r 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OP 
 CALIFORNIA 
 , SAN DIESO
 
 lllimiiri'lWi7iTM9i';„9^,L"'ORNIA. SAN DIEGO 
 
 3 1822 01727 4275 
 
 PA/ 
 
 Central University Library 
 
 University of California, San Diego 
 Please Note: This item is subject to recall. 
 
 Date Due 
 
 MAR 8 1935 
 
 
 DEC 2 1 1994 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 C\ 39 (7/93) ^^^^ '-*•
 
 fliontesuma JEMtion 
 THE WORKS OF WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT 
 
 TWENTY-TWO VOLUMES 
 
 Vol. XX.
 
 The Montezuma Edition of William H. Prescott's 
 Works is limited to one thousand copies, of which 
 this is 
 
 Wo.

 
 A KING OF NAVABKE MAKING AN INCURSION INTO CASTILE. 
 Page:ii4.
 
 flQonte3uma Edition 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 Critical Miscellanies 
 
 ,,jr 
 
 BY 
 
 WILUAM H. PRESCOTT 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 WILFRED HAROLD MUNRO 
 
 PROFESSOR OF EUROPEAN HISTORY IN BROWN UNIVERSITY 
 
 VOL. I 
 
 PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1863, by Gkorgs Ticknor 
 Copyright, 1904, by J, B. Lippincott Compakt 
 
 Electrotyped and Printed by 
 J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U. S. A.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I 
 
 CHARLE3 BROCKDEN BROWN, THE AMERICAN NOVELIST .... 1 
 
 ASYLUM FOR THE BLIND 58 
 
 IRVING's conquest of GRANADA 89 
 
 cervantes 12s 
 
 sir walter scott , 175 
 
 Chateaubriand's English literattjhb 242 
 
 Bancroft's united states 290 
 
 MADAME CALDERON's LIFE IN MEXICO 336
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A King of Navaere Making an Incxtesion into Castile 
 
 Frontispiece 
 Original illustration by Paul Albert Laurens. 
 
 POKTRAIT OF VoLTAIRE 41 
 
 After the bust by Houden at Versailles. 
 
 Don Quixote 124 
 
 After the Painting by Barrau. 
 
 LucT of Lammermoor 199 
 
 After the Painting by V61y. 
 
 Portrait of Chateaubriand 275 
 
 After the painting by Girodet in the Museum at St. Malo.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 THE volume of Biographical and Critical Mis- 
 cellanies was published when Prescott had 
 attained an international reputation. It was sent 
 to the press not because of any intrinsic merit in 
 the essays themselves, but because their author 
 rightly judged that the reading public, especially 
 in England, would like to peruse some of his ear- 
 liest productions, and to compare them with his 
 later works. The English edition, which contains 
 all the papers except the review of Ticknor's His- 
 tory of Spanish Literature, was published in 1845. 
 As one studies the Miscellanies to-day he 
 realizes fully the force of Daniel Webster's oft- 
 quoted remark when, after the publication of the 
 ' ' History of the Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella' ' 
 he characterized Prescott as * ' a comet which had 
 suddenly blazed out upon the world in full 
 splendor. ' ' They are exceedingly interesting to 
 the historical student who desires to compare the 
 reviews of the first half of the last century with 
 those of the present day. But if any one, when 
 they were first published, had ventured to predict 
 that their author would, before his death, become 
 the most famous of American historians, the pre- 
 diction would have been received with consid- 
 
 ix
 
 X INTRODUCTION 
 
 erable incredulity, to say the least. Not that the 
 reviews are unworthy of respect, but because they 
 only vaguely indicate the genius that Prescott 
 possessed. 
 
 The earliest article (upon Italian Narrative 
 Poetry) was published in 1824, when Prescott 
 was twenty-eight years old. All but those 
 upon Sir Walter Scott, Chateaubriand's English 
 Literature, Bancroft's United States, Madame 
 Calderon's Life in Mexico, and Ticknor's Spanish 
 Literature appeared before the ' ' Ferdinand and 
 Isabella" was sent to the printer, and all except 
 the review of Ticknor's volumes appeared before 
 the publication of the " Conquest of Mexico" 
 (the historian's second work), in October, 1843. 
 
 Prescott devoted much time and labor to 
 the preparation of his reviews, but he was never 
 especially successful in that field of work. His 
 style is formal and lifeless. He rarely warms to 
 his subject and he discovers little historical imagi- 
 nation. It is impossible to imagine the author 
 of Italian Narrative Poetry ever WTiting the en- 
 trancing account of the Triste Noche. All his 
 historical works were sold because of their exceed- 
 ing merit. The volume of reviews was sold be- 
 cause of its author's great reputation. How great 
 that reputation was its large sale testifies. If the 
 nine oldest essays had been published in book 
 form before the "Ferdinand and Isabella" had 
 made their author known to the public, their pub- 
 lisher would have had a lot of dead stock upon
 
 INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 his hands. All the essays manifest large learning, 
 but the earlier ones show that their author was 
 unusually modest in his estimate of his own 
 powers, and especially of the value of his judg- 
 ment as a critic. Moreover, he seems weighed 
 down by the knowledge of the low esteem in 
 which all " British- American" work was held by 
 the great reviewers on the other side of the At- 
 lantic. This is notably true in the case of the 
 oldest essay (Italian Narrative Poetry). We 
 discern in it few indications of its author's ability 
 to write history. It is impossible for the average 
 reader to become deeply interested in it. It ap- 
 peals to specialists only — to those conversant 
 with the subject of which it treats. The second 
 in point of age, "DaPonte's Observations," is 
 interesting mainly because it shows us what Pres- 
 cott was (and was not) able to accomplish in a 
 controversial way. 
 
 That upon Moliere is admirable. We see in 
 it the first beams of the luminary that was nine 
 years later to blaze upon the world. The next 
 review is upon Irving 's Conquest of Granada. 
 Irving's field was one in which Prescott had al- 
 ready for some time been working. In its thirty 
 and more pages the reader will find three pages 
 with some mention of Irving's authorities, but he 
 will seek in vain for its author's opinion of Irving's 
 work. This is probably due to the fact that 
 Prescott was distrustful of the value of his own 
 critical judgment. Twelve years later, when the
 
 xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 world had expressed in no uncertain language 
 its approval of the author of ' ' Ferdinand and 
 Isabella," he does not hesitate to commend in 
 very emphatic terms Bancroft's " History of the 
 United States." 
 
 The article upon the "Asylum for the Blind" 
 has a pathetic interest because of the condition of 
 Prescott's own eyes. It is really an earnest plea 
 for a wider recognition of the immense work ac- 
 complished by those to whom the visible world 
 is a sealed book. 
 
 The biographical article upon Charles Brock- 
 den Brown was written in two weeks' time. It 
 commands attention as a biography, but is not 
 specially valuable as a criticism of Brown's liter- 
 ary work. Jared Sparks, editor of the series of 
 American Biographies for which it was written, 
 thought its author generalized too much. Prescott 
 himself found that he had indulged in too much 
 eulogy. Many critics have since judged that 
 much of his eulogy was misplaced. 
 
 The last review, upon Ticknor's History of 
 Spanish Literature, was written in 1852, shortly 
 after its author's return from Europe. He was 
 then at the height of his fame, and had been 
 lionized in England as no American historian 
 ever had been before. The judgment of the world 
 had placed him in the front rank of the historical 
 writers of the century. He knew that he might 
 confidently express his own opinions and that few 
 would venture to question their value. The temp-
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 tation to high eulogy was great. For years Ticknor 
 had been his intimate friend. Prescott knew how 
 thorough his friend's work had always been, and 
 how valuable the results of his labors were. For 
 almost a generation he had been studying the 
 general history of the country of which the 
 literary historian wrote. His review is com- 
 mendatory in the highest degree, but it is justly 
 so. It is an admirable characterization of what 
 Ticknor had accomplished, and its verdict of un- 
 qualified approval has been sustained by the judg- 
 ment of the whole critical world. 
 
 Wilfred H. Munro. 
 Brown Uxiversity, 
 
 April 2, 1906.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 AND 
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES
 
 MEMOIR OF 
 
 CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 
 
 THE AMERICAN NOVELIST* 
 
 THE class of professed men of letters, if we 
 exclude from the account the conductors of 
 periodical journals, is certainly not very large, 
 even at the present day, in our country; but be- 
 fore the close of the last century it was nearly im- 
 possible to meet with an individual who looked to 
 authorship as his only, or, indeed, his principal, 
 means of subsistence. This was somewhat the 
 more remarkable, considering the extraordinary 
 development of intellectual power exhibited in 
 every quarter of the country, and applied to every 
 variety of moral and social culture, and formed 
 a singular contrast ^vith more than one nation in 
 Europe, where literature still continued to be fol- 
 lowed as a distinct profession, amid all the diffi- 
 culties resulting from an arbitrary government 
 and popular imbecility and ignorance. 
 
 Abundant reasons are suggested for this by the 
 various occupations afforded to talent of all kinds, 
 not only in the exercise of political functions, but 
 in the splendid career opened to enterprise of 
 every description in our free and thriving com- 
 munity. We were in the morning of life, as it 
 
 *From Spark's American Biography, 1834. 
 
 3
 
 4 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 were, when everything summoned us to action; 
 when the spirit was quickened by hope and youth- 
 ful confidence; and we felt that we had our race 
 to run, unlike those nations who, having reached 
 the noontide of their glory or sunk into their de- 
 cHne, were naturally led to dwell on the soothing 
 recollections of the past, and to repose themselves, 
 after a tumultuous existence, in the quiet pleas- 
 ures of study and contemplation. " It was amid 
 the ruins of the Capitol," says Gibbon, " that I 
 first conceived the idea of writing the History of 
 the Roman Empire." The occupation suited well 
 with the spirit of the place, but would scarcely 
 have harmonized with the Hfe of bustling energy 
 and the thousand novelties which were perpetually 
 stimulating the appetite for adventure in our new 
 and unexplored hemisphere. In short, to express 
 it in one word, the peculiarities of our situation as 
 naturally disposed us to active life as those of the 
 old countries of Europe to contemplative. 
 
 The subject of the present memoir affords an 
 almost solitary example, at this period, of a 
 scholar, in the enlarged application of the term, 
 who cultivated letters as a distinct and exclusive 
 profession, resting his means of support, as well 
 as his fame, on his success, and who, as a writer 
 of fiction, is still farther entitled to credit for 
 having quitted the beaten grounds of the Old 
 Country and sought his subjects in the untried 
 wilderness of his own. The particulars of his un- 
 ostentatious life have been collected with sufficient 
 industry by his friend Mr. William Dunlap, to 
 whom our native literature is under such large
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 6 
 
 obligations for the extent and fidelity of his re- 
 searches. We will select a few of the most promi- 
 nent incidents from a mass of miscellaneous frag- 
 ments and literary lumber with which his work is 
 somewhat encumbered. It were to be wished that, 
 in the place of some of them, more copious ex- 
 tracts had been substituted from his journal and 
 correspondence, which doubtless, in this as in other 
 cases, must aiFord the most interesting as well as 
 authentic materials for biography. 
 
 Charles Brockden Brown was born at Phila- 
 delphia, January 17th, 1771. He was descended 
 from a highly respectable family, whose ancestors 
 were of that estimable sect who came over with 
 William Penn to seek an asylum where they 
 might worship their Creator unmolested in the 
 meek and humble spu'it of their own faith. From 
 his earliest childhood Brown gave evidence of his 
 studious propensities, being frequently noticed by 
 his father, on his return from school, poring over 
 some heavy tome, nothing daunted by the formid- 
 able words it contained, or mounted on a table 
 and busily engaged in exploring a map which 
 hung on the parlor wall. This infantine predilec- 
 tion for geographical studies ripened into a pas- 
 sion in later years. Another anecdote, recorded 
 of him at the age of ten, sets in a still stronger 
 hght his appreciation of intellectual pursuits far 
 above his years. A visitor at his father's having 
 rebuked him, as it would seem, without cause, for 
 some remark he had made, gave him the con- 
 temptuous epithet of " boy." " What does he 
 mean," said the young philosopher, after the
 
 6 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 guest's departure, " by calling me boy? Does he 
 not know that it is neither size nor age, but sense, 
 that makes the man? I could ask him a hundred 
 questions, none of which he could answer." 
 
 At eleven years of age he was placed under the 
 tuition of Mr. Robert Proud, well known as the 
 author of the History of Pennsylvania. Under 
 his direction he went over a large course of Eng- 
 hsh reading, and acquired the elements of Greek 
 and Latin, applying himself with great assiduity 
 to his studies. His bodily health was naturally 
 delicate, and indisposed him to engage in the 
 robust, athletic exercises of boyhood. His seden- 
 tary habits, however, began so evidently to impair 
 his health that his master recommended him to 
 withdraw from his books and recruit his strength 
 by excursions on foot into the country. These 
 pedestrian rambles suited the taste of the pupil, 
 and the length of his absence often excited the 
 apprehensions of his friends for his safety. He 
 may be thought to have sat to himself for this 
 portrait of one of his heroes. " I preferred to 
 ramble in the forest and loiter on the hill; per- 
 petually to change the scene ; to scrutinize the end- 
 less variety of objects; to compare one leaf and 
 pebble with another; to pursue those trains of 
 thought which their resemblances and differences 
 suggested; to inquire what it was that gave them 
 this place, structure, and form, were more agree- 
 able employments than ploughing and threshing." 
 " My frame was delicate and feeble. Exposure 
 to wet blasts and vertical suns was sure to make 
 me sick." The fondness for these solitary rambles
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 7 
 
 continued through Hfe, and the familiarity which 
 they opened to him with the grand and beautiful 
 scenes of nature undoubtedly contributed to nour- 
 ish the habit of revery and abstraction, and to 
 deepen the romantic sensibilities from which 
 flowed so much of his misery, as well as happiness, 
 in after-life. 
 
 He quitted Mr. Proud's school before the age 
 of sixteen. He had previously made some small 
 poetical attempts, and soon after sketched the 
 plans of three several epics, on the discovery of 
 America and the conquests of Peru and Mexico. 
 For some time they engaged liis attention to the 
 exclusion of every other object. No vestige of 
 them now remains, or, at least, has been given to 
 the public, by which we can ascertain the progress 
 made towards their completion. The publication 
 of such immature juvenile productions may 
 gratify curiosity by affording a point of com- 
 parison with later excellence. They are rarely, 
 however, of value in themselves sufficient to au- 
 thorize their exposure to the world, and, notwith- 
 standing the occasional exception of a Pope or a 
 Pascal, may very safely put up with Uncle Toby's 
 recommendation on a similar display of pre- 
 cocity, " to hush it up, and say as little about it as 
 possible." 
 
 Among the contributions which, at a later 
 period of life, he w^as in the habit of making to 
 different journals, the fate of one was too singu- 
 lar to be passed over in silence. It was a poetical 
 address to Franklin, prepared for the Edentown 
 newspaper. " The blundering printer," says
 
 8 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 Brown, in liis journal, " from zeal or ignorance, 
 or perhaps from both, substituted the name of 
 Washington. Washington, therefore, stands 
 arrayed in awkward colors; philosophy smiles to 
 behold her darling son ; she turns with horror and 
 disgust from those who have won the laurel of 
 victory in the field of battle, to this her favorite 
 candidate, who had never participated in such 
 bloody glory, and whose fame was derived from 
 the conquest of philosophy alone. The printer, 
 by his blundering ingenuity, made the subject 
 ridiculous. Every word of this clumsy panegyric 
 was a direct slander upon Washington, and so it 
 was regarded at the time." There could not well 
 be imagined a more expeditious or effectual recipe 
 for converting eulogy into satire. 
 
 Young Brown had now reached a period of life 
 when it became necessary to decide on a profes- 
 sion. After due deliberation, he determined on 
 the law, — a choice which received the cordial 
 approbation of his friends, who saw in his habitual 
 diligence and the character of his mind, at once 
 comprehensive and logical, the most essential 
 requisites for success. He entered on the studies 
 of his profession with his usual ardor; and the 
 acuteness and copiousness of his arguments on 
 various topics proposed for discussion in a law- 
 society over which he presided bear ample testi- 
 mony to his ability and industry. But, however 
 suited to his talents the profession of the law 
 might be, it was not at all to his taste. He became 
 a member of a literary club, in which he made fre- 
 quent essays in composition and eloquence. He
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 9 
 
 kept a copious journal, and by familiar exercise 
 endeavored to acquire a pleasing and graceful 
 style of writing; and every hour that he could 
 steal from professional schooling was devoted to 
 the cultivation of more attractive literature. In 
 one of his contributions to a journal, just before 
 this period, he speaks of " the rapture with which 
 he held communion with his own thoughts amid 
 the gloom of surrounding woods, where his fancy 
 peopled every object with ideal beings, and the 
 barrier between himself and the world of spirits 
 seemed burst by the force of meditation. In this 
 solitude, he felt himself surrounded by a delight- 
 ful society; but when transported from thence, 
 and compelled to listen to the frivolous chat of 
 his fellow-beings, he suffered all the miseries of 
 solitude." He declares that his intercourse and 
 conversation with mankind had wrought a salu- 
 tary change; that he can now mingle in the con- 
 cerns of life, perform his appropriate duties, and 
 reserve that higher species of discourse for the 
 sohtude and silence of his study. In this sup- 
 posed control over his romantic fancies he grossly 
 deceived himself. 
 
 As the time approached for entering on the 
 practice of his profession, he felt his repugnance 
 to it increase more and more; and he sought to 
 justify a retreat from it altogether by such poor 
 sophistry as his imagination could suggest. He 
 objected to the profession as having something 
 in it immoral. He could not reconcile it with his 
 notions of duty to come forward as the champion 
 indiscriminately of right and wrong ; and he con-
 
 10 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 sidered the stipendiary advocate of a guilty party 
 as becoming, by that very act, participator in the 
 guilt. He did not allow himself to reflect that 
 no more equitable arrangement could be devised, 
 none which would give the humblest individual 
 so fair a chance for maintaining his rights as the 
 employment of competent and upright counsel, 
 familiar with the forms of legal practice, neces- 
 sarily so embarrassing to a stranger; that, so far 
 from being compelled to undertake a cause mani- 
 festly unjust, it is always in the power of an 
 honest lawj^er to decline it, but that such contin- 
 gencies are of most rare occurrence, as few cases 
 are litigated where each party has not previously 
 plausible grounds for believing himself in the 
 right, a question only to be settled by fair dis- 
 cussion on both sides; that opportunities are not 
 wanting, on the other hand, which invite the high- 
 est display of eloquence and professional science 
 in detecting and defeating villany, in vindicating 
 slandered innocence, and in expounding the great 
 principles of law on which the foundations of 
 personal security and property are established; 
 and, finally, that the most illustrious names in his 
 own and every other civilized country have been 
 drawn from the ranks of a profession whose 
 habitual discipline so well trains them for legis- 
 lative action and the exercise of the highest poUti- 
 cal functions. 
 
 Brown cannot be supposed to have been insensi- 
 ble to these obvious views ; and, indeed, from one 
 of his letters in later life, he appears to have 
 clearly recognized the value of the profession he
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 11 
 
 had deserted. But his object was, at this time, to 
 justify himself in his fickleness of purpose, as he 
 best might, in his own eyes and those of his 
 friends. Brown was certainly not the first man 
 of genius who found himself incapable of resign- 
 ing the romantic world of fiction and the uncon- 
 trolled revels of the imagination for the dull and 
 prosaic realities of the law. Few, indeed, like 
 Mansfield, have been able so far to constrain their 
 young and buoyant imaginations as to merit the 
 beautiful eulogium of the English poet; while 
 many more comparatively, from the time of Juve- 
 nal downward, fortunately for the world, have 
 been willing to sacrifice the affections plighted to 
 Themis on the altars of the Muse. 
 
 Brown's resolution at this crisis caused sincere 
 regret to his friends, which they could not conceal, 
 on seeing him thus suddenly turn from the path 
 of honorable fame at the very moment when he 
 was prepared to enter on it. His prospects, but 
 lately so brilliant, seemed now overcast with a 
 deep gloom. The embarrassments of his situa- 
 tion had also a most unfavorable effect on his 
 o\^Tl mind. Instead of the careful discipline to 
 which it had been lately subjected, it was now 
 left to rove at large wherever caprice should dic- 
 tate, and waste itself on those romantic reveries 
 and speculations to which he was naturally too 
 much addicted. This was the period when the 
 French Revolution was in its heat, and the awful 
 convulsion experienced in one unhappy country 
 seemed to be felt in every quarter of the globe; 
 men grew familiar with the wildest paradoxes.
 
 12 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 and the spirit of innovation menaced the oldest 
 and best-estabhshed principles in morals and 
 government. Brown's inquisitive and specula- 
 tive mind partook of the prevailing scepticism. 
 Some of his compositions, and especially one 
 on the Rights of Women, published in 1797, 
 show to what extravagance a benevolent mind 
 may be led by fastening too exclusively on the 
 contemplation of the evils of existing institu- 
 tions and indulging in indefinite dreams of per- 
 fectibility. 
 
 There is no period of existence when the spirit 
 of a man is more apt to be depressed than when 
 he is about to quit the safe and quiet harbor in 
 which he has rode in safety from childhood, and 
 to launch on the dark and unknown ocean where 
 so many a gallant bark has gone down before him. 
 How much must this disquietude be increased in 
 the case of one who, like Brown, has thrown away 
 the very chart and compass by which he was pre- 
 pared to guide himself through the doubtful perils 
 of the voyage! How heavily the gloom of de- 
 spondency fell on his spirits at this time is attested 
 by various extracts from his private correspond- 
 ence. " As for me," he says, in one of his letters, 
 " I long ago discovered that Nature had not quali- 
 fied me for an actor on this stage. The nature of 
 my education only added to these disqualifications, 
 and I experienced all those deviations from the 
 centre which arise when all our lessons are taken 
 from books, and the scholar makes his own char- 
 acter the conament. A happy destiny, indeed, 
 brought me to the knowledge of two or three
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 13 
 
 minds which Nature had fashioned in the same 
 mould with my own, but these are gone. And, 
 
 God! enable me to wait the moment when it is 
 thy will that I should follow them." In another 
 epistle he remarks, " I have not been deficient in 
 the pursuit of that necessary branch of knowl- 
 edge, the study of myself. I will not explain the 
 result, for have I not already sufficiently endeav- 
 ored to make my friends unhappy by communi- 
 cations which, though they might easily be in- 
 jurious, could not be of any possible advantage? 
 
 1 really, dear W., regret that period when your 
 pity was first excited in my favor. I sincerely 
 lament that I ever gave you reason to imagine 
 that I was not so happy as a gay indifference with 
 regard to the present, stubborn f orgetf ulness with 
 respect to the uneasy past, and excursions into 
 lightsome futurity could make me ; for what end, 
 what useful purposes, were promoted by the dis- 
 covery? It could not take away from the num- 
 ber of the unhappy, but only add to it, by making 
 those who loved me participate in my uneasiness, 
 which each participation, so far from tending to 
 diminish, would in reality increase, by adding 
 those regrets, of which I had been author in them, 
 to my own original stock." It is painful to wit- 
 ness the struggles of a generous spirit endeavor- 
 ing to suppress the anguish thus involuntarily 
 escaping in the warmth of affectionate inter- 
 course. This becomes still more striking in the 
 contrast exhibited between the assumed cheer- 
 fulness of much of his correspondence at this 
 period and the uniform melancholy tone of his
 
 14. BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 private journal, the genuine record of his emo- 
 tions. 
 
 Fortunately, his taste, refined by intellectual 
 culture, and the elevation and spotless purity of 
 his moral principles, raised him above the tempta- 
 tions of sensual indulgence, in which minds of 
 weaker mould might have sought a temporary 
 relief. His soul was steeled against the grosser 
 seductions of appetite. The only avenue through 
 which his principles could in any way be assailed 
 was the understanding; and it would appear, 
 from some dark hints in his correspondence at this 
 period, that the rash idea of relieving himself 
 from the weight of earthly sorrows by some volun- 
 tary deed of violence had more than once flitted 
 across his mind. It is pleasing to observe with 
 what beautiful modesty and simplicity of char- 
 acter he refers his abstinence from coarser indul- 
 gences to his constitutional infirmities, and conse- 
 quent disinclination to them, which, in truth, could 
 be only imputed to the excellence of his heart and 
 his understanding. In one of his letters he re- 
 marks " that the benevolence of Nature rendered 
 him, in a manner, an exile from many of the temp- 
 tations that infest the minds of ardent youth. 
 Whatever his wishes might have been, his benevo- 
 lent destiny had prevented him from running into 
 the frivolities of youth." He ascribes to this cause 
 his love of letters, and his predominant anxiety to 
 excel in whatever was a glorious subject of com- 
 petition. " Had he been furnished with the nerves 
 and muscles of his comrades, it was very far from 
 impossible that he might have rehnquished intel-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 15 
 
 lectual pleasures. Nature had benevolently ren- 
 dered him incapable of encountering such severe 
 trials." 
 
 Brown's principal resources for dissipating the 
 melancholy which hung over him were his inex- 
 tinguishable love of letters, and the society of a 
 few friends, to whom congeniality of taste and 
 temper had united him from early years. In addi- 
 tion to these resources, we may mention his fond- 
 ness for pedestrian rambles, which sometimes were 
 of several weeks' duration. In the course of these 
 excursions, the circle of his acquaintance and 
 friends was gradually enlarged. In the city of 
 New York, in particular, he contracted an inti- 
 macy with several individuals of similar age and 
 kindred mould with himself. Among these, his 
 earliest associate was Dr. E. H. Smith, a young 
 gentleman of great promise in the medical pro- 
 fession. Brown had become known to him during 
 the residence of the latter as a student in Phila- 
 delphia. By him our hero was introduced to Mr. 
 Dunlap, who has survived to commemorate the 
 virtues of his friend in a biography already 
 noticed, and to Mr. Johnson, the accomplished 
 author of the New York Law Reports. The 
 society of these friends had sufficient attractions 
 to induce him to repeat his visit to New York, 
 until at length, in the beginning of 1798, he may 
 be said to have established his permanent resi- 
 dence there, passing much of his time under the 
 same roof with them. His amiable manners and 
 accomplishments soon recommended him to the 
 notice of other eminent individuals. He became
 
 16 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 a member of a literary society, called the Friendly 
 Club, comprehending names which have since shed 
 a distinguished lustre over the various walks of 
 literature and science. 
 
 The spirits of Brown seemed to be exalted in 
 this new atmosphere. His sensibilities found a 
 grateful exercise in the sympathies of friendship, 
 and the powers of his mind were called into action 
 by collision with others of similar tone with his 
 own. His memory was enriched with the stores 
 of various reading, hitherto conducted at random, 
 with no higher object than temporary amusement 
 or the gratification of an indefinite curiosity. He 
 now concentrated his attention on some deter- 
 minate object, and proposed to give full scope to 
 his various talents and acquisitions in the career 
 of an author, as yet so little travelled in our own 
 country. 
 
 His first publication was that before noticed, 
 entitled "Alcuin, a dialogue on the Rights of 
 Women." It exhibits the crude and fanciful 
 speculations of a theorist who, in his dreams of 
 optimism, charges exclusively on human institu- 
 tions the imperfections necessarily incident to 
 human nature. The work, with all its ingenuity, 
 made little impression on the public : it found few 
 purchasers, and made, it may be presumed, still 
 fewer converts. 
 
 He soon after began a romance, which he never 
 completed, from which his biographer has given 
 copious extracts. It is conducted in the epistolary 
 form, and, although exhibiting little of his subse- 
 quent power and passion, is recommended by a
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES IT 
 
 graceful and easy manner of narration, more at- 
 tractive than the more elaborate and artificial style 
 of his latter novel. 
 
 This abortive attempt was succeeded, in 1798, 
 by the publication of Wieland, the first of that 
 remarkable series of fictions which flowed in such 
 rapid succession from his pen in this and the three 
 following years. In this romance, the author, 
 deviating from the usual track of domestic or his- 
 toric incident, proposed to delineate the powerful 
 workings of passion displayed by a mind consti- 
 tutionally excitable, under the control of some 
 terrible and mysterious agency. The scene is laid 
 in Pennsylvania. The action takes place in a 
 family by the name of Wieland, the principal 
 member of which had inherited a melancholy and 
 somewhat superstitious constitution of mind, 
 which his habitual reading and contemplation 
 deepened into a calm but steady fanaticism. This 
 temper is nourished still farther by the occurrence 
 of certain inexplicable circumstances of ominous 
 import. Strange voices are heard by different 
 members of the family, sometimes warning them 
 of danger, sometimes announcing events seeming 
 beyond the reach of human knowledge. The still 
 and solemn hours of night are disturbed by the un- 
 earthly summons. The other actors of the drama 
 are thrown into strange perplexity, and an under- 
 plot of events is curiously entangled by the occur- 
 rence of unaccountable sights as well as sounds. 
 By the heated fancy of Wieland they are re- 
 ferred to supernatural agency. A fearful des- 
 tiny seems to preside over the scene, and to carry 
 
 Vol. I.— 2
 
 18 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 the actors onward to some awful catastrophe. At 
 length the hour arrives. A solemn, mysterious 
 voice announces to Wieland that he is now called 
 on to testify his submission to the divine will by 
 the sacrifice of his earthly affections, — to surren- 
 der up the affectionate partner of his bosom, on 
 whom he had reposed all his hopes of happiness 
 in this life. He obeys the mandate of Heaven. 
 The stormy conflict of passion into which his mind 
 is thrown, as the fearful sacrifice he is about to 
 make calls up all the tender remembrances of con- 
 jugal fidelity and love, is painted with frightful 
 strength of coloring. Although it presents, on 
 the whole, as pertinent an example as we could 
 offer from any of Brown's writings of the pecu- 
 liar power and vividness of his conceptions, the 
 whole scene is too long for insertion here. We 
 will mutilate it, however, by a brief extract, as an 
 illustration of our author's manner, more satis- 
 factory than any criticism can be. Wieland, after 
 receiving the fatal mandate, is represented in an 
 apartment alone with his wife. His courage, or, 
 rather, his desperation, fails him, and he sends 
 her, on some pretext, from the chamber. An in- 
 terval, during which his insane passions have time 
 to rally, ensues. 
 
 " She returned with a light; I led the way to 
 the chamber ; she looked round her ; she lifted the 
 curtain of the bed; she saw nothing. At length 
 she fixed inquiring eyes upon me. The light now 
 enabled her to discover in my visage what dark- 
 ness had hitherto concealed. Her cares were now 
 transferred from my sister to myself, and she
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 19 
 
 said, in a tremulous voice, ' Wieland ! you are not 
 well; what ails you? Can I do nothing for you? ' 
 That accents and looks so winning should disarm 
 me of my resolution was to be expected. My 
 thoughts were thrown anew into anarchy. I 
 spread my hand before my eyes, that I might not 
 see her, and answered only by groans. She took 
 my other hand between hers, and, pressing it to 
 her heart, spoke with that voice which had ever 
 swayed my will and wafted away sorrow. ' My 
 friend! my soul's friend! tell me thy cause of 
 grief. Do I not merit to partake 'wdth thee in thy 
 cares? Am I not thy wife? ' 
 
 " This was too much. I broke from her em- 
 brace, and retired to a corner of the room. In 
 this pause, courage was once more infused into 
 me. I resolved to execute my duty. She fol- 
 lowed me, and renewed her passionate entreaty to 
 know the cause of my distress. 
 
 " I raised my head and regarded her with stead- 
 fast looks. I muttered something about death, 
 and the injunctions of my duty. At these words 
 she shrunk back, and looked at me with a new 
 expression of anguish. After a pause, she clasped 
 her hands and exclaimed, 
 
 "*0 Wieland! Wieland! God grant that I 
 am mistaken; but surely something is wrong. I 
 see it; it is too plain; thou art undone — lost to 
 me and to thyself.' At the same time she gazed 
 on my features with intensest anxiety, in hope that 
 different symptoms would take place. I replied 
 with vehemence, 'Undone! No; my duty is 
 known, and I thank my God that my cowardice
 
 20 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 is now vanquished, and I have power to fulfil it. 
 Catharine ! I pity the weakness of nature ; I pity 
 thee, but must not spare. Thy life is claimed 
 from my hands : thou must die ! ' 
 
 *' Fear was now added to her grief. ' What 
 mean you? Why talk you of death? Bethink 
 yourself, Wieland; bethink yourself, and this fit 
 will pass. O! why came I hither? Why did you 
 drag me hither? ' 
 
 " ' I brought thee hither to fulfil a divine com- 
 mand. I am appointed thy destroyer, and destroy 
 thee I must.' Saying this, I seized her wrists. 
 She shrieked aloud, and endeavored to free her- 
 self from my grasp, but her efforts were vain. 
 
 " ' Surely, surely, Wieland, thou dost not mean 
 it. Am I not thy wife? and wouldst thou kill 
 me? Thou wilt not; and yet — I see — thou art 
 Wieland no longer! A fury, resistless and hor- 
 rible, possesses thee: spare me — spare — help — 
 help—' 
 
 " Till her breath was stopped she shrieked for 
 help — for mercy. When she could speak no 
 longer, her gestures, her looks, appealed to my 
 compassion. My accursed hand was irresolute 
 and tremulous. I meant thy death to be sudden, 
 thy struggles to be brief. Alas! my heart was 
 infirm, my resolves mutable. Thrice I slackened 
 my grasp, and life kept its hold, though in the 
 midst of pangs. Her eyeballs started from their 
 sockets. Grimness and distortion took place of 
 all that used to bewitch me into transport and sub- 
 due me into reverence. 
 
 " I was commissioned to kill thee, but not to
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 21 
 
 torment thee with the foresight of thy death; not 
 to multiply thy fears and prolong thy agonies. 
 Haggard, and pale, and hfeless, at length thou 
 ceasedst to contend "v^ith thy destiny. 
 
 " This was a moment of triumph. Thus had I 
 successfully subdued the stubbornness of human 
 passions; the victim which had been demanded 
 was given; the deed was done past recall. 
 
 " I lifted the corpse in my arms, and laid it on 
 the bed. I gazed upon it with delight. Such was 
 the elation of my thoughts that I even broke into 
 laughter. I clapped my hands, and exclaimed, 
 ' It is done ! My sacred duty is fulfilled ! To 
 that I have sacrificed, O my God! thy last and 
 best gift, my wife! ' 
 
 " For a while I thus soared above frailty. I 
 imagined I had set myself forever beyond the 
 reach of selfishness, but my imaginations were 
 false. This rapture quickly subsided. I looked 
 again at my wife. My joyous ebullitions van- 
 ished, and I asked myself who it was whom I saw. 
 Methought it could not be Catharine. It could 
 not be the woman who had lodged for years in my 
 heart; who had slept nightly in my bosom; who 
 had borne in her womb, who had fostered at her 
 breast, the beings who called me father; whom I 
 had watched with delight, and cherished with a 
 fondness ever new and perpetually growing: it 
 could not be the same. 
 
 " Where was her bloom? These deadly and 
 blood-suffused orbs but ill resemble the azure and 
 ecstatic tenderness of her eyes. The lucid stream 
 that meandered over that bosom, the glow of love
 
 22 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 that was wont to sit upon that cheek, are much 
 unlike these hvid stains and this hideous deform- 
 ity. Alas! these were the traces of agony: the 
 gripe of the assassin had been here! 
 
 " I will not dwell upon my lapse into desperate 
 and outrageous sorrow. The breath of Heaven 
 that sustained me was withdrawn, and I sunk into 
 mere man. I leaped from the floor; I dashed my 
 head against the wall; I uttered screams of hor- 
 ror; I panted after torment and pain. Eternal 
 fire and the bickerings of hell, compared with what 
 I felt, were music and a bed of roses. 
 
 " I thank my God that this degeneracy was 
 transient, — that he deigned once more to raise me 
 aloft. I thought upon what I had done as a sac- 
 rifice to duty, and was calm. My wife was dead; 
 but I reflected that, though this source of human 
 consolation was closed, yet others were still open. 
 If the transports of a husband were no more, the 
 feelings of a father had still scope for exercise. 
 When remembrance of their mother should excite 
 too keen a pang, I would look upon them and be 
 comforted. 
 
 " While I revolved these ideas, new warmth 
 flowed in upon my heart. I was wrong. These 
 feelings were the gro\^i:h of selfishness. Of this 
 I was not aware; and, to dispel the mist that 
 obscured my perceptions, a new effulgence and 
 a new mandate were necessary. 
 
 " From these thoughts I was recalled by a ray 
 that was shot into the room. A voice spake like 
 that which I had before heard, * Thou hast done 
 well; but all is not done — the sacrifice is incom-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 23 
 
 plete — thy children must be offered — they must 
 perish with their mother! ' " 
 
 This, too, is accompHshed by the same remorse- 
 less arm, although the author has judiciously re- 
 frained from attempting to prolong the note of 
 feeling, struck with so powerful a hand, by the 
 recital of the particulars. The wretched fanatic 
 is brought to trial for the murder, but is acquitted 
 on the ground of insanity. The illusion which 
 has bewildered him at length breaks on his under- 
 standing in its whole truth. He cannot sustain 
 the shock, and the tragic tale closes with the suicide 
 of the victim of superstition and imposture. The 
 key to the whole of this mysterious agency which 
 controls the circumstances of the story is — ven- 
 triloquism! ventriloquism exerted for the very 
 purpose by a human fiend, from no motives of 
 revenge or hatred, but pure diabolical malice, or, 
 as he would make us believe, and the author seems 
 willing to endorse this absurd version of it, as a 
 mere practical joke! The reader, who has been 
 gorged with this feast of horrors, is tempted to 
 throw away the book in disgust at finding himself 
 the dupe of such paltry jugglery; which, what- 
 ever sense be given to the term ventriloquism, is 
 altogether incompetent to the various phenomena 
 of sight and sound with which the story is so 
 plentifully seasoned. We can feel the force of 
 Dryden's imprecation when he cursed the invent- 
 ors of those fifth acts which are bound to unravel 
 all the fine mesh of impossibilities which the 
 author's wits had been so busy entangling in the 
 four preceding.
 
 24. BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 The explication of the mysteries of Wieland 
 naturally suggests the question how far an author 
 is bound to explain the swpernaturalities, if we 
 may so call them, of his fictions, and whether it is 
 not better, on the whole, to trust to the willing 
 superstition and credulity of the reader (of which 
 there is perhaps store enough in almost every 
 bosom, at the present enlightened day even, for 
 poetical purposes) than to attempt a solution on 
 purely natural or mechanical principles. It was 
 thought no harm for the ancients to bring the use 
 of machinery into their epics, and a similar free- 
 dom was conceded to the old English dramatists, 
 whose ghosts and witches were placed in the much 
 more perilous predicament of being subjected to 
 the scrutiny of the spectator, whose senses are not 
 near so likely to be duped as the sensitive and 
 excited imagination of the reader in his solitary 
 chamber. It must be admitted, however, that the 
 public of those days, when the 
 
 " Undoubting mind 
 Believed the magic wonders that were sung," 
 
 were admirably seasoned for the action of super- 
 stition in all forms, and furnished, therefore, a 
 most enviable audience for the melodramatic art- 
 ist, whether dramatist or romance-writer. But all 
 this is changed. No witches ride the air nowa- 
 days, and fairies no longer " dance their rounds 
 by the pale moonlight," as the worthy Bishop 
 Corbet, indeed, lamented a century and a half ago. 
 Still, it may be allowed, perhaps, if the scene 
 is laid in some remote age or country, to borrow
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 25 
 
 the ancient superstitions of the place, and incor- 
 porate them into, or, at least, color the story with 
 them, without shocking the well-bred prejudices 
 of the modern reader. Sir Walter Scott has done 
 this ^\dth good effect in more than one of his 
 romances, as every one will readily call to mind. 
 A fine example occurs in the Boden Glass appa- 
 rition in Waverly, which the great novelist, far 
 from attempting to explain on any philosophical 
 principles, or even by an intimation of its being 
 the mere creation of a feverish imagination, has 
 left as he found it, trusting that the reader's poetic 
 feeUng will readily accommodate itself to the 
 popular superstitions of the country he is depict- 
 ing. This reserve on his part, indeed, arising 
 from a truly poetic view of the subject and an 
 honest reUance on a similar spirit in his reader, 
 has laid him open, with some matter-of-fact peo- 
 ple, to the imputation of not being wholly un- 
 touched himself by the national superstitions. 
 Yet how much would the whole scene have lost in 
 its permanent effect if the author had attempted 
 an explanation of the apparition on the ground 
 of an optical illusion not infrequent among the 
 mountain-mists of the Highlands, or any other of 
 the ingenious solutions so readily at the command 
 of the thoroughbred story-teller ! 
 
 It must be acknowledged, however, that this 
 way of solving the riddles of romance would 
 hardly be admissible in a story draT^n from famil- 
 iar scenes and situations in modern life, and espe- 
 cially in our own country. The lights of educa- 
 tion are flung too bright and broad over the land
 
 26 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 to allow any lurking-hole for the shadows of a 
 twilight age. So much the worse for the poet and 
 the novelist. Their province must now be confined 
 to poor human nature, without meddling with the 
 " Gorgons and chimeras dire " which floated 
 through the bewildered brains of our forefathers, 
 at least on the other side of the water. At any 
 rate, if a writer, in this broad sunshine, ventures 
 on any sort of diablerie, he is forced to explain it 
 by all the thousand contrivances of trap-doors, 
 secret passages, waxen images, and other make- 
 shifts from the property-room of Mrs. Radcliffe 
 and Company. 
 
 Brown, indeed, has resorted to a somewhat 
 higher mode of elucidating his mysteries by a re- 
 markable phenomenon of our nature. But the 
 misfortune of all these attempts to account for 
 the marvels of the story by natural or mechanical 
 causes is, that they are very seldom satisfactory, 
 or competent to their object. This is eminently 
 the case with the ventriloquism in Wieland. Even 
 where they are competent, it may be doubted 
 whether the reader who has suffered his credulous 
 fancy to be entranced by the spell of the magician 
 will be gratified to learn, at the end, by what cheap 
 mechanical contrivance he has been duped. How- 
 ever this may be, it is certain that a very unfavor- 
 able effect, in another respect, is produced on his 
 mind, after he is made acquainted with the nature 
 of the secret spring by which the machinery is 
 played, more especially when one leading circum- 
 stance, like ventriloquism in Wieland, is made the 
 master-key, as it were, by which all the mysteries
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 27 
 
 are to be unlocked and opened at once. With this 
 explanation at hand, it is extremely difficult to 
 rise to that sensation of mysterious awe and appre- 
 hension on which so much of the sublimity and 
 general effect of the narrative necessarily de- 
 pends. Instead of such feelings, the only ones 
 which can enable us to do full justice to the 
 author's conceptions, we sometimes, on the con- 
 trary, may detect a smile lurking in the corner of 
 the mouth as we peruse scenes of positive power, 
 from the contrast obviously suggested of the im- 
 potence of the apparatus and the portentous char- 
 acter of the results. The critic, therefore, pos- 
 sessed of the real key to the mysteries of the story, 
 if he would do justice to his author's merits, must 
 divest himself, as it were, of his previous knowl- 
 edge, by fastening his attention on the results, to 
 the exclusion of the insignificant means by which 
 they are achieved. He will not always find this 
 an easy matter. 
 
 But to return from this rambling digression. 
 In the following year, 1799, Brown published his 
 second novel, entitled Ormond. The story pre- 
 sents few of the deeply agitating scenes and pow- 
 erful bursts of passion which distinguish the first. 
 It is designed to exhibit a model of surpassing 
 excellence in a female rising superior to all the 
 shocks of adversity and the more perilous blan- 
 dishments of seduction, and who, as the scene 
 grows darker and darker around her, seems to 
 illumine the whole with the radiance of her celes- 
 tial virtues. The reader is reminded of the " pa- 
 tient Griselda," so delicately portrayed by the
 
 28 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 pencils of Boccaccio and Chaucer. It must be 
 admitted, however, that the contemplation of such 
 a character in the abstract is more imposing than 
 the minute details by which we attain to the knowl- 
 edge of it ; and although there is nothing, we are 
 told, which the gods looked down upon with more 
 satisfaction than a brave mind struggling with 
 the storms of adversity, yet, when these come in 
 the guise of poverty and all the train of teasing 
 annoyances in domestic life, the tale, if long pro- 
 tracted, too often produces a sensation of weari- 
 ness scarcely to be compensated by the moral 
 grandeur of the spectacle. 
 
 The appearance of these two novels constitutes 
 an epoch in the ornamental literature of America. 
 They are the first decidedly successful attempts 
 in the walk of romantic fiction. They are still 
 farther remarkable as illustrating the character 
 and state of society on this side of the Atlantic, 
 instead of resorting to the exhausted springs of 
 European invention. These circumstances, as 
 well as the uncommon powers they displayed both 
 of conception and execution, recommended them 
 to the notice of the literary world, although their 
 philosophical method of dissecting passion and 
 analyzing motives of action placed them somewhat 
 beyond the reach of vulgar popularity. Brown 
 was sensible of the favorable impression which he 
 had made, and mentions it in one of his epistles 
 to his brother with his usual unaffected modesty: 
 " I add somewhat, though not so much as I might 
 if I were so inclined, to the number of my friends. 
 I find to be the writer of Wieland and Ormond
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 29 
 
 is a greater recommendation than I ever imagined 
 it would be." 
 
 In the course of the same year, the quiet tenor 
 of his hf e was interrupted by the visitation of that 
 fearful pestilence, the yellow fever, which had for 
 several successive years made its appearance in 
 the city of New York, but which in 1798 fell upon 
 it with a violence similar to that with which it had 
 desolated Philadelphia in 1793. Brown had taken 
 the precaution of withdrawing from the latter 
 city, where he then resided, on its first appearance 
 there. He prolonged his stay in New York, how- 
 ever, relying on the healthiness of the quarter of 
 the town where he Uved, and the habitual abste- 
 miousness of his diet. His friend Smith was 
 necessarily detained there by the duties of his pro- 
 fession; and Brown, in answer to the reiterated 
 importunities of his absent relatives to withdraw 
 from the infected city, refused to do so, on the 
 ground that his personal services might be re- 
 quired by the friends who remained in it, — a dis- 
 interestedness well meriting the strength of at- 
 tachment which he excited in the bosom of his 
 companions. 
 
 Unhappily, Brown was right in his prognostics, 
 and his services were too soon required in behalf 
 of his friend Dr. Smith, who fell a victim to his 
 own benevolence, having caught the fatal malady 
 from an Italian gentleman, a stranger in the city, 
 whom he received, when infected with the disease, 
 into his house, relinquishing to him his own apart- 
 ment. Brown had the melancholy satisfaction of 
 performing the last sad offices of affection to his
 
 30 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 dying friend. He himself soon became affected 
 with the same disorder; and it was not till after a 
 severe illness that he so far recovered as to be able 
 to transfer his residence to Perth Amboy, the 
 abode of Mr. Dunlap, where a pure and invigo- 
 rating atmosphere, aided by the kind attentions 
 of his host, gradually restored him to a sufficient 
 degree of health and spirits for the prosecution of 
 his literary labors. 
 
 The spectacle he had witnessed made too deep 
 an impression on him to be readily effaced, and he 
 resolved to transfer his own conceptions of it, 
 while yet fresh, to the page of fiction, or, as it 
 might rather be called, of history, for the purpose, 
 as he intimates in his preface, of imparting to 
 others some of the fruits of the melancholy lesson 
 he had himself experienced. Such was the origin 
 of his next novel, Arthur Mervyn; or. Memoirs 
 of the Year 1793. This was the fatal year of the 
 yellow fever in Philadelphia. The action of the 
 story is chiefly confined to that city, but seems to 
 be prepared with little contrivance, on no regular 
 or systematic plan, consisting simply of a succes- 
 sion of incidents, having little cohesion except in 
 reference to the hero, but affording situations of 
 great interest and frightful fidelity of coloring. 
 The pestilence wasting a thriving and populous 
 city has furnished a topic for more than one great 
 master. It will be remembered as the terror of 
 every school-boy in the pages of Thucydides; it 
 forms the gloomy portal to the light and airy 
 fictions of Boccaccio; and it has furnished a sub- 
 ject for the graphic pencil of the English novehst
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 31 
 
 De Foe, the only one of the thi-ee who never wit- 
 nessed the horrors which he paints, but whose fic- 
 tions wear an aspect of reahty which history can 
 rarely reach. 
 
 Brown has succeeded in giving the same terrible 
 distinctness to his impressions by means of indi- 
 vidual portraiture. He has, however, not confined 
 himself to this, but, by a variety of touches, lays 
 open to our view the whole interior of the city of 
 the plague. Instead of expatiating on the loath- 
 some symptoms and physical ravages of the dis- 
 ease, he selects the most striking moral circum- 
 stances which attend it ; he dwells on the withering 
 sensation that falls so heavily on the heart in the 
 streets of the once busy and crowded city, now 
 deserted and silent, save only where the wheels of 
 the melancholy hearse are heard to rumble along 
 the pavement. Our author not unfrequently suc- 
 ceeds in conveying more to the heart by the skilful 
 selection of a single circumstance than would have 
 flowed from a multitude of petty details. It is 
 the art of the great masters of poetry and 
 painting. 
 
 The same year in which Brown produced the 
 first part of " Arthur Mervyn," he entered on the 
 publication of a periodical entitled The Monthly 
 Magazine and American Review, a work that 
 during its brief existence, which terminated in the 
 following year, afforded abundant evidence of its 
 editor's versatility of talent and the ample range 
 of his literary acquisitions. Our hero was now 
 fairly in the traces of authorship. He looked to 
 it as his permanent vocation; and the indefati-
 
 32 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 gable diligence with which he devoted himself to 
 it may at least serve to show that he did not shrink 
 from his professional engagements from any lack 
 of industry or enterprise. 
 
 The publication of " Arthur Mervyn " was suc- 
 ceeded not long after by that of Edgar Huntly; 
 or. The Adventures of a Sleepwalker, a romance 
 presenting a greater variety of wild and pictu- 
 resque adventure, with more copious delineations 
 of natural scenery, than is to be found in his other 
 fictions ; circumstances, no doubt, possessing more 
 attractions for the mass of readers than the pecu- 
 liarities of his other novels. Indeed, the author 
 has succeeded perfectly in constantly stimulating 
 the curiosity by a succession of as original inci- 
 dents, perils, and hairbreadth escapes as ever 
 flitted across a poet's fancy. It is no small 
 triumph of the art to be able to maintain the 
 curiosity of the reader unflagging through a suc- 
 cession of incidents which, far from being sus- 
 tained by one predominant passion and forming 
 parts of one whole, rely each for its interest on 
 its own independent merits. 
 
 The story is laid in the western part of Penn- 
 sylvania, where the author has diversified his de- 
 scriptions of a simple and almost primitive state 
 of society with unconmionly animated sketches of 
 rural scenery. It is worth observing how the 
 sombre complexion of Brown's imagination, 
 which so deeply tinges his moral portraiture, sheds 
 its gloom over his pictures of material nature, 
 raising the landscape into all the severe and 
 savage sublimity of a Salvator Rosa. The som-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES S3 
 
 nambulism of this novel, which, like the ventrilo- 
 quism of " Wieland," is the moving principle of 
 all the machinery, has this advantage over the 
 latter, that it does not necessarily impair the effect 
 by perpetually suggesting a solution of mysteries, 
 and thus dispelling the illusion on whose existence 
 the effect of the whole story mainly depends. 
 The adventures, indeed, built upon it are not the 
 most probable in the world; but, waiving this, — 
 we shall be well rewarded for such concession, — 
 there is no farther difficulty. 
 
 The extract already cited by us from the first 
 of our author's novels has furnished the reader 
 with an illustration of his power in displaying the 
 conflict of passion under high moral excitement. 
 We will now venture another quotation from the 
 work before us, in order to exhibit more fully his 
 talent for the description of external objects. 
 
 Edgar Huntly, the hero of the story, is repre- 
 sented in one of the wild mountain-fastnesses of 
 Norwalk, a district in the western part of Penn- 
 sylvania. He is on the brink of a ravine, from 
 which the only avenue lies over the body of a tree 
 thrown across the chasm, through whose dark 
 depths beloAv a rushing torrent is heard to pour 
 its waters. 
 
 *' While occupied with these reflections, my eyes 
 were fixed upon the opposite steeps. The tops of 
 the trees, waving to and fro in the wildest com- 
 motion, and their trunks occasionally bending to 
 the blast, which, in these lofty regions, blew with 
 a violence unknown in the tracts below, exhibited 
 an awful spectacle. At length my attention was 
 
 Vol. I.— 3
 
 34 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 attracted by the trunk which lay across the gulf, 
 and which I had converted into a bridge. I per- 
 ceived that it had already swerved somewhat from 
 its original position; that every blast broke or 
 loosened some of the fibres by which its roots were 
 connected with the opposite bank ; and that, if the 
 storm did not speedily abate, there was imminent 
 danger of its being torn from the rock and pre- 
 cipitated into the chasm. Thus my retreat would 
 be cut oiF, and the evils from which I was en- 
 deavoring to rescue another would be experienced 
 by myself. 
 
 " I believed my destiny to hang upon the expe- 
 dition with which I should recross this gulf. The 
 moments that were spent in these deliberations 
 were critical, and I shuddered to observe that the 
 trunk was held in its place by one or two fibres, 
 which were abeady stretched almost to breaking. 
 
 " To pass along the trunk, rendered slippery 
 by the wet and unsteadf ast by the wind, was emi- 
 nently dangerous. To maintain my hold in pass- 
 ing, in defiance of the whirlwind, required the 
 most vigorous exertions. For this end, it was 
 necessary to discommode myself of my cloak, and 
 of the volume which I carried in the pocket of my 
 coat. 
 
 " Just as I had disposed of these encumbrances, 
 and had risen from my seat, my attention was 
 again called to the opposite steep by the most un- 
 welcome object that at this time could possibly 
 occur. Something was perceived moving among 
 the bushes and rocks, which, for a time, I hoped 
 was nothing more than a raccoon or opossum,
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 35 
 
 but which presently appeared to be a panther. 
 His gray coat, extended claws, fiery eyes, and a 
 cry which he at that moment uttered, and which, 
 by its resemblance to the human voice, is pecu- 
 liarly terrific, denoted him to be the most ferocious 
 and untamable of that detested race. The indus- 
 try of our hunters has nearly banished animals of 
 prey from these precincts. The fastnesses of 
 Norwalk, however, could not but afford refuge to 
 some of them. Of late I had met them so rarely 
 that my fears were seldom alive, and I trod with- 
 out caution the ruggedest and most solitary 
 haunts. Still, however, I had seldom been unfur- 
 nished in my rambles with the means of defence. 
 
 " The unfrequency with which I had lately en- 
 countered this foe, and the encumbrance of pro- 
 vision, made me neglect, on this occasion, to bring 
 with me my usual arms. The beast that was now 
 before me, when stimulated by hunger, was accus- 
 tomed to assail whatever could provide him with 
 a banquet of blood. He would set upon the man 
 and the deer with equal and irresistible ferocity. 
 His sagacity was equal to his strength, and he 
 seemed able to discover when his antagonist was 
 armed and prepared for defence. 
 
 " My past experience enabled me to estimate 
 the full extent of my danger. He sat on the brow 
 of the steep, eying the bridge, and apparently 
 deliberating whether he should cross it. It was 
 probable that he had scented my footsteps thus 
 far, and, should he pass over, his vigilance could 
 scarcely fail of detecting my asylum. 
 
 " Should he retain his present station, my dan-
 
 36 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 ger was scarcely lessened. To pass over in the 
 face of a famished tiger was only to rush upon my 
 fate. The falling of the trunk, which had lately 
 been so anxiously deprecated, was now with no 
 less solicitude desired. Every new gust I hoped 
 would tear asunder its remaining bands, and, by 
 cutting off all communication between the oppo- 
 site steeps, place me in security. My hopes, how- 
 ever, were destined to be frustrated. The fibres 
 of the prostrate tree were obstinately tenacious of 
 their hold, and presently the animal scrambled 
 down the rock and proceeded to cross it. 
 
 " Of all kinds of death, that which now men- 
 aced me was the most abhorred. To die by dis- 
 ease, or by the hand of a fellow-creature, was pro- 
 pitious and lenient in comparison Avith being rent 
 to pieces by the fangs of this savage. To perish 
 in this obscure retreat by means so impervious to 
 the anxious curiosity of my friends, to lose my 
 portion of existence by so untoward and ignoble 
 a destiny, was insupportable. I bitterly deplored 
 my rashness in coming hither unprovided for an 
 encounter like this. 
 
 " The evil of my present circumstances con- 
 sisted chiefly in suspense. My death was unavoid- 
 able, but my imagination had leisure to torment 
 itself by anticipations. One foot of the savage 
 was slowly and cautiously moved after the other. 
 He struck his claws so deeply into the bark that 
 they were with difficulty withdrawn. At length 
 he leaped upon the ground. We w^ere now sepa- 
 rated by an interval of scarcely eight feet. To 
 leave the spot where I crouched was impossible.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 37 
 
 Behind and beside me the chiF rose perpendicu- 
 larly, and before me was this grim and terrible 
 visage. I shrunk still closer to the ground, and 
 closed my eyes. 
 
 " From this pause of horror I was aroused by 
 the noise occasioned by a second spring of the 
 animal. He leaped into the pit in which I had 
 so deeply regretted that I had not taken refuge, 
 and disappeared. My rescue was so sudden, and 
 so much beyond my belief or my hope, that I 
 doubted for a moment whether my senses did not 
 deceive me. This opportunity of escape was not 
 to be neglected. I left my place and scrambled 
 over the trunk with a precipitation which had like 
 to have proved fatal. The tree groaned and shook 
 under me, the wind blew with unexampled vio- 
 lence, and I had scarcely reached the opposite 
 steep when the roots were severed from the rock 
 and the whole fell thundering to the bottom of 
 the chasm. 
 
 " My trepidations were not speedily quieted. I 
 looked back with wonder on my hairbreadth es- 
 cape, and on that singular concurrence of events 
 which had placed me in so short a period in abso- 
 lute security. Had the trunk fallen a moment 
 earlier, I should have been imprisoned on the hill 
 or thrown headlong. Had its fall been delayed 
 another moment, I should have been pursued ; for 
 the beast now issued from his den, and testified 
 his surprise and disappointment by tokens the 
 sight of which made my blood run cold. 
 
 " He saw me, and hastened to the verge of the 
 chasm. He squatted on his hind legs, and as-
 
 88 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 sumed the attitude of one preparing to leap. My 
 consternation was excited afresh by these appear- 
 ances. It seemed at first as if the rift was too wide 
 for any power of muscles to carry him in safety 
 over; but I knew the unparalleled agility of this 
 animal, and that his experience had made him a 
 better judge of the practicability of this exploit 
 than I was. 
 
 " Still, there was hope that he would relinquish 
 this design as desperate. This hope was quickly 
 at an end. He sprung, and his fore legs touched 
 the verge of the rock on which I stood. In spite 
 of vehement exertions, however, the surface was 
 too smooth and too hard to allow him to make good 
 his hold. He fell, and a piercing cry uttered below 
 showed that nothing had obstructed his descent to 
 the bottom." 
 
 The subsequent narrative leads the hero through 
 a variety of romantic adventures, especially with 
 the savages, with whom he has several desperate 
 rencounters and critical escapes. The track of ad- 
 venture, indeed, strikes into the same wild soHtudes 
 of the forest that have since been so frequently 
 travelled over by our ingenious countryman 
 Cooper. The light in which the character of the 
 North American Indian has been exhibited by the 
 two writers has little resemblance. Brown's 
 sketches, it is true, are few and faint. As far as 
 they go, however, they are confined to such views 
 as are most conformable to the popular concep- 
 tions, bringing into full relief the rude and un- 
 couth lineaments of the Indian character, its cun- 
 ning, cruelty, and unmitigated ferocity, with no
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 39 
 
 intimations of a more generous nature. Cooper, 
 on the other hand, discards all the coarser elements 
 of savage life, reserving those only of a pictu- 
 resque and romantic cast, and elevating the souls 
 of his warriors by such sentiments of courtesy, 
 high-toned gallantry, and passionate tenderness as 
 belong to the riper period of civilization. Thus 
 ideahzed, the portrait, if not strictly that of the 
 fierce and untamed son of the forest, is at least 
 sufficiently true for poetical purposes. Cooper is 
 indeed a poet. His descriptions of inanimate 
 nature, no less than of savage man, are instinct 
 with the breath of poetry. Witness his infinitely 
 various pictures of the ocean, or, still more, of the 
 beautiful spirit that rides upon its bosom, the gal- 
 lant ship, which under his touches becomes an ani- 
 mated thing, inspired by a living soul ; reminding 
 us of the beautiful superstition of the simple- 
 hearted natives, who fancied the bark of Columbus 
 some celestial visitant, descending on his broad 
 pinions from the skies. 
 
 Brown is far less of a colorist. He deals less in 
 external nature, but searches the depths of the 
 soul. He may be rather called a philosophical 
 than a poetical writer; for, though he has that in- 
 tensity of feeling which constitutes one of the dis- 
 tinguishing attributes of the latter, yet in his most 
 tumultuous bursts of passion we frequently find 
 him pausing to analyze and coolly speculate on 
 the elements which have raised it. This intrusion, 
 indeed, of reason, la raison froide^ into scenes of 
 the greatest interest and emotion, has sometimes 
 the unhappy effect of chilling them altogether.
 
 40 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 In 1800 Brown published the second part of his 
 Arthur Mervyn, whose occasional displays of 
 energy and pathos by no means compensate the 
 violent dislocations and general improbabilities of 
 the narrative. Our author was led into these de- 
 fects by the unpardonable precipitancy of his com- 
 position. Three of his romances were thrown off 
 in the course of one year. These were written 
 with the printer's devil literally at his elbow, one 
 being begun before another was completed, and 
 all of them before a regular, well-digested plan 
 was devised for their execution. 
 
 The consequences of this curious style of doing 
 business are such as might have been predicted. 
 The incidents are strung together with about as 
 little connection as the rhymes in " The House 
 that Jack built;" and the whole reminds us of 
 some bizarre, antiquated edifice, exhibiting a dozen 
 styles of architecture, according to the caprice or 
 convenience of its successive owners. 
 
 The reader is ever at a loss for a clue to guide 
 him through the labyrinth of strange, incongruous 
 incident. It would seem as if the great object of 
 the author was to keep alive the state of suspense, 
 on the player's principle, in " The Rehearsal," that 
 " on the stage it is best to keep the audience in sus- 
 pense; for to guess presently at the plot or the 
 sense tires them at the end of the first act. Now, 
 here every line surprises you, and brings in new 
 matter! " Perhaps, however, all this proceeds less 
 from calculation than from the embarrassment 
 which the novelist feels in attempting a solution of 
 his own riddles, and which leads him to put off the
 
 PORTEAIT OF VOLTAIKE.
 
 .aaiATJOv '10 TiAaTaoi
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 41 
 
 reader, by multiplying incident after incident, 
 until at length, entangled in the complicated snarl 
 of his own intrigue, he is finally obhged, when the 
 fatal hour arrives, to cut the knot which he cannot 
 unravel. There is no other way by which we can 
 account for the forced and violent denouements 
 which bring up so many of Brown's fictions. Vol- 
 taire has remarked, somewhere in his Commen- 
 taries on Corneille, th^t " an author may WTite 
 with the rapidity of genius, but should correct with 
 scrupulous dehberation." Our author seems to 
 have thought it sufficient to comply with the first 
 half of the maxim. 
 
 In 1801 Brown published his novel of Clara 
 Howard, and in 1804 closed the series with Jane 
 Talbot, first printed in England. They are com- 
 posed in a more subdued tone, discarding those 
 startling preternatural incidents of which he had 
 made such free use in his former fictions. In the 
 preface to his first romance, " Wieland," he re- 
 marks, in allusion to the mj^stery on which the 
 story is made to depend, that "it is a sufficient 
 vindication of the writer if history furnishes one 
 parallel fact." But the French critic, who tells us 
 le vrai pent quelquefois n'etre pas vraisemhlahle, 
 has, with more judgment, condemned this vicious 
 recurrence to extravagant and improbable inci- 
 dent. Truth cannot always be pleaded in vindica- 
 tion of the author of a fiction any more than of a 
 libel. Brown seems to have subsequently come 
 into the same opinion; for, in a letter addressed 
 to his brother James, after the publication of 
 " Edgar Huntly," he observes, " Your remarks
 
 42 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 upon the gloominess and out-of -nature incidents 
 of ' Huntly/ if they be not just in their full ex- 
 tent, are doubtless such as most readers will make, 
 which alone is sufficient reason for dropping the 
 doleful tone and assuming a cheerful one, or, at 
 least, substituting moral causes and daily incidents 
 in place of the prodigious or the singular. I shall 
 not fall hereafter into that strain." The two last 
 novels of our author, however, although purified 
 from the more glaring defects of the preceding, 
 were so inferior in their general power and origi- 
 nality of conception that they never rose to the 
 same level in public favor. 
 
