* f 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 COLLECTED ESSAYS 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 Collected Essays 
 
 BY 
 
 AUGUSTINE BIRRELL, 
 
 Honorary Fellow of Trinity Hall, Ca?nbridge. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 
 
 1899.
 
 7K 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OBITER DICTA— FIRST SERIES (1884) 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CARLYLE ------ I 
 
 ON THE ALLEGED OBSCURITY OF MR. BROWNING's 
 
 POETRY - - - - - 29 
 
 TRUTH-HUNTING - - - - '5^ 
 
 ACTORS - - - - - - 67 
 
 A rogue's memoirs - - - - 83 
 
 THE VIA MEDIA - - - - - 96 
 
 FALSTAFF .... - 108 
 
 SECOND SERIES (1887) 
 
 JOHN MILTON ----- 126 
 
 POPE ------ 161 
 
 DR. JOHNSON ----- 200 
 
 EDMUND BURKE ----- 228 
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY - - - - 260 
 
 CHARLES LAMB ----- 279 
 
 EMERSON ----- 289 
 
 THE OFFICE OF LITERATURE - - - 302 
 
 WORN-OUT TYPES . . . - 308 
 
 CAMBRIDGE AND THE POETS - - - 315 
 
 BOOK-BUYING ----- 321 
 
 _fl.A.^ f'Ct^ # <c.> ^ *-^_
 
 OBITER DICTA
 
 CARLYLE. 
 
 THE accomplishments of our race have of late be- 
 come so varied, that it is often no easy task to 
 assign him whom we would judge to his proper station 
 among men ; and yet, until this has been done, the guns 
 of our criticism cannot be accurately levelled, and as a 
 consequence the greater part of our fire must remain 
 futile. He, for example, who would essay to take 
 .account of Mr. Gladstone, must read much else besides 
 Hansard ; he must brush up his Homer, and set him- 
 self to acquire some theology. The place of Greece 
 in the providential order of the world, and of laymen 
 in the Church of England, must be considered, together 
 with a host of other subjects of much apparent irrele- 
 vance to a statesman's life. So too in the case of his 
 distinguished rival, whose death eclipsed the gaiety of 
 politics and banished epigram from Parliament : keen 
 must be the critical faculty which can nicely discern 
 where the novelist ended and the statesman began in 
 Benjamin Disraeli. 
 
 Happily, no such difficulty is now before us. 
 Thomas Carlyle was a writer of books, and he was 
 
 I
 
 2 CARLYLE 
 
 nothing else. Beneath this judgment he would have 
 winced, but have remained silent, for the facts are so. 
 
 Little men sometimes, though not perhaps so often 
 as is taken for granted, complain of their destiny, and 
 think they have been hardly treated, in that they have 
 been allowed to remain so undeniably small ; but 
 great men, with hardly an exception, nauseate their 
 greatness, for not being of the particular sort they 
 most fancy. The poet Gray was passionately fond, so 
 his biographers tell us, of military history ; but he 
 took no Quebec. General Wolfe took Quebec, and 
 whilst he was taking it, recorded the fact that he 
 would sooner have written Gray's ' Elegy ' ; and so 
 Carlyle — who panted for action, who hated eloquence, 
 whose heroes were Cromwell and Wellington, Ark- 
 wright and the ' rugged Brindley,' who beheld with 
 pride and no ignoble envy the bridge at Auldgarth his 
 mason-father had helped to build half a century before, 
 and then exclaimed, ' A noble craft, that of a mason ; 
 a good building will last longer than most books — 
 than one book in a million ' ; who despised men of 
 letters, and abhorred the ' reading public ' ; whose 
 gospel was Silence and Action — spent his life in talk- 
 ing and writing ; and his legacy to the world is thirty- 
 four volumes octavo. 
 
 There is a familiar melancholy in this ; but the 
 critic has no need to grow sentimental. We must 
 have men of thought as well as men of action : poets 
 as much as generals ; authors no less than artizans ; 
 libraries at least as much as militia ; and therefore we 
 may accept and proceed critically to examine Carlyle's 
 thirty-four volumes, remaining somewhat indifferent
 
 CARLYLE 3 
 
 to the fact that had he had the fashioning of his own 
 destiny, we should have had at his hands blows instead 
 of books. 
 
 Taking him, then, as he was — a man of letters — 
 perhaps the best type of such since Dr. Johnson died 
 in Fleet Street, what are we to say of his thirty-four 
 volumes ? 
 
 In them are to be found criticism, biography, history, 
 politics, poetry, and religion. I mention this variety 
 because of a foolish notion, at one time often found 
 suitably lodged in heads otherwise empty, that Carlyle 
 was a passionate old man, dominated by two or three 
 extravagant ideas, to which he was for ever giving 
 utterance in language of equal extravagance. The 
 thirty-four volumes octavo render this opinion un- 
 tenable by those who can read. Carlyle cannot be 
 killed by an epigram, nor can the many influences 
 that moulded him be referred to any single source. 
 The rich banquet his genius has spread for us is of 
 many courses. The fare and fury of the Latter-Day 
 pamphlets may be disregarded by the peaceful soul, 
 and the preference given to the ' Past ' of ' Past and 
 Present,' which, with its intense and sympathetic 
 mediaevalism, might have been written by a Tractarian. 
 The ' Life of Sterling ' is the favourite book of many 
 who would sooner pick oakum than read ' Frederick 
 the Great ' all through ; whilst the mere student of 
 belles lettres may attach importance to the essays on 
 Johnson, Burns, and Scott, on Voltaire and Diderot, 
 on Goethe and Novalis, and yet remain blankly in- 
 different to ' Sartor Resartus ' and the ' French Revolu- 
 tion.'
 
 4 CARLYLE 
 
 But true as this is, it is none the less true that, 
 excepting possibly the ' Life of Schiller,' Carlyle wrote 
 nothing not clearly recognisable as his. All his books 
 are his very own — bone of his bone, and flesh of his 
 flesh. They are not stolen goods, nor elegant exhibi- 
 tions of recently and hastily acquired wares. 
 
 This being so, it may be as well if, before proceed- 
 ing any further, I attempt, with a scrupulous regard 
 to brevity, to state what I take to be the invariable 
 indications of Mr. Carlyle's literary handiwork — the 
 tokens of his presence — ' Thomas Carlyle, his mark.' 
 
 First of all, it may be stated, without a shadow of a 
 doubt, that he is one of those who would sooner be 
 wrong with Plato than right with Aristotle ; in one 
 word, he is a mystic. What he says of Novalis may 
 with equal truth be said of himself : ' He belongs to 
 that class of persons who do not recognise the syllo- 
 gistic method as the chief organ for investigating 
 truth, or feel themselves bound at all times to stop 
 short where its light fails them. Many of his opinions 
 he would despair of proving in the most patient court 
 of law, and would remain well content that they should 
 be disbelieved there.' In philosophy we shall not be 
 very far wrong if we rank Carlyle as an idealist. 
 ' Matter,' says he, ' exists only spiritually, and to re- 
 present some idea, and body it forth. Heaven and 
 Earth are but the time-vesture of the Eternal. The 
 Universe is but one vast symbol of God ; nay, if thou 
 wilt have it, what is man himself but a symbol of 
 God ? Is not all that he does symboHcal, a revelation 
 to sense of the mystic God-given force that is in him ? 
 — a gospel of Freedom, which he, the " Messias of
 
 CARLYLE 5 
 
 Nature," preaches as he can by act and word.' ' Yes, 
 Friends,' he elsewhere observes, ' not our logical 
 mensurative faculty, but our imaginative one, is King 
 over us, I might say Priest and Prophet, to lead us 
 heavenward, or magician and wizard to lead us hell- 
 ward. The understanding is indeed thy window — too 
 clear thou canst not make it ; but phantasy is thy eye, 
 with its colour-giving retina, healthy or diseased.' It 
 would be easy to multiply instances of this, the most 
 obvious and interesting trait of Mr. Carlyle's writing ; 
 but I must bring my remarks upon it to a close by 
 reminding you of his two favourite quotations, which 
 have both significance. One from Shakespeare's 
 Tempest : 
 
 ' We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep ;' 
 
 the other, the exclamation of the Earth-spirit, in 
 
 Goethe's Faust : 
 
 • 'Tis thus at the roaring loom of Time I ply, 
 And weave for God the garment thou seest Him by.' 
 
 But this is but one side of Carlyle. There is another 
 as strongly marked, which is his second note ; and 
 that is what he somewhere calls ' his stubborn realism.' 
 The combination of the two is as charming as it is 
 rare. No one at all acquainted with his writings can 
 fail to remember his almost excessive love of detail ; 
 his lively taste for facts, simply as facts. Imaginary 
 joys and sorrows may extort from him nothing but 
 grunts and snorts ; but let him only worry out for 
 himself, from that great dust-heap called ' history,' 
 some undoubted fact of human and tender interest.
 
 6 CARLYLE 
 
 and, however small it may be, relating possibly to 
 some one hardly known, and playing but a small part 
 in the events he is recording, and he will wax amaz- 
 ingly sentimental, and perhaps shed as many real tears 
 as Sterne or Dickens do sham ones over their fig- 
 ments. This realism of Carlyle's gives a great charm 
 to his histories and biographies. The amount he tells 
 you is something astonishing — no platitudes, no rigma- 
 role, no common-form, articles which are the staple of 
 most biography, but, instead of them, all the facts and 
 features of the case — pedigree, birth, father and mother, 
 brothers and sisters, education, physiognomy, personal 
 habits, dress, mode of speech ; nothing escapes him. 
 It was a characteristic criticism of his, on one of Miss 
 Martineau's American books, that the story of the 
 way Daniel Webster used to stand before the fire 
 with his hands in his pockets was worth all the 
 politics, philosophy, political economy, and sociology 
 to be found in other portions of the good lady's 
 writings. Carlyle's eye was indeed a terrible organ ; 
 he saw everything. Emerson, writing to him, says : 
 ' I think you see as pictures every street, church, 
 Parliament - house, barracks, baker's shop, mutton- 
 stall, forge, wharf, and ship, and whatever stands, 
 creeps, rolls, or swims thereabout, and make all your 
 own.' He crosses over, one rough day, to Dublin ; 
 and he jots down in his diary the personal appearance 
 of some unhappy creatures he never saw before or 
 expected to see again ; how men laughed, cried, swore, 
 were all of huge interest to Carlyle. Give him a fact, 
 he loaded you with thanks ; propound a theory, you 
 were rewarded with the most vivid abuse.
 
 CARLYLE 7 
 
 This intense love for, and faculty of perceiving, 
 what one may call the ' concrete picturesque,' accounts 
 for his many hard sayings about fiction and poetry. 
 He could not understand people being at the trouble 
 of inventing characters and situations when history 
 was full of men and women ; when streets were 
 crowded, and continents were being peopled under 
 their very noses. Emerson's sphinx-like utterances 
 irritated him at times, as they well might ; his orations 
 and the hke. ' I long,' he says, ' to see some concrete 
 thing, some Event — Man's Life, American Forest, or 
 piece of Creation which this Emerson loves and 
 wonders at, well Emersonized, depicted by Emerson — 
 filled with the life of Emerson, and cast forth from 
 him then to five by itself.'* But Carlyle forgot the 
 sluggishness of the ordinary imagination, and, for the 
 moment, the stupendous dulness of the ordinary his- 
 torian. It cannot be matter for surprise that people 
 prefer Smollett's ' Humphrey Clinker ' to his ' History 
 of England.' 
 
 The third and last mark to which I call attention is 
 his humour. Nowhere, surely, in the whole field of 
 
 * One need scarcely add, nothing of the sort ever proceeded 
 from Emerson. How should it ? Where was it to come from ? 
 When, to employ language of Mr. Arnold's own, ' any poor child 
 of nature ' overhears the author of ' Essays in Criticism ' telling 
 two worlds that Emerson's ' Essays ' are the most valuable prose 
 contributions to the literature of the century, his soul is indeed 
 filled ' with an unutterable sense of lamentation and mourning 
 and woe.' Mr. Arnold's silence was once felt to be provoking. 
 Wordsworth's lines kept occurring to one's mind — 
 
 ' Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
 Is silent as a standing pool.' 
 
 But it was better so. [I leave this note as I wrote it, but it is 
 melancholy reading now, 1899.]
 
 8 CARLYLE 
 
 English literature, Shakespeare excepted, do you come 
 upon a more abundant vein of humour than Carlyle's, 
 though I admit that the quality of the ore is not of 
 the finest. His every production is bathed in humour. 
 This must never be, though it often has been, forgotten. 
 He is not to be taken literally. He is always a 
 humourist, not unfrequently a writer of burlesque, 
 and occasionally a buffoon. 
 
 Although the spectacle of Mr. Swinburne taking 
 Mr. Carlyle to task, as he recently did, for indeli- 
 cacy, has an oddity all its own, so far as I am con- 
 cerned I cannot but concur with this critic in thinking 
 that Carlyle has laid himself open, particularly in his 
 ' Frederick the Great,' to the charge one usually asso- 
 ciates with the great and terrible name of Dean Swift ; 
 but it is the Dean with a difference, and the difference 
 is all in Carlyle's favour. The former deliberately 
 pelts you with dirt, as did in old days gentlemen 
 electors their parliamentary candidates ; the latter 
 only occasionally splashes you, as does a public 
 vehicle pursuing on a wet day its uproarious course. 
 
 These, then, I take to be Carlyle's three principal 
 marks or notes : mysticism in thought, realism in 
 description, and humour in both. 
 
 To proceed now to his actual literary work. 
 
 First, then, I would record the fact that he was a 
 great critic, and this at a time when our literary 
 criticism was a scandal. He more than any other 
 has purged our vision and widened our horizons in 
 this great matter. He taught us there was no sort of 
 finality, but only nonsense, in that kind of criticism 
 which was content with laying down some foreign
 
 CARLYLE 9 
 
 masterpiece with the observation that it was not 
 suited for the EngHsh taste. He was, if not the first, 
 almost the first critic, who pursued in his criticism 
 the historical method, and sought to make us under- 
 stand what we were required to judge. It has been 
 said that Carlyle's criticisms are not final, and that 
 he has not said the last word about Voltaire, Diderot, 
 Richter, and Goethe. I can well believe it. But re- 
 serving ' last words ' for the use of the last man (to 
 whom they would appear to belong), it is surely 
 something to have said the Jirsf sensible words uttered 
 in EngHsh on these important subjects. We ought 
 not to forget the early days of the Foreign and Quarterly 
 Review. We have critics now, quieter, more reposeful 
 souls, taking their ease on Zion, who have entered 
 upon a world ready to welcome them, whose keen 
 rapiers may cut velvet better than did the two-handed 
 broadsword of Carlyle, and whose later date may 
 enable them to discern what their forerunner failed 
 to perceive ; but when the critics of this century come 
 to be criticized by the critics of the next, an honour- 
 able, if not the highest place will be awarded to 
 Carlyle. 
 
 Turn we now to the historian and biographer. 
 History and biography much resemble one another 
 in the pages of Carlyle, and occupy more than half 
 his thirty-four volumes ; nor is this to be wondered 
 at, since they afford him fullest scope for his three 
 strong points — his love of the wonderful ; his love of 
 telling a story, as the children say, ' from the very 
 beginning ;' and his humour. His view of history is 
 sufficiently lofty. History, says he, is the true epic
 
 10 CARLYLE 
 
 poem, a universal divine scripture whose plenary 
 inspiration no one out of Bedlam shall bring into 
 question. Nor is he quite at one with the ordinary 
 historian as to the true historical method. ' The time 
 seems coming when he who sees no world but that of 
 courts and camps, and writes only how soldiers were 
 drilled and shot, and how this ministerial conjurer 
 out-conjured that other, and then guided, or at least 
 held, something which he called the rudder of 
 Government, but which was rather the spigot of 
 Taxation, wherewith in place of steering he could 
 tax, will pass for a more or less instructive Gazetteer, 
 but will no longer be called an Historian.' 
 
 Nor does the philosophical method of writing 
 history please him any better : 
 
 ' Truly if History is Philosophy teaching by ex- 
 amples, the writer fitted to compose history is hitherto 
 an unknown man. Better w^ere it that mere earthly 
 historians should lower such pretensions, more suit- 
 able for omniscience than for human science, and 
 aiming only at some picture of the things acted, which 
 picture itself will be a poor approximation, leave the 
 inscrutable purport of them an acknowledged secret — 
 or at most, in reverent faith, pause over the mysterious 
 vestiges of Him whose path is in the great deep of 
 Time, whom History indeed reveals, but only all 
 History and in Eternity will clearly reveal.' 
 
 This same transcendental way of looking at things 
 is very noticeable in the following view of Biography : 
 ' For, as the highest gospel was a Biography, so is 
 the life of every good man still an indubitable gospel, 
 and preaches to the eye and heart and whole man.
 
 CARLYLE II 
 
 so that devils even must believe and tremble, these 
 gladdest tidings. Man is heaven-born — not the thrall 
 of circumstances, of necessity, but the victorious 
 subduer thereof.' These, then, being his views, what 
 are we to say of his works ? His three principal 
 historical works are, as everyone knows, ' Cromwell,' 
 ' The French Revolution,' and ' Frederick the Great,' 
 though there is a very considerable amount of other 
 historical writing scattered up and down his works. 
 But what are we to say of these three ? Is he, by 
 virtue of them, entitled to the rank and influence of a 
 great historian ? What have we a right to demand 
 of an historian ? First, surely, stern veracity, which 
 implies not merely knowledge but honesty. An 
 historian stands in a fiduciary position towards his 
 readers, and if he withholds from them important 
 facts likely to influence their judgment, he is guilty 
 of fraud, and, when justice is done in this world, will 
 be condemned to refund all moneys he has made by his 
 false professions, with compound interest. This sort 
 of fraud is unknown to the law, but to nobody else. 
 ' Let me know the facts !' may well be the agonized 
 cry of the student who finds himself floating down 
 what Arnold has called ' the vast Mississippi of false- 
 hood. History.' Secondly comes a catholic temper 
 and way of looking at things. The historian should 
 be a gentleman and possess a moral breadth of 
 temperament. There should be no bitter protesting 
 spirit about him. He should remember the world he 
 has taken upon himself to write about is a large place, 
 and that nobody set him up over us. Thirdly, he 
 must be a born story-teller. If he is not this, he
 
 12 CARLYLE 
 
 has mistaken his vocation. He may be a great 
 philosopher, a useful editor, a profound scholar, and 
 anything else his friends like to call him, except a 
 great historian. How does Carlyle meet these re- 
 quirements ? His veracity, that is, his laborious 
 accuracy, is admitted by the only persons competent 
 to form an opinion, namely, independent investigators 
 who have followed in his track ; but what may be 
 called the internal evidence of the case also supplies 
 a strong proof of it. Carlyle was, as everyone knows, 
 a hero-worshipper. It is part of his mysticism. With 
 him man, as well as God, is a spirit, either of good or 
 evil, and as such should be either worshipped or 
 reviled. He is never himself till he has discovered 
 or invented a hero ; and, when he has got him, he 
 tosses and dandles him as a mother her babe. This 
 is a terrible temptation to put in the way of an 
 historian, and few there be who are found able to 
 resist it. How easy to keep back an ugly fact, sure 
 to be a stumbling-block in the way of weak brethren ! 
 Carlyle is above suspicion in this respect. He knows 
 no reticence. Nothing restrains him ; not even the 
 so-called proprieties of history. He may, after his 
 boisterous fashion, pour scorn upon you for looking 
 grave, as you read in his vivid pages of the reckless 
 manner in which too many of his heroes drove 
 coaches-and-six through the Ten Commandments. 
 As likely as not he will call you a blockhead, and 
 tell you to close your wide mouth and cease shrieking. 
 But, dear me ! hard words break no bones, and it is 
 an amazing comfort to know the facts. Is he 
 writing of Cromwell ? — down goes everything — letters.
 
 CARLYLE 13 
 
 speeches, as they were written, as they were de- 
 livered. Few great men are edited after this fashion. 
 Were they to be so — Luther, for example — many 
 eyes would be opened very wide. Nor does Carlyle 
 fail in comment. If the Protector makes a somewhat 
 distant allusion to the Barbadoes, Carlyle is at your 
 elbow to tell you it means his selling people to work 
 as slaves in the West Indies. As for Mirabeau, ' our 
 wild Gabriel Honore,' well ! we are told all about 
 him ; nor is Frederick let off a single absurdity or 
 atrocity. But when we have admitted the veracity, 
 what are we to say of the catholic temper, the breadth 
 of temperament, the wide Shakespearian tolerance ? 
 Carlyle ought to have them all. By nature he was 
 tolerant enough ; so true a humourist could never be 
 a bigot. When his war-paint is not on, a child might 
 lead him. His judgments are gracious, chivalrous, 
 tinged with a kindly melancholy and divine pity. 
 But this mood is never for long. Some gadfly stings 
 him ; he seizes his tomahawk and is off on the trail. 
 It must sorrowfully be admitted that a long life of 
 opposition and indigestion, of fierce warfare with 
 cooks and Philistines, spoilt his temper, never of the 
 best, and made him too often contemptuous, savage, 
 unjust. His language then becomes unreasonable, 
 unbearable, bad. Literature takes care of herself. 
 You disobey her rules : well and good, she shuts her 
 door in your face : you plead your genius : she replies, 
 ' Your temper,' and bolts it. Carlyle has deliberately 
 destroyed, by his own wilfulness, the value of a great 
 deal he has written. It can never become classical. 
 Alas ! that this should be true of too many eminent
 
 14 CARLYLE 
 
 Englishmen of our time. Language such as was, 
 at one time, almost habitual with Mr, Ruskin, is a 
 national humiliation, giving point to the Frenchman's 
 sneer as to our distinguishing literary characteristic 
 being ' la brutalite.' In Carlyle's case much must be 
 allowed for his rhetoric and humour. In slang phrase, 
 he always ' piles it on.' Does a bookseller misdirect 
 a parcel, he exclaims, ' My malison on all Block- 
 headisms and Torpid Infidelities of which this world 
 is full.' Still, all allowances made, it is a thousand 
 pities ; and one's thoughts turn away from this stormy 
 old man and take refuge in the quiet haven of the 
 Oratory at Birmingham, with his great Protagonist , who, 
 throughout an equally long life spent in painful con- 
 troversy, and wielding weapons as terrible as Carlyle's 
 own, has rarely forgotten to be urbane, and whose 
 every sentence is a ' thing of beauty.' It must, then, 
 be owned that too many of Carlyle's literary achieve- 
 ments ' lack a gracious somewhat.' By force of his 
 genius he ' smites the rock and spreads the water ;' 
 but then, like Moses, ' he desecrates, belike, the deed 
 in doing.' 
 
 Our third requirement was, it may be remembered, 
 the gift of the story-teller. Here one is on firm 
 ground. Where is the equal of the man who has told 
 us the story of * The Diamond Necklace ' ? 
 
 It is the vogue, nowadays, to sneer at picturesque 
 writing. Professor Seeley, for reasons of his own, 
 appears to think that whilst politics, and, I presume, 
 religion, may be made as interesting as you please, 
 history should be as dull as possible. This, surely, is 
 a jaundiced view. If there is one thing it is legitimate
 
 CARLYLE 15 
 
 to make more interesting than another, it is the varied 
 record of man's life upon earth. So long as we have 
 human hearts and await human destinies, so long as 
 we are alive to the pathos, the dignity, the comedy of 
 human life, so long shall we continue to rank above 
 the philosopher, higher than the politician, the great 
 artist, be he called dramatist or historian, who makes 
 us conscious of the divine movement of events, and of 
 our fathers who were before us. Of course we assume 
 accuracy and labour in our animated historian; though, 
 for that matter, other things being equal, I prefer a 
 lively liar to a dull one. 
 
 Carlyle is sometimes as irresistible as ' The Camp- 
 bells are coming,' or ' Auld Lang Syne.' He has de- 
 scribed some men and some events once and for all, 
 and so takes his place with Thucydides, Tacitus and 
 Gibbon. Pedants may try hard to forget this, and 
 may in their laboured nothings seek to ignore the 
 author of ' Cromwell ' and the ' French Revolution ' ; 
 but as well might the pedestrian in Cumberland or 
 Inverness seek to ignore Helvellyn or Ben Nevis. 
 Carlyle is there, and will remain there, when the 
 pedant of to-day has been superseded by the pedant of 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Remembering all this, we are apt to forget his 
 faults, his eccentricities, and vagaries, his buffooneries, 
 his too-outrageous cynicisms and his too-intrusive 
 egotisms, and to ask ourselves — if it be not this man, 
 who is it then to be ? Macaulay, answer some ; and 
 Macaulay's claims are not of the sort to go unrecog- 
 nised in a world which loves clearness of expression 
 and of view only too well. Macaulay's position never
 
 i6 CARLYLE 
 
 admitted of doubt. We know what to expect, and we 
 always get it. It is like the old days of W. G. Grace's 
 cricket. We went to see the leviathan slog for six, 
 and we saw it. We expected him to do it, and he 
 did it. So with Macaulay — the good Whig, as he 
 takes up the History, settles himself down in his chair, 
 and knows it is going to be a bad time for the Tories. 
 Macaulay's style — his much-praised style — is in- 
 effectual for the purpose of telling the truth about 
 anything. It is splendid, but splendide mendax, and in 
 Macaulay's case the style was the man. He had 
 enormous knowledge, and a noble spirit ; his know- 
 ledge enriched his style and his spirit consecrated it to 
 the service of Liberty. We do well to be proud of 
 Macaulay ; but we must add that, great as was his 
 knowledge, great also was his ignorance, which was 
 none the less ignorance because it was wilful ; noble 
 \ as was his spirit, the range of subject over which it 
 energized was painfully restricted. He looked out 
 upon the world, but, behold, only the Whigs were 
 
 -. good. Luther and Loyola, Cromwell and Claver- 
 
 ^ . .f house, Carlyle and Newman — they moved him not ; 
 
 ^^.A their enthusiasms were delusions, and their politics 
 
 ■ ^lA _'^' demonstrable errors. Whereas, of Lord Somers and 
 ^ Charles first Earl Grey it is impossible to speak with- 
 
 out emotion. But the world does not belong to the 
 Whigs ; and a great historian must be capable of 
 sympathizing both with delusions and demonstrable 
 errors. Mr. Gladstone has commented with force 
 upon what he calls Macaulay's invincible ignorance, 
 and further says that to certain aspects of a case (par- 
 ticularly those aspects most pleasing to Mr. Glad- 

 
 CARLYLE 17 
 
 stone) Macaulay's mind was hermetically sealed. 
 It is difficult to resist these conclusions ; and it would 
 appear no rash inference from them, that a man in a 
 state of invincible ignorance and with a mind her- 
 metically sealed, whatever else he may be — orator, 
 advocate, statesman, journalist, man of letters — can 
 never be a great historian. But, indeed, when one 
 remembers Macaulay's limited range of ideas : the 
 commonplaceness of his morality, and of his descrip- 
 tions ; his absence of humour, and of pathos — for 
 though Miss Martineau says she found one pathetic 
 passage in the History, I have often searched for it in 
 vain ; and then turns to Carlyle — to his almost be- 
 wildering affluence of thought, fancy, feeling, humour, 
 pathos — his biting pen, his scorching criticism, his 
 world-wide sympathy (save in certain moods) with 
 everything but the smug commonplace — to prefer 
 Macaulay to him, is like giving the preference to 
 Birket Foster over Salvator Rosa. But if it is not 
 Macaulay, who is it to be ? Mr. Hepworth Dixon or 
 Mr. Froude ? Of Bishop Stubbs and Professor Free- 
 man it behoves every ignoramus to speak with respect. 
 Horny-handed sons of toil, they are worthy of their 
 wage. Carlyle has somewhere struck a distinction 
 between the historical artist and the historical artizan. 
 The bishop and the professor are historical artizans ; 
 artists they are not — and the great historian is a great 
 artist. 
 
 England boasts two such artists. Edward Gibbon 
 and Thomas Carlyle. The elder historian may be 
 compared to one of the great Alpine roadways — sub- 
 lime in its conception, heroic in its execution, superb 
 
 2
 
 1 8 CARLYLE 
 
 in its magnificent uniformity of good workmanship. 
 The younger resembles one of his native streams, pent 
 in at times between huge rocks, and tormented into 
 foam, and then efTecting its escape down some preci- 
 pice, and spreading into cool expanses below ; but 
 however varied may be its fortunes — however startling 
 its changes — always in motion, always in harmony 
 with the scene around. Is it gloomy ? It is with the 
 gloom of the thunder-cloud. Is it bright ? It is with 
 the radiance of the sun. 
 
