiment
of beauty and deformity, vice and virtue. The one discovers
olijccts as they really stand in nature, witliout addition or
diminution : The other has a productive faculty : and gilding
and staining all natural objects with the colours borrowed
from internal sentiment, raises in a manner a new creation.
Reason being cool and disengaged, is no motive to action,
and directs only the impulse received from appetite or in-

Ben Jonson's Cyntlua's Revels, act i.

[liup.

X..J

THE PUINCirLES OF MOUALS.

208

clination, by showing us the uicans of attiilnins? Imppincsu
or avoiding misery. Taste, as it given pleasure ot pain, and
thereby constitutes liappiness or misery, becomes u motive
to action, and is tlie first spring or impulse to desire ami vo-
lition. Fr.')m circumstances and relations known or sup-
posed, the former leads us to the discovery of the concealed
and unknov.n. After all circuu)stances and relations arc^ laid
before us, the latter makes us feel from the wiiole a new sen-
timent of blame or approbation. The standard of tl"> one,
being founded (m the nature of things, is external and mllex-
iblc, even by the will of the Supreme Being : "he standard
of the otlicr, arising from the internal frame and constitntion
of animals, is ultimately derived from the Supreme AVill,
whicli bestowed on each being its peculiar nature, and ar-
ranged the several classes and orders of existence." — (IV.
p. 370—7.)

Ilumc has not discussed tlie theological theory of the
obligations of morality, but it is obviously ii> accordance
with liis view of tlic nature of those obligatio.is. Under
its theological aspect, morality is obedience to iho will of
God; and the ground for such obedience is two-fold;
either we ought to obey God because He will punish us if
wo disobey Ilim which is an argument based on the utili-
ty of obedience ; or our obedience ought to flow from our
love towards God, whicli is an argument based on pure
feeling, and for which no reason can be given. For, if any
man should say that he takes no pleasure in the contem-
plation of the ideal of perfect holiness, or, in other words,
that he does not love God, the attempt to argue him into
acquiring that pleasure would be as hopeless as the en-
deavour to persuade Peter Bell of the " witchery of the
joft blue sky."

In which ever way we look at the matter, morality is
based on feeling, not on reason ; though reason alone is

206

UUME.

f CHAP. XI

i-\

competent to trace out tin; effocts of our actions, ami
tliorchy ilictato conduct. Justice is founded on the love
of or.e's neiLi'libour; and goodness is a kind of beauty.
The moral law, like the laws of physical nature, rests in
the long run upon instinctive intuitions, and is neither
more nor less " innate " and " necessary " than they are.
Some people cannot by any means bo got to understand
the tirst book of Euclid ; but the truths of mathiMuatics
are no less necessary and binding on the great mass of
mankind. Some there are who cannot feel the diiferencc
between the Sonata Appasslonata and Cherri/ R'ipe; or
between a gravestone-cutter's cherub and the Ai)ollo IJel-
viderc ; but the canons of art are none the less acknowl-
edged. Whi)'; some there may be who, devoid of sympa-
thy, are incapable of a sense of duty ; but neither does
their existence affect the foundations of morality. Such
])athological deviations from true manhood are merely the
halt, the" lame, and the blind of the world of consciousness;
and the anatomist of the mind leaves them aside, as the
juiatomist of the body would ignore abnormal specimens.

And as there are Pascals and Mozarts, Newtotis and
RafEaeUes, in whom the innate faculty for science or art
Hccms to need but a touch to spring into full vigour, and
through whom the human race obtains new possibilities
of knowledge and new conceptions of beauty : so there
have been men of moral genius, to whom we owe ideals of
duty and visions of moral perfection, which ordinary man-
kind could never have attained; though, happily for them,
they can feel the beauty of a vision, which lay bcynd the
reach of their dull imaginations, and count life well spent
iu shaping some faint imago of it in the actual world.

THE END.