 In the year 1801 Brown returned to his native 
 city, Philadelphia, where he established his resi- 
 dence in the family of his brother. Here he con- 
 tinued, steadily pursuing his literary avocations, 
 and in 1803 undertook the conduct of a periodical, 
 entitled The Literary Magazine and American 
 Register. A great change had taken place in his 
 opinions on more than one important topic con- 
 nected with human life and happiness, and, indeed, 
 in his general tone of thinking, since abandoning 
 his professional career. Brighter prospects, no 
 doubt, suggested to him more cheerful considera- 
 tions. Instead of a mere dreamer in the world of 
 fancy, he had now become a practical man : larger 
 experience and deeper meditation had shown him 
 the emptiness of his Utopian theories ; and, though 
 his sensibilities were as ardent and as easily enlisted 
 as ever in the cause of humanity, his schemes of 
 amelioration were built upon, not against, the ex- 
 isting institutions of society. The enunciation of
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 43 
 
 the principles on which the periodical above 
 alluded to was to be conducted is so honorable 
 every way to his heart and his understanding that 
 we cannot refrain from making a brief extract 
 from it: 
 
 "In an age like this, when the foundations of 
 religion and morality have been so boldly attacked, 
 it seems necessary, in announcing a work of this 
 nature, to be particularly explicit as to the path 
 which the editor means to pursue. He therefore 
 avows himself to be, without equivocation or re- 
 serve, the ardent friend and the willing champion 
 of the Christian religion. Christian piety he re- 
 veres as the highest excellence of human beings; 
 and the amplest reward he can seek for his labor 
 is the consciousness of having in some degree, 
 however inconsiderable, contributed to recommend 
 the practice of religious duties. As in the conduct 
 of this work a supreme regard will be paid to the 
 interests of religion and morality, he will scrupu- 
 lously guard against all that dishonors and im- 
 pairs that principle. Everything that savors of 
 indelicacy or licentiousness will be rigorously pro- 
 scribed. His poetical pieces may be dull, but they 
 shall at least be free from voluptuousness or sen- 
 suality ; and his prose, whether seconded or not by 
 genius and knowledge, shall scrupulously aim at 
 the promotion of public and private virtue." 
 
 During his abode in New York our author had 
 formed an attachment to an amiable and accom- 
 plished young lady, Miss Elizabeth Linn, daugh- 
 ter of the excellent and highly-gifted Presbyterian 
 divine, Dr. William Linn, of that city. Their
 
 44 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 mutual attachment, in which the impulses of the 
 heart were sanctioned by the understanding, was 
 followed by their marriage in November, 1804, 
 after which he never again removed his residence 
 from Philadelphia. 
 
 With the additional responsibilities of his new 
 station, he pursued his literary labors with in- 
 creased diligence. He projected the plan of an 
 Annual Register^ the first work of the kind in the 
 country, and in 1806 edited the first volume of 
 the publication, which was undertaken at the risk 
 of an eminent bookseller of Philadelphia, ISlr. 
 Conrad, who had engaged his editorial labors in 
 the conduct of the former Magazine, begun in 
 1803. When it is considered that both these peri- 
 odicals were placed under the superintendence of 
 one individual, and that he bestowed such inde- 
 fatigable attention on them that they were not 
 only prepared, but a large portion actually exe- 
 cuted, by his own hands, we shall form no mean 
 opinion of the extent and variety of his stores of 
 information and his facility in applying them. 
 Both works are replete with evidences of the taste 
 and erudition of their editor, embracing a wide 
 range of miscellaneous articles, essays, literary 
 criticism, and scientific researches. The historical 
 portion of " The Register " in particular, compre- 
 hending, in addition to the political annals of the 
 principal states of Europe and of our own coun- 
 try, an elaborate inquiry into the origin and or- 
 ganization of our domestic institutions, displays a 
 discrimination in the selection of incidents, and a 
 good faith and candor in the mode of discussing
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 45 
 
 them, that entitle it to great authority as a record 
 of contemporary transactions. Eight volumes 
 were published of the first-mentioned periodical, 
 and the latter was continued under his direction 
 till the end of the fifth volume, 1809. 
 
 In addition to these regular and, as they may 
 be called, professional labors, he indulged his pro- 
 lific pen in various speculations, both of a literary 
 and political character, many of which appeared 
 in the pages of the " Portfolio." Among other 
 occasional productions, we may notice a beautiful 
 biographical sketch of his wife's brother, Dr. J. 
 B. Linn, pastor of the Presbyterian church in 
 Philadelphia, whose lamented death occurred in 
 the year succeeding Bro^vn's marriage. We must 
 not leave out of the account three elaborate and 
 extended pamphlets, published between 1803 and 
 1809, on political topics of deep interest to the 
 community at that time. The fii'st of these, on 
 the cession of Louisiana to the French, soon went 
 into a second edition. They all excited general 
 attention at the time of their appearance by the 
 novelty of their arguments, the variety and 
 copiousness of their information, the liberality of 
 their views, the independence, so rare at that day, 
 of foreign prejudices, the exemption, still rarer, 
 from the bitterness of party spirit, and, lastly, the 
 tone of loyal and heartfelt patriotism — a patriot- 
 ism without cant — with which the author dwells 
 on the expanding glory and prosperity of his 
 countrj^ in a strain of prophecy that it is our boast 
 has now become history. 
 
 Thus occupied. Brown's situation seemed now
 
 46 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 to afford him all the means for happiness attain- 
 able in this life. His own labors secured to him 
 an honorable independence and a high reputation, 
 which, to a mind devoted to professional or other 
 intellectual pursuits, is usually of far higher esti- 
 mation than gain. Round his own fireside he 
 found ample scope for the exercise of his affec- 
 tionate sensibilities, while the tranquil pleasures of 
 domestic life proved the best possible relaxation 
 for a mind wearied by severe intellectual effort. 
 His grateful heart was deeply sensible to the 
 extent of his blessings; and in more than one 
 letter he indulges in a vein of reflection which 
 shows that his only solicitude was from the fear 
 of their instability. His own health furnished 
 too well-grounded cause for such apprehen- 
 sions. 
 
 We have already noticed that he set out in life 
 with a feeble constitution. His sedentary habits 
 and intense application had not, as it may well be 
 believed, contributed to repair the defects of 
 Nature. He had for some time shown a dispo- 
 sition to pulmonary complaints, and had raised 
 blood more than once, which he in vain endeavored 
 to persuade himself did not proceed from the 
 lungs. As the real character of the disease dis- 
 closed itself in a manner not to be mistaken, his 
 anxious friends would have persuaded him to 
 cross the water in the hope of re-establishing his 
 health by a seasonable change of climate. But 
 Brown could not endure the thoughts of so long 
 a separation from his beloved family, and he 
 trusted to the effect of a temporary abstinence
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 47 
 
 from business, and of one of those excursions into 
 the country by which he had so often recruited his 
 health and spirits. 
 
 In the summer of 1809 he made a tour into New 
 Jersey and New York. A letter addressed to one 
 of his family from the banks of the Hudson, dur- 
 ing this journey, exhibits in melancholy colors how 
 large a portion of his life had been clouded by 
 disease, which now, indeed, was too oppressive to 
 admit of any other alleviation than what he could 
 find in the bosom of his own family. 
 
 "My dearest Mary, — Instead of wandering 
 about and viewing more nearly a place that 
 affords very pleasing landscapes, here am I, 
 hovering over the images of wife, children, and 
 sisters. I want to write to you and home; and, 
 though unable to procure paper enough to form 
 a letter, I cannot help saying something even on 
 this scrap. 
 
 " I am mortified to think how incurious and 
 inactive a mind has fallen to my lot. I left home 
 with reluctance. If I had not brought a beloved 
 part of my home along with me, I should prob- 
 ably have not left it at all. At a distance from 
 home, my enjoyments, my affections, are beside 
 you. If swayed by mere inclination, I should 
 'not be out of your company a quarter of an hour 
 between my parting and returning hour; but I 
 have some mercy on you and Susan, and a due 
 conviction of my want of power to beguile your 
 vacant hour with amusement or improve it by 
 instruction. Even if I were ever so well, and if
 
 48 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 my spirits did not continually hover on the brink 
 of dejection, my talk could only make you yawn; 
 as things are, my company can only tend to create 
 a gap indeed. 
 
 " When have I known that lightness and vivac- 
 ity of mind which the divine flow of health, even 
 in calamity, produces in some men, and would 
 produce in me, no doubt, — at least, when not 
 soured by misfortune? Never; scarcely ever ; not 
 longer than half an hour at a time since I have 
 called myself man, and not a moment since I left 
 
 you." 
 
 Finding these brief excursions productive of no 
 salutary change in his health, he at length com- 
 plied with the entreaties of his friends, and deter- 
 mined to try the effect of a voyage to Europe in 
 the following spring. That spring he was 
 doomed never to behold. About the middle of 
 November he was taken with a violent pain in his 
 left side, for which he was bled. From that time 
 forward he was confined to his chamber. His 
 malady was not attended with the exemption from 
 actual pain with which Nature seems sometimes 
 willing to compensate the sufferer for the length 
 of its duration. His sufferings were incessant 
 and acute; and thej^ were supported not only 
 without a murmur, but with an appearance of 
 cheerfulness to which the hearts of his friends 
 could but ill respond. He met the approach of 
 death in the true spirit of Christian philosophy. 
 No other dread but that of separation from those 
 dear to him on earth had power to disturb his tran-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 49 
 
 quillity for a moment. But the temper of his 
 mind in his last hours is best disclosed in a com- 
 munication from that faithful partner who con- 
 tributed more than any other to support him 
 through them. " He always felt for others more 
 than for himself; and the evidences of sorrow in 
 those around him, which could not at all times be 
 suppressed, appeared to affect him more than his 
 own sufferings. Whenever he spoke of the prob- 
 ability of a fatal termination to his disease, it was 
 in an indirect and covert manner, as, ' you must 
 do so and so when I am absent,' or ' when I am 
 asleep.' He surrendered not up one faculty of 
 his soul but with his last breath. He saw death in 
 every step of his approach, and viewed him as a 
 messenger that brought with him no terrors. He 
 frequently expressed his resignation; but his res- 
 ignation was not produced by apathy or pain ; for, 
 while he bowed with submission to the Divine will, 
 he felt with the keenest sensibility his separation 
 from those who made this world but too dear to 
 him. Towards the last he spoke of death without 
 disguise, and appeared to wish to prepare his 
 friends for the event which he felt to be approach- 
 ing. A few days previous to his change, as sitting 
 up in the bed, he fixed his eyes on the sky, and 
 desired not to be spoken to until he first spoke. 
 In this position, and with a serene countenance, 
 he continued for some minutes, and then said to 
 his wife, ' When I desired you not to speak to 
 me, I had the most transporting and sublime feel- 
 ings I have ever experienced; I wanted to enjoy 
 them, and know how long they would last; ' con- 
 
 VoL. I.— 4
 
 50 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 eluding with requesting her to remember the cir- 
 cumstance." 
 
 A visible change took place in him on the morn- 
 ing of the 19th of February, 1810, and he caused 
 his family to be assembled around his bed, when 
 he took leave of each one of them in the most ten- 
 der and impressive manner. He lingered, how- 
 ever, a few days longer, remaining in the full 
 possession of his faculties to the 22d of the month, 
 when he expired without a struggle. He had 
 reached the thirty-ninth year of his age the month 
 preceding his death. The family which he left 
 consisted of a wife and four children. 
 
 There was nothing striking in Brown's per- 
 sonal appearance. His manners, however, were 
 distinguished by a gentleness and unaffected sim- 
 plicity which rendered them extremely agreeable. 
 He possessed colloquial powers which do not 
 always fall to the lot of the practised and ready 
 writer. His rich and various acquisitions supplied 
 an unfailing fund for the edification of his hear- 
 ers. They did not lead him, however, to affect an 
 air of superiority, or to assume too prominent a 
 part in the dialogue, especially in large or mixed 
 company, where he was rather disposed to be 
 silent, reserving the display of his powers for the 
 unrestrained intercourse of friendship. He was 
 a stranger not only to base and malignant pas- 
 sions, but to the paltry jealousies which some- 
 times sour the intercourse of men of letters. On 
 the contrary, he was ever prompt to do ample 
 justice to the merits of others. His heart was 
 warm with the feeling of universal benevolence.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 51 
 
 Too sanguine and romantic views had exposed 
 him to some miscalculations and consequent dis- 
 appointments in youth, from which, however, he 
 was subsequently retrieved by the strength of his 
 understanding, which, combining with what may 
 be called his natural elevation of soul, enabled him 
 to settle the soundest principles for the regulation 
 of his opinions and conduct in after-life. His 
 reading was careless and desultory, but his appe- 
 tite was voracious ; and the great amount of mis- 
 cellaneous information which he thus amassed was 
 all demanded to supply the outpourings of his 
 mind in a thousand channels of entertainment and 
 instruction. His unwearied application is attested 
 by the large amount of his works, large even for 
 the present day, when mind seems to have caught 
 the accelerated movement so generally given to 
 the operations of machinery. The whole number 
 of Brown's printed works, comprehending his edi- 
 torial as well as original productions, to the 
 former of which his own pen contributed a very 
 disproportionate share, is not less than four-and- 
 twenty printed volumes, not to mention various 
 pamphlets, anonymous contributions to divers 
 periodicals, as well as more than one compilation 
 of laborious research which he left unfinished at 
 his death. 
 
 Of this vast amount of matter, produced within 
 the brief compass of little more than ten years, 
 that portion on which his fame as an author must 
 permanently rest is his novels. We have already 
 entered too minutely into the merits of these pro- 
 ductions to require anything farther than a few
 
 52 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 general observations. They may probably claim 
 to be regarded as having first opened the way to 
 the successful cultivation of romantic fiction in 
 this country. Great doubts were long entertained 
 of our capabilities for immediate success in this 
 department. We had none of the buoyant, stir- 
 ring associations of a romantic age; none of the 
 chivalrous pageantry, the feudal and border story, 
 or Robin Hood adventure; none of the dim, 
 shadowy superstitions, and the traditional legends, 
 which had gathered like moss round every stone, 
 hill, and valley of the olden countries. Every- 
 thing here wore a spick-and-span new aspect, and 
 lay in the broad, garish sunshine of every-day life. 
 We had none of the picturesque varieties of situa- 
 tion or costume; everything lay on the same dull, 
 prosaic level: in short, we had none of the most 
 obvious elements of poetry : at least so it appeared 
 to the vulgar eye. It required the eye of genius 
 to detect the rich stores of romantic and poetic 
 interest that lay beneath the crust of society. 
 Brown was aware of the capabilities of our coun- 
 try, and the poverty of the results he was less in- 
 clined to impute to the soil than to the cultivation 
 of it: at least this would appear from some re- 
 marks dropped in his correspondence in 1794, sev- 
 eral years before he broke ground in this field 
 himself. " It used to be a favorite maxim with 
 me, that the genius of a poet should be sacred to 
 the glory of his country. How far this rule can 
 be reduced to practice by an American bard, how 
 far he can prudently observe it, and what success 
 has crowned the efforts of those who, in their com-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 53 
 
 positions, have shown that they have not been un- 
 mindful of it, is perhaps not worth the inquiry. 
 
 " Does it not appear to you that to give poetry 
 a popular currency and universal reputation a 
 particular cast of manners and state of civilization 
 is necessary? I have sometimes thought so; but 
 perhaps it is an error, and the want of popular 
 poems argues only the demerit of those who have 
 already written, or some defect in their works, 
 which unfits them for every taste or understand- 
 ing." 
 
 The success of our author's experiment, which 
 was entirely devoted to American subjects, fully 
 established the soundness of his opinions, which 
 have been abundantly confirmed by the prolific 
 pens of Irving, Cooper, Sedgwick, and other 
 accomplished writers, who in their diversified 
 sketches of national character and scenery have 
 shown the full capacity of our country for all the 
 purposes of fiction. Brown does not direct him- 
 self, like them, to the illustration of social life and 
 character. He is little occupied with the exterior 
 forms of society. He works in the depths of the 
 heart, dwelling less on human action than the 
 sources of it. He has been said to have formed 
 himself on Godwin. Indeed, he openly avowed 
 his admiration of that eminent writer, and has cer- 
 tainly in some respects adopted his mode of opera- 
 tion, studying character with a philosophic rather 
 than a poetic eye. But there is no servile imitation 
 in all this. He has borrowed the same torch, in- 
 deed, to read the page of human nature, but the 
 lesson he derives from it is totally different. His
 
 54 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 great object seems to be to exhibit the soul in 
 scenes of extraordinary interest. For this pur- 
 pose, striking and perilous situations are devised, 
 or circumstances of strong moral excitement, a 
 troubled conscience, partial gleams of insanity, or 
 bodings of imaginary evil, which haunt the soul 
 and force it into all the agonies of terror. In the 
 midst of the fearful strife, we are coolly invited 
 to investigate its causes and all the various phe- 
 nomena which attend it ; every contingency, prob- 
 ability, nay, possibility, however remote, is dis- 
 cussed and nicely balanced. The heat of the 
 reader is seen to evaporate in this cold-blooded dis- 
 section, in which our author seems to rival Butler's 
 hero, who, 
 
 " Profoundly skilled in analytic, 
 Could distinguish and divide 
 A hair 'twixt south and southwest side." 
 
 We are constantly struck with the strange contrast 
 of over-passion and over-reasoning. But perhaps, 
 after all, these defects could not be pruned away 
 from Brown's composition without detriment to 
 his peculiar excellences. Si non errdsset, fecerat 
 ille minus. If so, we may willingly pardon the 
 one for the sake of the other. 
 
 We cannot close without adverting to our 
 author's style. He bestowed great pains on the 
 formation of it, but, in our opinion, without great 
 success, at least in his novels. It has an elaborate, 
 factitious air, contrasting singularly with the gen- 
 eral simplicity of his taste and the careless rapidity 
 of his composition. We are aware, indeed, that
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 55 
 
 works of imagination may bear a higher flush of 
 color, a poetical varnish, in short, that must be 
 refused to graver and more studied narrative. No 
 writer has been so felicitous in reaching the exact 
 point of good taste in this particular as Scott, who 
 on a groundwork of prose may be said to have 
 enabled his readers to breathe an atmosphere of 
 poetry. More than one author, on the other hand, 
 as Florian, in French, for example, and Lady 
 Morgan, in English, in their attempts to reach 
 this middle region, are eternally fluttering on the 
 wing of sentiment, equally removed from good 
 prose and good poetry. 
 
 Brown, perhaps willing to avoid this extreme, 
 has fallen into the opposite one, forcing his style 
 into unnatural vigor and condensation. Unusual 
 and pedantic epithets, and elliptical forms of ex- 
 pression, in perpetual violation of idiom, are re- 
 sorted to at the expense of simplicity and nature. 
 He seems averse to telling simple things in a 
 simple way. Thus, for example, we have such 
 expressions as these : "I was fraught with the 
 persuasion that my life was endangered." " The 
 outer door was ajar. I shut it with trembling 
 eagerness, and drew every bolt that appended to 
 it." " His brain seemed to swell beyond its con- 
 tinent."'' " I waited till their slow and hoarser in- 
 spirations showed them to be both asleep. Just 
 then, on changing my position, my head struck 
 against some things which depended from the ceil- 
 ing of the closet." " It was still dark, but my 
 sleep was at an end, and, by a common apparatus 
 (tinder-box?) that lay beside my bed, I could in-
 
 56 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 stantly produce a light." " On recovering from 
 deliquium, you found it where it had been 
 dropped." It is unnecessary to multiply exam- 
 ples which we should not have adverted to at all 
 had not our opinions in this matter been at variance 
 with those of more than one respectable critic. 
 This sort of language is no doubt in very bad 
 taste. It cannot be denied, however, that although 
 these defects are sufficiently general to give a 
 coloring to the whole of his composition, yet his 
 works afford many passages of undeniable elo- 
 quence and rhetorical beauty. It must be remem- 
 bered, too, that his novels were his first produc- 
 tions, thrown off with careless profusion, and 
 exhibiting many of the defects of an immature 
 mind, which longer experience and practice might 
 have corrected. Indeed, his later writings are 
 recommended by a more correct and natural 
 phraseology, although it must be allowed that the 
 graver topics to which they are devoted, if they 
 did not authorize, would at least render less con- 
 spicuous any studied formality and artifice of 
 expression. 
 
 These verbal blemishes, combined with defects 
 already alluded to in the development of his plots, 
 but which all relate to the form rather than the 
 fond of his subject, have made our author less 
 extensively popular than his extraordinary powers 
 would have entitled him to be. His peculiar 
 merits, indeed, appeal to a higher order of criti- 
 cism than is to be found in ordinary and super- 
 ficial readers. Like the productions of Coleridge 
 or Wordsworth, they seem to rely on deeper sen-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 5T 
 
 sibilities than most men possess, and tax the rea- 
 soning powers more severely than is agreeable to 
 readers who resort to works of fiction only as an 
 epicurean indulgence. The number of their ad- 
 mirers is therefore necessarily more limited than 
 that of writers of less talent, who have shown more 
 tact in accommodating themselves to the tone of 
 popular feeling or prejudice. 
 
 But we are unwilling to part, with anything 
 like a tone of disparagement lingering on our lips, 
 with the amiable author to whom our rising litera- 
 ture is under such large and various obligations; 
 who first opened a view into the boundless fields 
 of fiction which subsequent adventurers have suc- 
 cessfully explored; who has furnished so much 
 for our instruction in the several departments of 
 history and criticism, and has rendered still more 
 effectual service by kindling in the bosom of the 
 youthful scholar the same generous love of letters 
 which glowed in his own; whose writings, in fine, 
 have uniformly inculcated the pure and elevated 
 morality exemplified in his life. The only thing 
 we can regret is that a life so useful should have 
 been so short, if, indeed, that can be considered 
 short which has done so much towards attaining 
 life's great end.
 
 ASYLUM FOR THE BLIND* 
 
 (July, 1830) 
 
 rpHERE is nothing in which the moderns sur- 
 -•■ pass the ancients more conspicuously than 
 in their noble provisions for the relief of indigence 
 and distress. The public policy of the ancients 
 seems to have embraced only whatever might pro- 
 mote the aggrandizement or the direct prosperity 
 of the state, and to have cared little for those un- 
 fortunate beings who, from disease or incapacity 
 of any kind, were disqualified from contributing 
 to this. But the beneficent influence of Christian- 
 ity, combined with the general tendency of our 
 social institutions, has led to the recognition of 
 rights in the individual as sacred as those of the 
 community, and has suggested manifold provis- 
 ions for personal comfort and happiness. 
 
 The spirit of benevolence, thus widely, and 
 oftentimes judiciously, exerted, continued until a 
 very recent period, however, strangely insensible 
 to the claims of a large class of objects to whom 
 nature, and no misconduct or imprudence of their 
 own, as is too often the case with the subjects of 
 public charity, had denied some of the most esti- 
 mable faculties of man. No suitable institutions, 
 until the close of the last century, have been pro- 
 vided for the nurture of the deaf and dumb, or 
 
 * An Act to Incorporate the New England Asylum for the Blind. 
 Approved March 2d, 1829. 
 58
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 59 
 
 the blind. Immured within hospitals and alms- 
 houses, like so many lunatics and incurables, they 
 have been delivered over, if they escaped the physi- 
 cal, to all the moral contagion too frequently inci- 
 dent to such abodes, and have thus been involved 
 in a mental darkness far more deplorable than 
 their bodily one. 
 
 This injudicious treatment has resulted from 
 the erroneous principle of viewing these unfortu- 
 nate beings as an absolute burden on the public, 
 utterly incapable of contributing to their own sub- 
 sistence or of ministering in any degree to their 
 own intellectual wants. Instead, however, of 
 being degraded by such unworthy views, they 
 should have been regarded as, what in truth they 
 are, possessed of corporeal and mental capacities 
 perfectly competent, under proper management, 
 to the production of the most useful results. If 
 wisdom from one entrance was quite shut out, 
 other avenues for its admission still remained to 
 be opened. 
 
 In order to give effective aid to persons in this 
 predicament, it is necessary to place ourselves as 
 far as possible in their peculiar situation, to con- 
 sider to what faculties this insulated condition is, 
 on the whole, most favorable, and in what direc- 
 tion they can be exercised with the best chance of 
 success. Without such foresight, all our endeav- 
 ors to aid them will only put them upon efforts 
 above their strength, and result in serious morti- 
 fication. 
 
 The blind, from the cheerful ways of men cut 
 off, are necessarily excluded from the busy theatre
 
 60 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 of human action. Their infirmity, however, which 
 consigns them to darkness, and often to soHtude, 
 would seem favorable to contemplative habits and 
 to the pursuits of abstract science and pure specu- 
 lation. Undisturbed by external objects, the mind 
 necessarily turns within, and concentrates its ideas 
 on any point of investigation with greater intensity 
 and perseverance. It is no uncommon thing, 
 therefore, to find persons setting apart the silent 
 hours of the evening for the purpose of compo- 
 sition or other purely intellectual exercise. Male- 
 branche, when he wished to think intensely, used 
 to close his shutters in the daytime, excluding 
 every ray of light; and hence Democritus is said 
 to have put out his eyes in order that he might 
 philosophize the better, — a story the veracity of 
 which Cicero, who relates it, is prudent enough not 
 to vouch for. 
 
 BHndness must also be exceedingly favorable to 
 the disciphne of the memory. Whoever has had 
 the misfortune, from any derangement of the 
 organ, to be compelled to derive his knowledge of 
 books less from the eye than the ear, will feel the 
 truth of this. The difficulty of recalling what has 
 once escaped, of reverting to or dwelling on the 
 passages read aloud by another, compels the hearer 
 to give undivided attention to the subject, and to 
 impress it more forcibly on his own mind by sub- 
 sequent and methodical reflection. Instances of 
 the cultivation of this faculty to an extraordinary 
 extent have been witnessed among the blind, and 
 it has been most advantageously applied to the 
 pursuit of abstract science, especially mathematics.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 61 
 
 One of the most eminent illustrations of these 
 remarks is the well-known history of Saunderson, 
 who, though deprived in his infancy not only of 
 sight, but of the organ itself, contrived to become 
 so well acquainted with the Greek tongue as to 
 read the works of the ancient mathematicians in 
 the original. He made such advances in the higher 
 departments of the science that he was appointed, 
 " though not matriculated at the University," to 
 fill the chair which a short time previous had been 
 occupied by Sir Isaac Newton at Cambridge. The 
 lectures of this blind professor on the most ab- 
 struse points of the N^ewtonian philosophy, and 
 especially on optics, naturally filled his audience 
 with admiration; and the perspicuity with which 
 he communicated his ideas is said to have been 
 unequalled. He was enabled, by the force of his 
 memory, to perform many long operations in 
 arithmetic, and to carry in his mind the most com- 
 plex geometrical figures. As, however, it became 
 necessary to supply the want of vision by some 
 symbols which might be sensible to the touch, he 
 contrived a table in which pins, whose value was 
 determined principally by their relative position 
 to each other, served him instead of figures, while 
 for his diagrams he employed pegs, inserted at 
 the requisite angles to each other, representing 
 the lines by threads drawn around them. He was 
 so expert in the use of these materials that when 
 performing his calculations he would change the 
 position of the pins with nearly the same facility 
 that another person would indite figures, and 
 when disturbed in an operation would afterwards
 
 62 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 resume it again, ascertaining the posture in which 
 he had left it by passing his hand carefully over 
 the table. To such shifts and inventions does 
 human ingenuity resort when stimulated by the 
 thirst of knowledge; as the plant, when thrown 
 into shade on one side, sends forth its branches 
 eagerly in that direction where the light is per- 
 mitted to fall upon it. 
 
 In like manner, the celebrated mathematician 
 Euler continued, for many years after he became 
 blind to indite and publish the results of his scien- 
 tific labors, and at the time of his decease left 
 nearly a hundred memoirs ready for the press, 
 most of which have since been given to the world. 
 An example of diligence equally indefatigable, 
 though turned in a different channel, occurs in 
 our contemporary Huber, who has contributed one 
 of the most delightful volumes within the compass 
 of natural history, and who, if he employed the 
 eyes of another, guided them in their investigation 
 to the right results by the light of his own mind. 
 
 Blindness would seem to be propitious, also, to 
 the exercise of the inventive powers. Hence 
 poetry, from the time of Thamyris and the blind 
 Mseonides down to the Welsh harper and the 
 ballad-grinder of our day, has been assigned as 
 the pecuHar province of those bereft of vision, 
 
 "As the wakeful bird 
 Sings darkling, and, in shadiest cover hid. 
 Tunes her nocturnal note." 
 
 The greatest epic poem of antiquity was probably, 
 as that of the moderns was certainly, composed in
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 63 
 
 darkness. It is easy to understand how the man 
 who has once seen can recall and body forth in his 
 conceptions new combinations of material beauty; 
 but it would seem scarcely possible that one born 
 blind, excluded from all acquaintance with " col- 
 ored nature," as Condillac finely styles it, should 
 excel in descriptive poetry. Yet there are eminent 
 examples of this; among others, that of Black- 
 lock, whose verses abound in the most agreeable 
 and picturesque images. Yet he could have 
 formed no other idea of colors than was conveyed 
 by their moral associations, the source, indeed, of 
 most of the pleasures we derive from descriptive 
 poetry. It was thus that he studied the variegated 
 aspect of nature, and read in it the successive revo- 
 lutions of the seasons, their freshness, their prime, 
 and decay. 
 
 Mons. Guillie, in an interesting essay on the 
 instruction of the blind, to which we shall have 
 occasion repeatedly to refer, quotes an example of 
 the association of ideas in regard to colors, which 
 occurred in one of his own pupils, who, in reciting 
 the well-known passage in Horace, " ruhente dex- 
 ter a sacras jaculatus arces," translated the first 
 two words by " fiery " or " burning right hand." 
 On being requested to render it literally, he called 
 it " red right hand," and gave as the reason for his 
 former version that he could form no positive con- 
 ception of a red color ; but that, as fire was said to 
 be red, he connected the idea of heat with this color, 
 and had therefore interpreted the wrath of Jupi- 
 ter, demolishing town and tower, by the epithet 
 " fiery or burning; " for " when people are angry,"
 
 64 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 he added, " they are hot, and when they are hot, 
 they must of course be red." He certainly seems 
 to have formed a much more accurate notion of 
 red than Locke's bUnd man. 
 
 But while a gift for poetry belongs only to the 
 inspired few, and while many have neither taste 
 nor talent for mathematical or speculative science, 
 it is a consolation to reflect that the humblest indi- 
 vidual who is destitute of sight may so far supply 
 this deficiency by the perfection of the other senses 
 as by their aid to attain a considerable degree of 
 intellectual culture, as well as a familiarity with 
 some of the most useful mechanic arts. It will be 
 easier to conceive to what extent the perceptions 
 of touch and hearing may be refined if we reflect 
 how far that of sight is sharpened by exclusive 
 reliance on it in certain situations. Thus the mari- 
 ner descries objects at night, and at a distance 
 upon the ocean, altogether imperceptible to the 
 unpractised eye of a landsman. And the North 
 American Indian steers his course undeviatingly 
 through the trackless wilderness, guided only by 
 such signs as escape the eye of the most inquisitive 
 white man. 
 
 In like manner, the senses of hearing and feel- 
 ing are capable of attaining such a degree of per- 
 fection in a blind person that by them alone he can 
 distinguish his various acquaintances, and even the 
 presence of persons whom he has but rarely met 
 before, the size of the apartment, and the general 
 locality of the spots in which he may happen to be, 
 and guide himself safely across the most solitary 
 districts and amid the throng of towns. Dr. Bew,
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 65 
 
 in a paper in the Manchester Collection of Me- 
 moirs, gives an account of a blind man of his 
 acquaintance in Derbyshire, who was much used 
 as a guide for travellers in the night over certain 
 intricate roads, and particularly when the tracks 
 were covered with snow. This same man was 
 afterwards employed as a projector and surveyor 
 of roads in that county. We well remember a 
 blind man in the neighboring town of Salem, who 
 officiated some twenty years since as the town crier, 
 when that functionary performed many of the 
 advertising duties now usurped by the newspaper, 
 making his diurnal round, and stopping with great 
 precision at every corner, trivium or quadrivium, 
 to " chime his melodious twang." Yet this feat, 
 the familiarity of which prevented it from occa- 
 sioning any surprise, could have resulted only 
 from the nicest observation of the undulations of 
 the ground, or by an attention to the currents of 
 air, or the different sound of the voice or other 
 noises in these openings, signs altogether lost upon 
 the man of eyes. 
 
 Mons. Guillie mentions several apparently well- 
 attested anecdotes of blind persons who had the 
 power of discriminating colors by the touch. One 
 of the individuals noticed by him, a Dutchman, 
 was so expert in this way that he was sure to come 
 oiF conqueror at the card-table by the knowledge 
 which he thus obtained of his adversary's hand 
 whenever it came to his turn to deal. This power 
 of discrimination of colors, which seems to be a 
 gift only of a very few of the finer-fingered gen- 
 try, must be founded on the different consistency 
 
 Vol. I.— 5
 
 66 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 or smoothness of the ingredients used in the 
 various dyes. A more certain method of ascertain- 
 ing these colors, that of tasting or touching them 
 with the tongue, is frequently resorted to by the 
 blind, who by this means often distinguish between 
 those analogous colors, as black and dark blue, red 
 and pink, which, having the greatest apparent 
 affinity, not unfrequently deceive the eye. 
 
 Diderot, in an ingenious letter on the blind, 
 a Vusage de ceuoc qui volenti has given a circum- 
 stantial narration of his visit to a blind man at 
 Puisseaux, the son of a professor in the University 
 of Paris, and well known in his day from the 
 various accomplishments and manual dexterity 
 which he exhibited, remarkable in a person in his 
 situation. Being asked what notion he had formed 
 of an eye, he replied, " I conceive it to be an organ 
 on which the air produces the same effect as this 
 staff on my hand. If, when you are looking at an 
 object, I should interpose anything between your 
 eyes and that object, it would prevent you from 
 seeing it. And I am in the same predicament 
 when I seek one thing with my staff and come 
 across another." An explanation, says Diderot, 
 as lucid as any which could be given by Descartes, 
 who, it is singular, attempts, in his Dioptrics, to 
 explain the analogy between the senses of feel- 
 ing and seeing by figures of men blindfolded, 
 groping their way with staffs in their hands. This 
 same intelligent personage became so familiar with 
 the properties of touch that he seems to have ac- 
 counted them almost equally valuable with those 
 of vision. On being interrogated if he felt a great
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 67 
 
 desire to have eyes, he answered, " Were it not for 
 the mere gratification of curiosity, I think I should 
 do as well to wish for long arms. It seems to me 
 that my hands would inform me better of what is 
 going on in the moon than your eyes and tele- 
 scopes ; and then the eyes lose the power of vision 
 more readily than the hands that of feeling. It 
 would be better to perfect the organ which I have 
 than to bestow on me that which I have not." 
 
 Indeed, the " geometric sense " of touch, as 
 BuiFon terms it, as far as it reaches, is more faith- 
 ful, and conveys oftentimes a more satisfactory 
 idea of external forms, than the eye itself. The 
 great defect is that its range is necessarily so lim- 
 ited. It is told of Saunderson that on one occasion 
 he detected by his finger a counterfeit coin which 
 had deceived the eye of a connoisseur. We are 
 hardly aware how much of our dexterity in the use 
 of the eye arises from incessant practice. Those 
 who have been relieved from blindness at an ad- 
 vanced, or even early, period of life, have been 
 found frequently to recur to the old and more 
 familiar sense of touch, in preference to the sight. 
 The celebrated English anatomist Cheselden men- 
 tions several illustrations of this fact in an account 
 given by him of a blind boy whom he had success- 
 fully couched for cataracts at the age of fourteen. 
 It was long before the youth could discriminate 
 by his eye between his old companions the family 
 cat and dog, dissimilar as such animals appear to 
 us in color and conformation. Being ashamed to 
 ask the oft-repeated question, he was observed one 
 day to pass his hand carefully over the cat, and
 
 68 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 then, looking at her steadfastly, to exclaim, " So, 
 puss, I shall know you another time." It is more 
 natural that he should have been deceived by the 
 illusory art of painting, and it was long before he 
 could comprehend that the objects depicted did 
 not possess the same relief on the canvas as in 
 nature. He inquired, " Which is the lying sense 
 here, the sight or the touch? " 
 
 The faculty of hearing would seem susceptible 
 of a similar refinement with that of seeing. To 
 prove this without going into farther detail, it is 
 only necessary to observe that much the larger pro- 
 portion of blind persons are, more or less, profi- 
 cients in music, and that in some of the institutions 
 for their education, as that in Paris, for instance, 
 all the pupils are instructed in this delightful art. 
 The gift of a natural ear for melody, therefore, 
 deemed comparatively rare with the clairvoyans, 
 would seem to exist so far in every individual as to 
 be capable, by a suitable cultivation, of affording 
 a high degree of relish, at least to himself. 
 
 As, in order to a successful education of the 
 blind, it becomes necessary to understand what are 
 the faculties, intellectual and corporeal, to the de- 
 velopment and exercise of which their peculiar 
 condition is best adapted, so it is equally necessary 
 to understand how far, and in what manner, their 
 moral constitution is likely to be affected by the 
 insulated position in which they are placed. The 
 blind man, shut up within the precincts of his own 
 microcosm, is subjected to influences of a very 
 different complexion from the bulk of mankind, 
 inasmuch as each of the senses is best fitted to the
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 69 
 
 introduction of a certain class of ideas into the 
 mind, and he is deprived of that one through which 
 the rest of his species receive by far the greatest 
 number of theirs. Thus it will be readily under- 
 stood that his notions of modesty and dehcacy 
 may a good deal differ from those of the world at 
 large. The blind man of Puisseaux confessed 
 that he could not comprehend why it should be 
 reckoned improper to expose one part of the per- 
 son rather than another. Indeed, the conventional 
 rules, so necessarily adopted in society in this rela- 
 tion, might seem in a great degree superfluous in 
 a blind community. 
 
 The blind man would seem, also, to be less likely 
 to be endowed with the degree of sensibility usual 
 with those who enjoy the blessing of sight. It is 
 difficult to say how much of our early education 
 depends on the looks, the frowns, the smiles, the 
 tears, the example, in fact, of those placed over 
 and around us. From all this the blind child is 
 necessarily excluded. These, however, are the 
 great sources of s\Tnpathy. We feel little for the 
 joys or the sorrows which w^e do not witness. 
 " Out of sight, out of mind," says the old proverb. 
 Hence people are so ready to turn away from dis- 
 tress which they cannot, or their avarice will not 
 suffer them to relieve. Hence, too, persons w^hose 
 compassionate hearts would bleed at the infliction 
 of an act of cruelty on so large an animal as a 
 horse or a dog, for example, will crush without 
 concern a wilderness of insects, whose delicate or- 
 ganization and whose bodily agonies are imper- 
 ceptible to the naked eye. The sHghtest injury
 
 70 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 occurring in our own presence affects us infinitely 
 more than the tidings of the most murderous 
 battle, or the sack of the most populous and flour- 
 isliing city at the extremity of the globe. Yet 
 such, without much exaggeration, is the relative 
 position of the blind, removed by their infirmity 
 at a distance from the world, from the daily exhi- 
 bition of those mingled scenes of grief and glad- 
 ness which have their most important uses, per- 
 haps, in calling forth our sympathies for our 
 fellow-creatures. 
 
 It has been affirmed that the situation of the 
 bHnd is unpropitious to religious sentiment. They 
 are necessarily insensible to the grandeur of the 
 spectacle which forces itself upon our senses every 
 day of our existence. The magnificent map of 
 the heavens, with 
 
 " Every star 
 Which the clear concave of a winter's night 
 Pours on the eye," 
 
 is not unrolled for them. The revolutions of the 
 seasons, with all their beautiful varieties of form 
 and color, and whatever glories of the creation 
 lift the soul in wonder and gratitude to the 
 Creator, are not for them. Their world is circum- 
 scribed by the little circle which they can span 
 with their own arms. All beyond has for them no 
 real existence. This seems to have passed within 
 the mind of the mathematician Saunderson, whose 
 notions of a Deity would seem to have been, to the 
 last, exceedingly vague and unsettled. The cler- 
 gyman who visited him in his latter hours endeav- 
 ored to impress upon him the evidence of a God
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 71 
 
 as afforded by the astonishing mechanism of the 
 universe. Alas!" said the dying philosopher, 
 " I have been condemned to pass my life in dark- 
 ness, and you speak to me of prodigies which I 
 cannot comprehend, and which can only be felt 
 by you and those who see like you." When re- 
 minded of the faith of Newton, Leibnitz, and 
 Clarke, minds from which he had drunk so deeply 
 of instruction, and for whom he entertained the 
 profoundest veneration, he remarked, " The testi- 
 mony of Newton is not so strong for me as that 
 of Nature was for him: Newton believed on the 
 word of God himself, while I am reduced to 
 believe on that of Newton." He expired with this 
 ejaculation on his lips: "God of Newton, have 
 mercy on me I " 
 
 These, however, may be considered as the 
 peevish ebullitions of a naturally sceptical and 
 somewhat disappointed spirit, impatient of an in- 
 firmity which obstructed, as he conceived, his 
 advancement in the career of science to which he 
 had so zealously devoted himself. It was in allu- 
 sion to this, undoubtedly, that he depicted his life 
 as having been " one long desire and continued 
 privation." 
 
 It is far more reasonable to believe that there 
 are certain peculiarities in the condition of the 
 blind which more than counterbalance the unpro- 
 pitious circumstances above described, and which 
 have a decided tendency to awaken devotional sen- 
 timent in their minds. They are the subjects of 
 a grievous calamity, which, as in all such cases, 
 naturally disposes the heart to sober reflection.
 
 12 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 and, when permanent and irremediable, to passive 
 resignation. Their situation necessarily excludes 
 most of those temptations which so sorely beset us 
 in the world, — those tumultuous passions which, in 
 the general rivalry, divide man from man and em- 
 bitter the sweet cup of social hfe, — ^those appe- 
 tites which degrade us to the level of the brutes. 
 They are subjected, on the contrary, to the most 
 healthful influences. Their occupations are of a 
 tranquil, and oftentimes of a purely intellectual, 
 character. Their pleasures are derived from the 
 endearments of domestic intercourse, and the at- 
 tentions almost always conceded to persons in their 
 dependent condition must necessarily beget a re- 
 ciprocal kindliness of feeling in their own bosoms. 
 In short, the uniform tenor of their lives is such 
 as naturally to dispose them to resignation, seren- 
 ity, and cheerfulness; and accordingly, as far as 
 our own experience goes, these have usually been 
 the characteristics of the blind. 
 
 Indeed, the cheerfulness almost universally inci- 
 dent to persons deprived of sight leads us to con- 
 sider blindness as, on the whole, a less calamity 
 than deafness. The deaf man is continually ex- 
 posed to the sight of pleasures and to society in 
 which he can take no part. He is the guest at a 
 banquet of which he is not permitted to partake, 
 the spectator at a theatre where he cannot compre- 
 hend a syllable. If the blind man is excluded 
 from sources of enjoyment equally important, he 
 has at least the advantage of not perceiving, and 
 not even comprehending, what he has lost. It may 
 be added that perhaps the greatest privation con-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 73 
 
 sequent on blindness is the inability to read, as that 
 on deafness is the loss of the pleasures of society. 
 Now, the eyes of another may be made in a great 
 degree to supply this defect of the blind man, 
 while no art can afford a corresponding substitute 
 to the deaf for the privations to which he is doomed 
 in social intercourse. He cannot hear with the 
 ears of another. As, however, it is undeniable that 
 bhndness makes one more dependent than deaf- 
 ness, we may be content with the conclusion that 
 the former would be the most eligible for the rich, 
 and the latter for the poor. Our remarks will be 
 understood as applying to those only who are 
 wholly destitute of the faculties of sight and hear- 
 ing. A person afflicted only with a partial de- 
 rangement or infirmity of vision is placed in the 
 same tantalizing predicament above described of 
 the deaf, and is, consequently, found to be usually 
 of a far more impatient and irritable temperament, 
 and, consequently, less happy, than the totally 
 blind. With all this, we doubt whether there be 
 one of our readers, even should he assent to the 
 general truth of our remarks, who would not infi- 
 nitely prefer to incur partial to total blindness, and 
 deafness to either. Such is the prejudice in favor 
 of eyes ! 
 
 Patience, perseverance, habits of industry, and, 
 above all, a craving appetite for knowledge, are 
 sufficiently common to be considered as character- 
 istics of the blind, and have tended greatly to facili- 
 tate their education, which must otherwise prove 
 somewhat tedious, and, indeed, doubtful as to its 
 results, considering the formidable character of
 
 74 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 the obstacles to be encountered. A curious in- 
 stance of perseverance in overcoming such obsta- 
 cles occurred in Paris, when the institutions for the 
 deaf and dumb and for the blind were assembled 
 under the same roof in the convent of the Celes- 
 tines. The pupils of the two seminaries, notwith- 
 standing the apparently insurmountable barrier 
 interposed between them by their respective in- 
 firmities, contrived to open a communication with 
 each other, which they carried on with the greatest 
 vivacity. 
 
 It was probably the consideration of those moral 
 qualities, as well as of the capacity for improve- 
 ment which we have described as belonging to the 
 blind, which induced the benevolent Haiiy, in con- 
 junction with the Philanthropic Society of Paris, 
 to open there, in 1784, the first regular seminary 
 for their education ever attempted. This institu- 
 tion underwent several modifications, not for the 
 better, during the revolutionary period which fol- 
 lowed; until, in 1816, it was placed on the respect- 
 able basis on which it now exists, under the direc- 
 tion of Dr. Guillie, whose untiring exertions have 
 been blessed with the most beneficial results. 
 
 We shall give a brief view of the course of edu- 
 cation pursued under his direction, as exhibited by 
 him in the valuable treatise to which we have 
 already referred, occasionally glancing at the 
 method adopted in the corresponding institution 
 at Edinburgh. 
 
 The fundamental object proposed in every 
 scheme of education for the blind is, to direct the 
 attention of the pupil to those studies and me-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 75 
 
 chanic arts which he will be able afterwards to 
 pursue by means of his own exertions and re- 
 sources, without any external aid. The sense of 
 touch is the one, therefore, almost exclusively re- 
 lied on. The fingers are the eyes of the blind. 
 They are taught to read in Paris by feeling the 
 surface of metallic types, and in Edinburgh by 
 means of letters raised on a blank leaf of paper. 
 If they are previously acquainted with spelUng, 
 which may be easily taught them before entering 
 the institution, they learn to discriminate the sev- 
 eral letters with great facility. Their perceptions 
 become so fine by practice that they can discern 
 even the finest print, and, when the fingers fail 
 them, readily distinguish it by applying the 
 tongue. A similar method is employed for in- 
 structing them in figures; the notation-table in- 
 vented by Saunderson, and once used in the Paris 
 seminary, having been abandoned as less simple 
 and obvious, although his symbols for the rep- 
 resentation of geometrical diagrams are still 
 retained. 
 
 As it would be labor lost to learn the art of read- 
 ing without having books to read, various attempts 
 have been made to supply this desideratum. The 
 first hint of the form now adopted for the im- 
 pression of these books was suggested by the 
 appearance exhibited on the reverse side of a copy 
 as removed fresh from the printing-press. In 
 imitation of this, a leaf of paper of a firm texture 
 is forcibly impressed with types unstained by ink, 
 and larger than the ordinary size, until a suffi- 
 ciently bold rehef has been obtained to enable the
 
 76 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 blind person to distinguish the characters by the 
 touch. The French have adopted the Italian hand, 
 or one very like it, for the fashion of the letters, 
 while the Scotch have invented one more angular 
 and rectilinear, which, besides the advantage of 
 greater compactness, is found better suited to ac- 
 curate discrimination by the touch than smooth 
 and extended curves and circles. 
 
 Several important works have been already 
 printed on this plan, viz., a portion of the Script- 
 ures, catechisms, and offices for daily prayer; 
 grammars in the Greek, Latin, French, English, 
 Italian, and Spanish languages; a Latin selecta, 
 a geography, a course of general history, a selec- 
 tion from English poets and prose- writers, a 
 course of literature, with a compilation of the 
 choicest specimens of French eloquence. With all 
 this, the art of printing for the blind is still in its 
 infancy. The characters are so unwieldy, and the 
 leaves (which cannot be printed on the reverse side, 
 as this would flatten the letters upon the other) are 
 necessarily so numerous, as to make the volume ex- 
 ceedingly bulky, and of course expensive. The 
 Gospel of St. John, for example, expands into 
 three large octavo volumes. Some farther im- 
 provement must occur, therefore, before the inven- 
 tion can become extensively useful. There can be 
 no reason to doubt of such a result eventually, for 
 it is only by long and repeated experiment that the 
 art of printing in the usual way, and every other 
 art, indeed, has been brought to its present per- 
 fection. Perhaps some mode may be adopted like 
 that of stenography, which, although encumbering
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 77 
 
 the learner with some additional difficulties at first, 
 may abundantly compensate him in the condensed 
 forms and consequently cheaper and more numer- 
 ous publications which could be afforded by it. 
 Perhaps ink or some other material of greater con- 
 sistency than that ordinarily used in printing may 
 be devised, which, when communicated by the type 
 to the paper, will leave a character sufficiently 
 raised to be distinguished by the touch. We have 
 known a blind person able to decipher the charac- 
 ters in a piece of music to which the ink had been 
 imparted more liberally than usual. In the mean 
 time, what has been already done has conferred a 
 service on the blind which we, who become insen- 
 sible from the very prodigality of our blessings, 
 cannot rightly estimate. The glimmering of the 
 taper, which is lost in the blaze of day, is sufficient 
 to guide the steps of the wanderer in darkness. 
 The unsealed volume of Scripture will furnish him 
 with the best sources of consolation under every 
 privation ; the various grammars are so many keys 
 with which to unlock the stores of knowledge to 
 enrich his after-life; and the selections from the 
 most beautiful portions of elegant literature 'vvill 
 afford him a permanent source of recreation and 
 delight. 
 
 One method used for instruction in writing is, 
 to direct the pencil, or stylus, in a groove cut in 
 the fashion of the different letters. Other modes, 
 however, too complex for description here, are 
 resorted to, by which the blind person is enabled 
 not only to write, but to read what he has thus 
 traced. A portable writing-case for this purpose
 
 78 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 has also been invented by one of the blind, who, it 
 is observed, are the most ingenious in supplying, 
 as they are best acquainted with, their own wants. 
 A very simple method of epistolary correspond- 
 ence, by means of a string-alphabet, as it is called, 
 consisting of a cord or riband in which knots of 
 various dimensions represent certain classes of 
 letters, has been devised by two blind men at Edin- 
 burgh. This contrivance, which is so simple that 
 it can be acquired in an hour's time by the most 
 ordinary capacity, is asserted to have the power 
 of conveying ideas with equal precision with the 
 pen. A blind lady of our acquaintance, however, 
 whose fine understanding and temper have enabled 
 her to surmount many of the difficulties of her 
 situation, after a trial of this invention, gives the 
 preference to the mode usually adopted by her of 
 pricking the letters on the paper with a pin, — an 
 operation which she performs with astonishing 
 rapidity, and which, in addition to the advantage 
 possessed by the string-alphabet of being legible 
 by the touch, answers more completely the pur- 
 poses of epistolary correspondence, since it may 
 be readily interpreted by any one on being held 
 up to the hght. 
 
 The scheme of instruction at the institution for 
 the blind in Paris comprehends geography, his- 
 tory, the Greek and Latin, together with the 
 French, Italian, and English languages, arithme- 
 tic and the higher branches of mathematics, music, 
 and some of the most useful mechanic arts. For 
 mathematics the pupils appear to discover a natu- 
 ral aptitude, many of them attaining such profi-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 79 
 
 ciency as not only to profit by the public lectures 
 of the most eminent professors in the sciences, but 
 to carry away the highest prizes in the lyceums in 
 a competition with those who possess the advan- 
 tages of sight. In music, as we have before re- 
 marked, they aU make greater or less proficiency. 
 They are especially instructed in the organ, which, 
 from its frequency in the churches, affords one of 
 the most obvious means of obtaining a livelihood. 
 
 The method of tuition adopted is that of mutual 
 instruction. The blind are ascertained to learn 
 most easily and expeditiously from those in the 
 same condition with themselves. Two male teach- 
 ers, with one female, are in this way found ade- 
 quate to the superintendence of eighty scholars, 
 which, considering the obstacles to be encountered, 
 must be admitted to be a small apparatus for the 
 production of such extensive results. 
 
 In teaching them the mechanic arts, two prin- 
 ciples appear to be kept in view, namely, to select 
 such for each individual respectively as may be 
 best adapted to his future residence and destina- 
 tion; the trades, for example, most suitable for a 
 sea-port being those least so for the country, and 
 vice versa. Secondly, to confine their attention to 
 such occupations as from their nature are most 
 accessible to, and which can be most perfectly at- 
 tained by, persons in their situation. It is absurd 
 to multiply obstacles from the mere vanity of 
 conquering them. 
 
 Printing is an art for which the blind show par- 
 ticular talent, going through all the processes of 
 composing, serving the press, and distributing the
 
 80 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 types with the same accuracy with those who can 
 see. Indeed, much of this mechanical occupation 
 with the clairvoyans (we are in want of some such 
 compendious phrase in our language) appears to 
 be the result rather of habit than any exercise of 
 the eye. The blind print all the books for their 
 own use. They are taught also to spin, to knit, in 
 which last operation they are extremely ready, 
 knitting very finely, with open work, etc., and are 
 much employed by the Parisian hosiers in the man- 
 ufacture of elastic vests, shirts, and petticoats. 
 They make purses, delicately embroidered with 
 figures of animals and flowers, whose various tints 
 are selected with perfect propriety. The fingers 
 of the females are observed to be particularly 
 adapted to this nicer sort of work, from their supe- 
 rior delicacy, ordinarily, to those of men. They 
 are emploj^ed also in manufacturing girths, in net- 
 ting in all its branches, in making shoes of list, 
 plush, cloth, colored skin, and list carpets, of which 
 a vast number is annually disposed of. Weaving 
 is particularly adapted to the blind, who perform 
 all the requisite manipulation without any other 
 assistance but that of setting up the warp. They 
 manufacture whips, straw bottoms for chairs, 
 coarse straw hats, rope, cord, pack-thread, baskets, 
 straw, rush, and plush mats, which are very salable 
 in France. 
 
 The articles manufactured in the Asylum for 
 the Blind in Scotland are somewhat different; 
 and, as they show for what an extensive variety of 
 occupations they may be qualified in despite of 
 their infirmity, we will take the liberty, at the
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 81 
 
 hazard of being somewhat tedious, of quoting the 
 catalogue of them exhibited in one of their adver- 
 tisements. The articles offered for sale consist of 
 cotton and Hnen cloths, ticked and striped Hol- 
 lands, towelling and diapers, worsted net for 
 fruit -trees; hair-cloth, hair-mats, and hair-ropes; 
 basket-work of every description; hair, India 
 hemp, and straw door-mats ; saddle-girths ; ropes 
 and twines of all kinds; netting for sheep-pens; 
 garden and onion twine-nets; fishing-nets, bee- 
 hives, mattresses, and cushions; feather-beds, bol- 
 sters, and pillows; mattresses and beds of every 
 description cleaned and repaired. The labors in 
 this department are performed by the boys. The 
 girls are employed in sewing, knitting stockings, 
 spinning, making fine banker's twine, and various 
 works besides, usually executed by well-educated 
 females. 
 
 Such is the emulation of the blind, according to 
 Dr. Guillie, in the institution of Paris, that hith- 
 erto there has been no necessity of stimulating 
 their exertions by the usual motives of reward or 
 punishment. Delighted with their sensible prog- 
 ress in vanquishing the difficulties incident to their 
 condition, they are content if they can but place 
 themselves on a level with the more fortunate of 
 their fellow-creatures. And it is observed that 
 many, w^ho in the solitude of their own homes have 
 failed in their attempts to learn some of the arts 
 taught in this institution, have acquired a knowl- 
 edge of them with great alacrity when cheered by 
 the sympathy of individuals involved in the same 
 calamity with themselves, and with whom, of 
 
 Vol. I.— 6
 
 82 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 course, they could compete with equal probability 
 of success. 
 
 The example of Paris has been followed in the 
 principal cities in most of the other countries of 
 Europe: in England, Scotland, Russia, Prussia, 
 Austria, Switzerland, Holland, and Denmark. 
 These establishments, which are conducted on the 
 same general principles, have adopted a plan of 
 education more or less comprehensive, some of 
 them, like those of Paris and Edinburgh, in- 
 volving the higher branches of intellectual educa- 
 tion, and others, as in London and Liverpool, con- 
 fining themselves chiefly to practical arts. The 
 results, however, have been in the highest degree 
 cheering to the philanthropist in the light thus 
 poured in upon minds to which all the usual ave- 
 nues were sealed up, — in the opportunity afforded 
 them of developing those latent powers which had 
 been hitherto wasted in inaction, and in the happi- 
 ness thus imparted to an unfortunate class of 
 beings, who now for the first time were permitted 
 to assume their proper station in society, and, in- 
 stead of encumbering, to contribute by their own 
 exertions to the general prosperity. 
 
 We rejoice that the inhabitants of our own city 
 have been the first to give an example of such 
 beneficent institutions in the New World. And 
 it is principally with the view of directing the at- 
 tention of the public towards it that we have gone 
 into a review of what has been effected in this way 
 in Europe. The credit of having first suggested 
 the undertaking here is due to our townsman. Dr. 
 John D. Fisher, through whose exertions, aided
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 83 
 
 by those of several other benevolent individuals, 
 the subject was brought before the Legislature of 
 this State, and an act of incorporation was granted 
 to the petitioners, bearing date March 2d, 1829, 
 authorizing them, under the title of the " New 
 England Asylum for the Blind," to hold property, 
 receive donations and bequests, and to exercise the 
 other functions usually appertaining to similar 
 corporations. 
 
 A resolution was subsequently passed, during 
 the same session, requiring the selectmen of the 
 several towns throughout the commonwealth to 
 make returns of the number of blind inhabitants, 
 with their ages, periods of blindness, personal con- 
 dition, etc. By far the larger proportion of these 
 functionaries, however, with a degree of apathy 
 which does them very little credit, paid no atten- 
 tion whatever to this requisition. By the aid of 
 such as did comply with it, and by means of cir- 
 culars addressed to the clergymen of the various 
 parishes, advices have been received from one hun- 
 dred and forty-one towns, comprising somewhat 
 less than half of the whole number within the 
 State. From this imperfect estimate it would 
 appear that the number of blind persons in 
 these towns amounts to two hundred and forty- 
 three, of whom more than one-fifth are under 
 thirty years of age, which period is assigned as 
 the limit within which they cannot fail of receiving 
 all the benefit to be derived from the system of 
 instruction pursued in the institutions for the 
 bhnd. 
 
 The proportion of the blind to our whole popu-
 
 84. BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 lation, as founded on the above estimate, is some- 
 what higher than that established by Zeune for the 
 corresponding latitudes in Europe, where blind- 
 ness decreases in advancing from the equator to 
 the poles, it being computed in Egypt at the 
 rate of one to one hundred, and in Norway of 
 one to one thousand, which last is conformable 
 to ours. 
 
 Assuming the preceding estimate as the basis, it 
 will appear that there are about five hundred blind 
 persons in the State of Massachusetts at the pres- 
 ent moment; and, adopting the census of 1820, 
 there could not at that time, according to the 
 same rate, be less than sixteen hundred and fifty 
 in all New England, one-fifth being under thirty 
 years of age; a number M^hich, as the blind are 
 usually retired from public observation, far ex- 
 ceeds what might be conceived on a cursorj^ 
 inspection. 
 
 From the returns it would appear that a large 
 proportion of the blind in Massachusetts are in 
 humble circumstances, and a still larger propor- 
 tion of those in years indigent or paupers. This 
 is imputable to their having learned no trade or 
 profession in their youth, so that, when deprived 
 of their natural guardians, they have necessarily 
 become a charge upon the public. 
 
 Since the year 1825 an appropriation has been 
 continued by the Legislature for the purpose of 
 maintaining a certain number of pupils at the 
 Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb at Hartford. A 
 resolution was obtained during the last session of 
 the General Court authorizing the governor to
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 85 
 
 pay over to the Asylum for the Blind whatever 
 balance of the sum thus appropriated might re- 
 main in the treasury unexpended at the end of the 
 current year, and the same with every subsequent 
 year to which the grant extended, unless otherwise 
 advised. Seven hundred dollars only have been 
 received as the balance of the past year, a sum 
 obviously inadequate to the production of any im- 
 portant result, and far inferior to what had been 
 anticipated by the friends of the measure. On the 
 whole, we are inclined to doubt whether this will 
 be found the most suitable mode of creating re- 
 sources for the asylum. Although, in fact, it dis- 
 poses only of the superfluity, it has the appearance 
 of subtracting from the positive revenues of the 
 Deaf and Dumb, an institution of equal merit and 
 claims with any other whatever. The Asylum for 
 the Blind is an establishment of too much impor- 
 tance to be left thus dependent on a precarious 
 contingent, and is worthy, were it only in an eco- 
 nomical point of view, of being placed by the State 
 on some more secure and ample basis. 
 
 As it is, the want of funds opposes a sensible 
 obstruction to its progress. The pressure of the 
 times has made the present moment exceedingly 
 unfavorable to personal solicitation, although so 
 much has been effected in this way, through the 
 hberality of a few individuals, that, as we under- 
 stand, preparations are now making for procuring 
 the requisite instructors and apparatus on a mod- 
 erate and somewhat reduced scale. 
 
 As to the comprehensiveness of the scheme of 
 education to be pursued at the asylum, whether it
 
 86 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 shall embrace intellectual culture or be confined 
 simply to the mechanic arts, this must, of course, 
 be ultimately determined by the extent of its re- 
 sources. We trust, however, it will be enabled to 
 adopt the former arrangement, at least so far as 
 to afford the pupils an acquaintance with the ele- 
 ments of the more popular sciences. There is such 
 a diffusion of liberal knowledge among all classes 
 in this country, that if the blind are suffered to 
 go without any tincture of it from the institution, 
 they will always, whatever be the skill acquired by 
 them in mechanical occupations, continue to feel a 
 sense of their own mental inferiority. The con- 
 nection of these higher with the more direct objects 
 of the institution will serve, moreover, to give it 
 greater dignity and importance. And while it will 
 open sources of knowledge from which many may 
 be in a situation to derive permanent consolation, 
 it will instruct the humblest individual in what may 
 be of essential utility to him, as writing and arith- 
 metic, for example, in his intercourse with the 
 world. 
 
 To what extent it is desirable that the asylum 
 be placed on a charitable foundation is another 
 subject of consideration. This, we believe, is the 
 character of most of the establishments in Europe. 
 That in Scotland, for instance, contains about a 
 hundred subjects, who, with their families in- 
 cluded, amount to two hundred and fifty souls, all 
 supported from the labors of the blind, conjointly 
 with the funds of the institution. This is undoubt- 
 edly one of the noblest and most discriminating 
 charities in the world. It seems probable, however.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 87 
 
 that this is not the plan best adapted to our exi- 
 gencies. We want not to maintain the blind, but 
 to put them in the way of contributing to their 
 own maintenance. By placing the expenses of 
 tuition and board as low as possible, the means of 
 effecting this will be brought within the reach of 
 a large class of them; and for the rest, it will be 
 obvious economy in the State to provide them with 
 the means of acquiring an education at once that 
 may enable them to contribute permanently 
 towards their own support, which, in some shape 
 or other, is now chargeable on the public. Per- 
 haps, however, some scheme may be devised 
 for combining both these objects, if this be 
 deemed preferable to the adoption of either 
 exclusively. 
 
 We are convinced that, as far as the institution 
 is to rely for its success on public patronage, it 
 will not be disappointed. If once successfully in 
 operation and brought before the public eye, it 
 cannot fail of exciting a very general sympathy, 
 which, in this country, has never been refused to 
 the calls of humanity. No one, we think, who has 
 visited the similar endovnnents in Paris or in Edin- 
 burgh will easily forget the sensations which he 
 experienced on witnessing so large a class of his 
 unfortunate fellow-creatures thus restored from 
 intellectual darkness to the blessings, if we may so 
 speak, of light and liberty. There is no higher 
 evidence of the worth of the human mind than its 
 capacity of drawing consolation from its own re- 
 sources under so heavy a privation; so that it not 
 only can exhibit resignation and cheerfulness, but
 
 88 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 
 
 energy to burst the fetters with which it is encum- 
 bered. 
 
 Who could refuse his sympathy to the suc- 
 cess of these efforts, or withhold from the sub- 
 ject of them the means of attaining his natural 
 level and usefulness in society, from which circum- 
 stances less favorable to him than to ourselves 
 have hitherto excluded him?
 