 It is with some consternation that I approach the 
 subject of Carlyle's politics. One handles them as 
 does an inspector of police a parcel reported to contain 
 dynamite. The Latter Day Pamphlets might not 
 unfitly be labelled.' Dangerous Explosives.' 
 
 In this matter of politics there were two Carlyles ; 
 and, as generally happens in such cases, his last state 
 was worse than his first. Up to 1843, he not unfairly 
 might be called a Liberal — of uncertain vote it may be 
 — a man difficult to work with, and impatient of disci- 
 pline, but still aglow with generous heat ; full of large- 
 hearted sympathy with the poor and oppressed, and of 
 intense hatred of the cruel and shallow sophistries 
 that then passed for maxims, almost for axioms, of 
 government. In the year i8ig, when the yeomanry 
 round Glasgow was called out to keep down some 
 dreadful monsters called ' Radicals,' Carlyle describes 
 how he met an advocate of his acquaintance hurrying 
 along, musket in hand, to his drill on the links. ' You 
 should have the like of this,' said he, cheerily patting 
 his gun. * Yes,' was the reply, ' but I haven't yet 
 quite settled on which side.' And when he did make
 
 CARLYLE 19 
 
 his choice, on the whole he chose rightly. The author 
 of that noble pamphlet ' Chartism,' published in 1840, 
 was at least once a Liberal. Let me quote a passage 
 that has stirred to effort many a generous heart now 
 cold in death ; ' Who would suppose that Education 
 ' were a thing which had to be advocated on the 
 ' ground of local expediency, or indeed on any ground ? 
 ' As if it stood not on the basis of an everlasting duty, 
 ' as a prime necessity of man ! It is a thing that 
 ' should need no advocating ; much as it does actually 
 ' need. To impart the gift of thinking to those who 
 ' cannot think, and yet who could in that case think ; 
 ' this, one would imagine, was the first function a 
 ' government had to set about discharging. Were it 
 ' not a cruel thing to see, in any province of an 
 ' empire, the inhabitants living all mutilated in their 
 ' limbs, each strong man with his right arm lamed ? 
 ' How much crueller to find the strong soul with its 
 ' eyes still sealed — its eyes extinct, so that it sees not ! 
 ' Light has come into the world ; but to this poor 
 ' peasant it has come in vain. For six thousand years 
 ' the sons of Adam, in sleepless effort, have been de- 
 ' vising, doing, discovering ; in mysterious, infinite, 
 ' indissoluble communion, warring, a little band of 
 ' brothers, against the black empire of necessity and 
 ' night ; they have accomplished such a conquest and 
 ' conquests ; and to this man it is all as if it had not 
 ' been. The four-and-twenty letters of the alphabet 
 ' are still runic enigmas to him. He passes by on the 
 ' other side ; and that great spiritual kingdom, the 
 ' toil- won conquest of his own brothers, all that his 
 ' brothers have conquered, is a thing not extant for 
 
 2 — 2
 
 20 CARLYLE 
 
 ' him. An invisible empire ; he knows it not — sus- 
 ' pects it not. And is not this his withal ; the conquest 
 ' of his own brothers, the lawfully acquired possession 
 ' of all men ? Baleful enchantment lies over him, 
 ' from generation to generation ; he knows not that 
 ' such an empire is his — that such an empire is his at 
 ' all . . . Heavier wrong is not done under the sun. 
 ' It lasts from year to year, from century to century ; 
 ' the blinded sire slaves himself out, and leaves a 
 ' blinded son ; and men, made in the image of God, 
 ' continue as two-legged beasts of labour : and in the 
 ' largest empire of the world it is a debate whether a 
 * small fraction of the revenue of one day shall, after 
 ' thirteen centuries, be laid out on it, or not laid out 
 ' on it. Have we governors ? Have we teachers ? 
 ' Have we had a Church these thirteen hundred 
 ' years ? What is an overseer of souls, an archover- 
 ' seer, archiepiscopus ? Is he something? If so, let 
 ' him lay his hand on his heart and say what thing !' 
 
 Nor was the man who in 1843 wrote as follows 
 altogether at sea in politics : 
 
 ' Of Time Bill, Factory Bill, and other such Bills, 
 ' the present editor has no authority to speak. He 
 ' knows not, it is for others than he to know, in what 
 ' specific ways it may be feasible to interfere with 
 ' legislation between the workers and the master- 
 ' workers — knows only and sees that legislative inter- 
 ' ference, and interferences not a few, are indispensable, 
 ' Nay, interference has begun ; there are already 
 ' factory inspectors. Perhaps there might be mine 
 ' inspectors too. Might there not be furrow-field 
 ' inspectors withal, to ascertain how, on 75. 6d. a
 
 CARLYLE 2 1 
 
 * week, a human family does live ? Again, are not 
 ' sanitary regulations possible for a legislature ? Baths, 
 ' free air, a wholesome temperature, ceiUngs twenty 
 ' feet high, might be ordained by Act of Parliament in 
 ' all establishments licensed as mills. There are such 
 ' mills already extant — honour to the builders of them. 
 ' The legislature can say to others, " Go you and do 
 ' " likewise — better if you can." ' 
 
 By no means a bad programme for 1843 ; and a 
 good part of it has been carried out, but with next to 
 no aid from Carlyle. 
 
 The Radical party has struggled on as best it might, 
 without the author of ' Chartism ' and ' The French 
 Revolution ' — 
 
 ' They have marched prospering, not through his presence ;' 
 
 and it is no party spirit that leads one to regret the 
 change of mind which prevented the later public life 
 of this great man, and now the memory of it, from 
 being enriched with something better than a five- 
 pound note for Governor Eyre. 
 
 But it could not be helped. What brought about 
 the rupture was his losing faith in the ultimate destiny 
 of man upon earth. No more terrible loss can be 
 sustained. It is of both heart and hope. He fell 
 back upon heated visions of heaven-sent heroes, 
 devoting their early days for the most part to hood- 
 winking the people, and their latter ones, more heroic- 
 ally, to shooting them. 
 
 But it is foolish to quarrel with results, and we may 
 learn something even from the later Carlyle. We lay 
 down John Bright's Reform Speeches, and take up
 
 22 CARLYLE 
 
 Carlyle and light upon a passage like this : * Inex- 
 pressibly delirious seems to me the puddle of Parlia- 
 ment and public upon what it calls the Reform 
 Measure, that is to say, the calling in of new supplies 
 of blockheadism, gullibility, bribability, amenability 
 to beer and balderdash, by Avay of amending the woes 
 we have had from previous supplies of that bad 
 article.' This view must be accounted for as well as 
 Mr. Bright's. We shall do well to remember, with 
 Carlyle, that the best of all Reform Bills is that which 
 each citizen passes in his own breast, where it is 
 pretty sure to meet with strenuous opposition. The 
 reform of ourselves is no doubt an heroic measure 
 never to be overlooked, and, in the face of accusations 
 of gullibility, bribability, amenability to beer and 
 balderdash, our poor humanity can only stand abashed, 
 and feebly demur to the bad English in which the 
 charges are conveyed. But we can't all lose hope. 
 We remember Sir David Ramsay's reply to Lord 
 Rea, once quoted by Carlyle himself. Then said his 
 lordship : ' Well, God mend all,' ' Nay, by God, 
 Donald, we must help Him to mend it !' It is idle to 
 stand gaping at the heavens, waiting to feel the thong 
 of some hero of questionable morals and robust con- 
 science ; and therefore, unless Reform Bills can be 
 shown to have checked purity of election, to have 
 increased the stupidity of electors, and generally to 
 have promoted corruption — which notoriously they 
 have not — we may allow Carlyle to make his exit 
 ' swearing,' and regard their presence in the Statute 
 Book, if not with rapture, at least with equanimity. 
 But it must not be forgotten that the battle is still
 
 CARLYLE 23 
 
 raging — the issue is still uncertain. Mr. Froude is 
 still free to assert that the ' post-movtem' will prove 
 Carlyle was right. His political sagacity no reader 
 of ' Frederick ' can deny ; his insight into hidden 
 causes and far-away effects was keen beyond prece- 
 dent — nothing he ever said deserves contempt, though 
 it may merit anger. If we would escape his conclu- 
 sion, we must not altogether disregard his premises. 
 Bankruptcy and death are the final heirs of imposture 
 and make-believes. The old faiths and forms are 
 worn too threadbare by a thousand disputations to 
 bear the burden of the new democracy, which, if it is 
 not merely to win the battle but to hold the country, 
 must be ready with new faiths and forms of her own. 
 They are within her reach if she but knew it ; they lie 
 to her hand : surely they will not escape her grasp ! 
 If they do not, then, in the glad day when worship is 
 once more restored to man, he will with becoming 
 generosity forget much that Carlyle has written, and 
 remembering more, rank him amongst the prophets of 
 humanity. 
 
 Carlyle's poetry can only be exhibited in long ex- 
 tracts, which would be here out of place, and might 
 excite controversy as to the meaning of words, and 
 draw down upon me the measureless malice of the 
 metricists. There are, however, passages in ' Sartor 
 Resartus ' and the ' French Revolution ' which have 
 long appeared to me to be the sublimest poetry of the 
 century ; and it was therefore with great pleasure that 
 I found Mr. Justice Stephen, in his book on ' Liberty, 
 Equality, and Fraternity,' introducing a quotation 
 from the 8th chapter of the 3rd book of ' Sartor
 
 24 CARLYLE 
 
 Resartus,' with the remark that ' it is perhaps the 
 most memorable utterance of the greatest poet of the 
 age.' 
 
 As for Carlyle's reHgion, it may be said he had 
 none, inasmuch as he expounded no creed and put his 
 name to no confession. This is the pedantry of the 
 schools. He taught us religion, as cold water and 
 fresh air teach us health, by rendering the conditions 
 of disease wellnigh impossible. For more than half a 
 century, with superhuman energy, he struggled to 
 establish the basis of all religions, ' reverence and 
 godly fear.' ' Love not pleasure, love God ; this is 
 the everlasting Yea.' 
 
 One's remarks might here naturally come to an end, 
 with a word or two of hearty praise of the brave 
 course of life led by the man who awhile back stood 
 the acknowledged head of English letters. But the 
 present time is not the happiest for a panegyric on 
 Carlyle. It would be in vain to deny that the bright- 
 ness of his reputation underwent an eclipse, visible 
 everywhere, by the publication of his ' Reminiscences.' 
 They surprised most of us, pained not a few, and 
 hugely delighted that ghastly crew, the wreckers of 
 humanity, who are never so happy as when employed 
 in pulling down great reputations to their own miser- 
 able levels. When these ' baleful creatures,' as Carlyle 
 would have called them, have lit upon any passage 
 indicative of conceit or jealousy or spite, they have 
 fastened upon it and screamed over it, with a pleasure 
 but ill-concealed and with a horror but ill-feigned. 
 ' Behold,' they exclaim, ' your hero robbed of the 
 nimbus his inflated style cast around him — this
 
 CARLYLE 25 
 
 preacher and fault-finder reduced to his principal 
 parts : and lo ! the main ingredient is most unmis- 
 takably "bile!"' 
 
 The critic, however, has nought to do either with 
 the sighs of the sorrowful, ' mourning when a hero 
 falls,' or with the scorn of the malicious, rejoicing, as 
 did Bunyan's Juryman, Mr. Live-loose, when Faith- 
 ful was condemned to die : ' I could never endure him, 
 for he would always be condemning my way.' 
 
 The critic's task is to consider the book itself, i.e., 
 the nature of its contents, and how it came to be 
 written at all. 
 
 When this has been done, there will not be found 
 much demanding moral censure ; whilst the reader 
 will note with delight, applied to the trifling concerns 
 of life, those extraordinary gifts of observation and 
 apprehension which have so often charmed him in the 
 pages of history and biography. 
 
 These peccant volumes contain but four sketches : 
 one of his father, written in 1832 ; the other three, of 
 Edward Irving, Lord Jeffrey, and Mrs. Carlyle, all 
 written after the death of the last-named, in 1866. 
 
 The only fault that has been found with the first 
 sketch is, that in it Carlyle hazards the assertion that 
 Scotland does not now contain his father's like. It 
 ought surely to be possible to dispute this opinion 
 without exhibiting emotion. To think well of their 
 forbears is one of the few weaknesses of Scotchmen. 
 This sketch, as a whole, must be carried to Carlyle's 
 credit, and is a permanent addition to literature. It 
 is pious, after the high Roman fashion. It satisfies 
 our finest sense of the fit and proper. Just exactly
 
 26 CARLYLE 
 
 so should a literate son write of an illiterate peasant 
 father. How immeasurable seems the distance 
 between the man from whom proceeded the thirty- 
 four volumes we have been writing about and the 
 Calvinistic mason who didn't even know his Burns ! 
 — and yet here we find the whole distance spanned by 
 filial love. 
 
 The sketch of Lord Jeffrey is inimitable. One was 
 getting tired of Jeffrey, and prepared to give him the 
 go-by, when Carlyle creates him afresh, and, for the 
 first time, we see the bright little man bewitching us 
 by what he is, disappointing us by what he is not. 
 The spiteful remarks the sketch contains may be con- 
 sidered, along with those of the same nature to be 
 found only too plentifully in the remaining two 
 papers. 
 
 After careful consideration of the worst of these 
 
 remarks, Mrs. Oliphant's explanation seems the true 
 
 one ; they are most of them sparkling bits of Mrs. 
 
 Carlyle's conversation. She, happily for herself, had 
 
 a lively wit, and, perhaps not so happily, a biting 
 
 tongue, and was, as Carlyle tells us, accustomed to 
 
 make him laugh, as they drove home together from 
 
 London crushes, by far from genial observations on 
 
 her fellow-creatures, little recking— how should she ? 
 
 — that what was so lightly uttered was being engraven 
 
 on the tablets of the most marvellous of memories, 
 
 and was destined long afterwards to be written down 
 
 in grim earnest by a half- frenzied old man, and printed, 
 
 in cold blood, by an English gentleman. 
 
 The horrible description of Mrs. Irving's personal 
 appearance, and the other stories of the same connec-
 
 CARLYLE 27 
 
 tion, are recognised by Mrs. Oliphant as in substance 
 Mrs. Carlyle's ; whilst the maHcious account of Mrs. 
 Basil Montague's head-dress is attributed by Carlyle 
 himself to his wife. Still, after dividing the total, 
 there is a good helping for each, and blame would 
 justly be Carlyle's due if we did not remember, as 
 we are bound to do, that, interesting as these three 
 sketches are, their interest is pathological, and ought 
 never to have been given us. Mr. Froude should 
 have read them in tears, and burnt them in fire. 
 There is nothing surprising in the state of mind which 
 produced them. They are easily accounted for by 
 our sorrow-laden experience. It is a familiar feeling 
 which prompts a man, suddenly bereft of one whom 
 he alone really knew and loved, to turn in his fierce 
 indignation upon the world, and deride its idols whom 
 all are praising, and which yet to him seem ugly by 
 the side of one of whom no one speaks. To be angry 
 with such a sentence as ' scribbling Sands and Eliots, 
 not fit to compare with my incomparable Jeannie,' is 
 at once inhuman and ridiculous. This is the language 
 of the heart, not of the head. It is no more criticism 
 than is the trumpeting of a wounded elephant 
 zoology. 
 
 Happy is the man who at such a time holds his 
 peace and restrains his pen ; but unhappiest of all is 
 he who, having dipped his sorrow into ink, entrusts the 
 manuscript to a romantic historian. 
 
 The two volumes of the ' Life,' and the three 
 volumes of Mrs. Carlyle's ' Correspondence,' unfor- 
 tunately did not pour oil upon the troubled waters. 
 The partizanship they evoked was positively indecent.
 
 28 CARLYLE 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle had her troubles and her sorrows, as 
 have most women who Hve under the same roof with 
 a man of creative genius ; but of one thing we may be 
 quite sure, that she would have been the first, to use 
 her own expressive language, to require God ' particu- 
 larly to damn ' her impertinent sympathizers. As for 
 Mr. Froude, he may yet discover his Nemesis in the 
 spirit of an angry woman whose privacy he has 
 invaded, and whose diary he has most wantonly pub- 
 lished. 
 
 These dark clouds are ephemeral. They will roll 
 away, and we shall once more gladly recognise the 
 lineaments of an essentially lofty character, of one 
 who, though a man of genius and of letters, neither 
 outraged society nor stooped to it ; was neither a 
 rebel nor a slave ; who in poverty scorned wealth ; 
 who never mistook popularity for fame ; but from the 
 first assumed, and throughout maintained, the proud 
 attitude of one whose duty it was to teach and not to 
 tickle mankind. 
 
 Brother-dunces, lend me your ears ! not to crop, 
 but that I may whisper into their furry depths : ' Do 
 not quarrel with genius. We have none ourselves, 
 and yet are so constituted that we cannot hve with- 
 out it.*
 
 ON THE ALLEGED OBSCURITY OF MR. 
 BROWNING'S POETRY. 
 
 THE sanity of true genius' was a happy phrase 
 of Charles Lamb's. Our greatest poets were 
 our sanest men. Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, 
 Milton, and Wordsworth might have defied even a 
 mad doctor to prove his worst. 
 
 To extol sanity ought to be unnecessary in an age 
 which boasts its realism ; but yet it may be doubted 
 whether, if the author of the phrase just quoted were 
 to be allowed once more to visit the world he loved so 
 well and left so reluctantly, and could be induced to 
 forswear his Elizabethans and devote himself to the 
 literature of the day, he would find many books which 
 his fine critical faculty would allow him to pronounce 
 ' healthy,' as he once pronounced ' John Buncle ' to be 
 in the presence of a Scotsman, who could not for the 
 life of him understand how a book could properly be 
 said to enjoy either good or bad health. 
 
 But, however this may be, this much is certain, that 
 lucidity is one of the chief characteristics of sanity. A 
 sane man ought not to be unintelHgible. Lucidity is
 
 30 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 
 
 good everywhere, for all time and in all things, in a 
 letter, in a speech, in a book, in a poem. Lucidity 
 is not simplicity. A lucid poem is not necessarily an 
 easy one. A great poet may tax our brains, but he 
 ought not to puzzle our wits. We may often have 
 to ask with humility. What does he mean ? but not in 
 despair, What can he mean ? 
 
 Dreamy and inconclusive the poet sometimes, nay, 
 often, cannot help being, for dreaminess and inconclu- 
 siveness are conditions of thought when dwelling on 
 the very subjects that most demand poetical treat- 
 ment. 
 
 Misty, therefore, the poet has our kind permission 
 sometimes to be ; but muddy, never ! A great poet, 
 like a great peak, must sometimes be allowed to have 
 his head in the clouds, and to disappoint us of the 
 wide prospect we had hoped to gain ; but the clouds 
 which envelop him must be attracted to, and not made 
 by him. 
 
 In a sentence, though the poet may give expression 
 to what Wordsworth has called ' the heavy and the 
 weary weight of all this unintelligible world,' we, the 
 much-enduring public who have to read his poems, 
 are entitled to demand that the unintelligibility of 
 which we are made to feel the weight, should be all 
 of it the world's, and none of it merely the poet's. 
 
 We should not have ventured to introduce our subject 
 with such very general and undeniable observations, 
 had not experience taught us that the best way of 
 introducing any subject is by a string of platitudes, 
 delivered after an oracular fashion. They arouse atten- 
 tion, without exhausting it, and afford the pleasant
 
 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 31 
 
 sensation of thinking, without any of the trouble of 
 thought. But, the subject once introduced, it becomes 
 necessary to proceed with it. 
 
 In considering whether a poet is intelligible and 
 lucid, we ought not to grope and grub about his work 
 in search of obscurities and oddities, but should, in 
 the first instance at all events, attempt to regard his 
 whole scope and range ; to form some estimate, if we 
 can, of his general purport and effect, asking ourselves, 
 for this purpose, such questions as these : How are we 
 the better for him ? Has he quickened any passion, 
 lightened any burden, purified any taste ? Does he 
 play any real part in our lives ? When we are in 
 love, do we whisper him in our lady's ear ? When 
 we are sorrowful, does he ease our pain ? Can he calm 
 the strife of mental conflict ? Has he had anything to 
 say, which is not twaddle, on those subjects which, 
 elude analysis as they may, and defy demonstration as 
 they do, are yet alone of perennial interest — 
 
 ' On man, on nature, and on human life,' 
 
 on the pathos of our situation, looking back on to the 
 irrevocable and forward to the unknown ? If a poet 
 has said, or done, or been any of these things to an 
 appreciable extent, to charge him with obscurity is 
 both folly and ingratitude. 
 
 But the subject may be pursued further, and one 
 may be called upon to investigate this charge with 
 reference to particular books or poems. In Browning's 
 case this fairly may be done ; and then another crop 
 of questions arises, such as : What is the book about, 
 i.e., with what subject does it deal, and what method
 
 32 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 
 
 of dealing does it employ ? Is it didactical, analytical, 
 or purely narrative ? Is it content to describe, or does 
 it aspire to explain ? In common fairness these ques- 
 tions must be asked and answered, before we heave 
 our critical half-bricks at strange poets. One task is 
 of necessity more difficult than another. Students of 
 geometry, who have pushed their researches into that 
 fascinating science so far as the fifth proposition of the 
 first book, commonly called the Pons Asinorum (though 
 now that so many ladies read Euclid, it ought, in 
 common justice to them, to be at least sometimes 
 called the Pons Asinarum), will agree that though it 
 may be more difficult to prove that the angles at the 
 base of an isosceles triangle are equal, and that if the 
 equal sides be produced, the angles on the other side 
 of the base shall be equal, than it was to describe an 
 equilateral triangle on a given finite straight line ; yet 
 no one but an ass would say that the fifth proposition 
 was one whit less intelligible than the first. When 
 we consider Mr. Browning in his later writings, it will 
 be useful to bear this distinction in mind. 
 
 Our first duty, then, is to consider Mr. Browning in 
 his whole scope and range, or, in a word, generally. 
 This is a task of such dimensions and difficulty as, in 
 the language of joint-stock prospectuses, ' to transcend 
 individual enterprise,' and consequently, as we all know, 
 a company has been recently floated, or a society estab- 
 lished, having Mr. Browning for its principal object. 
 It has a president, two secretaries, male and female, 
 and a treasurer. You pay a guinea, and you become 
 a member. A suitable reduction is, I believe, made 
 in the unlikely event of all the members of one family
 
 MR, BROWNING'S POETRY 33 
 
 flocking to be enrolled. The existence of this society 
 is a great relief, for it enables us to deal with our un- 
 wieldy theme in a light-hearted manner, and to refer 
 those who have a passion for solid information and 
 profound philosophy to the printed transactions of this 
 learned society, which, lest we should forget all about 
 it, we at once do. 
 
 When you are viewing a poet generally, as is our 
 present phght, the first question is ; When was he 
 born ? The second, When did he (to use a favourite 
 phrase of the last century, now in disuse) — When did 
 he commence author ? The third, How long did he 
 keep at it ? The fourth. How much has he written ? 
 And the fifth may perhaps be best expressed in the 
 words of Southey's little Peterkin : 
 
 ' " What good came of it all at last ?" 
 Quoth little Peterkin.' 
 
 Mr. Browning was born in 1812 ; he commenced 
 author with the fragment called ' Pauline,' published 
 in 1833. He is still writing, and his works, as they 
 stand upon my shelves — for editions vary — number 
 twenty-three volumes. Little Peterkin's question is 
 not so easily answered ; but, postponing it for a 
 moment, the answers to the other four show that 
 we have to deal with a poet, more than seventy years 
 old, who has been writing for half a century, and 
 who has filled twenty-three volumes. The Browning 
 Society at all events has assets. The way I propose 
 to deal with this literary mass is to divide it in two, 
 taking the year 1864 as the line of cleavage. In that 
 year the volume called ' Dramatis Personae ' was pub- 
 
 3
 
 34 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 
 
 lished,and then nothing happened till the years 1868-69, 
 when our poet presented the astonished English 
 language with the four volumes and the 21,116 lines 
 called ' The Ring and the Book,' a poem which it 
 may be stated for the benefit of that large, increasing, 
 and highly interesting class of persons who prefer 
 statistics to poetry, is longer than Pope's ' Homer's 
 Iliad' by exactly 2,171 lines. We thus begin with 
 'Pauline' in 1833, and end with ' Dramatis Personae ' 
 in 1864. We then begin again with the 'Ring and 
 the Book, in 1868; but when or where we shall end 
 cannot be stated.* ' Sordello,' published in 1840, is 
 better treated apart, and is therefore excepted from 
 the first period, to which chronologically it belongs. 
 
 Looking then at the first period, we find in its front 
 eight plays : 
 
 I. ' Strafford,' written in 1836, when its author was 
 twenty-four years old, and put upon the boards of 
 Covent Garden Theatre on the ist of May, 1837, 
 Macready playing Strafford, and Miss Helen Faucit 
 Lady Carlisle. It was received by all who saw it 
 with enthusiasm ; but the Company, for reasons un- 
 
 * It can now, the end came with ' Asolando ' in 1899 : 
 
 ' Low he lies, who once so loved you, whom you loved so, 
 
 — Pity me ? 
 »»»»»» 
 What had I on earth to do 
 With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly ? 
 
 ****** 
 One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward. 
 Never doubted clouds would break. 
 
 Never dreamed though right were worsted, wrong would triumph. 
 Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better. 
 Sleep to wake.'
 
 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 35 
 
 connected with the play, was rebelHous ; and after 
 running five nights, the man who played Pym threw 
 up his part, and the theatre was closed. 
 
 2. ' Pippa Passes.' 
 
 3. ' King Victor and King Charles.' 
 
 4. ' The Return of the Druses.' 
 
 5. ' A Blot in the 'Scutcheon.' 
 
 This beautiful and pathetic play was put on the 
 stage of Drury Lane on the nth of February, 1843, 
 with Phelps as Lord Tresham, Miss Helen Faucit 
 as Mildred Tresham, and Mrs. Stirling, still known 
 to us all, as Guendolen. It was a brilliant success. 
 Mr. Browning was in the stage-box ; and if it is any 
 satisfaction for a poet to hear a crowded house cry 
 ' Author, author !' that satisfaction has belonged to 
 Mr. Browning. The play ran at Drury Lane till the 
 3rd of June, 1843, and was subsequently revived by 
 Mr. Phelps, during his ' memorable management ' of 
 Sadler's Wells. 
 
 6. ' Colombe's Birthday.' Miss Helen Faucit put 
 this upon the stage in 1852, when it was reckoned a 
 success. 
 
 7. ' Luria.' 
 
 8. ' A Soul's Tragedy.' 
 
 To call any of these plays unintelligible is ridiculous ; 
 and nobody who has ever read them ever did, and 
 why people who have not read them should abuse them 
 is hard to see. Were society put upon its oath, we 
 should be surprised to find how many people in high 
 places have not read * All's Well that Ends Well,' or 
 
 3—2
 
 36 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 
 
 ' Timon of Athens ;' but they do not go about saying 
 these plays are unintelHgible. Like wise folk, they 
 pretend to have read them, and say nothing. In 
 Browning's case they are spared the hypocrisy. No 
 one need pretend to have read ' A Soul's Tragedy ;' 
 and it seems, therefore, inexcusable for anyone to 
 assert that one of the plainest, most pointed, and 
 piquant bits of writing in the language is unin- 
 telligible. But surely something more may be truth- 
 fully said of these plays than that they are compre- 
 hensible. First of all, they are plays, and not ivovks — 
 like the dropsical dramas of Sir Henry Taylor and 
 Mr. Swinburne. Some of them have stood the ordeal 
 of actual representation ; and though it would be 
 absurd to pretend that they met with that overwhelm- 
 ing measure of success our critical age has reserved 
 for such dramatists as the late Lord Lytton, the 
 author of ' Money,' the late Tom Taylor, the author 
 of ' The Overland Route,' the late Mr. Robertson, 
 the author of ' Caste,' Mr. H. Byron, the author of 
 ' Our Boys,' Mr. Wills, the author of ' Charles I.,' 
 Mr. Burnand, the author of ' The Colonel,' and 
 Mr. Gilbert, the author of so much that is great 
 and glorious in our national drama ; at all events 
 they proved themselves able to arrest and retain the 
 attention of very ordinary audiences. But who can 
 deny dignity and even grandeur to ' Luria,' or with- 
 hold the meed of a melodious tear from ' Mildred 
 Tresham '? What action of what play is more 
 happily conceived or better rendered than that of 
 ' Pippa Passes'? — where innocence and its reverse, 
 tender love and violent passion, are presented with
 
 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 37 
 
 emphasis, and yet blended into a dramatic unity and 
 a poetic perfection, entitling the author to the very 
 first place amongst those dramatists of the century 
 who have laboured under the enormous disadvantage 
 of being poets to start with. 
 