 IRVING'S CONQUEST OF GRANADA* 
 
 (October, 1829) 
 
 ALMOST as many qualifications may be de- 
 manded for a perfect historian, indeed, the 
 Abbe Mably has enumerated as many, as Cicero 
 stipulates for a perfect orator. He must be 
 strictly impartial; a lover of truth under all cir- 
 cumstances, and ready to declare it at all hazards : 
 he must be deeply conversant with whatever may 
 bring into relief the character of the people he is 
 depicting, not merely with their laws, constitution, 
 general resources, and all the other more visible 
 parts of the machinery of government, but with 
 the nicer moral and social relations, the informing 
 spirit which gives life to the whole, but escapes the 
 eye of a vulgar observer. If he has to do with 
 other ages and nations, he must transport himself 
 into them, expatriating himself, as it were, from 
 his own, in order to get the very form and pressure 
 of the times he is delineating. He must be con- 
 scientious in his attention to geography, chronol- 
 ogy, etc., an inaccuracy in which has been fatal to 
 more than one good philosophical history; and, 
 mixed up with all these drier details, he must dis- 
 play the various powers of a novehst or dramatist, 
 throwing his characters into suitable lights and 
 shades, disposing his scenes so as to awaken and 
 
 • " A Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada. By Fray Antonio 
 Agapida." 1829: 2 vols. 12mo. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Carey. 
 
 89
 
 90 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 maintain an unflagging interest, and diffusing 
 over the whole that finished style without which his 
 work will only become a magazine of materials 
 for the more elegant edifices of subsequent writers. 
 He must be — in short, there is no end to what a 
 perfect historian must be and do. It is hardly 
 necessary to add that such a monster never did and 
 never will exist. 
 
 But, although we cannot attain to perfect ex- 
 cellence in this or any other science in this world, 
 considerable approaches have been made to it, and 
 different individuals have arisen at different 
 periods, possessed in an eminent degree of some 
 of the principal qualities which go to make up the 
 aggregate of the character we have been de- 
 scribing. The peculiar character of these qualities 
 will generally be determined in the writer by that 
 of the age in which he lives. Thus, the earlier his- 
 torians of Greece and Rome sought less to in- 
 struct than to amuse. They filled their pictures 
 with dazzling and seductive images. In their re- 
 searches into antiquity, they were not startled by 
 the marvellous, like the more prudish critics of our 
 day, but welcomed it as likely to stir the imagina- 
 tions of their readers. They seldom interrupted 
 the ctory by impertinent reflection. They be- 
 stowed infinite pains on the costume, the style of 
 their history, and, in fine, made everything subor- 
 dinate to the main purpose of conveying an ele- 
 gant and interesting narrative. Such was He- 
 rodotus, such Livy, and such, too, the earlier 
 chroniclers of modern Europe, whose pages glow 
 with the picturesque and brilliant pageants of an
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 91 
 
 age of chivalry. These last, as well as Herodotus, 
 may be said to have written in the infancy of their 
 nations, when the imagination is more willingly 
 addressed than the understanding. Livy, who 
 wrote in a riper age, lived, nevertheless, in a court 
 and a period where tranquillity and opulence 
 disposed the minds of men to elegant recreation 
 rather than to severe disciphne and exertion. 
 
 As, however, the nation advanced in years, or 
 became oppressed with calamity, history also as- 
 sumed a graver complexion. Fancy gave way 
 to reflection. The mind, no longer invited to rove 
 abroad in quest of elegant and alluring pictures, 
 was driven back upon itself, speculated more 
 deeply, and sought for support under the external 
 evils of life in moral and philosophical truth. De- 
 scription was abandoned for the study of char- 
 acter; men took the place of events; and the 
 romance was converted into the drama. Thus it 
 was with Tacitus, who lived under those imperial 
 monsters who turned Rome into a charnel-house, 
 and his compact narratives are filled with moral 
 and political axioms sufficiently numerous to make 
 a volume; and, indeed, Brotier has made one of 
 them in his edition of the historian. The same 
 philosophical spirit animates the page of Thucyd- 
 ides, himself one of the principal actors in the 
 long, disastrous struggle that terminated in the 
 ruin of his nation. 
 
 But, notwithstanding the deeper and more com- 
 prehensive thought of these later writers, there 
 was still a wide difl*erence between the complexion 
 given to history under their hands and that which
 
 92 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 it has assumed in our time. We would not be 
 understood as determining, but simply as discrimi- 
 nating, their relative merits. The Greeks and 
 Romans lived when the world, at least when the 
 mind, was in its comparative infancy, — when 
 fancy and feeling were most easily and loved most 
 to be excited. They possessed a finer sense of 
 beauty than the moderns. They were infinitely 
 more solicitous about the external dress, the finish, 
 and all that makes up the poetry of a composition. 
 Poetry, indeed, mingled in their daily pursuits as 
 well as pleasures; it determined their gravest de- 
 liberations. The command of their armies was 
 given, not to the best general, but ofttimes to the 
 most eloquent orator. Poetry entered into their 
 religion, and created those beautiful monuments 
 of architecture and sculpture which the breath of 
 time has not tarnished. It entered into their 
 philosophy; and no one confessed its influence 
 more deeply than he who would have banished it 
 from his republic. It informed the souls of their 
 orators, and prompted those magnificent rhapso- 
 dies which fall Hf eless enough from the stammer- 
 ing tongue of the school-boy, but which once 
 awaked to ecstasy the living populace of Athens. 
 It entered deeply even into their latest history. It 
 was first exhibited in the national chronicles of 
 Homer. It lost little of its coloring, though it 
 conformed to the general laws of prosaic compo- 
 sition, under Herodotus. And it shed a pleasing 
 grace over the sober pages of Thucydides and 
 Xenophon. The muse, indeed, was stripped of 
 her wings ; she no longer made her airy excursions
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 93 
 
 into the fairy regions of romance; but, as she 
 moved along the earth, the sweetest wild flowers 
 seemed to spring up unbidden at her feet. We 
 would not be understood as implying that Grecian 
 history was ambitious of florid or meretricious 
 ornament. Nothing could be more simple than 
 its general plan and execution ; far too simple, we 
 fear, for imitation iu our day. Thus Thucydides, 
 for example, distributes his events most inartifi- 
 cially, according to the regular revolutions of the 
 seasons; and the rear of every section is brought 
 up with the same eternal repetition of irog rcS no- 
 ?.Efi(d sTEXEvra riSSe, ov QovxvSiSYig ^vveypa^^e. But in 
 the fictitious speeches with which he has illu- 
 mined his narrative he has left the choicest speci- 
 mens of Attic eloquence; and he elaborated his 
 general diction into so high a finish that Demos- 
 thenes, as is weU known, in the hope of catching 
 some of his rhetorical graces, thought him worthy 
 of being thrice transcribed with his own hand. 
 
 Far difl'erent has been the general conception, 
 as well as execution, of history by the moderns. 
 In this, however, it was accommodated to the exi- 
 gencies of their situation, and, as with the ancients, 
 still reflected the spirit of the age. If the Greeks 
 lived in the infancy of civilization, the contempo- 
 raries of our day may be said to have reached its 
 prime. The same revolution has taken place as 
 in the growth of an individual. The vivacity of 
 the imagination has been blunted, but reason is 
 matured. The credulity of youth has given way 
 to habits of cautious inquiry, and sometimes to a 
 phlegmatic scepticism. The productions, indeed.
 
 94 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 which first appeared in the doubtful twilight of 
 morning exhibited the love of the marvellous, the 
 light and fanciful spirit of a green and tender age. 
 But a new order of things commenced as the stores 
 of classical learning were unrolled to the eye of the 
 scholar. The mind seemed at once to enter upon 
 the rich inheritance which the sages of antiquity 
 had been ages in accumulating, and to start, as it 
 were, from the very point where they had termi- 
 nated their career. Thus raised by learning and 
 experience, it was enabled to take a wider view 
 of its proper destiny, — to understand that truth is 
 the greatest good, and to discern the surest method 
 of arriving at it. The Christian doctrine, too, in- 
 culcated that the end of being was best answered 
 by a life of active usefulness, and not by one of 
 abstract contemplation, or selfish indulgence, or 
 passive fortitude, as variously taught by the 
 various sects of antiquity. Hence a new standard 
 of moral excellence was formed. Pursuits were 
 estimated by their practical results, and the useful 
 was preferred to the ornamental. Poetry, con- 
 fined to her own sphere, was no longer permitted 
 to mingle in the councils of philosophy. Intel- 
 lectual and physical science, instead of floating on 
 vague speculation, as with the ancients, was estab- 
 lished on careful induction and experiment. The 
 orator, instead of adorning himself with the pomp 
 and garniture of verse, sought only to acquire 
 greater dexterity in the management of the true 
 weapons of debate. The passions were less fre- 
 quently assailed, the reason more. A wider field 
 was open to the historian. He was no longer to
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 95 
 
 concoct his narrative, if the scene lay in a remote 
 period, from the superficial rumors of oral tradi- 
 tion. Libraries were to be ransacked; medals 
 and monuments to be studied; obsolete manu- 
 scripts to be deciphered. Every assertion was to 
 be fortified by an authority; and the opinions of 
 others, instead of being admitted on easy faith, 
 were to be carefully collated, and the balance of 
 probability struck between them. With these 
 qualifications of antiquarian and critic, the modern 
 historian was to combine that of the philosopher, 
 deducing from his mass of facts general theorems, 
 and giving to them their most extended appli- 
 cation. 
 
 By all this process, poetry lost much, but philos- 
 ophy gained more. The elegant arts sensibly 
 declined, but the most important and recondite 
 secrets of nature were laid open. All those 
 sciences which have for their object the happiness 
 and improvement of the species, the science of gov- 
 ernment, of political economy, of education — 
 natural and experimental science — ^were carried 
 far beyond the boundaries which they could pos- 
 sibly have reached under the ancient systems. 
 
 The peculiar forms of historic writing, as it 
 exists with the moderns, were not fully developed 
 until the last century. It may be well to notice 
 the intermediate shape which it assumed before it 
 reached this period in Spain and Italy, but espe- 
 cially this latter country, in the sixteenth century. 
 The Italian historians of that age seem to have 
 combined the generalizing and reflecting spirit 
 characteristic of the moderns, with the simple and
 
 96 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 graceful forms of composition which have de- 
 scended to us from the ancients. Machiavelli, in 
 particular, may remind us of some recent statue 
 which exhibits all the lineaments and proportions 
 of a contemporary, but to which the sculptor has 
 given a sort of antique dignity by enveloping it in 
 the folds of the Roman toga. No one of the 
 Spanish historians is to be named with him. 
 Mariana, who enjoys among them the greatest 
 celebrity, has, it is true, given to his style, both in 
 the Latin and CastiUan, the elegant transparency 
 of an ancient classic ; but the mass of detail is not 
 quickened by a single spark of philosophy or origi- 
 nal reflection. Mariana was a monk, one of a 
 community who have formed the most copious but 
 in many respects the most incompetent chroniclers 
 in the world, cut off as they are from all sjrmpathy 
 with any portion of the species save their own 
 order, and predisposed by education to admit as 
 truth the grossest forgeries of fanaticism. What 
 can their narratives be worth, distorted thus by 
 prejudice and credulity? The Aragonese writers, 
 and Zurita in particular, though far inferior as to 
 the literary execution of their works, exhibit a 
 pregnant thought and a manly independence of 
 expression far superior to the Jesuit Mariana.* 
 
 * The Jesuits were neither monks nor friars but formed one of 
 the orders of the regular clergy, priests living in common and 
 occupied with the various works of the ministry. Mariana there- 
 fore was not a monk. He was Professor of Theology in the 
 Jesuit College at Rome, 1561-65, — was therefore a Secretary on 
 Divinity in Sicily and in Paris, and in 1574 settled at Toledo, 
 where he devoted himself to the composition of his famous history. 
 He died in 1623.— M.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 97 
 
 The Italian historians of the sixteenth century, 
 moreover, had the good fortune not only to have 
 been eye-witnesses but to have played prominent 
 parts in the events which they commemorated. 
 And this gives a vitality to their touches which is 
 in vain to be expected from those of a closet poh- 
 tician. This rare union of public and private ex- 
 cellence is delicately intimated in the inscription 
 on Guicciardini's monument, " Cujus negotium^ 
 an otium, gloriosius incertumJ" 
 
 The personage by whom the present laws of his- 
 toric composition may be said to have been first 
 arranged into a regular system was Voltaire. This 
 extraordinary genius, whose works have been pro- 
 ductive of so much mingled good and evil, dis- 
 covers in them many traces of a humane and 
 beneficent disposition. Nowhere is his invective 
 more keenly directed than against acts of cruelty 
 and oppression, — above all, of religious oppres- 
 sion. He lived in an age of crying abuses both in 
 Church and government. Unfortunately, he em- 
 ployed a weapon against them whose influence is 
 not to be controlled by the most expert hand. The 
 envenomed shaft of irony not only wounds the 
 member at which it is aimed, but diffuses its poison 
 to the healthiest and remotest regions of the body. 
 
 The free and volatile temper of Voltaire forms 
 a singular contrast with his resolute pertinacity of 
 purpose. Bard, philosopher, historian, this hter- 
 ary Proteus animated every shape with the same 
 mischievous spirit of philosophy. It never de- 
 serted him, even in the most sportive sallies of his 
 fancy. It seasons his romances equally with his 
 
 Vol. I.— 7
 
 98 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 gravest pieces in the encyclopedia; his famihar 
 letters and most licentious doggerel no less than 
 his histories. The leading object of this philoso- 
 phy may be defined by the single cant phrase, " the 
 abolition of prejudices." But in Voltaire preju- 
 dices were too often confounded with principles. 
 
 In his histories, he seems ever intent on exhibit- 
 ing, in the most glaring colors, the manifold incon- 
 sistencies of the human race; in showing the 
 contradiction between profession and practice; in 
 contrasting the magnificence of the apparatus with 
 the impotence of the results. The enormous 
 abuses of Christianity are brought into juxtaposi- 
 tiOTi with the most meritorious features in other 
 religions, and thus all are reduced to nearly the 
 same level. The credulity of one half of mankind 
 is set in opposition to the cunning of the other. 
 The most momentous events are traced to the most 
 insignificant causes, and the ripest schemes of 
 wisdom are shown to have been baffled by the inter- 
 vention of the most trivial accidents. Thus, the 
 conduct of the world seems to be regulated by 
 chance ; the springs of human action are resolved 
 into selfishness ; and religion, of whatever denomi- 
 nation, is only a different form of superstition. It 
 is true that his satire is directed not so much 
 against any particular system as the vices of that 
 system ; but the result left upon the mind is not a 
 whit less pernicious. His philosophical romance 
 of " Candide " affords a good exemplification of 
 his manner. The thesis of perfect optimism in 
 this world, at which he levels this jeu d' esprit, is 
 manifestly indefensible. But then he supports his
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 99 
 
 position with such an array of gross and hyper- 
 boHcal atrocities, without the intervention of a 
 single palHative circumstance, and, withal, in such 
 a tone of keen derision, that if any serious impres- 
 sion be left on the mind it can be no other than 
 that of a baleful, withering scepticism. The his- 
 torian rarely so far forgets his philosophy as to 
 kindle into high and generous emotion the glow 
 of patriotism, or moral and religious enthusiasm. 
 And hence, too, his style, though always graceful, 
 and often seasoned with the sallies of a piquant 
 wit, never rises into eloquence or sublunity. 
 
 Voltaire has been frequently reproached for 
 want of historical accuracy. But, if we make due 
 allowance for the sweeping tenor of his reflections 
 and for the infinite variety of his topics, we shall 
 be slow in giving credit to this charge." * He was, 
 indeed, oftentimes misled by his inveterate Pyr- 
 rhonism; a defect, when carried to the excess in 
 which he indulged it, almost equally fatal to the 
 historian with credulity or superstition. His re- 
 searches frequently led him into dark, untravelled 
 regions ; but the aliment which he imported thence 
 served only too often to minister to his pernicious 
 philosophy. He resembled the allegorical agents 
 of Milton, paving a way across the gulf of Chaos 
 for the spirits of mischief to enter more easily 
 upon the earth. 
 
 Voltaire effected a no less sensible revolution in 
 the structure than in the spirit of history. Thus, 
 
 * Indeed, Hallam and Warton — the one as diligent a laborer in 
 the field of civil history as the other has been in literary — both bear 
 testimony to his general veracity.
 
 100 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 instead of following the natural consecutive order 
 of events, the work was distributed, on the prin- 
 ciple of a Catalogue raisonne, into sections ar- 
 ranged according to their subjects, and copious 
 dissertations were introduced into the body of the 
 narrative. Thus, in his Essai sur les Moeurs, etc., 
 one chapter is devoted to letters, another to re- 
 ligion, a third to manners, and so on. And in the 
 same way, in his " Age of Louis the Fourteenth,'* 
 he has thrown his various illustrations of the policy 
 of government, and of the social habits of the 
 court, into a detached portion at the close of the 
 book. 
 
 This would seem to be deviating from the natu- 
 ral course of things as they occur in the world, 
 where the multifarious pursuits of pleasure and 
 business, the lights and shadows, as it were, of life, 
 are daily intermingled in the motley panorama of 
 human existence. But, however artificial this divi- 
 sion, it enabled the reader to arrive more expe- 
 ditiously at the results, for which alone history is 
 valuable, while at the same time it put it in the 
 power of the writer to convey with more certainty 
 and facility his own impressions. 
 
 This system was subsequently so much refined 
 upon that Montesquieu, in his " Grandeur et De- 
 cadence des Romains," laid no farther stress on 
 historical facts than as they furnished him with 
 illustrations of his particular theorems. Indeed, 
 so little did his work rest upon the veracity of such 
 facts that, although the industry of Niebuhr, or, 
 rather, of Beaufort, has knocked away almost all 
 the foundations of early Rome, Montesquieu's
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 101 
 
 treatise remains as essentially unimpaired in credit 
 as before. Thus the materials which anciently 
 formed the body of history now served only as in- 
 gredients from which its spirit was to be extracted. 
 But this was not always the spirit of truth. And 
 the arbitrary selection as well as disposition of inci- 
 dents which this new method allowed, and the 
 coloring which they were to receive from the 
 author, made it easy to pervert them to the con- 
 struction of the wildest hypotheses. 
 
 The progress of philosophical history is par- 
 ticularly observable in Great Britain, where it 
 seems to have been admirably suited to the grave, 
 reflecting temper of the people. In the graces of 
 narrative they have ever been unequal to their 
 French neighbors. Their ancient chronicles are 
 inferior in spirit and execution to those either of 
 France or Spain; and their more elaborate his- 
 tories, down to the middle of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury, could not in any way compete with the illus- 
 trious models of Italy. But soon after this period 
 several writers appeared, exhibiting a combination 
 of qualities, erudition, critical penetration, powers 
 of generalization, and a political sagacity unri- 
 valled in any other age or country. 
 
 The influence of the new forms of historical 
 composition, however, was here, as elsewhere, made 
 too frequently subservient to party and sectarian 
 prejudices. Tory histories and Whig histories, 
 Protestant and Catholic histories, successively ap- 
 peared, and seemed to neutralize each other. The 
 most venerable traditions were exploded as nursery- 
 tales. The statues decreed by antiquity were cast
 
 102 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 down, and the characters of miscreants whom 
 the general suffrage of mankind had danmed to 
 infamy — of a Dionysius, a Borgia, or a Richard 
 the Third — were now retraced by what Jovius dis- 
 tinguishes as " the golden pen " of the historian, 
 until the reader, bewildered in the maze of uncer- 
 tainty, is almost ready to join in the exclamation 
 of Lord Orford to his son, " Oh, quote me not 
 history, for that I know to be false!" It is re- 
 markable, indeed, that the last-mentioned monarch, 
 Richard the Third, whose name has become a by- 
 word of atrocit}'-, the burden of the ballad and the 
 moral of the drama, should have been the subject 
 of elaborate vindication by two eminent writers of 
 the most opposite characters, the pragmatical 
 Horace Walpole and the circumspect and con- 
 scientious Sharon Turner. The apology of the 
 latter exhibits a technical precision, a severe scru- 
 tiny into the authenticity of records, and a nice 
 balancing of contradictory testimony, that give it 
 all the air of a legal investigation. Thus history 
 seems to be conducted on the principles of a judi- 
 cial process, in which the writer, assuming the 
 functions of an advocate, studiously suppresses 
 whatever may make against his own side, supports 
 himself by the strongest array of evidence which 
 he can muster, discredits as far as possible that of 
 the opposite party, and, by dexterous interpreta- 
 tion and ingenious inference, makes out the most 
 plausible argument for his client that the case will 
 admit. 
 
 But these, after all, are only the abuses of philo- 
 sophical history, and the unseasonable length of
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 103 
 
 remark into which we have been unwarily led in 
 respect to them may give us the appearance of lay- 
 ing on them greater emphasis than they actually 
 deserve. There are few writers in any country 
 whose judgment has not been sometimes warped 
 by personal prejudices. But it is to the credit of 
 the principal British historians that, however they 
 may have been occasionally under the influence of 
 such human infirmity, they have conducted their 
 researches, in the main, with equal integrity and 
 impartiality. And while they have enriched their 
 writings with the stores of a various erudition, 
 they have digested from these details results of 
 the most enlarged and practical application. His- 
 tory in their hands, although it may have lost much 
 of the simplicity and graphic vivacity which it 
 maintained with the ancients, has gained much 
 more in the amount of useful knowledge and the 
 lessons of sound philosophy which it inculcates. 
 
 There is no writer who exhibits more distinctly 
 the full development of the principles of modern 
 history, with all its virtues and defects, than Gib- 
 bon. His learning was fully equal to his vast sub- 
 ject. This, commencing with expiring civilization 
 in ancient Rome, continues on until the period of 
 its final and perfect resurrection in Italy in the 
 fifteenth century, and thus may be said to furnish 
 the lights which are to guide us through the long 
 interval of darkness which divides the Old from 
 the Modern world. The range of his subject was 
 fully equal to its duration. Goths, Huns, Tartars, 
 and all the rude tribes of the North are brought 
 upon the stage, together with the more cultivated
 
 104 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 natives of the South, the Greeks, ItaHans, and the 
 intellectual Arab; and, as the scene shifts from 
 one country to another, we behold its population 
 depicted with that peculiarity of physiognomy and 
 studied propriety of costume which belong to dra- 
 matic exhibition ; for Gibbon was a more vivacious 
 draughtsman than most writers of his school. He 
 was, moreover, deeply versed in geography, chro- 
 nology, antiquities, verbal criticism, — in short, in 
 all the sciences in any way subsidiary to his art. 
 The extent of his subject permitted him to indulge 
 in those elaborate disquisitions so congenial to the 
 spirit of modern history on the most momentous 
 and interesting topics, while his early studies en- 
 abled him to embellish the drier details of his nar- 
 rative with the charms of a liberal and elegant 
 scholarship. 
 
 What, then, was wanting to this accomplished 
 writer? Good faith. His defects were precisely 
 of the class of which we have before been speak- 
 ing, and his most elaborate efforts exhibit too 
 often the perversion of learning and ingenuity to 
 the vindication of preconceived hypotheses. He 
 cannot, indeed, be convicted of ignorance or literal 
 inaccuracy, as he has triumphantly proved in his 
 discomfiture of the unfortunate Davis. But his 
 disingenuous mode of conducting the argument 
 leads precisely to the same unfair result. Thus, in 
 his celebrated chapters on the " Progress of Chris- 
 tianity," which he tells us were " reduced by three 
 successive revisals from a bulky volume to their 
 present size," he has often slurred over in the text 
 such particulars as might reflect most credit on
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 105 
 
 the character of the religion, or shuffled them into 
 a note at the bottom of the page, while all that 
 admits of a doubtful complexion in its early prop- 
 agation is ostentatiously blazoned and set in con- 
 trast to the most amiable features of paganism. 
 At the same time, by a style of innuendo that con- 
 veys " more than meets the ear," he has contrived, 
 with lago-like duplicity, to breathe a taint of sus- 
 picion on the purity which he dares not openly 
 assail. It would be easy to furnish examples of all 
 this were this the place for them; but the charges 
 have no novelty, and have been abundantly sub- 
 stantiated by others. 
 
 It is a consequence of this scepticism in Gibbon, 
 as with Voltaire, that his writings are nowhere 
 warmed with a generous moral sentiment. The 
 most sublime of all spectacles, that of the martyr 
 who suffers for conscience' sake, and this equally 
 whether his creed be founded in truth or error, is 
 contemplated by the historian with the smile, or, 
 rather, sneer, of philosophic indifference. This is 
 not only bad taste, as he is addressing a Christian 
 audience, but he thus voluntarily relinquishes one 
 of the most powerful engines for the movement 
 of human passion, which is never so easily excited 
 as by deeds of suffering, self -devoted heroism. 
 
 But, although Gibbon was wholly defective in 
 moral enthusiasm, his style is vivified by a certain 
 exhilarating glow that kindles a corresponding 
 warmth in the bosom of his reader. This may 
 perhaps be traced to his egotism, or, to speak more 
 liberally, to an ardent attachment to his profes- 
 sional pursuits and to his inextinguishable love of
 
 106 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 letters. This enthusiasm appears in ahnost every 
 page of his great work, and enabled him to 
 triumph over all its difficulties. It is particularly 
 conspicuous whenever he touches upon Rome, the 
 alma mater of science, whose adopted son he may 
 be said to have been from his earliest boyhood. 
 Whenever he contemplates her fallen fortunes, he 
 mourns over her with the fond solicitude that 
 might become an ancient Roman; and when he 
 depicts her pristine glories, dimly seen through the 
 mist of so many centuries, he does it with such 
 vivid accuracy of conception that the reader, like 
 the traveller who wanders through the excavations 
 of Pompeii, seems to be gazing on the original 
 forms and brilliant colors of antiquity. 
 
 To Gibbon's egotism — in its most literal sense, 
 to his personal vanity — may be traced some of the 
 peculiar defects for which his style is conspicuous. 
 The " historian of the Decline and Fall " too 
 rarely forgets his own importance in that of his 
 subject. The consequence which he attaches to 
 his personal labors is shown in a bloated dignity 
 of expression and an ostentation of ornament that 
 contrast whimsically enough with the trifling 
 topics and commonplace thoughts on which, in the 
 course of his long work, they are occasionally em- 
 ployed. He nowhere moves along with the easy 
 freedom of nature, but seems to leap, as it were, 
 from triad to triad by a succession of strained, 
 convulsive efforts. He affected, as he tells us, the 
 light, festive raillery of Voltaire; but his cum- 
 brous imitation of the mercurial Frenchman may 
 remind one, to make use of a homely simile, of the
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 107 
 
 ass in ^ sop's fable, who frisked upon his master 
 in imitation of the sportive gambols of the spaniel. 
 The first two octavo volumes of Gibbon's history- 
 were written in a comparatively modest and un- 
 affected manner, for he was then uncertain of the 
 pubhc favor; and, indeed, his style was exceed- 
 ingly commended by the most competent critics of 
 that day, as Hume, Joseph Warton, and others, 
 as is abundantly shown in their correspondence; 
 but when he had tasted the sweets of popular ap- 
 plause, and had been crowned as the historian of 
 the day, his increased consequence becomes at once 
 visible in the assumed stateliness and magnificence 
 of his bearing. But even after this period, when- 
 ever the subject is suited to his style, and when his 
 phlegmatic temper is warmed by those generous 
 emotions of which, as we have said, it was some- 
 times susceptible, he exhibits his ideas in the most 
 splendid and imposing forms of which the English 
 language is capable. 
 
 The most eminent illustrations of the system of 
 historical writing, which we have been discussing, 
 that have appeared in England in the present cen- 
 tury, are the works of ^Ir. Hallam, in which the 
 author, discarding most of the circumstances that 
 go to make up mere narrative, endeavors to fix the 
 attention of the reader on the more important 
 features of constitutional polity, employing his 
 wide range of materials in strict subordination to 
 this purpose. 
 
 But, while history has thus been conducted on 
 nearly the same principles in England for the last 
 century, a new path has been struck out in France,
 
 108 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 or, rather, an attempt has lately been made there 
 to retrace the old one. M. de Barante, no less esti- 
 mable as a literary critic than as a historian, in the 
 preliminary remarks to his " Histoire des Dues 
 de Bourgogne," considers the draughts of modern 
 compilers as altogether wanting in the vivacity 
 and freshness of their originals. They tell the 
 reader how he should feel, instead of making him 
 do so. They give him their own results, instead of 
 enabling him, by a fair delineation of incidents, 
 to form his own. And while the early chroniclers, 
 in spite of their unformed and obsolete idiom, are 
 still read with delight, the narratives of the former 
 are too often dry, languid, and uninteresting. He 
 proposes, therefore, by a close adherence to his 
 originals, to extract, as it were, the spirit of their 
 works, without any affectation, however, of their 
 antiquated phraseology, and to exhibit as vivid 
 and veracious a portraiture as possible of the times 
 he is delineating, unbroken by any discussions or 
 reflections of his own. The result has been a work 
 in eleven octavo volumes, which, notwithstanding 
 its bulk, has already passed into four editions. 
 
 The two last productions of our countryman 
 Mr. Irving undoubtedly fall within the class of 
 narrative history. To this he seems peculiarly 
 suited by his genius, his fine perception of moral 
 and natural beauty, his power of discriminating the 
 most delicate shades of character and of unfold- 
 ing a series of events so as to maintain a lively 
 interest in the reader, and a lactea uhertas of ex- 
 pression which can impart a living eloquence even 
 to the most commonplace sentiments. Had the
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 109 
 
 "Life of Columbus" been written by a historian 
 of the other school of which we have been speak- 
 ing, he would have enlarged with greater circum- 
 stantiality on the system adopted by Ferdinand 
 and Isabella for the administration of their colo- 
 nies and for the regulation of trade ; nor would he 
 have neglected to descant on a topic — worn some- 
 what threadbare, it must be owned- — so momen- 
 tous as the moral and political consequences of the 
 discovery of America; neither would such a 
 writer, in an account of the conquest of Granada, 
 have omitted to collect such particulars as might 
 throw light on the genius, social institutions, and 
 civil polity of the Spanish Arabs. But all these 
 particulars, however pertinent to a philosophical 
 history, would have been entirely out of keeping in 
 Mr. Irving's, and might have produced a disagree- 
 able discordance in the general harmony of his 
 plan. 
 
 Mr. Irving has seldom selected a subject better 
 suited to his peculiar powers than the conquest of 
 Granada. Indeed, it would hardly have been pos- 
 sible for one of his warm sensibilities to linger so 
 long among the remains of JMoorish magnificence 
 with which Spain is covered, without being inter- 
 ested in the fortunes of a people whose memory 
 has almost passed iiito oblivion, but who once pre- 
 served the " sacred flame " when it had become 
 extinct in every corner of Christendom, and whose 
 influence is still visible on the intellectual culture 
 of Modern Europe. It has been found no easy 
 matter, however, to compile a satisfactory and 
 authentic account of the Arabians, notwithstand-
 
 110 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 ing that the number of their historians, cited by 
 D'Herbelot and Casiri, would appear to exceed 
 that of any European nation. The despotic gov- 
 ernments of the East have never been found pro- 
 pitious to that independence of opinion so essential 
 to historical composition: " ubi sentire quae velis, 
 et qu£e sentias dicere hcet." And their copious 
 compilations, prolific in frivolous and barren de- 
 tail, are too often wholly destitute of the sap and 
 vitahty of history. 
 
 The social and moral institutions of Arabian 
 Spain experienced a considerable modification 
 from her long intercourse with the Europeans, 
 and she offers a nobler field of research for the 
 chronicler than is to be found in any other country 
 of the Moslem. Notwithstanding this, the Cas- 
 tilian scholars, until of late, have done little to- 
 wards elucidating the national antiquities of their 
 Saracen brethren; and our most copious notices 
 of their political history, until the recent post- 
 humous publication of Conde, have been drawn 
 from the extracts which M. Cardonne translated 
 from the Arabic Manuscripts in the Royal Li- 
 brary at Paris.* 
 
 The most interesting periods of the Saracen do- 
 minion in Spain are those embraced by the empire 
 of the Omeyades of Cordova, between the years 
 
 * [Since this article was written, the deficiency noticed in the text 
 has been supplied by the translation into English of Al-Makkari's 
 " Mohammedan Dynasties," with copious notes and illustrations by 
 Don Pascual de Gayangos, a scholar whose acute criticism has 
 enabled him to rectify many of the errors of his laborious predeces- 
 sors and whose profound Oriental learning sheds a flood of light on 
 both the civil and literary history of the Spanish Arabs.]
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 111 
 
 755 and 1030, and that of the kingdom of Gra- 
 nada, extending from the middle of the thirteenth 
 to the close of the fifteenth century. The inter- 
 vening period of their existence in the Peninsula 
 offers only a spectacle of inextricable anarchy. 
 The first of those periods was that in which the 
 Arabs attained their meridian of opulence and 
 power, and in which their general illumination 
 affords a striking contrast with the deep bar- 
 barism of the rest of Europe ; but it was that, too, 
 in which their character, having been but little 
 affected by contact with the Spaniards, retained 
 most of its original Asiatic peculiarities. This has 
 never been regarded, therefore, by European 
 scholars as a period of great interest in their his- 
 tory, nor has it ever, so far as we are aware, been 
 selected for the purposes of romantic fiction. But 
 when their territories became reduced within the 
 limits of Granada, the Moors had insensibly sub- 
 mitted to the superior influences of their Christian 
 neighbors. Their story, at this time, abounds in 
 passages of uncommon beauty and interest. 
 Their wars were marked by feats of personal 
 prowess and romantic adventure, while the inter- 
 vals of peace were abandoned to all the license of 
 luxurious revelry. Their character, therefore, 
 blending the various peculiarities of Oriental and 
 European civilization, offers a rich study for the 
 poet and the novelist. As such, it has been liber- 
 ally employed by the Spaniards, and has not been 
 altogether neglected by the writers of other na- 
 tions. Thus, Florian, whose sentiments, as well as 
 his style, seem to be always floundering midway
 
 112 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 between the regions of prose and poetry, has made 
 out of the story of this people his popular romance 
 of " Gonsalvo of Cordova." It also forms the bur- 
 den of an Italian epic, entitled " II Conquista di 
 Granata," by Girolamo Gratiani, a Florentine, — 
 much lauded by his countrymen. The ground, 
 however, before the appearance of Mr. Irving, 
 had not been occupied by any writer of eminence 
 in the English language for the purposes either of 
 romance or history. 
 
 The conquest of Granada, to which Mr. Irving 
 has confined himself, so disastrous to the Moors, 
 was one of the most brilliant achievements in the 
 most brilliant period of Spanish history. Nothing 
 is more usual than overweening commendations of 
 antiquity, — the " good old times " whose harsher 
 features, like those of a rugged landscape, lose all 
 their asperity in the distance. But the period of 
 which we are speaking, embracing the reigns of 
 Ferdinand and Isabella, at the close of the fif- 
 teenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries, 
 was undoubtedly that in which the Spanish nation 
 displayed the fulness of its moral and physical 
 energies, when, escaping from the license of a 
 youthful age, it seems to have reached the prime 
 of manhood and the perfect development of those 
 faculties whose overstrained exertions were soon 
 to be followed by exhaustion and premature de- 
 crepitude. 
 
 The remnant of Spaniards who, retreating to 
 the mountains of the north, escaped the over- 
 whelming inundation of the Saracens at the begin- 
 ning of the eighth century, continued to cherish
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 113 
 
 the free institutions of their Gothic ancestors. 
 The " Fuero Juzgo," the ancient Visi-Gothic code, 
 was still retained by the people of Castile and 
 Leon, and may be said to form the basis of all their 
 subsequent legislation, while in Aragon the dis- 
 solution of the primitive monarchy opened the 
 way for even more liberal and equitable forms of 
 government. The independence of character thus 
 fostered by the pecuhar constitutions of these 
 petty states was still farther promoted by the 
 circumstances of their situation. Their uninter- 
 rupted wars with the infidel — the necessity of win- 
 ning back from him, inch by inch, as it were, the 
 conquered soil — required the active co-operation 
 of every class of the community, and gave to the 
 mass of the people an intrepidity, a personal con- 
 sequence, and an extent of immunities, such as 
 were not enjoyed by them in any other country of 
 Europe. The free cities acquired considerable 
 tracts of the reconquered territory, with rights of 
 jurisdiction over them, and sent their representa- 
 tives to Cortes, nearly a century before a similar 
 privilege was conceded to them in England. 
 Even the peasantry, so degraded at this period 
 throughout the rest of Europe, assumed under 
 this state of things a conscious dignity and impor- 
 tance, which are visible in their manners at this 
 day; and it was in this class, during the late 
 French invasions, that the fire of ancient patri- 
 otism re\dved with greatest force, when it seemed 
 almost extinct in the breasts of the degenerate 
 nobles. 
 
 The religious feeling which mingled in their 
 
 Vol. I.— 8
 
 114. BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 wars with the infidels gave to their character a 
 tinge of lofty enthusiasm; and the irregular na- 
 ture of this warfare suggested abundant topics 
 for that popular minstrelsy which acts so power- 
 fully on the passions of a people. The " Poem of 
 the Cid," which appeared, according to Sanchez, 
 before the middle of the twelfth century, contrib- 
 uted in no slight degree, by calling up the most 
 inspiring national recollections, to keep alive the 
 generous glow of patriotism. This influence is 
 not imaginary. Heeren pronounces the " poems 
 of Homer to have been the principal bond which 
 united the Grecian states; " and every one knows 
 the influence exercised over the Scottish peasantry 
 by the Border minstrelsy. Many anecdotes might 
 be quoted to show the veneration universally enter- 
 tained by the Spaniards, broken, as they were, into 
 as many discordant states as ever swarmed over 
 Greece, for their favorite hero of romance and his- 
 tory. Among others, Mariana relates one of a 
 king of Navarre, who, making an incursion into 
 Castile about a century after the warrior's death, 
 was carrying off a rich booty, when he was met by 
 an abbot of a neighboring convent, with his monks, 
 bearing aloft the standard of the Cid, who im- 
 plored him to restore the plunder to the inhabi- 
 tants from whom he had ravished it. And the 
 monarch, moved by the sight of the sacred relic, 
 after complying with his request, escorted back 
 the banner in solemn procession with his whole 
 army to the place of its deposit. 
 
 But, while all these circumstances conspired to 
 give an uncommon elevation to the character of
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 115 
 
 the ancient Spaniard, even of the humblest rank, 
 and while the prerogative of the monarch was 
 more precisely as well as narrowly defined than in 
 most of the other nations of Christendom, the aris- 
 tocracy of the country was insensibly extending 
 its privileges, and laying the foundation of a 
 power that eventually overshadowed the throne 
 and wellnigh subverted the liberties of the state. 
 In addition to the usual enormous immunities 
 claimed by this order in feudal governments 
 (although there is no reason to believe that the 
 system of feudal tenure obtained in Castile, as it 
 certainly did in Aragon), they enjoyed a consti- 
 tutional privilege of withdrawing their allegiance 
 from their sovereign on sending him a formal 
 notice of such renunciation, and the sovereign, on 
 his part, was obliged to provide for the security of 
 their estates and families so long as they might 
 choose to continue in such overt rebellion. These 
 anarchical provisions in their constitution did not 
 remain a dead letter, and repeated examples of 
 their pernicious application are enumerated both 
 by the historians of Aragon and Castile. The long 
 minorities with which the latter country was 
 afflicted, moreover, contributed stiU farther to 
 swell the overgrown power of the privileged 
 orders; and the violent revolution which, in 1368, 
 placed the house of Trastamarre upon the throne, 
 by impairing the revenues, and consequently the 
 authority of the crown, opened the way for the 
 wild uproar which reigned throughout the king- 
 dom during the succeeding century. Alonso de 
 Palencia, a contemporary chronicler, dwells with
 
 116 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 melancholy minuteness on the calamities of this 
 unhappy period, when the whole country was spht 
 into factions of the nobles, the monarch openly 
 contemned, the commons trodden in the dust, the 
 court become a brothel, the treasury bankrupt, 
 public faith a jest, and private morals too loose 
 and audacious to court even the veil of hypocrisy. 
 
 The wise administration of Ferdinand and Isa- 
 bella could alone have saved the state in this hour 
 of peril. It effected, indeed, a change on the face 
 of things as magical as that produced by the wand 
 of an enchanter in some Eastern tale. Their reign 
 wears a more glorious aspect from its contrast with 
 the turbulent period which preceded it, as the land- 
 scape glows Mdth redoubled brilliancy when the 
 sunshine has scattered the tempest. We shall 
 briefly notice some of the features of the policy 
 by which they effected this change. 
 
 They obtained from the Cortes an act for the 
 resumption of the improvident grants made by 
 their predecessor, by which means an immense ac- 
 cession of revenue, which had been squandered 
 upon unworthy favorites, was brought back to the 
 royal treasury. They compelled many of the 
 nobility to resign, in favor of the crown, such of 
 its possessions as they had acquired, by force, 
 fraud, or intrigue, during the late season of an- 
 archy. The son of that gallant Marquis Duke of 
 Cadiz, for instance, wdth whom the reader has be- 
 come so famihar in Mr. Irving's Chronicle, was 
 stripped of his patrimony of Cadiz and compelled 
 to exchange it for the humbler territory of Arcos, 
 from whence the family henceforth derived their
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 117 
 
 title. By aU these expedients the revenues of the 
 state at the demise of Isabella, were increased 
 twelvefold beyond what they had been at the time 
 of her accession. They reorganized the ancient in- 
 stitution of the " Hermandad," — a very different 
 association, under their hands, from the " Holy 
 Brotherhood " which we meet with in Gil Bias. 
 Every hundred householders were obliged to equip 
 and maintain a horseman at their joint expense; 
 and this corps furnished a vigilant police in civil 
 emergencies and an effectual aid in war. It was 
 found, moreover, of especial service in suppress- 
 ing the insurrections and disorders of the nobility. 
 They were particularly solicitous to abolish the 
 right and usage of private war claimed by this 
 haughty order, compelling them on all occasions 
 to refer their disputes to the constituted tribunals 
 of justice. But it was a capital feature in the 
 policy of the Catholic sovereigns to counterbal- 
 ance the authority of the aristocracy by exalting, 
 as far as prudent, that of the commons. In the 
 various convocations of the national legislature, 
 or Cortes, in this reign, no instance occurs of any 
 city having lost its prescriptive right of furnish- 
 ing representatives, as had frequently happened 
 under preceding monarchs, who, from negligence 
 or policy, had omitted to summon them. 
 
 But it would be tedious to go into all the details 
 of the system employed by Ferdinand and Isabella 
 for the regeneration of the decayed fabric of gov- 
 ernment; of their wholesome regulations for the 
 encouragement of industry; of their organization 
 of a national militia and an efficient marine; of
 
 118 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 the severe decorum which they introduced within 
 the corrupt precincts of the court; of the tem- 
 porary economy by which they controlled the pub- 
 He expenditures, and of the munificent patronage 
 which they, or, rather, their almoner on this occa- 
 sion, that most enlightened of bigots, Cardinal 
 Ximenes, dispensed to science and letters. In 
 short, their sagacious provisions were not merely 
 remedial of former abuses, but were intended to 
 call forth all the latent energies of the Spanish 
 character, and, with these excellent materials to 
 erect a constitution of government which should 
 secure to the nation tranquillity at home, and ena- 
 ble it to go forward in its ambitious career of dis- 
 covery and conquest. 
 
 The results were certainly equal to the wisdom 
 of the preparations. The first of the series of 
 brilliant enterprises was the conquest of the Moor- 
 ish kingdom of Granada, — those rich and lovely 
 regions of the Peninsula, the last retreat of the 
 infidel, and which he had held for nearly eight 
 centuries. This, together with the subsequent 
 occupation of Navarre by the crafty Ferdinand, 
 consolidated the various principalities of Spain 
 into one monarchy, and, by extending its boun- 
 daries in the Peninsula to their present dimensions, 
 raised it from a subordinate situation to the first 
 class of European powers. The Italian wars, under 
 the conduct of the " Great Captain," secured to 
 Spain the more specious but less useful acquisition 
 of Naples, and formed that invincible infantry 
 which enabled Charles the Fifth to dictate laws to 
 Europe for nearly half a century. And, lastly, as
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 119 
 
 if the Old World could not afford a theatre suffi- 
 ciently vast for their ambition, Columbus gave a 
 New World to Castile and Leon. 
 
 Such was the attitude assumed by the nation un- 
 der the Catholic kings, as they were called. It was 
 the season of hope and youthful enterprise, when 
 the nation seemed to be renewing its ancient ener- 
 gies and to prepare like a giant to run its course. 
 The modern Spaniard who casts his eye over the 
 long interval that has since elapsed, during the 
 first half of which the nation seemed to waste itself 
 on schemes of mad ambition or fierce fanaticism, 
 and in the latter half to sink into a state of para- 
 lytic torpor, — the Spaniard, we say, who casts a 
 melancholy glance over this dreary interval will 
 turn w4th satisfaction to the close of the fifteenth 
 century as the most glorious epoch in the annals 
 of his country. This is the period to which Mr. 
 Irving has introduced us in his late work. And 
 if his portraiture of the Castilian of that day wears 
 somewhat of a romantic and, it may be, incredible 
 aspect to those who contrast it with the present, 
 they must remember that he is only re^dving the 
 tints which had faded on the canvas of history. 
 But it is time that we should return from this long 
 digression, into which we have been led by the de- 
 sire of exhibiting in stronger relief some peculiari- 
 ties in the situation and spirit of the nation at the 
 period from which Mr. Irving has selected the 
 materials of his last, indeed, his last two publica- 
 tions. 
 
 Our author, in his " Chronicle of Granada," has 
 been but slightly indebted to Arabic authorities.
 
 120 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 Neither Conde nor Cardonne has expended more 
 than fifty or sixty pages on this humihating topic ; 
 but ample amends have been offered in the copious 
 proUxity of the Castihan writers. The Spaniards 
 can boast a succession of chronicles from the 
 period of the great Saracen invasion. Those of a 
 more early date, compiled in rude Latin, are suffi- 
 ciently meagre and unsatisfactory; but from the 
 middle of the thirteenth century the stream of 
 history runs full and clear, and their chronicles, 
 composed in the vernacular, exhibit a richness and 
 picturesque variety of incident that gave them 
 inestimable value as a body of genuine historical 
 documents. The reigns of Ferdinand and Isa- 
 bella were particularly fruitful in these sources of 
 information. History then, like most of the other 
 departments of literature, seemed to be in a state 
 of transition, when the fashions of its more anti- 
 quated costume began to mingle insensibly with 
 the peculiarities of the modern ; when, in short, the 
 garrulous graces of narration were beginning to 
 be tempered by the tone of grave and philosophical 
 reflection. 
 
 We will briefly notice a few of the eminent 
 sources from which Mr. Irving has drawn his ac- 
 count of the " Conquest of Granada." The fii'st 
 of these is the Epistles of Peter Martyr, an Italian 
 savant, who, having passed over with the Spanish 
 ambassador into Spain, and being introduced into 
 the court of Isabella, was employed by her in some 
 important embassies. He was personally present 
 at several campaigns of this war. In his " Let- 
 ters" he occasionally smiles at the caprice which
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 121 
 
 had led him to exchange the pen for the sword, 
 while his speculations on the events passing be- 
 fore him, being those of a scholar rather than 
 of a soldier, afford in their moral complexion a 
 pleasing contrast to the dreary details of blood 
 and battle. Another authority is the Chronicle 
 of Bernaldez, a worthy ecclesiastic of that period, 
 whose bulky manuscript, like that of many a bet- 
 ter WTiter, lies still engulfed in the dust of some 
 Spanish library, having never been admitted to 
 the honors of the press.* Copies of it, however, 
 are freely circulated. It is one of those good- 
 natured, gossiping memorials of an antique age, 
 abounding equally in curious and commonplace 
 incident, told in a way sufficiently prolix, but 
 not without considerable interest. The testimony 
 of this writer is of particular value, moreover, on 
 this occasion, from the proximity of his residence 
 in Andalusia to those scenes which w^re the seat of 
 the war. His style overflows with that religious 
 loyalty wdth which Mr. Ir-ving has liberally sea- 
 soned the effusions of Fra Antonio Agapida. 
 Hernando del Pulgar, another contemporary his- 
 torian, was the secretary and counsellor of their 
 Catholic majesties, and appointed by them to the 
 post of national chronicler, an office familiar both 
 to the courts of Castile and Aragon, in which latter 
 country, especialty, it has been occupied by some 
 of its most distinguished historians. Pulgar's 
 long residence at court, his practical acquaintance 
 with affairs, and, above all, the access which he ob- 
 
 * An edition of this Chronicle was published in Granada in the 
 latter half of the Nineteenth Century. — ;M.
 
 122 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 
 
 tained, by means of his official station, to the best 
 sources of information, have enabled him to make 
 his work a rich repository of facts relating to the 
 general resources of government, the policy of its 
 administration, and, more particularly, the con- 
 duct of the military operations in the closing war 
 of Granada, of which he was himself an eye-wit- 
 ness. In addition to these writers, this period has 
 been illumined by the labors of the most celebrated 
 historians of Castile and Aragon, Mariana and 
 Zurita, both of whom conclude their narratives 
 with it, the last expanding the biography of Fer- 
 dinand alone into two volumes folio. Besides 
 these, Mr. Irving has derived collateral lights from 
 many sources of inferior celebrity but not less un- 
 suspicious credit. So that, in conclusion, notwith- 
 standing a certain dramatic coloring which Fra 
 Agapida's " Chronicle " occasionally wears, and 
 notwithstanding the romantic forms of a style 
 which, to borrow the language of Cicero, seems 
 " to flow, as it were, from the very lips of the 
 Muses," we may honestly recommend it as sub- 
 stantially an authentic record of one of the most 
 interesting and, as far as English scholars are con- 
 cerned, one of the most untravelled portions of 
 Spanish history.
 
 CERVANTES * 
 
 (July, 1837) 
 
 THE publication, in this country, of an im- 
 portant Spanish classic in the original, with 
 a valuable commentary, is an event of some mo- 
 ment in our literary annals, and indicates a famili- 
 arity, rapidly increasing, with the beautiful litera- 
 ture to which it belongs. It may be received as 
 an omen favorable to the cause of modern litera- 
 ture in general, the study of which, in all its 
 varieties, may be urged on substantially the same 
 grounds. The growing importance attached to 
 this branch of education is visible in other countries 
 quite as much as in our own. It is the natural, 
 or, rather, necessary result of the changes which 
 have taken place in the social relations of man in 
 this revolutionary age. Formerly a nation, pent 
 up within its own barriers, knew less of its neigh- 
 bors than we now know of what is going on in 
 Siam or Japan. A river, a chain of mountains, an 
 imaginary line, even, parted them as far asunder 
 as if oceans had rolled between. To speak cor- 
 rectly, it was their imperfect civilization, their 
 
 * " El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha, compuesto 
 por Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. Nueva Edicion clasica, ilus- 
 trada con Notas historicas, gramaticales y criticas, por la Academia 
 Espanola, sus Individuos de Niimero Pellicer, Arrieta, y Clemencin. 
 Enmendada y corregida por Francisco Sales, A.M., Instructor de 
 Frances y Espaiiol en la Universidad de Harvard, en Cambrigia, 
 Estado de Massachusetts, Norte America," 2 vols. 12mo, Boston, 
 1836. 
 
 123
 
 IM BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 ignorance of the means and the subjects of com- 
 munication, which thus kept them asunder. Now, 
 on the contrary, a change in the domestic institu- 
 tions of one country can hardly be effected without 
 a corresponding agitation in those of its neighbors. 
 A treaty of aUiance can scarcely be adjusted with- 
 out the intervention of a general Congress. The 
 sword cannot be unsheathed in one part of Chris- 
 tendom without thousands leaping from their scab- 
 bards in every other. The whole system is bound 
 together by as nice sympathies as if animated by 
 a common pulse, and the remotest countries of 
 Europe are brought into contiguity as intimate as 
 were in ancient times the provinces of a single 
 monarchy. 
 
 This intimate association has been prodigiously 
 increased of late years by the unprecedented dis- 
 coveries which science has made for facilitating 
 intercommunication. The inhabitants of Great 
 Britain, that " ultima Thule " of the ancients, can 
 now run down to the extremity of Italy in less time 
 than it took Horace to go from Rome to Brundu- 
 sium. A steamboat of fashionable tourists will 
 touch at all the places of note in the Iliad and 
 Odyssey in fewer weeks than it would have cost 
 years to an ancient Argonaut or a crusader of the 
 Middle Ages. Every one, of course, travels, and 
 almost every capital and noted watering-place on 
 the Continent swarms with its thousands, and 
 Paris with its tens of thousands, of itinerant cock- 
 neys, many of whom, perhaps, have not wandered 
 beyond the sound of Bow-bells in their own little 
 island.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 125 
 
 Few of these adventurers are so dull as not to 
 be quickened into something like curiosity respect- 
 ing the language and institutions of the strange 
 people among whom they are thrown, while the 
 better sort and more intelligent are led to study 
 more carefully the new forms, whether in arts or 
 letters, under which human genius is unveiled to 
 them. 
 
 The effect of all this is especially visible in the 
 reforms introduced into the modern systems of 
 education. In both the universities recently estab- 
 lished in London, the apparatus for instruction, 
 instead of being limited to the ancient tongues, is 
 extended to the whole circle of modern literature ; 
 and the editorial labors of many of the professors 
 show that they do not sleep on their posts. Peri- 
 odicals, under the management of the ablest 
 writers, furnish valuable contributions of foreign 
 criticism and intelligence ; and regular histories of 
 the various Continental literatures, a department 
 in which the English are singularly barren, are 
 understood to be now in actual preparation. 
 
 But, although barren of literary, the English 
 have made important contributions to the political 
 history of the Continental nations. That of Spain 
 has employed some of their best viTiters, who, it 
 must be admitted, however, have confined them- 
 selves so far to the foreign relations of the coun- 
 try as to have left the domestic in comparative 
 obscurity. Thus, Robertson's great work is quite 
 as much the history of Europe as of Spain under 
 Charles the Fifth; and Watson's "Reign of 
 Philip the Second " might with equal propriety be
 
 126 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 styled " The War of the Netherlands," which is 
 its principal burden. 
 
 A few works recentty published in the United 
 States have shed far more light on the interior 
 organization and intellectual culture of the Span- 
 ish nation. Such, for example, are the writings of 
 Irving, whose gorgeous coloring reflects so clearly 
 the chivalrous splendors of the fifteenth century, 
 and the travels of Lieutenant Slidell, presenting 
 sketches equally animated of the social aspect of 
 that most picturesque of all lands in the present 
 century. In Mr. Cushing's " Reminiscences of 
 Spain " we find, mingled ^vith much characteristic 
 fiction, some very laborious inquiries into curious 
 and recondite points of history. In the purely 
 literary department, * ]Mr. Ticknor's beautiful lec- 
 tures before the classes of Harvard University, 
 still in manuscript, embrace a far more extensive 
 range of criticism than is to be found in any Span- 
 ish work, and display, at the same time, a degree 
 of thoroughness and research which the compara- 
 tive paucity of materials will compel us to look 
 for in vain in Bouterwek or Sismondi. IVIr. Tick- 
 nor's successor, Professor Longfellow, favorably 
 known by other compositions, has enriched our 
 language with a noble version of the " Coplas de 
 Manrique," the finest gem, beyond all comparison, 
 in the Castilian verse of the fifteenth century. We 
 have also read with pleasure a clever translation of 
 Quevedo's " Visions," no very easy achievement, 
 by Mr. Elliot, of Philadelphia; though the trans- 
 
 * Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature was published in 1849. 
 See the last review in Vol. II. of the Miscellanies. — M.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 127 
 
 lator is ^vrong in supposing his the first Enghsh 
 version. The first is as old as Queen Anne's time, 
 and was made by the famous Sir Roger L'Es- 
 trange. To close the account, Mr. Sales, the ven- 
 erable instructor in Harvard College, has now 
 given, for the first time in the New World, an 
 elaborate edition of the prince of Castilian classics, 
 in a form which may claim, to a certain extent, the 
 merit of originality. 
 
 We shall postpone the few remarks we have to 
 make on this edition to the close of our article; 
 and in the mean time we propose, not to give the 
 life of Cervantes, but to notice such points as are 
 least famihar in his hterary history, and especially 
 in regard to the composition and publication of his 
 great work, the Don Quixote ; a work which, from 
 its wide and long-established popularity, may be 
 said to constitute part of the literature not merely 
 of Spain, but of every country in Europe. 
 
 The age of Cervantes was that of Philip the 
 Second, when the Spanish monarchy, declining 
 somewhat from its palmy state, was still making 
 extraordinary efforts to maintain, and even to ex- 
 tend, its already overgrown empire. Its navies 
 were on every sea, and its armies in every quarter 
 of the Old World and in the New. Arms was the 
 only profession worthy of a gentleman ; and there 
 was scarcely a writer of any eminence — certainly 
 no bard — of the age, who, if he were not in orders, 
 had not borne arms, at some period, in the service 
 of his country. Cervantes, who, though poor, was 
 born of an ancient family (it must go hard with a 
 Castilian who cannot make out a pedigree for him-
 
 128 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 self) , had a full measure of this chivalrous spirit, 
 and during the first half of his life we find him in 
 the midst of all the stormy and disastrous scenes of 
 the iron trade of war. His love of the military 
 profession, even after the loss of his hand, or of 
 the use of it, for it is uncertain which, is sufficient 
 proof of his adventurous spirit. In the course of 
 his checkered career he visited the principal coun- 
 tries in the Mediterranean, and passed five years 
 in melancholy captivity at Algiers. The time was 
 not lost, however, which furnished his keen eye 
 with those glowing pictures of Moslem luxury and 
 magnificence with which he has em-iched his pages. 
 After a life of unprecedented hardship, he re- 
 turned to his own country, covered with laurels and 
 scars, with very little money in his pocket, but with 
 plenty of that experience which, regarding him 
 as a novelist, might be considered his stock in 
 trade. 
 
 The poet may draw from the depths of his own 
 fancy; the scholar, from his library; but the 
 proper study of the dramatic writer, whether in 
 verse or in prose, is man, — man as he exists in 
 society. He who would faithfully depict human 
 character cannot study it too nearly and variously. 
 He must sit down, like Scott, by the fireside of the 
 peasant and listen to the " auld wife's " tale; he 
 must preside, with Fielding, at a petty justice ses- 
 sions, or share with some Squire Western in the 
 glorious hazards of a fox-hunt; he must, Hke 
 Smollett and Cooper, study the mysteries of the 
 deep, and mingle on the stormy element itself with 
 the singular beings whose destinies he is to describe ;
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 129 
 
 or, like Cervantes, he must wander among other 
 races and in other climes, before his pencil can give 
 those chameleon touches which reflect the shifting, 
 many-colored hues of actual life. He may, in- 
 deed, like Rousseau, if it were possible to imagine 
 another Rousseau, turn his thoughts inward, and 
 draw from the depths of his own soul; but he 
 would see there only his own individual passions 
 and prejudices, and the portraits he might sketch, 
 however various in subordinate details, would be, 
 in their characteristic features, only the reproduc- 
 tion of himself. He might, in short, be a poet, a 
 philosopher, but not a painter of hf e and manners. 
 
 Cervantes had ample means for pursuing the 
 study of human character, after his return to 
 Spain, in the active life which engaged him in 
 various parts of the country. In Andalusia he 
 might have found the models of the sprightly wit 
 and delicate irony with which he has seasoned his 
 fictions; in Seville, in particular, he was brought 
 in contact with the fry of small sharpers and pick- 
 pockets who make so respectable a figure in his 
 picaresco novels; and in La IMancha he not only 
 found the geography of his Don Quixote, but that 
 whimsical contrast of pride and poverty in the na- 
 tives, which has furnished the outlines of many a 
 broad caricature to the comic writers of Spain. 
 
 During all this while he had made himself 
 known only by his pastoral fiction, the " Galatea," 
 a beautiful specimen of an insipid class, which, 
 with all its literary merits, afforded no scope for 
 the power of depicting human character, which he 
 possessed, perhaps, unknown to himself. He 
 
 Vol. I.— 9
 
 130 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 wrote, also, a good number of plays, all of which, 
 except two, and these recovered only at the close 
 of the last century, have perished. One of these, 
 " The Siege of Numantia," displays that truth of 
 drawing and strength of color which mark the con- 
 summate artist. It was not until he had reached 
 his fifty-seventh year that he completed the First 
 Part of his great work, the Don Quixote. The 
 most celebrated novels, unlike most works of im- 
 agination, seem to have been the production of the 
 later period of life. Fielding was between forty 
 and fifty when he wrote " Tom Jones; " Richard- 
 son was sixty, or very near it, when he wrote 
 " Clarissa; " and Scott was some years over forty 
 when he began the series of the Waver ley novels. 
 The world, the school of the novelist, cannot be 
 run through like the terms of a university, and the 
 knowledge of its manifold varieties must be the 
 result of long and diligent training. 
 
 The First Part of the Quixote was begun, as 
 the author tells us, in a prison, to which he had 
 been brought, not by crime or debt, but by some 
 offence, probably, to the worthy people of La 
 Mancha. It is not the only work of genius which 
 has struggled into being in such unfavorable 
 quarters. The " Pilgrim's Progress," the most 
 popular, probably, of English fictions, was com- 
 posed under similar circumstances. But we doubt 
 if such brilliant fancies and such flashes of humor 
 ever lighted up the walls of the prison-house be- 
 fore the time of Cervantes. 
 
 The First Part of the Don Quixote was given 
 to the public in 1605. Cervantes, when the time
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 131 
 
 arrived for launching his satire against the old, 
 deep-rooted prejudices of his countrymen, prob- 
 ably regarded it, as well he might, as little less rash 
 than his own hero's tilt against the windmills. He 
 sought, accordingly, to shield himself under the 
 cover of a powerful name, and asked leave to dedi- 
 cate the book to a Castilian grandee, the Duke de 
 Be jar. The duke, it is said, whether ignorant of 
 the design or doubting the success of the work, 
 would have declined, but Cervantes urged him 
 first to peruse a single chapter. The audience 
 summoned to sit in judgment were so delighted 
 with the fii'st pages that they would not abandon 
 the novel till they had heard the whole of it. The 
 duke, of course, without farther hesitation, conde- 
 scended to allow his name to be inserted in this 
 passport to immortality. 
 
 There is nothing very improbable in the story. 
 It reminds one of a similar experiment by St. 
 Pierre, who submitted his manuscript of " Paul 
 and Virginia " to a circle of French litterateurs. 
 Monsieur and Madame Necker, the Abbe Galiani, 
 Thomas, BufFon, and some others, all wits of the 
 first water in the metropoHs. Hear the result, in 
 the words of his biographer, or, rather, his agree- 
 able translator: "At first the author was heard in 
 silence; by degrees the attention grew languid; 
 they began to whisper, to gape, and listened no 
 longer. M. de BufFon looked at his watch, and 
 called for his horses; those near the door slipped 
 out; Thomas went to sleep; M. Necker laughed 
 to see the ladies weep ; and the ladies, ashamed of 
 their tears, did not dare to confess that they had
 
 132 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 been interested. The reading being finished, 
 nothing was praised. Madame Necker alone criti- 
 cised the conversation of Paul and the old man. 
 This moral appeared to her tedious and common- 
 place: it broke the action, chilled the reader, and 
 was a sort of glass of iced water. M. de St. Pierre 
 retired in a state of indescribable depression. He 
 regarded what had passed as his sentence of death. 
 The effect of his work on an audience like that to 
 which he had read it left him no hope for the 
 future." Yet this work was " Paul and Virginia," 
 one of the most popular books in the French lan- 
 guage. So much for criticism ! 
 
 The truth seems to be, that the judgment of no 
 private circle, however well qualified by taste and 
 talent, can afford a sure prognostic of that of the 
 great public. If the manuscript to be criticised 
 is our friend's, of course the verdict is made up be- 
 fore perusal. If some great man modestly sues 
 for our approbation, our self-complacency has 
 been too much flattered for us to withhold it. If 
 it be a little man (and St. Pierre was but a little 
 man at that time) , our prejudices — the prejudices 
 of poor human nature — will be very apt to take an 
 opposite direction. Be the cause what it may, who- 
 ever rests his hopes of public favor on the smiles of 
 a coterie runs the risk of finding himself very un- 
 pleasantly deceived. Many a trim bark which has 
 flaunted gayly in a summer lake has gone to pieces 
 amid the billows and breakers of the rude ocean. 
 
 The prognostic in the case of Cervantes, how- 
 ever, proved more correct. His work produced an 
 instantaneous effect on the community. He had
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 188 
 
 struck a note which found an echo in every bosom. 
 Four editions were published in the course of the 
 first year, — two in Madrid, one in Valencia, and 
 another at Lisbon. 
 
 This success, almost unexampled in any age, 
 was still more extraordinary in one in which 
 the reading public was comparatively limited. 
 That the book found its way speedily into the very 
 highest circles in the kingdom is evident from the 
 well-known explanation of Philip the Third when 
 he saw a student laughing immoderately over some 
 volume: " The man must be either out of his wits, 
 or reading Don Quixote." Notwithstanding, its 
 author felt none of that sunshine of royal favor 
 which would have been so grateful in his neces- 
 sities. 
 