 Passing from the plays, we are next attracted by a 
 number of splendid poems, on whose base the struc- 
 ture of Mr. Browning's fame perhaps rests most 
 surely — his dramatic pieces — poems which give utter- 
 ance to the thoughts and feelings of persons other 
 than himself, or, as he puts it, when dedicating a 
 number of them to his wife : 
 
 ' Love, you saw me gather men and women, 
 Live or dead, or fashioned by my fancy. 
 Enter each and all, and use their service, 
 Speak from every mouth the speech — a poem ;' 
 
 or, again, in * Sordello ' : 
 
 ' By making speak, myself kept out of view, 
 The very man, as he was wont to do.' 
 
 At a rough calculation, there must be at least sixty 
 of these pieces. Let me run over the names of a very 
 few of them. ' Saul,' a poem beloved by all true 
 women ; ' Caliban,' which the men, not unnaturally 
 perhaps, often prefer. The * Two Bishops ' ; the six- 
 teenth century one ordering his tomb of jasper and 
 basalt in St. Praxed's Church, and his nineteenth cen- 
 tury successor rolling out his post-prandial Apologia, 
 ' My Last Duchess,' the ' Soliloquy in a Spanish 
 Cloister,' * Andrea del Sarto,' ' Fra Lippo Lippi,' 
 ' Rabbi Ben Ezra,' ' Cleon,' ' A Death in the Desert,' 
 ' The Italian in England,' and * The Englishman in 
 Italy.'
 
 38 MR, BROWNING'S POETRY 
 
 It is plain truth to say that no other English poet, 
 living or dead, Shakespeare excepted, has so heaped 
 up human interest for his readers as has Robert 
 Browning. 
 
 Fancy stepping into a room and finding it full of 
 Shakespeare's principal characters ! What a babel 
 of tongues ! What a jostling of wits ! How eagerly 
 one's eye would go in search of Hamlet and Sir John 
 Falstaff, but droop shudderingly at the thought of 
 encountering the distraught gaze of Lady Macbeth ! 
 We should have no difficulty in recognising Beatrice 
 in the central figure of that lively group of laughing 
 courtiers ; whilst did we seek Juliet, it would, of 
 course, be by appointment on the balcony. To fancy 
 yourself in such company is pleasant matter for a 
 midsummer's night's dream. No poet has such 
 a gallery as Shakespeare, but of our modern poets 
 Browning comes nearest him. 
 
 Against these dramatic pieces the charge of un- 
 intelligibility fails as completely as it does against 
 the plays. They are all perfectly intelligible ; but — 
 and here is the rub — they are not easy reading, like the 
 estimable writings of the late Mrs. Hemans. They 
 require the same honest attention as it is the fashion 
 to give to a lecture of Professor Huxley's or to a 
 sermon of Canon Liddon's : and this is just what too 
 many persons will not give to poetry. They 
 
 ' Love to hear 
 A soft pulsation in their easy ear ; 
 To turn the page, and let their senses drink 
 A lay that shall not trouble them to think.' 
 
 It is no great wonder it should be so. After dinner,
 
 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 39 
 
 when disposed to sleep, but afraid of spoiling our 
 night's rest, behold the witching hour reserved by 
 the nineteenth century for the study of poetry ! This 
 treatment of the muse deserves to be held up to ever- 
 lasting scorn and infamy in a passage of Miltonic 
 strength and splendour. We, alas ! must be content 
 with the observation, that such an opinion of the true 
 place of poetry in the life of a man excites, in the 
 breasts of the rightminded, feelings akin to those 
 which Charles Lamb ascribes to the immortal Sarah 
 Battle, when a young gentleman of a literary turn, on 
 taking a hand in her favourite game of whist, declared 
 that he saw no harm in unbending the mind, now and 
 then, after serious studies, in recreations of that kind. 
 She could not bear, so Elia proceeds, ' to have her 
 noble occupation, to which she wound up her faculties, 
 considered in that light. It was her business, her 
 duty — the thing she came into the world to do — and 
 she did it : she unbent her mind, afterwards, over a 
 book !' And so the lover of poetry and Browning, 
 after winding-up his faculties over ' Comus ' or ' Para- 
 celsus,' over ' Julius Caesar ' or ' Strafford,' may after- 
 wards, if he is so minded, unbend himself over the 
 ' Origin of Species,' or that still more fascinating record 
 which tells us how little curly worms, only give them 
 time enough, will cover with earth even the larger 
 kind of stones. 
 
 Next to these dramatic pieces come what we may 
 be content to call simply poems : some lyrical, some 
 narrative. The latter are straightforward enough, 
 and, as a rule, full of spirit and humour ; but this is 
 more than can always be said of the lyrical pieces.
 
 40 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 
 
 Now, for the first time, in dealing with this first 
 period, excluding ' Sordello,' we strike difficulty. The 
 Chinese puzzle comes in. We wonder whether it all 
 turns on the punctuation. And the awkward thing 
 for Mr. Browning's reputation is this, that these 
 bewildering poems are, for the most part, very short. 
 We say awkward, for it is not more certain that Sarah 
 Gamp liked her beer drawn mild, than it is that your 
 Englishman likes his poetry cut short ; and so, accord- 
 ingly, it often happens that some estimable pater- 
 familias takes up an odd volume of Browning his 
 volatile son or moonstruck daughter has left lying 
 about, pishes and pshaws ! and then, with an air of 
 much condescension and amazing candour, remarks 
 that he will give the fellow another chance, and not 
 condemn him unread. So saying, he opens the book, 
 and carefully selects the very shortest poem he can 
 find ; and in a moment, without sign or signal, note 
 or warning, the unhappy man is floundering up to his 
 neck in lines like these, which are the third and final 
 stanza of a poem called ' Another Way of Love ' : 
 
 ' And after, for pastime 
 
 If June be refulgent 
 
 With flowers in completeness, 
 
 All petals, no prickles, 
 
 Delicious as trickles 
 
 Of wine poured at mass-time, 
 
 And choose One indulgent 
 
 To redness and sweetness ; 
 Or if with experience of man and of spider, 
 She use my June lightning, the strong insect-ridder. 
 To stop the fresh spinning, — why June will consider.' 
 
 He comes up gasping, and more than ever persuaded 
 that Browning's poetry is a mass of inconglomerate
 
 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 41 
 
 nonsense, which nobody understands — least of all 
 members of the Browning Society. 
 
 We need be at no pains to find a meaning for every- 
 thing Mr. Browning has written. But when all is said 
 and done — when these few freaks of a crowded brain 
 are thrown overboard to the sharks of verbal criticism 
 who feed on such things — Mr. Browning and his great 
 poetical achievement remain behind to be dealt with 
 and accounted for. We do not get rid of Tennyson 
 by murmuring : 
 
 ' O darling room, my heart's delight, 
 Dear room, the apple of my sight, 
 With thy two couches soft and white 
 There is no room so exquisite — 
 No little room so warm and bright 
 Wherein to read, wherein to write ;' 
 
 or of Wordsworth by quoting : 
 
 ' At this, my boy hung down his head : 
 He blushed with shame, nor made reply, 
 And five times to the child I said, 
 " Why, Edward ? tell me, why ?" ' — 
 
 or of Keats by remembering that he once addressed 
 a young lady as follows : 
 
 ' O come, Georgiana ! the rose is full blown. 
 The riches of Flora are lavishly strown : 
 The air is all softness and crystal the streams, 
 The west is resplendently clothed in beams.' 
 
 The strength of a rope may be but the strength of 
 its weakest part ; but poets are to be judged in their 
 happiest hours, and in their greatest works. 
 
 Taking, then, this first period of Mr. Browning's 
 poetry as a whole, and asking ourselves if we are the 
 richer for it, how can there be any doubt as to the 
 reply ? What points of human interest has he left 
 untouched ? With what phase of life, character, or
 
 42 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 
 
 study does he fail to sympathize ? So far from being 
 the rough-hewn block ' dull fools ' have supposed him, 
 he is the most dilettante of great poets. Do you 
 dabble in art and perambulate picture-galleries? 
 Browning must be your favourite poet : he is art's 
 historian. Are you devoted to music ? So is he : 
 and alone of our poets has sought to fathom in verse 
 the deep mysteries of sound. Do you find it im- 
 possible to keep off theology ? Browning has more 
 theology than most bishops — could puzzle Gamaliel 
 and delight Aquinas. Are you in love ? Read ' A 
 Last Ride Together,' ' Youth and Art,' ' A Portrait,' 
 ' Christine,' ' In a Gondola,' ' By the Fireside,' ' Love 
 amongst the Ruins,' ' Time's Revenges,' ' The Worst 
 of It,' and a host of others, being careful always to 
 end with 'A Madhouse Cell'r'- and we are much 
 mistaken if you do not put Browning at the very head 
 and front of the interpreters of passion. The many 
 moods of sorrow are reflected in his verse, whilst 
 mirth, movement, and a rollicking humour abound 
 everywhere. 
 
 I will venture upon but three quotations, for it is 
 late in the day to be quoting Browning. The first 
 shall be a well-known bit of blank verse about art from 
 ' Fra Lippo Lippi ' : 
 
 * For, don't you mark, we're made so that we love 
 First when we see them painted, things we have passed 
 Perhaps a hundred times, nor cared to see : 
 And so they are better painted — better to us, 
 Which is the same thing. Art was given for that — 
 God uses us to help each other so. 
 Lending our minds out. Have you noticed now 
 Your culHon's hanging face ? A bit of chalk. 
 And, trust me, but you should though. How much more 
 
 * Now usually called ' Porphyria's Lover.'
 
 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 43 
 
 If I drew higher things with the same truth ! 
 
 That were to take the prior's pulpit-place — ■ 
 
 Interpret God to all of you ! Oh, oh ! 
 
 It makes me mad to see what men shall do, 
 
 And we in our graves ! This world's no blot for us. 
 
 Nor blank : it means intensely, and means good. 
 
 To find its meaning is my meat and drink.' 
 
 The second is some rhymed rhetoric from ' Holy 
 Cross Day' — the testimony of the dying Jew in Rome : 
 
 ' This world has been harsh and strange, 
 Something is wrong : there needeth a change. 
 But what or where ? at the last or first ? 
 In one point only we sinned at worst. 
 
 ' The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet, 
 And again in his border see Israel set. 
 When Judah beholds Jerusalem, 
 The stranger seed shall be joined to them : 
 To Jacob's house shall the Gentiles cleave : 
 So the prophet saith, and his sons believe. 
 
 ' Ay, the children of the chosen race 
 Shall carry and bring them to their place ; 
 In the land of the Lord shall lead the same, 
 Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall blame 
 When the slaves enslave, the oppressed ones o'er 
 The oppressor triumph for evermore ? 
 
 ' God spoke, and gave us the word to keep : 
 Bade never fold the hands, nor sleep 
 'Mid a faithless world, at watch and ward. 
 Till the Christ at the end relieve our guard. 
 By His servant Moses the watch was set : 
 Though near upon cockcrow, we keep it yet. 
 
 ' Thou ! if Thou wast He, who at mid-watch came. 
 By the starlight naming a dubious Name ; 
 And if we were too heavy with sleep, too rash 
 With fear — O Thou, if that martyr-gash 
 Fell on Thee, coming to take Thine own. 
 And we gave the Cross, when we owed the throne ; 
 
 ' Thou art the Judge. We are bruised thus. 
 But, the Judgment over, join sides with us ! 
 Thine, too, is the cause ! and not more Thine 
 Than ours is the work of these dogs and swine. 
 Whose life laughs through and spits at their creed, 
 Who maintain Thee in word, and defy Thee in deed
 
 44 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 
 
 ' We withstood Christ then ? Be mindful how 
 At least we withstand Barabbas now ! 
 Was our outrage sore ? But the worst we spared 
 To have called these — Christians — had we dared 
 Let defiance to them pay mistrust of Thee, 
 And Rome make amends for Calvary ! 
 
 ' By the torture, prolonged from age to age ; 
 By the infamy, Israel's heritage ; 
 By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's disgrace, 
 By the badge of shame, by the felon's place. 
 By the branding-tool, the bloody whip, 
 And the summons to Christian fellowship, 
 
 • We boast our proof, that at least the Jew 
 Would wrest Christ's name from the devil's crew.' 
 
 The last quotation shall be from the veritable 
 Browning — of one of those poetical audacities none 
 ever dared but the Danton of modern poetry. Auda- 
 cious in its familiar realism, in its total disregard of 
 poetical environment, in its rugged abruptness : but 
 supremely successful, and alive with emotion : 
 
 ' What is he buzzing in my ears ? 
 
 Now that I come to die. 
 Do I view the world as a vale of tears ? 
 Ah, reverend sir, not I. 
 
 ' What I viewed there once, what I view again, 
 Where the physic bottles stand 
 On the table's edge, is a suburb lane, 
 With a wall to my bedside hand. 
 
 ' That lane sloped, much as the bottles do. 
 From a house you could descry 
 O'er the garden-wall. Is the curtain blue 
 Or green to a healthy eye ? 
 
 ' To mine, it serves for the old June weather. 
 Blue above lane and wall ; 
 And that farthest bottle, labelled " Ether," 
 Is the house o'ertopping all. 
 
 ' At a terrace somewhat near its stopper, 
 There watched for me, one June, 
 A girl — I know, sir, it's improper : 
 My poor mind's out of tune.
 
 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 45 
 
 ' Only there was a way — you crept 
 Close by the side, to dodge 
 Eyes in the house — two eyes except. 
 They styled their house " The Lodge." 
 
 ' What right had a lounger up their lane ? 
 But by creeping very close, 
 With the good wall's help their eyes might strain 
 And stretch themselves to oes, 
 
 ' Yet never catch her and me together, 
 As she left the attic — there. 
 By the rim of the bottle labelled " Ether" — 
 And stole from stair to stair, 
 
 ' And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas ! 
 We loved, sir ; used to meet. 
 How sad and bad and mad it was ! 
 But then, how it was sweet !' 
 
 The second period of Mr. Browning's poetry demands 
 a different line of argument ; for it is, in my judgment, 
 folly to deny that he has of late years written a great 
 deal which makes very difficult reading indeed. No 
 doubt you may meet people who tell you that they 
 read the ' Ring and the Book ' for the first time with- 
 out much mental effort ; but you will do well not to 
 believe them. These poems are difficult — they can- 
 not help being so. What is the ' Ring and the Book'? 
 A huge novel in 20,000 lines — told after the method 
 not of Scott but of Balzac ; it tears the hearts out of 
 a dozen characters ; it tells the same story from ten 
 different points of view. It is loaded with detail of 
 every kind and description : you are let off nothing. 
 As with a schoolboy's life at a large school, if he is to 
 enjoy it at all, he must fling himself into it, and care 
 intensely about everything — so the reader of the 
 ' Ring and the Book ' must be interested in every- 
 body and everything, down to the fact that the eldest 
 daughter of the counsel for the defence of Guido is 
 eight years old on the very day he is writing his
 
 46 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 
 
 speech, and that he is going to have fried liver and 
 parsley for his supper. 
 
 If you are prepared for this, you will have your 
 reward ; for the style, though rugged and involved, is 
 throughout, with the exception of the speeches of 
 counsel, eloquent, and at times superb ; and as for 
 the matter, if your interest in human nature is keen, 
 curious, almost professional — if nothing man, woman, 
 or child has been, done, or suffered, or conceivably 
 can be, do, or suffer, is without interest for you ; if 
 you are fond of analysis, and do not shrink from dis- 
 section — you will prize the ' Ring and the Book ' as 
 the surgeon prizes the last great contribution to com- 
 parative anatomy or pathology. 
 
 But this sort of work tells upon style. Browning 
 has, I think, fared better than some writers. To me, 
 at all events, the step from 'A Blot in the 'Scutcheon ' 
 to the ' Ring and the Book ' is not so marked as is 
 the maiivais pas that lies between ' Amos Barton ' and 
 ' Daniel Deronda.' But difficulty is not obscurity. 
 One task is more difficult than another. The angles 
 at the base of the isosceles triangles are apt to get 
 mixed, and to confuse us all — man and woman alike. 
 ' Prince Hohenstiel ' something or another is a very 
 difficult poem, not only to pronounce but to read ; but 
 if a poet chooses as his subject Napoleon III. — in 
 whom the cad, the coward, the ideahst, and the 
 sensualist were inextricably mixed — and purports to 
 make him unbosom himself over a bottle of Gladstone 
 claret in a tavern in Leicester Square, you cannot 
 expect that the product should belong to the same 
 class of poetry as Mr. Coventry Patmore's admirable 
 * Angel in the House.'
 
 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 47 
 
 It is the method that is difficult. Take the hus- 
 band in the ' Ring and the Book.' Mr. Browning 
 remorselessly hunts him down, tracks him to the last 
 recesses of his mind, and there bids him stand and 
 deliver. He describes love, not only broken but 
 breaking ; hate in its germ ; doubt at its birth. These 
 are difficult things to do either in poetry or prose, and 
 people with easy, flowing styles cannot do them. 
 
 I seem to overhear a still, small voice asking, But 
 are they worth doing ? or at all events is it the pro- 
 vince of art to do them ? The question ought not to 
 be asked. It is heretical, being contrary to the whole 
 direction of the latter half of this century. The chains 
 binding us to the rocks of realism are faster riveted 
 every day ; and the Perseus who is destined to cut 
 them is, I expect, some mischievous little boy at a 
 Board-school. But as the question has been asked, I 
 will own that sometimes, even when deepest in works 
 of this, the now orthodox school, I have been harassed 
 by distressing doubts whether, after all, this enormous 
 labour is not in vain ; and, wearied by the effort, over- 
 loaded by the detail, bewildered by the argument, and 
 sickened by the pitiless dissection of character and 
 motive, have been tempted to cry aloud, quoting — or 
 rather, in the agony of the moment, misquoting — 
 
 Coleridge : 
 
 ' Simplicity — • 
 Thou better name than all the family of Fame.' 
 
 But this ebullition of feeling is childish and even 
 sinful. We must take our poets as we do our meals 
 — as they are served up to us. Indeed, you may, if 
 full of courage, give a cook notice, but not the time-
 
 48 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 
 
 spirit who makes our poets. We may be sure — to 
 appropriate an idea of the late Sir James Stephen — 
 that if Robert Browning had lived in the sixteenth 
 century, he would not have written a poem like the 
 ' Ring and the Book '; and if Edmund Spenser had 
 lived in the nineteenth century he would not have 
 written a poem like the ' Faerie Queen.' 
 
 It is therefore idle to arraign Mr. Browning's later 
 method and style for possessing difficulties and intri- 
 cacies which are inherent to it. The method, at all 
 events, has an interest of its own, a strength of its 
 own, a grandeur of its own. If you do not like it, 
 you must leave it alone. You are fond, you say, of 
 romantic poetry ; well, then, take down your Spenser 
 and qualify yourself to join ' the small transfigured 
 band ' of those who are able to take their Bible-oaths 
 they have read their ' Faerie Queen ' all through. 
 The company, though small, is delightful, and you 
 will have plenty to talk about without abusing Brown- 
 ing, who probably knows his Spenser better than you 
 do. Realism will not for ever dominate the world of 
 letters and art — the fashion of all things passeth away 
 — but it has already earned a great place : it has 
 written books, composed poems, painted pictures, all 
 stamped with that ' greatness ' which, despite fluctua- 
 tions, nay, even reversals of taste and opinion, means 
 immortality. 
 
 But against Mr. Browning's later poems it is some- 
 times alleged that their meaning is obscure because 
 their grammar is bad. A cynic was once heard to 
 observe, with reference to that noble poem ' The 
 Grammarian's Funeral,' that it was a pity the
 
 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 49 
 
 talented author had ever since allowed himself to 
 remain under the delusion that he had not only 
 buried the grammarian, but his grammar also. It is 
 doubtless true that Mr. Browning has some provoking 
 ways, and is something too much of a verbal acrobat. 
 Also, as his witty parodist, the pet poet of six genera- 
 tions of Cambridge undergraduates, reminds us : 
 
 ' He loves to dock the smaller parts of speech, 
 As we curtail the already curtailed cur.' 
 
 It is perhaps permissible to weary a little of his ^'s 
 
 and o's, but we believe we cannot be corrected when 
 
 we say that Browning is a poet whose grammar will 
 
 bear scholastic investigation better than that of most 
 
 of Apollo's children. 
 
 A word about ' Sordello.' One half of ' Sordello,' 
 
 and that, with Mr. Browning's usual ill-luck, the first 
 
 half, is undoubtedly obscure. It is as difficult to read 
 
 as ' Endymion ' or the ' Revolt of Islam,' and for the 
 
 same reason— the author's lack of experience in the 
 
 art of composition. We have all heard of the young 
 
 architect who forgot to put a staircase in his house, 
 
 which contained fine rooms, but no way of getting 
 
 into them. ' Sordello ' is a poem without a staircase. 
 
 The author, still in his twenties, essayed a high thing. 
 
 For his subject — 
 
 ' He singled out 
 Sordello compassed murkily about 
 With ravage of six long sad hundred years.' 
 
 He partially failed ; and the British public, with its 
 accustomed generosity, and in order, I suppose, to 
 encourage the others, has never ceased girding at him, 
 because forty-two years ago he published, at his own 
 
 4
 
 50 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 
 
 charges, a little book of two hundred and fifty pages, 
 which even such of them as were then able to read 
 could not understand. 
 
 Poetry should be vital — either stirring our blood by 
 its divine movement, or snatching our breath by its 
 divine perfection. To do both is supreme glory ; to 
 do either is enduring fame. 
 
 There is a great deal of beautiful poetical writing to 
 be had nowadays from the booksellers. It is interest- 
 ing reading, but as one reads one trembles. It smells 
 of mortality. It would seem as if, at the very birth 
 of most of our modern poems, 
 
 • The conscious Parcae threw 
 Upon their roseate lips a Stygian hue.' 
 
 That their lives may be prolonged is my pious 
 prayer. In these bad days, when it is thought more 
 educationally useful to know the principle of the 
 common pump than Keats's ' Ode on a Grecian Urn,' 
 one cannot afford to let any good poetry die. 
 
 But when we take down Browning, we cannot think 
 of him and the ' wormy bed ' together. He is so un- 
 mistakably and deliciously alive. Die, indeed ! when 
 one recalls the ideal characters he has invested with 
 reality ; how he has described love and joy, pain and 
 sorrow, art and music ; as poems like ' Childe Roland,' 
 'Abt Vogler,' 'Evelyn Hope,' 'The Worst of It,' 
 ' Pictor Ignotus,' 'The Lost Leader,' 'Home Thoughts 
 from Abroad,' ' Old Pictures in Florence,' ' Herve 
 Riel,' ' A Householder,' ' Fears and Scruples,' come 
 tumbling into one's memory, one over another — we 
 are tempted to employ the language of hyperbole, and 
 to answer the question 'Will Browning die?' by ex-
 
 MR. BROWNING'S POETRY 51 
 
 claiming, ' Yes ; when Niagara stops.' In him indeed 
 
 we can 
 
 ' Discern 
 Infinite passion and the pain 
 Of finite hearts that yearn.' 
 
 But love of Mr. Browning's poetry is no exclusive cult. 
 
 Of Lord Tennyson it is needless to speak. Even 
 forty years of popularity and mimicry cannot rob his 
 verse of distinction. 
 
 Mr. Arnold may have a limited poetical range and 
 a restricted style, but within that range and in that 
 style, surely we must exclaim : 
 
 ' Whence that completed form of all completeness ? 
 Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness ?' 
 
 Rossetti's luscious Unes seldom fail to cast a spell 
 by which 
 
 ' In sundry moods 'tis pastime to be bound.' 
 
 William Morris has a sunny slope of Parnassus all 
 to himself, and Mr. Swinburne has written some verses 
 over which the world will long love to linger. 
 
 Dull must he be of soul who can take up Cardinal 
 Newman's ' Verses on Various Occasions,' or Miss 
 Christina Rossetti's poems, and lay them down with- 
 out recognising their diverse charm. 
 
 Let us be Catholics in this great matter, and burn 
 our candles at many shrines. In the pleasant realms 
 of poesy, no liveries are worn, no paths prescribed ; 
 you may wander where you will, stop where you like, 
 and worship whom you love. Nothing is demanded 
 of you, save this, that in all your wanderings and 
 worships, you keep two objects steadily in view — two, 
 and two only, truth and beauty. 
 
 4—2
 
 TRUTH-HUNTING. 
 
 IT is common knowledge that the distinguishing 
 characteristic of the day is the zeal displayed by 
 us all in hunting after Truth. A really not inconsider- 
 able portion of whatever time we are able to spare 
 from making or losing money or reputation, is devoted 
 to this sport, whilst both reading and conversation are 
 largely impressed into the same service. 
 
 Nor are there wanting those who avow themselves 
 anxious to see this, their favourite pursuit, raised to 
 the dignity of a national institution. They would 
 have Truth-hunting established and endowed. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle has somewhere described with great 
 humour the ' dreadfully painful ' manner in which 
 Kepler made his celebrated calculations and dis- 
 coveries ; but our young men of talent fail to see the 
 joke, and take no pleasure in such anecdotes. Truth, 
 they feel, is not to be had from them on any such 
 terms. And why should it be ? Is it not notorious 
 that all who are lucky enough to supply wants grow 
 rapidly and enormously rich ; and is not Truth a now 
 recognised want in ten thousand homes — wherever,
 
 TRUTH-HUNTING 53 
 
 indeed, persons are to be found wealthy enough to pay 
 Mr. Mudie a guinea and so far literate as to be able to 
 read ? What, save the modesty, is there surprising in 
 the demand now made on behalf of some young people, 
 whose means are incommensurate with their talents, 
 that they should be allowed, as a reward for doling 
 out monthly or quarterly portions of truth, to live in 
 houses rent-free, have their meals for nothing, and a 
 trifle of money besides ? Would Bass consent to 
 supply us with beer in return for board and lodging, 
 we of course defraying the actual cost of his brewery, 
 and allowing him some ^300 a year for himself ? Who, 
 as he read about ' Sun-spots,' or * Fresh Facts for 
 Darwin,' or the ' True History of Modesty and 
 Veracity,' showing how it came about that these 
 high-sounding virtues are held in their present some- 
 what general esteem, would find it in his heart to 
 grudge the admirable authors their freedom from 
 petty cares ? 
 
 But, whether Truth-hunting be ever established or 
 not, no one can doubt that it is a most fashionable 
 pastime, and one which is being pursued with great 
 vigour. 
 
 All hunting is so far alike as to lead one to believe 
 that there must sometimes occur in Truth-hunting, 
 just as much as in fox-hunting, long pauses, whilst the 
 covers are being drawn in search of the game, and 
 when thoughts are free to range at will in pursuit of 
 far other objects than those giving their name to the 
 sport. If it should chance to any Truth-hunter, during 
 some ' lull in his hot chase,' whilst, for example, he is 
 waiting for the second volume of an ' Analysis of
 
 54 TRUTH-HUNTING 
 
 Religion,' or for the last thing out on the Fourth 
 Gospel, to take up this book, and open it at this page, 
 we should like to press him for an answer to the 
 following question : ' Are you sure that it is a good 
 thing for you to spend so much time in speculating 
 about matters outside your daily life and walk?* 
 
 Curiosity is no doubt an excellent quality. In a 
 critic it is especially excellent. To want to know all 
 about a thing, and not merely one man's account or 
 version of it ; to see all round it, or, at any rate, as 
 far round as is possible ; not to be lazy or indifferent, 
 or easily put off, or scared away — all this is really 
 very excellent. Sir James Stephen professes great 
 regret that we have not got Pilate's account of the 
 events immediately preceding the Crucifixion. He 
 thinks it would throw great light upon the subject ; 
 and no doubt, if it had occurred to the Evangelists to 
 adopt in their narratives the method which long after- 
 wards recommended itself to the author of ' The Ring 
 and the Book,' we should now be in possession of a 
 mass of very curious information. But, excellent as 
 all this is in the realm of criticism, the question remains. 
 How does a restless habit of mind tell upon conduct ? 
 
 John Mill was not one from whose lips the advice 
 ' Stare super antiquas vias ' was often heard to proceed, 
 and he was by profession a speculator, yet in that 
 significant book, the ' Autobiography,' he describes 
 this age of Truth-hunters as one ' of weak convictions, 
 paralyzed intellects, and growing laxity of opinions.' 
 
 Is Truth-hunting one of those active mental habits 
 which, as Bishop Butler tells us, intensify their effects 
 by constant use ; and are weak convictions, paralyzed
 
 TRUTH-HUNTING 55 
 
 intellects, and laxity of opinions amongst the effects 
 of Truth-hunting on the majority of minds ? These 
 are not unimportant questions. 
 
 Let us consider briefly the probable effects of specu- 
 lative habits on conduct. 
 
 The discussion of a question of conduct has the 
 great charm of justifying, if indeed not requiring, per- 
 sonal illustration ; and this particular question is well 
 illustrated by instituting a comparison between the 
 life and character of Charles Lamb and those of some 
 of his distinguished friends. 
 
 Personal illustration, especially when it proceeds 
 by way of comparison, is always dangerous, and the 
 dangers are doubled when the subjects illustrated and 
 compared are favourite authors. It behoves us to 
 proceed warily in this matter. A dispute as to the 
 respective merits of Gray and Collins has been known 
 to result in a visit to an attorney and the revocation 
 of a will. An avowed inabiUty to see anything in Miss 
 Austen's novels is reported to have proved destructive 
 of an otherwise good chance of an Indian judgeship. 
 I believe, however, I run no great risk in asserting 
 that, of all English authors, Charles Lamb is the one 
 loved most warmly and emotionally by his admirers, 
 amongst whom I reckon only those who are as familiar 
 with the four volumes of his ' Life and Letters ' as 
 with ' Elia.' 
 
 But how does he illustrate the particular question 
 now engaging our attention ? 
 
 Speaking of his sister Mary, who, as everyone knows, 
 throughout ' Elia ' is called his Cousin Bridget, he 
 says :
 
 56 TRUTH-HUNTING 
 
 ' It has been the lot of my cousin, oftener, perhaps, 
 ' than I could have wished, to have had for her asso- 
 ' ciates and mine freethinkers, leaders and disciples of 
 ' novel philosophies and systems, but she neither 
 ' wrangles with nor accepts their opinions.' 
 
 Nor did her brother. He lived his life cracking 
 his little jokes and reading his great folios, neither 
 wrangHng with nor accepting the opinions of the 
 friends he loved to see around him. To a contemporary 
 stranger it might well have appeared as if his hfe were 
 a frivolous and useless one as compared with those of 
 these philosophers and thinkers. They discussed their 
 great schemes and affected to probe deep mysteries, 
 and were constantly asking, ' What is Truth ?' He 
 sipped his glass, shuffled his cards, and was content 
 with the humbler inquiry, ' What are Trumps ?' But 
 to us, looking back upon that little group, and knowing 
 what we now do about each member of it, no such 
 mistake is possible. To us it is plain beyond all ques- 
 tion that, judged by whatever standard of excellence 
 it is possible for any reasonable human being to take, 
 Lamb stands head and shoulders a better man than 
 any of them. No need to stop to compare him with 
 Godwin, or Hazlitt, or Lloyd ; let us boldly put him 
 in the scales with one whose fame is in all the churches 
 — with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ' logician, meta- 
 physician, bard.' 
 
 There are some men whom to abuse is pleasant. 
 Coleridge is not one of them. How gladly we would 
 love the author of ' Christabel ' if we could ! But 
 the thing is flatly impossible. His was an unlovely 
 character. The sentence passed upon him by Mr.
 
 TRUTH-HUNTING 57 
 
 Matthew Arnold (parenthetically, in one of the ' Essays 
 in Criticism ') — ' Coleridge had no morals ' — is no less 
 just than pitiless. As we gather information about 
 him from numerous quarters, we find it impossible 
 to resist the conclusion that he was a man neglectful of 
 restraint, irresponsive to the claims of those who had 
 every claim upon him, willing to receive, slow to give. 
 
 In early manhood Coleridge planned a Pantisocracy 
 where all the virtues were to thrive. Lamb did some- 
 thing far more difiicult : he played cribbage every 
 night with his imbecile father, whose constant stream 
 of querulous talk and fault-finding might well have 
 goaded a far stronger man into practising and justify- 
 ing neglect. 
 
 That Lamb, with all his admiration for Coleridge, 
 was well aware of dangerous tendencies in his character, 
 is made apparent by many letters, notably by one 
 written in 1796, in which he says : 
 
 ' O my friend, cultivate the filial feelings ! and let 
 ' no man think himself released from the kind charities 
 ' of relationship : these shall give him peace at the last ; 
 * these are the best foundation for every species of 
 ' benevolence. I rejoice to hear that you are recon- 
 ' ciled with all your relations,' 
 
 This surely is as valuable an ' aid to reflection ' as 
 any supplied by the Highgate seer. 
 
 Lamb gave but little thought to the wonderful 
 difference between the ' reason ' and the ' understand- 
 ing.' He preferred old plays — an odd diet, some may 
 think, on which to feed the virtues ; but, however 
 that may be, the noble fact remains, that he, poor, 
 frail boy ! (for he was no more, when trouble first
 
 58 TRUTH-HUNTING 
 
 assailed him) stooped down and, without sigh or sign, 
 took upon his own shoulders the whole burden of a 
 life-long sorrow. 
 
 Coleridge married. Lamb, at the bidding of duty, 
 remained single, wedding himself to the sad fortunes of 
 his father and sister. Shall we pity him ? No ; he had 
 his reward — the surpassing reward that is only within 
 the power of literature to bestow. It was Lamb, and 
 not Coleridge, who wrote ' Dream- Children : a Reverie ': 
 ' Then I told how for seven long years, in hope 
 sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, 
 
 I courted the fair Alice W n; and as much as 
 
 children could understand, I explained to them what 
 coyness and difficulty and denial meant in maidens — 
 when, suddenly turning to Ahce, the soul of the first 
 AHce looked out at her eyes with such a reality of 
 representment that I became in doubt which of them 
 stood before me, or whose that bright hair was ; and 
 while I stood gazing, both the children gradually 
 grew fainter to my view, receding and still receding, 
 till nothing at last but two mournful features were 
 seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, 
 strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech. 
 " We are not of Ahce nor of thee, nor are we children 
 at all. The children of Alice call Bartrum father. 
 We are nothing, less than nothing, and dreams. We 
 are only what might have been." ' 
 Godwin ! Hazlitt ! Coleridge ! Where now are 
 their ' novel philosophies and systems ' ? Bottled 
 moonshine, which does not improve by keeping. 
 
 ' Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.'
 
 TRUTH-HUNTING 59 
 
 Were we disposed to admit that Lamb would in all 
 probability have been as good a man as everyone 
 agrees he was — as kind to his father, as full of self- 
 sacrifice for the sake of his sister, as loving and ready 
 a friend — even though he had paid more heed to 
 current speculations, it is yet not without use in a 
 time like this, when so much stress is laid upon 
 anxious inquiry into the mysteries of soul and body, 
 to point out how this man attained to a moral excel- 
 lence denied to his speculative contemporaries ; per- 
 formed duties from which they, good men as they 
 were, would one and all have shrunk ; how, in short, 
 he contrived to achieve what no one of his friends, 
 not even the immaculate Wordsworth or the precise 
 Southey, achieved — the living of a life, the records of 
 which are inspiriting to read, and are indeed ' the 
 presence of a good diffused ;' and managed to do it 
 all without either ' wrangling with or accepting ' the 
 opinions that ' hurtled in the air ' about him. 
 
 But ivas there no relation between his unspeculative 
 habit of mind and his honest, unwavering service of 
 duty, whose voice he ever obeyed as the ship the 
 rudder ? It would be difficult to name anyone more 
 unlike Lamb, in many aspects of character, than Dr. 
 Johnson, for whom he had (mistakenly) no warm 
 regard ; but they closely resemble one another in their 
 indifference to mere speculation about things — if things 
 they can be called — outside our human walk ; in their 
 hearty love of honest earthly life, in their devotion to 
 their friends, their kindness to dependents, and in their 
 obedience to duty. What caused each of them the 
 most pain was the recollection of a past unkindness.
 
 6o TRUTH-HUNTING 
 
 The poignancy of Dr. Johnson's grief on one such 
 recollection is historical ; and amongst Lamb's letters 
 are to be found several in which, with vast depths of 
 feeling, he bitterly upbraids himself for neglect of old 
 
 friends. 
 
 Nothing so much tends to blur moral distinctions, 
 and to obHterate plain duties, as the free indulgence 
 of speculative habits. We must all know many a 
 sorry scrub who has fairly talked himself into the 
 belief that nothing but his intellectual difficulties pre- 
 vents him from being another St. Francis. We think 
 we could suggest a few score of other obstacles. 
 
 Would it not be better for most people if, instead 
 of stuffing their heads with controversy, they were to 
 devote their scanty leisure to reading books, such as, 
 to name one only, Kaye's ' History of the Sepoy War,' 
 which are crammed full of activities and heroisms, 
 and which force upon the reader's mind the healthy 
 conviction that, after all, whatever mysteries may ap- 
 pertain to mind and matter, and notwithstanding grave 
 doubts as to the authenticity of the Fourth Gospel, it 
 is bravery, truth and honour, loyalty and hard work, 
 each man at his post, which make this planet inhabit- 
 able ? 
 
 In these days of champagne and shoddy, of display 
 of teacups and rotten foundations — especially, too, 
 now that the ' nexus ' of * cash payment,' which was 
 to bind man to man in the bonds of a common 
 pecuniary interest, is hopelessly broken — it becomes 
 plain that the real wants of the age are not analyses 
 of rehgious belief, nor discussions as to whether 
 ' Person ' or ' Stream of Tendency ' are the apter
 
 TRUTH-HUNTING 6i 
 
 words to describe God by ; but a steady supply of 
 honest, plain-sailing men who can be safely trusted 
 with small sums, and to do what in them lies to main- 
 tain the honour of the various professions, and to 
 restore the credit of English workmanship. We want 
 Lambs, not Coleridges. The verdict to be striven for 
 is not ' Well guessed,' but ' Well done.' 
 
 All our remarks are confined to the realm of opinion. 
 Faith may be well left alone, for she is, to give her 
 her due, our largest manufacturer of good works, and 
 whenever her furnaces are blown out, morality suffers. 
 
 But speculation has nothing to do with faith. The 
 region of speculation is the region of opinion, and a 
 hazy, lazy, delightful region it is ; good to talk in, 
 good to smoke in, peopled with pleasant fancies and 
 charming ideas, strange analogies and killing jests. 
 How quickly the time passes there ! how well it seems 
 spent ! The Philistines are all outside ; everyone is 
 reasonable and tolerant, and good-tempered; you 
 think and scheme and talk, and look at everything in 
 a hundred ways and from all possible points of view ; 
 and it is not till the company breaks up and the lights 
 are blown out, and you are left alone with silence, 
 that the doubt occurs to you, What is the good of 
 it all ? 
 
 Where is the actuary who can appraise the value 
 of a man's opinions ? ' When we speak of a man's 
 ' opinions,' says Dr. Newman, ' what do we mean but 
 ' the collection of notions he happens to have ?' Hap- 
 pens to have ! How did he come by them ? It is the 
 knowledge we all possess of the sorts of ways in which 
 men get their opinions that makes us so little affected
 
 62 TRUTH-HUNTING 
 
 in our own minds by those of men for whose char- 
 acters and intellects we may have great admiration. 
 A sturdy Nonconformist minister, who thinks Mr. 
 Gladstone the ablest and most honest man, as well as 
 the ripest scholar within the three kingdoms, is no 
 whit shaken in his Nonconformity by knowing that 
 his idol has written in defence of the Apostolical Suc- 
 cession, and believes in special sacramental graces. 
 Mr. Gladstone may have been a great student of 
 Church history, whilst Nonconformist reading under 
 that head usually begins with Luther's Theses — but 
 what of that ? Is it not all explained by the fact that 
 Mr. Gladstone was at Oxford in 1831 ? So at least 
 the Nonconformist minister will think. 
 
 The admission frankly made, that these remarks 
 are confined to the realms of opinion, prevents me 
 from urging on everyone my prescription, but, with 
 the two exceptions to be immediately named, I believe 
 it would be found generally useful. It may be made 
 up thus : ' As much reticence as is consistent with 
 ' good-breeding upon, and a wisely tempered indiffer- 
 ' ence to, the various speculative questions now 
 ' agitated in our midst.' 
 
 This prescription would be found to liberate the 
 mind from all kinds of cloudy vapours which obscure 
 the mental vision and conceal from men their real 
 position, and would also set free a great deal of time 
 which might be profitably spent in quite other direc- 
 tions. 
 
 The first of the two exceptions I have alluded to is 
 of those who possess — whether honestly come by or 
 not we cannot stop to inquire — strong convictions
 
 TRUTH-HUNTING 63 
 
 upon these very questions. These convictions they 
 must be allowed to iterate and reiterate, and to pro- 
 claim that in them is to be found the secret of all this 
 (otherwise) unintelligible world. 
 
 The second exception is of those who pursue Truth 
 as by a divine compulsion, and who can be likened 
 only to the nympholepts of old ; those unfortunates 
 who, while carelessly strolling amidst sylvan shades, 
 caught a hasty glimpse of the flowing robes or even 
 of the gracious countenance of some spiritual inmate 
 of the woods, in whose pursuit their whole lives were 
 ever afterwards fruitlessly spent. 
 
 The nympholepts of Truth are profoundly interest- 
 ing figures in the world's history, but their lives are 
 melancholy reading, and seldom fail to raise a crop of 
 gloomy thoughts. Their finely touched spirits are 
 not indeed liable to succumb to the ordinary tempta- 
 tions of life, and they thus escape the evils which 
 usually follow in the wake of speculation ; but what 
 is their labour's reward ? 
 
 Readers of Dr. Newman will remember, and will 
 thank me for recalling it to mind, an exquisite passage, 
 too long to be quoted, in which, speaking as a Catholic 
 to his late Anglican associates, he reminds them how 
 he once participated in their pleasures and shared 
 their hopes, and thus concludes : 
 
 * When, too, shall I not feel the soothing recollec- 
 ' tion of those dear years which I spent in retirement, 
 * in preparation for my deliverance from Egypt, asking 
 ' for light, and by degrees getting it, with less of 
 ' temptation in my heart and sin on my conscience 
 ' than ever before ?'
 
 64 TRUTH-HUNTING 
 
 But the passage is sad as well as exquisite, showing 
 to us, as it does, one who from his earliest days has 
 rejoiced in a faith in God, intense, unwavering, con- 
 stant ; harassed by distressing doubts, he carries them 
 all, in the devotion of his faith, the warmth of his 
 heart, and the purity of his life, to the throne where 
 Truth sits in state ; living, he tells us, in retirement, 
 and spending great portions of every day on his knees ; 
 and yet — we ask the question with all reverence — 
 what did Dr. Newman get in exchange for his 
 prayers ? 
 
 ' I think it impossible to withstand the evidence 
 ' which is brought for the liquefaction of the blood of 
 ' St. Januarius at Naples, or for the motion of the 
 ' eyes of the pictures of the Madonna in the Roman 
 ' States. I see no reason to doubt the material of the 
 ' Lombard Cross at Monza, and I do not see why the 
 ' Holy Coat at Treves may not have been what it 
 ' professes to be. I firmly believe that portions of the 
 ' True Cross are at Rome and elsewhere, that the 
 ' Crib of Bethlehem is at Rome, and the bodies of 
 ' St. Peter and St. Paul ; also I firmly believe that the 
 ' relics of the Saints are doing innumerable miracles 
 ' and graces daily. I firmly believe that before now 
 ' Saints have raised the dead to life, crossed the seas 
 ' without vessels, multiplied grain and bread, cured 
 ' incurable diseases, and stopped the operations of the 
 ' laws of the universe in a multitude of ways.' 
 
 So writes Dr. Newman, with that candour, that 
 passion for putting the case most strongly against 
 himself, which is only one of the lovely characteristics 
 of the man whose long life has been a miracle of
 
 TRUTH-HUNTING 65 
 
 beauty and grace, and who has contrived to instil into 
 his very controversies more of the spirit of Christ than 
 most men can find room for in their prayers. But 
 the dilemma is an awkward one. Does the Madonna 
 wink, or is Heaven deaf ? 
 
 Oh, Spirit of Truth, where wert thou, when the 
 remorseless deep of superstition closed over the head 
 of John Henry Newman, who surely deserved to be 
 thy best-loved son ? 
 
 But this is a digression. With the nympholepts of 
 Truth we have nought to do. They must be allowed 
 to pursue their lonely and devious paths, and though 
 the records of their wanderings, their conflicting con- 
 clusions, and their widely-parted resting-places may 
 fill us with despair, still they are witnesses whose 
 testimony we could ill afford to lose. 
 
 But there are not many nympholepts. The 
 symptoms of the great majority of our modern Truth- 
 hunters are very different, as they will, with their 
 frank candour, be the first to admit. They are free 
 ' to drop their swords and daggers ' whenever so com- 
 manded, and it is high time they did. 
 
 With these two exceptions I think my prescription 
 will be found of general utility, and likely to promote 
 a healthy flow of good works. 
 
 I had intended to say something as to the effect of 
 speculative habits upon the intellect, but cannot 
 now do so. The following shrewd remark of Mr. 
 Latham's in his interesting book on the * Action of 
 Examinations ' may, however, be quoted ; its bear- 
 ing will be at once seen, and its truth recognised by 
 many : 
 
 5
 
 66 TRUTH-HUNTING 
 
 * A man who has been thus provided with views 
 ' and acute observations may have destroyed in him- 
 ' self the germs of that power which he simulates. 
 ' He might have had a thought or two now and then 
 ' if he had been let alone, but if he is made first to 
 ' aim at a standard of thought above his years, and 
 ' then finds he can get the sort of thoughts he wants 
 ' without thinking, he is in a fair way to be spoiled.'
 
 ACTORS. 
 
 MOST people, I suppose, at one time or another 
 in their lives, have felt the charm of an 
 actor's life, as they were free to fancy it, well-nigh 
 irresistible. 
 
 What is it to be a great actor ? I say a great 
 actor, because (I am sure) no amateur ever fancied 
 himself a small one. Is it not always to have the 
 best parts in the best plays ; to be the central figure 
 of every group ; to feel that attention is arrested the 
 moment you come on the stage ; and (more exquisite 
 satisfaction still) to be aware that it is relaxed when 
 you go off ; to have silence secured for your smallest 
 utterances ; to know that the highest dramatic talent 
 has been exercised to invent situations for the very 
 purpose of giving effect to your words and dignity to 
 your actions ; to quell all opposition by the majesty of 
 your bearing or the brilliancy of your wit ; and finally, 
 either to triumph over disaster, or if you be cast in 
 tragedy, happier still, to die upon the stage, supremely 
 pitied and honestly mourned for at least a minute ? 
 And then, from first to last, applause loud and long — 
 
 5—2
 
 68 ACTORS 
 
 not postponed, not even delayed, but following im- 
 mediately after. For a piece of diseased egotism — 
 that is, for a man — what a lot is this ! 
 
 How pointed, how poignant the contrast between a 
 hero on the boards and a hero in the streets ! In the 
 world's theatre the man who is really playing the 
 leading part — did we but know it — is too often, in the 
 general estimate, accounted but one of the super- 
 numeraries, a figure in dingy attire, who might well 
 be spared, and who may consider himself well paid 
 with a pound a week. His utterances procure no 
 silence. He has to pronounce them as best he may, 
 whilst the gallery sucks its orange, the pit pares its 
 nails, the boxes babble, and the stalls yawn. Amidst 
 these pleasant distractions he is lucky if he is heard 
 at all ; and perhaps the best thing that can befall him 
 is for somebody to think him worth the trouble of a 
 hiss. As for applause, it may chance with such men, 
 if they live long enough, as it has to the great ones 
 who have preceded them, in their old age, 
 
 ■ When they are frozen up within, and quite 
 
 The phantom of themselves, 
 To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost 
 Which blamed the living man.' 
 
 The great actor may sink to sleep, soothed by the 
 memory of the tears or laughter he has evoked, and 
 wake to find the day far advanced, whose close is to 
 witness the repetition of his triumph ; but the great 
 man will lie tossing and turning as he reflects on the 
 seemingly unequal war he is waging with stupidity 
 and prejudice, and be tempted to exclaim, as Milton 
 tells us he was, with the sad prophet Jeremy : ' Woe
 
 ACTORS 69 
 
 is me, my mother, that thou hast borne me, a man of 
 strife and contention !' 
 
 The upshot of all this is, that it is a pleasanter thing 
 to represent greatness than to be great. 
 
 But the actor's calling is not only pleasant in itself 
 — it gives pleasure to others. In this respect, how 
 favourably it contrasts with the three learned pro- 
 fessions ! 
 
 Few pleasures are greater than to witness some 
 favourite character, which hitherto has been but 
 vaguely bodied forth by our sluggish imaginations, 
 invested with all the^graces of living man or woman. 
 A distinguished man of letters, who years ago was 
 wisely selfish enough to rob the stage of a jewel and 
 set it in his own crown, has addressed to his wife some 
 radiant lines which are often on my lips : 
 
 ' Beloved, whose life is with mine own entwined, 
 In whom, whilst yet thou wert my dream, I viewed, 
 Warm with the life of breathing womanhood, 
 What Shakespeare's visionary eye divined— 
 Pure Imogen ; high-hearted Rosalind, 
 Kindling with sunshine all the dusk greenwood ; 
 Or changing with the poet's changing mood, 
 Juliet, or Constance of the queenly mind.' 
 
 But a truce to these compliments. 
 
 ' I come to bury C^sar, not to praise him.' 
 
 It is idle to shirk disagreeable questions, and the 
 one I have to ask is this, ' Has the world been wrong 
 in regarding with disfavour and lack of esteem the 
 great profession of the stage ? 
 
 That the world, ancient and modern, has despised 
 the actor's profession cannot be denied. An affecting 
 story I read many years ago — in that elegant and
 
 70 ACTORS 
 
 entertaining work, Lempriere's ' Classical Dictionary ' 
 — well illustrates the feeling of the Roman world. 
 Julius Decimus Laberius was a Roman knight and 
 dramatic author, famous for his mimes, who had the 
 misfortune to irritate a greater Julius, the author of 
 the ' Commentaries,' when the latter was at the 
 height of his power. Caesar, casting about how best 
 he might humble his adversary, could think of nothing 
 better than to condemn him to take a leading part in 
 one of his own plays. Laberius entreated in vain. 
 Caesar was obdurate, and had his way. Laberius 
 played his part — how, Lempri^re sayeth not ; but he 
 also took his revenge, after the most effectual of all 
 fashions, the literary. He composed and deUvered a 
 prologue of considerable power, in which he records 
 the act of spiteful tyranny, and which, oddly enough, 
 is the only specimen of his dramatic art that has come 
 down to us. It contains hnes which, though they do 
 not seem to have made Caesar, who sat smirking in 
 the stalls, blush for himself, make us, 1,900 years 
 afterwards, blush for Caesar. The only lines, how- 
 ever, now relevant are, being interpreted, as follows : 
 
 ' After having lived sixty years with honour, I left 
 ' my home this morning a Roman knight, but I shall 
 
 * return to it this evening an infamous stage-player. 
 
 * Alas ! I have lived a day too long.' 
 
 Turning to the modern world, and to England, we 
 find it here the popular belief that actors are by statute 
 rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars. This, it is 
 true, is founded on a misapprehension of the effect of 
 39 Eliz. chap. 4, which only provides that common 
 players wandering abroad without authority to play.
 
 ACTORS 71 
 
 shall be taken to be ' rogues and vagabonds ;' a dis- 
 tinction which one would have thought was capable 
 of being perceived even by the blunted faculties of the 
 lay mind. 
 
 But the fact that the popular belief rests upon a 
 misreading, of an Act of Parliament three hundred 
 years old does not affect the belief, but only makes it 
 exquisitely English, and as a consequence entirely 
 irrational. 
 
 Is there anything to be said in support of this once 
 popular prejudice ? 
 
 It may, I think, be supported by two kinds of argu- 
 ments. One derived from the nature of the case, the 
 other from the testimony of actors themselves. 
 
 A serious objection to an actor's calling is that from 
 its nature it admits of no other test of failure or 
 success than the contemporary opinion of the town. 
 This in itself must go far to rob life of dignity. A 
 Milton may remain majestically indifferent to the 
 'barbarous noise' of 'owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, 
 and dogs,' but the actor can steel himself to no such 
 fortitude. He can lodge no appeal to posterity. The 
 owls must hoot, the cuckoos cry, the apes yell, and the 
 dogs bark on his side, or he is undone. This is of 
 course inevitable, but it is an unfortunate condition of 
 an artist's life. 
 
 Again, no record of his art survives to tell his tale 
 or account for his fame. When old gentlemen wax 
 garrulous over actors dead and gone, young gentle- 
 men grow somnolent. Chippendale the cabinet-maker 
 is more potent than Garrick the actor. The vivacity 
 of the latter no longer charms (save in Boswell) ; the
 
 72 ACTORS 
 
 chairs of the former still render rest impossible in a 
 hundred homes. 
 
 This, perhaps, is why no man of lofty genius or 
 character has ever condescended to remain an actor. 
 His lot pressed heavily even on so mercurial a trifier 
 as David Garrick, who has given utterance to the feel- 
 ing in lines as good perhaps as any ever written by a 
 successful player : 
 
 ' The painter's dead, yet still he charms the eye, 
 While England lives his fame shall never die ; 
 But he who struts his hour upon the stage 
 Can scarce protract his fame thro' half an age ; 
 Nor pen nor pencil can the actor save — 
 Both art and artist have one common grave.' 
 
 But the case must be carried farther than this, for 
 the mere fact that a particular pursuit does not hold 
 out any peculiar attractions for soaring spirits will not 
 justify us in calling that pursuit bad names. I there- 
 fore proceed to say that the very act of acting, i.e., 
 the art of mimicry, or the representation of feigned 
 emotions called up by sham situations, is, in itself, an 
 occupation an educated man should be slow to adopt 
 as the profession of a life. 
 
 I believe — for we should give the world as well as 
 the devil its due — that it is to a feeling, a settled per- 
 suasion of this sort, lying deeper than the surface 
 brutalities and snobbishnesses visible to all, that we 
 must attribute the contempt, seemingly so cruel and 
 so ungrateful, the world has visited upon actors. 
 
 I am no great admirer of beards, be they never so 
 luxuriant or glossy, yet I own I cannot regard off the 
 stage the closely shaven face of an actor without a 
 feeling of pity, not akin to love. Here, so I cannot
 
 ACTORS 73 
 
 help saying to myself, is a man who has adopted 
 as his profession one which makes upon him at 
 the very outset the demand that he should destroy 
 his own identity. It is not what you are, or what 
 by study you may become, but how few obstacles 
 you present to the getting of yourself up as some- 
 body else, that settles the question of your fitness 
 for the stage. Smoothness of face, mobility of 
 feature, compass of voice — these things, but the toys 
 of other trades, are the tools of this one. 
 
 Boswellians will remember the name of Tom Davies 
 as one of frequent occurrence in the great biography. 
 Tom was an actor of some repute, and (so it was 
 said) read ' Paradise Lost ' better than any man in 
 England. One evening, when Johnson was lounging 
 behind the scenes at Drury (it was, I hope, before his 
 pious resolution to go there no more), Davies made his 
 appearance on his way to the stage in all the majesty 
 and millinery of his part. The situation is picturesque. 
 The great and dingy Reality of the eighteenth century, 
 the Immortal, and the bedizened little player. ' Well, 
 Tom,' said the great man (and this is the whole story), 
 * well, Tom, and what art thou to-night ?' ' What art 
 thou to-night ?' It may sound rather like a tract, but 
 it will, I think, be found difficult to find an answer to 
 the question consistent with any true view of human 
 dignity. 
 
 Our last argument derived from the nature of the 
 case is, that deliberately to set yourself as the occu- 
 pation of your life to amuse the adult and to astonish, 
 or even to terrify, the infant population of your native 
 land, is to degrade yourself.
 