 The period was that of the golden prime of Cas- 
 tihan literature. But the monarch on the throne, 
 one of the ill-starred dynasty of Austria, would 
 have been better suited to the darkest of the Mid- 
 dle Ages. His hours, divided between his devo- 
 tions and his debaucheries, left nothing to spare 
 for letters; and his minister, the arrogant Duke 
 of Lerma, was too much absorbed by his own 
 selfish though shallow schemes of policy to trouble 
 himself with romance-writers, or their satirist. 
 Cervantes, however, had entered on a career which, 
 as he intimates in some of his verses, might lead to 
 fame, but not to fortune. Happily, he did not 
 compromise his fame by precipitating the execu- 
 tion of his works from motives of temporary 
 profit. It was not till several years after the pub- 
 lication of the Don Quixote that he gave to the
 
 134 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 world his Exemplary Novels, as he called them, — 
 fictions which, differing from any thing before 
 known, not only in the Castilian, but, in some re- 
 spects, in any other literature, gave ample scope 
 to his dramatic talent, in the contrivance of situa- 
 tions and the nice dehneation of character. These 
 works, whose diction was uncommonly rich and 
 attractive, were popular from the first. One can- 
 not but be led to inquire why, with such success 
 as an author, he continued to be so straitened in his 
 circumstances, as he plainly intimates was the case 
 more than once in his writings. From the Don 
 Quixote, notwithstanding its great run, he prob- 
 ably received httle, since he had parted with the 
 entire copyright before publication, when the work 
 was regarded as an experiment the result of which 
 was quite doubtful. It is not so easy to explain the 
 difficulty when his success as an author had been 
 so completely established. Cervantes intimates 
 his dissatisfaction, in more than one place in 
 his writings, with the booksellers themselves. 
 "What, sir!" replies an author introduced into his 
 Don Quixote, " would you have me sell the profit 
 of my labor to a bookseller for three maravedis a 
 sheet? for that is the most they will bid, nay, and 
 expect, too, I should thank them for the offer." 
 This burden of lamentation, the alleged illiberality 
 of the publisher towards the poor author, is as old 
 as the art of book-making itself. But the public 
 receive the account from the party aggrieved only. 
 If the bookseller reported his own case, we should, 
 no doubt, have a different version. If Cervantes 
 was in the right, the trade in Castile showed a de-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 135 
 
 gree of dexterity in their proceedings which richly 
 entitled them to the pillory. In one of his tales 
 we find a certain licentiate complaining of " the 
 tricks and deceptions they put upon an author 
 when they buy a copyright from him; and still 
 more, the manner in which they cheat him if he 
 prints the book at his own charges; since nothing 
 is more common than for them to agree for fifteen 
 hundred, and have privily, perhaps, as many as 
 three thousand thrown oif , one-half, at the least, 
 of which they sell, not for his profit, but their 
 own." 
 
 The writings of Cervantes appear to have 
 gained him, however, two substantial friends in 
 Cabra, the Count of Lemos, and the Archbishop 
 of Toledo, of the ancient family of Rojas; and 
 the patronage of these illustrious individuals has 
 been nobly recompensed by having their names 
 forever associated with the imperishable produc- 
 tions of genius. 
 
 There was still one kind of patronage wanting 
 in this early age, that of a great, enlightened com- 
 munity, — the only patronage which can be re- 
 ceived without some sense of degradation by a 
 generous mind. There was, indeed, one golden 
 channel of public favor, and that was the theatre. 
 The drama has usually flourished most at the 
 period when a nation is beginning to taste the 
 sweets of literary culture. Such was the early 
 part of the seventeenth century in Europe; the 
 age of Shakspeare, Johnson, and Fletcher in 
 England; of Ariosto, Machiavelli, and the wits 
 who first successfully wooed the comic muse of
 
 136 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 Italy; of the great Corneille, some years later, in 
 France; and of that miracle, or, rather, "mon- 
 ster of nature," as Cervantes styled him. Lope de 
 Vega in Spain. Theatrical exhibitions are a com- 
 bination of the material with the intellectual, at 
 which the ordinary spectator derives less pleasure, 
 probably, from the beautiful creations of the poet 
 than from the scenic decorations, music, and other 
 accessories which address themselves to the senses. 
 The fondness for spectacle is characteristic of an 
 early period of society, and the theatre is the most 
 brilhant of pageants. With the progress of edu- 
 cation and refinement, men become less open to, 
 or, at least, less dependent on, the pleasures of 
 sense, and seek their enjoyment in more elevated 
 and purer sources. Thus it is that, instead of 
 
 " Sweating in the crowded theatre, squeezed 
 And bored with elbow-points through both our sides," 
 
 as the sad minstrel of nature sings, we sit quietly 
 at home, enjoying the pleasures of fiction around 
 our own firesides, and the poem or the novel takes 
 the place of the acted drama. The decline of 
 dramatic writing may justly be lamented as that 
 of one of the most beautiful varieties in the gar- 
 den of literature. But it must be admitted to be 
 both a symptom and a necessary consequence of 
 the advance of civilization. 
 
 The popularity of the stage, at the period of 
 which we are speaking, in Spain, was greatly aug- 
 mented by the personal influence and reputation 
 of Lope de Vega, the idol of his countrymen, who 
 threw off the various inventions of his genius with
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 137 
 
 a rapidity and profusion that almost staggers 
 credibility. It is impossible to state the results of 
 his labors in any form that will not powerfully 
 strike the imagination. Thus, he has left twenty- 
 one million three hundred thousand verses in print, 
 besides a mass of manuscript. He furnished the 
 theatre, according to the statement of his intimate 
 friend Montalvan, with eighteen hundred regular 
 plays, and four hundred autos of religious dramas, 
 — aU acted. He composed, according to his own 
 statement, more than one hundred comedies in the 
 almost incredible space of twenty-four hours each, 
 and a comedy averaged between two and three 
 thousand verses, a great part of them rhymed and 
 interspersed with sonnets and other more difficult 
 forms of versification. He lived seventy-two 
 years ; and supposing him to have employed fifty 
 of that period in composition, although he filled a 
 variety of engrossing vocations during that time, 
 he must have averaged a play a week, to say 
 nothing of twenty-one volumes quarto of miscella- 
 neous works, including five epics, -wTitten in his 
 leisure moments, and all now in print ! 
 
 The only achievements we can recall in literary 
 history bearing any resemblance to, though falling 
 far short of this, are those of our illustrious con- 
 temporary Sir Walter Scott. The complete edi- 
 tion of his works, recently advertised by Murray, 
 with the addition of two volumes of which Murray 
 has not the copyright, probably contains ninety 
 volumes small octavo. To these should farther be 
 added a large supply of matter for the Edinburgh 
 Annual Register, as well as other anonymous con-
 
 138 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 tributions. Of these, forty-eight volumes of 
 novels and twenty-one of history and biography 
 were produced between 1814 and 1831, or in seven- 
 teen years. These would give an average of four 
 volumes a year, or one for every three months 
 during the whole of that period, to which must be 
 added twenty-one volumes of poetry and prose 
 previously published. The mere mechanical exe- 
 cution of so much work, both in his case and Lope 
 de Vega's, would seem to be scarce possible in the 
 limits assigned. Scott, too, was as variously occu- 
 pied in other ways as his Spanish rival, and prob- 
 ably, from the social hospitality of his life, spent a 
 much larger portion of his time in no literary occu- 
 pation at aU. 
 
 Notwithstanding we have amused ourselves, at 
 the expense of the reader's patience perhaps, with 
 these calculations, this certainly is not the stand- 
 ard by which we should recommend to estimate 
 works of genius. Wit is not to be measured, like 
 broadcloth, by the yard. Easy writing, as the 
 adage says, and as we all know, is apt to be very 
 hard reading. This brings to our recollection a 
 conversation, in the presence of Captain Basil 
 Hall, in which, some allusion having been made to 
 the astonishing amount of Scott's daily composi- 
 tion, the literary argonaut remarked, " There was 
 nothing astonishing in all that, and that he did 
 as much himself nearly every day before break- 
 fast." Some one of the company unkindly asked 
 " whether he thought the quality was the same." 
 It is the quality, undoubtedly, which makes the 
 difference. And in this view Lope de Vega's
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 139 
 
 miracles lose much of their effect. Of all his mul- 
 titudinous dramas, one or two only retain posses- 
 sion of the stage, and few, very few, are now even 
 read. His facility of composition was like that of 
 an Itahan improvisatore, whose fertile fancy 
 easily clothes itself in verse, in language the vowel 
 terminations of which afford such a plenitude of 
 rhymes. The Castilian presents even greater 
 facihties for this than the Italian. Lope de Vega 
 was an improvisatore. 
 
 With all his negligences and defects, however, 
 Lope's interesting intrigues, easy, sprightly dia- 
 logue, infinite variety of inventions, and the 
 breathless rapidity with which they followed one 
 another, so dazzled and bewildered the imagina- 
 tion that he completely controlled the public, and 
 became, in the words of Cervantes, " sole monarch 
 of the stage." The public repaid him with such 
 substantial gratitude as has never been shown, 
 probably, to any other of its favorites. His for- 
 tune at one time, although he was careless of his 
 expenses, amounted to one hundred thousand 
 ducats, equal, probably, to between seven and 
 eight hundred thousand dollars of the present day. 
 In the same street in which dwelt this spoiled child 
 of fortune, who, amid the caresses of the great and 
 the lavish smiles of the public, could complain that 
 his merits were neglected, lived Cervantes, strug- 
 gling under adversity, or at least earning a pain- 
 ful subsistence by the labors of his immortal pen. 
 What a contrast do these pictures present to the 
 imagination! If the suffrages of a coterie, as we 
 have said, afford no warrant for those of the pub-
 
 140 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 lie, the example before us proves that the award of 
 one's contemporaries is quite as likely to be set 
 aside by posterity. Lope de Vega, who gave his 
 name to his age, has now fallen into neglect even 
 among his countrymen, while the fame of Cer- 
 vantes, gathering strength with time, has become 
 the pride of his own nation, as his works still con- 
 tinue to be the delight of the whole civilized world. 
 However stinted may have been the recompense 
 of his deserts at home, it is gratifying to observe 
 how widely his fame was diffused in his own life- 
 time, and that in foreign countries, at least, he en- 
 joyed the full consideration to which he was 
 entitled. An interesting anecdote illustrating this 
 is recorded, which, as we have never seen it in 
 English, we will lay before the reader. On occa- 
 sion of a visit made by the Archbishop of Toledo 
 to the French ambassador resident at Madrid, the 
 prelate's suite fell into conversation with the at- 
 tendants of the minister, in the course of which 
 Cervantes was mentioned. The French gentle- 
 men expressed their unqualified admiration of his 
 writings, specifying the Galatea, Don Quixote, 
 and the Novels, which, they said, were read in all 
 the countries round, and in France particularly, 
 where there were some who might be said to know 
 them actually by heart. They intimated their de- 
 sire to become personally acquainted with so emi- 
 nent a man, and asked many questions respecting 
 his present occupations, his circumstances, and 
 way of life. To all this the Castilians could only 
 reply that he had borne arms in the service of his 
 country, and was now old and poor. "What!"
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 141 
 
 exclaimed one of the strangers, " is Senor Cer- 
 vantes not in good circumstances ? Why is he not 
 maintained, then, out of the pubhc treasury? " 
 " Heaven forbid," rejoined another, " that his 
 necessities should be ever relieved, if it is these 
 which make him write, since it is his poverty that 
 makes the world rich." 
 
 There are other evidences, though not of so 
 pleasing a character, of the eminence which he had 
 reached at home, in the jealousy and ill will of his 
 brother poets. The Castilian poets of that day 
 seem to have possessed a full measure of that irri- 
 tabihty which has been laid at the door of all their 
 tribe since the days of Horace; and the freedom 
 of Cervantes's literary criticisms in his Don 
 Quixote and other writings, though never personal 
 in their character, brought down on his head a 
 storm of arrows, some of which, if not sent with 
 much force, were at least well steeped in venom. 
 Lope de Vega is even said to have appeared 
 among the assailants, and a sonnet, still preserved, 
 is currently imputed to him, in which, after much 
 eulogy on himself, he predicts that the works of 
 his rival will find their way into the kennel. But 
 the author of this bad prophecy and worse poetry 
 could never have been the great Lope, who showed 
 on all occasions a generous spirit, and whose liter- 
 ary success must have made such an assault un- 
 necessary and in the highest degree unmanly. On 
 the contrary, we have evidence of a very different 
 feeling, in the homage which he renders to the 
 merits of his illustrious contemporary in more than 
 one passage of his acknowledged works, especially
 
 142 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 in his " Laurel de Apolo," in which he concludes 
 his poetical panegyric with the following touching 
 conceit : 
 
 " Porque se diga que una mano herida 
 Pudo dar d su dueno eterna vida." 
 
 This poem was published by Lope in 1630, 
 fourteen years after the death of his rival; not- 
 withstanding, Mr. Lockhart informs his readers, 
 in his biographical preface to the Don Quixote, 
 that "as Lope de Vega was dead (1615), there 
 was no one to divide with Cervantes the literary 
 empire of his country." 
 
 In the dedication of his ill-fated comedies, 1615 
 (for Cervantes, like most other celebrated novel- 
 ists, found it difficult to concentrate his expansive 
 vein within the compass of dramatic rules), the 
 public was informed that " Don Quixote was al- 
 ready booted " and preparing for another sally. It 
 may seem strange that the author, considering the 
 great popularity of his hero, had not sent him on his 
 adventures before. But he had probably regarded 
 them as already terminated ; and he had good rea- 
 son to do so, since every incident in the First Part, 
 as it has been styled only since the publication of 
 the Second, is complete in itself, and the Don, al- 
 though not actually killed on the stage, is noticed 
 as dead, and his epitaph transcribed for the reader. 
 However this may be, the immediate execution of 
 his purpose, so long delayed, was precipitated by 
 an event equally unwelcome and unexpected. 
 This was the continuation of his work by another 
 hand. 
 
 The author's name, his nom de guerre^ was
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 143 
 
 Avellaneda, a native of Tordesillas. Adopting the 
 original idea of Cervantes, he goes forward with 
 the same characters, through similar scenes of 
 comic extravagance, in the course of which he 
 perpetrates sundry plagiarisms from the First 
 Part, and has some incidents so much resembling 
 those in the Second Part, already written by 
 Cervantes, that it has been supposed he must 
 have had access to his manuscript. It is more 
 probable, as the resemblance is but general, that he 
 obtained his knowledge through hints which may 
 have fallen in conversation from Cervantes in the 
 progress of his own work. The spurious continua- 
 tion had some little merit, and attracted, probably, 
 some interest, as any work conducted under so 
 popular a name could not have failed to do. It 
 was, however, on the whole, a vulgar performance, 
 thickly sprinkled with such gross scurrility and in- 
 decency as was too strong even for the palate of 
 that not very fastidious age. The public feeling 
 may be gathered from the fact that the author did 
 not dare to depart from his incognito and claim 
 the honors of a triumph. The most diligent in- 
 quiries have established nothing farther than that 
 he was an Aragonese, judging from his diction, 
 and, from the complexion of certain passages in 
 the work, probably an ecclesiastic, and one of the 
 swarm of small dramatists who felt themselves 
 rudely handled by the criticism of Cervantes. The 
 work was subsequently translated, or rather para- 
 phrased, by Le Sage, who has more than once 
 given a substantial value to gems of little price in 
 Castilian literature by the brilliancy of his setting.
 
 144 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 The original work of Avellaneda, always deriving 
 an interest from the circumstances of its produc- 
 tion, has been reprinted in the present century, and 
 is not difficult to be met with. To have thus coolly 
 invaded an author's own property, to have filched 
 from him the splendid though unfinished creations 
 of his genius before his own face, and while, as 
 was publicly known, he was in the very process of 
 completing them, must be admitted to be an act of 
 unblushing effrontery not surpassed in the annals 
 of literature. 
 
 Cervantes was much annoyed, it appears, by the 
 circumstance. The continuation of Avellaneda 
 reached him, probably, when on the fifty-ninth 
 chapter of the Second Part. At least, from that 
 time he begins to discharge his gall on the head of 
 the offender, who, it should be added, had con- 
 summated his impudence by sneering, in his intro- 
 duction, at the qualifications of Cervantes. The 
 best retort of the latter, however, was the publica- 
 tion of his own book, which followed at the close 
 of 1615. 
 
 The English novelist Richardson experienced a 
 treatment not unlike that of the Castilian. His 
 popular story of Pamela was continued by another 
 and very inferior hand, under the title of " Pamela 
 in High Life." The circumstance prompted 
 Richardson to undertake the continuation himself ; 
 and it turned out, like most others, a decided fail- 
 ure. Indeed, a skilful continuation seems to be 
 the most difficult work of art. The first effort of 
 the author breaks, as it were, unexpectedly on the 
 public, taking their judgment by surprise, and by
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 145 
 
 its very success creating a standard by which the 
 author himself is subsequently to be tried. Before, 
 he was compared with others ; he is now to be com- 
 pared with himself. The public expectation has 
 been raised. A degree of excellence which might 
 have found favor at first will now scarcely be 
 tolerated. It will not even suffice for him to main- 
 tain his own level. He must rise above himself. 
 The reader, in the mean while, has naturally filled 
 up the blank, and insensibly conducted the charac- 
 ters and the story to a termination in his o^vn way. 
 As the reality seldom keeps pace with the ideal, 
 the author's execution will hardly come up to the 
 imagination of his readers; at any rate, it will 
 differ from them, and so far be displeasing. We 
 experience something of this disappointment in 
 the dramas borrowed from popular novels, where 
 the development of the characters by the dramatic 
 author, and the new direction given to the original 
 story in his hands, rarely fail to offend the taste 
 and preconceived ideas of the spectator. To feel 
 the force of this, it is only necessary to see the Guy 
 Mannering, Rob Roy, and other plays dramatized 
 from the Waverley novels. 
 
 Some part of the failure of such continuations 
 is, no doubt, fairly chargeable, in most instances, 
 on the author himself, who goes to his new task 
 Avith little of his primitive buoyancy and vigor. 
 He no longer feels the same interest in his own 
 labors, which, losing their freshness, have become 
 as familiar to his imagination as a thrice-told tale. 
 The new composition has, of course, a different 
 complexion from the former, cold, stiff, and dis- 
 
 VOL. I.— 10
 
 146 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 jointed, like a bronze statue whose parts have been 
 separately put together, instead of being cast in 
 one mould when the whole metal was in a state of 
 fusion. 
 
 The continuation of Cervantes forms a splendid 
 exception to the general rule. The popularity of 
 his First Part had drawn forth abundance of criti- 
 cism, and he availed himself of it to correct some 
 material blemishes in the design of the Second, 
 while an assiduous culture of the Castilian enabled 
 him to enrich his style with greater variety and 
 beauty. 
 
 He had now reached the zenith of his fame, and 
 the profits of his continuation may have relieved 
 the pecuniary embarrassments under which he had 
 struggled. But he was not long to enjoy his 
 triumph. Before his death, which took place in 
 the following year, he completed his romance of 
 " Persiles and Sigismunda," the dedication to 
 which, written a few days before his death, is 
 strongly characteristic of its writer. It is ad- 
 dressed to his old patron, the Conde de Lemos, 
 then absent from the country. After saying, in 
 the words of the old Spanish proverb, that he had 
 " one foot in the stirrup/^ in allusion to the dis- 
 tant journey on which he was soon to set out, he 
 adds, " Yesterday I received the extreme unction ; 
 but, now that the shadows of death are closing 
 around me, I still cling to life, from the love of it, 
 as well as from the desire to behold you again. 
 But if it is decreed otherwise (and the will of 
 Heaven be done) , your excellency will at least feel 
 assured there was one person whose wish to serve
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 147 
 
 you was greater than the love of Hfe itself." 
 After these reminiscences of his benefactor, he 
 expresses his own purpose, should life be spared, 
 to complete several works he had already begun. 
 Such were the last words of this illustrious man; 
 breathing the same generous sensibility, the same 
 ardent love of letters and beautiful serenity of 
 temper which distinguished him through life. He 
 died a few days after, on the 23d of April, 1616. 
 His remains were laid, without funeral pomp, in 
 the monastery of the Holy Trinity at Madrid.* 
 No memorial points out the spot to the eye of the 
 traveller, nor is it known at this day. And, while 
 many a costly construction has been piled on the 
 ashes of the little great, to the shame of Spain be 
 it spoken, no monument has yet been erected in 
 honor of the greatest genius she has produced. 
 He has built, however, a monument for himself 
 more durable than brass or sculptured marble. 
 
 Don Quixote is too familiar to the reader to 
 require any analysis; but we will enlarge on a 
 few circumstances attending its composition but 
 little known to the English scholar, which may 
 enable him to form a better judgment for him- 
 self. The age of chivalry, as depicted in ro- 
 mances, could never, of course, have had any real 
 existence; but the sentiments which are described 
 as animating that age have been found more or 
 
 * He was buried in the Convent of the Nuns of the Trinity. — 
 Ticknor's Spanish Literature, II. p. 132. Of this community his 
 daughter Isabel was a professed member. When in 1633 the nuns 
 moved to a new site, his bones were cast into a common ossuary, and 
 so lost. A bronze statue of Cervantes, the work of Antonio Sola, 
 stands in the Plaza de las Cortes, in Madrid. — M.
 
 148 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 less operative in different countries and different 
 periods of society. In Spain, especially, this in- 
 fluence is to be discerned from a very early date. 
 Its inhabitants may be said to have lived in a 
 romantic atmosphere, in which all the extrava- 
 gances of chivalry were nourished by their pecuHar 
 situation. Their hostile relations with the Moslem 
 kept alive the full glow of religious and patriotic 
 feeling. Their history is one interminable cru- 
 sade. An enemy always on the borders invited 
 perpetual displays of personal daring and adven- 
 ture. The refinement and magnificence of the 
 Spanish Arabs throw a lustre over these contests 
 such as could not be reflected from the rude skir- 
 mishes with their Christian neighbors. Lofty sen- 
 timents, embellished by the softer refinements of 
 courtesy, were blended in the martial bosom of the 
 Spaniard, and Spain became emphaticaUy the 
 land of romantic chivalry. 
 
 The very laws themselves, conceived in this 
 spirit, contributed greatly to foster it. The 
 ancient code of Alfonso the Tenth, in the thir- 
 teenth century, after many minute regulations for 
 the deportment of the good knight, enjoins on him 
 to " invoke the name of his mistress in the fight, 
 that it may infuse new ardor into his soul and pre- 
 serve him from the commission of unknightly ac- 
 tions." Such laws were not a dead letter. The 
 history of Spain shows that the sentiment of 
 romantic gallantry penetrated the nation more 
 deeply and continued longer than in any other 
 quarter of Christendom. 
 
 Foreign chroniclers, as weU as domestic, of the
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 149 
 
 fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, notice the fre- 
 quent appearance of Spanish knights in different 
 courts of Europe, whither they had travelled, in 
 the language of an old writer, " to seek honor 
 and reverence " by their feats of arms. In the Pas- 
 ton Letters,* WTitten in the time of Henry the 
 Sixth of England, we find a notice of a Castilian 
 knight who presented himself before the court, 
 and, with his mistress's favor around his arm, chal- 
 lenged the English cavaliers " to run a course of 
 sharp spears with him for his sovereign lady's 
 sake." Pulgar, a Spanish chronicler of the close 
 of the sixteenth century, speaks of this roving 
 knight-errantry as a thing of familiar occurrence 
 among the young cavaliers of his day; and 
 Oviedo, who lived somewhat later, notices the 
 necessity under which every true knight found 
 himself of being in love, or feigning to he so, in 
 order to give a suitable lustre and incentive to his 
 achievements. But the most singular proof of the 
 extravagant pitch to which these romantic feelings 
 were carried in Spain occurs in the account of the 
 jousts appended to the fine old chronicle of Alvaro 
 de Luna, published by the Academy in 1784<. The 
 principal champion was named Sueno de Que- 
 nones, who, with nine companions in arms, de- 
 fended a pass at Orbigo, not far from the shrine 
 of Compostella, against all comers, in the presence 
 of King John the Second and his court. The 
 object of this passage of arms, as it was called, 
 
 * The Paston Letters, written during the reigns of Henry VI., 
 Edward IV., and Richard III., are invaluable for the light they 
 throw upon the social conditions of England in the fifteenth century. 
 — M.
 
 150 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 was to release the knight from the obUgation im- 
 posed on him by his mistress of publicly wearing 
 an iron collar round his neck every Thursday. 
 The jousts continued for thirty days, and the 
 doughty champions fought without shield or tar- 
 get, with weapons bearing points of Milan steel. 
 Six hundred and twenty-seven encounters took 
 place, and one hundred and sixty-six lances were 
 broken when the emprise was declared to be fairly 
 achieved. The whole affair is narrated, with be- 
 coming gravity, by an eye-witness, and the reader 
 may fancy himself perusing the adventures of a 
 Launcelot or an Amadis. The particulars of this 
 tourney are detailed at length in Mills's Chivalry 
 (vol. ii. chap, v.), where, however, the author has 
 defrauded the successful champions of their full 
 honors by incorrectly reporting the number of 
 lances broken as only sixty -six. 
 
 The taste for these romantic extravagances 
 naturally fostered a corresponding taste for the 
 perusal of tales of chivalry. Indeed, they acted 
 reciprocally on each other. These chimerical le- 
 gends had once, also, beguiled the long evenings of 
 our Norman ancestors, but, in the progress of 
 civilization, had gradually given way to other and 
 more natural forms of composition. They still 
 maintained their ground in Italy, whither they had 
 passed later, and where they were consecrated by 
 the hand of genius. But Italy was not the true 
 soil of chivalry, and the inimitable fictions of 
 Bojardo, Pulci, and Ariosto were composed with 
 that lurking smile of half -suppressed mirth which,
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 151 
 
 far from a serious tone, could raise only a corre- 
 sponding smile of incredulity in the reader. 
 
 In Spain, however, the marvels of romance were 
 all taken in perfect good faith. Not that they 
 were received as literally true ; but the reader sur- 
 rendered himself up to the illusion, and was 
 moved to admiration by the recital of deeds which, 
 viewed in any other light than as a wild frolic of 
 imagination, would be supremely ridiculous; for 
 these tales had not the merit of a seductive style 
 and melodious versification to relieve them. They 
 were, for the most part, an ill-digested mass of in- 
 congruities, in which there was as little keeping 
 and probability in the characters as in the inci- 
 dents, while the whole was told in that stilted 
 " Hercles' vein " and with that licentiousness of 
 allusion and imagery which could not fail to de- 
 bauch both the taste and the morals of the youth- 
 ful reader. The mind, famiharized with these 
 monstrous, over-colored pictures, lost all relish for 
 the chaste and sober productions of art. The 
 love of the gigantic and the marvellous indisposed 
 the reader for the simple delineations of truth in 
 real history. The feelings expressed by a sensible 
 Spaniard of the sixteenth century, the anonymous 
 author of the " Dialogo de las Lenguas," probably 
 represent those of many of his contemporaries. 
 " Ten of the best years of my life," says he, " were 
 spent no more profitably than in devouring these 
 lies, which I did even while eating my meals ; and 
 the consequence of this depraved appetite was, 
 that if I took in hand any true book of history, or
 
 152 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 one that passed for such, I was unable to wade 
 through it." 
 
 The influence of this meretricious taste was 
 nearly as fatal on the historian himself as on his 
 readers, since he felt compelled to minister to the 
 public appetite such a mixture of the marvellous 
 in all his narrations as materially discredited the 
 veracity of his writings. Every hero became a 
 demigod, who put the labors of Hercules to 
 shame; and every monk or old hermit was con- 
 verted into a saint, who wrought more miracles, 
 before and after death, than would have sufficed 
 to canonize a monastery. The fabulous ages of 
 Greece are scarcely more fabulous than the close 
 of the Middle Ages in Spanish history, which com- 
 pares very discreditably, in this particular, with 
 similar periods in most European countries. The 
 confusion of fact and fiction continues to a very 
 late age; and as one gropes his way through the 
 twilight of tradition he is at a loss whether the dim 
 objects are men or shadows. The most splendid 
 names in Castilian annals — names incorporated 
 with the glorious achievements of the land, and 
 embalmed alike in the page of the chronicler and 
 the song of the minstrel — names associated with 
 the most stirring, patriotic recollections — are now 
 found to have been the mere coinage of fancy. 
 There seems to be no more reason for believing in 
 the real existence of Bernardo del Carpio, of 
 whom so much has been said and sung, than in that 
 of Charlemagne's paladins, or of the Knights of 
 the Round Table. Even the Cid, the national hero 
 of Spain, is contended, by some of the shrewdest
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 153 
 
 native critics of our own times, to be an imaginary 
 being ; and it is certain that the splendid fabric of 
 liis exploits, familiar as household words to every 
 Spaniard, has crumbled to pieces under the rude 
 touch of modern criticism. These heroes, it is 
 true, flourished before the introduction of ro- 
 mances of chivalry; but the legends of their 
 prowess have been multiplied beyond bounds, in 
 consequence of the taste created by these romances, 
 and an easy faith accorded to them at the same 
 time, such as would never have been conceded in 
 any other civilized nation. In short, the elements 
 of truth and falsehood became so blended that 
 history was converted into romance, and romance 
 received the credit due onty to history. 
 
 These mischievous consequences drew down the 
 animadversions of thinking men, and at length 
 provoked the interference of government itself. In 
 1543, Charles the Fifth, by an edict, prohibited 
 books of chivalry from being imported into his 
 American colonies, or being printed or even read 
 there. The legislation for America proceeded 
 from the crown alone, which had always regarded 
 the New World as its own exclusive property. In 
 1555, however, the Cortes of the kingdom pre- 
 sented a petition (which requires only the royal 
 signature to become at once the law ) , setting forth 
 the manifold evils resulting from these romances. 
 There is an air at once both of simplicity and 
 solemnity in the language of this instrument 
 which may amuse the reader: " Moreover, we say 
 that it is very notorious what mischief has been 
 done to young men and maidens, and other per-
 
 154 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 sons, by the perusal of books full of lies and vani- 
 ties, like Amadis, and works of that description, 
 since young people especially, from their natural 
 idleness, resort to this kind of reading, and, be- 
 coming enamored of passages of love or arms, or 
 other nonsense which they find set forth therein, 
 when situations at all analogous offer, are led to 
 act much more extravagantly than they otherwise 
 would have done. And many times the daughter, 
 when her mother has locked her up safely at home, 
 amuses herself with reading these books, which do 
 her more hurt than she would have received from 
 going abroad. All which redounds not only to 
 the dishonor of individuals, but to the great detri- 
 ment of conscience, by diverting the affections 
 from holy, true, and Christian doctrine, to those 
 wicked vanities with which the wits, as we have 
 intimated, are completely bewildered. To remedy 
 this, we entreat your majesty that no book treat- 
 ing of such matters be henceforth permitted to 
 be read, that those now printed be collected and 
 burned, and that none be published hereafter with- 
 out special license; by which measures your 
 majesty will render great service to God as well 
 as to these kingdoms," etc., etc. 
 
 Notwithstanding this emphatic expression of 
 public disapprobation, these enticing works main- 
 tained their popularity. The emperor Charles, 
 unmindful of his own interdict, took great satis- 
 faction in their perusal. The royal fetes fre- 
 quently comimemorated the fabulous exploits of 
 chivalry, and Philip the Second, then a young 
 man, appeared in these spectacles in the character
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 155 
 
 of an adventurous knight-errant. Moratin enu- 
 merates more than seventy bulky romances, all 
 produced in the sixteenth century, some of which 
 passed through several editions, while many more 
 works of the kind have, doubtless, escaped his re- 
 searches. The last on his catalogue was printed 
 in 1602, and was composed by one of the nobles 
 at the court. Such was the state of things when 
 Cervantes gave to the world the First Part of his 
 Don Quixote; and it was against prejudices 
 which had so long bade defiance to public opinion 
 and the law itself that he now aimed the delicate 
 shafts of his irony. It was a perilous emprise. 
 
 To effect his end, he did not produce a mere 
 humorous travesty, like several of the Italian 
 poets, who, having selected some well-known char- 
 acter in romance, make him fall into such low 
 dialogue and such gross buffoonery as contrast 
 most ridiculously with his assumed name; for 
 this, though a very good jest in its way, was but 
 a jest, and Cervantes wanted the biting edge of 
 satire. He was, besides, too much of a poet — 
 was too deeply penetrated with the true spirit of 
 chivalry not to respect the noble qualities which 
 were the basis of it. He shows this in the auto 
 da fe of the Don's library, where he spares the 
 Amadis de Gaula and some others, the best of 
 their kind. He had once himself, as he tells us, 
 actually commenced a serious tale of chivalry. 
 
 Cervantes brought forward a personage, there- 
 fore, in whom were embodied all those generous 
 virtues which belong to chivalry: disinterested- 
 ness, contempt of danger, unblemished honor.
 
 156 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 knightly courtesy, and those aspirations after 
 ideal excellence which, if empty dreams, are the 
 dreams of a magnanimous spirit. They are, in- 
 deed, represented by Cervantes as too ethereal for 
 this world, and are successively dispelled as they 
 come in contact with the coarse realities of life. 
 It is this view of the subject which has led Sis- 
 mondi, among other critics, to consider that the 
 principal end of the author was " the ridicule of 
 enthusiasm, — the contrast of the heroic with the 
 vulgar," — and he sees something profoundly sad 
 in the conclusions to which it leads. This sort of 
 criticism appears to be over-refined. It resembles 
 the efforts of some commentators to allegorize 
 the great epics of Homer and Virgil, throwing a 
 disagreeable mistiness over the story by convert- 
 ing mere shadows into substances, and substances 
 into shadows. 
 
 The great purpose of Cervantes was, doubtless, 
 that expressly avowed by himself, namely, to cor- 
 rect the popular taste for romances of chivalry. 
 It is unnecessary to look for any other in so 
 plain a tale, although, it is true, the conduct of 
 the story produces impressions on the reader, to 
 a certain extent, like those suggested by Sis- 
 mondi. The melancholy tendency, however, is in 
 a great degree counteracted by the exquisitely 
 ludicrous character of the incidents. Perhaps, 
 after aU, if we are to hunt for a moral as the key 
 of the fiction, we may with more reason pro- 
 nounce it to be the necessity of proportioning our 
 undertakings to our capacities. 
 
 The mind of the hero, Don Quixote, is an ideal
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 157 
 
 world, into which Cervantes has poured all the 
 rich stores of his own imagination, the poet's 
 golden dreams, high romantic exploit, and the 
 sweet visions of pastoral happiness ; the gorgeous 
 chimeras of the fancied age of chivalry, which 
 had so long entranced the world; splendid illu- 
 sions, which, floating before us like the airy- 
 bubbles which the child throws off from his pipe, 
 reflect, in a thousand variegated tints, the rude 
 objects around, until, brought into collision wdth 
 these, they are dashed in pieces and melt into air. 
 These splendid images derive tenfold beauty 
 from the rich, antique coloring of the author's 
 language, skilfully imitated from the old ro- 
 mances, but which necessarily escapes in the 
 translation into a foreign tongue. Don Quixote's 
 insanity operates both in mistaking the ideal for 
 the real, and the real for the ideal. Whatever he 
 has found in romances he believes to exist in the 
 world; and he converts all he meets with in the 
 world into the visions of his romances. It is diffi- 
 cult to say which of the two produces the most 
 ludicrous results. 
 
 For the better exposure of these mad fancies, 
 Cervantes has not only put them into action in 
 real life, but contrasted them with another char- 
 acter which may be said to form the reverse side 
 of his hero's. Honest Sancho represents the ma- 
 terial principle as perfectly as his master does the 
 intellectual or ideal. He is of the earth, earthy. 
 Sly, selfish, sensual, his dreams are not of glory, 
 but of good feeding. His only concern is for his 
 carcass. His notions of honor appear to be much
 
 158 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 the same with those of his jovial contemporary 
 Falstaff, as conveyed in his memorable soliloquy. 
 In the sublime night-piece which ends with the 
 fulling-mills — truly sublime until we reach the 
 denouement — Sancho asks his master, " Why need 
 you go about this adventure ? It is main dark, and 
 there is never a living soul sees us ; we have noth- 
 ing to do but to sheer off and get out of harm's 
 way. Who is there to take notice of our flinch- 
 ing?" Can any thing be imagined more exquisite- 
 ly opposed to the true spirit of chivalry? The 
 whole compass of fiction nowhere displays the 
 power of contrast so forcibly as in these two char- 
 acters: perfectly opposed to each other, not only 
 in their minds and general habits, but in the minu- 
 test details of personal appearance. 
 
 It was a great effort of art for Cervantes to 
 maintain the dignity of his hero's character in the 
 midst of the whimsical and ridiculous distresses in 
 which he has perpetually involved him. His in- 
 firmity leads us to distinguish between his char- 
 acter and his conduct, and to absolve him from all 
 responsibility for the latter. The author's art is 
 no less shown in regard to the other principal fig- 
 ure in the piece, Sancho Panza, who, with the most 
 contemptible qualities, contrives to keep a strong 
 hold on our interest by the kindness of his nature 
 and his shrewd understanding. He is far too 
 shrewd a person, indeed, to make it natural for 
 him to have followed so crack-brained a master 
 unless bribed by the promise of a substantial 
 recompense. He is a personification, as it were, of 
 the popular wisdom, — a " bundle of proverbs," as
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 159 
 
 his master somewhere styles him; and proverbs 
 are the most compact form in which the wisdom 
 of a people is digested. They have been collected 
 into several distinct works in Spain, where they 
 exceed in number those of any other, if not every 
 other, country in Europe. As many of them are 
 of great antiquity, they are of inestimable price 
 with the Castilian purists, as aif ording rich sam- 
 ples of obsolete idioms and the various mutations 
 of the language. 
 
 The subordinate portraits in the romance, 
 though not wrought with the same care, are ad- 
 mirable studies of national character. In this 
 view, the Don Quixote may be said to form an 
 epoch in the history of letters, as the original of 
 that kind of composition, the Xovel of Character, 
 which is one of the distinguishing peculiarities of 
 modern literature. When well executed, this sort 
 of writing rises to the dignity of history itself, 
 and may be said to perform no insignificant part 
 of the functions of the latter. History describes 
 men less as they are than as they appear, as they 
 are playing a part on the great pohtical theatre, — 
 men in masquerade. It rests on state documents, 
 which too often cloak real purposes under an art- 
 ful veil of policy, or on the accounts of contempo- 
 raries blinded by passion or interest. Even with- 
 out these deductions, the revolutions of states, 
 their wars, and their intrigues do not present the 
 only aspect, nor, perhaps, the most interesting, 
 under which human nature can be studied. It is 
 man in his domestic relations, around his own fire- 
 side, where alone his real character can be truly
 
 160 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 disclosed; in his ordinary occupations in society, 
 whether for purposes of profit or of pleasure; in 
 his every-day manner of living, his tastes and 
 opinions, as drawn out in social intercourse; it is, 
 in short, under all those forms which make up the 
 interior of society that man is to be studied, if we 
 would get the true form and pressure of the age, 
 if, in short, we would obtain clear and correct 
 ideas of the actual progress of civilization. 
 
 But these topics do not fall within the scope of 
 the historian. He cannot find authentic materials 
 for them. They belong to the novelist, who, in- 
 deed, contrives his incidents and creates his 
 characters, but who, if true to his art, animates 
 them with the same tastes, sentiments, and mo- 
 tives of action which belong to the period of his 
 fiction. His portrait is not the less true because 
 no individual has sat for it. He has seized the 
 physiognomy of the times. Who is there that 
 does not derive a more distinct idea of the state 
 of society and manners in Scotland from the Wa- 
 verley novels than from the best of its historians? 
 of the condition of the Middle Ages from the 
 single romance of Ivanhoe than from the volumes 
 of Hume or Hallam? In like manner, the pencil 
 of Cervantes has given a far more distinct and a 
 richer portraiture of life in Spain in the sixteenth 
 century than can be gathered from a library of 
 monkish chronicles. 
 
 Spain, which furnished the first good model of 
 this kind of "writing, seems to have possessed more 
 ample materials for it than any other country ex- 
 cept England. This is perhaps owing in a great
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 161 
 
 degree to the freedom and originality of the pop- 
 ular character. It is the country where the lower 
 classes make the nearest approach, in their conver- 
 sation, to what is called humor. JNIany of the 
 national proverbs are seasoned with it, as well as 
 the picaresco tales, the indigenous growth of the 
 soil, where, however, the humor runs rather too 
 much to mere practical jokes. The free expansion 
 of the popular characteristics may be traced, in 
 part, to the freedom of the political institutions 
 of the country before the iron hand of the 
 Austrian dynasty was laid on it. The long 
 wars with the Moslem invaders called every 
 peasant into the field, and gave him a degree 
 of personal consideration. In some of the 
 provinces, as Catalonia, the democratic spirit fre- 
 quently rose to an uncontrollable height. In this 
 free atmosphere the rich and peculiar traits of 
 national character were unfolded. The territorial 
 divisions which marked the Peninsula, broken up 
 anciently into a number of petty and independ- 
 ent states, gave, moreover, great variety to 
 the national portraiture. The rude Asturian, the 
 haughty and indolent Castilian, the industrious 
 Aragonese, the independent Catalan, the jealous 
 and wily Andalusian, the effeminate Valencian, 
 and magnificent Granadine, furnished an' infinite 
 variety of character and costume for the study of 
 the artist. The intermixture of Asiatic races to 
 an extent unknown in any other European land 
 was favorable to the same result. The Jews and 
 the Moors were settled in too great numbers, and 
 for too many centuries, in the land, not to have 
 
 Vol. I.— 11
 
 162 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 left traces of their Oriental civilization. The best 
 blood of the country has flowed from what the 
 modern Spaniard — the Spaniard of the Inquisi- 
 tion — regards as impure sources; and a work, 
 popular in the Peninsula, under the name of Tizon 
 de Espana, or " Brand of Spain," maliciously 
 traces back the pedigrees of the noblest houses in 
 the kingdom to a Jewish or Morisco origin. All 
 these circumstances have conspired to give a highly 
 poetic interest to the character of the Spaniards; 
 to make them, in fact, the most picturesque of 
 European nations, affording richer and far more 
 various subjects for the novelist than other nations 
 whose peculiarities have been kept down by the 
 weight of a despotic government or the artificial 
 and levelling laws of fashion. 
 
 There is one other point of view in which the 
 Don Quixote presents itself, that of its didactic 
 import. It is not merely moral in its general ten- 
 dency, though this was a rare virtue in the age in 
 which it was written, but is replete with admoni- 
 tion and criticism, oftentimes requiring great bold- 
 ness, as well as originality, in the author. Such, 
 for instance, are the derision of witchcraft, and 
 other superstitions common to the Spaniards ; the 
 ridicule of torture, which, though not used in the 
 ordinary courts, was familiar to the Inquisition; 
 the frequent strictures on various departments and 
 productions of literature. The literary criticism 
 scattered throughout the work shows a profound 
 acquaintance with the true principles of taste far 
 before his time, and which has left his judgments 
 of the writings of his countrymen still of para-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 163 
 
 mount authority. In truth, the great scope of his 
 work was didactic, for it was a satire against the 
 false taste of his age. And never was there a sat- 
 ire so completely successful. The last romance 
 of chivalry, before the appearance of the Don 
 Quixote, came out in 1602. It was the last that 
 was ever published in Spain. So completely was 
 this kind of writing, which had bade defiance to 
 every serious effort, now extinguished by the 
 breath of ridicule, 
 
 That soft and summer breath, whose subtile power 
 
 Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour." 
 
 It was impossible for any new author to gain an 
 audience. The public had seen how the thunder 
 was fabricated. The spectator had been behind 
 the scenes, and witnessed of what cheap materials 
 kings and queens were made. It was impossible 
 for him, by any stretch of imagination, to convert 
 the tinsel and painted baubles which he had seen 
 there into diadems and sceptres. The illusion had 
 fled forever. 
 
 Satire seldom survives the local or temporary 
 interests against which it is directed. It loses its 
 life with its sting. The satire of Cervantes is an 
 exception. The objects at which it was aimed have 
 long since ceased to interest. The modern reader is 
 attracted to the book simply by its execution as a 
 work of art, and, from want of previous knowl- 
 edge, comprehends few of the allusions which gave 
 such infinite zest to the perusal in its own day. 
 Yet under all these disadvantages, it not onljr
 
 164 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 maintains its popularity, but is far more widely 
 extended, and enjoys far higher consideration, 
 than in the life of its author. Such are the tri- 
 umphs of genius ! 
 
 Cervantes correctly appreciated his own work. 
 He more than once predicted its popularity. " I 
 will lay a wager," says Sancho, " that before long 
 there will not be a chop-house, tavern, or barber's 
 stall but will have a painting of our achievements." 
 The honest squire's prediction was verified in his 
 own day; and the author might have seen paint- 
 ings of his work on wood and on canvas, as well as 
 copper-plate engravings of it. Besides several 
 editions of it at home, it was printed, in his own 
 time, in Portugal, Flanders, and Italy. Since that 
 period it has passed into numberless editions both 
 in Spain and other countries. It has been trans- 
 lated into nearly every European tongue over and 
 over again; into English ten times, into French 
 eight, and others less frequently. We will close 
 the present notice with a brief view of some of the 
 principal editions, together with that at the head 
 of our article. 
 
 The currency of the romance among all classes 
 frequently invited its publication by incompetent 
 hands; and the consequence was a plentiful crop 
 of errors, until the original text was nearly de- 
 spoiled of its beauty, while some passages were 
 omitted, and foreign ones still more shamefully 
 interpolated. The first attempt to retrieve the 
 original from these harpies, who thus foully vio- 
 lated it, singularly enough, was made in England. 
 Queen Caroline, the wife of George the Second,
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 165 
 
 had formed a collection of books of romance, 
 which she playfully named the " library of the 
 sage MerUn." The romance of Cervantes alone 
 was wanting; and a nobleman, Lord Carteret, 
 undertook to provide her with a suitable copy at 
 his own expense. This was the origin of the cele- 
 brated edition pubHshed by Tonson, in London, 
 1738, 4 tom. 4to. It contained the Life of the 
 Author, written for it by the learned Mayans y 
 Siscar. It was the first biography (which merits 
 the name) of Cervantes; and it shows into what 
 oblivion his personal history had already fallen, 
 that no less than seven towns claimed each the 
 honor of giving him birth. The fate of Cervantes 
 resembled that of Homer. 
 
 The example thus set by foreigners excited an 
 honorable emulation at home; and at length, in 
 1780, a magnificent edition, from the far-famed 
 press of Ibarra, was published at Madrid, in 4 tom. 
 4to, under the auspices of the Royal Spanish Acad- 
 emy; which, unlike many other literary bodies of 
 sounding name, has contributed most essentially 
 to the advancement of letters, not merely by origi- 
 nal memoirs, but by learned and very beautiful 
 editions of ancient writers. Its Don Quixote ex- 
 hibits a most careful revision of the text, collated 
 from the several copies printed in the author's life- 
 time and supposed to have received his own emen- 
 dations. There is too good reason to believe that 
 these corrections were made with a careless hand; 
 at all events, there is a plentiful harvest of typo- 
 graphical blunders in these primitive editions. 
 
 Prefixed to the publication of the Academy is
 
 166 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 the Life of Cervantes, by Rios, written with un- 
 common elegance, and containing nearly all that 
 is of much interest in his personal history. A 
 copious analysis of the romance follows, in which 
 a parallel is closely elaborated between it and the 
 poems of Homer. But the romantic and the clas- 
 sical differ too widely from each other to admit 
 of such an approximation; and the method of 
 proceeding necessarily involves its author in infi- 
 nite absurdities, which show an entire ignorance of 
 the true principles of philosophical criticism, and 
 which he would scarcely have fallen into had he 
 given heed to the maxims of Cervantes himself. 
 
 In the following year, 1781, there appeared an- 
 other edition in England deserving of particular 
 notice. It was prepared by the Rev. Mr. Bowie, 
 a clergyman at Idemestone, who was so enamored 
 of the romance of Cervantes that, after collecting 
 a hbrary of such works as could any way illustrate 
 his author, he spent fourteen years in preparing a 
 suitable commentary on him. There was ample 
 scope for such a commentary. Many of the satiri- 
 cal allusions of the romance were misunderstood, 
 as we have said, owing to ignorance of the books 
 of chivalry at which they were aimed. Many inci- 
 dents and usages, familiar to the age of Cervantes, 
 had long since fallen into oblivion; and much of 
 the idiomatic phraseology had groM^n to be obso- 
 lete, and required explanation. Cervantes himself 
 had fallen into some egregious blunders, which in 
 his subsequent revision of the work he had neg- 
 lected to set right. The reader will readily call 
 to mind the confusion as to Sancho's Dapple, who
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 167 
 
 appears and disappears, most unaccountably, on 
 the scene, according as the author happens to re- 
 member or forget that he was stolen. He after- 
 wards corrected this in two or three instances, but 
 left three or four others unheeded. To the same 
 account must be charged numberless gross anach- 
 ronisms. Indeed, the whole Second Part is an 
 anachronism, since the author introduces his hero 
 criticising his First Part, in which his own epitaph 
 is recorded. 
 
 Cervantes seems to have had a great distaste for 
 the work of revision. Some of his blunders he 
 laid at the printer's door, and others he dismissed 
 with the remark, more ingenious than true, that 
 they were like moles, which, though blemishes in 
 themselves, add to the beauty of the countenance. 
 He little dreamed that his lapses were to be 
 watched so narrowly, that a catalogue was actually 
 to be set down of all his repetitions and incon- 
 sistencies, and that each of his hero's sallies was to 
 be adjusted by an accurate chronological table like 
 any real history. He would have been still slower 
 to believe that in the middle of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury a learned society, the Academy of Literature 
 and Fine Arts at Troyes, in Champagne, should 
 have chosen a deputation of their body to visit 
 Spain and examine the library of the Escurial, in 
 order to obtain, if possible, the original MS. of 
 that Arabian sage from whom Cervantes pro- 
 fessed to have translated his romance. This was 
 to be more mad than Don Quixote himself; yet 
 this actually happened. 
 
 Bowie's edition was printed in six volumes
 
 168 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 quarto ; the two last contained notes, illustrations, 
 and index, all, as well as the text, in Castilian. 
 Watt, in his laborious " Bibliotheca Britannica," 
 remarks that the book did not come up to the pub- 
 lic expectation. If so, the public must have been 
 very unreasonable. It was a marvellous achieve- 
 ment for a foreigner. It was the first attempt at 
 a commentary on the Quixote, and, although 
 doubtless exhibiting inaccuracies which a native 
 might have escaped, has been a rich mine of illus- 
 tration, from which native critics have helped 
 themselves most liberally, and sometimes with 
 scanty acknowledgement. 
 
 The example of the English critic led to similar 
 labors in Spain, among the most successful of 
 which may be mentioned the edition by Pellicer, 
 which has commended itself to every scholar by its 
 very learned disquisitions on many topics both of 
 history and criticism. It also contains a valuable 
 memoir of Cervantes, whose life has since been 
 written, in a manner which leaves nothing farther 
 to be desired, by Navarrete, well known by his 
 laborious publication of documents relative to the 
 early Spanish discoveries. His biography of the 
 novelist comprehends all the information, direct 
 and subsidiary, which can now be brought together 
 for the elucidation of his personal or literary his- 
 tory. If Cervantes, like his great contemporary, 
 Shakspeare, has left few authentic details of his 
 existence, the deficiency has been diligently sup- 
 plied in both cases by speculation and conjecture. 
 
 There was still wanting a classical commentary 
 on the Quixote devoted to the literary execution
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 169 
 
 of the work. Such a commentary has at length 
 appeared from the pen of Clemencin, the accom- 
 plished secretary of the Spanish Academy of His- 
 tory, who had acquired a high reputation for him- 
 self by the publication of the sixth volume of its 
 memoirs, the exclusive work of his own hand. In 
 his edition of the romance, besides illuminating 
 with rare learning many of the obscure points in 
 the narrative, he has accompanied the text with a 
 severe but enlightened criticism, which, while it 
 boldly exposes occasional offences against taste or 
 grammar, directs the eye to those latent beauties 
 which might escape a rapid or an ordinary reader. 
 We much doubt if any Castilian classic has been 
 so ably illustrated. Unfortunately, the First Part 
 only was completed by the commentator, who died 
 very recently. It will not be easy to find a critic 
 equally qualified by his taste and erudition for the 
 completion of the work. 
 
 The English, as we have noticed, have evinced 
 their relish for Cervantes not only by their critical 
 labors but by repeated translations. Some of these 
 are executed with much skill, considering the diffi- 
 culty of correctly rendering the idiomatic phrase- 
 ology of humorous dialogue. The most popular 
 versions are those of Motteux, Jarvis, and Smol- 
 lett. Perhaps the first is the best of all. It was 
 by a Frenchman, who came over to England in the 
 time of James the Second. It betrays nothing of 
 its foreign parentage, however, while its rich and 
 racy diction and its quaint turns of expression are 
 admirably suited to convey a lively and very faith- 
 ful image of the original. The slight tinge of an-
 
 170 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 tiquity which belongs to the time is not displeasing, 
 and comports well with the tone of knightly dig- 
 nity which distinguishes the hero. Lockhart's 
 notes and poetical versions of old Castilian ballads, 
 appended to the recent edition of Motteux, have 
 rendered it by far the most desirable translation. 
 It is singular that the first classical edition of Don 
 Quixote, the first commentary, and probably the 
 best foreign translation should have been all pro- 
 duced in England; and, farther, that the English 
 commentator should have written in Spanish, and 
 the English translation have been by a French- 
 man. 
 
 We now come to Mr. Sales's recent edition of 
 the original, the first, probably, which has appeared 
 in the New World, of the one-half of which the 
 Spanish is the spoken language. There was great 
 need of some uniform edition to meet the wants 
 of our University, where much inconvenience has 
 been long experienced from the discrepancies of 
 the copies used. The only ones to be procured in 
 this country are contemptible both in regard to 
 printing and paper, and are defaced by the gross- 
 est errors. They are the careless manufacture of 
 ill-informed Spanish booksellers, made to sell, and 
 dear to boot. 
 
 Mr. Sales has adopted a right plan for remedy- 
 ing these several evils. He has carefully formed 
 his text on that of the last and most correct edition 
 of the Academy, and, as he has stereotyped the 
 work, any verbal errors may be easily rectified. 
 The Academy has substituted the modern orthog- 
 raphy for that of Cervantes, who, independently
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 171 
 
 of the change which has gradually taken place in 
 the language, seems to have had no uniform sys- 
 tem himself. Mr. Sales has conformed to the rules 
 prescribed by this high authority for regulating 
 his orthography, accent, and punctuation. In 
 some instances, only, he has adopted the ancient 
 usage in beginning words with / instead of h, and 
 retaining obsolete terminations of verbs, as hah- 
 lades for hablais, hablahades for hablabais, amades 
 for amais, amahades for amabais, etc., no doubt as 
 better suited to the lofty tone of the good knight's 
 discourses, who himself affected a reverence for 
 the antique in his conversation to which his trans- 
 lators have not always sufficiently attended. 
 
 In one respect the present editor has made some 
 alterations not before attempted, we believe, in the 
 text of his original. We have already noticed 
 the inaccuracies of the early copies of the Don 
 Quixote, partly imputable to Cervantes himself, 
 and in a greater degree, doubtless, to his printers. 
 There is no way of rectifying such errors by col- 
 lation with the author's manuscript, which has long 
 since disappeared. All that can now be done, there- 
 fore, is to point out the purer reading in a note, as 
 Clemencin, Arrieta, and other commentators have 
 done, or, as Mr. Sales has preferred, to introduce 
 it into the body of the text. We will give one or 
 two specimens of these alterations : 
 
 " Poco mas 6 menos." — Tom. i. p. 141. 
 
 The reading in the old editions is " poco mas a me- 
 nos," a phrase as unintelligible in Spanish now as
 
 172 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 its literal translation would be in English, although 
 in use, it would seem from other authorities, in the 
 age of Cervantes. 
 
 "Por tales os juzgue y tuve." — Tom. i. p. 104. 
 
 The old editions add " siempre," which clearly is 
 incorrect, since Don Quixote is speaking of the 
 present occasion. 
 
 " Don Quijote qued6 admirado." — Tom. i. p. 143. 
 
 Other editions read " El cual quedo," etc. The 
 use of the relative leaves the reader in doubt who 
 is intended, and Mr. Sales, in conformity to Clem- 
 encin's suggestion, has made the sentence clear by 
 substituting the name of the knight. 
 
 " Donde les sucedieron cosas," etc. — Tom. ii. p. 44. 
 
 In other editions, " siicedio; " bad grammar, since 
 it agrees with a plural noun. 
 
 " En tan poco espacio de tiempo como ha que 
 estuvo alia," etc. (tom. ii. p. 132), instead of " estd 
 alld," clearly the wrong tense, since the verb refers 
 to past time. 
 
 It is unnecessary to multiply examples, a suffi- 
 cient number of which have been cited to show on 
 what principles the emendations have been made. 
 They have been confined to the correction of such 
 violations of grammar, or such inaccuracies of ex- 
 pression, as obscure or distort the meaning. They 
 have been made with great circumspection, and in 
 obedience to the suggestion of the highest authori- 
 ties in the language. For the critical scholar, who 
 would naturally prefer the primitive text with all
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 173 
 
 its impurities, they were not designed. But they 
 are of infinite value to the general reader and the 
 student, who may now read this beautiful classic 
 purified from those verbal blemishes which, how- 
 ever obvious to a native, could not fail to mislead 
 a foreigner. 
 
 Besides these emendations, Mr. Sales has illus- 
 trated the work by prefixing to it the admirable 
 preliminary discourse of Clemencin, and by a con- 
 siderable body of notes, selected and abridged from 
 the most approved commentators ; and, as the ob- 
 ject has been to explain the text to the reader, not 
 to involve him in antiquarian or critical disquisi- 
 tions, when his authorities have failed to do this 
 the editor has supplied notes of his own, throwing 
 much light on matters least familiar to a foreigner. 
 In this part of his work we think he might have 
 derived considerable aid from Bowie, whom he 
 does not appear to have consulted. The Castilian 
 commentator Arrieta, whom he liberally uses, is 
 largely indebted to the English critic, who, as a 
 foreigner, moreover, has been led into many sea- 
 sonable explanations that would be superfluous to 
 a Spaniard. 
 
 We may notice another peculiarity in the pres- 
 ent edition, that of breaking up the text into rea- 
 sonable paragraphs, in imitation of the English 
 translations; a great relief to the spirits of the 
 reader, which are seriously damped, in the ancient 
 copies, by the interminable waste of page upon 
 page, without these convenient halting-places. 
 
 But our readers, we fear, will think we are run- 
 ning into an interminable waste of discussion. We
 
 174 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 
 
 will only remark, therefore, in conclusion, that the 
 mechanical execution of the book is highly credit- 
 able to our press. It is, moreover, adorned with 
 etchings by our American Cruikshank, Johnston, 
 — some of them original, but mostly copies from 
 the late English edition of Smollett's translations. 
 They are designed and executed with much spirit, 
 and, no doubt, would have fully satisfied honest 
 Sancho, who predicted this kind of immortahty 
 for himself and his master. 
 
 We congratulate the public on the possession of 
 an edition of the pride of Castilian literature from 
 our own press in so neat a form and executed with 
 so much correctness and judgment; and we trust 
 that the ambition of its respectable editor will be 
 gratified by its becoming, as it well deserves to be, 
 the manual of the student in every seminary 
 throughout the country where the noble Castihan 
 language is taught.
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT* 
 
 (April, 1838.) 
 
 THERE is no kind of writing, which has truth 
 and instruction for its main object, so inter- 
 esting and popular, on the whole, as biography. 
 History, in its larger sense, has to deal with masses, 
 which, while they divide the attention by the daz- 
 zling variety of objects, from their very generality 
 are scarcely capable of touching the heart. The 
 great objects on which it is employed have little 
 relation to the daily occupations with which the 
 reader is most intimate. A nation, like a corpora- 
 tion, seems to have no soul, and its checkered vicis- 
 situdes may be contemplated rather with curiosity 
 for the lessons they convey than with personal 
 sympathy. How different are the feelings excited 
 by the fortunes of an individual, — one of the 
 mighty mass, who in the page of history is swept 
 along the current unnoticed and unknown! In- 
 stead of a mere abstraction, at once we see a being 
 like ourselves, "fed with the same food, hurt with 
 the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, 
 healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by 
 the same winter and summer" as we are. We 
 place ourselves in his position, and see the passing 
 
 • 1. " Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., by J. G. 
 Lockhart. Five vols. 12rao. Boston: Otis, Broaders & Co., 1837." 
 
 2. " Recollections of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 16mo. London: 
 James Fraser, 1837." 
 
 175
 
 176 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 current of events with the same eyes. We be- 
 come a party to all his httle schemes, share in his 
 triumphs, or mourn with him in the disappoint- 
 ment of defeat. His friends become our friends. 
 We learn to take an interest in their characters 
 from their relation to liim. As they pass away 
 from the stage one after another, and as the clouds 
 of misfortune, perhaps, or of disease, settle around 
 the evening of his own day, we feel the same sad- 
 ness that steals over us on a retrospect of earlier 
 and happier hours. And when at last we have fol- 
 lowed him to the tomb, we close the volume, and 
 feel that we have turned over another chapter in 
 the history of life. 
 
 On the same principles, probably, we are more 
 moved by the exhibition of those characters whose 
 days have been passed in the ordinary routine of 
 domestic and social life than by those most inti- 
 mately connected Avith the great public events of 
 their age. What, indeed, is the history of such 
 men but that of the times? The life of Welling- 
 ton or of Bonaparte is the story of the wars and 
 revolutions of Europe. But that of Cowper, 
 gliding away in the seclusion of rural solitude, re- 
 flects all those domestic joys, and, alas! more than 
 the sorrows, which gather around every man's fire- 
 side and his heart. In this way the story of the 
 humblest individual, faithfully recorded, becomes 
 an object of lively interest. How much is that in- 
 terest increased in the case of a man like Scott, 
 who, from his own fireside, has sent forth a voice 
 to cheer and delight millions of his fellow-men, — 
 whose life was passed within the narrow circle of
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 177 
 
 his own village, as it were, but who, nevertheless, 
 has called up more shapes and fantasies within that 
 magic circle, acted more extraordinary parts, and 
 afforded more marvels for the imagination to feed 
 on, than can be furnished by the most nimble- 
 footed, nimble-tongued traveller, from JMarco 
 Polo down to Mrs. TroUope, and that literary 
 Sindbad, Captain Hall. 
 
 Fortunate as Sir Walter Scott was in his hfe, it 
 is not the least of his good fortunes that he left the 
 task of recording it to one so competent as Mr. 
 Lockhart, who to a familiarity with the person 
 and habits of his illustrious subject unites such 
 entire sympathy with his pursuits and such fine 
 tact and discrimination in arranging the materials 
 for their illustration. We have seen it objected 
 that the biographer has somewhat transcended his 
 lawful limits in occasionally exposing what a nice 
 tenderness for the reputation of Scott should have 
 led him to conceal; but, on reflection, we are not 
 inclined to adopt these views. It is difficult to pre- 
 scribe any precise rule by which the biographer 
 should be guided in exhibiting the peculiarities, 
 and, still more, the defects, of his subject. He 
 should, doubtless, be slow to draw from obscurity 
 those matters which are of a strictly personal and 
 private nature, particularly when they have no 
 material bearing on the character of the individual. 
 But whatever the latter has done, said, or written 
 to others can rarely be made to come within this 
 rule. A swell of panegyric, where every thing is 
 in broad sunshine, without the relief of a shadow 
 to contrast it, is out of nature, and must bring dis- 
 
 VoL. I.— 12
 
 178 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 credit on the whole. Nor is it much better when a 
 sort of twihght mystification is spread over a man's 
 actions, until, as in the case of all biographies of 
 Cowper previous to that of Southey, we are com- 
 pletely bewildered respecting the real motives of 
 conduct. If ever there was a character above the 
 necessity of any management of this sort, it was 
 Scott's; and we cannot but think that the frank 
 exposition of the minor blemishes which sully it, 
 by securing the confidence of the reader in the gen- 
 eral fidelity of the portraiture, and thus disposing 
 him to receive without distrust those favorable 
 statements in his history which might seem incred- 
 ible, as they certainly are unprecedented, is, on 
 the whole, advantageous to his reputation. As re- 
 gards the moral effect on the reader, we may ap- 
 ply Scott's own argument for not always recom- 
 pensing suffering virtue, at the close of his fictions, 
 with temporal prosperity, — that such an arrange- 
 ment would convey no moral to the heart whatever, 
 since a glance at the great picture of life would 
 show that virtue is not always thus rewarded. 
 