 74 ACTORS 
 
 Three-fourths of the acted drama is, and always 
 must be, comedy, farce, and burlesque. We are 
 bored to death by the huge inanities of life. We 
 observe with horror that our interest in our dinner 
 becomes languid. We consult our doctor, who simu- 
 lates an interest in our stale symptoms, and after a 
 little talk about Dr. Diet, Dr. Quiet, and Dr. Merri- 
 man, prescribes Toole. If we are very innocent we 
 may inquire what night we are to go, but if we do we 
 are at once told that it doesn't in the least matter 
 when we go, for it is always equally funny. Poor 
 Toole ! to be made up every night as a safe prescrip- 
 tion for the blues ! To make people laugh is not 
 necessarily a crime, but to adopt as your trade the 
 making people laugh by delivering for a hundred 
 nights together another man's jokes, in a costume the 
 author of the jokes would blush to be seen in, seems 
 to me a somewhat unworthy proceeding on the part of 
 a man of character and talent. 
 
 To amuse the British public is a task of herculean 
 
 difficulty and danger, for the blatant monster is, at 
 
 times, as whimsical and coy as a maiden, and if it 
 
 once makes up its mind not to be amused, nothing 
 
 will shake it. The labour is enormous, the sacrifice 
 
 beyond what is demanded of saints. And if you 
 
 succeed, what is your reward ? Read the lives of 
 
 comedians, and closing them, you will see what good 
 
 reason an actor has for exclaiming with the old-world 
 
 poet : 
 
 ' Odi profanum vulgus !' 
 
 We now turn to the testimony of actors themselves. 
 Shakespeare is, of course, my first witness. There
 
 ACTORS 75 
 
 is surely significance in this. ' Others abide our 
 question,' begins Arnold's fine sonnet on Shakespeare 
 — ' others abide our question ; thou art free.' The 
 little we know about our greatest poet has become a 
 commonplace. It is a striking tribute to the endless 
 loquacity of man, and a proof how that great creature 
 is not to be deprived of his talk, that he has managed 
 to write quite as much about there being nothing to 
 write about as he could have written about Shake- 
 speare if the author of ' Hamlet ' had been as great 
 an egoist as Rousseau. The fact, however, remains 
 that he who has told us most about ourselves, whose 
 genius has made the whole civilized world kin, has 
 told us nothing about himself, except that he hated 
 and despised the stage. To say that he has told us 
 this is not, I think, any exaggeration. I have, of 
 course, in mind the often quoted lines to be found in 
 that sweet treasury of melodious verse and deep feel- 
 ing, the * Sonnets of Shakespeare.' The iioth begins 
 thus : 
 
 ' Alas ! 'tis true I have gone here and there, 
 And made myself a motley to the view, 
 Gor'd my own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, 
 Made old offences of affections new.' 
 
 And the iiith : 
 
 ' O for my sake do thou with Fortune chide, 
 The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds. 
 That did not better for my life provide 
 Than public means, which public manners breeds. 
 Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, 
 And almost thence my nature is subdued 
 To what it works on, like the dyer's hand : 
 Pity me, then, and wish I were renewed.' 
 
 It is not much short of three centuries since those
 
 76 ACTORS 
 
 lines were written, but they seem still to bubble with 
 a scorn which may indeed be called immortal. 
 
 ' Sold cheap what is most dear.' 
 
 There, compressed in half a line, is the whole case 
 against an actor's calling. 
 
 But it may be said Shakespeare was but a poor 
 actor. He could write Hamlet and As Yoii Like It; 
 but when it came to casting the parts, the Ghost in 
 the one and old Adam in the other were the best he 
 could aspire to. Verbose biographers of Shakespeare, 
 in their dire extremity, and naturally desirous of 
 writing a big book about a big man, have remarked at 
 length that it was highly creditable to Shakespeare 
 that he was not, or at all events that it does not appear 
 that he was, jealous, after the true theatrical tradition, 
 of his more successful brethren of the buskin. 
 
 It surely might have occurred, even to a verbose 
 biographer in his direst need, that to have had the wit 
 to write and actually to have written the soliloquies 
 in Hamlet, might console a man under heavier afflic- 
 tions than the knowledge that in the popular estimate 
 somebody else spouted those soliloquies better than 
 he did himself. I can as easily fancy Milton jealous 
 of Tom Davies as Shakespeare of Richard Burbage. 
 But — good, bad, or indifferent — Shakespeare was an 
 actor, and as such I tender his testimony. 
 
 I now — for really this matter must be cut short — 
 summon pell-mell all the actors and actresses who 
 have ever strutted their little hour on the stage, and 
 put to them the following comprehensive question : 
 Is there in your midst one who had an honest, hearty.
 
 ACTORS 77 
 
 downright pride and pleasure in your calling, or do 
 not you all (tell the truth) mournfully echo the lines 
 of your great master (whom nevertheless you never 
 really cared for), and with him 
 
 * Your fortunes chide, 
 That did not better for your lives provide 
 Than pubHc means, which pubhc manners breeds.' 
 
 They all assent : with wonderful unanimity. 
 
 But, seriously, I know of no recorded exception, 
 unless it be Thomas Betterton, who held the stage for 
 half a century — from 1661 to 1708 — and who still Hves, 
 as much as an actor can, in the pages of Colley 
 Gibber's Apology. He was a man apparently of 
 simple character, for he had only one benefit-night all 
 his life. 
 
 Who else is there ? Read Macready's ' Memoirs ' 
 — the King Arthur of the stage. You will find there, 
 I am sorry to say, all the actor's faults — if faults they 
 can be called which seem rather hard necessities, the 
 discolouring of the dyer's hand ; greedy hungering 
 after applause, endless egotism, grudging praise — all 
 are there ; not perhaps in the tropical luxuriance they 
 have attained elsewhere, but plain enough. But do 
 we not also find, deeply engrained and constant, a 
 sense of degradation, a longing to escape from the 
 stage for ever ? 
 
 He did not Hke his children to come and see him 
 act, and was always regretting — Heaven help him ! — 
 that he was not a barrister-at-law. Look upon this 
 picture and on that. Here we have Macbeth, that 
 mighty thane ; Hamlet, the intellectual symbol of the
 
 78 ACTORS 
 
 whole world of modern thought ; Strafford, in Robert 
 Browning's fine play ; splendid dresses, crowded 
 theatres, beautiful women, royal audiences ; and on 
 the other side, a rusty gown, a musty wig, a fusty 
 court, a deaf judge, an indifferent jury, a dispute about 
 a bill of lading, and ten guineas on your brief— which 
 you have not been paid, and which you can't recover 
 — why, ' 'tis Hyperion to a satyr !' 
 
 Again, we find Mrs. Siddons writing of her sister's 
 marriage : 
 
 ' I have lost one of the sweetest companions in the 
 ' world. She has married a respectable man, though 
 ' of small fortune. I thank God she is off the stage.' 
 What is this but to say, ' Better the most humdrum 
 'of existences with the most "respectable of men," 
 ' than to be upon the stage ' ? 
 
 The volunteered testimony of actors is both large in 
 bulk and valuable in quality, and it is all on my side. 
 
 Their involuntary testimony I pass over lightly. 
 Far be from me the disgusting and ungenerous task 
 of raking up a heap of the weaknesses, vanities, and 
 miserablenesses of actors and actresses dead and gone. 
 After life's fitful fever they sleep (I trust) well ; and 
 in common candour, it ought never to be forgotten 
 that whilst it has always been the fashion — until one 
 memorable day Mr. Froude ran amuck of it— for 
 biographers to shroud their biographees (the late Mr. 
 Russell Lowell must bear the brunt of this word on 
 his broad shoulders) in a crape veil of respectability, 
 the records of the stage have been written in another 
 spirit. We always know the worst of an actor, 
 seldom his best. David Garrick was a better man
 
 ACTORS 79 
 
 than Lord Eldon, and Macready was at least as good 
 as Dickens. 
 
 There is, however, one portion of this body of in- 
 voluntary testimony on which I must be allowed to 
 rely, for it may be referred to without offence. 
 
 Our dramatic literature is our greatest literature. 
 It is the best thing we have done. Dante may over- 
 top Milton, but Shakespeare surpasses both. He is 
 our finest achievement ; his plays our noblest posses- 
 sion ; the things in the world most worth thinking 
 about. To live daily in his company, to study his 
 works with minute and loving care — in no spirit of 
 pedantry searching for double endings, but in order to 
 discover their secret, and to make the spoken word 
 tell upon the hearts of man and woman — this might 
 have been expected to produce great intellectual if not 
 moral results. 
 
 The most magnificent compliment ever paid by 
 man to woman is undoubtedly Steele's to the Lady 
 Elizabeth Hastings. ' To love her,' wrote he, * is a 
 liberal education.' As much might surely be said of 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 But what are the facts — the ugly, hateful facts ? 
 Despite this great advantage — this close familiarity 
 with the noblest and best in our literature — the taste 
 of actors, their critical judgment, always has been and 
 still is, if not beneath contempt, at all events far below 
 the average intelligence of their day. By taste, I do 
 not mean taste in flounces and in furbelows, tunics 
 and stockings ; but in the weightier matters of the 
 truly sublime and the essentially ridiculous. Salvini's 
 Macbeth is undoubtedly a fine performance ; and yet
 
 8o ACTORS 
 
 that great actor, as the result of his study, has placed 
 it on record that he thinks the sleep-walking scene 
 ought to be assigned to Macbeth instead of to his 
 wife. Shades of Shakespeare and Siddons, what 
 think you of that ? 
 
 It is a strange fatality, but a proof of the inherent 
 pettiness of the actor's art, that though it places its 
 votary in the very midst of literary and artistic in- 
 fluences, and of necessity informs him of the best and 
 worthiest, he is yet, so far as his own culture is con- 
 cerned, left out in the cold — art's slave, not her child. 
 
 What have the devotees of the drama taught us ? 
 Nothing ! it is we who have taught them. We go 
 first, and they come lumbering after. It was not from 
 the stage the voice arose bidding us recognise the 
 supremacy of Shakespeare's genius. Actors first 
 ignored him, then hideously mutilated him ; and 
 though now occasionally compelled, out of deference 
 to the taste of the day, to forego their green-room 
 traditions, to forswear their Tate and Brady emenda- 
 tions, in their heart of hearts they love him not ; and 
 it is with a light step and a smiling face that our great 
 living tragedian flings aside Hamlet's tunic or Shy- 
 lock's gaberdine to revel in the melodramatic glories 
 of The Bells and The Covsican Brothers. 
 
 Our gratitude is due in this great matter to men of 
 letters, not to actors. If it be asked, ' What have 
 actors to do with literature and criticism?' I answer, 
 ' Nothing ;' and add, ' That is my case.' 
 
 But the notorious bad taste of actors is not entirely 
 due to their living outside Literature, with its words 
 for ever upon their lips, but none of its truths en-
 
 ACTORS 8i 
 
 graven on their hearts. It may partly be accounted 
 for by the fact that for the purposes of an ambitious 
 actor bad plays are the best. 
 
 In reading actors' lives, nothing strikes you more 
 than their delight in making a hit in some part nobody 
 ever thought anything of before. Garrick was proud 
 past all endurance of his Beverley in the Gamester, and 
 one can easily see why. Until people saw Garrick's 
 Beverley, they didn't think there was anything in the 
 Gamester; nor was there, except what Garrick put 
 there." This is called creating a part, and he is the 
 greatest actor who creates most parts. 
 
 But genius in the author of the play is a terrible 
 obstacle in the way of an actor who aspires to identify 
 himself once and for all with the leading part in it. 
 Mr. Irving may act Hamlet well or ill — and, for my 
 part, I think he acts it exceedingly well — but behind 
 Mr. Irving's Hamlet, as behind everybody else's 
 Hamlet, there looms a greater Hamlet than them all 
 — Shakespeare's Hamlet, the real Hamlet. 
 
 But Mr. Irving's Mathias is quite another kettle of 
 fish, all of Mr. Irving's own catching. Who ever, on 
 leaving the Lyceum, after seeing The Bells, was heard 
 to exclaim, ' It is all mighty fine ; but that is not my 
 idea of Mathias'? Do not we all feel that without 
 Mr. Irving there could be no Mathias ? 
 
 * This illustration is not a very happy one, for, as an accom- 
 plished critic has pointed out in the St. James's Gazette, Moore's 
 play was written especially for Mr. Garrick, and was first made 
 known to the public by Mr. Garrick. The play was, however, 
 subsequently printed, and to be had of all booksellers ; and the 
 observations in the text would therefore hold good of anyone 
 who put off seeing the play until he had read it. But whether 
 there was any person so ill-advised I cannot say. 
 
 6
 
 82 ACTORS 
 
 We best like doing what we do best : and an actor 
 is not to be blamed for preferring the task of making 
 much of a very little to that of making little of a great 
 deal. 
 
 As for actresses, it surely would be the height of 
 ungenerosity to blame a woman for following the only 
 regular profession commanding fame and fortune the 
 kind consideration of man has left open to her. For 
 two centuries women have been free to follow this 
 profession, onerous and exacting though it be, and by 
 doing so have won the rapturous applause of genera- 
 tions of men, who are all ready enough to believe that 
 where their pleasure is involved, no risks of life or 
 honour are too great for a woman to run. It is only 
 when the latter, tired of the shams of life, would pur- 
 sue the realities, that we become alive to the fact — 
 hitherto, I suppose, studiously concealed from us — 
 how frail and feeble a creature she is. 
 
 Lastly, it must not be forgotten that we are dis- 
 cussing a question of casuistry, one which is ' stuff o' 
 the conscience,' and where consequently words are all 
 important. 
 
 Is an actor's calling an eminently worthy one ? — 
 that is the question. It may be lawful, useful, delight- 
 ful, but is it worthy ? 
 
 An actor's life is an artist's life. No artist, how- 
 ever eminent, has more than one life, or does anything 
 worth doing in that life, unless he is prepared to spend 
 it royally in the service of his art, caring for nought 
 else. Is an actor's art worth the price ? I answer, 
 No!
 
 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS. 
 
 ONE is often tempted of the devil to forswear the 
 study of history altogether as the pursuit of 
 the Unknowable. ' How is it possible,' he whispers 
 in our ear, as we stand gloomily regarding the portly 
 calf-bound volumes without which no gentleman's 
 library is complete, ' how is it possible to suppose that 
 ' you have there, on your shelves, the actual facts of 
 ' history — a true record of what men, dead long ago, 
 ' felt and thought ?' Yet, if we have not, I for one, 
 though of a literary turn, would sooner spend my 
 leisure playing skittles with boors than in reading 
 sonorous lies in stout volumes. 
 
 ' It is not so much,' wilily insinuates the Tempter, 
 ' that these renowned authors lack knowledge. Their 
 ' habit of giving an occasional reference (though the 
 ' verification of these is usually left to the malignancy 
 ' of a rival and less popular historian) argues at least 
 ' some reading. No ; what is wanting is ignorance, 
 ' carefully acquired and studiously maintained. This 
 ' is no paradox. To carry the truisms, theories, laws, 
 ' language of to-day, along with you in your historical 
 
 6—2
 
 84 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 
 
 ' pursuits, is to turn the muse of history upside down 
 ' — a most disrespectful proceeding ; and yet to ignore 
 ' them — to forget all about them — to hang them up 
 ' with your hat and coat in the hall, to remain there 
 * whilst you sit in the library composing your im- 
 ' mortal work, which is so happily to combine all 
 ' that is best in Gibbon and Macaulay — a sneerless 
 ' Gibbon and an impartial Macaulay — is a task which, 
 ' if it be not impossible, is, at all events, of huge 
 ' difficulty. 
 
 ' Another blemish in English historical work has 
 ' been noticed by the Rev. Charles Kingsley, and may 
 ' therefore be referred to by me without offence. 
 ' Your standard historians, having no unnatural regard 
 ' for their most indefatigable readers, the wives and 
 ' daughters of England, felt it incumbent upon them 
 ' to pass over, as unfit for dainty ears and dulcet tones, 
 ' facts, and rumours of facts, which none the less often 
 ' determined events by stirring the strong feelings of 
 ' your ancestors, whose conduct, unless explained by 
 ' this light, must remain enigmatical. 
 
 ' When, to these anachronisms of thought and 
 ' omissions of fact, you have added the dishonesty of 
 ' the partisan historian and the false glamour of the 
 ' picturesque one, you will be so good as to proceed 
 ' to find the present value of history !' 
 
 Thus far the Enemy of Mankind : 
 
 An admirable lady orator is reported lately to have 
 ' brought down ' Exeter Hall, by observing, ' in a low 
 but penetrating voice,' that the devil was a very stupid 
 person. It is true that Ben Jonson is on the side of 
 the lady, but I am far too orthodox to entertain any such
 
 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 85 
 
 opinion ; and though I have, in this instance of history, 
 so far resisted him as to have refrained from sending 
 my standard historians to the auction mart — where, 
 indeed, with the almost single exception of Mr. Grote's 
 History of Greece (the octavo edition in twelve 
 volumes), prices rule so low as to make cartage a 
 consideration — I have still of late found myself turning 
 off the turnpike of history to loiter down the primrose 
 paths of men's memoirs of themselves and their times. 
 
 Here at least, so we argue, we are comparatively 
 safe. Anachronisms of thought are impossible ; omis- 
 sions out of regard for female posterity unHkely, and 
 as for party spirit, if found, it forms part of what 
 lawyers call the res gesta, and has therefore a value of 
 its own. Against the perils of the picturesque, who 
 will insure us ? 
 
 But when we have said all this, and, sick of prosing, 
 would begin reading, the number of really readable 
 memoirs is soon found to be but few. This is, indeed, 
 unfortunate; for it launches us off on another prose- 
 journey by provoking the question, What makes 
 memoirs interesting ? 
 
 Is it necessary that they should be the record of 
 a noble character ? Certainly not. We remember 
 Pepys, who — well, never mind what he does. We 
 call to mind Cellini ; he runs behind a fellow-creature, 
 and with ' admirable address ' sticks a dagger in the 
 nape of his neck, and long afterwards records the fact, 
 almost with reverence, in his life's story. Can any- 
 thing be more revolting than some portions of the 
 revelation Benjamin Franklin was pleased to make of 
 himself in writing ? And what about Rousseau ? Yet,
 
 86 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 
 
 when we have pleaded guilty for these men, a modern 
 Savonarola, who had persuaded us to make a bonfire 
 of their works, would do well to keep a sharp look-out, 
 lest at the last moment we should be found substitut- 
 ing * Pearson on the Creed ' for Pepys, Coleridge's 
 ' Friend' for CeUini, John Foster's Essays for Franklin, 
 and Roget's Bridgewater Treatise for Rousseau. 
 
 Neither will it do to suppose that the interest of a 
 memoir depends on its writer having been concerned 
 in great affairs, or lived in stirring times. The dullest 
 memoirs written even in English, and not excepting 
 those maimed records of life known as * religious 
 biography,' are the work of men of the * attache ' 
 order, who, having been mixed up in events which 
 the newspapers of the day chronicled as ' Important 
 Intelligence,' were not unnaturally led to cherish the 
 belief that people would like to have from their pens 
 full, true and particular accounts of all that then 
 happened, or, as they, if moderns, would probably 
 prefer to say, transpired. But the World, whatever 
 an over-bold Exeter Hall may say of her old associate 
 the Devil, is not a stupid person, and declines to be 
 taken in twice ; and turning a deaf ear to the most 
 painstaking and trustworthy accounts of deceased 
 Cabinets and silenced Conferences, goes journeying 
 along her broad way, chuckling over some old joke in 
 Boswell, and reading with fresh delight the all-about- 
 nothing letters of Cowper and Lamb. 
 
 How then does a man — be he good or bad — big or 
 little — a philosopher or a fribble — St. Paul or Horace 
 Walpole — make his memoirs interesting ? 
 
 To say that the one thing needful is individuality,
 
 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 87 
 
 is not quite enough. To be an individual is the inevi- 
 table, and in most cases the unenviable, lot of every 
 child of Adam. Each one of us has, like a tin soldier, 
 a stand of his own. To have an individuality is no 
 sort of distinction, but to be able to make it felt in 
 writing is not only distinction but under favouring 
 circumstances immortality. 
 
 Have we not all some correspondents, though prob- 
 ably but few, from whom we never receive a letter 
 without feeling sure that we shall find inside the 
 envelope something written that will make us either 
 glow with the warmth or shiver with the cold of our 
 correspondent's life ? But how many other people 
 are to be found, good, honest people too, who no 
 sooner take pen in hand than they stamp unreality 
 on every word they write. It is a hard fate, but they 
 cannot escape it. They may be as literal as the late 
 Earl Stanhope, as painstaking as Bishop Stubbs, as 
 much in earnest as Mr. Gladstone — their lives may be 
 noble, their aims high, but no sooner do they seek to 
 narrate to us their story, than we find it is not to be. 
 To hearken to them is past praying for. We turn 
 from them as from a guest who has outstayed his 
 welcome. Their writing wearies, irritates, disgusts. 
 
 Here then, at last, we have the two classes of 
 memoir writers — those who manage to make them- 
 selves felt, and those who do not. Of the latter, a 
 very little is a great deal too much — of the former we 
 can never have enough. 
 
 What a liar was Benvenuto Cellini! — who can 
 believe a word he says ? To hang a dog on his oath 
 would be a judicial murder. Yet when we lay down
 
 88 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 
 
 his memoirs and let our thoughts travel back to those 
 far-off days he tells us of, there we see him standing, 
 in bold reHef, against the black sky of the past, the 
 very man he was. Not more surely did he, with that 
 rare skill of his, stamp the image of Clement VII. on 
 the papal currency than he did the impress of his own 
 singular personality upon every word he spoke and 
 every sentence he wrote. 
 
 We ought, of course, to hate him, but do we ? A 
 murderer he has written himself down. A liar he 
 stands self-convicted of being. Were anyone in the 
 nether world bold enough to call him thief, it may be 
 doubted whether Rhadamanthus would award him 
 the damages for which we may be certain he would 
 loudly clamour. Why do we not hate him ? Listen 
 to him : 
 
 * Upon my uttering these words, there was a general 
 ' outcry, the noblemen affirming that I promised too 
 ' much. But one of them, who was a great philo- 
 ' sopher, said in my favour, " From the admirable 
 ' symmetry of shape and happy physiognomy of this 
 ' young man, I venture to engage that he will perform 
 ' all he promises, and more." The Pope replied, " I 
 ' am of the same opinion ;" then calling Trajano, his 
 * gentleman of the bed-chamber, he ordered him to 
 ' fetch me five hundred ducats.' 
 
 And so it always ended ; suspicions, aroused most 
 reasonably, allayed most unreasonably, and then — 
 ducats. He deserved hanging, but he died in his bed. 
 He wrote his own memoirs after a fashion that ought 
 to have brought posthumous justice upon him, and 
 made them a literary gibbet, on which he should
 
 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 89 
 
 swing, a creaking horror, for all time ; but nothing of 
 the sort has happened. The rascal is so symmetrical, 
 and his physiognomy, as it gleams upon us through 
 the centuries, so happy, that we cannot withhold our 
 ducats, though we may accompany the gift with a 
 shower of abuse. 
 
 This only proves the profundity of an observation 
 made by Mr, Bagehot — a man who carried away into 
 the next world more originality of thought than is 
 now to be found in the Three Estates of the Realm. 
 Whilst remarking upon the extraordinary reputation 
 of the late Francis Horner, and the trifling cost he » 
 was put to in supporting it, Mr. Bagehot said that it 
 proved the advantage of ' keeping an atmosphere.' 
 
 The common air of heaven sharpens men's judg- 
 ments. Poor Horner, but for that kept atmosphere of 
 his, always surrounding him, would have been bluntly 
 asked, ' What he had done since he was breeched,' / 
 and in reply he could only have muttered something 
 about the currency. As for our especial rogue Cellini, 
 the question would probably have assumed this shape: 
 ' Rascal, name the crime you have not committed, and 
 ' account for the omission.' 
 
 But these awkward questions are not put to the 
 lucky people who keep their own atmospheres. The 
 critics, before they can get at them, have to step out 
 of the everyday air, where only achievements count 
 and the Decalogue still goes for something, into the 
 kept atmosphere, which they have no sooner breathed 
 than they begin to see things differently, and to 
 measure the object thus surrounded with a tape of its 
 own manufacture. Horner — poor, ugly, a man neither
 
 90 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 
 
 of words nor deeds — becomes one of our great men ; 
 a nation mourns his loss and erects his statue in the 
 Abbey. Mr. Bagehot gives several instances of the 
 same kind, but he does not mention Cellini, who is, 
 however, in his own way, an admirable example. 
 
 You open his book — a Pharisee of the Pharisees. 
 Lying indeed ! Why, you hate prevarication. As 
 for murder, your friends know you too well to mention 
 the subject in your hearing, except in immediate con- 
 nection with capital punishment. You are, of course, 
 willing to make some allowance for Cellini's time and 
 place — the first half of the sixteenth century and Italy. 
 ' Yes,' you remark, ' Cellini shall have strict justice at 
 ' my hands.' So you say as you settle yourself in 
 your chair and begin to read. We seem to hear the 
 rascal laughing in his grave. His spirit breathes 
 upon you from his book — peeps at you roguishly as 
 you turn the pages. His atmosphere surrounds you ; 
 you smile when you ought to frown, chuckle when you 
 should groan, and — O final triumph ! — laugh aloud 
 when, if you had a rag of principle left, you would 
 fling the book into the fire. Your poor moral sense 
 turns away with a sigh, and patiently awaits the con- 
 clusion of the second volume. 
 
 How cautiously does he begin, how gently does he 
 win your ear by his seductive piety ! I quote from 
 Mr. Roscoe's translation : — 
 
 ' It is a duty incumbent on upright and credible 
 ' men of all ranks, who have performed anything noble 
 ' or praiseworthy, to record, in their own writing, the 
 * events of their lives ; yet they should not commence 
 ' this honourable task before they have passed their
 
 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 91 
 
 •fortieth year. Such, at least, is my opinion, now 
 ' that I have completed my fifty-eighth year, and am 
 
 ♦ settled in Florence, where, considering the numerous 
 ' ills that constantly attend human life, I perceive that 
 ' I have never before been so free from vexations and 
 
 * calamities, or possessed of so great a share of con- 
 " tent and health as at this period. Looking back on 
 ' some delightful and happy events of my life, and on 
 
 * many misfortunes so truly overwhelming that the 
 
 ♦ appalling retrospect makes me wonder how I have 
 ' reached this age in vigour and prosperity, through 
 ' God's goodness I have resolved to publish an account 
 ' of my life ; and .... I must, in commencing 
 ' my narrative, satisfy the public on some few points 
 ' to which its curiosity is usually directed ; the first of 
 
 • which is to ascertain whether a man is descended 
 ' from a virtuous and ancient family .... I 
 ' shall therefore now proceed to inform the reader how 
 ' it pleased God that I should come into the world,' 
 
 So you read on page i ; what you read on page 191 
 is this : — 
 
 * Just after sunset, about eight o'clock, as this 
 ' musqueteer stood at his door with his sword in his 
 ' hand, when he had done supper, I with great address 
 
 • came close up to him with a long dagger, and gave 
 ' him a violent back-handed stroke, which I aimed at 
 ' his neck. He instantly turned round, and the blow, 
 ' falling directly upon his left shoulder, broke the whole 
 
 ♦ bone of it ; upon which he dropped his sword, quite 
 
 • overcome by the pain, and took to his heels. I 
 ' pursued, and in four steps came up with him, when, 
 ' raising the dagger over his head, which he lowered
 
 92 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 
 
 ' down, I hit him exactly upon the nape of the neck. 
 ' The weapon penetrated so deep that, though I made 
 ' a great effort to recover it again, I found it im- 
 ' possible.' 
 
 So much for murder. Now for manslaughter, or 
 rather Cellini's notion of manslaughter. 
 
 ' Pompeo entered an apothecary's shop at the corner 
 ' of the Chiavica, about some business, and stayed 
 ' there for some time. I was told he had boasted of 
 ' having bullied me, but it turned out a fatal adventure 
 ' to him. Just as I arrived at that quarter he was 
 ' coming out of the shop, and his bravoes, having 
 ' made an opening, formed a circle round him. I 
 ' thereupon clapped my hand to a sharp dagger, and 
 ' having forced my way through the file of ruffians, 
 ' laid hold of him by the throat, so quickly and with 
 ' such presence of mind, that there was not one of his 
 
 * friends could defend him. I pulled him towards me 
 ' to give him a blow in front, but he turned his face 
 ' about through excess of terror, so that I wounded 
 ' him exactly under the ear ; and upon repeating my 
 
 * blow, he fell down dead. It had never been my in- 
 ' tention to kill him, but blows are not always under 
 ' command.' 
 
 We must all feel that it would never have done to 
 have begun with these passages ; but long before the 
 191st page has been reached Cellini has retreated into 
 his own atmosphere, and the scales of justice have 
 been hopelessly tampered with. 
 
 That such a man as this encountered suffering in 
 the course of his life, should be matter for satisfac- 
 tion to every well-regulated mind ; but, somehow or
 
 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 93 
 
 another, you find yourself pitying the fellow as he 
 narrates the hardships he endured in the Castle of 
 S. Angelo. He is so symmetrical a rascal ! Just hear 
 him ! listen to what he says well on in the second 
 volume, after the little incidents already quoted : 
 
 ' Having at length recovered my strength and vigour, 
 ' after I had composed myself and resumed my cheer- 
 ' fulness of mind, I continued to read my Bible, and so 
 ' accustomed my eyes to that darkness, that though I 
 'was at first able to read only an hour and a half, 
 ' I could at length read three hours. I then reflected 
 ' on the wonderful power of the Almighty upon the 
 ' hearts of simple men, who had carried their enthu- 
 ' siasm so far as to believe firmly that God would 
 ' indulge them in all they wished for ; and I promised 
 ' myself the assistance of the Most High, as well 
 ' through His mercy as on account of my innocence. 
 ' Thus turning constantly to the Supreme Being, some- 
 ' times in prayer, sometimes in silent meditation on the 
 ' divine goodness, I was totally engrossed by these 
 * heavenly reflections, and came to take such delight 
 ' in pious meditations that I no longer thought of past 
 ' misfortunes. On the contrary, I was all day long 
 ' singing psalms and many other compositions of mine, 
 ' in which I celebrated and praised the Deity.' 
 
 Thus torn from their context, these passages may 
 seem to supply the best possible falsification of the 
 previous statement that Cellini told the truth about 
 himself. Judged by these passages alone, he may 
 appear a hypocrite of an unusually odious description. 
 But it is only necessary to read his book to dispel that 
 notion. He tells lies about other people ; he repeats
 
 94 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 
 
 long conversations, sounding his own praises, during 
 which, as his own narrative shows, he was not present ; 
 he exaggerates his own exploits, his sufferings — even, 
 it may be, his crimes ; but when we lay down his 
 book, we feel we are saying good-bye to a man whom 
 we know. 
 
 He has introduced himself to us, and though doubt- 
 less we prefer saints to sinners, we may be forgiven 
 for liking the company of a live rogue better than that 
 of the lay-figures and empty clock-cases labelled with 
 distinguished names, who are to be found doing duty 
 for men in the works of our standard historians. What 
 would we not give to know Julius Caesar one half as 
 well as we know this outrageous rascal ? The saints 
 of the earth, too, how shadowy they are ! Which of 
 them do we really know ? Excepting one or two ancient 
 and modern Quietists, there is hardly one amongst the 
 whole number who being dead yet speaketh. Their 
 memoirs far too often only reveal to us a hazy some- 
 thing, certainly not recognisable as a man. This is 
 generally the fault of their editors, who, though men 
 themselves, confine their editorial duties to going up 
 and down the diaries and papers of the departed saint, 
 and obliterating all human touches. This they do for 
 the ' better prevention of scandals ;' and one cannot 
 deny that they attain their end, though they pay dearly 
 for it. 
 
 I shall never forget the start I gave when, on reading 
 some old book about India, I came across an after- 
 dinner jest of Henry Martyn's. The thought of Henry 
 Martyn laughing over the walnuts and the wine was 
 almost, as Robert Browning's unknown painter says,
 
 A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS 95 
 
 ' too wildly dear ;' and to this day I cannot help think- 
 ing that there must be a mistake somewhere. 
 
 To return to Cellini, and to conclude. On laying 
 down his ' Memoirs,' let us be careful to recall our 
 banished moral sense, and make peace with her, by 
 passing a final judgment on this desperate sinner, 
 which perhaps, after all, we cannot do better than by 
 employing language of his own concerning a monk, a 
 fellow-prisoner of his, who never, so far as appears, 
 murdered anybody, but of whom Cellini none the less 
 felt himself entitled to say : 
 
 ' I admired his shining quahties, but his odious 
 * vices I freely censured and held in abhorrence.'
 
 THE VIA MEDIA. 
 
 THE world is governed by logic. Truth as well 
 as Providence is always on the side of the 
 strongest battalions. An illogical opinion only re- 
 quires rope enough to hang itself. 
 
 Middle men may often seem to be earning for them- 
 selves a place in Universal Biography, and middle 
 positions frequently seem to afford the final solution 
 of vexed questions ; but this double delusion seldom 
 outlives a generation. The world wearies of the men, 
 for, attractive as their characters may be, they are for 
 ever telHng us, generally at great length, how it comes 
 about that they stand just where they do, and we soon 
 tire of explanations and forget apologists. The posi- 
 tions, too, once hailed with such acclaim, so eagerly 
 recognized as the true refuges for poor mortals anxious 
 to avoid being run over by fast-driving logicians, how 
 untenable do they soon appear ! how quickly do they 
 grow antiquated ! how completely they are forgotten ! 
 
 The Via Media, alluring as is its direction, im- 
 posing as are its portals, is, after all, only what 
 Londoners call a blind alley, leading nowhere.
 
 THE VIA MEDIA 97 
 
 ' Ratiocination,' says one of the most eloquent and 
 yet exact of modern writers," * is the great principle of 
 ' order in thinking : it reduces a chaos into harmony, 
 
 * it catalogues the accumulations of knowledge ; it 
 ' maps out for us the relations of its separate depart- 
 
 * ments. It enables the independent intellects of many 
 ' acting and re-acting on each other to bring their col- 
 ' lective force to bear upon the same subject-matter, 
 ' If language is an inestimable gift to man, the logical 
 ' faculty prepares it for our use. Though it does not 
 ' go so far as to ascertain truth ; still, it teaches us the 
 ' direction in which truth lies, and how propositions lie 
 ' towards each other. Nor is it a slight benefit to know 
 ' what is needed for the proof of a point, what is want- 
 ' ing in a theory, how a theory hangs together, and 
 ' ivhat will folloiv if it be admitted.' 
 
 This great principle of order in thinking is what we 
 are too apt to forget. ' Give us,' cry many, ' safety in 
 ' our opinions, and let who will be logical. An 
 ' Englishman's creed is compromise. His hete noire 
 ' extravagance. We are not saved by syllogism.' 
 Possibly not ; but yet there can be no safety in an 
 illogical position, and one's chances of snug quarters 
 in eternity cannot surely be bettered by believing at 
 one and the same moment of time self-contradictory 
 propositions. 
 
 But, talk as we may, for the bulk of mankind it will 
 doubtless always remain true that a truth does not 
 exclude its contradictory. Darwin and Moses are 
 both right. Between the Gospel according to Matthew 
 
 * Dr. Newman in the ' Grammar of Assent.' 
 
 7
 
 98 THE VIA MEDIA 
 
 and the Gospel according to Matthew Arnold there 
 is no difference. 
 
 If the too apparent absurdity of this is pressed 
 home, the baffled illogician, persecuted in one posi- 
 tion, flees into another, and may be heard assuring 
 his tormentor that in a period like the present, which 
 is so notoriously transitional, a logician is as much out 
 of place as a bull in a china shop, and that unless he 
 is quiet, and keeps his tail well wrapped round his 
 legs, the mischief he will do to his neighbours' china 
 creeds and delicate porcelain opinions is shocking to 
 contemplate. But this excuse is no longer admissible. 
 The age has remained transitional so unconscionably 
 long, that we cannot consent to forego the use of 
 logic any longer. For a decade or two it was all 
 well enough, but when it comes to four-score years, 
 one's patience gets exhausted. Carlyle's celebrated 
 Essay, ' Characteristics,' in which this transitional 
 period is diagnosed with unrivalled acumen, is half a 
 century old. Men have been born in it — have grovv^n 
 old in it — have died in it. It has outlived the old 
 Court of Chancery. It is high time the spurs of logic 
 were applied to its broken-winded sides. 
 
 Notwithstanding the obstinate preference the ' bulk 
 of mankind ' always show for demonstrable errors over 
 undeniable truths, the number of persons is daily in- 
 creasing who have begun to put a value upon mental 
 coherency and to appreciate the charm of a logical 
 position. 
 
 It was common talk at one time to express astonish- 
 ment at the extending influence of the Church of 
 Rome, and to wonder how people who went about
 
 THE VIA MEDIA 99 
 
 unaccompanied by keepers could submit their reason 
 to the Papacy, with her open rupture with science and 
 her evil historical reputation. From astonishment to 
 contempt is but a step. We first open wide our eyes 
 and then our mouths. 
 
 * Lord So-and-so, his coat bedropt with wax, 
 All Peter's chains about his waist, his back 
 Brave with the needlework of Noodledom, 
 Believes, — who wonders and who cares ?' 
 
 It used to be thought a sufficient explanation to say 
 either that the man was an ass or that it was all those 
 Ritualists. But gradually it became apparent that 
 the pervert was not always an ass, and that the 
 Ritualists had nothing whatever to do with it. If a 
 man's tastes run in the direction of Gothic Architec- 
 ture, free seats, daily services, frequent communions, 
 lighted candles and Church millinery, they can all be 
 gratified, not to say glutted, in the Church of his 
 baptism. 
 
 It is not the Roman ritual, however splendid, nor 
 her ceremonial, however spiritually significant, nor 
 her system of doctrine, as well arranged as Roman 
 law and as subtle as Greek philosophy, that makes 
 Romanists nowadays. 
 
 It is when a person of religious spirit and strong 
 convictions as to the truth and importance of certain 
 dogmas — few in number it may be ; perhaps only 
 one, the Being of God — first becomes fully alive to 
 the tendency and direction of the most active opinions 
 of the day ; when, his alarm quickening his insight, 
 he reads as it were between the lines of books, 
 magazines, and newspapers ; when, struck with a 
 
 7—2
 
 100 THE VIA MEDIA 
 
 sudden trepidation, he asks, ' Where is this to stop ? 
 ' how can I, to the extent of a poor ability, help to 
 ' stem this tide of opinion which daily increases its 
 ' volume and floods new territory ?' — then it is that 
 the Church of Rome stretches out her arms and seems 
 to say, ' Quarrel not with your destiny, which is to 
 ' become a Catholic. You may see difficulties and 
 ' you may have doubts. They abound everywhere. 
 ' You will never get rid of them. But I, and I alone, 
 ' have never coquetted with the spirit of the age. I, 
 ' and I alone, have never submitted my creeds to be 
 ' overhauled by infidels. Join me, acknowledge my 
 ' authority, and you need dread no side attack and 
 ' fear no charge of inconsistency. Succeed finally I 
 ' must, but even were I to fail, yours would be the 
 ' satisfaction of knowing that you had never held an 
 ' opinion, used an argument, or said a word, that 
 ' could fairly have served the purpose of your trium- 
 ' phant enemy.' 
 
 At such a crisis as this in a man's Hfe, he does not 
 ask himself. How httle can I beheve ? With how 
 few miracles can I get off? — he demands sound 
 armour, sharp weapons, and above all, firm ground 
 to stand on — a good footing for his faith — and these 
 he is apt to fancy he can get from Rome alone. 
 
 No doubt he has to pay for them, but the charm of 
 the Church of Rome is this : when you have paid 
 her price you get your goods — a neat assortment of 
 coherent, inter-dependent, logical opinions. 
 
 It is not much use, under such circumstances, to 
 call the convert a coward, and facetiously to inquire 
 of him what he really thinks about St. Januarius.
 
 THE VIA MEDIA loi 
 
 Nobody ever began with Januarius. I have no doubt 
 a good many Romanists would be glad to be quit of 
 him. He is part of the price they have to pay in 
 order that their title to the possession of other miracles 
 may be quieted. If you can convince the convert 
 that he can disbelieve Januarius of Naples without 
 losing his grip of Paul of Tarsus, you will be well 
 employed ; but if you begin with merry gibes, and 
 end with contemptuously demanding that he should 
 have done with such nonsense and fling the rubbish 
 overboard, he will draw in his horns and perhaps, if 
 he knows his Browning, murmur to himself : 
 
 ' To such a process, I discern no end. 
 Cutting off one excrescence to see two ; 
 There is ever a next in size, now grown as big. 
 That meets the knife. I cut and cut again ; 
 First cut the Liquefaction, what comes last 
 But Fichte's clever cut at God Himself?' 
 
 To suppose that no person is logically entitled to 
 fear God and to ridicule Januarius at the same time, 
 is doubtless extravagant, but to do so requires care. 
 There is an ' order in thinking. We must consider 
 ' how propositions lie towards each other — how a 
 * theory hangs together, and what will follow if it be 
 ' admitted.' 
 
 It is eminently desirable that we should consider 
 the logical termini of our opinions. Travelling up to 
 town last month from the West, a gentleman got into 
 my carriage at Swindon, who, as we moved off and 
 began to rush through the country, became unable to 
 restrain his delight at our speed. His face shone 
 with pride, as if he were pulling us himself. ' What 
 ' a charming train !' he exclaimed. ' This is the pace
 
 I02 THE VIA MEDIA 
 
 ' I like to travel at.' I indicated assent. Shortly 
 afterwards, when our windows rattled as we rushed 
 through Reading, he let one^of them down in a hurry, 
 and cried out in consternation, ' Why, I want to get 
 ' out here.' ' Charming train,' I observed. ' Just the 
 ' pace I like to travel at ; but it is awkward if you 
 ' want to go anywhere except to Paddington.' My com- 
 panion made no reply ; his face ceased to shine, and 
 as he sat whizzing past his dinner, I mentally com- 
 pared his recent exultation with that of those who in 
 the present day extol much of its spirit, use many of 
 its arguments, and partake in most of its triumphs, in 
 utter ignorance as to whitherwards it is all tending as 
 surely as the Great Western rails run into Paddington. 
 ' Poor victims !' said a distinguished Divine, address- 
 ing the Evangelicals, then rejoicing over their one 
 legal victory, the ' Gorham Case ' ; 'do you dream 
 ' that the spirit of the age is working for you, or are 
 ' you secretly prepared to go further than you avow ?' 
 Mr. Matthew Arnold's friends, the Nonconformists, 
 are, as a rule, nowadays, bad logicians. What Dr. 
 Newman has said of the Tractarians is (with but a 
 verbal alteration) also true of a great many Noncon- 
 formists : ' Moreover, there are those among them 
 ' who have very little grasp of principle, even from 
 ' the natural temper of their minds. They see this 
 ' thing is beautiful, and that is in the Fathers, and a 
 ' third is expedient, and a fourth pious ; but of their 
 ' connection one with another, their hidden essence 
 ' and their life, and the bearing of external matters 
 ' upon each and upon all, they have no perception 
 ' or even suspicion. They do not look at things as
 
 THE VIA MEDIA 103 
 
 * part of a whole, and often will sacrifice the most 
 
 * important and precious portions of their creed, or 
 ' make irremediable concessions in word or in deed, 
 ' from mere simplicity and want of apprehension.' 
 
 We have heard of grown-up Baptists asked to 
 become, and actually becoming, godfathers and god- 
 mothers to Episcopalian babies ! What terrible con- 
 fusion is here ! A point is thought to be of sufficient 
 importance to justify separation on account of it from 
 the whole Christian Church, and yet not to be of 
 importance enough to debar the separatist from taking 
 part in a ceremony the sole significance of which is 
 that it gives the lie direct to the point of separation. 
 
 But we all of us — Churchmen and Dissenters alike 
 — select our opinions far too much in the same fashion 
 as ladies are reported, I dare say quite falsely, to do 
 their afternoon's shopping — this thing because it is so 
 pretty, and that thing because it is so cheap. We 
 pick and choose, take and leave, approbate and repro- 
 bate in a breath. A familiar anecdote is never out of 
 place : An English captain, anxious to conciliate a 
 savage king, sent him on shore, for his own royal 
 wear, an entire dress-suit. His majesty was graciously 
 pleased to accept the gift, and as it never occurred to 
 the royal mind that he could, by any possibility, wear 
 all the things himself, with kingly generosity he dis- 
 tributed what he did not want amongst his Court. 
 This done, he sent for the donor to thank him in 
 person. As the captain walked up the beach, his 
 majesty advanced to meet him, looking every inch a 
 king in the sober dignity of a dress-coat. The waist- 
 coat imparted an air of pensive melancholy that
 
 10+ 
 
 THE VIA MEDIA 
 
 mightily became the Prime Minister, whilst the Lord 
 Chamberlain, as he skipped to and fro in his white 
 gloves, looked a courtier indeed. The trousers had 
 become the subject of an unfortunate dispute, in the 
 course of which they had sustained such injuries as to 
 be hardly recognisable. The captain was convulsed 
 with laughter. 
 
 But, in truth, the mental toilet of most of us is as 
 defective and almost as risible as was that of this 
 savage Court. We take on our opinions without 
 paying heed to conclusions, and the result is absurd. 
 Better be without any opinions at all. A naked 
 savage is not necessarily an undignified object ; but a 
 savage in a dress-coat and nothing else is, and must 
 ever remain, a mockery and a show. There is a great 
 relativity about a dress-suit. In the language of the 
 logicians, the name of each article not only denotes 
 that particular, but connotes all the rest. Hence it 
 came about that that which, when worn in its entirety, 
 is so dull and decorous, became so provocative of 
 Homeric laughter when distributed amongst several 
 wearers. 
 
 No person with the least tincture of taste can ever 
 weary of Dr. Newman, and no apology is therefore 
 offered for another quotation from his pages. In his 
 story, ' Loss and Gain,' he makes one of his characters, 
 who has just become a Catholic, thus refer to the 
 stock Anglican Divines, a class of writers who are, at 
 all events, immensely superior to the easy Eclectics 
 of these latter days : ' I am embracing that creed 
 ' which upholds the divinity of tradition with Laud, 
 ' consent of Fathers with Beveridge, a visible Church
 
 THE VIA MEDIA 105 
 
 ' with Bramhall, dogma with Bull, the authority of the 
 ' Pope with Thorndyke, penance with Taylor, prayers 
 ' for the dead with Ussher, celibacy, asceticism, eccle- 
 ' siastical discipline with Bingham.' What is this to 
 say but that, according to the Cardinal, our great 
 English divines have divided the Roman dress-suit 
 amongst themselves ? 
 
 This particular charge may perhaps be untrue, but 
 with that I am not concerned. If it is not true of 
 them, it is true of somebody else. ' That is satisfac- 
 tory so far as Mr. Lydgate is concerned,' says Mrs. 
 Farebrother in ' Middlemarch,' with an air of pre- 
 cision ; ' but as to Bulstrode, the report may be true 
 of some other son,' 
 
 We must all be acquainted with the reckless way 
 in which people pluck opinions like flowers — a bud 
 here, and a leaf there. The bouquet is pretty to-day, 
 but you must look for it to-morrow in the oven. 
 
 There is a sense in which it is quite true, what our 
 other Cardinal has said about Ultramontanes, Angli- 
 cans, and Orthodox Dissenters all being in the same 
 boat. They all of them enthrone Opinion, holding it 
 to be, when encased in certain dogmas. Truth Abso- 
 lute. Consequently they have all their martyrologies 
 — the bright roll-call of those who have defied Caesar 
 even unto death, or at all events gaol. They all, 
 therefore, put something above the State, and apply 
 tests other than those recognised in our law courts. 
 
 The precise way by which they come at their 
 opinions is only detail. Be it an infallible Church, 
 an infallible Book, or an inward spiritual grace, the 
 outcome is the same. The Romanist, of course, has
 
 io6 THE VIA MEDIA 
 
 to bear the first brunt, and is the most obnoxious to 
 the State ; but he must be slow of comprehension and 
 void of imagination who cannot conceive of circum- 
 stances arising in this country when the State should 
 assert it to be its duty to violate what even Protestants 
 beheve to be the moral law of God. Therefore, in 
 opposing Ultramontanism, as it surely ought to be 
 opposed, care ought to be taken by those who are not 
 prepared to go all lengths with Caesar, to select their 
 weapons of attack, not from his armoury, but from 
 their own. 
 
 How ridiculous it is to see some estimable man 
 who subscribes to the Bible Society, and takes what 
 he calls ' a warm interest ' in the heathen, chuckhng 
 over some scoffing article in a newspaper — say about 
 a Church Congress — and never perceiving, so un- 
 accustomed is he to examine directions, that he is all 
 the time laughing at his own folly ! Aunt Nesbit, in 
 ' Dred,' considered Gibbon a very pious writer. ' I 
 ' am sure,' says she, ' he makes the most religious 
 ' reflections all along. I liked him particularly on 
 ' that account.' This poor lady had some excuse. A 
 vein of irony like Gibbon's is not struck upon every 
 day ; but readers of newspapers, when they laugh, 
 ought to be able to perceive what it is they are laugh- 
 ing at. 
 
 Logic is the prime necessity of the hour. Decom- 
 position and transformation is going on all around us, 
 but far too slowly. Some opinions, bold and erect as 
 they may still stand, are in reality but empty shells. 
 One shove would be fatal. Why is it not given ? 
 
 The world is full of doleful creatures, who move
 
 THE VIA MEDIA 107 
 
 about demanding our sympathy. I have nothing to 
 offer them but doses of logic, and stern commands to 
 move on or fall back. Catholics in distress about 
 Infallibility ; Protestants devoting themselves to the 
 dismal task of paring down the dimensions of this 
 miracle, and reducing the credibility of that one — as 
 if any appreciable relief from the burden of faith could 
 be so obtained ; sentimental sceptics, who, after 
 labouring to demolish what they call the chimera of 
 superstition, fall to weeping as they remember they 
 have left themselves no lies to teach their children ; 
 democrats who are frightened at the rough voice of 
 the people and aristocrats flirting with democracy. 
 Logic, if it cannot cure, might at least silence these 
 gentry.
 
 FALSTAFF.* 
 
 THERE is more material for a life of Falstaff 
 than for a life of Shakespeare, though for both 
 there is a lamentable dearth. The difficulties of the 
 biographer are, however, different in the two cases. 
 There is nothing, or next to nothing, in Shakespeare's 
 works which throws light on his own story ; and such 
 evidence as we have is of the kind called circum- 
 stantial. But Falstaff constantly gives us reminis- 
 cences or allusions to his earlier life, and his com- 
 panions also tell us stories which ought to help us in 
 a biography. The evidence, such as it is, is direct ; 
 and the only inference we have to draw is that from 
 the statement to the truth of the statement. 
 
 It has been justly remarked by Sir James Stephen, 
 that this very inference is perhaps the most difficult 
 one of all to draw correctly. The inference from so- 
 called circumstantial evidence, if you have enough of 
 it, is much surer ; for whilst facts cannot lie, witnesses 
 can, and frequently do. The witnesses on whom we 
 
 * This essay is by my old friend, Mr. G. H. Radford, now of 
 the London County Council. I cannot deny myself the pleasure 
 of including it among my own writings.
 
 FALSTAFF 109 
 
 have to rely for the facts are FalstafF and his com- 
 panions — especially FalstafF. 
 
 When an old man tries to tell you the story of his 
 youth, he sees the facts through a distorting subjective 
 medium, and gives an impression of his history and 
 exploits more or less at variance with the bare facts 
 as seen by a contemporary outsider. The scientific 
 Goethe, though truthful enough in the main, certainly 
 fails in his reminiscences to tell a plain unvarnished 
 tale. And FalstafF was not habitually truthful. 
 Indeed, that Western American, who wrote affec- 
 tionately on the tomb of a comrade, ' As a truth- 
 crusher he was unrivalled,' had probably not given 
 sufficient attention to FalstafF's claims in this matter. 
 Then FalstafF's companions are not witnesses above 
 suspicion. Generally speaking, they lie open to the 
 charge made by P. P. against the wags of his parish, 
 that they were men delighting more in their own 
 conceits than in the truth. These are some of our 
 difficulties, and we ask the reader's indulgence in our 
 endeavours to overcome them. We will tell the story 
 from our hero's birth, and will not begin longer before 
 that event than is usual with biographers. 
 
 The question, Where was Falstaff born ? has given 
 us some trouble. We confess to having once enter- 
 tained a strong opinion that he was a Devonshire 
 man. This opinion was based simply on the flow 
 and fertility of his wit as shown in his conversation, 
 and the rapid and fantastic play of his imagination. 
 But we sought in vain for any verbal provincialisms 
 in support of this theory, and there was something in 
 the character of the man that rather went against it.
 
 no FALSTAFF 
 
 Still, we clung to the opinion, till we found that 
 philology was against us, and that the Falstaffs un- 
 questionably came from Norfolk. 
 
 The name is of Scandinavian origin ; and we find 
 in ' Domesday ' that a certain Falstaff held freely from 
 the king a church at Stamford. These facts are of 
 great importance. The thirst for which Falstaff was 
 always conspicuous was no doubt inherited — was, in 
 fact, a Scandinavian thirst. The pirates of early 
 English times drank as well as they fought, and their 
 descendants who invade England — now that the war 
 of commerce has superseded the war of conquest — 
 still bring the old thirst with them, as anyone can 
 testify who has enjoyed the hospitality of the London 
 Scandinavian Club. Then this church was no doubt 
 a familiar landmark in the family ; and when Falstaff 
 stated, late in life, that if he hadn't forgotten what the 
 inside of a church was like, he was a peppercorn and 
 a brewer's horse, he was thinking with some remorse 
 of the family temple. 
 
 Of the family between the Conquest and Falstaff's 
 birth we know nothing, except that, according to 
 Falstaff's statement, he had a grandfather who left 
 him a seal-ring worth forty marks. From this state- 
 ment we might infer that the ring was an heirloom, 
 and consequently that Falstaff was an eldest son, and 
 the head of his family. But we must be careful in 
 drawing our inferences, for Prince Henry frequently 
 told Falstaff that the ring was copper ; and on one 
 occasion, when Falstaff alleged that his pocket had 
 been picked at the Boar's Head, and this seal-ring 
 and three or four bonds of forty pounds apiece ab-
 
 FALSTAFF 1 1 1 
 
 stracted, the Prince assessed the total loss at eight- 
 pence. 
 
 After giving careful attention to the evidence, and 
 particularly to the conduct of Falstaff on the occasion 
 of the alleged robbery, we come to the conclusion that 
 the ring was copper, and was not an heirloom. This 
 leaves us without any information about Falstaff's 
 family prior to his birth. He was born (as he him- 
 self informs the Lord Chief Justice) about three 
 o'clock in the afternoon, with a white head and some- 
 thing a round belly. Falstaff's corpulence, therefore, 
 as well as his thirst, was congenital. Let those who 
 are not born with his comfortable figure sigh in vain 
 to attain his stately proportions. This is a thing 
 which Nature gives us at our birth as much as 
 the Scandinavian thirst or the shaping spirit of 
 imagination. 
 
 Born somewhere in Norfolk, Falstaff's early months 
 and years were no doubt rich with the promise of his 
 after greatness. We have no record of his infancy, 
 and are tempted to supply the gap with Rabelais' 
 chapters on Gargantua's babyhood. But regard for 
 the truth compels us to add nothing that cannot 
 fairly be deduced from the evidence. We leave the 
 strapping boy in his swaddling-clothes to answer the 
 question when he was born. Now, it is to be re- 
 gretted that FalstafF, who was so precise about the 
 hour of his birth, should not have mentioned the year. 
 On this point we are again left to inference from con- 
 flicting statements. We have this distinct point to 
 start from, that FalstafF, in or about the year 1401, 
 gives his age as some fifty or by'r Lady inclining to
 
 112 FALSTAFF 
 
 three-score. It is true that in other places he repre- 
 sents himself as old, and again in another states that 
 he and his accomplices in the Gadshill robbery are in 
 the vaward of their youth. The Chief Justice re- 
 proves him for this affectation of youth, and puts a 
 question (which, it is true, elicits no admission from 
 Falstaff) as to whether every part of him is not blasted 
 with antiquity. 
 