 In regard to the Hterary execution of Mr. Lock- 
 hart's work, the public voice has long since pro- 
 nounced on it. A prying criticism may discern a 
 few of those contraband epithets and shpshod sen- 
 tences, more excusable in young " Peter's Letters 
 to his Kinsfolk," where, indeed, they are thickly 
 sown, than in the production of a grave Aristarch 
 of British criticism. But this is small game, where 
 every reader of the least taste and sensibility must 
 find so much to applaud. It is enough to say that 
 in passing from the letters of Scott, with which the
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 179 
 
 work is enriched, to the text of the biographer, we 
 find none of those chilling transitions which occur 
 on the hke occasions in more bungling productions ; 
 as, for example, in that recent one in which the 
 unfortunate Hannah More is done to death by her 
 friend Roberts. On the contrary, we are sensible 
 only to a new variety of beauty in the style of com- 
 position. The correspondence is illumined by all 
 that is needed to make it intelligible to a stranger, 
 and selected with such discernment as to produce 
 the clearest impression of the character of its 
 author. The mass of interesting details is con- 
 veyed in language richly colored with poetic senti- 
 ment, and, at the same time, without a tinge of 
 that mysticism which, as Scott himself truly re- 
 marked, " will never do for a writer of fiction, no, 
 nor of history, nor moral essaj^s, nor sermons," but 
 which, nevertheless, finds more or less favor in our 
 own community, at the present day, in each and 
 all of these. 
 
 The second work which we have placed at the 
 head of this article, and from which the last remark 
 of Sir Walter's was borrowed, is a series of notices 
 originally published in "Fraser's Magazine," but 
 now collected, with considerable additions, into a 
 separate volume. Its author, Mr. Robert Pierce 
 Gillies, is a gentleman of the Scotch bar, favorably 
 known by translations from the German. The 
 work conveys a lively report of several scenes and 
 events which before the appearance of Lockhart's 
 book were of more interest and importance than 
 they can now be, lost as they are in the flood of 
 light which is poured on us from that source. In
 
 180 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 the absence of the sixth and last volume, however, 
 Mr. Gillies may help us to a few particulars re- 
 specting the closing years of Sir Walter's life, that 
 may have some novelty — we know not how much 
 to be rehed on — for the reader. In the present 
 notice of a work so familiar to most persons, we 
 shall confine ourselves to some of those circum- 
 stances which contribute to form, or have an ob- 
 vious connection with, his literary character. 
 
 Walter Scott was born at Edinburgh, August 
 15th, 1771. The character of his father, a respect- 
 able member of that class of attorneys who in Scot- 
 land are called Writers to the Signet, is best con- 
 veyed to the reader by saying that he sat for the 
 portrait of Mr. Saunders Fair ford in " Redgaunt- 
 let." His mother was a woman of taste and im- 
 agination, and had an obvious influence in guiding 
 those of her son. His ancestors, by both father's 
 and mother's side, were of " gentle blood," a posi- 
 tion which, placed between the highest and the 
 lower ranks in society, was extremely favorable, as 
 affording facilities for communication with both. 
 A lameness in his infancy, — a most fortunate 
 lameness for the world, if, as Scott says, it spoiled 
 a soldier, — and a delicate constitution, made it ex- 
 pedient to try the efficacy of country air and diet, 
 and he was placed under the roof of his paternal 
 grandfather at Sandy-Knowe, a few miles distant 
 from the capital. Here his days were passed in 
 the open fields, " with no other fellowship," as he 
 says, "than that of the sheep and lambs;" and 
 here, in the lap of Nature, 
 
 " Meet nurse for a poetic child,"
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 181 
 
 his infant vision was greeted with those rude, ro- 
 mantic scenes which his own verses have since hal- 
 lowed for the pilgrims from every clime. In the 
 long evenings, his imagination, as he grew older, 
 was warmed by traditionary legends of border 
 heroism and adventure, repeated by the aged rela- 
 tive, who had herself witnessed the last gleams of 
 border chivalry. His memory was one of the first 
 powers of his mind which exhibited an extraor- 
 dinary development. One of the longest of these 
 old baUads, in particular, stuck so close to it, and 
 he repeated it with such stentorian vociferation, 
 as to draw from the minister of a neighboring 
 kirk the testy exclamation, "One may as well 
 speak in the mouth of a cannon as where that 
 child is." 
 
 On his removal to Edinburgh, in his eighth 
 year, he was subjected to different influences. 
 His worthy father was a severe martinet in all 
 the forms of his profession, and, it may be added, 
 of his religion, which he contrived to make some- 
 what burdensome to his more volatile son. The 
 tutor was still more strict in his religious senti- 
 ments, and the lightest literary diversion in which 
 either of them indulged was such as could be 
 gleaned from the time-honored folios of Arch- 
 bishop Spottiswoode or worthy Robert Wodrow. 
 Even here, however, Scott's young mind con- 
 trived to gather materials and impulses for future 
 action. In his long arguments with Master 
 Mitchell, he became steeped in the history of the 
 Covenanters and the persecuted Church of Scot- 
 land, while he was still more rooted in his own
 
 182 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 Jacobite notions, early instilled into his mind by 
 the tales of his relatives of Sandy-Knowe, whose 
 own family had been out in the " affair of forty- 
 five." Amid the professional and polemical 
 worthies of his father's library, Scott detected a 
 copy of Shakspeare, and he relates with what 
 gout he used to creep out of his bed, where he 
 had been safely deposited for the night, and, by 
 the light of the fire, in puris naturalihus, pore over 
 the pages of the great magician, and study those 
 mighty spells by which he gave to airy fantasies 
 the forms and substance of humanity. Scott dis- 
 tinctly recollected the time and the spot where he 
 first opened a volume of Percy's "Reliques of 
 English Poetry;" a work which may have sug- 
 gested to him the plan and the purpose of the 
 "Border Minstrelsy." Every day's experience 
 shows how much more actively the business of 
 education goes on out of school than in it; and 
 Scott's history shows equally that genius, what- 
 ever obstacles may be thrown in its way in one 
 direction, will find room for its expansion in 
 another, as the young tree sends forth its shoots 
 most prolific in that quarter where the sunshine 
 is permitted to fall on it. 
 
 At the High School, in which he was placed by 
 his father at an early period, he seems not to have 
 been particularly distinguished in the regular 
 course of studies. His voracious appetite for 
 books, however, of a certain cast, as romances, 
 chivalrous tales, and worm-eaten chronicles 
 scarcely less chivalrous, and his wonderful mem- 
 ory for such reading as struck his fancy, soon
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 183 
 
 made him regarded by his fellows as a phenome- 
 non of black-letter scholarship, which, in process 
 of time, achieved for him the cognomen of that 
 redoubtable schoolman. Duns Scotus. He now 
 also gave evidence of his powers of creation as 
 well as of acquisition. He became noted for his 
 own stories, generally bordering on the marvel- 
 lous, with a plentiful seasoning of knight-errantry, 
 which suited his bold and chivalrous temper. 
 " Slink over beside me, Jamie," he would whisper 
 to his school-fellow Ballantyne, " and I'll tell you 
 a story.'* Jamie was, indeed, destined to sit 
 beside him during the greater part of his life. 
 
 The same tastes and talents continued to dis- 
 play themselves more strongly with increasing 
 years. Having beaten pretty thoroughly the 
 ground of romantic and legendary lore, at 
 least so far as the English libraries to which he 
 had access would permit, he next endeavored, while 
 at the University, to which he had been transferred 
 from the High School, to pursue the same subject 
 in the Continental languages. Many were the 
 strolls which he took in the neighborhood, espe- 
 cially to Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags, where, 
 perched on some almost inaccessible eyry, he 
 might be seen conning over his Ariosto or Cer- 
 vantes, or some other bard of romance, with some 
 favorite companion of his studies, or pouring into 
 the ears of the latter his own boyish legends, glow- 
 ing with 
 
 " achievements high. 
 And circumstance of chivalry." 
 
 A critical knowledge of these languages he
 
 184 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 seems not to have obtained, and even in the French 
 made but an indifferent figure in conversation. 
 An accurate acquaintance with the pronunciation 
 and prosody of a foreign tongue is undoubtedly 
 a desirable accomplishment; but it is, after all, a 
 mere accomplishment, subordinate to the great 
 purposes for which a language is to be learned. 
 Scott did not, as is too often the case, mistake the 
 shell for the kernel. He looked on language only 
 as the key to unlock the foreign stores of wisdom, 
 the pearls of inestimable price, wherever found, 
 with which to enrich his native literature. 
 
 After a brief residence at the University, he was 
 regularly indented as an apprentice to his father in 
 1786. One can hardly imagine a situation less con- 
 genial with the ardent, effervescing spirit of a 
 poetic fancy, fettered down to a daily routine of 
 drudgery scarcely above that of a mere scrivener. 
 It proved, however, a useful school of disciphne to 
 him. It formed early habits of method, punctual- 
 ity, and laborious industry, — business habits, in 
 short, most adverse to the poetic temperament, but 
 indispensable to the accomplishment of the gigan- 
 tic tasks which he afterwards assumed. He has 
 himself borne testimony to his general diligence in 
 his new vocation, and tells us that on one occasion 
 he transcribed no less than a hundred and twenty 
 folio pages at a sitting. 
 
 In the midst of these mechanical duties, he did 
 not lose sight of the favorite objects of his study 
 and meditation. He made frequent excursions 
 into the Lowland as well as Highland districts in 
 search of traditionary relics. These pilgrimages
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 185 
 
 he frequently performed on foot. His constitu- 
 tion, now become hardy by severe training, made 
 him careless of exposure, and his frank and warm- 
 hearted manners — eminently favorable to his pur- 
 poses, by thawing at once any feelings of frosty 
 reserve which might have encountered a stranger 
 — made him equally welcome at the staid and de- 
 corous manse and at the rough but hospitable board 
 of the peasant. Here was, indeed, the study of 
 the future novelist, the very school in which to 
 meditate those models of character and situation 
 which he was afterwards, long afterwards, to 
 transfer, in such living colors, to the canvas. " He 
 was makin' himsel a' the time," says one of his 
 companions, "but he didna ken, maybe, what he 
 was about till years had passed. At first he 
 thought o' little, I dare say, but the queerness and 
 the fun." The honest writer to the signet does 
 not seem to have thought it either so funny or so 
 profitable; for on his son's return from one of 
 these raids, as he styled them, the old gentleman 
 peevishly inquired how he had been living so long. 
 "Pretty much like the young ravens," answered 
 Walter ; " I only wished I had been as good a 
 player on the flute as poor George Primrose in 
 the Vicar of Wakefield. If I had his art, I should 
 like nothing better than to tramp like him from 
 cottage to cottage over the world." "I doubt," 
 said the grave clerk to the signet, " I greatly doubt, 
 sir, you were born for nae better than a gangrel 
 scrapegut!'^ Perhaps even the revelation, could 
 it have been made to him, of his son's future liter- 
 ary glory, would scarcely have satisfied the worthy
 
 186 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 father, who probably would have regarded a seat 
 on the bench of the Court of Sessions as much 
 higher glory. At all events, this was not far from 
 the judgment of Dominie Mitchell, who, in his 
 notice of his illustrious pupil, "sincerely regrets 
 that Sir Walter's precious time was devoted to 
 the dulce rather than the utile of composition, and 
 that his great talents should have been wasted on 
 such subjects! " 
 
 It is impossible to glance at Scott's early life 
 without perceiving how powerfully all its circum- 
 stances, whether accidental or contrived, conspired 
 to train him for the peculiar position he was des- 
 tined to occupy in the world of letters. There 
 never was a character in whose infant germ the 
 mature and fully-developed lineaments might be 
 more distinctly traced. What he was in his riper 
 age, so he was in his boyhood. We discern the 
 same tastes, the same peculiar talents, the same 
 social temper and affections, and, in a great de- 
 gree, the same habits, — in their embryo state, of 
 course, but distinctly marked; and his biographer 
 has shown no little skill in enabling us to trace their 
 gradual, progressive expansion from the hour of 
 his birth up to the full prime and maturity of man- 
 hood. 
 
 In 1792, Scott, whose original destination of a 
 writer had been changed to that of an advocate, — 
 from his father's conviction, as it would seem, of 
 the superiority of his talents to the former station, 
 — ^was admitted to the Scottish bar. Here he con- 
 tinued in assiduous attendance during the regular 
 terms, but more noted for his stories in the Outer
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 187 
 
 House than his arguments in court. It may ap- 
 pear singular that a person so gifted both as a 
 writer and as a raconteur should have had no great- 
 er success in his profession. But the case is not un- 
 common. Indeed, experience shows that the most 
 eminent writers have not made the most successful 
 speakers. It is not more strange than that a good 
 writer of novels should not excel as a dramatic 
 author. Perhaps a consideration of the subject 
 would lead us to refer the phenomena in both 
 cases to the same principle. At all events, Scott 
 was an exemplification of both, and we leave the 
 solution to those who hare more leisure and inge- 
 nuity to unravel the mystery. 
 
 Scott's leisure, in the mean time, was well em- 
 ployed in storing his mind with German romance, 
 with whose wild fictions, intrenching on the gro- 
 tesque, he found at that time more sympathy than 
 in later Hfe. In 1796 he first appeared before the 
 public as a translator of Burger's well-known bal- 
 lads, thrown off by him at a heat, and which found 
 favor with the few into whose hands they passed. 
 He subsequently adventured in Monk Lewis's 
 crazy bark, " Tales of Wonder," which soon went 
 to pieces, leaving, however, among its surviving 
 fragments the scattered contributions of Scott. 
 
 At last, in 1802, he gave to the world his first 
 two volumes of the " Border Minstrelsy," printed 
 by his old school-fellow Ballantyne, and which, by 
 the beauty of the typography, as well as literary 
 execution, made an epoch in Scottish literary his- 
 tory. There was no work of Scott's after-life 
 which showed the result of so much preliminary
 
 188 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 labor. Before ten years old, he had collected sev- 
 eral volumes of ballads and traditions, and we have 
 seen how diligently he pursued the same vocation 
 in later years. The publication was admitted to 
 be far more faithful, as well as skilfully collated, 
 than its prototype, the " Reliques " of Bishop 
 Percy; while his notes contained a mass of anti- 
 quarian information relative to border life, con- 
 veyed in a style of beauty unprecedented in topics 
 of this kind, and enlivened with a higher interest 
 than poetic fiction. Percy's " Reliques " had pre- 
 pared the way for the kind reception of the " Min- 
 strelsy," by the general relish — notwithstanding 
 Dr. Johnson's protest — it had created for the sim- 
 ple pictures of a pastoral and heroic time. Burns 
 had since familiarized the English ear with the 
 Doric melodies of his native land ; and now a great- 
 er than Burns appeared, whose first production, by 
 a singular chance, came into the world in the very 
 year in which the Ayrshire minstrel was with- 
 drawn from it, as if Nature had intended that 
 the chain of poetic inspiration should not be 
 broken. 
 
 The delight of the public was farther augmented 
 on the appearance of the third volume of the 
 " Minstrelsy," containing various imitations of the 
 old ballad, which displayed the rich fashion of the 
 antique, purified from the mould and rust by 
 which the beauties of such weather-beaten trophies 
 are defaced. 
 
 The first edition of the " Minstrelsy," consisting 
 of eight hundred copies, went off, as Lockhart 
 tells us, in less than a year; and the poet, on the
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 189 
 
 publication of a second, received jfive hundred 
 pounds sterling from Longman, — an enormous 
 price for such a commodity, but the best bargain, 
 probably, that the bookseller ever made, as the sub- 
 sequent sale has since extended to twenty thousand 
 copies. 
 
 Scott was not in great haste to follow up his 
 success. It was three years later before he took 
 the field as an independent author, in a poem which 
 at once placed him among the great original 
 writers of his country. The " Lay of the Last 
 Minstrel," a complete expansion of the ancient 
 ballad into an epic form, was published in 1805. 
 It was opening a new creation in the realm of 
 fancy. It seemed as if the author had transfused 
 into his page the strong delineations of the Ho- 
 meric pencil, the rude but generous gallantry of 
 a primitive period, softened by the more airy and 
 magical inventions of Italian romance,* and con- 
 veyed in tones of natural melody such as had not 
 been heard since the strains of Burns. The book 
 speedily found that unprecedented circulation 
 which all his subsequent compositions attained. 
 Other writers had addressed themselves to a more 
 peculiar and limited feeling, — to a narrower and, 
 
 * " Mettendo lo Turpin, lo metto anch' io," 
 says Ariosto, playfully, when he tells a particularly tough story. 
 
 " I cannot tell how the truth may be, 
 I say the tale as 'twas said to me," 
 
 says the author of the " Lay " on a similar occasion. The resem- 
 blance might be traced much farther than mere forms of expres- 
 sion, to the Italian, who, like 
 
 " The Ariosto of the North, 
 Sung ladye-love, and war, romance, and knightly worth."
 
 190 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 generally, a more select audience. But Scott was 
 found to combine all the qualities of interest for 
 every order. He drew from the pure springs 
 which gush forth in every heart. His narrative 
 chained every reader's attention by the stirring 
 variety of its incidents, while the fine touches of 
 sentiment with which it abounded, like wild flowers 
 springing up spontaneously around, were full of 
 freshness and beauty that made one wonder others 
 should not have stooped to gather them before. 
 
 The success of the " Lay" determined the course 
 of its author's future life. Notwithstanding his 
 punctual attention to his profession, his utmost 
 profits for any one year of the ten he had been 
 in practice had not exceeded two hundred and 
 thirty pounds; and of late they had sensibly de- 
 clined. Latterly, indeed, he had coquetted some- 
 what too openly with the Muse for his pro- 
 fessional reputation. Themis has always been 
 found a stern and jealous mistress, chary of dis- 
 pensing her golden favors to those who are 
 seduced into a flirtation with her more volatile 
 sister. 
 
 Scott, however, soon found himself in a situa- 
 tion that made him independent of her favors. His 
 income from the two offices to which he was pro- 
 moted, of Sheriff of Selkirk, and Clerk of the 
 Court of Sessions, was so ample, combined with 
 what fell to him by inheritance and marriage, that 
 he was left at liberty freely to consult his own 
 tastes. Amid the seductions of poetry, however, 
 he never shrunk from his burdensome professional 
 duties ; and he submitted to all their drudgery with
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 191 
 
 unflinching constancy when the labors of his pen 
 made the emoluments almost beneath considera- 
 tion. He never reUshed the idea of being divorced 
 from active life by the solitary occupations of a 
 recluse. And his official functions, however se- 
 verely they taxed his time, may be said to have in 
 some degree compensated him by the new scenes 
 of life which they were constantly disclosing, — the 
 very materials of those fictions on which his fame 
 and his fortune were to be built. 
 
 Scott's situation was eminent^ propitious to lit- 
 erary pursuits. He was married, and passed the 
 better portion of the year in the country, where 
 the quiet pleasures of his fireside circle, and a keen 
 relish for rural sports, relieved his mind and in- 
 vigorated both health and spirits. In early life, it 
 seems, he had been crossed in love ; and, like Dante 
 and BjTon, to whom in this respect he is often com- 
 pared, he had more than once, according to his 
 biographer, shadowed forth in his verses the ob- 
 ject of his unfortunate passion. He does not 
 appear to have taken it very seriously, however, 
 nor to have shown the morbid sensibility in relation 
 to it discovered by both Byron and Dante, whose 
 stern and solitary natures were cast in a very dif- 
 ferent mould from the social temper of Scott. 
 
 His next great poem was his " Marmion," tran- 
 scending, in the judgment of many, all his other 
 epics, and containing, in the judgment of all, pas- 
 sages of poetic fire which he never equalled, but 
 which, nevertheless, was greeted on its entrance 
 into the world by a critique, in the leading journal 
 of the day, of the most caustic and unfriendly
 
 192 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 temper. The journal was the Edinburgh, to which 
 he had been a frequent contributor, and the re- 
 viewer was his intimate friend, Jeffrey. The un- 
 kindest cut in the article was the imputation of a 
 neglect of Scottish character and feeling. " There 
 is scarcely one trait of true Scottish nationality 
 or patriotism introduced into the whole poem ; and 
 Mr. Scott's only expression of admiration for the 
 beautiful country to which he belongs is put, if we 
 rightly remember, into the mouth of one of his 
 Southern favorites." This of Walter Scott ! 
 
 Scott was not slow, after this, in finding the po- 
 litical principles of the Edinburgh so repugnant 
 to his own ( and they certainly were as opposite as 
 the poles) that he first dropped the journal, and 
 next labored with unwearied diligence to organize 
 another, whose main purpose should be to counter- 
 act the heresies of the former. This was the origin 
 of the London Quarterly, more imputable to 
 Scott's exertions than to those of any, indeed all, 
 other persons. The result has been, doubtless, 
 highly serviceable to the interests of both morals 
 and letters. Not that the new Review was con- 
 ducted with more fairness, or, in this sense, prin- 
 ciple, than its antagonist. A remark of Scott's 
 own, in a letter to Ellis, shows with how much prin- 
 ciple. " I have run up an attempt on * The Curse 
 of Kehama ' for the Quarterly. It affords cruel 
 openings to the quizzers, and I suppose will get it 
 roundly in the Edinburgh Review. I would have 
 made a very different hand of it, indeed, had the 
 order of the day been pour dechirer." But, al- 
 though the fate of the individual was thus, to a
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 193 
 
 certain extent, a matter of caprice, or, rather, pre- 
 judgment, in the critic, yet the great abstract ques- 
 tions in morals, pohtics, and hterature, by being 
 discussed on both sides, were presented in a fuller 
 and, of course, fairer light to the public. Another 
 beneficial result to letters was — and we shall gain 
 credit, at least, for candor in confessing it — that 
 it broke down somewhat of that divinity which 
 hedged in the despotic we of the reviewer so long 
 as no rival arose to contest the sceptre. The claims 
 to infallibility, so long and slavishly acquiesced in, 
 fell to the ground when thus stoutly asserted by 
 conflicting parties. It was pretty clear that the 
 same thing could not be all black and all white at 
 the same time. In short, it was the old story of 
 pope and anti-pope ; and the public began to find 
 out that there might be hopes for the salvation of 
 an author though damned by the literary pope- 
 dom. Time, by reversing many of its decisions, 
 must at length have shown the same thing. 
 
 But to return. Scott showed how nearly he had 
 been touched to the quick by two other acts not so 
 discreet. These were, the establishment of an An- 
 nual Register, and of the great publishing house 
 of the Ballantynes, in which he became a silent 
 partner. The last step involved him in grievous 
 embarrassments, and stimulated him to exertions 
 which required " a frame of adamant and soul of 
 fire." At the same time, we find him overwhelmed 
 with poetical, biographical, historical, and critical 
 compositions, together vAih editorial labors of ap- 
 palling magnitude. In this multiplication of him- 
 self in a thousand forms we see him always the 
 
 Vol. I.— 13
 
 194. BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 same, vigorous and eifective. " Poetry," he says 
 in one of his letters, " is a scourging crop, and 
 ought not to be hastily repeated. Editing, there- 
 fore, may be considered as a green crop of turnips 
 or pease, extremely useful to those whose circum- 
 stances do not admit of giving their farm a sum- 
 mer fallow." It might be regretted, however, that 
 he should have wasted powers fitted for so much 
 liigher culture on the coarse products of a kitchen 
 garden, which might have been safely trusted to 
 inferior hands. 
 
 In 1811, Scott gave to the world his exquisite 
 poem, " The Lady of the Lake." One of his fair 
 friends had remonstrated with him on thus risking 
 again the laurel he had already won. He replied, 
 with characteristic and, indeed, prophetic spirit, 
 " If I fail, I will write prose all my life. But if I 
 succeed, 
 
 ' Up wa' the bonnie blue bonnet. 
 The dirk an' the feather an' a' !' " 
 
 In his eulogy on Byron, Scott remarks, " There 
 has been no reposing under the shade of his lau- 
 rels, no living upon the resource of past reputa- 
 tion; none of that coddling and petty precaution 
 which little authors call ' taking care of their 
 fame.' Byron let his fame take care of itself." 
 Scott could not have more accurately described his 
 own character. 
 
 The " Lady of the Lake " was welcomed with 
 an enthusiasm surpassing that which attended any 
 other of his poems. It seemed like the sweet 
 breathings of his native pibroch, stealing over glen 
 and mountain, and calling up all the deHcious as-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 195 
 
 sociations of rural solitude, which beautifully con- 
 trasted with the din of battle and the shrill cry of 
 the war-trumpet that stirred the soul in every page 
 of his " JNIarmion." The publication of this work 
 carried his fame as a poet to its most brilliant 
 height. The post-horse duty rose to an extraordi- 
 nary degree in Scotland, from the eagerness of 
 travellers to visit the localities of the poem. A 
 more substantial evidence was afforded in its 
 amazing circulation, and, consequently, its profits. 
 The press could scarcely keep pace with the public 
 demand, and no less than fifty thousand copies of 
 it have been sold since the date of its appearance. 
 The successful author received more than two 
 thousand guineas from his production. Milton 
 received ten pounds for the two editions which he 
 lived to see of his " Paradise Lost." The Ayrshire 
 bard had sighed for " a lass wi' a tocher." Scott 
 had now found one where it was hardly to be ex- 
 pected, in the Muse. 
 
 While the poetical fame of Scott was thus at its 
 zenith, a new star rose above the horizon, whose 
 eccentric course and dazzling radiance completely 
 bewildered the spectator. In 1812, " Childe Har- 
 old " appeared, and the attention seemed to be now 
 called for the first time from the outward form 
 of man and visible nature to the secret depths of 
 the soul. The darkest recesses of human passion 
 were laid open, and the note of sorrow was pro- 
 longed in tones of agonized sensibility, the more 
 touching as coming from one who was placed on 
 those dazzling heights of rank and fashion which, 
 to the vulgar eye at least, seem to lie in unclouded
 
 196 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 sunshine. Those of the present generation who 
 have heard only the same key thrummed ad nau- 
 seam by the feeble imitators of his lordship can 
 form no idea of the effect produced when the 
 chords were first swept by the master's fingers. It 
 was found impossible for the ear, once attuned to 
 strains of such compass and ravishing harmony, to 
 return with the same relish to purer, it might be, 
 but tamer melody; and the sweet voice of the 
 Scottish minstrel lost much of its power to charm, 
 let him charm never so wisely. While " Rokeby " 
 was in preparation, bets were laid on the rival can- 
 didates by the wits of the day. The sale of this 
 poem, though great, showed a sensible decline in 
 the popularity of its author. This became still 
 more evident on the publication of " The Lord of 
 the Isles ; " and Scott admitted the conviction with 
 his characteristic spirit and good nature. " ' Well, 
 James ' " (he said to his printer) , " ' I have given 
 you a week — ^what are people saying about the 
 Lord of the Isles? ' I hesitated a little, after the 
 fashion of Gil Bias, but he speedily brought the 
 matter to a point. ' Come,' he said, ' speak out, 
 my good fellow; what has put it into your head 
 to be on so much ceremony with me all of a sud- 
 den? But I see how it is ; the result is given in one 
 word, — Disap2)ointment/ My silence admitted 
 his inference to the fullest extent. His counte- 
 nance certainly did look rather blank for a few 
 seconds ; in truth, he had been wholly unprepared 
 for the event. At length he said, with perfect 
 cheerfulness, ' Well, well, James, so be it ; but you 
 laiow we must not droop, for we can't afford to
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 197 
 
 give over. Since one line has failed, we must stick 
 to something else.' " This something else was a 
 mine he had already hit upon, of invention and 
 substantial wealth, such as Thomas the Rhymer, 
 or Michael Scott, or any other adept in the black 
 art had never dreamed of. 
 
 Everybody knows the story of the composition 
 of " Waverley," — the most interesting story in the 
 annals of letters, — and how, some ten years after 
 its commencement, it was fished out of some old 
 lumber in an attic and completed in a few weeks 
 for the press in 1814. Its appearance marks a 
 more distinct epoch in Enghsh literature than that 
 of the poetry of its author. All previous attempts 
 in the same school of fiction — a school of Enghsh 
 growth — had been cramped by the limited infor- 
 mation or talent of the writers. Smollett had pro- 
 duced his spirited sea-pieces, and Fielding his 
 warm sketches of country life, both of them mixed 
 up with so much Billingsgate as required a strong 
 flavor of wit to make them tolerable. Richardson 
 had covered acres of canvas with his faithful fam- 
 ily pictures. Mrs. RadclifFe had dipped up to the 
 elbows in horrors; while Miss Burney's fashion- 
 able gossip, and Miss Edgeworth's Hogarth draw- 
 ings of the prose — not the poetry — of life and 
 character, had each and all found favor in their 
 respective ways. But a work now appeared in 
 which the author swept over the whole range of 
 character with entire freedom as well as fidelity, 
 ennobling the whole by high historic associations, 
 and in a style varying with his theme, but whose 
 pure and classic flow was tinctured with just so
 
 198 BIOGRAPHICAL AND * 
 
 much of poetic coloring as suited the purposes of 
 romance. It was Shakspeare in prose. 
 
 The work was published, as we know, anony- 
 mously. Mr. Gillies states, however, that, while 
 in the press, fragments of it were communicated 
 to " Mr. Mackenzie, Dr. Brown, Mrs. Hamilton, 
 and other savans or savantes^ whose dicta on the 
 merits of a new novel were considered unimpeach- 
 able." By their approbation " a strong body of 
 friends was formed, and the curiosity of the pub- 
 lic prepared the way for its reception." This may 
 explain the rapidity with which the anonymous 
 publication rose into a degree of favor which, 
 though not less surely, perhaps, it might have been 
 more slow in achieving. The author jealously pre- 
 served his incognito, and, in order to heighten the 
 mystification, flung off almost simultaneously a 
 variety of works, in prose and poetry, any one of 
 which might have been the labor of months. The 
 public for a moment was at fault. There seemed 
 to be six Richmonds in the field. The world, there- 
 fore, was reduced to the dilemma of either sup- 
 posing that half a dozen different hands could 
 work in precisely the same style, or that one could 
 do the work of half a dozen. With time, however, 
 the veil wore thinner and thinner, until at length, 
 and long before the ingenious argument of Mr. 
 Adolphus, there was scarcely a critic so purblind 
 as not to discern behind it the features of the 
 mighty minstrel. 
 
 Constable had offered seven hundred pounds for 
 the new novel. " It was," says Mr. Lockhart, *' ten 
 times as much as Miss Edge worth ever realized
 
 LUCY OP LAMMEBMOOB.
 
 .aOOMflaMKAJ %0 YDUa
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 199 
 
 from any of her popular Irish tales." Scott de- 
 clined the offer, which had been a good one for the 
 bookseller had he made it as many thousand. But 
 it passed the art of necromancy to divine this. 
 
 Scott, once entered on this new career, followed 
 it up with an energy unrivalled in the history of 
 Hterature. The public mind was not suffered to 
 cool for a moment, before its attention was called 
 to another miracle of creation from the same hand. 
 Even illness, that would have broken the spirits of 
 most men, as it prostrated the physical energies 
 of Scott, opposed no impediment to the march of 
 composition. When he could no longer write he 
 could dictate, and in this way, amid the agonies of a 
 racking disease, he composed " The Bride of Lam- 
 mermoor," the " Legend of Montrose," and a 
 great part of " Ivanhoe." The first, indeed, is 
 darkened with those deep shadows that might seem 
 thrown over it by the sombre condition of its au- 
 thor. But what shall we say of the imperturbable 
 dry humor of the gallant Captain Dugald Dal- 
 getty of Drumthwacket, or of the gorgeous revel- 
 ries of Ivanhoe, — 
 
 " Such sights as youthful poets dream 
 On summer eves by haunted stream," — 
 
 what shall we say of such brilliant day-dreams for 
 a bed of torture? Never before had the spirit tri- 
 umphed over such agonies of the flesh. " The best 
 way," said Scott, in one of his talks with Gillies, 
 *' is, if possible, to triumph over disease by setting 
 it at defiance; somewhat on the same principle as 
 one avoids being stung by boldly grasping a 
 nettle."
 
 200 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 The prose fictions were addressed to a much 
 larger audience than the poems could be. They 
 had attractions for every age and every class. The 
 profits, of course, were commensurate. Arithme- 
 tic has never been so severely taxed as in the com- 
 putation of Scott's productions and the proceeds 
 resulting from them. In one year he received (or, 
 more properly, was credited with, for it is some- 
 what doubtful how much he actually received) fif- 
 teen thousand pounds for his novels, comprehend- 
 ing the first edition and the copyright. The dis- 
 covery of this rich mine furnished its proprietor 
 with the means of gratifying the fondest and even 
 most chimerical desires. He had always coveted 
 the situation of a lord of acres, — a Scottish laird, — 
 where his passion for planting might find scope in 
 the creation of whole forests, — for every thing 
 with him was on a magnificent scale, — and where 
 he might indulge the kindly feelings of his nature 
 in his benevolent offices to a numerous and depend- 
 ent tenantry. The few acres of the original pur- 
 chase now swelled into hundreds, and, for aught 
 we know, thousands; for one tract alone we find 
 incidentally noticed as costing thirty thousand 
 pounds. " It rounds off the property so hand- 
 somely," he says, in one of his letters. There 
 was always a corner to " round off." The man- 
 sion, in the meantime, from a simple cottage ornee 
 was amplified into the dimensions almost, as well 
 as the bizarre proportions, of some old feudal cas- 
 tle. The furniture and decorations were of the 
 costliest kind ; the wainscots of oak and cedar ; the 
 floors tessellated with marbles, or woods of differ-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 201 
 
 ent dyes ; the ceilings fretted and carved with the 
 delicate tracery of a Gothic abbey ; the storied win- 
 dows blazoned with the riclily-colored insignia of 
 heraldry, the walls garnished with time-honored 
 trophies, or curious specimens of art, or volumes 
 sumptuously bound, — in short, with all that luxury 
 could demand or ingenuity devise ; while a copious 
 reservoir of gas supplied every corner of the man- 
 sion with such fountains of light as must have puz- 
 zled the genius of the lamp to provide for the less 
 fortunate Aladdin. 
 
 Scott's exchequer must have been seriously taxed 
 in another form by the crowds of visitors whom 
 he entertained under his hospitable roof. There 
 was scarcely a person of note, or, to say truth, not 
 of note, who visited that country without paying 
 his respects to the Lion of Scotland. Lockhart 
 reckons up a full sixth of the British peerage who 
 had been there within his recollection ; and Captain 
 Hall, in his amusing Notes, remarks that it was 
 not unusual for a dozen or more coach-loads to 
 find their way into his grounds in the course of the 
 day, most of whom found or forced an entrance 
 into the mansion. Such was the heavy tax paid 
 by his celebrity, and, we may add, his good nature ; 
 for if the one had been a whit less than the other 
 he could never have tolerated such a nuisance. 
 
 The cost of his correspondence gives one no light 
 idea of the demands made on his time, as well as 
 purse, in another form. His postage for letters, 
 independently of franks, by which a large portion 
 of it was covered, amounted to a hundred and fifty 
 pounds, it seems, in the course of the year. In
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 this, indeed, should be included ten pounds for a 
 pair of unfortunate Cherokee Lovers^ sent all the 
 way from our own happy land in order to be 
 godfathered by Sir Walter on the London boards. 
 Perhaps the smart-money he had to pay on 
 this interesting occasion had its influence in 
 mixing up rather more acid than was natural 
 to him in his judgments of our countrymen. 
 At all events, the Yankees find little favor on 
 the few occasions on which he has glanced 
 at them in his correspondence. " I am not at all 
 surprised," he says, in a letter to Miss Edgeworth, 
 " I am not at all surprised at what you say of the 
 Yankees. They are a people possessed of very 
 considerable energy, quickened and brought into 
 eager action by an honorable love of their country 
 and pride in their institutions ; but they are as yet 
 rude in their ideas of social intercourse, and totally 
 ignorant, speaking generally, of all the art of good 
 breeding, which consists chiefly in a postponement 
 of one's own petty wishes or comforts to those of 
 others. By rude questions and observations, an 
 absolute disrespect to other people's feelings, and 
 a ready indulgence of their own, they make one 
 feverish in their company, though perhaps you 
 may be ashamed to confess the reason. But this 
 will wear off, and is already wearing away. Men, 
 when they have once got benches, wiU soon fall into 
 the use of cushions. They are advancing in the lists 
 of our literature, and they will not be long deficient 
 in the petite morale, especially as they have, like 
 ourselves, the rage for travelling." On another 
 occasion, he does, indeed, admit having met with,
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 203 
 
 in the course of his life, " four or five well-lettered 
 Americans, ardent in pursuit of knowledge, and 
 free from the ignorance and forward presumption 
 which distinguish many of their countrymen." 
 This seems hard measure; but perhaps we should 
 find it difiicult, among the many who have visited 
 this country, to recollect as great a number of 
 Englishmen — and Scotchmen to boot — entitled to 
 a higher degree of commendation. It can hardlj-- 
 be that the well-informed and well-bred men of 
 both countries make a point of staying at home; 
 so we suppose we must look for the solution of 
 the matter in the existence of some disagreeable in- 
 gredient, common to the characters of both nations, 
 sprouting, as they do, from a common stock, which 
 remains latent at home, and is never fully disclosed 
 till they get into a foreign climate. But, as this 
 problem seems pregnant with philosophical, physi- 
 ological, and, for aught we know, psychological 
 matter, we have not courage for it here, but recom- 
 mend the solution to Miss Martineau, to whom it 
 will afford a very good title for a new chapter in 
 her next edition. The strictures we have quoted, 
 however, to speak more seriously, are worth at- 
 tending to, coming as they do from a shrewd ob- 
 server, and one whose judgments, though here 
 somewhat colored, no doubt, by pohtical prejudice, 
 are in the main distinguished by a sound and 
 hberal philanthropy. But were he ten times an 
 enemy, we would say, " Fas est ab hoste doceri." 
 
 With the splendid picture of the baronial resi- 
 dence at Abbotsford, Mr. Lockhart closes all that 
 at this present writing we have received of his de-
 
 204 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 lightf ul work in this country ; and in the last sen- 
 tence the melancholy sound of " the muffled drum " 
 gives ominous warning of what we are to expect 
 in the sixth and concluding volume. In the dearth 
 of more authentic information, we will piece out 
 our sketch with a few facts gleaned from the some- 
 what meagre bill of fare — meagre by comparison 
 with the rich banquet of the true Amphitryon — 
 afforded by the " Recollections " of Mr. Robert 
 Pierce Gillies. 
 
 The unbounded popularity of the Waverley 
 Novels led to still more extravagant anticipations 
 on the part both of the pubHshers and author. 
 Some hints of a falling off, though but slightly, in 
 the public favor, were unheeded by both parties, 
 though, to say truth, the exact state of things was 
 never disclosed to Scott, it being Ballantyne's no- 
 tion that it would prove a damper, and that the 
 true course was " to press on more sail as the wind 
 lulled." In these sanguine calculations, not only 
 enormous sums, or, to speak correctly, bills, were 
 given for what had been written, but the author's 
 drafts, to the amount of many thousand pounds, 
 were accepted by Constable in favor of works the 
 very embryos of which lay, not only unformed, but 
 unimagined, in the womb of time. In return for 
 this singular accommodation, Scott was induced to 
 endorse the drafts of his publisher, and in this way 
 an amount of liabilities was incurred which, con- 
 sidering the character of the house and its transac- 
 tions, it is altogether inexplicable that a person in 
 the independent position of Sir Walter Scott 
 should have subjected himself to for a moment.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 205 
 
 He seems to have had entire confidence in the sta- 
 bility of the firm, a confidence to which it seems, 
 from Mr. Gilhes's account, not to have been enti- 
 tled from the first moment of his connection with 
 it. The great reputation of the house, however, 
 the success and magnitude of some of its transac- 
 tions, especially the publication of these novels, 
 gave it a large credit, which enabled it to go for- 
 ward with a great show of prosperity in ordinary 
 times, and veiled its tottering state probably from 
 Constable's own eyes. It is but the tale of yester- 
 day. The case of Constable & Co. is, unhappily, a 
 very familiar one to us. But when the hurricane 
 of 1825 came on, it swept away all those buildings 
 that were not founded on a rock, and those of 
 Messrs. Constable, among others, soon became lit- 
 erally mere castles in the air: in plain English, the 
 firm stopped payment. The assets were very 
 trifling in comparison with the debts; and Sir 
 Walter Scott was found on their paper to the 
 frightful amount of one hundred thousand 
 pounds ! 
 
 His conduct on the occasion was precisely what 
 was to have been anticipated from one who had 
 declared, on a similar though much less appalling 
 conjuncture, " I am always ready to make any sac- 
 rifices to do justice to my engagements, and would 
 rather sell any thing, or every thing, than be less 
 than a true man to the world." He put up his 
 house and furniture in towTi at auction, delivered 
 over his personal efi'ects at Abbotsford, his plate, 
 books, furniture, etc., to be held in trust for his 
 creditors (the estate itself had been recently se-
 
 206 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 cured to his son on occasion of his marriage) , and 
 bound himself to discharge a certain amount an- 
 nually of the liabilities of the insolvent firm. He 
 then, with his characteristic energy, set about the 
 performance of his Herculean task. He took lodg- 
 ings in a third-rate house in St. David's Street, saw 
 but little company, abridged the hours usually de- 
 voted to his meals and his family, gave up his 
 ordinary exercise, and, in short, adopted the severe 
 habits of a regular Grub Street stipendiary. 
 
 " For many years," he said to Mr. Gillies, " I 
 have been accustomed to hard work, because I 
 found it a pleasure ; now, with all due respect for 
 Falstaff's principle, * nothing on compulsion,' I 
 certainly will not shrink from work because it has 
 become necessary." 
 
 One of his first tasks was his "Life of Bona- 
 parte," achieved in the space of thirteen months. 
 For this he received fourteen thousand pounds, 
 about eleven hundred per month, — not a bad bar- 
 gain either, as it proved, for the publishers. The 
 first two volumes of the nine which make up the 
 English edition were a rifacimento of what he had 
 before compiled for the " Annual Register." 
 With every allowance for the inaccuracies and the 
 excessive expansion incident to such a flashing 
 rapidity of execution, the work, taking into view 
 the broad range of its topics, its shrewd and saga- 
 cious reflections, and the free, bold and picturesque 
 coloring of its narration, and, above all, consider- 
 ing the brief time in which it was written, is indis- 
 putably one of the most remarkable monuments of 
 genius and industry — perhaps the most remarka- 
 ble — ever recorded.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 207 
 
 Scott's celebrity made every thing that fell from 
 him, however trifling, — the dew-drops from the 
 hon's mane, — of value. But none of the many ad- 
 ventures he embarked in, or, rather, set afloat, 
 proved so profitable as the republication of his 
 novels with his notes and illustrations. As he felt 
 his own strength in the increasing success of his 
 labors, he appears to have relaxed somewhat from 
 them, and to have again resumed somewhat of his 
 ancient habits, and, in a mitigated degree, his an- 
 cient hospitality. But still his exertions were too 
 severe, and pressed heavily on the springs of his 
 health, already deprived by age of their former 
 elasticity and vigor. At length, in 1831, he was 
 overtaken by one of those terrible shocks of paraly- 
 sis which seem to have been constitutional in his 
 family, but which, with more precaution and under 
 happier auspices, might doubtless have been post- 
 poned, if not wholly averted. At this time he had 
 in the short space of little more than five years, by 
 his sacrifices and efforts, discharged about two- 
 thirds of the debt for which he was responsible, — 
 an astonishing result, wholly unparalleled in the 
 history of letters. There is something inexpressi- 
 bly painful in this spectacle of a generous heart 
 thus courageously contending with fortune, bear- 
 ing up against the tide with unconquerable spirit, 
 and finally overwhelmed by it just within reach of 
 shore. 
 
 The rest of his story is one of humihation and 
 sorrow. He was induced to take a voyage to the 
 Continent to try the effect of a more genial cli- 
 mate. Under the sunny sky of Italy he seemed
 
 208 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 to gather new strength for a while ; but his eye fell 
 with indifference on the venerable monuments 
 which in better days would have kindled all his en- 
 thusiasm. The invalid sighed for his own home at 
 Abbotsford. The heat of the weather and the fa- 
 tigue of rapid travel brought on another shock, 
 which reduced him to a state of deplorable im- 
 becility. In this condition he returned to his own 
 halls, where the sight of early friends, and of the 
 beautiful scenery, the creation, as it were, of his 
 own hands, seemed to impart a gleam of melan- 
 choly satisfaction, which soon, however, sunk into 
 insensibility. To his present situation might well 
 be applied the exquisite verses which he indited on 
 another melancholy occasion: 
 
 " Yet not the landscape to mine eye 
 
 Bears those bright hues that once it bore; 
 Though Evening, with her richest dye, 
 Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. 
 
 "With listless look along the plain 
 I see Tweed's silver current glide. 
 And coldly mark the holy fane 
 Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. 
 
 " The quiet lake, the balmy air. 
 
 The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, 
 Are they still such as once they were, 
 Or is the dreary change in me?" 
 
 Providence, in its mercy, did not suffer the shat- 
 tered frame long to outlive the glorious spirit 
 which had informed it. He breathed his last on 
 the 21st of September, 1832. His remains were 
 deposited, as he had always desired, in the hoary 
 abbey of Dryburgh, and the pilgrim from many 
 a distant clime shall repair to the consecrated spot
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 209 
 
 so long as the reverence for exalted genius and 
 worth shall survive in the human heart. 
 
 This sketch, brief as we could make it, of the 
 literary history of Sir Walter Scott, has extended 
 so far as to leave but little space for — what Lock- 
 hart's volumes aiFord ample materials for — his 
 personal character. Take it for all and all, it is 
 not too much to say that this character is probably 
 the most remarkable on record. There is no man 
 of historical celebrity that we now recall, who com- 
 bined in so eminent a degree the highest qualities 
 of the moral, the intellectual, and the physical. 
 He united in his own character what hitherto had 
 been found incompatible. Though a poet, and 
 living in an ideal world, he was an exact, methodi- 
 cal man of business; though achieving with the 
 most wonderful facility of genius, he was patient 
 and laborious; a mousing antiquarian, yet with 
 the most active interest in the present and what- 
 ever was going on around him ; with a strong turn 
 for a roving life and military adventure, he was 
 yet chained to his desk more hours, at some periods 
 of his life, than a monkish recluse; a man with a 
 heart as capacious as his head ; a Tory, brimful of 
 Jacobitism, yet full of sympathy and unaffected 
 familiarity with all classes, even the humblest; a 
 successful author, without pedantry and without 
 conceit; one, indeed, at the head of the republic 
 of letters, and yet with a lower estimate of letters, 
 as compared with other intellectual pursuits, than 
 was ever hazarded before. 
 
 The first quality of his character, or, rather, that 
 which forms the basis of it, as of all great char- 
 
 VoL. I.— 14
 
 210 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 acters, was his energy. We see it, in his early- 
 youth, triumphing over the impediments of nature, 
 and, in spite of lameness, making him conispicuous 
 in every sort of athletic exercise, — clambering up 
 dizzy precipices, wading through treacherous 
 fords, and performing feats of pedestrianism that 
 make one's joints ache to read of. As he advanced 
 in life, we see the same force of purpose turned to 
 higher objects. A striking example occurs in his 
 organization of the journals and the publishing 
 house in opposition to Constable. In what Her- 
 culean drudgery did not this latter business, in 
 which he undertook to supply matter for the nim- 
 ble press of Ballantyne, involve him! while, in 
 addition to his own concerns, he had to drag along 
 by his solitary momentum a score of heavier under- 
 takings, that led Lockhart to compare him to a 
 steam-engine with a train of coal-wagons hitched 
 to it. " Yes," said Scott, laughing, and making a 
 crashing cut with his axe (for they were feUing 
 larches), "and there was a cursed lot of dung- 
 carts too." 
 
 We see the same powerful energies triumphing 
 over disease at a later period, when nothing but a 
 resolution to get the better of it enabled him to do 
 so. " Be assured," he remarked to Mr. Gillies, 
 " that if pain could have prevented my application 
 to literary labor, not a page of Ivanhoe would have 
 been written. Now, if I had given way to mere feel- 
 ings, and ceased to work, it is a question whether 
 the disorder might not have taken a deeper root, 
 and become incurable." But the most extraor- 
 dinary instance of this trait is the readiness with
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 211 
 
 which he assumed and the spirit with which he car- 
 ried through, till his mental strength broke down 
 under it, the gigantic task imposed on him by the 
 failure of Constable. 
 
 It mattered little what the nature of the task 
 was, whether it were organizing an opposition to 
 a political faction, or a troop of cavalry to resist 
 invasion, or a medley of wild Highlanders or 
 Edinburgh cockneys to make up a royal puppet- 
 show — a loyal celebration — for " His Most Sacred 
 Majesty," he was the master-spirit that gave the 
 cue to the whole dramatis personce. This potent 
 impulse showed itself in the thoroughness with 
 which he prescribed not merely the general orders, 
 but the execution of the minutest details, in his own 
 person. Thus all around him was the creation, as 
 it were, of his individual exertion. His lands 
 waved with forests planted with his own hands, 
 and, in process of time, cleared by his own hands. 
 He did not lay the stones in mortar, exactly, for 
 his whimsical castle, but he seems to have superin- 
 tended the operation from the foundation to the 
 battlements. The antique relics, the curious works 
 of art, the hangings and furniture, even, with 
 which his halls were decorated, were specially con- 
 trived or selected by him; and, to read his letters 
 at this time to his friend Terry, one might fancy 
 himself perusing the correspondence of an uphol- 
 sterer, so exact and technical is he in his instruc- 
 tions. We say this not in disparagement of his 
 great qualities. It is only the more extraordinary ; 
 for, while he stooped to such trifles, he was equally 
 thorough in matters of the highest moment. It 
 was a trait of character.
 
 212 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 Another quality, which, Hke the last, seems to 
 have given the tone to his character, was his social 
 or benevolent feelings. His heart was an unfail- 
 ing fountain, which not merely the distresses but 
 the joys of his fellow-creatures made to flow hke 
 water. In early life, and possibly sometimes in 
 later, high spirits and a vigorous constitution led 
 him occasionally to carry his social propensities 
 into convivial excess ; but he never was in danger 
 of the habitual excess to which a vulgar mind — 
 and sometimes, alas! one more finely tuned — 
 abandons itself. With all his conviviality, it was 
 not the sensual relish, but the social, which acted 
 on him. He was neither gourme nor gourmand; 
 but his social meetings were endeared to him by the 
 free interchange of kindly feelings with his 
 friends. La Bruyere says ( and it is odd he should 
 have found it out in Louis the Fourteenth's court) , 
 *' the heart has more to do than the head with the 
 pleasures, or, rather, promoting the pleasures, of 
 society;" " Un homme est d'un meilleur com- 
 merce dans la societe par le coeur que par I'esprit." 
 If report — ^the report of travellers — be true, we 
 Americans, at least the New Englanders, are too 
 much perplexed with the cares and crosses of life 
 to afford many genuine specimens of this hon- 
 hommie. However this may be, we all, doubtless, 
 know some such character, whose shining face, the 
 index of a cordial heart, radiant with beneficent 
 pleasure, diffuses its own exhilarating glow 
 wherever it appears. Rarely, indeed, is this pre- 
 cious quality found united with the most exalted 
 intellect. Whether it be that Nature, chary of her
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 213 
 
 gifts, does not care to shower too many of them 
 on one head, or that the pubhc admiration has led 
 the man of intellect to set too high a value on him- 
 self, or at least his own pursuits, to take an inter- 
 est in the inferior concerns of others, or that the 
 fear of compromising his dignity puts him " on 
 points " with those who approach him, or whether, 
 in truth, the very magnitude of his own reputation 
 throws a freezing shadow over us little people in 
 his neighborhood, — whatever be the cause, it is too 
 true that the highest powers of mind are very often 
 deficient in the only one which can make the rest of 
 much worth in society, — the power of pleasing. 
 
 Scott was not one of these little great. His was 
 not one of those dark -lantern visages which con- 
 centrate all their light on their o^vn path and are 
 black as midnight to all about them. He had a 
 ready sympathy, a word of contagious kindness or 
 cordial greeting, for all. His manners, too, were 
 of a kind to dispel the icy reserve and awe which 
 his great name was calculated to inspire. His 
 frank address was a sort of open sesame to every 
 heart. He did not deal in sneers, the poisoned 
 weapons which come not from the head, as the 
 man who launches them is apt to think, but from 
 an acid heart, or, perhaps, an acid stomach, a very 
 common laboratory of such small artillery. 
 Neither did Scott amuse the company with parlia- 
 mentary harangues or metaphysical disquisitions. 
 His conversation was of the narrative kind, not 
 formal, but as casually suggested by some passing 
 circumstance or topic, and thrown in by way of 
 illustration. He did not repeat himself, however.
 
 214 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 but continued to give his anecdotes such variations, 
 by rigging them out in a new " cocked hat and 
 walking-cane," as he called it, that they never tired 
 like the thrice-told tale of a chronic raconteur. He 
 allowed others, too, to take their turn, and thought 
 with the Dean of St. Patrick's : 
 
 "Carve to all, but just enough; 
 Let them neither starve nor stuff; 
 And, that you may have your due, 
 Let your neighbors carve for you." 
 
 He relished a good joke, from whatever quarter 
 it came, and was not over-dainty in his manner of 
 testifying his satisfaction. " In the full tide of 
 mirth, he did indeed laugh the heart's laugh," says 
 Mr. Adolphus. " Give me an honest laugher," 
 said Scott himself, on another occasion, when a 
 buckram man of fashion had been paying him a 
 visit at Abbotsford. His manners, free from 
 affectation or artifice of any sort, exhibited the 
 spontaneous movements of a kind disposition, sub- 
 ject to those rules of good breeding which Nature 
 herself might have dictated. In this way he an- 
 swered his own purpose admirably as a painter of 
 character, by putting every man in good humor 
 with himself, in the same manner as a cunning 
 portrait-painter amuses his sitters with such store 
 of fun and anecdote as may throw them off their 
 guard and call out the happiest expressions of their 
 countenances. 
 
 Scott, in his wide range of friends and compan- 
 ions, does not seem to have been over-fastidious. 
 In the instance of John Ballantyne, it has exposed 
 him to some censure. In truth, a more worthless
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 215 
 
 fellow never hung on the skirts of a great man; 
 for he did not take the trouble to throw a decent 
 veil over the grossest excesses. But then he had 
 been the school-boy friend of Scott; had grown 
 up with him in a sort of dependence, — a relation 
 which begets a kindly feeling in the party that 
 confers the benefits, at least. How strong it was 
 in him may be inferred from his remark at his 
 funeral. " I feel," said Scott, mournfully, as the 
 solemnity was concluded, *' I feel as if there would 
 be less sunshine for me from this day forth." It 
 must be admitted, however, that his intimacy with 
 httle Rigdumfunnidos, whatever apology it may 
 find in Scott's heart, was not very creditable to his 
 taste. 
 
 But the benevolent principle showed itself not 
 merely in words, but in the more substantial form 
 of actions. How many are the cases recorded of 
 indigent merit which he drew from obscurity and 
 almost warmed into life by his own generous and 
 most delicate patronage! Such were the cases, 
 among others, of Leyden, Weber, Hogg. How 
 often and how cheerfully did he supply such lit- 
 erary contributions as were solicited by his friends 
 — and they taxed him pretty liberally — amid all 
 the pressure of business, and at the height of his 
 fame, when his hours were golden hours to him! 
 In the more vulgar and easier forms of charity he 
 did not stint his hand, though, instead of direct as- 
 sistance, he preferred to enable others to assist 
 themselves, — in this way fortifying their good 
 habits and relieving them from the sense of per- 
 sonal degradation.
 
 216 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 But the place where his benevolent impulses 
 found their proper theatre for expansion was his 
 own home, surrounded by a happy family, and 
 dispensing all the hospitalities of a great feudal 
 proprietor. " There are many good things in life," 
 he says, in one of his letters, " whatever satirists 
 and misanthropes may say to the contrary; but 
 probably the best of all, next to a conscience void 
 of oiFence (without which, by-the-by, they can 
 hardly exist), are the quiet exercise and enjoy- 
 ment of the social feelings, in which we are at 
 once happy ourselves and the cause of happiness 
 to them who are dearest to us." Every page of the 
 work, almost, shows us how intimately he blended 
 himself with the pleasures and the pursuits of his 
 own family, watched over the education of his chil- 
 dren, shared in their rides, their rambles and sports, 
 losing no opportunity of kindling in their young 
 minds a love of virtue, and honorable principles 
 of action. He delighted, too, to collect his ten- 
 antry around him, multiplying holidays, when 
 young and old might come together under his roof- 
 tree, when the jolly punch was liberally dispensed 
 by himself and his wife among the elder people, 
 and the Hogmanay cakes and pennies were dis- 
 tributed among the young ones, while his own chil- 
 dren mingled in the endless reels and hornpipes on 
 the earthen floor, and the laird himself, mixing in 
 the groups of merry faces, had " his private joke 
 for every old wife or ' gausie carle,' his arch com- 
 pliment for the ear of every bonny lass, and his 
 hand and his blessing for the head of every little 
 Eppie Daidle from Abbotstown or Broomylees."
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 217 
 
 " Sir Walter," said one of his old retainers, 
 " speaks to every man as if he were his blood rela- 
 tion." No wonder that they should have returned 
 this feeling with something warmer than blood re- 
 lations usually do. Mr. Gilhes tells an anecdote of 
 the Ettrick Shepherd, showing how deep a root 
 such feehngs, notwithstanding his rather odd way 
 of expressing them sometimes, had taken in his 
 honest nature. " Mr. James Ballantyne, walking 
 home with him one evening from Scott's, where, 
 by-the-by, Hogg had gone uninvited, happened to 
 observe, * I do not at all like this illness of Scott's. 
 I have often seen him look jaded of late, and am 
 afraid it is serious.' ' Hand your tongue, or I'll 
 gar you measure your length on the pavement ! ' 
 replied Hogg. ' You fause, down-hearted loon 
 that you are; ye daur to speak as if Scott were 
 on his death-bed! It cannot be — it must not be I 
 I will not suffer you to speak that gait.' The sen- 
 timent was like that of Uncle Toby at the bedside 
 of Le Fevre ; and, at these words, the Shepherd's 
 voice became suppressed with emotion." 
 
 But Scott's sympathies were not confined to his 
 species ; and if he treated them like blood relations, 
 he treated his brute followers like personal friends. 
 Every one remembers old Maida and faithful 
 Camp, the " dear old friend," whose loss cost him 
 a dinner. Mr. Gillies tells us that he went into his 
 study on one occasion, when he was winding off his 
 " Vision of Don Roderick." " ' Look here,' said 
 the poet, ' I have just begun to copy over the 
 rhymes that you heard to-day and applauded so 
 much. Return to supper, if you can; only don't
 
 218 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 be late, as you perceive we keep early hours, and 
 Wallace will not suif er me to rest after six in the 
 morning. Come, good dog, and help the poet.' 
 At this hint, Wallace seated himself upright on a 
 chair next his master, who offered him a news- 
 paper, which he directly seized, looking very wise, 
 and holding it firmly and contentedly in his mouth. 
 Scott looked at him with great satisfaction, for he 
 was excessively fond of dogs. ' Very well,' said 
 he ; ' now we shall get on.' And so I left them 
 abruptly, knowing that my ' absence would be the 
 best company.' " This fellowship extended much 
 farther than to his canine followers, of which, in- 
 cluding hounds, terriers, mastiffs, and mongrels, 
 he had certainly a goodly assortment. We find, 
 also. Grimalkin installed in a responsible post in 
 the Hbrary, and, out of doors, pet hens, pet don- 
 keys, and — ^tell it not in Judaea — a pet pig! 
 
 Scott's sensibilities, though easily moved and 
 widely diffused, were warm and sincere. None 
 shared more cordially in the troubles of his friends ; 
 but on all such occasions, with a true manly feel- 
 ing, he thought less of mere sympathy than of the 
 most effectual way for mitigating their sorrows. 
 After a touching allusion in one of his epistles to 
 his dear friend Erskine's death, he concludes, " I 
 must turn to and see what can be done about get- 
 ting some pension for his daughters." In another 
 passage, which may remind one of some of the ex- 
 quisite touches in Jeremy Taylor, he indulges in 
 the following beautiful strain of philosophy: 
 " The last three or four years have swept away 
 more than half the friends with whom I Hved in
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES £19 
 
 habits of great intimacy. So it must be with us 
 
 ' When ance life's day draws near the gloamin', ' 
 
 and yet we proceed with our plantations and plans 
 as if any tree but the sad cypress would accom- 
 pany us to the grave, where our friends have gone 
 before us. It is the way of the world, however, 
 and must be so; otherwise life would be spent in 
 unavailing mourning for those whom we have lost. 
 It is better to enjoy the society of those who re- 
 main to us." His well-disciplined heart seems to 
 have confessed the influence of this philosophy in 
 his most ordinary relations. " I can't help it," was 
 a favorite maxim of his, " and therefore will not 
 think about it; for that, at least, I can help." 
 
 Among his admirable qualities must not be omit- 
 ted a certain worldly sagacity or shrewdness, which 
 is expressed as strongly as any individual trait 
 can be in some of his portraits, especially in the 
 excellent one of him by LesHe. Indeed, his coun- 
 tenance would seem to exhibit, ordinarily, much 
 more of Dandie Dinmont's benevolent shrewdness 
 than of the eye glancing from earth to heaven 
 which in fancy we assign to the poet, and which, 
 in some moods, must have been his. This trait may 
 be readily discerned in his business transactions, 
 which he managed with perfect knowledge of char- 
 acter as well as of his own rights. No one knew 
 better than he the market value of an article ; and, 
 though he underrated his literary wares as to their 
 mere hterary rank, he set as high a money value 
 on them and made as sharp a bargain as any of the 
 trade could have done. In his business concerns,
 
 220 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 indeed, he managed rather too much, or, to speak 
 more correctly, was too fond of mixing up mys- 
 tery in his transactions, which, hke most mysteries, 
 proved of Httle service to their author. Scott's 
 correspondence, especially with his son, aiFords ob- 
 vious examples of shrewdness, in the advice he 
 gives as to his deportment in the novel situations 
 and society into which the young cornet was 
 thrown. Occasionally, in the cautious hints about 
 etiquette and social observances, we may be re- 
 minded of that ancient " arbiter elegantiarum," 
 Lord Chesterfield, though it must be confessed 
 there is throughout a high moral tone, which the 
 noble lord did not very scrupulously aiFect. 
 
 Another feature in Scott's character was liis loy- 
 alty, which some people would extend into a more 
 general deference to rank not royal. We do cer- 
 tainly meet with a tone of deference, occasionally, 
 to the privileged orders (or, rather, privileged per- 
 sons, as the king, or his own chief, for to the mass 
 of stars and garters he showed no such respect) 
 which falls rather unpleasantly on the ear of a 
 republican. But, independently of the feelings 
 which rightfully belonged to him as the subject of 
 a monarchy, and without which he must have been 
 a false-hearted subject, his o^vn were heightened 
 by a poetical coloring that mingled in his mind 
 even with much more vulgar relations of life. At 
 the opening of the regalia in Hoiyrood House, 
 when the honest burgomaster deposited the crown 
 on the head of one of the young ladies present, the 
 good man probably saw nothing more in the dingy 
 diadem than we should have seen, — a headpiece for
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 221 
 
 a set of men no better than himself, and, if the old 
 adage of a " dead lion " holds true, not quite so 
 good. But to Scott's imagination other views were 
 unfolded. " A thousand years their cloudy wings 
 expanded " around him, and in the dim visions of 
 distant times he beheld the venerable hne of mon- 
 archs who had swayed the councils of his country 
 in peace and led her armies in battle. The " golden 
 round " became in his eye the symbol of his nation's 
 glory; and, as he heaved a heavy oath from his 
 heart, he left the room in agitation, from which he 
 did not speedily recover. There was not a spice 
 of affectation in this, — for who ever accused Scott 
 of affectation? — but there was a good deal of 
 poetry, the poetry of sentiment. 
 
 We have said that this feeling mingled in the 
 more common concerns of his life. His cranium, 
 indeed, to judge from his busts, must have exhib- 
 ited a strong development of the organ of venera- 
 tion. He regarded with reverence every thing 
 connected with antiquity. His establishment was 
 on the feudal scale ; his house was fashioned more 
 after the feudal ages than his own; and even in 
 the ultimate distribution of his fortune, although 
 the circumstance of having made it himself relieved 
 him from any legal necessity of contravening the 
 suggestions of natural justice, he showed such at- 
 tachment to the old aristocratic usage as to settle 
 nearly the whole of it on his eldest son. 
 
 The influence of this poetic sentiment is discern- 
 ible in his most trifling acts, in his tastes, his love 
 of the arts, his social habits. His museum, house, 
 and grounds were adorned with relics curious not
 
 222 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 so much from their workmanship as their historic 
 associations. It was the ancient fountain from 
 Edinburgh, the Tolbooth hntels, the blunderbuss 
 and spleughan of Rob Roy, the drinking-cup of 
 Prince Charhe, or the Hke. It was the same in the 
 arts. The tunes he loved were not the refined and 
 complex melodies of Italy, but the simple notes of 
 his native minstrelsy, from the bagpipe of John of 
 Skye, or from the harp of his own lovely and ac- 
 complished daughter. So, also, in painting. It 
 was not the masterly designs of the great Flemish 
 and Italian schools that adorned his walls, but 
 some portrait of Claverhouse, or of Queen Mary, 
 or of " glorious old John." In architecture we 
 see the same spirit in the singular " romance of 
 stone and lime," which may be said to have been 
 his own device, down to the minutest details of its 
 finishing. We see it again in the joyous celebra- 
 tions of his feudal tenantry, the good old festivals, 
 the Hogmanay, the Kirn, etc., long fallen into 
 desuetude, when the old Highland piper sounded 
 the same wild pibroch that had so often summoned 
 the clans together, for war or for wassail, among 
 the fastnesses of the mountains. To the same 
 source, in fine, may be traced the feelings of super- 
 stition which seemed to hover round Scott's mind 
 like some " strange, mysterious dream," giving a 
 romantic coloring to his conversation and his writ- 
 ings, but rarely, if ever, influencing his actions. It 
 was a poetic sentiment. 
 
 Scott was a Tory to the backbone. Had he come 
 into the world half a century sooner, he would, no 
 doubt, have made a figure under the banner of the
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 223 
 
 Pretender. He was at no great pains to disguise 
 his political creed; witness his jolly drinking- 
 song on the acquittal of Lord Melville. This was 
 verse; but his prose is not much more quahfied. 
 " As for Whiggery in general," he says, in one of 
 his letters, " I can only say that, as no man can be 
 said to be utterly overset until his rump has been 
 higher than his head, so I cannot read in history 
 of any free state which has been brought to slavery 
 until the rascal and uninstructed populace had had 
 their short hour of anarchical government, which 
 naturally leads to the stern repose of military des- 
 potism With these convictions, I am very 
 
 jealous of Whiggery under all modifications, and 
 I must say my acquaintance with the total want of 
 principle in some of its warmest professors does 
 not tend to recommend it." With all this, how- 
 ever, his Toryism was not, practically, of that sort 
 which blunts a man's sensibilities for those who are 
 not of the same porcelain clay with himself. No 
 man, Whig or Radical, ever had less of this pre- 
 tension, or treated his inferiors with greater kind- 
 ness, and even f amiharity, — a circumstance noticed 
 by every visitor at his hospitable mansion who saw 
 him strolling round his grounds, taking his pinch 
 of snuff out of the mull of some " gray-haired old 
 hedger," or leaning on honest Tom Purdie's shoul- 
 der and taking sweet counsel as to the right method 
 of thinning a plantation. But, with all this famil- 
 iarity, no man was better served by his domestics. 
 It was the service of love, the only service that 
 power cannot command and money cannot buy. 
 Akin to the feelings of which we have been
 
 224 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 speaking was the truly chivalrous sense of honor 
 which stamped his whole conduct. We do not 
 mean that Hotspur honor which is roused only by 
 the drum and fife, — though he says of himself, 
 " I like the sound of a drum as well as Uncle Toby 
 ever did," — but that honor which is deep-seated in 
 the heart of every true gentleman, shrinking with 
 sensitive delicacy from the least stain, or imputa- 
 tion of a stain, on his faith. " If we lose every 
 thing else," writes he, on a trying occasion, to a 
 friend who was not so nice in this particular, " we 
 will at least keep our honor unblemished." It re- 
 minds one of the pithy epistle of a kindred chival- 
 rous spirit, Francis the First, to his mother, from 
 the unlucky field of Pavia: " Tout est perdu, fors 
 I'honneur." Scott's latter years furnished a noble 
 commentary on the sincerity of his manly princi- 
 ples. 
 
 Little is said directly of his religious sentiments 
 in the biography. They seem to have harmonized 
 well with his political. He was a member of the 
 English Church, a stanch champion of established 
 forms, and a sturdy enemy to every thing that sa- 
 vored of the sharp tang of Puritanism. On this 
 ground, indeed, the youthful Samson used to wres- 
 tle manfully with worthy Dominie LlitcheU, who, 
 no doubt, furnished many a screed of doctrine for 
 the Rev. Peter Poundtext, Master Nehemiah 
 Holdenough, and other lights of the Covenant. 
 Scott was no friend to cant under any form. But, 
 whatever were his speculative opinions, in practice 
 his heart overflowed with that charity which is the 
 life-spring of our religion ; and whenever he takes
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 225 
 
 occasion to allude to the subject directly he testi- 
 fies a deep reverence for the truths of revelation, 
 as well as for its Divine original. 
 
 Whatever estimate be formed of Scott's moral 
 qualities, his intellectual were of a kind which w^ll 
 entitled him to the epithet conferred on Lope de 
 Vega, " monstruo de naturaleza" (a miracle of 
 nature). His mind scarcely seemed to be sub- 
 jected to the same laws that control the rest of his 
 species. His memory, as is usual, was the first 
 of his powers fully developed. While an urchin 
 at school, he could repeat whole cantos, he says, of 
 Ossian and of Spenser. In riper years we are con- 
 stantly meeting with similar feats of his achieve- 
 ment. Thus, on one occasion, he repeated the 
 whole of a poem in some penny magazine, inci- 
 dentally alluded to, which he had not seen since he 
 was a school-boy. On another, when the Ettrick 
 Shepherd was trying ineffectually to fish up from 
 his own recollections some scraps of a ballad he had 
 himself manufactured years before, Scott called to 
 him, " Take your pencil, Jemmy, and I wiU tell 
 it to you, word for word;" and he accordingly did 
 so. But it is needless to multiply examples of 
 feats so startling as to look almost like the tricks 
 of a conjurer. 
 
 What is most extraordinary is, that while he ac- 
 quired with such facility that the bare perusal, or 
 the repetition of a thing once to him, was sufficient, 
 he yet retained it with the greatest pertinacity. 
 Other men's memories are so much jostled in the 
 rough and tumble of life that most of the facts get 
 sifted out nearly as fast as they are put in ; so that 
 
 Vol. I.— 15
 
 226 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 we are in the same dilemma with those unlucky 
 daughters of Danaus, of school-boy memory, 
 obliged to spend the greater part of the time in re- 
 plenishing. But Scott's memory seemed to be her- 
 metically sealed, suffering nothing once fairly in 
 to leak out again. This was of immense service to 
 him when he took up the business of authorship, as 
 his whole multifarious stock of facts, whether 
 from books or observation, became, in truth, his 
 stock in trade, ready furnished to his hands. This 
 may explain in part — though it is not less marvel- 
 lous — the cause of his rapid execution of works 
 often replete with rare and curious information. 
 The labor, the preparation, had been already com- 
 pleted. His whole life had been a business of prep- 
 aration. When he ventured, as in the case of 
 " Rokeby " and of " Quentin Durward," on 
 ground with which he had not been familiar, we see 
 how industriously he set about new acquisitions. 
 
 In most of the prodigies of memory which we 
 have ever known, the overgrowth of that faculty 
 seems to have been attained at the expense of all 
 the others ; but in Scott the directly opposite power 
 of the imagination, the inventive power, was 
 equally strongly developed, and at the same early 
 age; for we find him renowned for story-craft 
 while at school. How many a delightful fiction, 
 warm with the flush of ingenuous youth, did he not 
 throw away on the ears of thoughtless childhood, 
 which, had they been duly registered, might now 
 have amused children of a larger growth? We 
 have seen Scott's genius in its prime and its decay. 
 The frolic graces of childhood are alone wanting.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 227 
 
 The facility with which he threw his ideas into 
 language was also remarked very early. One of 
 his first ballads, and a long one, was dashed off at 
 the dinner-table. His " Lay " was written at the 
 rate of a canto a week. " Waverley," or, rather, 
 the last two volumes of it, cost the evenings of a 
 summer month. Who that has ever read the ac- 
 count can forget the movements of that mysterious 
 hand, as described by the two students from the 
 window of a neighboring attic, throwing off sheet 
 after sheet, with untiring rapidity, of the pages 
 destined to immortality? Scott speaks pleasantly 
 enough of this marvellous facility in a letter to his 
 friend Morritt: "When once I set my pen to 
 the paper, it will walk fast enough. I am some- 
 times tempted to leave it alone, and see whether 
 it will not write as well without the assistance of 
 my head as with it. A hopeful prospect for the 
 reader." 
 
 As to the time and place of composition, he ap- 
 pears to have been nearly indifferent. He pos- 
 sessed entire power of abstraction, and it mattered 
 little whether he were nailed to his clerk's desk, 
 under the drowsy eloquence of some long-winded 
 barrister, or dashing his horse into the surf on Por- 
 tobello sands, or rattling in a post-chaise, or amid 
 the hum of guests in his overflowing halls at 
 Abbotsford, — it mattered not; the same well-ad- 
 justed little packet, " nicely corded and sealed," 
 was sure to be ready, at the regular time, for the 
 Edinburgh mail. His own account of his compo- 
 sition to a friend, who asked when he found time 
 for it, is striking enough. " Oh," said Scott, " I
 
 228 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 lie simmering over things for an hour or so before 
 I get up, and there's the time I am dressing to 
 overhaul my half -sleeping, half -waking pro jet de 
 chapitre; and when I get the paper before me, it 
 commonly runs off pretty easily. Besides, I often 
 take a doze in the plantations, and while Tom 
 marks out a dike or a drain as I have directed, one's 
 fancy may be running its ain riggs in some other 
 world." Never did this sort of simmering pro- 
 duce such a splendid bill of fare. 
 
 The quality of the material, under such circum- 
 stances, is, in truth, the great miracle of the whole. 
 The execution of so much work, as a mere feat of 
 penmanship, would undoubtedly be very extraor- 
 dinary, but, as a mere scrivener's miracle, would 
 be hardly worth recording. It is a sort of miracle 
 that is every day performing under our own eyes, 
 as it were, by Messrs. James, Bulwer, & Co., who, 
 in all the various staples of " comedy, history, 
 pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral," etc., supply 
 their own market, and ours too, with all that can 
 be wanted. In Spain, and in Italy also, we may 
 find abundance of improvvisatori and improvvis- 
 atrici, who perform miracles of the same sort, in 
 verse too, in languages whose vowel terminations 
 make it very easy for the thoughts to tumble into 
 rhyme without any malice prepense. Sir Stam- 
 ford Raffles, in his account of Java, tells us of a 
 splendid avenue of trees before his house, which 
 in the course of a year shot up to the height of 
 forty feet. But who shall compare the brief, tran- 
 sitory splendors of a fungous vegetation with the 
 mighty monarch of the forest, sending his roots
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 
 
 deep into the heart of the earth, and his branches, 
 amid storm and sunshine, to the heavens? And is 
 not the latter the true emblem of Scott ? For who 
 can doubt that his prose creations, at least, will 
 gather strength with time, living on through suc- 
 ceeding generations, even when the language in 
 which they are written, Hke those of Greece and 
 Rome, shall cease to be a living language? 
 
 The only writer deserving, in these respects, to 
 be named with Scott, is Lope de Vega, who in his 
 own day held as high a rank in the republic of let- 
 ters as our great contemporary. The beautiful 
 dramas which he threw off for the entertainment 
 of the capital, and whose success drove Cervantes 
 from the stage, outstripped the abilities of an 
 amanuensis to copy. His intimate friend Montal- 
 van, one of the most popular and prolific authors 
 of the time, tells us that he undertook with Lope 
 once to supply the theatre with a comedy — in 
 verse, and in three acts, as the Spanish dramas usu- 
 ally were — at a very short notice. In order to get 
 through his half as soon as his partner, he rose by 
 two in the morning, and at eleven had completed 
 it; an extraordinary feat, certainly, since a play 
 extended to between thirty and forty pages, of a 
 hundred lines each. Walking into the garden, he 
 found his brother poet pruning an orange-tree. 
 " Well, how do you get on? " said Montalvan. 
 " Very well," answered Lope. " I rose betimes, — 
 at five, — and, after I had got through, eat my 
 breakfast; since v/hich I have written a letter of 
 fifty triplets, and watered the whole of the garden, 
 which has tired me a good deal."
 
 230 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 But a little arithmetic will best show the com- 
 parative fertility of Scott and Lope de Vega. It is 
 so germane to the present matter that we shall 
 make no apology for transcribing here some com- 
 putations from our last July number ; and as few 
 of our readers, we suspect, have the air-tight mem- 
 ory of Sir Walter, we doubt not that enough of it 
 has escaped them by this time to excuse us from 
 equipping it with one of those " cocked hats and 
 walking-sticks " with which he furbished up an old 
 story. 
 
 " It is impossible to state the results of Lope de 
 Vega's labors in any form that will not powerfully 
 strike the imagination. Thus, he has left twenty- 
 one million three hundred thousand verses in print, 
 besides a mass of manuscript. He furnished the 
 theatre, according to the statement of his intimate 
 friend Montalvan, with eighteen hundred regular 
 plays and four hundred autos, or religious dramas, 
 — all acted. He composed, according to his own 
 statement, more than one hundred comedies in the 
 almost incredible space of twenty-four hours each ; 
 and a comedy averaged between two and three 
 thousand verses, great part of them rhymed, 
 and interspersed with sonnets and other more diffi- 
 cult forms of versification. He lived seventy-two 
 years ; and, supposing him to have employed fifty 
 of that period in composition, although he filled a 
 variety of engrossing vocations during that time, 
 he must have averaged a play a week, to say noth- 
 ing of twenty-one volumes, quarto, of miscel- 
 laneous works, including five epics, T^Titten in his 
 leisure moments, and all now in print !
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 231 
 
 " The only achievements we can recall in literary 
 history bearing any resemblance to, though falling 
 far short of this, are those of our illustrious con- 
 temporary Sir Walter Scott. The complete edi- 
 tion of his works, recently advertised by Murray, 
 with the addition of two volumes of which Murray 
 has not the copyright, probably contains ninety 
 volumes, small octavo. [To these should farther 
 be added a large supply of matter for the Edin- 
 burgh Annual Register, as well as other anony- 
 mous contributions.] Of these, forty-eight vol- 
 umes of novels, and twenty-one of history and 
 biography, were produced between 1814 and 1831, 
 or in seventeen years. These would give an aver- 
 age of four volumes a year, or one for every three 
 months during the whole of that period ; to which 
 must be added twenty-one volumes of poetry and 
 prose, previously published. The mere mechani- 
 cal execution of so much work, both in his case and 
 Lope de Vega's, would seem to be scarce possible 
 in the hmits assigned. Scott, too, was as variously 
 occupied in other ways as his Spanish rival, and 
 probably, from the social hospitality of his life, 
 spent a much larger portion of his time in no lit- 
 erary occupation at all." 
 
 Of all the wonderful dramatic creations of Lope 
 de Vega's genius, what now remains? Two or 
 three plays only keep possession of the stage, and 
 few, very few, are still read with pleasure in the 
 closet. They have never been collected into a uni- 
 form edition, and are now met vidth in scattered 
 sheets only on the shelves of some mousing book- 
 seller, or collected in miscellaneous parcels in the 
 libraries of the curious.
 
 232 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 Scott, with all his facility of execution, had none 
 of that pitiable affectation sometimes found in 
 men of genius, who think that the possession of 
 this quality may dispense with regular, methodical 
 habits of study. He was most economical of time. 
 He did not, Hke Voltaire, speak of it as " a terrible 
 thing that so much time should be wasted in talk- 
 ing." He was too little of a pedant, and far too 
 benevolent, not to feel that there are other objects 
 worth living for than mere literary fame; but he 
 grudged the waste of time on merely frivolous and 
 heartless objects. " As for dressing when we are 
 quite alone," he remarked one day to Mr. Gillies, 
 whom he had taken home with him to a family din- 
 ner, " it is out of the question. Life is not long 
 enough for such fiddle-faddle." In the early part 
 of his life he worked late at night, but subse- 
 quently, from a conviction of the superior health- 
 iness of early rising, as well as the desire to secure, 
 at all hazards, a portion of the day for literary 
 labor, he rose at five the year round; no small 
 effort, as any one will admit who has seen the pain 
 and difficulty which a regular bird of night finds 
 in reconciling his eyes to daylight. He was scru- 
 pulously exact, moreover, in the distribution of his 
 hours. In one of his letters to his friend Terry, 
 the player, replete, as usual, with advice that 
 seems to flow equally from the head and the 
 heart, he says, in reference to the practice of 
 dawdling away one's time, " A habit of the mind 
 it is which is very apt to beset men of intellect 
 and talent, especially when their time is not regu- 
 larly filled up, but left to their own arrange-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 233 
 
 merit. But it is like the ivy round the oak, 
 and ends by limiting, if it does not destroy, the 
 power of manly and necessary exertion. I must 
 love a man so well, to whom I offer such a word of 
 advice, that I will not apologize for it, but expect 
 to hear you are become as regular as a Dutch clocks 
 — hours, quarters, minutes, all marked and appro- 
 priated." With the same emphasis he inculcates 
 the like habits on his son. If any man might dis- 
 pense with them, it was surely Scott. But he knew 
 that without them the greatest powers of mind will 
 run to waste, and water but the desert. 
 
 Some of the literary opinions of Scott are singu- 
 lar, considering, too, the position he occupied in 
 the world of letters. " I promise you," he says, in 
 an epistle to an old friend, " my oaks will outlast 
 my laurels ; and I pique myself more on my com- 
 positions for manure than on any other composi- 
 tions to which I was ever accessory." This may 
 seem hadiiiage; but he repeatedly, both in writ- 
 ing and conversation, places hterature, as a profes- 
 sion, below other intellectual professions, and espe- 
 cially the military. The Duke of Wellington, the 
 representative of the last, seems to have drawn 
 from him a very extraordinary degree of defer- 
 ence, which we cannot but think smacks a little of 
 that strong rehsh for gunpowder which he avows 
 in himself. 
 
 It is not very easy to see on what this low esti- 
 mate of literature rested. As a profession, it has 
 too little in common with more active ones to 
 afford much ground for running a parallel. The 
 soldier has to do with externals; and his contests
 
 234. BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 and triumphs are over matter in its various forms, 
 whether of man or material nature. The poet 
 deals with the bodiless forms of air, of fancy 
 lighter than air. His business is contemplative; 
 the other's is active, and depends for its success on 
 strong moral energy and presence of mind. He 
 must, indeed, have genius of the highest order to 
 eiFect his own combinations, anticipate the move- 
 ments of his enemy, and dart with eagle eye on his 
 vulnerable point. But who shall say that this prac- 
 tical genius, if we may so term it, is to rank higher 
 in the scale than the creative power of the poet, the 
 spark from the mind of divinity itself? 
 
 The orator might seem to afford better ground 
 for comparison, since, though his theatre of action 
 is abroad, he may be said to work with much the 
 same tools as the writer. Yet how much of his suc- 
 cess depends on qualities other than intellectual I 
 " Action," said the father of eloquence, " action, 
 action, are the three most essential things to an ora- 
 tor." How much depends on the look, the gesture, 
 the magical tones of voice, modulated to the pas- 
 sions he has stirred, and how much on the con- 
 tagious sympathies of the audience itself, which 
 drown every thing like criticism in the overwhelm- 
 ing tide of emotion! If anyone would know how 
 much, let him, after patiently standing 
 
 "till his feet throb. 
 And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
 Of patriots bursting with heroic rage," 
 
 read the same speech in the columns of a morning 
 newspaper or in the well-concocted report of the 
 orator himself. The productions of the writer are
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 235 
 
 subjected to a fiercer ordeal. He has no excited 
 sympathies of numbers to hurry his readers along 
 over his blunders. He is scanned in the calm 
 silence of the closet. Every flower of fancy seems 
 here to wither under the rude breath of criticism; 
 every link in the chain of argument is subjected to 
 the touch of prying scrutiny, and if there be the 
 least flaw in it it is sure to be detected. There is 
 no tribunal so stern as the secret tribunal of a 
 man's own closet, far removed from all the sym- 
 pathetic impulses of humanity. Surely there is no 
 form in which intellect can be exhibited to the 
 world so completely stripped of all adventitious 
 aids as the form of written composition. But, says 
 the practical man, let us estimate things by their 
 utility. " You talk of the poems of Homer," said 
 a mathematician, *' but, after all, what do they 
 prove? " A question which involves an answer 
 somewhat too voluminous for the tail of an article. 
 But if the poems of Homer were, as Heeren as- 
 serts, the principal bond which held the Grecian 
 states together and gave them a national feeling, 
 they " prove " more than all the arithmeticians of 
 Greece — and there were many cunning ones in it — - 
 ever proved. The results of military skill are in- 
 deed obvious. The soldier, by a single victory, en- 
 larges the limits of an empire ; he may do more, — 
 he may achieve the liberties of a nation, or roll back 
 the tide of barbarism ready to overwhelm them. 
 Wellington was placed in such a position, and 
 nobly did he do his work ; or, rather, he was placed 
 at the head of such a gigantic moral and physical 
 apparatus as enabled him to do it. With his own
 
 236 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 unassisted strength, of course, he could have done 
 nothing. But it is on his own sohtary resources 
 that the great writer is to rely. And yet who shall 
 say that the triumphs of Wellington have been 
 greater than those of Scott, whose works are 
 f amihar as household words to every fireside in his 
 own land, from the castle to the cottage, — have 
 crossed oceans and deserts, and, with healing on 
 their wings, found their way to the remotest re- 
 gions, — have helped to form the character, until his 
 own mind may be said to be incorporated into those 
 of hundreds of thousands of his fellow-men ? Who 
 is there that has not, at some time or other, felt the 
 heaviness of his heart lightened, his pains miti- 
 gated, and his bright moments of life made still 
 brighter by the magical touches of his genius? 
 And shall we speak of his victories as less real, less 
 serviceable to humanity, less truly glorious than 
 those of the greatest captain of his day? The tri- 
 umphs of the warrior are bounded by the narrow 
 theatre of his own age ; but those of a Scott or a 
 Shakespeare will be renewed with greater and 
 greater lustre in ages yet unborn, when the victori- 
 ous chieftain shall be forgotten, or shall live only 
 in the song of the minstrel and the page of the 
 chronicler. 
 
 But, after all, this sort of parallel is not very 
 gracious nor very philosophical, and, to say truth, 
 is somewhat foolish. We have been drawn into it 
 by the not random, but very deliberate and, in our 
 poor judgment, very disparaging estimate by 
 Scott of his own vocation ; and, as we have taken 
 the trouble to write it, our readers will excuse us
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 237 
 
 from blotting it out. There is too little ground 
 for the respective parties to stand on for a parallel. 
 As to the pedantic cui bono standard, it is impos- 
 sible to tell the final issues of a single act; how 
 can we then hope to those of a course of action? 
 As for the honor of different vocations, there never 
 was a truer sentence than the stale one of Pope, — 
 stale now, because it is so true, — 
 
 "Act well your part — there all the honor lies." 
 
 And it is the just boast of our own country that in 
 no civilized nation is the force of this philanthropic 
 maxim so nobly illustrated as in ours, — thanks to 
 our glorious institutions. 
 
 A great cause, probably, of Scott's low esti- 
 mate of letters was the facility with which he 
 wrote. What costs us little we are apt to prize 
 little. If diamonds were as common as pebbles, 
 and gold-dust as any other, who would stoop to 
 gather them? It was the prostitution of his muse, 
 by-the-by, for this same gold-dust, which brought 
 a sharp rebuke on the poet from Lord Byron, in 
 his "Enghsh Bards:" 
 
 "For this we spurn Apollo's venal son;" 
 
 a coarse cut, and the imputation about as true as 
 most satire, — that is, not true at all. This was in- 
 dited in his lordship's earlier days, when he most 
 chivalrously disclaimed all purpose of bartering his 
 rhymes for gold. He lived long enough, however, 
 to weigh his literary wares in the same money -bal- 
 ance used by more vulgar manufacturers ; and, in 
 truth, it would be ridiculous if the produce of the
 
 238 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 brain should not bring its price in this form as well 
 as any other. There is little danger, we imagine, 
 of finding too much gold in the bowels of Par- 
 nassus. 
 
 Scott took a more sensible view of things. In 
 a letter to Ellis, written soon after the pubUcation 
 of " The Minstrelsy," he observes, " People may 
 say this and that of the pleasure of fame, or of 
 profit, as a motive of writing; I think the only 
 pleasure is in the actual exertion and research, and 
 I would no more write on any other terms than I 
 would hunt merely to dine upon hare soup. At 
 the same time, if credit and profit came unlooked 
 for, I would no more quarrel with them than with 
 the soup." Even this declaration was somewhat 
 more magnanimous than was warranted by his sub- 
 sequent conduct. The truth is, he soon found out, 
 especially after the Waverley vein had opened, 
 that he had hit on a gold-mine. The prodigious 
 returns he got gave the whole thing the aspect of 
 a speculation. Every new work was an adventure, 
 and the proceeds naturally suggested the indul- 
 gence of the most extravagant schemes of expense, 
 which, in their turn, stimulated him to fresh efforts. 
 In this way the " profits " became, whatever they 
 might have been once, a principal incentive to, as 
 they were the recompense of, exertion. His pro- 
 ductions were cash articles, and were estimated by 
 him more on the Hudibrastic rule of " the real 
 worth of a thing " than by any fanciful standard 
 of fame. He bowed with deference to the judg- 
 ment of the booksellers, and trimmed his sails dex- 
 terously as the " aura popularis " shifted. " If it's
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 239 
 
 na well bobbit," he writes to his printer, on turning 
 out a less lucky novel, " we'll bobbit again." His 
 muse was of that school who seek the greatest hap- 
 piness of the greatest number. We can hardly im- 
 agine him invoking her like JMilton : 
 
 " still govern thou my song, 
 Urania, and fit audience find, though few." 
 
 Still less can we imagine him, like the blind old 
 bard, feeding his soul with visions of posthumous 
 glory, and spinning out epics for five pounds 
 apiece. 
 
 It is singular that Scott, although he set as high 
 a money value on his productions as the most en- 
 thusiastic of the " trade " could have done, in a ht- 
 erary view should have held them so cheap. 
 " Whatever others may be," he said, " I have never 
 been a partisan of my own poetry ; as John Wilkes 
 declared that, ' in the height of his success, he had 
 himself never been a Wilkite.' " Considering the 
 poet's popularity, this was but an indifferent com- 
 pliment to the taste of his age. With all this dis- 
 paragement of his own productions, however, 
 Scott was not insensible to criticism. He says 
 somewhere that, "if he had been conscious of a 
 single vulnerable point in himself, he would not 
 have taken up the business of wTiting;" but on 
 another occasion he writes, " I make it a rule never 
 to read the attacks made upon me;" and Captain 
 Hall remarks, " He never reads the criticisms on 
 his books ; this I know from the most unquestion- 
 able authority. Praise, he says, gives him no pleas- 
 ure, and censure annoys him." Madame de Graf-
 
 240 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 figny says, also, of Voltaire, " that he was 
 altogether indifferent to praise, but the least word 
 from his enemies drove him crazy." Yet both these 
 authors banqueted on the sweets of panegyric as 
 much as any who ever lived. They were in the 
 condition of an epicure whose palate has lost its 
 relish for the dainty fare in which it has been so 
 long revelling, without becoming less sensible to 
 the annoyances of sharper and coarser flavors. It 
 may afford some consolation to humble medioc- 
 rity, to the less fortunate votaries of the muse, that 
 those who have reached the summit of Parnassus 
 are not much more contented with their condition 
 than those who are scrambling among the bushes 
 at the bottom of the mountain. The fact seems to 
 be, as Scott himself intimates more than once, that 
 the joy is in the chase, whether in the prose or the 
 poetry of life. 
 
 But it is high time to terminate our lucubrations, 
 which, however imperfect and unsatisfactory, have 
 already run to a length that must trespass on the 
 patience of the reader. We rise from the perusal 
 of these delightful volumes with the same sort 
 of melancholy feeling with which we wake from a 
 pleasant dream. The concluding volume, of which 
 such ominous presage is given in the last sentence 
 of the fifth, has not yet reached us ; but we know 
 enough to anticipate the sad catastrophe it is to 
 unfold of the drama. In those which we have seen, 
 we have beheld a succession of interesting charac- 
 ters come upon the scene and pass away to their 
 long home. " Bright eyes now closed in dust, gay 
 voices forever silenced," seem to haunt us, too, as
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 241 
 
 we write. The imagination reverts to Abbotsf ord, 
 — the romantic and once brilliant Abbotsf ord, — 
 the magical creation of his hands. We see its halls 
 radiant with the hospitality of Ms benevolent 
 heart; thronged with pilgrims from every land, 
 assembled to pay homage at the shrine of genius; 
 echoing to the blithe music of those festal holidays 
 when young and old met to renew the usages of 
 the good old times. 
 
 " These were its charms, but all these charms are fled." 
 
 Its courts are desolate, or trodden only by the 
 foot of the stranger. The stranger sits under the 
 shadows of the trees which his hand planted. The 
 spell of the enchanter is dissolved; his wand is 
 broken; and the mighty minstrel himself now 
 sleeps in the bosom of the peaceful scenes embel- 
 lished by his taste, and which his genius has made 
 immortal. 
 
 Vol. I.— 16
 
 CHATEAUBRIAND'S ENGLISH LIT- 
 ERATURE * 
 
 (October, 1839) 
 
 rpHERE are few topics of greater attraction, 
 -^ or, when properly treated, of higher impor- 
 tance, than Hterary history. For what is it but a 
 faithful register of the successive steps by which 
 a nation has advanced in the career of civilization? 
 Civil history records the crimes and the follies, the 
 enterprises, discoveries, and triumphs, it may be, of 
 humanity. But to what do all these tend, or of 
 what moment are they in the eye of the philoso- 
 pher, except as they accelerate or retard the march 
 of civilization? The history of literature is the his- 
 tory of the human mind. It is, as compared with 
 other histories, the intellectual as distinguished 
 from the material, — the informing spirit, as com- 
 pared with the outward and visible. 
 
 When such a view of the mental progress of a 
 people is combined with individual biography, we 
 have all the materials for the deepest and most 
 varied interest. The life of the man of letters is 
 not always circumscribed by the walls of a cloister, 
 and was not, even in those days when the cloister 
 was the familiar abode of science. The history of 
 Dante and of Petrarch is the best commentary on 
 that of their age. In later times, the man of let- 
 
 *" Sketches of English Literature; with Considerations on the 
 Spirit of the Times, Men, and Revolutions. By the Viscount de 
 Chateaubriand." 2 vols. 8vo, London, 1836. 
 242
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 243 
 
 ters has taken part in all the principal concerns 
 of public and social life. But, even when the story 
 is to derive its interest from personal character, 
 what a store of entertainment is supplied by the 
 eccentricities of genius, — the joys and sorrows, 
 not visible to vulgar eyes, but which agitate his 
 iiner sensibilities as powerfully as the greatest 
 shocks of worldly fortune would a hardier and less 
 visionary temper! What deeper interest can ro- 
 mance afford than is to be gathered from the mel- 
 ancholy story of Petrarch, Tasso, Alfieri, Rous- 
 seau, Byron, Burns, and a crowd of familiar 
 names, whose genius seems to have been given 
 them only to sharpen their sensibility to suffering ? 
 What matter if their sufferings were, for the most 
 part, of the imagination ? They were not the less 
 real to them. They lived in a world of imagina- 
 tion, and, by the gift of genius, unfortunate to its 
 proprietor, have known how, in the language of 
 one of the most unfortunate, " to make madness 
 beautiful " in the eyes of others. 
 
 But, notwithstanding the interest and impor- 
 tance of literary history, it has hitherto received 
 but little attention from English writers. No 
 complete survey of the treasures of our native 
 tongue has been yet produced, or even attempted. 
 The earlier periods of the poetical development of 
 the nation have been well illustrated by various an- 
 tiquarians. Warton has brought the history of 
 poetry down to the season of its first vigorous ex- 
 pansion, — the age of Elizabeth. But he did not 
 penetrate beyond the magnificent vestibule of the 
 temple. Dr. Johnson's " Lives of the Poets " have
 
 244 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 done much to supply the deficiency in this depart- 
 ment. But much more remains to be done to 
 aiFord the student any thing hke a complete view 
 of the progress of poetry in England. Johnson's 
 work, as every one knows, is conducted on the most 
 capricious and irregular plan. The biographies 
 were dictated by the choice of the bookseller. Some 
 of the most memorable names in British literature 
 are omitted to make way for a host of minor lu- 
 minaries, whose dim radiance, unassisted by the 
 critic's magnifying lens, would never have pene- 
 trated to posterity. The same irregularity is visi- 
 ble in the proportion he has assigned to each of his 
 subjects; the principal figures, or what should 
 have been such, being often thrown into the back- 
 ground to make room for some subordinate person 
 whose story was thought to have more interest. 
 
 Besides these defects of plan, the critic was cer- 
 tainly deficient in sensibility to the more delicate, 
 the minor beauties of poetic sentiment. He an- 
 alyzes verse in the cold-blooded spirit of a chemist, 
 until all the aroma which constituted its principal 
 charm escapes in the decomposition. By this kind 
 of process, some of the finest fancies of the Muse, 
 the lofty dithyrambics of Gray, the ethereal effu- 
 sions of Collins, and of Milton too, are rendered 
 sufficiently vapid. In this sort of criticism, all the 
 eff^ect that relies on impressions goes for nothing. 
 Ideas are alone taken into the account, and aU is 
 weighed in the same hard, matter-of-fact scales of 
 common sense, like so much solid prose. What a 
 sorry figure would Byron's Muse make subjected 
 to such an ordeal! The doctor's taste in composi-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 245 
 
 tion, to judge from his own style, was not of the 
 highest order. It was a style, indeed, of extraor- 
 dinary power, suited to the expression of his orig- 
 inal thinking, bold, vigorous, and glowing with all 
 the lustre of pointed antithesis. But the brilliancy 
 is cold, and the ornaments are much too florid and 
 overcharged for a graceful effect. When to these 
 minor blemishes we add the graver one of an ob- 
 liquity of judgment, produced by inveterate poht- 
 ical and religious prejudice, which has thrown a 
 shadow over some of the brightest characters sub- 
 jected to his pencil, we have summed up a fair 
 amount of critical deficiencies. With all this, there 
 is no one of the works of this great and good man 
 in which he has displayed more of the strength 
 of his mighty intellect, shown a more pure and 
 masculine morality, more sound principles of crit- 
 icism in the abstract, more acute delineation of 
 character, and more gorgeous splendor of diction. 
 His defects, however, such as they are, must pre- 
 vent his maintaining with posterity that undis- 
 puted dictatorship in criticism which was conceded 
 to him in his own day. We must do justice to his 
 errors as well as to his excellences, in order that we 
 may do justice to the characters which have come 
 under his censure. And we must admit that his 
 work, however admirable as a gallery of splendid 
 portraits, is inadequate to convey any thing like a 
 complete or impartial view of EngHsh poetry. 
 
 The English have made but slender contribu- 
 tions to the history of foreign literatures. The 
 most important, probably, are Roscoe's works, in 
 which literary criticism, though but a subordinate
 
 246 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 feature, is the most valuable part of the compo- 
 sition. As to any thing like a general survey of 
 this department, they are wholly deficient. The 
 deficiency, indeed, is hkely to be suppKed, to a cer- 
 tain extent, by the work of Mr. Hallam, now in 
 progress of publication, the first volume of which 
 — the only one which has yet issued from the press 
 — gives evidence of the same curious erudition, 
 acuteness, honest impartiality, and energy of dic- 
 tion which distinguish the other writings of this 
 eminent scholar. But the extent of his work, lim- 
 ited to four volumes, precludes any thing more 
 than a survey of the most prominent features of 
 the vast subject he has undertaken. 
 
 The Continental nations, under serious dis- 
 couragements, too, have been much more active 
 than the British in this field. The Spaniards can 
 boast a general history of letters, extending to 
 more than twenty volumes in length, and compiled 
 with suflScient impartiality. The Italians have sev- 
 eral such. Yet these are the lands of the Inquisi- 
 tion, where reason is hoodwinked and the honest 
 utterance of opinion has been recompensed by per- 
 secution, exile, and the stake. How can such a peo- 
 ple estimate the character of compositions which, 
 produced under happier institutions, are instinct 
 with the spirit of freedom! How can they make 
 allowance for the manifold eccentricities of a lit- 
 erature where thought is allowed to expatiate in all 
 the independence of individual caprice ! How can 
 they possibly, trained to pay such nice deference to 
 outward finish and mere verbal elegance, have any 
 sympathy with the rough and homely beauties
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES Ml 
 
 which emanate from the people and are addressed 
 to the people? 
 
 The French, nurtured under freer forms of gov- 
 ernment, have contrived to come under a system 
 of literary laws scarcely less severe. Their first 
 great dramatic production gave rise to a scheme 
 of critical legislation which has continued ever 
 since to press on the genius of the nation in all 
 the higher walks of poetic art. Amid all the muta- 
 tions of state, the tone of criticism has remained 
 essentially the same to the present century, when, 
 indeed, the boiling passions and higher excite- 
 ments of a revolutionary age have made the classic 
 models on which their hterature was cast appear 
 somewhat too frigid, and a warmer coloring 
 has been sought by an infusion of English senti- 
 ment. But this mixture, or rather confusion, of 
 styles, neither French nor English, seems to rest 
 on no settled principles, and is, probably, too 
 alien to the genius of the people to continue per- 
 manent. 
 
 The French, forming themselves early on a 
 foreign and antique model, were necessarily driven 
 to rules, as a substitute for those natural prompt- 
 ings which have directed the course of other 
 modern nations, in the career of letters. Such 
 rules, of course, while assimilating them to an- 
 tiquity, drew them aside from sympathy with their 
 own contemporaries. How can they, thus formed 
 on an artificial system, enter into the spirit of other 
 literatures so uncongenial with their own ? 
 
 That the French continued subject to such a 
 system, with little change to the present age, is
 
 248 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 evinced by the example of Voltaire, a writer whose 
 lawless ridicule, 
 
 " like the wind, 
 Blew where it listed, laying all things prone," 
 
 but whose revolutionary spirit made no serious 
 changes in the principles of the national criticism. 
 Indeed, his commentaries on Corneille furnish 
 evidence of a willingness to contract still closer the 
 range of the poet, and to define more accurately 
 the laws by which his movements were to be con- 
 trolled. Voltaire's history aiFords an evidence of 
 the truth of the Horatian maxim, " naturam ex- 
 pellasj" etc. In his younger days he passed some 
 time, as is well known, in England, and contracted 
 there a certain relish for the strange models which 
 came under his observation. On his return he 
 made many attempts to introduce the foreign 
 school with which he had become acquainted to his 
 own countrymen. His vanity was gratified by de- 
 tecting the latent beauties of his barbarian neigh- 
 bors and by being the first to point them out to his 
 countrymen. It associated him with names vener- 
 ated on the other side of the Channel, and at home 
 transferred a part of their glory to himself. In- 
 deed, he was not backward in transferring as much 
 as he could of it, by borrowing on his own account, 
 where he could venture, manihus plenis, and with 
 very little acknowledgment. The French at length 
 became so far reconciled to the monstrosities of 
 their neighbors that a regular translation of Shak- 
 speare, the lord of the British Pandemonium, was 
 executed by Letourneur, a scholar of no great 
 merit; but the work was well received. Voltaire,
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 249 
 
 the veteran, in his solitude of Ferney, was roused, 
 by the applause bestowed on the English poet in 
 his Parisian costume, to a sense of his own im- 
 prudence. He saw, in imagination, the altars 
 which had been raised to him, as well as to the other 
 master-spirits of the national drama, in a fair way 
 to be overturned in order to make room for an idol 
 of his own importation. " Have you seen," he 
 writes, speaking of Letourneur's version, " his 
 abominable trash? Will you endure the affront 
 put upon France by it? There are no epithets bad 
 enough, nor fool's-caps, nor pillories enough in 
 all France for such a scoundrel. The blood tingles 
 in my old veins in speaking of him. What is the 
 most dreadful part of the affair is, the monster has 
 his party in France ; and, to add to my shame and 
 consternation, it was I who fii'st sounded the 
 praises of this Shakspeare, — I who fii'st showed 
 the pearls, picked here and there, from his over- 
 grown dung-heap. Little did I anticipate that I 
 was helping to trample under foot, at some future 
 day, the laurels of Racine and CorneiUe to adorn 
 the brows of a barbarous player, — this drunkard 
 of a Shakspeare." Xot content with this expecto- 
 ration of his bile, the old poet transmitted a formal 
 letter of remonstrance to D'Alembert, which was 
 read publicly, as designed, at a regular seance of 
 the Academy. The document, after expatiating 
 at length on the blunders, vulgarities, and indecen- 
 cies of the English bard, concludes with this appeal 
 to the critical body he was addressing: " Paint to 
 yourselves, gentlemen, Louis the Fourteenth in his 
 gaUery at Versailles, surrounded by his brilliant
 
 250 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 court: a tatterdemalion advances, covered with 
 rags, and proposes to the assembly to abandon the 
 tragedies of Racine for a mountebank, full of 
 grimaces, with nothing but a lucky hit, now and 
 then, to redeem them." 
 
 At a later period, Ducis, the successor of Vol- 
 taire, if we remember right, in the Academy, a 
 writer of far superior merit to Letourneur, did the 
 British bard into much better French than his pre- 
 decessor; though Ducis, as he takes care to ac- 
 quaint us, " did his best to efface those startling 
 impressions of horror which would have damned 
 his author in the poHshed theatres of Paris ! " Vol- 
 taire need not have taken the affair so much to 
 heart. Shakspeare, reduced within the compass, as 
 much as possible, of the rules, with all his eccen- 
 tricities and peculiarities — all that made him Eng- 
 lish, in fact — smoothed away, may be tolerated, 
 and to a certain extent countenanced, in the " pol- 
 ished theatres of Paris." But this is not 
 
 " Shakspeare, Nature's child, 
 Warbling his native wood-notes wild." 
 
 The Germans are just the antipodes of their 
 French neighbors. Coming late on the arena of 
 modern literature, they would seem to be particu- 
 larly qualified for excelling in criticism by the 
 variety of styles and models for their study sup- 
 plied by other nations. They have, accordingly, 
 done wonders in this department, and have extend- 
 ed their critical wand over the remotest regions, 
 dispelling the mists of old prejudice, and throw- 
 ing the light of learning on what before was dark
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 251 
 
 and inexplicable. They certainly are entitled to 
 the credit of a singularly cosmopolitan power of 
 divesting themselves of local and national preju- 
 dice. No nation has done so much to lay the 
 foundations of that reconcihng spirit of criticism 
 which, instead of condemning a difference of taste 
 in different nations as a departure from it, seeks to 
 explain such discrepancies by the peculiar circum- 
 stances of the nation, and thus from the elements 
 of discord, as it were, to build up a universal and 
 harmonious system. The exclusive and unfavor- 
 able \dews entertained by some of their later critics 
 respecting the French literature, indeed, into which 
 they have been urged, no doubt, by a desire to 
 counteract the servile deference shown to that liter- 
 ature by their countrymen of the preceding age, 
 forms an important exception to their usual 
 candor. 
 
 As general critics, however, the Germans are 
 open to grave objections. The very circumstances 
 of their situation, so favorable, as we have said, 
 to the formation of a liberal criticism, have 
 encouraged the taste for theories and for sys- 
 tem-building, always unpropitious to truth. Who- 
 ever broaches a theory has a hard battle to fight 
 with conscience. If the theory cannot conform 
 to the facts, so much the worse for the facts, as 
 some wag has said; they must, at all events, con- 
 form to the theory. The Germans have put to- 
 gether hypotheses with the facility with which 
 children construct card houses, and many of them 
 bid fair to last as long. They show more industry 
 in accumulating materials than taste or discretion
 
 252 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 in their arrangement. They carry their fantastic 
 imagination beyond the legitimate province of the 
 muse into the sober fields of criticism. Their 
 philosophical systems, curiously and elaborately 
 devised, with much ancient lore and solemn im- 
 aginings, may remind one of some of those vener- 
 able English cathedrals where the magnificent 
 and mysterious Gothic is blended with the clumsy 
 Saxon.* The effect, on the whole, is grand, but 
 grotesque withal. 
 
 The Germans are too often sadly wanting in 
 discretion, or, in vulgar parlance, taste. They are 
 perpetually overleaping the modesty of nature. 
 They are possessed by a cold-blooded enthusiasm, 
 if we may say so, — since it seems to come rather 
 from the head than the heart, — which spurs them 
 on over the plainest barriers of common sense, 
 until even the right becomes the wrong. A strik- 
 ing example of these defects is furnished by the 
 dramatic critic Schlegel, whose " Lectures " are, 
 or may be, familiar to every reader, since they 
 have been reprinted in the English version in this 
 country. No critic, not even a native, has thrown 
 such a flood of light on the characteristics of the 
 sweet bard of Avon. He has made himself so 
 intimately acquainted with the peculiar circum- 
 stances of the poet's age and country that he has 
 been enabled to speculate on his productions as 
 those of a contemporary. In this way he has 
 furnished a key to the mysteries of his composition, 
 has reduced what seemed anomalous to system, 
 
 * This sentence was penned before Prescott had seen any Eng- 
 lish cathedrals. It would be difficult to discern any clumsy Saxon 
 in those structures. — M.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 253 
 
 and has supplied Shakspeare's own countrymen 
 with new arguments for vindicating the sponta- 
 neous suggestions of feeling on strictly philosoph- 
 ical principles. Not content with this important 
 service, he, as usual, pushes his argument to ex- 
 tremes, vindicates obvious blemishes as necessary 
 parts of a system, and calls on us to admire, in 
 contradiction to the most ordinary principles of 
 taste and common sense. Thus, for example, 
 speaking of Shakspeare's notorious blunders in 
 geography and chronology, he coolly tells us, "I 
 undertake to prove that Shakspeare's anachron- 
 isms are, for the most part, committed purposely 
 and after great consideration." In the same vein, 
 speaking of the poet's villanous puns and quibbles, 
 which, to his shame, or, rather, that of his age, so 
 often bespangle with tawdry brilhancy the majes- 
 tic robe of the Muse, he assures us that " the poet 
 here probably, as everywhere else, has followed 
 principles which will bear a strict examination." 
 But the intrepidity of criticism never went farther 
 than in the conclusion of this same analysis, where 
 he unhesitatingly assigns several apocryphal plays 
 to Shakspeare, gravely informing us that the 
 last three, " Sir John Oldcastle," " A Yorkshire 
 Tragedy," and " Thomas Lord Cromwell," of 
 which the English critics speak with unreserved 
 contempt, " are not only unquestionably Shak- 
 speare's, but, in his judgment, rank among the 
 best and ripest of his works!" The old bard, 
 could he raise his head from the tomb where none 
 might disturb his bones, would exclaim, we im- 
 agine, " Non tali auxilio! '*
 
 254 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 It shows a tolerable degree of assurance in a 
 critic thus to dogmatize on nice questions of ver- 
 bal resemblance which have so long baffled the 
 natives of the country, who, on such questions, 
 obviously can be the only competent judges. It 
 furnishes a striking example of the want of dis- 
 cretion noticeable in so many of the German 
 scholars. With all these defects, however, it can- 
 not be denied that they have widely extended the 
 limits of rational criticism, and, by their copious 
 stores of erudition, furnished the student with 
 facilities for attaining the best points of view for 
 a comprehensive survey of both ancient and mod- 
 ern literature. 
 
 The English have had advantages, on the whole, 
 greater than those of any other people for per- 
 fecting the science of general criticism. They 
 have had no academies to bind the wing of genius 
 to the earth by their thousand wire-drawn subt- 
 leties. No Inquisition has placed its burning seal 
 upon the lip and thrown its dark shadow over the 
 recesses of the soul. They have enjoyed the in- 
 estimable privilege of thinking what they pleased, 
 and of uttering what they thought. Their minds, 
 trained to independence, have had no occasion to 
 shrink from encountering any topic, and have ac- 
 quired a masculine confidence indispensable to a 
 calm appreciation of the mighty and widely diver- 
 sified productions of genius, as unfolded under 
 the influences of as widely diversified institutions 
 and national character. Their own licerature, with 
 chameleon-like delicacy, has reflected all the 
 various aspects of the nation in the successive
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 255 
 
 stages of its historj^ The rough, romantic 
 beauties and gorgeous pageantry of the Elizabeth- 
 an age, the stern, sublime enthusiasm of the Com- 
 monwealth, the cold brilliancy of Queen Anne, 
 and the tumultuous movements and ardent sensi- 
 bilities of the present generation, all have been 
 reflected, as in a mirror, in the current of English 
 literature as it has flowed down through the lapse 
 of ages. It is easy to understand what advan- 
 tages this cultivation of all these different styles 
 of composition at home must give the critic 
 in divesting himself of narrow and local preju- 
 dice, and in appreciating the genius of foreign 
 literatures, in each of which some one or other of 
 these different styles has found favor. To this 
 must be added the advantages derived from the 
 structure of the English language itself, which, 
 compounded of the Teutonic and the Latin, offers 
 facilities for a comprehension of other literatures 
 not afforded by those languages, as the German 
 and the Italian, for instance, almost exclusively 
 derived from but one of them. 
 
 With all this, the English, as we have remarked, 
 have made fewer direct contributions to general 
 literary criticism than the Continental nations, un- 
 less, indeed, we take into the account the period- 
 ical criticism, which has covered the whole field 
 with a light skirmishing, very unlike any system- 
 atic plan of operations. The good efl*ect of this 
 guerilla warfare may well be doubted. Most of 
 these critics for the nonce (and we certainly are 
 competent judges on this point) come to their 
 work with little previous preparation. Their at-
 
 256 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 tention has been habitually called, for the most 
 part, in other directions, and they throw off an 
 accidental essay in the brief intervals of other 
 occupation. Hence their views are necessarily 
 often superficial, and sometimes contradictory, as 
 may be seen from turning over the leaves of any 
 journal where literary topics are widely discussed; 
 for, whatever consistency may be demanded in 
 politics or religion, very free scope is offered, 
 even in the same journal, to literary speculation. 
 Even when the article may have been the fruit 
 of a mind ripened by study and meditation on 
 congenial topics, it too often exhibits only the 
 partial view suggested by the particular and 
 limited direction of the author's thoughts in this 
 instance. Truth is not much served by this ir- 
 regular process; and the general illumination in- 
 dispensable to a full and fair survey of the whole 
 ground can never be supplied from such scat- 
 tered and capricious gleams thrown over it at 
 random. 
 
 Another obstacle to a right result is founded 
 in the very constitution of review-writing. Mis- 
 cellaneous in its range of topics, and addressed 
 to a miscellaneous class of readers, its chief re- 
 liance for success in competition with the thousand 
 novelties of the day is in the temporary interest 
 it can excite. Instead of a conscientious discussion 
 and cautious examination of the matter in hand, 
 we too often find an attempt to stimulate the 
 popular appetite by piquant sallies of wit, by 
 caustic sarcasm, or by a pert, dashing confidence, 
 that cuts the knot it cannot readily unloose. Then,
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 257 
 
 again, the spirit of periodical criticism would 
 seem to be little favorable to perfect impartiality. 
 The critic, shrouded in his secret tribunal, too 
 often demeans himself like a stern inquisitor, 
 whose business is rather to convict than to examine. 
 Criticism is directed to scent out blemishes instead 
 of beauties. " Judex damnatur cum nocens ah- 
 solvitur" is the bloody motto of a well-known 
 British periodical, which, under this piratical flag, 
 has sent a broadside into many a gallant bark that 
 deserved better at its hands. 
 
 When we combine with all this the spirit of 
 patriotism, or, what passes for such with nine- 
 tenths of the world, the spirit of national vanity, 
 we shall find abundant motives for a deviation 
 from a just, impartial estimate of foreign litera- 
 tures. And if we turn over the pages of the 
 best-conducted English journals, we shall proba- 
 bly find ample evidence of the various causes we 
 have enumerated. We shall find, amid abundance 
 of shrewd and sarcastic observation, smart skir- 
 mish of wit, and clever antithesis, a very small 
 infusion of sober, dispassionate criticism ; the criti- 
 cism founded on patient study and on strictly phil- 
 osophical principles ; the criticism on which one can 
 safely rely as the criterion of good taste, and which, 
 however tame it may appear to the jaded appe- 
 tite of the literary lounger, is the only one that will 
 attract the eye of posterity. 
 
 The work named at the head of our article 
 will, we suspect, notwithstanding the author's 
 brilliant reputation, never meet this same eye of 
 posterity. Though purporting to be, in its main 
 
 Vol. I.— 17
 
 258 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 design, an Essay on English Literature, it is, in 
 fact, a multifarious compound of as many in- 
 gredients as entered into the witches' caldron, to 
 say nothing of a gallery of portraits of dead and 
 living, among the latter of whom M. de Chateau- 
 briand himself is not the least conspicuous. " I 
 have treated of every thing," he says, truly 
 enough, in his preface, " the Present, the Past, 
 the Future." The parts are put together in the 
 most grotesque and disorderly manner, with some 
 striking coincidences, occasionally, of characters 
 and situations, and some facts not familiar to 
 every reader. The most unpleasant feature in 
 the book is a doleful lamentation of the author 
 over the evil times on which he has fallen. He 
 has, indeed, lived somewhat beyond his time, 
 which was that of Charles the Tenth, of pious 
 memory, — the good old time of apostolicals and 
 absolutists, which wiU not be likely to revisit 
 France again very soon. Indeed, our unfortunate 
 author reminds one of some weather-beaten hulk 
 which the tide has left high and dry on the strand, 
 and whose signals of distress are little heeded 
 by the rest of the convoy, which have trimmed 
 their sails more dexterously and sweep merrily on 
 before the breeze. The present work aiFords 
 glimpses, occasionally, of the author's happier 
 style, which has so often fascinated us in his 
 earlier productions. On the whole, however, it will 
 add little to his reputation, nor, probably, much 
 subtract from it. When a man has sent forth a 
 score or two of octavos into the world, and as good 
 as some of M. de Chateaubriand's, he can bear up
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 259 
 
 under a poor one now and then. This is not the 
 first indifferent work laid at his door, and, as he 
 promises to keep the field for some time longer, 
 it will probably not be the last. 
 
 We pass over the first half of the first volume, 
 to come to the Reformation, the point of depart- 
 ure, as it were, for modern civihzation. Our 
 author's views in relation to it, as we might antic- 
 ipate, are not precisely those we should entertain. 
 
 " In a rehgious point of view," he says, " the 
 Reformation is leading insensibly to indifference, 
 or the complete absence of faith: the reason is, 
 that the independence of the mind terminates in 
 two gulfs, doubt and incredulity. 
 
 " By a very natural reaction, the Reformation, 
 at its birth, rekindled the djdng flame of Catholic 
 fanaticism. It may thus be regarded as the indi- 
 rect cause of the massacre of St. Bartholomew, 
 the disturbances of the League, the assassination 
 of Henry the Fourth, the murders in Ireland, and 
 of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and 
 the dragonnades! " — Vol. i. p. 193. 
 
 As to the tendency of the Reformation towards 
 doubt and incredulity, we know that free inquiry, 
 continually presenting new views as the sphere 
 of observation is enlarged, may unsettle old prin- 
 ciples without establishing any fixed ones in their 
 place, or, in other words, lead to skepticism; but 
 we doubt if this happens more frequently than 
 under the opposite system, inculcated by the 
 Romish Church, which, by precluding examina- 
 tion, excludes the only ground of rational belief. 
 At all events, skepticism in the former case is
 
 260 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 much more remediable than in the latter; since 
 the subject of it, by pursuing his inquiries, will, 
 it is to be hoped, as truth is mighty, arrive at 
 last at a right result ; while the Romanist, inhibited 
 from such inquiry, has no remedy. The ingenious 
 author of *' Doblado's Letters from Spain " has 
 painted in the most affecting colors the state of 
 such a mind, which, declining to take its creed at 
 the bidding of another, is lost in the labyrinth of 
 doubt without a clue to guide it. As to charging 
 on the Reformation the various enormities with 
 which the above extract concludes, the idea is 
 certainly new. It is, in fact, making the Protes- 
 tants guilty of their own persecution, and Henry 
 the Fourth of his own assassination; quite an 
 original view of the subject, which, as far as we 
 know, has hitherto escaped the attention of 
 historians. 
 
 A few pages farther, and we find the following 
 information respecting the state of Cathohcism 
 in our own country : 
 
 ** Maryland, a Catholic and very populous state, 
 made common cause with the others, and now 
 most of the Western States are Catholic. The 
 progress of this conmiunion in the United States 
 of America exceeds belief. There it has been 
 invigorated in its evangelical aliment, popular hb- 
 erty, while other communions decline in profound 
 indifference/^ — Vol. i. p. 201. 
 
 We were not aware of this state of things. We 
 did indeed know that the Roman Church had in- 
 creased much of late years, especially in the Valley 
 of the Mississippi ; but so have other communions.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 261 
 
 as the Methodist and Baptist, for example, the 
 latter of which comprehends five times as many 
 disciples as the Roman Catholic. As to the pop- 
 ulation of the latter in the West, the whole number 
 of Catholics in the Union does not amount, proba- 
 bly, to three-fourths of the number of inhabi- 
 tants in the single Western State of Ohio. The 
 truth is, that in a country where there is no es- 
 tablished or favored sect, and where the clergy 
 depend on voluntary contribution for their sup- 
 port, there must be constant efforts at prosely- 
 tism, and a mutation of religious opinion, accord- 
 ing to the convictions, or fancied convictions, of 
 the converts. What one denomination gains an- 
 other loses, till, roused in its turn by its rival, new 
 efforts are made to retrieve its position, and the 
 equilibrium is restored. In the mean time, the 
 population of the whole country goes forward 
 with giant strides, and each sect boasts, and 
 boasts with truth, of the hourly augmentation of 
 its numbers. Those of the Roman Catholics are 
 swelled, moreover, by a considerable addition 
 from emigration, many of the poor foreigners, 
 especially the Irish, being of that persuasion. But 
 this is no ground of triumph, as it infers no in- 
 crease to the sum of Catholicism, since what is 
 thus gained in the New World is lost in the Old. 
 
 Our author pronounces the Reformation hos- 
 tile to the arts, poetry, eloquence, elegant litera- 
 ture, and even the spirit of military heroism. But 
 hear his own words : 
 
 *' The Reformation, imbued with the spirit of 
 its founder, declared itself hostile to the arts. It
 
 262 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 sacked tombs, churches and monuments, and made 
 in France and England heaps of ruins." . . . 
 
 " The beautiful in literature will be found to 
 exist in a greater or lesser degree, in proportion 
 as writers have approximated to the genius of 
 the Roman Church." . . . 
 
 "If the Reformation restricted genius in poet- 
 ry, eloquence, and the arts, it also checked heroism 
 in war, for heroism is imagination in the military 
 order."— Vol. i. pp. 194-207. 
 
 This is a sweeping denunciation, and, as far as 
 the arts of design are intended, may probably be 
 defended. The Romish worship, its stately ritual 
 and gorgeous ceremonies, the throng of numbers 
 assisting, in one form or another, at the service, all 
 require spacious and magnificent edifices, with 
 the rich accessories of sculpture and painting, and 
 music also, to give full effect to the spectacle. 
 Never was there a religion which addressed itself 
 more directly to the senses. And, fortunately for 
 it, the immense power and revenues of its ministers 
 enabled them to meet its exorbitant demands. 
 On so splendid a theatre, and under such patron- 
 age, the arts were called into life in modern 
 Europe, and most of all in that spot which rep- 
 resented the capital of Christendom. It was 
 there, amid the pomp and luxury of religion, that 
 those beautiful structures rose, with those exqui- 
 site creations of the chisel and the pencil, which 
 embodied in themselves all the elements of ideal 
 beauty. 
 
 But, independently of these external circum- 
 stances, the spirit of Catholicism was eminently
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 263 
 
 favorable to the artist. Shut out from free in- 
 quiry — from the Scriptures themselves — and com- 
 pelled to receive the dogmas of his teachers up- 
 on trust, the road to conviction lay less through 
 the understanding than the heart. The heart was 
 to be moved, the affections and sympathies to be 
 stirred, as well as the senses to be dazzled. This was 
 the machinery by which alone could an effectual 
 devotion to the faith be maintained in an ignorant 
 people. It was not, therefore, Christ as a teacher 
 delivering lessons of practical wisdom and moral- 
 ity that was brought before the eye, but Clrrist 
 filling the offices of human sympathy, ministering 
 to the poor and sorrowing, giving eyes to the blind, 
 health to the sick, and life to the dead. It was 
 Christ suffering under persecution, crowned w^ith 
 thorns, lacerated with stripes, dying on the cross. 
 These sorrows and sufferings were understood by 
 the dullest soul, and told more than a thousand 
 homilies. So wdth the Virgin. It was not that 
 sainted mother of the Saviour whom Protes- 
 tants venerate but do not worship; it was the 
 Mother of God, and entitled, like him, to adora- 
 tion. It was a woman, and, as such, the object of 
 those romantic feelings which would profane the 
 service of the Deity, but which are not the less 
 touching as being in accordance with human 
 sympathies. The respect for the Virgin, indeed, 
 partook of that which a Catholic might feel for 
 his tutelar saint and his mistress combined. Orders 
 of chivalry were dedicated to her service; and 
 her shrine was piled with more offerings and fre- 
 quented by more pilgrimages than the altars of
 
 264 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 the Deity himself. Thus, feehngs of love, adora- 
 tion, and romantic honor, strangely blended, 
 threw a halo of poetic glory around their object, 
 making it the most exalted theme for the study 
 of the artist. What wonder that this subject 
 should have called forth the noblest inspirations 
 of his genius? What wonder that an artist like 
 Raphael should have found in the simple por- 
 traiture of a woman and a child the materials for 
 immortality? 
 
 It was something like a kindred state of feeling 
 which called into being the arts of ancient Greece, 
 when her mythology was comparatively fresh, and 
 faith was easy, — when the legends of the past, 
 famihar as Scripture story at a later day, gave a 
 real existence to the beings of fancy, and the art- 
 ist, embodying these in forms of visible beauty, 
 but finished the work which the poet had begun. 
 
 The Reformation brought other trains of ideas, 
 and with them other influences on the arts, than 
 those of Catholicism. Its first movements were 
 decidedly hostile, since the works of art with which 
 the temples were adorned, being associated with 
 the religion itself, became odious as the symbols of 
 idolatry. But the spirit of the Reformation gave 
 thought a new direction even in the cultivation of 
 art. It was no longer sought to appeal to the 
 senses by brilliant display, or to waken the sensi- 
 bilities by those superficial emotions which find 
 relief in tears. A sterner, deeper feeling was 
 roused. The mind was turned within, as it were, 
 to ponder on the import of existence and its future 
 destinies; for the chains were withdrawn from
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 265 
 
 the soul, and it was permitted to wander at large 
 in the regions of speculation. Reason took the 
 place of sentiment, — the useful of the merely 
 ornamental. Facts were substituted for forms, 
 even the ideal forms of beauty. There were to 
 be no more Michael Angelos and Raphaels; no 
 glorious Gothic temples which consumed genera- 
 tions in their building. The sublime and the 
 beautiful were not the first objects proposed by 
 the artist. He sought truth, — fideUty to nature. 
 He studied the characters of his species as well 
 as the forms of imaginary perfection. He por- 
 trayed life as developed in its thousand peculiari- 
 ties before his own eyes, and the ideal gave way 
 to the natural. In this way, new schools of paint- 
 ing, like that of Hogarth, for example, arose, 
 which, however inferior in those great proper- 
 ties for which we must admire the masterpieces 
 of Itahan art, had a significance and philosophic 
 depth which furnished quite as much matter for 
 study and meditation. 
 
 A similar tendency was observable in poetry, 
 eloquence, and works of elegant literature. The 
 influence of the Reformation here was undoubt- 
 edly favorable, whatever it may have been on 
 the arts. How could it be otherwise on hterature, 
 the written expression of thought, in which no 
 grace of visible forms and proportions, no skill of 
 mechanical execution, can cheat the eye with the 
 vain semblance of genius? But it was not until 
 the warm breath of the Reformation had dissolved 
 the icy fetters which had so long held the spirit 
 of man in bondage that the genial current of the
 
 266 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 soul was permitted to flow, that the gates of 
 reason were unbarred, and the mind was permit- 
 ted to taste of the tree of knowledge, forbidden 
 tree no longer. Where was the scope for eloquence 
 when thought was stifled in the very sanctuary 
 of the heart? for out of the fulness of the heart 
 the mouth speaketh. 
 