 We are inclined to think that Falstaff rather under- 
 stated his age when he described himself as by'r Lady 
 inclining to three-score, and that we shall not be far 
 wrong if we set down 1340 as the year of his birth. 
 We cannot be certain to a year or two. There is 
 a similar uncertainty about the year of Sir Richard 
 Whittington's birth. But both these great men, 
 whose careers afford in some respects striking con- 
 trasts, were born within a few years of the middle of 
 the fourteenth century. 
 
 Falstaff's childhood was no doubt spent in Norfolk ; 
 and we learn from his own lips that he plucked geese, 
 played truant, and whipped top, and that he did not 
 escape beating. That he had brothers and sisters we 
 know ; for he tells us that he is John with them and 
 Sir John with all Europe. We do not know the dame 
 or pedant who taught his young idea how to shoot 
 and formed his manners ; but Falstaff says that if his 
 manners became him not, he was a fool that taught 
 them him. This does not throw much light on his 
 early education : for it is not clear that the remark 
 applies to that period, and in any case it is purely 
 hypothetical. 
 
 But Falstaff, like so many boys since his time, left
 
 FALSTAFF 113 
 
 his home in the country and came to London. His 
 brothers and sisters he left behind him, and we hear 
 no more of them. Probably none of them ever attained 
 eminence, and there is no record of Falstaff' s having 
 attempted to borrow money of them. We know Fal- 
 staff so well as a tun of man, a horse-back-breaker, 
 and so forth, that it is not easy to form an idea of 
 what he was in his youth. But if we trace back the 
 sack-stained current of his life to the day when, full of 
 wonder and hope, he first rode into London, we shall 
 find him as different from Shakespeare's picture of 
 him as the Thames at Iffley is from the Thames at 
 London Bridge. His figure was shapely ; he had no 
 difficulty then in seeing his own knee, and if he was 
 not able, as he afterwards asserted, to creep through 
 an alderman's ring, nevertheless he had all the grace 
 and activity of youth. He was just such a lad (to 
 take a description almost contemporary) as the Squier 
 who rode with the Canterbury Pilgrims : 
 
 ' A lover and a lusty bacheler, 
 With lockes crull as they were laid in presse, 
 Of twenty yere of age he was, I gesse. 
 Of his stature he was of even lengthe, 
 And wonderly deliver, and grate of strengthe. 
 » ♦ * * * 
 
 Embrouded was he, as it were a mede. 
 All ful of freshe floures, white and rede ; 
 Singing he was, or floyting alle the day, 
 He was as freshe as is the moneth of May. 
 Short was his goune, with sieves long and wide, 
 Wei coude he sitte on hors, and fayre ride. 
 He coude songes make, and wel endite, 
 Juste and eke dance, and wel pourtraie and write. 
 So hot he loved that by nightertale, 
 He slepte no more than doth the nightingale.' 
 
 Such was Falstaff at the age of twenty, or some- 
 thing earlier, when he entered at Clement's Inn, where 
 
 8
 
 114 FALSTAFF 
 
 were many other young men reading law, and pre- 
 paring for their call to the Bar. How much law he 
 read it is impossible now to ascertain. That he had, 
 in later life, a considerable knowledge of the subject 
 is clear, but this may have been acquired like Mr 
 Micawber's, by experience, as defendant on civil 
 process. We are inclined to think he read but little. 
 A mici fures temporis : and he had many friends at 
 Clement's Inn who were not smugs, nor indeed, read- 
 ing men in any sense. There was John Doit of 
 Staffordshire, and Black George Barnes, and Francis 
 Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man, and 
 Robert Shallow from Gloucestershire. Four of these 
 were such swinge-bucklers as were not to be found 
 again in all the Inns o' Court, and we have it on the 
 authority of Justice Shallow that Falstaff was a good 
 backswordsman, and that before he had done grow- 
 ing he broke the head of Skogan at the Court gate. 
 This Skogan appears to have been Court-jester to 
 Edward III. No doubt the natural rivalry between 
 the amateur and the professional caused the quarrel, 
 and Skogan must have been a good man if he escaped 
 with a broken head only, and without damage to his 
 reputation as a professional wit. The same day that 
 Falstaff did this deed of daring — the only one of the 
 kind recorded of him — Shallow fought with Sampson 
 Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray's Inn. Shallow 
 was a gay dog in his youth, according to his own 
 account : he was called Mad Shallow, Lusty Shallow 
 — indeed, he was called anything. He played Sir 
 Dagonet in Arthur's show at Mile End Green ; and 
 no doubt Falstaff and the rest of the set were cast for
 
 FALSTAFF 115 
 
 other parts in the same pageant. These tall fellows 
 of Clement's Inn kept well together, for they liked 
 each other's company, and they needed each other's 
 help in a row in Turnbull Street or elsewhere. Their 
 watchword was ' Hem, boys !' and they made the old 
 Strand ring with their songs as they strolled home to 
 their chambers of an evening. They heard the chimes 
 at midnight — which, it must be confessed, does not 
 seem to us a desperately dissipated entertainment. 
 But midnight was a late hour in those days. The 
 paralytic masher of the present day, who is most alive 
 at midnight, rises at noon. Then the day began 
 earlier with a long morning, followed by a pleasant 
 period called the forenoon. Under modern conditions 
 we spend the morning in bed, and to palliate our sloth 
 call the forenoon and most of the rest of the day, the 
 morning. These young men of Clement's Inn were a 
 lively, not to say a rowdy, set. They would do any- 
 thing that led to mirth or mischief. What passed 
 when they lay all night in the windmill in St. George's 
 Field we do not quite know ; but we are safe in 
 assuming that they did not go there to pursue their 
 legal duties, or to grind corn. Anyhow, forty years 
 after, that night raised pleasant memories. 
 
 John Falstaff was the life and centre of this set, as 
 Robert Shallow was the butt of it. The latter had 
 few personal attractions. According to Falstaff's 
 portrait of him, he looked like a man made after supper 
 of a cheese-paring. When he was naked he was for 
 all the world like a forked radish, with a head fantas- 
 tically carved upon it with a knife : he was so forlorn 
 that his dimensions to any thick sight were invincible : 
 
 8—2
 
 ii6 FALSTAFF 
 
 he was the very genius of famine ; and a certain section 
 of his friends called him mandrake : he came ever in 
 the rearward of the fashion, and sung those tunes to 
 the over-scutched huswives that he heard the carmen 
 whistle, and sware they were his fancies or his good- 
 nights. Then he had the honour of having his head 
 burst by John o' Gaunt, for crowding among the 
 Marshal's men in the Tilt-yard, and this was matter 
 for continual gibe from Falstafif and the other boys. 
 Falstaff was in the van of the fashion, was witty him- 
 self without being at that time the cause that wit was 
 in others. No one could come within range of his wit 
 without being attracted and overpowered. Late in 
 life Falstaff deplores nothing so much in the character 
 of Prince John of Lancaster as this, that a man cannot 
 make him laugh. He felt this defect in the Prince's 
 character keenly, for laughter was Falstaff's familiar 
 spirit, which never failed to come at his call. It was 
 by laughter that young Falstaff fascinated his friends 
 and ruled over them. There are only left to us a few 
 scraps of his conversation, and these have been, and 
 will be, to all time the delight of all good men. The 
 Clement's Inn boys who enjoyed the feast, of which 
 we have but the crumbs left to us, were happy almost 
 beyond the lot of man. For there is more in laughter 
 than is allowed by the austere, or generally recognised 
 by the jovial. By laughter man is distinguished from 
 the beasts, but the cares and sorrows of life have all 
 but deprived man of this distinguishing grace, and 
 degraded him to a brutal solemnity. Then comes 
 (alas, how rarely !) a genius such as Falstaff's, which 
 restores the power of laughter and transforms the
 
 FALSTAFF 117 
 
 stolid brute into man. This genius approaches nearly 
 to the divine power of creation, and we may truly say, 
 ' Some for less were deified.' It is no marvel that 
 young Falstaff's friends assiduously served the deity 
 who gave them this good gift. At first he was satis- 
 fied with the mere exercise of his genial power, but he 
 afterwards made it serviceable to him. It was but 
 just that he should receive tribute from those who 
 were beholden to him for a pleasure which no other 
 could confer. 
 
 It was now that Falstaff began to recognise what a 
 precious gift was his congenital Scandinavian thirst, 
 and to lose no opportunity of gratifying it. We have 
 his mature views on education, and we may take them 
 as an example of the general truth that old men 
 habitually advise a young one to shape the conduct of 
 his life after their own. Rightly to apprehend the 
 virtues of sherris-sack is the first qualification in an 
 instructor of youth. ' If I had a thousand sons,' says 
 he, ' the first humane principles I would teach them 
 ' should be to forswear thin potations, and to addict 
 ' themselves to sack ' ; and further : ' There's never 
 ' none of these demure boys come to any proof ; for 
 ' thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making 
 ' many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male 
 ' green sickness ; and then when they marry they get 
 ' wenches : they are generally fools and cowards, which 
 ' some of us should be too but for inflammation.' 
 There can be no doubt that Falstaff did not in early 
 life over-cool his blood, but addicted himself to sack, 
 and gave the subject a great part of his attention for 
 all the remainder of his days.
 
 ii8 FALSTAFF 
 
 It may be that he found the subject too absorbing 
 to allow of his giving much attention to old Father 
 Antic the Law. At any rate, he was never called to 
 the Bar, and posterity cannot be too thankful that his 
 great mind was not lost in ' the abyss of legal 
 ' eminence ' which has received so many men who 
 might have adorned their country. That he was fitted 
 for a brilliant legal career can admit of no doubt. His 
 power of detecting analogies in cases apparently 
 different, his triumphant handling of cases apparently 
 hopeless, his wonderful readiness in reply, and his 
 dramatic instinct, would have made him a powerful 
 advocate. It may have been owing to difficulties with 
 the Benchers of the period over questions of discipline, 
 or it may have been a distaste for the profession itself, 
 which induced him to throw up the law and adopt the 
 profession of arms. 
 
 We know that while he was still at Clement's Inn 
 he was page to Lord Thomas Mowbray, who was 
 afterwards created Earl of Nottingham and Duke of 
 Norfolk. It must be admitted that here (as elsewhere 
 in Shakespeare) there is some little chronological 
 difficulty. We will not inquire too curiously, but 
 simply accept the testimony of Justice Shallow on the 
 point. Mowbray was an able and ambitious lord, and 
 Falstaff", as page to him, began his military career with 
 every advantage. The French wars of the later years 
 of Edward III. gave frequent and abundant oppor- 
 tunity for distinction. Mowbray distinguished himself 
 in Court and in camp, and we should like to believe 
 that Falstaff was in the sea-fight when Mowbray 
 defeated the French fleet and captured vast quantities
 
 FALSTAFF 119 
 
 of sack from the enemy. Unfortunately, there is no 
 record whatever of Falstaff's early military career, 
 and beyond his own ejaculation, ' Would to God that 
 * my name was not so terrible to the enemy as it is !' 
 and the (possible) inference from it that he must have 
 made his name terrible in some way, we have no 
 evidence that he was ever in the field before the battle 
 of Shrewsbury. Indeed, the absence of evidence on 
 this matter goes strongly to prove the negative. Fal- 
 staflf boasts of his valour, his alacrity, and other 
 qualities which were not apparent to the casual 
 observer, but he never boasts of his services in battle. 
 If there had been anything of the kind to which he 
 could refer with complacency, there is no moral doubt 
 that he would have mentioned it freely, adding such 
 embellishments and circumstances as he well knew 
 how. 
 
 In the absence of evidence as to the course of his 
 life, we are left to conjecture how he spent the forty 
 years, more or less, between the time of his studies at 
 ' Clement's Inn and the day when Shakespeare in- 
 troduces him to us. We have no doubt that he spent 
 all, or nearly all, this time in London. His habits 
 were such as are formed by life in a great city : his 
 conversation betrays a man who has lived, as it were, 
 in a crowd, and the busy haunts of men were the 
 appropriate scene for the display of his great qualities. 
 London, even then, was a great city, and the study of 
 it might well absorb a lifetime. Falstaff knew it 
 well, from the Court, with which he always preserved 
 a connection, to the numerous taverns where he met 
 his friends and eluded his creditors. The Boar's
 
 I20 FALSTAFF 
 
 Head in Eastcheap was his headquarters, and, Uke 
 Barnabee's, two centuries later, his journeys were 
 from tavern to tavern ; and, hke Barnabee, he might 
 say * Multnm hihi, jmnquavi pransi.' To begin with, no 
 doubt the dinner bore a fair proportion to the fluid 
 which accompanied it, but by degrees the Hquor 
 encroached on and superseded the viands, until his 
 tavern bills took the shape of the one purloined by 
 Prince Henry, in which there was but one halfpenny- 
 worth of bread to an intolerable deal of sack. It was 
 this inordinate consumption of sack (and not sighmg 
 and grief, as he suggests) which blew him up like a 
 bladder. A life of leisure in London always had, and 
 still has, its temptations. Falstaff's means were 
 described by the Chief Justice of Henry IV. as very 
 slender, but this was after they had been wasted for 
 years. Originally they were more ample, and gave 
 him the opportunity of living at ease with his friends. 
 No domestic cares disturbed the even tenor of his life. 
 Bardolph says he was better accommodated than with 
 a wife. Like many another man about town, he 
 thought about settling down when he was getting up 
 in years. He weekly swore, so he tells us, to marry 
 old Mistress Ursula, but this was only after he saw 
 the first white hair on his chin. But he never led 
 Mistress Ursula to the altar. The only other women 
 for whom he formed an early attachment were Mistress 
 Quickly, the hostess of the Boar's Head, and Doll 
 Tearsheet, who is described by the page as a proper 
 gentlewoman, and a kinswoman of his master's. There 
 is no denying that FalstafF was on terms of intimacy 
 with Mistress Quickly, but he never admitted that he
 
 FALSTAFF 121 
 
 made her an offer of marriage. She, however, asserted 
 it in the strongest terms, and with a wealth of circum- 
 stance. 
 
 We must transcribe her story : ' Thou didst swear 
 ' to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin - 
 ' chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, upon 
 ' Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the Prince broke 
 ' thy head for liking his father to a singing-man of 
 ' Windsor ; thou didst swear to me then, as I was 
 ' washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my 
 ' lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it ? Did not good- 
 ' wife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then, and call 
 ' me Gossip Quickly ? coming in to borrow a mess of 
 ' vinegar ; telling us she had a good dish of prawns ; 
 ' whereby thou didst desire to eat some ; whereby I 
 ' told thee they were ill for a green wound ? And 
 ' didst thou not, when she was gone downstairs, desire 
 ' me to be no more so famiharity with such poor people ; 
 ' saying ere long they should call me madam ? And 
 ' didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty 
 ' shilHngs ? I put thee now to thy book-oath ; deny 
 ' it if thou canst !' 
 
 We feel no doubt that if Mistress Quickly had 
 given this evidence in action for breach of promise of 
 marriage, and goodwife Keech corroborated it, the 
 jury would have found a verdict for the plaintiff', un- 
 less indeed they brought in a special verdict to the 
 effect that Falstaff made the promise, but never in- 
 tended to keep it. But Mistress Quickly contented 
 herself with upbraiding Falstaff, and he cajoled her 
 with his usual skill, and borrowed more money of 
 her.
 
 122 FALSTAFF 
 
 Falstaff's attachment for Doll Tearsheet lasted 
 many years, but did not lead to matrimony. From 
 the Clement's Inn days till he was three-score he 
 lived in London celibate, and his habits and amuse- 
 ments were much like those of other single gentlemen 
 about town of his time, or, for that matter, of ours. 
 He had only himself to care for, and he cared for him- 
 self well. Like his page, he had a good angel about 
 him, but the devil outbid him. He was as virtuously 
 given as other folk, but perhaps the devil had a handle 
 for temptation in that congenital thirst of his. He 
 was a social spirit too, and he tells us that company, 
 villainous company, was the spoil of him. He was 
 less than thirty when he took the faithful Bardolph 
 into his service, and only just past that age when he 
 made the acquaintance of the nimble Poins. Before 
 he was forty he became the constant guest of Mistress 
 Quickly. Pistol and Nym were later acquisitions, 
 and the Prince did not come upon the scene till 
 Falstaff was an old man and knighted. 
 
 There is some doubt as to when he obtained this 
 honour. Richard H. bestowed titles in so lavish a 
 manner as to cause discontent among many who didn't 
 receive them. In 1377, immediately on his accession, 
 the earldom of Nottingham was given to Thomas 
 Mowbray, and on the same day three other earls and 
 nine knights were created. We have not been able 
 to discover the names of these knights, but we con- 
 fidently expect to unearth them some day, and to find 
 the name of Sir John Falstaff among them. We have 
 already stated that Falstaff had done no service in the 
 field at this time, so he could not have earned his title
 
 FALSTAFF 123 
 
 in that manner. No doubt he got it through the 
 influence of Mowbray, who was in a position to get 
 good things for his friends as well as for himself. It 
 was but a poor acknowledgment for the inestimable 
 benefit of occasionally talking with Falstaff over a 
 quart of sack. 
 
 We will not pursue Falstaff's life further than this. 
 It can from this point be easily collected. It is a 
 thankless task to paraphrase a great and familiar text. 
 To attempt to tell the story in better words than 
 Shakespeare would occur to no one but Miss Braddon, 
 who has epitomised Sir Walter, or to Canon Farrar, 
 who has elongated the Gospels. But we feel bound 
 to add a few words as to character. There are, we 
 fear, a number of people who regard Falstaff as a 
 worthless fellow, and who would refrain (if they could) 
 from laughing at his jests. These people do not 
 understand his claim to grateful and affectionate 
 regard. He did more to produce that mental con- 
 dition of which laughter is the expression than any 
 man who ever lived. But for the cheering presence 
 of him, and men like him, this vale of tears would be 
 a more terrible dwelling-place than it is. In short, 
 Falstaff has done an immense deal to alleviate misery 
 and promote positive happiness. What more can be 
 said of your heroes and philanthropists ? 
 
 It is, perhaps, characteristic of this commercial age 
 that benevolence should be always associated, if not 
 considered synonymous, with the giving of money. 
 But this is clearly mistaken, for we have to consider 
 what effect the money given produces on the minds 
 and bodies of human beings. Sir Richard Whittington
 
 124 FALSTAFF 
 
 was an eminently benevolent man, and spent his 
 money freely for the good of his fellow- citizens. (We 
 sincerely hope, by the way, that he lent some of it to 
 Falstaff without security.) He endowed hospitals 
 and other charities. Hundreds were reUeved by his 
 gifts, and thousands (perhaps) are now in receipt of 
 his alms. This is well. Let the sick and the poor, 
 who enjoy his hospitality and receive his doles, bless 
 his memory. But how much wider and further- 
 reaching is the influence of Falstaff! Those who 
 enjoy his good things are not only the poor and the 
 sick, but all who speak the English language. Nay, 
 more ; translation has made him the inheritance of 
 the world, and the benefactor of the entire human 
 race. 
 
 It may be, however, that some other nations fail 
 fully to understand and appreciate the mirth and the 
 character of the man. A Dr. G. G. Gervinus, of 
 Heidelberg, has written, in the German language, a 
 heavy work on Shakespeare, in which he attacks 
 Falstaff in a very solemn and determined manner, and 
 particularly charges him with selfishness and want of 
 conscience. We are inclined to set down this malig- 
 nant attack to envy. Falstaff is the author and cause 
 of universal laughter. Dr. Gervinus will never be the 
 cause of anything universal ; but, so far as his influ- 
 ence extends, he produces headaches. It is probably 
 a painful sense of this contrast that goads on the 
 author of headaches to attack the author of laughter. 
 
 But is there anything in the charge ? We do not 
 claim anything like perfection, or even saintliness, for 
 Falstaff. But we may say of him, as Byron says of
 
 FALSTAFF 125 
 
 Venice, that his very vices are of the gentler sort. 
 And as for this charge of selfishness and want of 
 conscience, we think that the words of Bardolph on 
 his master's death are an overwhelming answer to it. 
 Bardolph said, on hearing the news : ' I would I were 
 with him wheresoever he is : whether he be in heaven 
 or hell.' Bardolph was a mere serving-man, not of 
 the highest sensibility, and he for thirty years knew 
 his master as his valet knows the hero. Surely the 
 man who could draw such an expression of feeling 
 from his rough servant is not the man to be lightly 
 charged with selfishness ! Which of us can hope for 
 such an epitaph, not from a hireling, but from our 
 nearest and dearest ? Does Dr. Gervinus know any- 
 one who will make such a reply to a posthumous 
 charge against him of dulness and lack of humour ?
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 IT is now more than sixty years ago since Mr. 
 Carlyle took occasion to observe, in his Life of 
 Schiller, that, except the Newgate Calendar, there 
 was no more sickening reading than the biographies 
 of authors. 
 
 Allowing for the vivacity of the comparison, and 
 only remarking, with reference to the Newgate 
 Calendar, that its compilers have usually been very 
 inferior wits, in fact attorneys, it must be owned that 
 great creative and inventive genius, the most brilliant 
 gifts of bright fancy and happy expression, and a 
 glorious imagination, well-nigh seeming as if it must 
 be inspired, have too often been found most unsuitably 
 lodged in ill-living and scandalous mortals. Though 
 few things, even in what is called Literature, are 
 more disgusting than to hear small critics, who earn 
 their bite and sup by acting as the self-appointed 
 showmen of the works of their betters, heaping terms 
 of moral opprobrium upon those whose genius is, if 
 not exactly a lamp unto our feet, at all events a joy to 
 our hearts, — still, not even genius can repeal the
 
 JOHN MILTON 127 
 
 Decalogue, or re-write the sentence of doom, ' He 
 which is filthy, let him be filthy still.' It is therefore 
 permissible to wish that some of our great authors 
 had been better men. 
 
 It is possible to dislike John Milton. Men have 
 been found able to do so, and women too ; among 
 these latter his daughters, or one of them at least, 
 must even be included. But there is nothing sicken- 
 ing about his biography, for it is the life of one 
 who early consecrated himself to the service of the 
 highest Muses, who took labour and intent study 
 as his portion, who aspired himself to be a noble 
 poem, who. Republican though he became, is what 
 Carlyle called him, the moral king of English litera- 
 ture. 
 
 Milton was born in Bread Street, Cheapside, on the 
 gth of December, 1608. This is most satisfactory, 
 though indeed what might have been expected. 
 There is a notable disposition nowadays, amongst the 
 meaner-minded provincials, to carp and gird at the 
 claims of London to be considered the mother-city of 
 the Anglo-Saxon race, to regret her pre-eminence, and 
 sneer at her fame. In the matters of municipal govern- 
 ment, gas, water, fog, and snow, much can be alleged 
 and proved against the English capital, but in the 
 domain of poetry, which I take to be a nation's best 
 guaranteed stock, it may safely be said that there are 
 but two shrines in England whither it is necessary for 
 the literary pilgrim to carry his cockle hat and shoon — 
 London, the birthplace of Chaucer, Spenser, Ben 
 Jonson, Milton, Herrick, Pope, Gray, Blake, Keats, 
 and Browning, and Stratford-upon-Avon, the birth-
 
 128 JOHN MILTON 
 
 place of Shakespeare. Of English poets it may be 
 said generally they are either born in London or 
 remote country places. The large provincial towns 
 know them not. Indeed, nothing is more pathetic 
 than the way in which these dim, destitute places hug 
 the memory of any puny whipster of a poet who may 
 have been born within their statutory boundaries. 
 This has its advantages, for it keeps alive in certain 
 localities fames that would otherwise have utterly 
 perished. Parnassus has forgotten all about poor 
 Henry Kirke White, but the lace manufacturers of 
 Nottingham still name him with whatever degree of 
 reverence they may respectively consider to be the due 
 of letters. Manchester is yet mindful of Dr. John 
 Byrom. Liverpool clings to Roscoe. 
 
 Milton remained faithful to his birth-city, though, 
 like many another Londoner, when he was persecuted 
 in one house he fled into another. From Bread 
 Street he moved to St. Bride's Churchyard, Fleet 
 Street ; from Fleet Street to Aldersgate Street ; from 
 Aldersgate Street to the Barbican ; from the Barbican 
 to the south side of Holborn ; from the south side of 
 Holborn to what is now called York Street, West- 
 minster ; from York Street, Westminster, to the north 
 side of Holborn ; from the north side of Holborn to 
 Jewin Street ; from Jewin Street to his last abode in 
 Bunhill Fields. These are not vain repetitions if they 
 serve to remind a single reader how all the enchant- 
 ments of association lie about him. Englishwomen 
 have been found searching about Florence for the 
 street where George Eliot represents Romola as 
 having lived, who have admitted never having been to
 
 JOHN MILTON 129 
 
 Jewin Street, where the author of Lycidas and Paradise 
 Lost did in fact live. 
 
 Milton's father was the right kind of father, amiable, 
 accomplished, and well-to-do. He was by business 
 what was then called a scrivener, a term which has 
 received judicial interpretation, and imported a person 
 who arranged loans on mortgage, receiving a com- 
 mission for so doing. The poet's mother, whose 
 baptismal name was Sarah (his father was, like him- 
 self, John), was a lady of good extraction, and ap- 
 proved excellence and virtue. We do not know very 
 much about her, for the poet was one of those rare 
 men of genius who are prepared to do justice to their 
 fathers. Though Sarah Milton did not die till 1637, 
 she only knew her son as the author of Comus, though 
 it is surely a duty to believe that no son would have 
 poems like U Allegro and II Penseroso in his desk, and 
 not at least once produce them and read them aloud to 
 his mother. These poems, though not published till 
 1645, were certainly composed in his mother's life. 
 She died before the troubles began, the strife and 
 contention in which her well-graced son, the poet, the 
 dreamer of all things beautiful and cultured, the author 
 of the glancing, tripping measure — 
 
 ' Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
 Jest and youthful jolUty ' — 
 
 was destined to take a part, so eager and so fierce, 
 and for which he was to sacrifice twenty years of a 
 poet's life. 
 
 The poet was sent to St. Paul's School, where he 
 had excellent teaching of a humane and expanding 
 
 9
 
 I30 JOHN MILTON 
 
 character, and he early became, what he remained 
 
 until his sight left him, a strenuous reader and a late 
 
 student. 
 
 • Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
 Be seen on some high, lonely tower, 
 Where I may oft outwatch the Bear.' 
 
 Whether the maid who was told off by the elder 
 Milton to sit up till twelve or one o'clock in the morn- 
 ing for this wonderful Pauline realized that she was a 
 kind of doorkeeper in the house of genius, and blessed 
 accordingly, is not known, and may be doubted. 
 When sixteen years old Milton proceeded to Christ's 
 College, Cambridge, where his memory is still 
 cherished; and a mulberry-tree, supposed in some 
 way to be his, rather unkindly kept alive. Milton 
 was not a submissive pupil ; in fact, he was never a 
 submissive anything, for there is point in Dr. John- 
 son's maUcious remark, that man in Milton's opinion 
 was born to be a rebel, and woman a slave. 
 
 But in most cases, at all events, the rebel did well 
 to be rebellious, and perhaps he was never so entirely 
 in the right as when he protested against the slavish 
 traditions of Cambridge educational methods in 1625, 
 Universities must, however, at all times prove dis- 
 appointing places to the young and ingenuous soul, 
 who goes up to them eager for literature, seeing in 
 every don a devotee to intellectual beauty, and hoping 
 that lectures will, by some occult process — the genkis 
 loci — initiate him into the mysteries of taste and the 
 storehouses of culture. And then the improving con- 
 versation, the flashing wit, the friction of mind with 
 mind, — these are looked for, but hardly found; and
 
 JOHN MILTON 131 
 
 the young scholar groans in spirit, and perhaps does 
 as Milton did — quarrels with his tutor. But if he is 
 wise he will, as Milton also did, make it up again, and 
 get the most that he can from his stony-hearted step- 
 mother before the time comes for him to bid her his 
 Vale, vale, et sternum vale. 
 
 Milton remained seven years at Cambridge — from 
 1625 to 1632 — from his seventeenth to his twenty- 
 fourth year. Any intention or thought he ever may 
 have had of taking orders he seems early to have 
 rejected with a characteristic scorn. He considered a 
 state of subscription to articles a state of slavery, and 
 Milton was always determined, whatever else he was 
 or might become, to be his own man. Though never 
 in sympathy with the governing tone of the place, 
 there is no reason to suppose that Milton (any more 
 than others) found this lack seriously to interfere with 
 a fair amount of good solid enjoyment from day to 
 day. He had friends who courted his society, and 
 pursuits both grave and gay to occupy his hours of 
 study and relaxation. He was called the ' Lady ' of 
 his college, on account of his personal beauty and the 
 purity and daintiness of his life and conversation. 
 