 There might, indeed, be an elaborate attention 
 to the outward forms of expression, an exquisite 
 finish of verbal arrangement, the dress and garni- 
 ture of thought. And, in fact, the Catholic nations 
 have surpassed the Protestant in attention to 
 verbal elegance and the soft music of numbers, 
 to nice rhetorical artifice and brilliancy of compo- 
 sition. The poetry of Italy and the prose of 
 France bear ample evidence how much time and 
 talent have been expended on this beauty of out- 
 ward form, the rich vehicle of thought. But where 
 shall we find the powerful reasoning, various 
 knowledge, and fearless energy of diction which 
 stamp the oratory of Protestant England and 
 America. In France, indeed, where prose has re- 
 ceived a higher polish and classic elegance than in 
 any other country, pulpit eloquence has reached 
 an uncommon degree of excellence; for, though 
 much was excluded, the avenues to the heart, as 
 with the painter and the sculptor, were still left 
 open to the orator. If there has been a deficiency in 
 this respect in the English Church, which all will 
 not admit, it arises probably from the fact that 
 the mind, unrestricted, has been occupied with 
 reasoning rather than rhetoric, and sought to clear 
 away old prejudices and establish new truths, in-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 267 
 
 stead of wakening a transient sensibility or 
 dazzling the imagination with poetic flights of 
 eloquence. That it is the fault of the preacher, 
 at all events, and not of Protestantism, is shown 
 by a striking example under our own eyes, that 
 of our distinguished countryman Dr. Channing, 
 whose style is irradiated with all the splendors 
 of a glowing imagination, showing, as powerfully 
 as any other example, probably, in English prose, 
 of what melody and compass the language is ca- 
 pable under the touch of genius instinct with genu- 
 ine enthusiasm. Not that we would recommend 
 this style, grand and beautiful as it is, for imita- 
 tion. We think we have seen the ill effects of 
 this already in more than one instance. In fact, 
 no style should be held up as a model for imita- 
 tion. Dr. Johnson tells us, in one of those oracu- 
 lar passages somewhat threadbare now, that 
 " whoever wishes to attain an English style, fa- 
 mihar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostenta- 
 tious, must give his days and nights to the volumes 
 of Addison." With all deference to the great 
 critic, who, by the formal cut of the sentence just 
 quoted, shows that he did not care to follow his 
 own prescription, we think otherwise. Whoever 
 would write a good English style, we should say, 
 should acquaint himself with the mysteries of the 
 language as revealed in the writings of the best 
 masters, but should form his own style on nobody 
 but himself. Every man, at least every man with 
 a spark of originality in his composition, has his 
 own peculiar way of thinking, and, to give it 
 eiFect, it must find its way out in its own peculiar
 
 268 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 language. Indeed, it is impossible to separate 
 language from thought in that delicate blending 
 of both which is called style; at least, it is impos- 
 sible to produce the same effect with the original 
 by any copy, however literal. We may imitate 
 the structure of a sentence, but the ideas which 
 gave it its peculiar propriety we cannot imitate. 
 The forms of expression that suit one man's train 
 of thinking no more suit another's than one man's 
 clothes will suit another. They will be sure to be 
 either too large or too small, or, at all events, not 
 to make what gentlemen of the needle call a good 
 fit. If the party chances, as is generally the case, 
 to be rather under size, and the model is over size, 
 this will only expose his own littleness the more. 
 There is no case more in point than that afforded 
 by Dr. Johnson himself. His brilUant style has 
 been the ambition of every school-boy, and of 
 some children of larger growth, since the days 
 of the Rambler. But the nearer they come to it 
 the worse. The beautiful is turned into the fan- 
 tastic, and the subhme into the ridiculous. The 
 most curious example of this within our recol- 
 lection is the case of Dr. Symmons, the English 
 editor of Milton's prose writings, and the bi- 
 ographer of the poet. The little doctor has main- 
 tained throughout his ponderous volume a most 
 exact imitation of the great doctor, his sesqui- 
 pedalian words, the florid rotundity of period. 
 With all this cumbrous load of brave finery on 
 his back, swelled to twice its original dimensions, 
 he looks for all the world, as he is, like a mere 
 bag of wind, — a scarecrow, to admonish others 
 of the folly of similar depredations.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 269 
 
 But to return. The influence of the Reforma- 
 tion on elegant literature was never more visible 
 than in the first great English school of poets, 
 which came soon after it, at the close of the six- 
 teenth century. The writers of that period dis- 
 played a courage, originality, and truth highly 
 characteristic of the new revolution, which had 
 been introduced by breaking down the old land- 
 marks of opinion and giving unbounded range to 
 speculation and inquiry. The first great poet, 
 Spenser, adopted the same vehicle of imagination 
 with the Italian bards of chivalry, the romantic 
 epic; but, instead of making it, like them, a mere 
 revel of fancy, with no further object than to 
 delight the reader by brilliant combinations, he 
 moralized his song, and gave it a deeper and more 
 solemn import by the mysteries of Allegory, which, 
 however prejudicial to its eiFect as a work of art, 
 showed a mind too intent on serious thoughts and 
 inquiries itself to be content with the dazzling but 
 impotent coruscations of genius, that serve no 
 other end than that of amusement. 
 
 In the same manner, Shakspeare and the other 
 dramatic writers of the time, instead of adopting 
 the formal rules recognized afterwards by the 
 French writers, their long rhetorical flourishes, 
 their exaggerated models of character, and ideal 
 forms, went freely and fearlessly into all the 
 varieties of human nature, the secret depths of the 
 soul, touching on all the diversified interests of 
 humanity, — for he might touch on all without fear 
 of persecution, — and thus making his productions 
 a storehouse of philosophy, of lessons of practical
 
 270 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 wisdom, deep, yet so clear that he who runs may- 
 read. 
 
 But the spirit of the Reformation did not de- 
 scend in all its fulness on the Muse till the appear- 
 ance of Milton. That great poet was in heart 
 as thoroughly a Reformer, and in doctrine much 
 more thoroughly so than Luther himself. Indig- 
 nant at every effort to crush the spirit, and to 
 cheat it, in his own words, " of that liberty which 
 rarefies and enlightens it like the influence of 
 heaven," he proclaimed the rights of man as a 
 rational, immortal being, undismayed by menace 
 and obloquy, amid a generation of servile and un- 
 principled sycophants. The blindness which ex- 
 cluded him from the things of earth opened to 
 him more glorious and spiritualized conceptions of 
 heaven, and aided him in exhibiting the full influ- 
 ence of those sublime truths which the privilege 
 of free inquiry in religious matters had poured 
 upon the mind. His Muse was as eminently the 
 child of Protestantism as that of Dante, who re- 
 sembled him in so many traits of character, was of 
 Catholicism. The latter poet, coming first among 
 the moderns, after the fountains of the great deep 
 which had so long overwhelmed the world were 
 broken up, displayed in his wonderful composition 
 all the elements of modern institutions as distin- 
 guished from those of antiquity. He first showed 
 the full and peculiar influence of Christianity 
 on literature, but it was Christianity under the 
 form of Catholicism. His subject, spiritual in 
 its design, like Milton's, was sustained by all the 
 auxiliaries of a visible and material existence. His
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES STl 
 
 passage through the infernal abyss is a series 
 of tragic pictures of human woe, suggesting 
 greater refinements of cruelty than were ever im- 
 agined by a heathen poet. Amid all the various 
 forms of mortal anguish, we look in vain for the 
 mind as a means of torture. In like manner, in 
 ascending the scale of celestial being, we pass 
 through a succession of brilliant fetes, made up of 
 light, music, and motion, increasing in splendor 
 and velocity, till all are lost and confounded in 
 the glories of the Deity. Even the pencil of the 
 great master, dipped in these gorgeous tints of 
 imagination, does not shrink from the attempt 
 to portray the outlines of Deity itself. In this 
 he aspired to what many of his countrymen in 
 the sister arts of design have since attempted, and, 
 like him, have failed; for who can hope to give 
 form to the Infinite? In the same false style 
 Dante personifies the spirits of evil, including 
 Satan himself. Much was doubtless owing to the 
 age, though much, also, must be referred to the 
 genius of Catholicism, which, appealing to the 
 senses, has a tendency to materialize the spiritual, 
 as Protestantism, with deeper reflection, aims to 
 spiritualize the material. Thus Milton, in tread- 
 ing similar ground, borrows his illustrations from 
 intellectual sources, conveys the image of the Al- 
 mighty by his attributes, and, in the frequent por- 
 traiture which he introduces of Satan, suggests 
 only vague conceptions of form, the faint out- 
 lines of matter, as it were, stretching vast over 
 many a rood, but towering sublime by the uncon- 
 querable energy of will, — the fit representative
 
 272 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 of the principle of evil. Indeed, Milton has 
 scarcely any thing of what may be called scenic 
 decorations to produce a certain stage effect. His 
 actors are few, and his action nothing. It is only 
 by their intellectual and moral relations — by giv- 
 ing full scope to the 
 
 " Cherub Contemplation — 
 He that soars on golden wing, 
 Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne," 
 
 that he has prepared for us visions of celestial 
 beauty and grandeur which never fade from our 
 souls. 
 
 In the dialogue with which the two poets have 
 seasoned their poems, we see the action of the 
 opposite influences we have described. Both give 
 vent to metaphysical disquisition, of learned sound, 
 and much greater length than the reader would 
 desire; but in Milton it is the free discussion of 
 a mind trained to wrestle boldly on abstrusest 
 points of metaphysical theology, while Dante fol- 
 lows in the same old barren footsteps which had 
 been trodden by the schoolmen. Both writers 
 were singularly bold and independent. Dante 
 asserted that liberty which should belong to the 
 citizen of every free state, — that civil liberty which 
 had been sacrificed in his own country by the 
 spirit of faction. But Milton claimed a higher 
 freedom, — a freedom of thinking and of giving 
 utterance to thought, uncontrolled by human 
 authority. He had fallen on evil times; but he 
 had a generous confidence that his voice would 
 reach to posterity and would be a guide and a 
 light to the coming generations. And truly has it
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 273 
 
 proved so ; for in his writings we find the germs of 
 many of the boasted discoveries of our own day 
 in government and education, so that he may 
 be fairly considered as the morning star of that 
 higher civihzation which distinguishes our happier 
 era. 
 
 Milton's poetical writings do not seem, however, 
 to have been held in that neglect by his contempo- 
 raries which is commonly supposed. He had at- 
 tracted too much attention as a political contro- 
 versialist, was too much feared for his talents, as 
 well as hated for his principles, to allow any thing 
 which fell from his pen to pass unnoticed. Al- 
 though the profits went to others, he lived to see 
 a second edition of " Paradise Lost," and this 
 was more than was to have been fairly anticipated 
 of a composition of this nature, however well exe- 
 cuted, falling on such times. Indeed, its sale was 
 no evidence that its merits were comprehended, 
 and may be referred to the general reputation of 
 its author; for we find so accomplished a critic as 
 Sir William Temple, some years later, omitting 
 the name of Milton in his roll of writers who have 
 done honor to modern literature, a circumstance 
 which may perhaps be imputed to that reverence 
 for the ancients which blinded Sir William to the 
 merits of their successors. How could Milton 
 be understood in his own generation, in the grovel- 
 ling, sensual court of Charles the Second? How 
 could the dull eyes so long fastened on the earth 
 endure the blaze of his inspired genius ? It was not 
 till time had removed him to a distance that he 
 could be calmly gazed on and his merits fairly 
 
 Vol. I.— 18
 
 274 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 contemplated. Addison, as is well known, was 
 the first to bring them into popular view, by a 
 beautiful specimen of criticism that has perma- 
 nently connected his name with that of his illus- 
 trious subject. More than half a century later, 
 another great name in English criticism, perhaps 
 the greatest in general reputation, Johnson, passed 
 sentence of a very diiFerent kind on the preten- 
 tions of the poet. A production more discreditable 
 to the author is not to be found in the whole of his 
 voluminous works, — equally discreditable whether 
 regarded in an historical light or as a sample 
 of Hterary criticism. What shall we say of the 
 biographer who, in allusion to that affecting pas- 
 sage where the blind old bard talks of himself 
 as "in darkness, and with dangers compass'd 
 round," can coolly remark that " this darkness, had 
 his eyes been better employed, might undoubtedly 
 have deserved compassion" ? Or what of the 
 critic who can say of the most exquisite effusion 
 of Doric minstrelsy that our language boasts, 
 *' Surely no man could have fancied that he read 
 ' Lycidas ' with pleasure, had he not known the 
 author; " and of " Paradise Lost " itself, that " its 
 perusal is a duty rather than a pleasure" ? Could a 
 more exact measure be afforded than by this single 
 line of the poetic sensibility of the critic, and his 
 unsuitableness for the office he had here assumed ? 
 His " Life of Milton " is a humiliating testimony 
 of the power of political and religious preju- 
 dices to warp a great and good mind from the 
 standard of truth, in the estimation not merely 
 of contemporary excellence, but of the great of
 
 POETRAIT OF CHATEAUBRIAND.
 
 .anAiaauAaTAHO ho TiAHTaoi
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 275 
 
 other years, over whose frailties Time might be 
 supposed to have drawn his friendly mantle. 
 
 Another half -century has elapsed, and ample 
 justice has been rendered to the fame of the poet 
 by two elaborate criticisms: the one in the " Edin- 
 burgh Review," from the pen of Mr. Macaulay; 
 the other by Dr. Channing, in the " Christian Ex- 
 aminer," since republished in his own works; re- 
 markable performances, each in the manner highly 
 characteristic of its author, and which have con- 
 tributed, doubtless, to draw attention to the prose 
 compositions of their subject, as the criticism of 
 Addison did to his poetry. There is something 
 gratifying in the circumstance that this great ad- 
 vocate of intellectual liberty should have found 
 his most able and eloquent expositor among us, 
 whose position qualifies us in a peculiar manner 
 for profiting by the rich legacy of his genius. It 
 was but discharging a debt of gratitude. 
 
 Chateaubriand has much to say about Milton, 
 for whose writings, both prose and poetry, not- 
 withstanding the difference of their sentiments 
 on almost all points of politics and religion, he 
 appears to entertain the most sincere reverence. 
 His criticisms are liberal and just; they show a 
 thorough study of his author; but neither the 
 historical facts nor the reflections will suggest 
 much that is new on a subject now become trite 
 to the English reader. 
 
 We may pass over a good deal of skimble-skam- 
 ble stuff about men and things, which our author 
 may have cut out of his commonplace-book, to 
 come to his remarks on Sir Walter Scott, whom 
 he does not rate so highly as most critics.
 
 216 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 " The illustrious painter of Scotland," he says, 
 " seems to me to have created a false class ; he has, 
 in my opinion, confounded history and romance. 
 The novelist has set about writing historical ro- 
 mances, and the historian romantic histories." — 
 Vol. ii. p. 306 
 
 We should have said, on the contrary, that he 
 had improved the character of both; that he had 
 given new value to romance by building it on 
 history, and new charms to history by embellishing 
 it with the graces of romance. 
 
 To be more explicit. The principal historical 
 work of Scott is the " Life of Napoleon." It 
 has, unquestionably, many of the faults incident 
 to a dashing style of composition, which precluded 
 the possibility of compression and arrangement 
 in the best form of which the subject was capa- 
 ble. This, in the end, may be fatal to the per- 
 petuity of the work, for posterity will be much 
 less patient than our own age. He will have a 
 much heavier load to carry, inasmuch as he is 
 to bear up under all of his own time, and ours 
 too. It is very certain, then, some must go by the 
 board; and nine sturdy volumes, which is the 
 amount of Sir Walter's English edition, will be 
 somewhat alarming. Had he confined himself 
 to half the quantity, there would have been no 
 ground for distrust. Every day, nay, hour, we 
 see, ay, and feel, the ill effects of this rapid style 
 of composition, so usual with the best writers of 
 our day. The immediate profits which such writers 
 are pretty sure to get, notwithstanding the ex- 
 ample of M. Chateaubriand, operate like the dress-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES m 
 
 ing improvidently laid on a naturally good soil, 
 forcing out noxious weeds in such luxuriance as 
 to check, if not absolutely to kill, the more health- 
 ful vegetation. Quantities of trivial detail find 
 their way into the page, mixed up with graver 
 matters. Instead of that skilful preparation by 
 which all the avenues verge at last to one point, so 
 as to leave a distinct impression — an impression of 
 unity — on the reader, he is hurried along zigzag, in 
 a thousand directions, or round and round, but 
 never, in the cant of the times, " going ahead " an 
 inch. He leaves off pretty much where he set out, 
 except that his memory may be tolerably well 
 stuffed with facts, which, from want of some 
 principle of cohesion, will soon drop out of it. He 
 will find himself like a traveller who has been rid- 
 ing through a fine country, it may be, by moon- 
 light, getting glimpses of every thing, but no com- 
 plete well-illuminated view of the whole (" quale 
 per incertam lunam/^ etc.), or, rather, like the 
 same traveller whizzing along in a locomotive so 
 rapidly as to get even a glimpse fairly of nothing, 
 instead of making his tour in such a manner as 
 would enable him to pause at what was worth his 
 attention, to pass by night over the barren and un- 
 interesting, and occasionally to rise to such ele- 
 vations as would afford the best points of view 
 for commanding the various prospect. 
 
 The romance-writer labors under no such em- 
 barrassments. He may, undoubtedly, precipitate 
 his work so that it may lack proportion, and the 
 nice arrangement required by the rules which, fifty 
 years ago, would have condemned it as a work of
 
 278 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 art. But the criticism of the present day is not 
 so squeamish, or, to say truth, pedantic. It is 
 enough for the writer of fiction if he give pleasure ; 
 and this, everybody knows, is not effected by 
 the strict observance of artificial rules. It is of 
 little consequence how the plot is entangled, or 
 whether it be untied or cut in order to extricate 
 the dramatis personce. At least it is of little con- 
 sequence compared with the true delineation of 
 character. The story is serviceable only as it af- 
 fords a means for the display of this; and if the 
 novelist but keep up the interest of his story and 
 the truth of his characters, we easily forgive any 
 dislocations which his light vehicle may encounter 
 from too heedless motion. Indeed, rapidity of 
 motion may in some sort favor him, keeping up 
 the glow of his invention, and striking out, as he 
 dashes along, sparks of wit and fancy, that give 
 a brilliant illumination to his track. But in his- 
 tory there must be another kind of process, — a pro- 
 cess at once slow and laborious. Old parchments 
 are to be ransacked, charters and musty records 
 to be deciphered, and stupid, worm-eaten chron- 
 iclers, who had much more of passion, frequently, 
 to blind, than good sense to guide them, must be 
 sifted and compared. In short, a sort of Medea- 
 like process is to be gone through, and many an 
 old bone is to be boiled over in the caldron before it 
 can come out again clothed in the elements of beau- 
 ty. The dreams of the novelist, — ^the poet of 
 prose, — on the other hand, are beyond the reach 
 of art, and the magician calls up the most brilliant 
 forms of fancy by a single stroke of his wand.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 279 
 
 Scott, in his History, was relieved in some de- 
 gree from this necessity of studious research by 
 borrowing his theme from contemporary events. 
 It was his duty, indeed, to examine evidence care- 
 fully and sift out contradictions and errors. This 
 demanded shrewdness and caution, but not much 
 previous preparation and study. It demanded, 
 above all, candor; for it was his business not to 
 make out a case for the client, but to weigh both 
 sides, like an impartial judge, before summing 
 up the evidence and delivering his conscientious 
 opinion. We believe there was no good ground 
 for charging Scott with having swerved from 
 this part of his duty. Those who expected to see 
 him deify his hero and raise altars to his memory 
 were disappointed; and so were those, also, who 
 demanded that the tail and cloven hoof should 
 be made to peep out beneath the imperial robe. 
 But this proves his impartiality. It would be un- 
 fair, however, to require the degree of impartiality 
 which is to be expected from one removed to a 
 distance from the theatre of strife, from those 
 national interests and feelings which are so often 
 the disturbing causes of historic fairness. An 
 American, no doubt, would have been in this re- 
 spect in a more favorable point of view for con- 
 templating the European drama. The ocean, 
 stretched between us and the Old World, has the 
 effect of time, and extinguishes, or, at least, cools, 
 the hot and angry feehngs which find their way 
 into every man's bosom within the atmosphere of 
 the contest. Scott was a Briton, with all the pe- 
 culiarities of one, — at least of a North Briton;
 
 280 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 and the future historian who gathers materials 
 from his labors will throw these national pre- 
 dilections into the scale in determining the proba- 
 ble accuracy of his statements. These are not 
 greater than might occur to any man, and allow- 
 ance will always be made for them, on the ground 
 of a general presumption; so that a greater de- 
 gree of impartiality, by leading to false conclu- 
 sions in this respect, would scarcely have served 
 the cause of truth better with posterity. An in- 
 dividual who felt his reputation compromised may 
 have joined issue on this or that charge of inac- 
 curacy; but no such charge has come from any 
 of the leading journals in the country, which 
 would not have been slow to expose it, and which 
 would not, considering the great popularity and, 
 consequently, influence of the work, have omitted, 
 as they did, to notice it at all, had it afforded any 
 obvious ground of exception on this score. Where, 
 then, is the romance which our author accuses 
 Sir Walter of blending with history? 
 
 Scott was, in truth, master of the picturesque. 
 He understood, better than any historian since 
 the time of Livy, how to dispose his lights and 
 shades so as to produce the most striking result. 
 This property of romance he had a right to borrow. 
 This talent is particularly observable in the ani- 
 mated parts of his story, — in his battles, for ex- 
 ample. No man ever painted those terrible 
 scenes with greater effect. He had a natural relish 
 for gunpowder; and his mettle roused, like that 
 of a war-horse, at the sound of the trumpet. His 
 acquaintance with military science enabled him
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 281 
 
 to employ a technical phraseology, just technical 
 enough to give a knowing air to his descriptions, 
 without embarrassing the reader by a pedantic 
 display of unintelligible jargon. This is a talent 
 rare in a civilian. Nothing can be finer than 
 many of his battle-pieces in his " Life of Bona- 
 parte," unless, indeed, we except one or two in his 
 " History of Scotland," as the fight of Bannock- 
 burn, for example, in which Burns's " Scots, wha 
 hae" seems to breathe in every line. 
 
 It is when treading on Scottish ground that he 
 seems to feel all his strength. " I seem always to 
 step more firmly," he said to some one, " when on 
 my own native heather." His mind was steeped 
 in Scottish lore, and his bosom warmed with a 
 sympathetic glow for the age of chivalry. Ac- 
 cordingly, his dehneations of this period, whether 
 in history or romance, are unrivalled; as supe- 
 rior in effect to those of most compilers as the 
 richly-stained glass of the feudal ages is superior 
 in beauty and brilliancy of tints to a modern imi- 
 tation. If this be borrowing something from ro- 
 mance, it is, we repeat, no more than what is law- 
 ful for the historian, and explains the meaning of 
 our assertion that he has improved history by the 
 embellishments of fiction. 
 
 Yet, after all, how wide the difference between 
 the province of history and of romance, under 
 Scott's own hands, may be shown by comparing 
 his account of Mary's reign in his " History of 
 Scotland " with the same period in the novel 
 of " The Abbot." The historian must keep the 
 beaten track of events. The novelist launches into
 
 282 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 the illimitable regions of fiction, provided only that 
 his historic portraits be true to their originals. By- 
 due attention to this, fiction is made to minister 
 to history, and may, in point of fact, contain as 
 much real truth, — truth of character, though not 
 of situation. " The difference between the histo- 
 rian and me," says Fielding, " is that with him 
 every thing is false but the names and dates, while 
 with me nothing is false but these." There is, at 
 least, as much truth in this as in most witticisms. 
 
 It is the great glory of Scott that, by nice at- 
 tention to costume and character in his novels, he 
 has raised them to historic importance without 
 impairing their interest as works of art. Who 
 now would imagine that he could form a satis- 
 factory notion of the golden days of Queen Bess 
 that had not read " Kenilworth" ? or of Richard 
 Coeur-de-Lion and his brave paladins that had 
 not read " Ivanhoe" ? Why, then, it has been 
 said, not at once incorporate into regular history 
 all these traits which give such historical value 
 to the novel? Because in this way the strict truth 
 which history requires would be violated. This 
 cannot be. The fact is. History and Romance 
 are too near akin ever to be lawfully united. By 
 mingling them together, a confusion is produced, 
 like the mingling of day and night, mystifying 
 and distorting every feature of the landscape. It 
 is enough for the novelist if he be true to the 
 spirit ; the historian must be true also to the letter. 
 He cannot coin pertinent remarks and anecdotes 
 to illustrate the characters of his drama. He can- 
 not even provide them with suitable costumes. He
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 283 
 
 must take just what Father Time has given him, 
 just what he finds in the records of the age, set- 
 ting down neither more nor less. Now, the dull 
 chroniclers of the old time rarely thought of 
 putting down the smart sayings of the great peo- 
 ple they biographize, still less of entering into 
 minute circumstances of personal interest. These 
 were too familiar to contemporaries to require it, 
 and therefore they waste their breath on more 
 solemn matters of state, all important in their 
 generation, but not worth a rush in the present. 
 What would the historian not give could he borrow 
 those fine touches of nature with which the novel- 
 ist illustrates the characters of his actors, — natu- 
 ral touches, indeed, but, in truth, just as artificial 
 as any other part, — all coined in the imagina- 
 tion of the writer ! There is the same difference be- 
 tween his occupation and that of the novelist 
 that there is between the historical and the portrait 
 painter. The former necessarily takes some great 
 subject, with great personages, all strutting about 
 in gorgeous state attire and air of solemn tragedy, 
 while his brother artist insinuates himself into the 
 family groups, and picks out natural, familiar 
 scenes and faces, laughing or weeping, but in 
 the charming undress of nature. What wonder 
 that novel-reading should be so much more amus- 
 ing than history? 
 
 But we have already trespassed too freely on 
 the patience of our readers, who will think the 
 rambling spirit of our author contagious. Before 
 dismissing him, however, we will give a taste of 
 his quality by one or two extracts, not very ger-
 
 284 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 mane to English literature, but about as much 
 so as a great part of the work. The first is a 
 poetical sally on Bonaparte's burial-place, quite 
 in Monsieur Chateaubriand's peculiar vein: 
 
 " The solitude of Napoleon, in his exile and his 
 tomb, has thrown another kind of spell over a 
 brilliant memory. Alexander did not die in sight 
 of Greece; he disappeared amid the pomp of dis- 
 tant Babylon. Bonaparte did not close his eyes 
 in the presence of France; he passed away in the 
 gorgeous horizon of the torrid zone. The man 
 who had shown himself in such powerful reality 
 vanished like a dream; his life, which belonged 
 to history, co-operated in the poetry of his death. 
 He now sleeps forever, like a hermit or a paria, 
 beneath a willow, in a narrow valley, surrounded 
 by steep rocks, at the extremity of a lonely path. 
 The depth of the silence which presses upon him 
 can only be compared to the vastness of that tu- 
 mult which had surrounded him. Nations are ab- 
 sent; their throng has retired. The bird of the 
 tropics, harnessed to the car of the sun, as Buf- 
 f on magnificently expresses it, speeding his flight 
 downward from the planet of light, rests alone, for 
 a moment, over the ashes the weight of which has 
 shaken the equilibrium of the globe. 
 
 " Bonaparte crossed the ocean to repair to his 
 final exile, regardless of that beautiful sky 
 which delighted Columbus, Vasco de Gama and 
 Camoens. Stretched upon the ship's stern, he per- 
 ceived not that unknown constellations were spar- 
 kling over his head. His powerful glance, for the 
 first time, encountered their rays. What to him
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 285 
 
 were stars which he had never seen from his 
 bivouacs and which had never shone over his em- 
 pire? Nevertheless, not one of them has failed to 
 fulfil its destiny : one half of the firmament spread 
 its light over his cradle, the other half was reserved 
 to illuminate his tomb." — Vol. ii. pp. 185, 186. 
 
 The next extract relates to the British statesman, 
 William Pitt: 
 
 " Pitt, tall and slender, had an air at once 
 melancholy and sarcastic. His delivery was cold, 
 his intonation monotonous, his action scarcely per- 
 ceptible. At the same time, the lucidness and the 
 fluency of his thoughts, the logic of his arguments, 
 suddenly irradiated with flashes of eloquence, 
 rendered his talents something above the ordinary 
 hne. 
 
 " I frequently saw Pitt walking across St. 
 James's Park from his own house to the palace. 
 On his part, George the Third arrived from Wind- 
 sor, after drinking beer out of a pewter pot with 
 the farmers of the neighborhood ; he drove through 
 the mean courts of his mean habitation in a gray 
 chariot, followed by a few of the horse-guards. 
 This was the master of the kings of Europe, as 
 five or six merchants of the city are the masters 
 of India. Pitt, dressed in black, with a steel- 
 hilted sword by his side, and his hat under his 
 arm, ascended, taking two or three steps at a 
 time. In his passage he only met with three or 
 four emigrants, who had nothing to do. Casting 
 on us a disdainful look, he turned up his nose and 
 his pale face, and passed on. 
 
 " At home, this great financier kept no sort of
 
 286 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 order; he had no regular hours for his meals or 
 for sleep. Over head and ears in debt, he paid 
 nobody, and never could take the trouble to cast 
 up a bill. A valet de chamhre managed his house. 
 Ill dressed, without pleasure, without passion, 
 greedy of power, he despised honors, and would 
 not be any thing more than William Pitt. 
 
 "In the month of June, 1822, Lord Liverpool 
 took me to dine at his country-house. As we 
 crossed Putney Heath, he showed me the small 
 house where the son of Lord Chatham, the states- 
 man who had had Europe in his pay and dis- 
 tributed with his own hand all the treasures of the 
 world, died in poverty." — Vol. ii. pp. 277, 278. 
 
 The following extracts show the changes that 
 have taken place in English manners and society, 
 and may afford the " whiskered pandour " of our 
 own day an opportunity of contrasting his style 
 of dandyism with that of the preceding genera- 
 tion: 
 
 *' Separated from the Continent by a long war, 
 the English retained their manners and their na- 
 tional character till the end of the last century. 
 All was not yet machine in the working classes, 
 folly in the upper classes. On the same pavements 
 where you now meet squalid figures and men in 
 frock-coats, you were passed by young girls with 
 white tippets, straw hats tied under the chin with 
 a riband, with a basket on the arm, in which was 
 fruit or a book : all kept their eyes cast down ; all 
 blushed when one looked at them. Frock-coats, 
 without any other, were so unusual in London in 
 1793 that a woman, deploring with tears the death
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 287 
 
 of Louis the Sixteenth, said to me, ' But, my dear 
 sir, is it true that the poor king was dressed in a 
 frock-coat when they cut off his head? ' 
 
 " The gentlemen-farmers had not yet sold 
 their patrimony to take up their residence in Lon- 
 don ; they still formed, in the House of Commons, 
 that independent fraction which, transferring their 
 support from the opposition to the ministerial side, 
 upheld the ideas of order and propriety. They 
 hunted the fox and shot pheasants in autumn, ate 
 fat goose at Michaelmas, greeted the sirloin with 
 shouts of ' Koast beef forever ! ' complained of 
 the present, extolled the past, cursed Pitt and 
 the war, which doubled the price of port wine, and 
 went to bed drunk, to begin the same life again on 
 the following day. They felt quite sure that the 
 glory of Great Britain would not perish so long 
 as ' God save the King ' was sung, the rotten 
 boroughs maintained, the game-laws enforced, 
 and hares and partridges could be sold by stealth 
 at market, under the names of lions and ostriches." 
 —Vol. ii. pp. 279, 280. 
 
 *' In 1822, at the time of my embassy to London, 
 the fashionable was expected to exhibit, at the 
 first glance, an unhappy and unhealthy man; to 
 have an air of negligence about his person, long 
 nails, a beard neither entire nor shaven, but as if 
 grown for a moment unawares, and forgotten 
 during the preoccupations of wretchedness; hair 
 in disorder; a sublime, mild, wicked eye; lips com- 
 pressed in disdain of human nature; a Byronian 
 heart, overwhelmed with weariness and disgust of 
 life.
 
 288 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 " The dandy of the present day must have a 
 conquering, frivolous, insolent look. He must pay 
 particular attention to his toilet, wear mustaches, 
 or a beard trimmed into a circle like Queen Eliza- 
 beth's ruff, or like the radiant disc of the sun. He 
 shows the proud independence of his character 
 by keeping his hat upon his head, by lolling upon 
 sofas, by thrusting his boots into the faces of the 
 ladies seated in admiration upon chairs before him. 
 He rides with a cane, which he carries like a taper, 
 regardless of the horse, which he bestrides, as it 
 were, by accident. His health must be perfect, 
 and he must always have five or six felicities upon 
 his hands. Some radical dandies, who have ad- 
 vanced the farthest towards the future, have a 
 pipe. But, no doubt, all this has changed, even 
 during the time that I have taken to describe it." — 
 Vol. ii. pp. 303, 304. 
 
 The avowed purpose of the present work, singu- 
 lar as it may seem from the above extracts, is to 
 serve as an introduction to a meditated translation 
 of Milton into French, since wholly, or in part, 
 completed by M. Chateaubriand, who thinks, truly 
 enough, that Milton's " poetical ideas make him 
 a man of our own epoch." When an exile in Eng- 
 land, in his early life, during the troubles of the 
 Revolution, our author earned an honorable sub- 
 sistence by translating some of Milton's verses; 
 and he now proposes to render the bard and him- 
 self the same kind office by his labors on a more 
 extended scale. Thus he concludes : "I again 
 seat myself at the table of my poet. He mil have 
 nourished me in my youth and my old age. It is
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 289 
 
 nobler and safer to have recourse to glory than to 
 power." Our author's situation is an indifferent 
 commentary on the value of literary fame, at least 
 on its pecuniary value. No man has had more of 
 it in his day. No man has been more alert to 
 make the most of it by frequent, reiterated appear- 
 ance before the public, — whether in full dress or 
 dishabille, yet always before them; and now, in 
 the decHne of life, we find him obtaining a scanty 
 support by " French translation and Italian 
 song." We heartily hope that the bard of " Para- 
 dise Lost " will do better for his translator than 
 he did for himself, and that M. de Chateaubriand 
 will put more than five pounds in his pocket by his 
 Hterary labor. 
 
 Vol. I.— is
 
 BANCROFT'S UNITED STATES* 
 
 (January, 1841) 
 
 'T^HE celebrated line of Bishop Berkeley, 
 
 " Westward the course of empire takes its way," 
 
 is too gratifying to national vanity not to be often 
 quoted (though not always quoted right) ; and if 
 we look on it in the nature of a prediction, the 
 completion of it not being hmited to any par- 
 ticular time, it will not be easy to disprove it. Had 
 the bishop substituted " freedom " for " empire," 
 it would be already fully justified by experience. 
 It is curious to observe how steadily the progress 
 of freedom, civil and religious, — of the enjoyment 
 of those rights which may be called the natural 
 rights of humanity, — has gone on from east to 
 west, and how precisely the more or less liberal 
 character of the social institutions of a country 
 may be determined by its geographical position, 
 as falling within the limits of one of the three 
 quarters of the globe occupied wholly or in part 
 by members of the great Caucasian family. 
 
 Thus, in Asia we find only far-extended des- 
 potisms, in which but two relations are recog- 
 nized, those of master and slave : a solitary master, 
 and a nation of slaves. No constitution exists 
 
 * " History of the United States from the Discovery of the Amer- 
 ican Continent. By George Bancroft." Vol. iii. Boston: Charles 
 C. Little and James Brown. 8vo, pp. 468. 
 290
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 291 
 
 there to limit his authority; no intermediate body- 
 to counterbalance, or, at least, shield the people 
 from its exercise. The people have no political 
 existence. The monarch is literally the state. The 
 religion of such countries is of the same com- 
 plexion with their government. The free spirit of 
 Christianity, quickening and elevating the soul by 
 the consciousness of its glorious destiny, made 
 few proselytes there; but Mohanmiedanism, with 
 its doctrines of blind fataHty, found ready favor 
 with those who had already surrendered their wills 
 — their responsibility — to an earthly master. In 
 such countries, of course, there has been little prog- 
 ress in science. Ornamental arts, and even the 
 literature of imagination, have been cultivated 
 with various success; but little has been done in 
 those pursuits which depend on freedom of in- 
 quiry and are connected with the best interests 
 of humanity. The few monuments of an archi- 
 tectural kind that strike the traveller's eye are 
 the cold memorials of pomp and selfish vanity, 
 not those of public spirit, directed to enlarge the 
 resources and civilization of an empire. 
 
 As we cross the boundaries into Europe, among 
 the people of the same primitive stock and under 
 the same parallels, we may imagine ourselves trans- 
 planted to another planet. Man no longer grovels 
 in the dust beneath a master's frown. He walks 
 erect, as lord of the creation, his eyes raised to 
 that heaven to which his destinies call him. He 
 is a free agent, — thinks, speaks, acts for himself; 
 enjoys the fruits of his own industry; follows 
 the career suited to his own genius and taste; ex-
 
 292 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 plores fearlessly the secrets of time and nature; 
 lives under laws which he has assisted in framing; 
 demands justice as his right when those laws are 
 invaded. In his freedom of speculation and action 
 he has devised various forms of government. In 
 most of them the monarchical principle is recog- 
 nized; but the power of the monarch is limited by- 
 written or customary rules. The people at large 
 enter more or less into the exercise of govern- 
 ment; and a numerous aristocracy, interposed 
 between them and the crown, secures them from 
 the oppression of Eastern tyranny, while this body 
 itself is so far an improvement in the social organ- 
 ization that the power, instead of being concen- 
 trated in a single person, — plaintiff, judge, and 
 executioner, — is distributed among a large number 
 of different individuals and interests. This is a 
 great advance, in itself, towards popular freedom. 
 The tendency, almost universal, is to advance 
 still farther. It is this war of opinion — this con- 
 test between light and darkness, now going for- 
 ward in most of the countries of Europe — which 
 furnishes the point of view from which their his- 
 tory is to be studied in the present, and, it may be, 
 the following centuries ; for revolutions in society, 
 when founded on opinion, — the only stable foun- 
 dation, the only foundation at which the friend 
 of humanity does not shudder, — must be the 
 slow work of time; and who would wish the 
 good cause to be so precipitated that, in eradi- 
 cating the old abuses which have interwoven 
 themselves with every stone and pillar of the build- 
 ing, the noble building itself, which has so long
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 293 
 
 afforded security to its inmates, should be laid in 
 ruins? What is the best, what the worst form of 
 government, in the abstract, may be matter of de- 
 bate; but there can be no doubt that the best will 
 become the worst to a people who blindly rush into 
 it without the prehminary training for compre- 
 hending and conducting it. Such transitions must, 
 at least, cost the sacrifice of generations ; and the 
 patriotism must be singularly pure and abstract 
 which, at such cost, would purchase the possible, 
 or even probable, good of a remote posterity. 
 Various have been the efforts in the Old World at 
 popular forms of government, but, from some 
 cause or other, they have failed ; and however time, 
 a -wider intercourse, a greater familiarity with the 
 practical duties of representation, and, not least of 
 all, our own auspicious example, may prepare the 
 European mind for the possession of republican 
 freedom, it is very certain that, at the present 
 moment, Europe is not the place for republics. 
 
 The true soil for these is our o^vn continent, 
 the New World, the last of the three great geo- 
 graphical divisions of which we have spoken. 
 This is the spot on which the beautiful theories 
 of the European philosopher — who had risen to 
 the full freedom of speculation, while action was 
 controlled — have been reduced to practice. The 
 atmosphere here seems as fatal to the arbitrary 
 institutions of the Old World as that has been 
 to the democratic forms of our own. It seems 
 scarcely possible that any other organization than 
 these latter should exist here. In three centuries 
 from the discovery of the country, the various
 
 294 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 races by which it is tenanted, some of them from 
 the least hberal of the European monarchies, have, 
 with few exceptions, come into the adoption of 
 institutions of a repubhcan character. Toleration, 
 civil and religious, has been proclaimed, and en- 
 joyed to an extent unknown since the world began, 
 tliroughout the wide borders of this vast continent. 
 Alas for those portions which have assumed the 
 exercise of these rights without fully comprehend- 
 ing their import, — who have been intoxicated 
 with the fumes of freedom instead of drawing 
 nourislmient from its living principle! 
 
 It was a fortunate, or, to speak more properly, 
 a providential thing that the discovery of the 
 New World was postponed to the precise period 
 when it occurred. Had it taken place at an earlier 
 time, — during the flourishing period of the feudal 
 ages, for example, — the old institutions of Europe, 
 with their hallowed abuses, might have been in- 
 grafted on this new stock, and, instead of the 
 fruit of the tree of life, we should have furnished 
 only varieties of a kind already far exhausted and 
 hastening to decay. But, happily, some important 
 discoveries in science, and, above all, the glori- 
 ous Reformation, gave an electric shock to the 
 intellect, long benumbed under the influence of 
 a tyrannical priesthood. It taught men to dis- 
 trust authority, to trace eff'ects back to their causes, 
 to search for themselves, and to take no guide but 
 the reason which God had given them. It taught 
 them to claim the right of free inquiry as their 
 inalienable birthright, and, with free inquiry, 
 freedom of action. The sixteenth and seventeenth
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 295 
 
 centuries were the period of the mighty struggle 
 between the conflicting elements of religion, as 
 the eighteenth and nineteenth have been that of 
 the great contest for civil liberty. 
 
 It was in the midst of this universal ferment, 
 and in consequence of it, that these shores were 
 first peopled by our Puritan ancestors. Here they 
 found a world where they might verify the value 
 of those theories which had been derided as vision- 
 ary or denounced as dangerous in their own land. 
 All around was free, — free as nature herself: the 
 mighty streams rolling on in their majesty, as 
 they had continued to roll from the creation; the 
 forests, which no hand had violated, flourishing 
 in primeval grandeur and beauty; their only 
 tenants the wild animals, or the Indians nearly 
 as wild, scarcely held together by any tie of social 
 polity. Nowhere was the trace of civilized man 
 or of his curious contrivances. Here was no Star 
 Chamber nor Court of High Commission; no 
 racks, nor jails, nor gibbets; no feudal tyrant to 
 grind the poor man to the dust on which he toiled ; 
 no Inquisition, to pierce into the thought, and to 
 make thought a crime. The only eye that was 
 upon them was the eye of Heaven. 
 
 True, indeed, in the first heats of suffering en- 
 thusiasm they did not extend that charity to others 
 which they claimed for themselves. It was a blot 
 on their characters, but one which they share in 
 common with most reformers. The zeal requisite 
 for great revolutions, whether in church or state, 
 is rarely attended by charity for difl'erence of 
 opinion. Those who are willing to do and to
 
 296 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 suffer bravely for their own doctrines attach a 
 value to them which makes them impatient of op- 
 position from others. The martyr for conscience' 
 sake cannot comprehend the necessity of leniency 
 to those who denounce those truths for which he 
 is prepared to lay down his own life. If he set 
 so little value on his own life, is it natural he should 
 set more on that of others ? The Dominican, who 
 dragged his victims to the fires of the Inquisition 
 in Spain, freely gave up his ease and his life to 
 the duties of a missionary among the heathen. 
 The Jesuits, who suffered martyrdom among the 
 American savages in the propagation of their 
 faith, stimulated those very savages to their horrid 
 massacres of the Protestant settlements of New 
 England. God has not often combined charity 
 with enthusiasm. When he has done so, he has 
 produced his noblest work, — a More, or a Fenelon. 
 But, if the first settlers were intolerant in 
 practice, they brought with them the living princi- 
 ple of freedom, which would survive when their 
 generation had passed away. They could not avoid 
 it ; for their coming here was in itself an assertion 
 of that principle. They came for conscience' sake, 
 — to worship God in their own way. Freedom of 
 political institutions they at once avowed. Every 
 citizen took his part in the political scheme, and 
 enjoyed all the consideration of an equal par- 
 ticipation in civil privileges; and liberty in politi- 
 cal matters gradually brought with it a corre- 
 sponding hberty in religious concerns. In their 
 subsequent contest with the mother-country they 
 learned a reason for their faith, and the best man-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 297 
 
 ner of defending it. Their liberties struck a deep 
 root in the soil amid storms which shook but could 
 not prostrate them. It is this struggle with the 
 mother-country, this constant assertion of the right 
 of self-government, this tendency — feeble in its 
 beginning, increasing w^ith increasing age — to- 
 wards republican institutions, which connects the 
 Colonial history with that of the Union, and forms 
 the true point of view from which it is to be re- 
 garded. 
 
 The history of this country naturally divides it- 
 self into three great periods: the Colonial, when 
 the idea of independence was slowly and gradu- 
 ally ripening in the American mind; the Revolu- 
 tionary, when this idea was maintained by arms; 
 and that of the Union, when it was reduced to 
 practice. The first two heads are now ready for 
 the historian; the last is not j^et ripe for him. 
 Important contributions may be made to it in 
 the form of local narratives, personal biographies, 
 pohtical discussions, subsidiary documents, and 
 memoirs pour servir; but we are too near the 
 strife, too much in the dust and mist of the parties, 
 to have reached a point sufficiently distant and 
 elevated to embrace the whole field of operations 
 in one view and paint it in its true colors and 
 proportions for the eye of posterity. We are, 
 besides, too new as an independent nation, our 
 existence has been too short, to satisfy the skepti- 
 cism of those who distrust the perpetuity of our 
 political institutions. They do not consider the 
 problem, so important to humanity, as yet solved. 
 Such skeptics are found not only abroad, but at
 
 298 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 home. Not that the latter suppose the possibihty 
 of again returning to those forms of arbitrary 
 government which belong to the Old World. It 
 would not be more chimerical to suspect the Em- 
 peror Nicholas, or Prince Metternich, or the citi- 
 zen-king Louis Philippe, of being republicans at 
 heart, and sighing for a democracy, than to sus- 
 pect the people of this country ( above all, of New 
 England, the most thorough democracy in ex- 
 istence) — ^who have inherited republican princi- 
 ples and feelings from their ancestors, drawn them 
 in with their mother's milk, breathed the atmos- 
 phere of them from their cradle, participated in 
 their equal rights and glorious privileges — of fore- 
 going their birthright and falsifying their nature 
 so far as to acquiesce in any other than a popu- 
 lar form of government. But there are some 
 skeptics who, when they reflect on the fate of simi- 
 lar institutions in other countries, — when they see 
 our sister states of South America, after nobly 
 winning their independence, split into insignifi- 
 cant fractions, — when they see the abuses which 
 from time to time have crept into our own ad- 
 ministration, and the violence offered, in manifold 
 w^ays, to the Constitution, — when they see am- 
 bitious and able statesmen in one section of the 
 country proclaiming principles which must palsy 
 the arm of the Federal Government, and urging 
 the people of their own quarter to efforts for secur- 
 ing their independence of every other quarter, — 
 there are, we say, some wise and benevolent minds 
 among us who, seeing all this, feel a natural dis- 
 trust as to the stability of the federal compact.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 299 
 
 and consider the experiment as still in progress. 
 We, indeed, are not of that number, while we 
 respect and feel the weight of their scruples. We 
 sympathize full}" in those feelings, those hopes, 
 it may be, which animate the great mass of our 
 countrymen. Hope is the attribute of republics: 
 it should be peculiarly so of ours. Our fortune is 
 all in the advance. We have no past as compared 
 with the nations of the Old World. Our exist- 
 ence is but two centuries, dating from our embryo 
 state ; our real existence as an independent people 
 little more than half a century. We are to look 
 forward, then, and go forv/ard, not with vain- 
 glorious boasting, but with resolution and honest 
 confidence. Boasting, indecorous in all, is pecu- 
 liarly so in those w^ho take credit for the great 
 things they are going to do, not those they have 
 done. The glorification of an Englishman or a 
 Frenchman, with a long line of annals in his rear, 
 may be offensive; that of an American is ridic- 
 ulous. But we may feel a just confidence from 
 the past that we shall be true to ourselves for the 
 future; that, to borrow a cant phrase of the day, 
 w^e shall be true to our mission, — the most momen- 
 tous ever intrusted to a nation ; that there is suffi- 
 cient intelligence and moral principle in the people, 
 if not always to choose the best rulers, at least to 
 right themselves by the ejection of bad ones when 
 they find they have been abused; that they have 
 intelligence enough to understand their only con- 
 sideration, their security as a nation, is in union; 
 that separation into smaller communities is the 
 creation of so many hostile states; that a large
 
 300 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 extent of empire, instead of being an evil, from 
 embracing regions of irreconcilable local interests, 
 is a benefit, since it affords the means of that 
 commercial reciprocity which makes the country, 
 by its own resources, independent of every other; 
 and that the representatives drawn from these 
 *' magnificent distances " will, on the whole, be apt 
 to legislate more independently and on broader 
 principles than if occupied with the concerns of 
 a petty state, where each legislator is swayed by 
 the paltry factions of his own village. In all this 
 we may honestly confide; but our confidence will 
 not pass for argument, will not be accepted as 
 a solution of the problem. Time o^ily can solve 
 it; and until the period has elapsed which shall 
 have fairly tried the strength of our institutions, 
 through peace and through war, through adver- 
 sity and more trying prosperity, the time will not 
 have come to write the history of the Union.* 
 
 But, still, results have been obtained sufficiently 
 glorious to give great consideration to the two pre- 
 liminary narratives, namely, of the Colonies and 
 the Revolution, which prepared the way for the 
 Union. Indeed, without these results they would 
 
 * The preceding cheering remarks on the auspicious destinies of 
 our country were written more than four years ago; and it is not 
 now as many days since we have received the melancholy tidings that 
 the project for the Annexation of Texas has been sanctioned by 
 Congress. The remarks in the text on " the extent of empire " had 
 reference only to that legitimate extent which might grow out of 
 the peaceful settlement and civilization of a territory, sufficiently 
 ample certainly, that already belongs to us. The craving for foreign 
 acquisitions has ever been a most fatal sjinptom in the history of 
 republics; but when these acquisitions are made, as in the present 
 instance, in contempt of constitutional law and in disregard of the 
 great principles of international justice, the evil assumes a tenfold
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES SOI 
 
 both, however important in themselves, have lost 
 much of their dignity and interest. Of these two 
 narratives, the former, although less momentous 
 than the latter, is most difficult to treat. 
 
 It is not that the historian is called on to pry 
 into the dark recesses of antiquity, the twilight of 
 civilization, mystifying and magnifying every 
 object to the senses, nor to unravel some poeti- 
 cal mythology, hanging its metaphorical allusions 
 around every thing in nature, mingling fact with 
 fiction, the material with the spiritual, until the 
 honest inquirer after truth may fold his arms in 
 despair before he can cry eop-rjxa; nor is he com- 
 pelled to unroll musty, worm-eaten parchments, 
 and dusty tomes in venerable black letter, of the 
 good times of honest Caxton and Winken de 
 Worde, nor to go about gleaning traditionary tales 
 and ballads in some obsolete provincial patois. The 
 record is plain and legible, and he need never go be- 
 hind it. The antiquity of his story goes but little 
 more than two centuries back, — a very modern 
 antiquity. The commencement of it was not in 
 the dark ages, but in a period of illumination, — 
 an age yet glowing with the imagination of Shak- 
 speare and Spenser, the philosophy of Bacon, the 
 learning of Coke and of Hooker. The early pas- 
 magnitude; for it flows not so much from the single act as from 
 the principle on which it rests, and which may open the way to the 
 indefinite perpetration of such acts. In glancing my eye over the 
 text at this gloomy moment, and considering its general import, I 
 was unwilling to let it go into the world with my name to it, without 
 entering my protest, in common with so many better and wiser in 
 our country, against a measure which every friend of freedom, both 
 at home and abroad, may justly lament as the most serious shock 
 yet given to the stability of our glorious institutions.
 
 302 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 sages of liis story — coeval with Hampden and 
 Milton and Sidney — belong to the times in which 
 the same struggle for the rights of conscience was 
 going on in the land of our fathers as in our o\vn. 
 There was no danger that the light of the Pilgrim 
 should be hid under a bushel, or that there should 
 be any dearth of chronicler or bard — such as they 
 were — to record his sacrifice. And fortunate for 
 us that it was so, since in this way every part of 
 this great enterprise, from its conception to its 
 consummation, is brought into the light of day. 
 We are put in possession not merely of the action, 
 but of the motives which led to it, and, as to the 
 character of the actors, are enabled to do justice 
 to those who, if we pronounce from their actions 
 only, would seem not always careful to do justice 
 to themselves. 
 
 The embarrassment of the Colonial history 
 arises from the difficulty of obtaining a central 
 point of interest among so many petty states, each 
 independent of the others, and all at the same time 
 so dependent on a foreign one as to impair the his- 
 toric dignity which attaches to great, powerful, 
 and self -regulated communities. This embarrass- 
 ment must be overcome by the author's detecting, 
 and skilfully keeping before the reader, some 
 great principle of action, if such exist, that may 
 give unity and, at the same time, importance to 
 the theme. Such a principle did exist in that 
 tendency to independence, wliich, however feeble 
 tiU fanned by the breath of persecution into a 
 blaze, was nevertheless the vivifying principle, as 
 before remarked, of our ante-revolutionary annals.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 303 
 
 Whoever has dipped much into historical read- 
 ing is aware how few have succeeded in weaving 
 an harmonious tissue from the motley and tangled 
 skein of general history. The most fortunate 
 illustration of this within our recollection is Sis- 
 mondi's " RepubUques Italiennes," a work in six- 
 teen volumes, in which the author has brought on 
 the stage all the various governments of Italy for 
 a thousand years, and in almost every variety of 
 combination. Yet there is a pervading principle 
 in this great mass of apparently discordant inter- 
 ests. That principle was the rise and decline of 
 liberty. It is the key-note to every revolution that 
 occurs. It gives an harmonious tone to the many- 
 colored canvas, which would else have offended 
 by its glaring contrasts and the startling violence 
 of its transitions. The reader is interested in 
 spite of the transitions, but knows not the cause. 
 This is the skill of the great artist. So true is this, 
 that the same author has been able to concentrate 
 what may be called the essence of his bulky histo- 
 ry into a single volume, in which he confines 
 himself to the development of the animating 
 principle of his narrative, stripped of all the super- 
 fluous accessories, under the significant title 
 of " Rise, Progress, and Decline of Italian 
 Freedom." 
 
 This embarrassment has not been easy to over- 
 come by the writers of our Colonial annals. The 
 first volume of Marshall's " Life of Washington " 
 has great merit as a wise and comprehensive survey 
 of this early period, but the plan is too limited to 
 afford room for any thing like a satisfactory
 
 304. BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 fulness of detail. The most thorough work, and 
 incomparably the best, on the subject, previous 
 to the appearance of Mr. Bancroft's, is the well- 
 knov^Ti history by Mr. Grahame,* a truly valuable 
 book, in which the author, though a foreigner, has 
 shown himself capable of appreciating the motives 
 and comprehending the institutions of our Puritan 
 ancestors. He has spared no pains in the investi- 
 gation of such original sources as were at his com- 
 mand, and has conducted his inquiries with much 
 candor, manifesting throughout the spirit of a 
 scholar and a gentleman. It is not very creditable 
 to his countrymen that they should have received 
 his labors with the apathy which he tells us they 
 have, amid the ocean of contemptible trash with 
 which their press is daily deluged. But, in truth, 
 the Colonial and Revolutionary story of this 
 country is a theme too ungrateful to British ears 
 for us to be astonished at any insensibility on 
 this score. 
 
 Mr. Grahame's work, however, with all its merit, 
 is the work of a foreigner, and that word compre- 
 hends much that cannot be overcome by the best 
 writer. He may produce a beautiful composition, 
 faultless in style, accurate in the delineation of 
 prominent events, full of sound logic and most 
 wise conclusions, but he cannot enter into the 
 sympathies, comprehend all the minute feelings, 
 prejudices, and peculiar ways of thinking, which 
 
 * " The History of the Rise and Progress of the United States of 
 North America from their Colonization till the Declaration of 
 Independence," by James Grahame, an almost forgotten book, and 
 yet one of the best histories of the Colonial period. Mr. Grahame 
 was a Scotchman. — M.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 305 
 
 form the idiosyncrasy of the nation. What can 
 he know of these who has never been warmed 
 by the same sun, Hngered among the same 
 scenes, Hstened to the same tales in childhood, 
 been pledged to the same interests in man- 
 hood by which these fancies are nourished, — 
 the loves, the hates, the hopes, the fears, that 
 go to form national character? Write as he 
 will, he is still an ahen, speaking a tongue in 
 which the nation will detect the foreign accent. 
 He may produce a book without a blemish in the 
 eyes of foreigners; it may even contain much for 
 the instruction of the native that he would not be 
 likely to find in his own literature; but it will 
 afford evidence on every page of its exotic origin. 
 Botta's " History of the War of the Revolution " 
 is the best treatise yet compiled of that event. It 
 is, as every one knows, a most classical and able 
 work, doing justice to most of the great heroes 
 and actions of the period ; but, we will venture to 
 say, no well-informed American ever turned over 
 its leaves without feeling that the writer was not 
 nourished among the men and the scenes he is 
 painting. With all its great merits, it cannot 
 be, at least for Americans, the history of the 
 Revolution. 
 
 It is the same as in portrait-painting. The artist 
 may catch the prominent lineaments, the com- 
 plexion, the general air, the peculiar costume of 
 his subject, — aU that a stranger's eye will demand; 
 but he must not hope, unless he has had much 
 previous intimacy with the sitter, to transfer those 
 fleeting shades of expression, the almost imper- 
 
 VoL. I.— 20
 
 306 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 ceptible play of features, which are revealed to the 
 eye of his own family. 
 
 Who would think of looking to a Frenchman 
 for a history of England? to an Englishman for 
 the best history of France?* Ill fares it with the 
 nation that cannot find writers of genius to tell its 
 own story. What foreign hand could have painted 
 like Herodotus and Thucydides the achieve- 
 ments of the Greeks? who like Livy and Tacitus 
 have portrayed the shifting character of the 
 Roman in his rise, meridian, and decline? Had the 
 Greeks trusted their story to these same Romans, 
 what would have been their fate with posterity? 
 Let the Carthaginians tell. All that remains of 
 this nation, the proud rival of Rome, who once 
 divided with her the empire of the Mediterranean 
 and surpassed her in commerce and civilization, — 
 nearly all that now remains to indicate her char- 
 acter is a poor proverb, Punica fides, a brand of 
 infamy given by the Roman historian, and one 
 which the Romans merited probably as richly as 
 the Carthaginians. Yet America, it is too true, 
 must go to Italy for the best history of the Revo- 
 lution, and to Scotland for the best history of the 
 Colonies. Happily, the work before us bids fair, 
 when completed, to supply this deficiency; and 
 it is quite time we should turn to it. 
 
 Mr. Bancroft's first two volumes have been too 
 long before the public to require any thing to be 
 now said of them. Indeed, the first has already 
 
 * Yet Prescott had already published what is still admitted to 
 be the best history of the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, in 
 Spain, when he penned those lines. — M.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 307 
 
 been the subject of a particular notice in this Jour- 
 nal. These volumes are mainly occupied with the 
 settlement of the country by the different colonies, 
 and the institutions gradually established among 
 them, with a more particular illustration of the re- 
 markable features in their character or policy. 
 
 In the present volume the immediate point of 
 view is somewhat changed. It was no longer neces- 
 sary to treat each of the colonies separately, and a 
 manifest advantage in respect to unity is gained by 
 their being brought more under one aspect. A 
 more prominent feature is gradually developed 
 by the relations with the mother-country. This is 
 the mercantile system, as it is called by economical 
 writers, which distinguishes the colonial policy of 
 modern Europe from that of ancient. The great 
 object of this system was to get as much profit 
 from the colonies, with as little cost to the mother- 
 country, as possible. The former, instead of being 
 regarded as an integral part of the empire, 
 were held as property, to be dealt with for the 
 benefit of the proprietors. This was the great 
 object of legislation, almost the sole one. The 
 system, so different from any thing known in an- 
 tiquity, was introduced by the Spaniards and Por- 
 tuguese, and by them carried to an extent which 
 no other nation has cared to follow. By the most 
 cruel and absurd system of prohibitory legislation, 
 their colonies were cut off from intercourse with 
 all but the parent country; and, as the latter 
 was unable to supply their demands for even 
 the necessaries of fife, an extensive contraband 
 trade was introduced, which, without satisfying
 
 308 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 the wants of the colonies, corrupted their morals. 
 It is an old story, and the present generation has 
 witnessed the results, in the ruin of those fine 
 countries and the final assertion of their inde- 
 pendence, which the degraded condition in which 
 they have so long been held has wholly unfitted 
 them to enjoy. 
 
 The English government was too wise and 
 liberal to press thus heavily on its transatlantic 
 subjects; but the policy was similar, consisting, 
 as is well known, and is ably delineated in these 
 volumes, of a long series of restrictive measures, 
 tending to cramp their free trade, manufactures, 
 and agriculture, and to secure the commercial mo- 
 nopoly of Great Britain. This is the point from 
 which events in the present volume are to be more 
 immediately contemplated, all subordinate, like 
 those in the preceding, to that leading principle of 
 a republican tendency, — the centre of attraction, 
 controlling the movements of the numerous satel- 
 lites in our colonial system. 
 
 The introductory chapter in the volume opens 
 with a view of the English Revolution in 1688, 
 which, though not popular, is rightly character- 
 ized as leading the way to popular liberty. Its 
 great object was the security of property; and our 
 author has traced its operation, in connection with 
 the gradual progress of commercial wealth, to 
 give greater authority to the mercantile system. 
 We select the following original sketch of the 
 character of William the Third : 
 
 " The character of the new monarch of Great 
 Britain could mould its policy, but not its Consti-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 309 
 
 tution. True to his purposes, he yet wins no sym- 
 pathy. In pohtical sagacity, in force of will, far 
 superior to the Enghsh statesmen who environed 
 him, more tolerant than his ministers or his Parlia- 
 ments, the childless man seems like the unkno^vn 
 character in algebra, which is introduced to form 
 the equation and dismissed when the problem is 
 solved. In his person thin and feeble, with eyes 
 of a hectic lustre, of a temperament inclining to the 
 melancholic, in conduct cautious, of a self -relying 
 humor, with abiding impressions respecting men, 
 he sought no favor, and relied for success on his 
 OMU inflexibility and the greatness and maturity 
 of his designs. Too wise to be cajoled, too firm to 
 be complaisant, no address could sway his resolve. 
 In Holland he had not scrupled to derive an in- 
 creased power from the crimes of rioters and as- 
 sassins; in England, no filial respect diminished 
 the energy of his ambition. His exterior was 
 chilling ; yet he had a passionate delight in horses 
 and the chase. In conversation he was abrupt, 
 speaking little and slowly, and with repulsive dry- 
 ness ; in the day of battle he was all activity, and 
 the highest energy of life, without kindling his 
 passions, animated his frame. His trust in Provi- 
 dence was so connected with faith in general laws 
 that in every action he sought the principle which 
 should range it on an absolute decree. Thus, un- 
 conscious to himself, he had sympathy vnth the 
 people, who always have faith in Providence. ' Do 
 you dread death in my company? ' he cried to the 
 anxious sailors, when the ice on the coast of Hol- 
 land had almost crushed the boat that was bearing
 
 310 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 him to the shore. Courage and pride pervaded 
 the reserve of the prince who, spurning an aUiance 
 with a bastard daughter of Louis XIV., had made 
 himself the centre of a gigantic opposition to 
 France. For England, for the English people, 
 for English liberties, he had no affection, indiffer- 
 ently employing the Whigs, who found their pride 
 in the Revolution, and the Tories, who had op- 
 posed his elevation, and who yet were the fittest 
 instruments ' to carry the prerogative high.' One 
 great passion had absorbed his breast, — the inde- 
 pendence of his native country. The harsh en- 
 croachments of Louis XIV., which in 1672 had 
 made William of Orange a Revolutionary stadt- 
 holder, now assisted to constitute him a Revo- 
 lutionary king, transforming the impassive cham- 
 pion of Dutch independence into the defender of 
 the liberties of Europe." — Vol. iii. pp. 2-4. 
 
 The chapter proceeds to examine the relations, 
 not always of the most friendly aspect, between 
 England and the colonies, in which Mr. Bancroft 
 pays a well-merited tribute to the enlightened 
 policy of Penn and the tranquillity he secured to 
 his settlement. At the close of the chapter is an 
 account of that lamentable — farce, we should have 
 called it, had it not so tragic a conclusion — the 
 Salem witchcraft. 
 
 Our author has presented some very striking 
 sketches of these deplorable scenes, in which poor 
 human nature appears in as humiliating a plight 
 as would be possible in a civilized country. The 
 Inquisition, fierce as it was, and most unrelenting 
 in its persecutions, had something in it respectable
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 311 
 
 in comparison with this -UTetched and imbecile 
 self-delusion. The historian does not shrink from 
 distributing his censure in full measure to those 
 to whom he thinks it belongs. The erudite divine, 
 Cotton Mather, in particular, would feel little 
 pleasure in the contemplation of the portrait 
 sketched for him on this occasion. Vanitj^ accord- 
 ing to INIr. Bancroft, was quite as active an incen- 
 tive to his movements as religious zeal; and, if he 
 began with the latter, there seems no reason to 
 doubt that pride of opinion, an un\AaUingness to ex- 
 pose his error, so humihating to the world, perhaps 
 even to his own heart, were powerful stimulants 
 to his continuing the course he had begun, though 
 others faltered in it. 
 
 Mr. Bancroft has taken some pains to show 
 that the prosecutions were conducted before magis- 
 trates not appointed by the people, but the crown, 
 and that a stop was not put to them till after the 
 meeting of the representatives of the people. This, 
 in our view, is a distinction somewhat fanciful. 
 The judges held their commissions from the gover- 
 nor ; and if he was appointed b}'- the crown it was, 
 as our author admits, at the suggestion of Increase 
 JVIather, a minister of the people. The accusers, 
 the witnesses, the jurors, were all taken from the 
 people. And when a stop was put to farther pro- 
 ceedings by the seasonable delay interposed by the 
 General Court, before the assembling of the 
 *' legal colonial " tribunal (thus giving time for the 
 illusion to subside) , it was, in part, from the appre- 
 hension that, in the rising tide of accusation, no 
 man, however elevated mJght be his character or 
 condition, would be safe.
 
 312 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 In the following chapter, after a full exposi- 
 tion of the prominent features in the system of 
 commercial monopoly which controlled the affairs 
 of the colonies, we are introduced to the great 
 discoveries in the northern and western regions 
 of the continent, made by the Jesuit missionaries 
 of France. Nothing is more extraordinary in the 
 history of this remarkable order than their bold 
 enterprise in spreading their faith over this bound- 
 less wilderness, in defiance of the most appalling 
 obstacles which man and nature could present. 
 Faith and zeal triumphed over all, and, combined 
 with science and the spirit of adventure, laid open 
 unknown regions in the heart of this vast conti- 
 nent, then roamed over by the buffalo and the 
 savage, and now alive with the busy hum of an 
 industrious and civilized population. 
 
 The historian has diligently traced the progress 
 of the missionaries in their journeys into the west- 
 ern territory of Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois, 
 down the deep basin of the Mississippi to its 
 mouth. He has identified the scenes of some strik- 
 ing events in the history of discovery, as, among 
 others, the place where Marquette first met the 
 Illinois tribe, at Iowa. No preceding writer has 
 brought into view the results of these labors in a 
 compass which may be embraced, as it were, in 
 a single glance. The character of this order,* and 
 their fortune, form one of the most remarkable 
 objects for contemplation in the history of man. 
 Springing up, as it were, to prop the crumbling 
 
 * " The Society of Jesus " stopped the reform movement in the 
 German lands and brought about the " Counter Reformation." — M.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 313 
 
 edifice of Catholicism when it was reeUng under 
 the fii'st shock of the Reformation, it took up 
 its residence indifferently within the precincts of 
 palaces or in the houndless plains and forests of 
 the wilderness, held the consciences of civilized 
 monarchs in its keeping, and directed their coun- 
 sels, while at the same time it was gathering bar- 
 barian nations under its banners and pouring the 
 light of civilization into the farthest and darkest 
 quarters of the globe. 
 
 " The establishment of * the Society of Jesus,' " 
 says Mr. Bancroft, " by Loyola had been con- 
 temporary with the Reformation, of which it was 
 designed to arrest the progress, and its complete 
 organization belongs to the period when the first 
 full edition of Calvin's ' Institutes ' saw the light. 
 Its members were, by its rules, never to become 
 prelates, and could gain power and distinction 
 only by influence over mind. Their vows were 
 poverty, chastity, absolute obedience, and a con- 
 stant readiness to go on missions against heresy 
 or heathenism. Their cloisters became the best 
 schools in the world. Emancipated, in a great 
 degree, from the forms of piety, separated from 
 domestic ties, constituting a community essentially 
 intellectual as well as essentially plebeian, bound 
 together by the most perfect organization, and 
 having for their end a control over opinion among 
 the scholars and courts of Europe and throughout 
 the habitable globe, the order of the Jesuits held 
 as its ruling maxims the widest diffusion of its 
 influence, and the closest internal unity. Imme- 
 diately on its institution, their missionaries, kind-
 
 314 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 ling with a heroism that defied every danger and 
 endured every toil, made their way to the ends 
 of the earth; they raised the emblem of man's 
 salvation on the Moluccas, in Japan, in India, in 
 Thibet, in Cochin China, and in China ; they pene- 
 trated Ethiopia, and reached the Abyssinians ; 
 they planted missions among the CafFres ; in Cal- 
 ifornia, on the banks of the Maranhon, in the 
 plains of Paraguay, they invited the wildest of 
 barbarians to the civilization of Christianity." 
 
 " Religious enthusiasm," he adds, " colonized 
 New England ; and religious enthusiasm founded 
 Montreal, made a conquest of the wilderness on 
 the upper Lakes, and explored the Mississippi. 
 Puritanism gave New England its worship and 
 its schools ; the Roman Church created for Canada 
 its altars, its hospitals, and its seminaries. The 
 influence of Calvin * can be traced to every New 
 England village; in Canada, the monuments of 
 feudalism and the Catholic Church stand side by 
 side, and the names of Montmorenci and Bourbon, 
 of Levi and Conde, are mingled with memorials 
 of St. Athanasius and Augustin, of St. Francis 
 of Assisi and Ignatius Loyola." — Ihid., pp. 120, 
 121. 
 
 We hardly know which to select from the many 
 brilliant and spirited sketches in which this part 
 of the story abounds. None has more interest, 
 on the whole, than the discovery of the Mississippi 
 by Marquette and his companions, and the first 
 
 * It is to the influence of Calvin that the New England " Town 
 Meeting " is due. Where Calvinism did not dominate in America 
 such a system of government is unknown. — M,
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 315 
 
 voyage of the white men down its majestic waters: 
 "Behold, then, in 1673, on the tenth day of 
 June, the meek, single-hearted, unpretending, il- 
 lustrious Marquette, with Joliet for his associate, 
 five Frenchmen as his companions, and two Algon- 
 quins as guides, lifting their two canoes on their 
 backs and walking across the narrow portage that 
 divides the Fox River from the Wisconsin. They 
 reach the water-shed ; uttering a special prayer to 
 the immaculate Virgin, they leave the streams that, 
 flowing onward, could have borne their greetings 
 to the Castle of Quebec; already they stand by 
 the Wisconsin. ' The guides returned,' says the 
 gentle Marquette, ' leaving us alone in this un- 
 known land, in the hands of Providence.' France 
 and Christianity stood in the Valley of the Mis- 
 sissippi. Embarking on the broad Wisconsin, the 
 discoverers, as they sailed west, went solitarily 
 down the stream, between alternate prairies and 
 hill-sides, beholding neither man nor the wonted 
 beasts of the forest : no sound broke the appalling 
 silence but the ripple of their canoe and the lowing 
 of the buffalo. In seven days ' they entered happi- 
 ly the Great River, with a joy that could not be 
 expressed;' and the two birch-bark canoes, rais- 
 ing their happy sails under new skies and to un- 
 known breezes, floated gently down the calm mag- 
 nificence of the ocean stream, over the broad, clear 
 sand-bars, the resort of innumerable water-fowl, — 
 gliding past islands that swelled from the bosom 
 of the stream, with their tufts of massive thickets, 
 and between the wide plains of Illinois and Iowa, 
 all garlanded as they were with majestic forests.
 
 316 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 or checkered by island grove and the open vastness 
 of the prairie. 
 
 " About sixty leagues below the mouth of the 
 Wisconsin, the western bank of the Mississippi 
 bore on its sands the trail of men ; a little footpath 
 was discerned leading into a beautiful prairie; 
 and, leaving the canoes, Joliet and Marquette re- 
 solved alone to brave a meeting with the savages. 
 After walking six miles, they beheld a village on 
 the banks of a river, and two others on a slope, at 
 a distance of a mile and a half from the first. 
 The river was the Mou-in-gou-e-na, or Moingona, 
 of which we have corrupted the name into Des 
 Moines. Marquette and Joliet were the first white 
 men who trod the soil of Iowa. Commending 
 themselves to God, they uttered a loud cry. 
 The Indians hear; four old men advance slowly 
 to meet them, bearing the peace-pipe brilliant 
 with many-colored plumes. ' We are Illinois, ' said 
 they ; that is, when translated, ' We are men ; ' 
 and they offered the calumet. An aged chief re- 
 ceived them at his cabin with upraised hands, ex- 
 claiming, ' How beautiful is the sun, Frenchmen, 
 when thou comest to visit us! Our whole village 
 awaits thee; thou shalt enter in peace into all our 
 dwellings.' And the pilgrims were followed by the 
 devouring gaze of an astonished crowd. 
 
 " At the great council, Marquette published to 
 them the one true God, their creator. He spoke, 
 also, of the great captain of the French, the Gover- 
 nor of Canada, who had chastised the Five Na- 
 tions and commanded peace; and he questioned 
 them respecting the Mississippi and the tribes
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 317 
 
 that possessed its banks. For the messengers who 
 announced the subjection of the Iroquois, a mag- 
 nificent festival was prepared of hominy, and fish, 
 and the choicest viands from the prairies. 
 
 " After six days' delay, and invitations to new 
 visits, the chieftain of the tribe, with hundreds of 
 warriors, attended the strangers to their canoes; 
 and, selecting a peace-pipe embellished with the 
 head and neck of brilhant birds and all feathered 
 over with plumage of various hues, they hung 
 around Marquette the mysterious arbiter of peace 
 and war, the sacred calumet, a safeguard among 
 the nations. 
 
 " The little group proceeded onward. ' I did 
 not fear death,' says Marquette ; ' I should have 
 esteemed it the greatest happiness to have died for 
 the glory of God.' They passed the perpendicular 
 rocks, which wore the appearance of monsters; 
 they heard at a distance the noise of the waters of 
 the ^lissouri, known to them by the Algonquin 
 name of Pekitanoni; and when they came to the 
 most beautiful confluence of waters in the world 
 — where the swifter Missouri rushes like a con- 
 queror into the calmer Mississippi, dragging it, 
 as it were, hastily to the sea — the good Mar- 
 quette resolved in his heart, anticipating Lewis 
 and Clarke, one day to ascend the mighty river to 
 its source, to cross the ridge that divides the oceans, 
 and, descending a westerly-flowing stream, to pub- 
 lish the gospel to all the people of this New World. 
 
 " In a little less than forty leagues, the canoes 
 floated past the Ohio, which was then, and long 
 afterward, called the Wabash. Its banks were
 
 318 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 tenanted by numerous villages of the peaceful 
 Shawnees, who quailed under the incursions of the 
 Iroquois. 
 
 " The thick canes begin to appear so close and 
 strong that the buffalo could not break through 
 them ; the insects become intolerable ; as a shelter 
 against the suns of July, the sails are folded into 
 an awning. The prairies vanish; thick forests 
 of whitewood, admirable for their vastness and 
 height, crowd even to the skirts of the pebbly shore. 
 It is also observed that, in the land of the Chick- 
 asas, the Indians have guns. 
 
 " Near the latitude of thirty-three degrees, on 
 the western bank of the Mississippi, stood the 
 village of Mitchigamea, in a region that had not 
 been visited by Europeans since the days of De 
 Soto. ' Now, ' thought Marquette, ' we must in- 
 deed ask the aid of the Virgin. ' Armed with 
 bows and arrows, with clubs, axes, and bucklers, 
 amid continual whoops, the natives, bent on war, 
 embark in vast canoes made out of the trunks of 
 hollow trees; but, at the sight of the mysterious 
 peace-pipe held aloft, God touched the hearts of 
 the old men, who checked the impetuosity of the 
 young, and, throwing their bows and quivers into 
 the canoes as a token of peace, they prepared a 
 hospitable welcome. 
 
 " The next day, a long wooden canoe, containing 
 ten men, escorted the discoverers, for eight or ten 
 leagues, to the village of Akansea, the limit of 
 their voyage. They had left the region of the 
 Algonquins, and, in the midst of the Sioux and 
 Chickasas, could speak only by an interpreter. A
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 319 
 
 half -league above Akansea they were met by two 
 boats, in one of which stood the commander, hold- 
 ing in his hand the peace-pipe, and singing as he 
 drew near. After offering the pipe, he gave 
 bread of maize. The wealth of his tribe consisted 
 in buffalo-skins ; their weapons were axes of steel, 
 — a proof of commerce with Europeans. 
 
 " Thus had our travellers descended below the 
 entrance of the Arkansas, to the genial chmes that 
 have almost no winter but rains, beyond the bound 
 of the Huron and Algonquin languages, to the 
 vicinity of the Gulf of Mexico, and to tribes of 
 Indians that had obtained European arms by traf- 
 fic with Spaniards or with Virginia. 
 
 " So, having spoken of God and the mysteries 
 of the Catholic faith, having become certain that 
 the Father of Rivers went not to the ocean east of 
 Florida, nor yet to the Gulf of California, Mar- 
 quette and Joliet left Akansea and ascended the 
 Mississippi. 
 
 " At the thirty-eighth degree of latitude thej'- 
 entered the river Illinois, and discovered a country 
 without its paragon for the fertility of its beauti- 
 ful prairies, covered with buffaloes and stags ; for 
 the loveliness of its rivulets, and the prodigal abun- 
 dance of wild duck and swans, and of a species of 
 parrots and wild turkeys. The tribe of Illinois, 
 that tenanted its banks, entreated Marquette to 
 come and reside among them. One of their chiefs, 
 with their young men, conducted the party, by 
 way of Chicago, to Lake Michigan; and before 
 the end of September all were safe in Green Bay. 
 
 " Joliet returned to Quebec to announce the dis-
 
 320 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 covery, of which the fame, through Talon, quick- 
 ened the ambition of Colbert ; the unaspiring Mar- 
 quette remained to preach the gospel to the Mi- 
 amis, who dwelt in the north of Illinois, round Chi- 
 cago. Two years afterward, sailing from Chicago 
 to Mackinaw, he entered a little river in Michigan. 
 Erecting an altar, he said mass after the rites of 
 the Catholic Church; then, begging the men who 
 conducted his canoe to leave him alone for half an 
 hour, 
 
 ' in the darkling wood. 
 Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down. 
 And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
 And supplication.' 
 
 At the end of the half -hour they went to seek him, 
 and he was no more. The good missionary, dis- 
 coverer of a world, had fallen asleep on the margin 
 of the stream that bears his name. Near its mouth 
 the canoe-men dug his grave in the sand. Ever 
 after, the forest rangers, if in danger on Lake 
 Michigan, would invoke his name. The people 
 of the West will build his monument." — Ibid., pp. 
 157-162. 
 
 The list of heroic adventurers in the path of dis- 
 covery is closed by La Salle, the chivalrous French- 
 man of whom we have made particular record in 
 a previous number of this Journal,* and whose 
 tremendous journey from the Illinois to the 
 French settlements in Canada, a distance of fif- 
 teen hundred miles, is also noticed by Mr. Ban- 
 croft. His was the first European bark that 
 emerged from the mouth of the Mississippi; and 
 
 * See " North American Review," vol. xlviii. p. 69, et seq.
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 321 
 
 Mr. Bancroft, as he notices the event, and the feel- 
 ings it gave rise to in the mind of the discoverer, 
 gives utterance to his own in language truly sub- 
 lime: 
 
 " As he raised the cross by the Arkansas, as 
 he planted the arms of France near the Gulf of 
 Mexico, he anticipated the future affluence of emi- 
 grants, and heard in the distance the footsteps of 
 the advancing multitude that were coming to take 
 possession of the valley." — Ibid.^ p. 168. 
 
 This descent of the Great River our author 
 places, without hesitation, in 1682, being a year 
 earUer than the one assigned by us in the article 
 referred to.* Mr. Bancroft is so famihar with the 
 whole ground, and has studied the subject so 
 carefully, that great weight is due to his opinions ; 
 but he has not explained the precise authority for 
 his conclusions in this particular. 
 
 This leads us to enlarge on what we consider 
 a defect in our author's present plan. His notes 
 are discarded altogether, and his references trans- 
 ferred from the bottom of the page to the side- 
 margin. This is verj^ objectionable, not merely 
 on account of the disagreeable effect produced 
 on the eye, but from the more serious incon- 
 venience of want of room for very frequent and 
 accurate reference. Titles are necessarily much 
 abridged, sometimes at the expense of perspicuity. 
 The fii'st reference in this volume is " Hallam, iv. 
 374; " the second is "Archdale." Now Hallam has 
 wTitten several works, published in various forms 
 and editions. As to the second authority, we have 
 
 *Ibid., pp. 84, 85. 
 Vol. I.— 21
 
 322 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 no means of identifying the passage at all. This, 
 however, is not the habit of Mr. Bancroft where 
 the fact is of any great moment, and his references 
 throughout are abundant. But the practice of 
 references in the side-margin, though warranted 
 by high authority, is unfavorable, from want of 
 room, for very frequent or very minute specifica- 
 tion. 
 
 The omission of notes we consider a still greater 
 evil. It is true, they lead to great abuses, are often 
 the vehicle of matter which should have been in- 
 corporated in the text, more frequently of irrel- 
 evant matter which should not have been admit- 
 ted anywhere, and thus exhaust the reader's 
 patience, while they spoil the effect of the work 
 by drawing the attention from the continuous flow 
 of the narrative, checking the heat that is raised 
 by it in the reader's mind, and not unfrequently 
 jarring on his feelings by some misplaced witticism 
 or smart attempt at one. For these and the like 
 reasons, many competent critics have pronounced 
 against the use of notes, considering that a WTiter 
 who could not bring all he had to say into the 
 compass of his text was a bungler. Gibbon, who 
 practiced the contrary, intimates a regret in one 
 of his letters that he had been overruled so far as 
 to allow his notes to be printed at the bottom of 
 the page instead of being removed to the end 
 of the volume. But from all this we dissent, 
 especially in reference to a work of research like 
 the present History. We are often desirous here 
 to have the assertion of the author, or the senti- 
 ment quoted by him, if important, verified by the 
 original extract, especially when this is in a for-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 323 
 
 eign language. We want to see the grounds of 
 his conclusions, the scaffolding by which he has 
 raised his structure ; to estimate the true value of 
 his authorities; to know something of their char- 
 acters, positions in society, and the probable influ- 
 ences to which they were exposed. Where there 
 is contradiction, we want to see it stated, the 'pros 
 and the cons, and the grounds for rejecting this 
 and admitting that We want to have a reason for 
 our faith, otherwise we are merely led blind- 
 fold. 
 
 Our guide may be an excellent guide; he may 
 have travelled over the path till it has become 
 a beaten track to liim; but we like to use our own 
 eyesight too, to observe somewhat for ourselves, 
 and to know, if possible, why he has taken this 
 particular road in preference to that wliich his 
 predecessors have travelled. 
 
 The objections made to notes are founded 
 rather on the abuse than on the proper use of 
 them. Gibbon only wished to remove his own to 
 the end of his volume; though in this we think 
 he erred, from the difficulty and frequent disap- 
 pointment which the reader must have experi- 
 enced in consulting them, — a disappointment of 
 little moment when unattended by difficulty. But 
 Gibbon knew too well the worth of this part of his 
 labors to him to wish to discard them altogether. 
 He knew his reputation stood on them as inti- 
 mately as on his narrative. Indeed, they supply 
 a body of criticism, and well-selected, well-digested 
 learning, which of itself would make the reputa- 
 tion of any scholar. Many accomplished writers.
 
 324 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 however, and Mr. Bancroft among the number, 
 have come to a different conclusion; and he has 
 formed his, probably, with deliberation, having 
 made the experiment in both forms. 
 
 It is true, the fulness of the extracts from 
 original sources with which his text is inlaid, giv- 
 ing such life and presence to it, and the frequency 
 of his references, supersede much of the necessity 
 of notes. We should have been very glad of one, 
 however, of the kind we are speaking of, at the 
 close of his expedition of La Salle. 
 
 We have no room for the discussion of the 
 topics in the next chapter, relating to the hostili- 
 ties for the acquisition of colonial territory be- 
 tween France and England, each of them pledged 
 to the same system of commercial monopoly, but 
 must pass to the author's account of the aborigines 
 east of the Mississippi. In this division of his 
 subject he brings into view the geographical posi- 
 tions of the numerous tribes, their languages, 
 social institutions, religious faith, and probable 
 origin. All these copious topics are brought 
 within the compass of a hundred pages, arranged 
 with great harmony, and exhibited with per- 
 spicuity and singular richness of expression. It 
 is, on the whole, the most elaborate and finished 
 portion of the volume. 
 
 His remarks on the localities of the tribes, in- 
 stead of a barren muster-roU of names, are con- 
 stantly enlivened by picturesque details connected 
 with their situation. His strictures on their 
 various languages are conceived in a philosophical 
 spirit. The subject is one that has already em-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 325 
 
 ployed the pens of the ablest philologists in this 
 country, among whom it is only necessary to men- 
 tion the names of Du Ponceau, Pickering, and 
 Gallatin. Our author has evidently bestowed 
 much labor and thought on the topic. He exam- 
 ines the peculiar structure of the languages, which, 
 though radically different, bear a common resem- 
 blance in their compounded and synthetic organi- 
 zation. He has omitted to notice the singular 
 exception to the polysynthetic formation of the 
 Indian languages presented by the Otomie, which 
 has afforded a Mexican philologist so ingenious a 
 parallel, in its structure, with the Chinese. Mr. 
 Bancroft concludes his review of them by admit- 
 ting the copiousness of their combinations, and by 
 inferring that this copiousness is no evidence of 
 care and cultivation, but the elementary form of 
 expression of a rude and uncivilized people; in 
 proof of which he cites the example of the par- 
 tially civilized Indian in accommodating his idiom 
 gradually to the analytic structure of the Euro- 
 pean languages. May not this be explained by 
 the circumstance that the influence under which 
 he makes this, like his other changes, is itself 
 European ? But we pass to a more popular 
 theme, the rehgious faith of the red man, whose 
 fanciful superstitions are depicted by our author 
 with highly poetical coloring: 
 
 " The red man, unaccustomed to generaliza- 
 tion, obtained no conception of an absolute sub- 
 stance, of a self -existent being, but saw a divinity 
 in every power. Wherever there was being, 
 motion, or action, there to him was a spirit ; and, in
 
 326 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 a special manner, wherever there appeared singu- 
 lar excellence among beasts or birds, or in the crea- 
 tion, there to him was the presence of a divinity. 
 When he feels his pulse throb or his heart beat, he 
 knows that it is a spirit. A god resides in the flint, 
 to give forth the kindling, cheering fire; a spirit 
 resides in the mountain-cliff; a spirit makes its 
 abode in the cool recesses of the grottoes which 
 nature has adorned ; a god dwells in each ' little 
 grass' that springs miraculously from the earth. 
 * The woods, the wilds, and the waters respond to 
 savage intelligence; the stars and the mountains 
 live; the river, and the lake, and the waves have 
 a spirit.^ Every hidden agency, every mysterious 
 influence, is personified. A god dwells in the sun, 
 and in the moon, and in the firmament ; the spirit 
 of the morning reddens in the eastern sky; a 
 deity is present in the ocean and in the fire; the 
 crag that overhangs the river has its genius ; there 
 is a spirit to the waterfall; a household god 
 dwells in the Indian's wigwam and consecrates 
 his home; spirits climb upon the forhead to 
 weigh down the eyelids in sleep. Not the heavenly 
 bodies only, the sky is filled with spirits that minis- 
 ter to man. To the savage, divinity, broken as it 
 were into an infinite number of fragments, fills all 
 place and all being. The idea of unity in the 
 creation may exist contemporaneously, but it 
 existed only in the germ, or as a vague belief 
 derived from the harmony of the universe. Yet 
 faith in the Great Spirit, when once presented, 
 was promptly seized and appropriated, and so 
 infused itself into the hearts of remotest tribes
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 827 
 
 that it came to be often considered as a portion of 
 their original faith. Their shadowy aspirations 
 and creeds assumed, through the reports of mis- 
 sionaries, a more complete development, and a 
 religious system was elicited from the pregnant 
 but rude materials." — Ibid.j, pp. 285, 286. 
 
 The following pictures of the fate of the Indian 
 infant, and the shadowy pleasures of the land of 
 spirits, have also much tenderness and beauty: 
 
 " The same motive prompted them to bury with 
 the warrior his pipe and his manitou, his toma- 
 hawk, quiver, and bovv^ readj^ bent for action, and 
 his most splendid apparel; to place by his side 
 his bowl, his maize, and his venison, for the long 
 journey to the country of his ancestors. Festivals 
 in honor of the dead were also frequent, when a 
 part of the food was given to the flames, that so it 
 might serve to nourish the departed. The travel- 
 ler would find in the forests a dead body placed on 
 a scaffold erected upon piles, carefully wrapped 
 in bark for its shroud, and attired in warmest 
 furs. If a mother lost her babe, she would cover 
 it with bark and envelop it anxiously in the softest 
 beaver-skins; at the burial-place she would put 
 by its side its cradle, its beads, and its rattles, and, 
 as a last service of maternal love, would draw milk 
 from her bosom in a cup of bark, and burn it in 
 the fire, that her infant might still find nourish- 
 ment on its solitary journey to the land of shades. 
 Yet the new-born babe would be buried, not, as 
 usual, on the scaffold, but by the wayside, so that 
 its spirit might secretly steal into the bosom of 
 some passing matron and be born again under
 
 328 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 happier auspices. On burying her daughter, the 
 Chippewa mother adds, not snow-shoes and beads 
 and moccasins only, but (sad emblem of woman's 
 lot in the wilderness) the carrying-belt and the 
 paddle. ' I know my daughter will be restored 
 to me,' she once said, as she clipped a lock of hair 
 as a memorial ; ' by this lock of hair I shall dis- 
 cover her, for I shall take it with me ;' alluding to 
 the day when she too, with her carrying-belt and 
 paddle, and the little relic of her child, should pass 
 through the grave to the dwelling-place of her 
 ancestors." 
 
 " The faith, as well as the sympathies, of the 
 savage, descended also to inferior things. Of each 
 kind of animal they say there exists one, the source 
 and origin of all, of a vast size, the type and 
 original of the whole class. From the immense 
 invisible beaver come all the beavers, by whatever 
 run of water they are found; the same is true of 
 the elk and buffalo, of the eagle and robin, of the 
 meanest quadruped of the forest, of the smallest 
 insect that buzzes in the air. There lives for each 
 class of animals this invisible vast type or elder 
 brother. Thus the savage established his right to be 
 classed by philosophers in the rank of Realists, and 
 his chief efforts at generalization was a reverent 
 exercise of the religious sentiment. Where these 
 older brothers dwell they do not exactly know ; yet 
 it may be that the giant manitous which are 
 brothers to beasts are hid beneath the waters, and 
 those of the birds make their homes in the blue sky. 
 But the Indian believes also of each individual 
 animal that it possesses the mysterious, the inde-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 329 
 
 structible principle of life ; there is not a breathing 
 thing but has its shade, which never can perish. 
 Regarding himself, in comparison with other ani- 
 mals, but as the fii'st among co-ordinate existence, 
 he respects the brute creation, and assigns to it, 
 as to himself, a perpetuity of being. ' The an- 
 cients of these lands believed that the warrior, 
 when released from life, renews the passions and 
 activity of this world ; is seated once more among 
 his friends; shares again the joyous feast; walks 
 through shadowy forests, that are ahve with the 
 spirits of birds ; and there, in his paradise, 
 
 " ' By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, 
 In vestments for the chase arrayed. 
 The hunter still the deer pursues, 
 
 The hunter and the deer a shade.' " 
 
 Ibid., pp. 295, 298. 
 
 At the close of this chapter the historian grap- 
 ples with the much-vexed question respecting the 
 origin of the aborigines, — that pons asinorum 
 which has called forth so much sense and nonsense 
 on both sides of the water, and will continue to do 
 so as long as a new relic or unknown hieroglyphic 
 shall turn up to irritate the nerves of the antiquary. 
 
 Mr. Bancroft passes briefly in review the several 
 arguments adduced in favor of the connection 
 with Eastern Asia. He lays no stress on the 
 affinity of languages or of customs and religious 
 notions, considering these as spontaneous expres- 
 sions of similar ideas and wants in similar con- 
 ditions of society. He attaches as little value to 
 the resemblance established by Humboldt between 
 the signs of the Mexican calendar and those of the
 
 330 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 signs of the zodiac in Thibet and Tartary; and as 
 for the far-famed Dighton Rock, and the learned 
 lucubrations thereon, he sets them down as so 
 much moonshine, pronouncing the characters Al- 
 gonquin. The tumuli — the great tumuli of the 
 West — he regards as the work of no mortal hand, 
 except so far as they have been excavated for a 
 sepulchral purpose. He admits, however, vestiges 
 of a migratory movement on our continent from 
 the northeast to the southwest, shows very satis- 
 factorily, by estimating the distances of the inter- 
 vening islands, the practicability of a passage in 
 the most ordinary sea-boat from the Asiatic to the 
 American shores in the high latitudes, and, by a 
 comparison of the Indian and Mongolian skulls, 
 comes to the conclusion that the two races are 
 probably identical in origin. But the epoch of 
 their divergence he places at so remote a period 
 that the peculiar habits, institutions, and culture 
 of the aborigines must be regarded as all their 
 own, — as indigenous. This is the outhne of his 
 theory. 
 
 By this hypothesis he extricates the question 
 from the embarrassment caused by the ignorance 
 which the aborigines have manifested in the use of 
 iron and milk, known to the Mongol hordes, but 
 which he, of course, supposes were not known at 
 the time of the migration. This is carrying the 
 exodus back to a far period. But the real objec- 
 tion seems to be that by thus rejecting all evidence 
 of communication but that founded on anatomical 
 resemblance he has unnecessarily narrowed the 
 basis on which it rests. The resemblance between a
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 331 
 
 few specimens of Mongolian and American skulls 
 is a narrow basis indeed, taken as the only one, for 
 so momentous a theory. 
 
 In fact, this particular point of analogy does 
 not strike us as by any means the most powerful 
 of the arguments in favor of a communication 
 with the East, when we consider the small number 
 of the specimens on which it is founded, the great 
 variety of formation in individuals of the same 
 family, — some of the specimens approacliing even 
 nearer to the Caucasian than the Mongolian, — 
 and the very uniform de\dation from the latter in 
 the prominence and the greater angularity of the 
 features. 
 
 This connection with the East derives, in our 
 judgment, some support, feeble though it be, from 
 affinities of language; but this is a field which 
 remains to be much more fully explored. The 
 analogy is much more striking of certain usages 
 and institutions, particularly of a rehgious char- 
 acter, and, above all, the mythological traditions 
 which those who have had occasion to look into the 
 Aztec antiquities cannot fail to be struck with. 
 This resemblance is oftentimes in matters so 
 purely arbitrary that it can hardly be regarded as 
 founded in the constitution of man, so very exact 
 that it can scarcely be considered as accidental. 
 We give up the Dighton Rock, that rock of of- 
 fence to so many antiquaries, who may read in it 
 the handwriting of the Phoenicians, Egyptians, or 
 Scandinavians, quite as well as anything else. 
 Indeed, the various facsimiles of it, made for the 
 benefit of the learned, are so different from one
 
 832 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 another that, Hke Sir Hudibras, one may find in it 
 
 " A leash of languages at once." 
 
 We are agreed with our author that it is very good 
 Algonquin. But the zodiac, the Tartar zodiac, 
 which M. de Humboldt has so well shown to 
 resemble in its terms those of the Aztec calendar, 
 we cannot so easily surrender. The striking coin- 
 cidence established by his investigations between 
 the astronomical signs of the two nations — in a 
 similar corresponding series, moreover, although 
 appHed to different uses — is, in our opinion, one 
 of the most powerful arguments yet adduced for 
 the affinity of the two races. Nor is Mr. Bancroft 
 wholly right in supposing that the Asiatic hiero- 
 glyphics referred only to the zodiac. Like the 
 Mexican, they also presided over the years, days, 
 and even hours. The strength of evidence, founded 
 on numerous analogies, cannot be shown without 
 going into details, for which there is scarce room 
 in the compass of a separate article, much less in 
 the heel of one. Whichever way we turn, the 
 subject is full of perplexity. It is the sphinx's 
 riddle, and the (Edipus must be called from the 
 grave who is to solve it. 
 
 In closing our remarks, we must express our 
 satisfaction that the favorable notice we took of 
 Mr. Bancroft's labors on his first appearance has 
 been fully ratified by his countrymen, and that 
 his Colonial History establishes his title to a place 
 among the great historical writers of the age. The 
 reader will find the pages of the present volume 
 filled with matter not less interesting and impor-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 333 
 
 tant than the preceding. He will meet with the 
 same brilliant and daring style, the same pictu- 
 resque sketches of character and incident, the same 
 acute reasoning and compass of erudition. 
 
 In the delineation of events Mr. Bancroft has 
 been guided by the spirit of historic faith. Not 
 that it would be difficult to discern the color of his 
 politics ; nor, indeed, would it be possible for any- 
 one strongly pledged to any set of principles, 
 whether in politics or religion, to disguise them 
 in the discussion of abstract topics, without being 
 false to himself and giving a false tone to the 
 picture ; but, while he is true to himself, he has an 
 equally imperative duty to perform, — to be true to 
 others, to those on whose characters and conduct 
 he sits in judgment as a historian. No pet theory 
 nor party predilections can justify him in swerving 
 one hair's-breadth from truth in his delineation of 
 the mighty dead, whose portraits he is exhibiting 
 to us on the canvas of history. 
 
 Whenever religion is introduced, Mr. Bancroft 
 has shown a commendable spirit of liberality. 
 Catholics and Calvinists, Jesuits, Quakers, and 
 Church-of -England men, are all judged accord- 
 ing to their deeds, and not their speculative tenets ; 
 and even in the latter particular he generally con- 
 trives to find something deserving of admiration, 
 some commendable doctrine or aspiration in most 
 of them. And what Christian sect — we might 
 add, what sect of any denomination — is there 
 which has not some beauty of doctrine to admire? 
 Religion is the homage of man to his Creator. The 
 forms in which it is expressed are infinitely va-
 
 334 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 rious; but they flow from the same source, are 
 directed to the same end, and all claim from the 
 historian the benefit of toleration. 
 
 What Mr. Bancroft has done for the Colonial 
 history is, after all, but preparation for a richer 
 theme, the history of the War of Independence; 
 a subject which finds its origin in the remote 
 past, its results in the infinite future ; which finds 
 a central point of unity in the ennobling principle 
 of independence, that gives dignity and grandeur 
 to the most petty details of the conflict, and which 
 has its foreground occupied by a single character, 
 to which all others converge as to a centre, — the 
 character of Washington, in war, in peace, and in 
 private life the most sublime on historical record. 
 Happy the writer who shall exhibit this theme 
 worthily to the eyes of his countrymen ! 
 
 The subject, it is understood, is to engage the 
 attention, also, of Mr. Sparks, whose honorable 
 labors have already associated his name imperish- 
 ably with our Revolutionary period. Let it not be 
 feared that there is not compass enough in the 
 subject for two minds so gifted. The field is too 
 rich to be exhausted by a single crop, and will 
 yield fresh laurels to the skilful hand that shall toil 
 for them. The labors of Hume did not supersede 
 those of Lingard, or Turner, or Mackintosh, or 
 Hallam. The history of the English Revolution 
 has called forth, in our own time, the admirable 
 essays of Mackintosh and Guizot; and the palm 
 of excellence, after the libraries that have been 
 written on the French Revolution, has just been 
 assigned to the dissimilar histories of Mignet and
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 335 
 
 Thiers. The points of view under which a thing 
 may be contemplated are as diversified as mind 
 itself. The most honest inquirers after truth rare- 
 ly come to precisely the same results, such is 
 the influence of education, prejudice, principle. 
 Truth, indeed, is single, but opinions are infinitely 
 various, and it is only by comparing these opinions 
 together that we can hope to ascertain what is 
 truth.
 
 MADAME CALDERON'S LIFE IN 
 MEXICO * 
 
 (January, 1843) 
 
 IN the present age of high literary activity, travel- 
 lers make not the least importunate demands 
 on pubhc attention, and their lucubrations, under 
 whatever name, — Rambles, Notices, Incidents, 
 Pencilhngs, — are nearly as important a staple for 
 the " trade " as novels and romances. A book of 
 travels, formerly, was a very serious affair. The 
 traveller set out on his distant journey with many 
 a solemn preparation, made his will, and bade 
 adieu to his friends like one who might not again 
 return. If he did return, the results were em- 
 bodied in a respectable folio, or at least quarto, 
 well garnished with cuts, and done up in a solid 
 form, which argued that it was no fugitive publi- 
 cation, but destined for posterity. 
 
 All this is changed. The voyager nowadays 
 leaves home with as little ceremony and leave- 
 taking as if it were for a morning's drive. He 
 steps into the bark that is to carry him across thou- 
 sands of miles of ocean with the moral certainty of 
 returning in a fixed week, almost at a particular 
 day. Parties of gentlemen and ladies go whizzing 
 along in their steamships over the track which 
 
 * " Life in Mexico, during a Residence of Two Years in that 
 
 Country. By Madame C de la B ." Boston: Little & 
 
 Brown. Two volumes, 12mo. 
 
 336
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 337 
 
 cost so many weary days to the Argonauts of 
 old, and run over the choicest scenes of classic 
 antiquity, scattered through Europe, Asia, and 
 Africa, in less time than it formerly took to go 
 from one end of the British Isles to the other. The 
 Cape of Good Hope, so long the great stumbhng- 
 block to the navigators of Europe, is doubled, or 
 the Red Sea coasted, in the same way, by the 
 fashionable tourist — who glides along the shores 
 of Arabia, Persia, Afghanistan, Bombay, and 
 Hindostan, farther than the farthest limits of 
 Alexander's conquests — before tlie last leaves of 
 the last new novel which he has taken by the way 
 are fairly cut. The facilities of communication 
 have, in fact, so abridged distances that geogra- 
 phy, as we have hitherto studied it, may be said to 
 be entirely reformed. Instead of leagues, we now 
 compute by hours, and we find ourselves next-door 
 neighbors to those whom we had looked upon as 
 at the antipodes. 
 
 The consequence of these improvements in the 
 means of intercourse is, that all the world goes 
 abroad, or, at least, one half is turned upon the 
 other. Nations are so mixed up by this process 
 that they are in some danger of losing their idio- 
 syncrasy; and the Egyptian and the Turk, though 
 they still cling to their religion, are becoming 
 European in their notions and habits more and 
 more every day. 
 
 The taste for pilgrimage, however, it must be 
 owned, does not stop with the countries where it 
 can be carried on with such increased facility. It 
 has begotten a nobler spirit of adventure, some- 
 
 Vol. I.— 22
 
 338 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 thing akin to what existed in the fifteenth century, 
 when the world was new or newly discovering, and 
 a navigator who did not take in sail, like the 
 cautious seamen of Knickerbocker, might run 
 down some strange continent in the dark; for in 
 these times of dandy tourists and travel-mongers 
 the boldest achievements, that have hitherto defied 
 the most adventurous spirits, have been per- 
 formed: the Himalaya Mountains have been 
 scaled, the Niger ascended, the burning heart of 
 Africa penetrated, the icy Arctic and Antarctic 
 explored, and the mysterious monuments of the 
 semi-civilized races of Central America have been 
 thrown open to the public gaze. It is certain that 
 this is a high-pressure age, and every department 
 of science and letters, physical and mental, feels 
 its stimulating influence. 
 
 No nation, on the whole, has contributed so 
 largely to these itinerant expeditions as the Eng- 
 lish. Uneasy, it would seem, at being cooped up in 
 their little isle, they sally forth in all directions, 
 swarming over the cultivated and luxurious coun- 
 tries of the neighboring continent, or sending out 
 stragglers on other more distant and formidable 
 missions. Whether it be that their soaring spirits 
 are impatient of the narrow quarters which nature 
 has assigned them, or that there exists a super- 
 numerary class of idlers, who, wearied with the 
 monotony of home and the same dull round of 
 dissipation, seek excitement in strange scenes and 
 adventures; or whether they go abroad for the 
 sunshine, of which they have heard so much but 
 seen so little, — ^whatever be the cause, they furnish
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 339 
 
 a far greater number of tourists than all the world 
 besides. We Americans, indeed, may compete 
 with them in mere locomotion, for our familiarity 
 with magnificent distances at home makes us still 
 more indifferent to them abroad ; but this locomo- 
 tion is generally in the way of business, and the 
 result is rarely shown in a book, unless, indeed, it 
 be the leger. 
 
 Yet John Bull is, on many accounts, less fitted 
 than most of his neighbors for the duties of a 
 traveller. However warm and hospitable in his 
 own home, he has a cold reserve in his exterior, a 
 certain chilling atmosphere, which he carries along 
 with him, that freezes up the sympathies of stran- 
 gers, and which is only to be completely thawed 
 by long and intimate acquaintance. But the trav- 
 eller has no time for intimate acquaintances. He 
 must go forward, and trust to his first impressions, 
 for they will also be his last. Unluckily, it rarely 
 falls out that the first impressions of honest John 
 are very favorable. There is too much pride, not 
 to say hauteur J in his composition, which, with the 
 best intentions in the world, will show itself in a 
 way not particularly flattering to those who come 
 in contact with him. He goes through a strange 
 nation, treading on all their little irritable preju- 
 dices, shocking their self-love and harmless vani- 
 ties, — in short, going against the grain, and rough- 
 ing up every thing by taking it the wrong way. 
 Thus he di-aws out the bad humors of the people 
 among whom he moves, sees them in their most 
 unamiable and by no means natural aspect, — in 
 short, looks on the wrong side of the tapestry.
 
 340 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 What wonder if his notions are somewhat awry 
 as to what he sees? There are, it is true, distin- 
 guished exceptions to all this, — English travellers 
 who cover the warm heart — as warm as it is 
 generally true and manly — under a kind and some- 
 times cordial manner ; but they are the exceptions. 
 The Englishman undoubtedly appears best on his 
 own soil, where his national predilections and prej- 
 udices, or, at least, the intimation of them, are 
 somewhat mitigated in deference to his guest. 
 
 Another source of the disqualification of John 
 Bull as a calm and philosophic traveller is the man- 
 ner in which he has been educated at home ; the soft 
 luxuries by which he has been surrounded from his 
 cradle have made luxuries necessaries, and, accus- 
 tomed to perceive aU the machinery of life glide 
 along as noiselessly and as swiftly as the foot of 
 Time itself, he becomes morbidly sensitive to every 
 temporary jar or derangement in the working 
 of it. In no country since the world was made 
 have all the appliances for mere physical and, 
 we may add, intellectual indulgence been carried to 
 such perfection as in this little island nucleus of 
 civilization. Nowhere can a man get such returns 
 for his outlay. The whole organization of society 
 is arranged so as to minister to the comforts of the 
 wealthy; and an Englishman, with the golden 
 talisman in his pocket, can bring about him genii 
 to do his bidding, and transport himself over dis- 
 tances with a thought, almost as easily as if he 
 were the possessor of Aladdin's magic lamp and 
 the fairy carpet of the Arabian Tales. 
 
 When he journeys over his little island, his com-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 341 
 
 forts and luxuries cling as close to him as round 
 his own fireside. He rolls over roads as smooth 
 and well-beaten as those in his own park ; is swept 
 onward by sleek and well-groomed horses, in a 
 carriage as soft and elastic, and quite as showy, as 
 his own equipage; puts up at inns that may vie 
 with his own castle in their comforts and accom- 
 modations, and is received by crowds of obsequious 
 servants, more solicitous, probably, even than his 
 own to win his golden smiles. In short, wherever 
 he goes, he may be said to carry with him his castle, 
 park, equipage, establishment. The whole are in 
 movement together. He changes place, indeed, 
 but changes nothing else. For travelling as it 
 occurs in other lands, — hard roads, harder beds, 
 and hardest fare, — he knows no more of it than if 
 he had been passing from one wing of his castle 
 to the other. 
 
 All this, it must be admitted, is rather an indif- 
 ferent preparation for a tour on the Continent. 
 Of what avail is it that Paris is the most elegant 
 capital, France the most enlightened country on 
 the European terra firma, if one cannot walk in 
 the streets without the risk of being run over for 
 want of a trottoir, nor move on the roads without 
 being half smothered in a lumbering vehicle, 
 dragged by ropes at the rate of five miles an hour? 
 Of what account are the fine music and paintings, 
 the architecture and art, of Italy, when one must 
 shiver by day for want of carpets and sea-coal 
 fires, and be thrown into a fever at night by the 
 active vexations of a still more tormenting kind? 
 The galled equestrian might as well be expected
 
 342 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 to feel nothing but raptures and ravishment at the 
 fine scenery through which he is riding. It is prob- 
 able he will think much more of his own petty 
 hurts than of the beauties of nature. A travelling 
 John Bull, if his skin is not oif , is at least so thin- 
 skinned that it is next door to being so. 
 
 If the European neighborhood affords so many 
 means of annoyance to the British traveller, they 
 are incalculably multiplied on this side of the water, 
 and that, too, under circumstances which dispose 
 him still less to charity in his criticisms and con- 
 structions. On the Continent he feels he is among 
 strange races, born and bred under different relig- 
 ious and political institutions, and, above all, 
 speaking different languages. He does not neces- 
 sarily, therefore, measure them by his peculiar 
 standard, but allows them one of their own. The 
 dissimilarity is so great in all the main features of 
 national polity and society that it is hard to insti- 
 tute a comparison. Whatever be his contempt for 
 the want of progress and perfection in the science 
 of living, he comes to regard them as a distinct race, 
 amenable to different laws, and therefore licensed 
 to indulge in different usages, to a certain ex- 
 tent, from his own. If a man travels in China, he 
 makes up his mind to chopsticks. If he should 
 go to the moon, he would not be scandalized by see- 
 ing people walk with their heads under their arms. 
 He has embarked on a different planet. It is only 
 in things which run parallel to those in his own 
 country that a comparison can be instituted, and 
 charity too often fails where criticism begins. 
 
 Unhappily, in America the Englishman finds
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 343 
 
 these points of comparison forced on him at 
 every step. He lands among a people speaking the 
 same language, professing the same rehgion, drink- 
 ing at the same fountains of literature, trained 
 in the same occupations of active life. The towns 
 are built on much the same model with those in 
 his own land. The brick houses, the streets, the 
 " sidewalks," the in-door arrangements, all, in 
 short, are near enough on the same pattern to 
 provoke a comparison. Alas for the comparison! 
 The cities sink at once into mere provincial towns, 
 the language degenerates into a provincial patois, 
 the manners, the fashions, down to the cut of the 
 clothes, and the equipages, all are provincial. 
 The people, the whole nation — as independent as 
 any, certainly, if not, as our orators fondly des- 
 cant, the best and most enlightened upon earth 
 — dwindle into a mere British colony. The travel- 
 ler does not seem to understand that he is treading 
 the soil of the New World, where every thing is 
 new, where antiquity dates but from yesterday, 
 where the present and the future are all, and the 
 past nothing, where hope is the watchword, and 
 " Go ahead!" the principle of action. He does not 
 comprehend that when he sets foot on such a land 
 he is no longer to look for old hereditary land- 
 marks, old time-honored monuments and institu- 
 tions, old families that have vegetated on the same 
 soil since the Conquest. He must be content to 
 part with the order and something of the decorum 
 incident to an old community, where the ranks are 
 all precisely and punctiliously defined, where the 
 power is deposited by prescriptive right in certain
 
 344 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 privileged hands, and where the great mass have 
 the careful obsequiousness of dependants, looking 
 for the crumbs that fall. 
 
 He is now among a new people, where every 
 thing is in movement, all struggling to get for- 
 ward, and where, though many go adrift in their 
 wild spirit of adventure, and a temporary check 
 may be sometimes felt by all, the great mass still 
 advances. He is landed on a hemisphere where 
 fortunes are to be made, and men are employed in 
 getting, not in spending, — a difference which ex- 
 plains so many of the discrepancies between the 
 structure of our own society and habits and those 
 of the Old World. To know how to spend is itself 
 a science ; and the science of spending and that of 
 getting are rarely held by the same hand. 
 
 In such a state of things, the whole arrange- 
 ment of society, notwithstanding the apparent re- 
 semblance to that in his own country, and its real 
 resemblance in minor points, is reversed. The rich 
 proprietor, who does nothing but fatten on his 
 rents, is no longer at the head of the scale, as in 
 the Old World. The man of enterprise takes the 
 lead in a bustling conmiunity, where action and 
 progress, or at least change, are the very conditions 
 of existence. The upper classes — if the term can 
 be used in a complete democracy — have not the 
 luxurious finish and accommodations to be found 
 in the other hemisphere. The humbler classes 
 have not the poverty-stricken, cringing spirit of 
 hopeless inferiority. The pillar of society, if it 
 want the Corinthian capital, wants also the heavy 
 and superfluous base. Every man not only pro-
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 345 
 
 fesses to be, but is practically, on a footing of 
 equality with his neighbor. The traveller must 
 not expect to meet here the deference, or even the 
 courtesies, which grow out of distinction of castes. 
 This is an awkward dilemma for one whose nerves 
 have never been jarred by contact with the pro- 
 fane; who has never been tossed about in the 
 rough-and-tumble of humanity. It is little to him 
 that the poorest child in the community learns how 
 to read and write ; that the poorest man can have — 
 what Henry the Fourth so good-naturedly wished 
 for the humblest of his subjects — a fowl in his 
 pot every day for his dinner ; that no one is so low 
 but that he may aspire to all the rights of his 
 fellow-men and find an open theatre on which to 
 display his own peculiar talents. 
 
 As the tourist strikes into the interior, difficulties 
 of all sorts multiply, incident to a raw and un- 
 formed country. The comparison with the high 
 civilization at home becomes more and more un- 
 favorable, as he is made to feel that in this land of 
 promise it must be long before promise can become 
 the performance of the Old World. And yet, if 
 he would look beyond the surface, he would see 
 that much here too has been performed, however 
 much may be wanting. He would see lands over 
 which the wild Indian roamed as a hunting- 
 ground, teeming with harvests for the consump- 
 tion of millions at home and abroad ; forests, which 
 have shot up, ripened, and decayed on the same 
 spot ever since the creation, now swept away to 
 make room for towns and villages thronged with an 
 industrious population; rivers, which rolled on in
 
 346 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 their solitudes, undisturbed except by the wander- 
 ing bark of the savage, now broken and dimpled 
 by hundreds of steamboats, freighted with the rich 
 tribute of a country rescued from the wilderness. 
 He would not expect to meet the careful courtesies 
 of poHshed society in the pioneers of civilization, 
 whose mission has been to recover the great 
 continent from the bear and the buffalo. He 
 would have some charity for their ignorance of 
 the latest fashions of Bond Street, and their de- 
 parture, sometimes, even from what, in the old 
 country, is considered as the decorum and, it may 
 be, decencies of life. But not so : his heart turns 
 back to his own land, and closes against the rude 
 scenes around him; for he finds here none of the 
 soft graces of cultivation, or the hallowed memo- 
 rials of an early civilization; no gray, weather- 
 beaten cathedrals, telling of the Normans; no 
 Gothic churches in their groves of venerable oaks ; 
 no moss-covered cemeteries, in which the dust of 
 his fathers has been gathered since the time of 
 the Plantagenets ; no rural cottages, half smoth- 
 ered with roses and honeysuckles, intimating 
 that even in the most humble abodes the taste for 
 the beautiful has found its way; no trim gardens, 
 and fields blossoming with hawthorn hedges and 
 miniature culture ; no ring fences, enclosing well- 
 shaven lawns, woods so disposed as to form a 
 picture of themselves, bright threads of silvery 
 water, and sparkling fountains. All these are 
 wanting, and his eyes turn with disgust from 
 the wild and rugged features of nature, and all 
 her rough accompaniments, — from man almost as
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 347 
 
 wild ; and his heart sickens as he thinks of his own 
 land and all its scenes of beauty. He thinks not 
 of the poor who leave that land for want of bread 
 and find in this a kindly welcome and the means of 
 independence and advancement which their own 
 denies them. 
 
 He goes on, if he be a splenetic Sindbad, dis- 
 charging his sour bile on everybody that he comes 
 in contact with, thus producing an amiable ripple 
 in the current as he proceeds, that adds marvel- 
 lously, no doubt, to his own quiet and personal 
 comfort. If he have a true merry vein and hearty 
 good nature, he gets on, laughing sometimes in his 
 sleeve at others, and cracking his jokes on the un- 
 lucky pate of Brother Jonathan, who, if he is not 
 very silly, — which he very often is, — laughs too, 
 and joins in the jest, though it may be somewhat at 
 his own expense. It matters little whether the tour- 
 ist be Whig or Tory in his own land ; if the latter, 
 he returns, probably, ten times the Conservative 
 that he was when he left it. If Whig, or even Radi- 
 cal, it matters not; his loyalty waxes warmer and 
 warmer with every step of his progress among the 
 republicans; and he finds that practical democ- 
 racy, shouldering and elbowing its neighbors as 
 it " goes ahead," is no more like the democracy 
 which he has been accustomed to admire in theory, 
 than the real machinery, with its smell, smoke, and 
 clatter, under full operation, is like the pretty toy 
 which he sees as a model in the Patent Office at 
 Washington. 
 
 There seems to be no people better constituted 
 for travellers, at least for recording their travel-
 
 348 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 ling experiences, than the French. There is a mix- 
 ture of frivoHty and philosophy in their composi- 
 tion which is admirably suited to the exigencies of 
 their situation. They mingle readily with all 
 classes and races, discarding for the time their own 
 nationality, — at least their national antipathies. 
 Their pleasant vanity fills them with the desire of 
 pleasing others, which most kindly reacts by their 
 being themselves pleased : 
 
 " Pleased with himself, whom all the world can please." 
 
 The Frenchman can even so far accommodate 
 himself to habits alien to his own, that he can toler- 
 ate those of the savages themselves, and enter into 
 a sort of fellowship with them, without either 
 party altogether discarding his national tastes 
 and propensities. It is Chateaubriand, if we 
 are not mistaken, who relates that, wandering 
 in the solitudes of the American wilderness, his 
 ears were most unexpectedly saluted by the sounds 
 of a violin. He had little doubt that one of his own 
 countrymen must be at hand; and in a wretched 
 enclosure he found one of them, sure enough, 
 teaching Messieurs les sauvages to dance. It is 
 certain that this spirit of accommodation to the 
 wild habits of their copper-colored friends gave 
 the French traders and missionaries formerly an 
 ascendency over the aborigines which was never 
 obtained by any other of the white men. 
 
 The most comprehensive and truly philosophic 
 work on the genius and institutions of this country, 
 the best exposition of its social phenomena, its 
 present condition, and probable future, are to be
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 349 
 
 found in the pages of a Frenchman. It is in the 
 French language, too, that by far the greatest 
 work has been produced on the great Southern 
 portion of our continent, once comprehended 
 under New Spain. 
 
 To write a book of travels seems to most people 
 to require as little preliminary preparation as to 
 write a letter. One has only to jump into a coach, 
 embark on board a steamboat, minute down his 
 flying experiences and hair-breadth escapes, the 
 aspect of the country as seen from the interior of 
 a crowded diligence or a vanishing rail-car, note 
 the charges of the landlords and the quality of the 
 fare, a dinner or two at the minister's, the last new 
 play or opera at the theatre, and the affair is done. 
 It is very easy to do this, certainly; very easy to 
 make a bad book of travels, but by no means easy 
 to make a good one. This requires as many and 
 various qualifications as to make any other good 
 book, — qualifications which must vary with the 
 character of the country one is to visit. Thus, for 
 instance, it requires a very different preparation 
 and stock of accomplishments to make the tour of 
 Italy, its studios and its galleries of art, or of 
 Egypt, with its immortal pyramids and mighty 
 relics of a primeval age, the great cemetery of 
 antiquity, from what it does to travel understand- 
 ingly in our own land, a new creation, as it were, 
 without monuments, without arts, where the only 
 study of the traveller — the noblest of all studies, 
 it is true — is man. The inattention to this differ- 
 ence of preparation demanded by different places 
 has led many a clever writer to make a very
 
 350 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 worthless book, which would have been remedied 
 had he consulted his own qualifications instead of 
 taking the casual direction of the first steamboat 
 or mail-coach that lay in his way. 
 
 There is no country more difficult to discuss in 
 all its multiform aspects than Mexico, or, rather, 
 the wild region once comprehended under the 
 name of New Spain. Its various climates, bring- 
 ing to perfection the vegetable products of the 
 most distant latitudes ; its astonishing f ruitf ulness 
 in its lower regions, and its curse of barrenness 
 over many a broad acre of its plateau; its inex- 
 haustible mines, that have flooded the Old World 
 with an ocean of silver, such as Columbus in his 
 wildest visions never dreamed of, — and, unhap- 
 pily, by a hard mischance, never lived to realize 
 himself; its picturesque landscape, where the 
 volcanic fire gleams amid wastes of eternal snow, 
 and a few hours carry the traveller from the hot 
 regions of the lemon and the cocoa to the wintry 
 solitudes of the mountain fir; its motley popula- 
 tion, made up of Indians, old Spaniards, modern 
 Mexicans, mestizos, mulattoes, and zambos; its 
 cities built in the clouds; its lakes of salt water, 
 hundreds of miles from the ocean ; its people, with 
 their wild and variegated costume, in keeping, 
 as we may say, with its extraordinary scenery ; its 
 stately palaces, half furnished, where services of 
 gold and silver plate load the tables in rooms with- 
 out a carpet, while the red dust of the bricks soils 
 the diamond-sprinkled robes of the dancer; the 
 costly attire of its higher classes, blazing with 
 pearls and jewels; the tawdry magnificence of its
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 351 
 
 equipages, saddles inlaid with gold, bits and stir- 
 rups of massive silver, all executed in the clumsiest 
 style of workmanship ; its lower classes, — the men 
 with their jackets glittering with silver buttons, 
 and rolls of silver tinsel round their caps; the 
 women with petticoats fringed with lace, and white 
 satin shoes on feet unprotected by a stocking; its 
 high-born fair ones crowding to the cockpit and 
 solacing themselves with the fumes of a cigar; its 
 churches and convents, in which all those sombre 
 rules of monastic life are maintained in their prim- 
 itive rigor which have died away before the liberal 
 spirit of the age on the other side of the water ; its 
 swarms of leperos^ the lazzaroni of the land; its 
 hordes of almost legalized banditti, who stalk 
 openly in the streets and render the presence of an 
 armed escort necessary to secure a safe drive into 
 the environs of the capital ; its whole structure of 
 society, in which a republican form is thrown over 
 institutions as aristocratic and castes as nicely 
 defined as in any monarchy of Europe; in short, 
 its marvellous inconsistencies and contrasts in cli- 
 mate, character of the people, and face of the 
 land, — so marvellous as, we trust, to excuse the 
 unprecedented length of tliis sentence, — undoubt- 
 edly make modern Mexico one of the most prolific, 
 original, and diffcult themes for the study of the 
 traveller. 
 
 Yet this great theme has found in Humboldt a 
 writer of strength sufficient to grapple with it in 
 nearly all its relations. While yet a young man, 
 or, at least, while his physical as well as mental 
 energies were in their meridian, he came over to
 
 352 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 this country with an enthusiasm for science which 
 was only heightened by obstacles, and with stores 
 of it already accumulated that enabled him to 
 detect the nature of every new object that came 
 under his eye and arrange it in its proper class. 
 With his scientific instruments in his hand, he 
 might be seen scaling the snow-covered peaks of 
 the Cordilleras, or diving into their unfathomable 
 caverns of silver; now wandering through their 
 dark forests in search of new specimens for his 
 herbarium, now coasting the stormy shores of the 
 Gulf and penetrating its unhealthy streams, jot- 
 ting down every landmark that might serve to 
 guide the future navigator, or surveying the 
 crested Isthmus in search of a practicable commu- 
 nication between the great seas on its borders, and 
 then, again, patiently studying the monuments 
 and manuscripts of the Aztecs in the capital, or 
 mingling with the wealth and fashion in its 
 saloons; frequenting every place, in short, and 
 everywhere at home: 
 
 " Grammaticus, rhetor, geometres, .... omnia novit." 
 
 The whole range of these various topics is brought 
 under review in his pages, and on all he sheds a 
 ray, sometimes a flood, of light. His rational 
 philosophy, content rather to doubt than to decide, 
 points out the track which other adventurous 
 spirits may follow up with advantage. 'No anti- 
 quary has done so much towards determining the 
 original hives of the semi-civilized races of the 
 Mexican plateau. No one, not even of the Span- 
 iards, has brought together such an important
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 353 
 
 mass of information in respect to the resources, 
 natural products, and statistics generally, of New- 
 Spain. His explorations have identified more 
 than one locality and illustrated more than one 
 curious monument of the people of Anahuac, 
 which had baffled the inquiries of native antiqua- 
 ries; and his work, while embodying the results 
 of profound scholarship and art, is at the same 
 time, in many respects, the very best manuel du 
 voyageur, and, as such, has been most frequently 
 used by subsequent tourists. It is true, his pages 
 are sometimes disfigured by pedantry, ambitious 
 display, learned obscurity, and other affectations 
 of the man of letters. But what human work is 
 without its blemishes? His various writings on 
 the subject of New Spain, taken collectively, are 
 one of those monuments which may be selected to 
 show the progress of the species. Their author 
 reminds us of one of the ancient athletee, who 
 descended into the arena to hurl the discus with a 
 giant arm, that distanced every cast of his con- 
 temporaries. 
 
 There is one branch of his fruitful subject 
 which M. de Humboldt has not exhausted, and, in- 
 deed, has but briefly touched on. This is the social 
 condition of the country, especially as found in its 
 picturesque capital. This has been discussed by 
 subsequent travellers more fully, and Ward, Bul- 
 lock, Lyons, Poinsett, Tudor, Latrobe, have all 
 produced works which have for their object, more 
 or less, the social habits and manners of the people. 
 With most of them this is not the prominent 
 object; and others of them, probably, have found 
 
 Vol. I.— 23
 
 354 BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 obstacles in effecting it to any great extent, from 
 an imperfect knowledge of the language, — the 
 golden key to the sympathies of a people, — ^with- 
 out which a traveller is as much at fault as a man 
 without an eye for color in a picture-gallery, or 
 an ear for music at a concert. He may see and 
 hear, indeed, in both; but cui bono? The travel- 
 ler, ignorant of the language of the nation whom 
 he visits, may descant on the scenery, the roads, 
 the architecture, the outside of things, the rates 
 and distances of posting, the dress of the people in 
 the streets, and may possibly meet a native or two, 
 half denaturalized, kept to dine with strangers, 
 at his banker's. But as to the interior mechanism 
 of society, its secret sympathies, and famihar tone 
 of thinking and feeling, he can know no more 
 than he could of the contents of a library by run- 
 ning over the titles of strange and unknown 
 authors packed together on the shelves. 
 
 It was to supply this deficiency that the work 
 before us, no doubt, was given to the public, and 
 it was composed under circumstances that afforded 
 every possible advantage and facility to its 
 author. Although the initials only of the name 
 are given in the title-page, yet, from these and 
 certain less equivocal passages in the body of the 
 work, it requires no (Edipus to divine that the 
 author is the wife of the Chevalier Calderon de la 
 Barca, well known in this country during his long 
 residence as Spanish minister at Washington, 
 where his amiable manners and high personal 
 qualities secured him general respect and the 
 regard of all who knew him. On the recognition
 
 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 355 
 
 of the independence of Mexico by the mother- 
 country, Senor Calderon was selected to fill the 
 office of the first Spanish envoy to the republic. It 
 was a delicate mission after so long an estrange- 
 ment, and it was hailed by the Mexicans with 
 every demonstration of pride and satisfaction. 
 Though twenty years had elapsed since they had 
 established their independence, yet they felt as a 
 waj^vard son may feel who, having absconded 
 from the paternal roof and set up for himself, still 
 looks back to it with a sort of reverence, and, in 
 the plenitude of his prosperity, still feels the want 
 of the parental benediction. We, who cast off 
 our allegiance in a similar way, can comprehend 
 the feeling. The new minister, from the moment 
 of his setting foot on the Mexican shore, was 
 greeted with an enthusiasm which attested the 
 popular feeling, and his presence in the capital 
 was celebrated by theatrical exhibitions, bull- 
 fights, illuminations, fetes pubhc and private, and 
 every possible demonstration of respect for the 
 new envoy and the country who sent him. His 
 position secured him access to every place of inter- 
 est to an intelhgent stranger, and introduced him 
 into the most intimate recesses of society, from 
 which the stranger is commonly excluded, and to 
 which, indeed, none but a Spaniard could, under 
 any circumstances, have been admitted. Fortu- 
 nately, the minister possessed, in the person of his 
 accomplished wife, one who had both the leisure 
 and the talent to profit by these uncommon oppor- 
 tunities, and the result is given in the work before 
 us, consisting of letters to her family, which, it
 
 356 CRITICAL MISCELLANIES 
 
 seems, since her return to the United States, have 
 been gathered together and prepared for pub- 
 Hcation.* 
 
 The present volumes make no pretensions to 
 enlarge the boundaries of our knowledge in re- 
 spect to the mineral products of the country, its 
 geography, its statistics, or, in short, to physical or 
 political science. These topics have been treated 
 with more or less depth by the various travellers 
 who have written since the great publications of 
 Humboldt. We have had occasion to become 
 tolerably well acquainted with their productions; 
 and we may safely assert that for spirited por- 
 traiture of society, — a society unlike any thing 
 existing in the Old World or the New, — for pictu- 
 resque delineation of scenery, for richness of illus- 
 tration and anecdote, and for the fascinating 
 graces of style, no one of them is to be compared 
 with " Life in Mexico." 
 
 * The analysis of the work, with several pages of extracts from it, 
 is here omitted, as containing nothing that is not already familiar to 
 the English reader. 
 
 End of Volume I.
 
 3 
 
 ^ 
 
 t— t 
 
 ^ 
 
 1— 1 
 
 C/2 
 
 o g 
 
 3 
 
 
 n 
 
 ?d O 
 
 ^ -^ 
 
 X 
 
 
 H ^ ? 
 
 o 
 
 r ~ 
 
 
 > 
 
 PHIC 
 
 FD 
 
 ICAL 
 
 X 2 
 
 .X ^ 
 
 
 
 w 
 
 > 
 
 5 
 
 
 CO 
 
 r 

 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 001354 443 2