 After leaving Cambridge Milton began his life, so 
 attractive to one's thoughts, at Horton, in Bucking- 
 hamshire, where his father had a house in which his 
 mother was living. Here, for five years, from his 
 twenty-fourth to his twenty-ninth year — a period 
 often stormy in the lives of poets — he continued his 
 work of self-education. Some of his Cambridge 
 friends appear to have grown a little anxious, on 
 seeing one who had distinction stamped upon his brow, 
 
 9—2
 
 132 JOHN MILTON 
 
 doing what the world calls nothing ; and Milton him- 
 self was watchful, and even suspicious. His second 
 sonnet records this state of feeling : 
 
 ' How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 
 Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year ! 
 My hasting days fly on with full career, 
 But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.' 
 
 And yet no poet had ever a more beautiful springtide, 
 though it was restless, as spring should be, with the 
 promise of greater things and ' high midsummer 
 pomps.' These latter it was that were postponed 
 almost too long. 
 
 Milton at Horton made up his mind to be a great 
 poet — neither more nor less ; and with that end in 
 view he toiled unceasingly. A more solemn dedica- 
 tion of a man by himself to the poetical office cannot 
 be imagined. Everything about him became, as it 
 were, pontifical, almost sacramental. A poet's soul 
 must contain the perfect shape of all things good, 
 wise, and just. His body must be spotless and with- 
 out blemish, his life pure, his thoughts high, his 
 studies intense. There was no drinking at the ' Mer- 
 maid ' for John Milton. His thoughts, like his joys, 
 were not those that are in widest commonalty spread. 
 When in his walks he met the Hodge of his period, 
 he is more likely to have thought of a line in Virgil 
 than of stopping to have a chat with the poor fellow. 
 He became a student of the Italian language, and 
 writes to a friend : ' I who certainly have not merely 
 ' wetted the tip of my lips in the stream of these (the 
 ' classical) languages, but in proportion to my years
 
 JOHN MILTON 133 
 
 ' have swallowed the most copious draughts, can yet 
 ' sometimes retire with avidity and delight to feast on 
 ' Dante, Petrarch, and many others ; nor has Athens 
 * itself been able to confine me to the transparent 
 ' waves of its Ilissus, nor ancient Rome to the banks 
 ' of its Tiber, so as to prevent my visiting with delight 
 ' the streams of the Arno and the hills of Faesolae.' 
 
 Now it was that he, in his often-quoted words 
 written to the young Deodati, doomed to an early 
 death, was meditating ' an immortahty of fame,' 
 letting his wings grow and preparing to fly. But 
 dreaming though he ever was of things to come, none 
 the less, it was at Horton he composed Comus, Lycidas, 
 U Allegro, and II Pensevoso, poems which enable us 
 half sadly to realize how much went and how much 
 was sacrificed to make the author of Paradise Lost. 
 
 After five years' retirement Milton began to feel 
 the want of a little society, of the kind that is ' quiet, 
 wise, and good,' and he meditated taking chambers in 
 one of the Inns of Court, where he could have a 
 pleasant and shady walk under ' immemorial elms,' 
 and also enjoy the advantages of a few choice associates 
 at home and an elegant society abroad. The death of 
 his mother in 1637 gave his thoughts another direc- 
 tion, and he obtained his father's permission to travel 
 to Italy, ' that woman-country, wooed not wed,' which 
 has been the mistress of so many poetical hearts, and 
 was so of John Milton's. His friends and relatives 
 saw but one difficulty in the way. John Milton the 
 younger, though not at this time a Nonconformist, 
 was a stern and unbending Protestant, and was as 
 bitter an opponent of His Holiness the Pope as he
 
 134 JOHN MILTON 
 
 certainly would have been, had his days been pro- 
 longed, of His Majesty the Pretender. 
 
 There is something very characteristic in this almost 
 inflamed hostility in the case of a man with such love 
 of beauty and passion for architecture and music as 
 always abided in Milton, and who could write : 
 
 ' But let my due feet never fail 
 To walk the studious cloisters' pale, 
 And love the high embowed roof, 
 With antique pillars massy-proof, 
 And storied windows richly dight, 
 Casting a dim, religious light. 
 There let the pealing organ blow 
 To the full-voiced quire below, 
 In service high and anthems clear. 
 As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 
 Dissolve me into ecstasies. 
 And bring all heaven before my eyes.' 
 
 Here surely is proof of an aesthetic nature beyond 
 most of our modern raptures ; but none the less, and 
 at the very same time, Rome was for Milton the ' grim 
 wolf who, 'with privy paw, daily devours apace.' 
 It is with a sigh of sad sincerity that Dr. Newman 
 admits that Milton breathes through his pages a 
 hatred of the Catholic Church, and consequently the 
 Cardinal feels free to call him a proud and rebellious 
 creature of God. That Milton was both proud and 
 rebellious cannot be disputed. Nonconformists need 
 not claim him for their own with much eagerness. 
 What he thought of Presbyterians we know, and he 
 was never a church member, or indeed a church-goer. 
 Dr. Newman has admitted that the poet Pope was an 
 unsatisfactory Catholic ; Milton was certainly an un- 
 satisfactory Dissenter. Let us be candid in these
 
 JOHN MILTON 135 
 
 matters, Milton was therefore bidden by his friends, 
 and by those with whom he took counsel, to hold his 
 peace whilst in Rome about the ' grim wolf,' and he 
 promised to do so, adding, however, the Miltonic 
 proviso that this was on condition that the Papists 
 did not attack his religion first. ' If anyone,' he 
 wrote, ' in the very city of the Pope attacked the 
 ♦ orthodox religion, I defended it most freely.' To 
 call the Protestant religion, which had not yet attained 
 to its second century, the orthodox religion under the 
 shadow of the Vatican was to have the courage of his 
 opinions. But Milton was not a man to be frightened 
 of schism. That his religious opinions should be 
 peculiar probably seemed to him to be almost in- 
 evitable, and not unbecoming. He would have agreed 
 with Emerson, who declares that would man be great 
 he must be a Nonconformist. 
 
 There is something very fascinating in the records 
 we have of Milton's one visit to the Continent. A 
 more impressive Englishman never left our shores. 
 Sir Philip Sidney perhaps approaches him nearest. 
 Beautiful beyond praise, and just sufficiently conscious 
 of it to be careful never to appear at a disadvantage, 
 dignified in manners, versed in foreign tongues, yet 
 full of the ancient learning — a gentleman, a scholar, a 
 poet, a musician, and a Christian — he moved about in 
 a leisurely manner from city to city, writing Latin 
 verses for his hosts and Italian sonnets in their ladies' 
 albums, buying books and music, and creating, one 
 cannot doubt, an all too flattering impression of an 
 English Protestant. To travel in Italy with Montaigne 
 or Milton, or Evelyn or Gray, or Shelley, or, pathetic
 
 136 JOHN MILTON 
 
 as it is, with the dying Sir Walter, is perhaps more 
 instructive than to go there for yourself with a tourist's 
 ticket. Old Montaigne, who was but forty-seven 
 when he made his journey, and whom therefore I 
 would not call old had not Pope done so before me, is 
 the most delightful of traveUing companions, and as 
 easy as an old shoe. A humaner man than Milton, a 
 wiser man than Evelyn — with none of the constraint 
 of Gray, or the strange, though fascinating, outlandish- 
 ness of Shelley — he perhaps was more akin to Scott 
 than any of the other travellers ; but Scott went to 
 Italy an overwhelmed man, whose only fear was he 
 might die away from the heather and the murmur of 
 Tweed. However, Milton is the most improving 
 companion of them all, and amidst the impurities of 
 Italy, ' in all the places where vice meets with so little 
 ' discouragement, and is protected with so little shame,' 
 he remained the Milton of Cambridge and Horton, 
 and did nothing to pollute the pure temple of a poet's 
 mind. He visited Paris, Nice, Genoa, Pisa, and 
 Florence, staying in the last city two months, and 
 living on terms of great intimacy with seven young 
 Italians, whose musical names he duly records. 
 These were the months of August and September, not 
 nowadays reckoned safe months for Englishmen to be 
 in Florence — modern lives being raised in price. From 
 Florence he proceeded through Siena to Rome, where 
 he also stayed two months. There he was present at 
 a magnificent entertainment given by the Cardinal 
 Francesco Barberini in his palace, and heard the 
 singing of the celebrated Leonora Baroni. It is not 
 for one moment to be supposed that he sought an
 
 JOHN MILTON 137 
 
 interview with the Pope, as Montaigne had done, who 
 was exhorted by His HoHness ' to persevere in the 
 ' devotion he had ever manifested in the cause of the 
 ' Church ;' and yet perhaps Montaigne by his essays 
 did more to sap the authority of Peter's chair than 
 Milton, however wiUing, was able to do. 
 
 It has been remarked that Milton's chief enthusiasm 
 in Italy was not art, but music, which falls in with 
 Coleridge's dictum, that Milton is not so much a 
 picturesque as a musical poet — meaning thereby, I 
 suppose, that the effects which he produces and the 
 scenes which he portrays are rather suggested to us by 
 the rhythm of his lines than by actual verbal descrip- 
 tions. From Rome Milton went to Naples, whence 
 he had intended to go to Sicily and Greece ; but the 
 troubles beginning at home he forewent this pleasure, 
 and consequently never saw Athens, which was surely 
 a great pity. He returned to Rome, where, troubles 
 or no troubles, he stayed another two months. From 
 Rome he went back to Florence, which he found too 
 pleasant to leave under two more months. Then he 
 went to Lucca, and so to Venice, where he was very 
 stern with himself, and only lingered a month. From 
 Venice he went to Milan, and then over the Alps to 
 Geneva, where he had dear friends. He was back in 
 London in August, 1639, after an absence of fifteen 
 months. 
 
 The times were troubled enough. Charles I., whose 
 literary taste was so good that one must regret the 
 mischance that placed a crown upon his comely head, 
 was trying hard, at the bidding of a priest, to thrust 
 Episcopacy down Scottish throats, who would not
 
 138 JOHN MILTON 
 
 have it at any price. He was desperately in need of 
 money, and the House of Commons (which had then 
 a raison d'etre) was not prepared to give him any 
 except on terms. Altogether it was an exciting time, 
 but Milton was in no way specially concerned in it. 
 Milton looms so large in our imagination amongst the 
 figures of the period that, despite Dr. Johnson's 
 sneers, we are apt to forget his political insignificance, 
 and to fancy him curtailing his tour and returning 
 home to take his place amongst the leaders of the 
 Parliament men. Return home he did, but it was, as 
 another pedagogue has reminded us, to receive boys 
 ' to be boarded and instructed.' Dr. Johnson tells us 
 that we ought not to allow our veneration for Milton 
 to rob us of a joke at the expense of a man ' who 
 ' hastens home because his countrymen are contending 
 ' for their liberty, and when he reaches the scene of 
 ' action vapours away his patriotism in a private 
 ' boarding-school ;' but that this observation was 
 dictated by the good Doctor's spleen is made plain by 
 his immediately proceeding to point out, with his 
 accustomed good sense, that there is really nothing 
 to laugh at, since it was desirable that Milton, whose 
 father was alive and could only make him a small 
 allowance, should do something, and there was no 
 shame in his adopting an honest and useful employment. 
 To be a Parliament man was no part of the ambition 
 of one who still aspired to be a poet ; who was not 
 yet blind to the heavenly vision ; who was still medi- 
 tating what should be his theme, and who in the 
 meantime chastised his sister's sons, unruly lads, who 
 did him no credit and bore him no great love.
 
 JOHN MILTON 139 
 
 The Long Parliament met in November, 1640, and 
 began its work — brought Strafford to the scaffold, 
 clapped Laud into the Tower, Archbishop though he 
 was, and secured as best they could the permanency 
 of Parliamentary institutions. None of these things 
 specially concerned John Milton. But there also 
 uprose the eternal Church question, ' What sort of 
 Church are we to have?' The fierce controversy 
 raged, and ' its fair enticing fruit,' spread round ' with 
 liberal hand,' proved too much for the father of 
 English epic. 
 
 ' He scrupled not to eat 
 Against his better knowledge.' 
 
 In other words, he commenced pamphleteer, and 
 between May, 1641, and the following March he had 
 written five pamphlets against Episcopacy, and used 
 an intolerable deal of bad language, which, however 
 excusable in a heated controversialist, ill became the 
 author of Comus. 
 
 The war broke out in 1642, but Milton kept house. 
 The ' tented field ' had no attractions for him. 
 
 In the summer of 1643 he took a sudden journey 
 into the country, and returned home to his boys with 
 a wife, the daughter of an Oxfordshire Cavalier. Poor 
 Mary Powell was but seventeen, her poetic lord was 
 thirty-five. From the country-house of a rollicking 
 squire to Aldersgate Street, was somewhat too violent 
 a change. She had left ten brothers and sisters 
 behind her, the eldest twenty-one, the youngest four. 
 As one looks upon this picture and on that, there is no 
 need to wonder that the poor girl was unhappy. The 
 poet, though keenly alive to the subtle charm of a
 
 140 JOHN MILTON 
 
 woman's personality, was unpractised in the arts of 
 daily companionship. He expected to find much more 
 than he brought of general good-fellowship. He had 
 an ideal ever in his mind of both bodily and spiritual 
 excellence, and he was almost greedy to realize both, 
 but he knew not how. One of his complaints was 
 that his wife was mute and insensate, and sat silent at 
 his board. It must, no doubt, have been deadly dull, 
 that house in Aldersgate Street. Silence reigned, 
 save when broken by the cries of the younger Phillips 
 sustaining chastisement. Milton had none of that 
 noble humanitarian spirit which had led Montaigne 
 long years before him to protest against the cowardly 
 traditions of the schoolroom. After a month of 
 Aldersgate Street, Mrs. Milton begged to go home. 
 Her wish was granted, and she ran back to her ten 
 brothers and sisters, and when her leave of absence 
 was up refused to return. Her husband was furiously 
 angry ; and in a time so short as almost to enforce the 
 belief that he began the work during the honeymoon, 
 was ready with his celebrated pamphlet. The Doctrine 
 and Discipline of Divorce restored to the good of both sexes. 
 He is even said, with his accustomed courage, to have 
 paid attentions to a Miss Davis, who is described as a 
 very handsome and witty gentlewoman, and therefore 
 not one likely to sit silent at his board ; but she was 
 a sensible girl as well, and had no notion of a married 
 suitor. Of Milton's pamphlet it is everyone's duty to 
 speak with profound respect. It is a noble and 
 passionate cry for a high ideal of married life, which, 
 so he argued, had by inflexible laws been changed 
 into a drooping and disconsolate household captivity,
 
 JOHN MILTON 141 
 
 without refuge or redemption. He shuddered at the 
 thought of a man and woman being condemned, for a 
 mistake of judgment, to be bound together to their 
 unspeakable wearisomeness and despair, for, he says, 
 not to be beloved and yet retained is the greatest 
 injury to a gentle spirit. Our present doctrine of 
 divorce, which sets the household captive free on pay- 
 ment of a broken vow, but on no less ignoble terms, 
 is not founded on the congruous, and is indeed already 
 discredited, if not disgraced. 
 
 This pamphlet on divorce marks the beginning of 
 Milton's mental isolation. Nobody had a word to 
 say for it. Episcopalian, Presbyterian, and Inde- 
 pendent held his doctrine in as much abhorrence as 
 did the Catholic, and all alike regarded its author as 
 either an impracticable dreamer or worse. It was 
 written certainly in too great haste, for his errant wife, 
 actuated by what motives cannot now be said, re- 
 turned to her allegiance, was mindful of her plighted 
 troth, and, suddenly entering his room, fell at his feet 
 and begged to be forgiven. She was only nineteen, 
 and she said it was all her mother's fault. Milton 
 was not a sour man, and though perhaps too apt to 
 insist upon repentance preceding forgiveness, yet when 
 it did so he could forgive divinely. In a very short 
 time the whole family of Powells, whom the war had 
 reduced to low estate, were living under his roof in the 
 Barbican, whither he moved on the Aldersgate house 
 proving too small for his varied belongings. The 
 poet's father also lived with his son. 
 
 Mrs. Milton had four children, three of whom, all 
 daughters, Uved to grow up. The mother died in
 
 142 JOHN MILTON 
 
 childbirth in 1652, being then twenty-six years of 
 
 age. 
 
 The Anopagitica, a Speech for Unlicensed Printing, 
 followed the divorce pamphlet, but it also fell upon 
 deaf ears. Of all religious sects the Presbyterians, 
 who were then dominant, are perhaps the least likely 
 to forego the privilege of interference in the affairs of 
 others. Instead of the Archbishop of Canterbury and 
 the Bishop of London, instead of ' a lordly Imprimatur, 
 ' one from Lambeth House, another from the west 
 
 * end of Paul's,' there was appointed a commission of 
 twenty Presbyterians to act as State Licensers. Then 
 was Milton's soul stirred within him to a noble rage. 
 His was a threefold protest — as a citizen of a State 
 he fondly hoped had been free, as an author, and as 
 a reader. As a citizen he protested against so un- 
 necessary and improper an interference. It is not, he 
 cried, 'the unfrocking of a priest, the unmitring of 
 ' a bishop, that will make us a happy nation,' but 
 the practice of virtue, and virtue means freedom 
 to choose. Milton was a manly pohtician, and de- 
 tested with his whole soul grandmotherly legislation. 
 
 * He who is not trusted with his own actions, his drift 
 ' not being known to be evil, and standing to the 
 ' hazard of law and penalty, has no great argument to 
 ' think himself reputed in the commonwealth wherein 
 
 * he was born, for other than a fool or a foreigner.' 
 
 * They are not skilful considerers of human things 
 ' who imagine to remove sin by removing the matter 
 ' of sin.' ' And were I the chooser, a dram of well- 
 
 * doing should be preferred before many times as much 
 
 * the forcible hindrance of evil doing.' These are texts
 
 JOHN MILTON 143 
 
 upon which sermons, not inappHcable to our own day, 
 might be preached. Milton has made our first parent 
 so pecuHarly his own, that any observations of his 
 about Adam are interesting. ' Many there be that 
 ' complain of Divine Providence for suffering Adam to 
 ' transgress. Foolish tongues ! When God gave him 
 ' reason He gave him freedom to choose, for reason is 
 ' but choosing ; he had been else a mere artificial 
 ' Adam. We ourselves esteem not of that obedience 
 ' a love or gift which is of force. God therefore left 
 ' him free, set before him a provoking object ever 
 ' almost in his eyes ; herein consisted his merit, herein 
 ' the right of his reward, the praise of his abstinence.' 
 So that according to Milton even Eden was a state of 
 trial. As an author, Milton's protest has great force. 
 ' And what if the author shall be one so copious of 
 ' fancy as to have many things well worth the adding 
 ' come into his mind after licensing, while the book is 
 ' yet under the press, which not seldom happens to the 
 ' best and diligentest writers, and that perhaps a 
 ' dozen times in one book ? The printer dares not go 
 ' beyond his Hcensed copy. So often then must the 
 ' author trudge to his leave-giver that those his new 
 ' insertions may be viewed, and many a jaunt will be 
 ' made ere that licenser — for it must be the same man 
 ' —can either be found, or found at leisure ; mean- 
 ' while either the press must stand still, which is no 
 ' small damage, or the author lose his accuratest 
 ' thoughts, and send forth the book worse than he 
 * made it, which to a diligent writer is the greatest 
 ''melancholy and vexation that can befall.' 
 
 Milton would have had no licensers. Every book
 
 144 JOHN MILTON 
 
 should bear the printer's name, and ' mischievous and 
 ' hbellous books ' were to be burnt by the common 
 hangman, not as an effectual remedy, but as the ' most 
 ' effectual remedy man's prevention can use.' 
 
 The noblest pamphlet in ' our English, the language 
 ' of men ever famous and foremost in the achievements 
 ' of liberty,' accomplished nothing, and its author must 
 already have thought himself fallen on evil days. 
 
 In the year 1645, the year of Naseby, as Mr. 
 Pattison reminds us, appeared the first edition of 
 Milton's Poems. Then, for the first time, were 
 printed L' Allegro and // Penseroso, the Ode on the 
 Morning of Chrisfs Nativity, and various of the sonnets. 
 The little volume also contained Comns and Lycidas, 
 which had been previously printed. With the excep- 
 tion of three sonnets and a few scraps of translation, 
 Milton had written nothing but pamphlets since his 
 return from Italy. At the beginning of the volume, 
 which is a small octavo, was a portrait of the poet, 
 most villainously executed. He was really thirty- 
 seven, but flattered himself, as men of that age will, 
 that he looked ten years younger ; he was therefore 
 much chagrined to find himself represented as a grim- 
 looking gentleman of at least fifty. The way he 
 revenged himself upon the hapless artist is well known. 
 The volume, with the portrait, is now very scarce, 
 almost rare. 
 
 In 1647 Milton removed from the Barbican, both 
 his father and his father-in-law being dead, to a smaller 
 house in Holborn, backing upon Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 close to where the Inns of Court Hotel now stands, 
 and not far from the spot which was destined to
 
 JOHN MILTON • 145 
 
 witness the terrible tragedy which was at once to 
 darken and glorify the life of one of Milton's most 
 fervent lovers, Charles Lamb. About this time he is 
 supposed to have abandoned pedagogy. The habit of 
 pamphleteering stuck to him ; indeed, it is one seldom 
 thrown off. It is so much easier to throw off the 
 pamphlets. 
 
 In 1649 Milton became a public servant, receiving 
 the appointment of Latin Secretary to the Council of 
 Foreign Affairs. He knew some member of the 
 Committee, who obtained his nomination. His duties 
 were purely clerkly. It was his business to translate 
 English despatches into Latin, and foreign despatches 
 into English. He had nothing whatever to do with 
 the shaping of the foreign policy of the Common- 
 wealth. He was not even employed in translating 
 the most important of the State papers. There is no 
 reason for supposing that he even knew the leading 
 politicians of his time. There is a print one sees 
 about, representing Oliver Cromwell dictating a 
 foreign despatch to John Milton ; but it is all imagina- 
 tion, nor is there anything to prove that Cromwell 
 and Milton, the body and soulof English Republicanism, 
 were ever in the same room together, or exchanged 
 words with one another. Milton's name does not 
 occur in the great history of Lord Clarendon. White- 
 locke, who was the leading member of the Committee 
 which Milton served, only mentions him once. 
 Thurloe spoke of him as a blind man who wrote 
 Latin letters. Richard Baxter, in his folio history 
 of his Life and Times, never mentions Milton at all.''' 
 
 * See note to Mitford's Milton, vol. i., clii. 
 
 10
 
 146 JOHN MILTON 
 
 He was just a clerk in the service of the Common- 
 wealth, of a scholarly bent, peculiar habit of thought, 
 and somewhat of an odd temper. He was not the 
 man to cultivate great acquaintances, or to fritter 
 away his time waiting the convenience of other people. 
 When once asked to use his influence to obtain for a 
 friend an appointment, he replied he had no influence, 
 ^propter paucissimas familiaritates mens cum gratiosis, qui 
 ' domi fere, idqne libentev, me contineo.' The busy great 
 men of the day would have been more than astonished, 
 they would have been disgusted, had they been told 
 that posterity would refer to most of them com- 
 pendiously, as having lived in the age of Milton. 
 But this need not trouble us. 
 
 On the Continent Milton enjoyed a wider reputa- 
 tion, on account of his controversy with the great 
 European scholar, Salmasius, on the sufficiently im- 
 portant and interesting, and then novel, subject of 
 the execution of Charles I. Was it justifiable ? 
 Salmasius, a scholar and a Protestant, though of an 
 easy-going description, was employed, or rather, as 
 he had no wages (Milton's hundred Jacobuses being 
 fictitious), nominated by Charles, afterwards the 
 Second, to indict the regicides at the bar of European 
 opinion, which accordingly he did in the Latin 
 language. The work reached this country in the 
 autumn of 1649, and it evidently became the duty of 
 somebody to answer it. Two qualifications were 
 necessary — the replier must be able to read Latin, 
 and to write it after a manner which should escape 
 the ridicule of the scholars of Leyden, Geneva, and 
 Paris. Milton occurred to somebody's mind, and the
 
 JOHN MILTON 147 
 
 task was entrusted to him. It is not to be supposed 
 that Cromwell was ever at the pains to read Salmasius 
 for himself, but still it would not have done to have it 
 said that the Defensio Regia of so celebrated a scholar 
 as Salmasius remained unanswered, and so the appoint- 
 ment was confirmed, and Milton, no new hand at a 
 pamphlet, set to work. In March, 1651, his first 
 Defence of the English People was in print. In this great 
 pamphlet Milton asserts, as against the doctrine of the 
 divine right of kings, the undisputed sovereignty of 
 the people ; and he maintains the proposition that, as 
 well by the law of God, as by the law of nations, and 
 the law of England, a king of England may be brought 
 to trial and death, the people being discharged from 
 all obligations of loyalty when a lawful prince becomes 
 a tyrant, or gives himself over to sloth and voluptuous- 
 ness. This noble argument, alike worthy of the man 
 and the occasion, is doubtless over-clouded and dis- 
 figured by personal abuse of Salmasius, whose rela- 
 tions with his wife had surely as little to do with the 
 head of Charles I. as had poor Mr. Dick's memorial. 
 Salmasius, it appears, was henpecked, and to allow 
 yourself to be henpecked was, in Milton's opinion, a 
 high crime and misdemeanour against humanity, and 
 one which rendered a man infamous, and disqualified 
 him from taking part in debate. 
 
 It has always been reported that Salmasius, who 
 was getting on in years, and had many things to 
 trouble him besides his own wife, perished in the 
 effort of writing a reply to Milton, in which he made 
 use of language quite as bad as any of his opponent's ; 
 but it now appears that this is not so. Indeed, it 
 
 10 — 2
 
 148 JOHN MILTON 
 
 is generally rash to attribute a man's death to a 
 pamphlet, or an article, either of his own or anybody 
 else's. 
 
 Salmasius, however, died, though from natural 
 causes, and his reply was not published till after the 
 Restoration, when the question had become, what it 
 has ever since remained, academical. 
 
 Other pens were quicker, and to their productions 
 Milton, in 1654, replied with his Second Defence of the 
 English People, a tract containing autobiographical 
 details of immense interest and charm. By this time 
 he was totally blind, though, with a touch of that 
 personal sensitiveness ever characteristic of him, he is 
 careful to tell Europe, in the Second Defence, that 
 externally his eyes were uninjured, and shone with an 
 unclouded light. 
 
 Milton's Defences of the English People are rendered 
 provoking by his extraordinary language concerning 
 his opponents. ' Numskull,' ' beast,' ' fool,' ' puppy,' 
 ' knave,' * ass,' ' mongrel-cur,' are but a few of the 
 epithets employed. This is doubtless mere matter of 
 pleading, a rule of the forum where controversies 
 between scholars are conducted ; but for that very 
 reason it makes the pamphlets as provoking to an 
 ordinary reader as an old bill of complaint in Chancery 
 must have been to an impatient suitor who wanted 
 his money. The main issues, when cleared of person- 
 alities, are important enough, and are stated by Milton 
 with great clearness. ' Our king made not us, but we 
 ' him. Nature has given fathers to us all, but we 
 ' ourselves appointed our own king ; so that the people 
 ' is not for the king, but the king for them.' It was
 
 JOHN MILTON 149 
 
 made a matter of great offence amongst monarchs 
 and monarchical persons that Charles was subject to 
 the indignity of a trial. With murders and poisonings 
 kings were long familiar. These were part of the 
 perils of the voyage, for which they were prepared, 
 but, as Salmasius put it, ' for a king to be arraigned 
 ' in a court of judicature, to be put to plead for his 
 ' life, to have sentence of death pronounced against 
 ' him, and that sentence executed,' — oh ! horrible 
 impiety. To this Milton replies : * Tell me, thou 
 ' superlative fool, whether it be not more just, more 
 ' agreeable to the rules of humanity and the laws of 
 ' all human societies, to bring a criminal, be his 
 ' offence what it will, before a court of justice, to give 
 ' him leave to speak for himself, and if the law con- 
 ' demns him, then to put him to death as he has 
 ' deserved, so as he may have time to repent or to 
 'recollect himself; than presently, as soon as ever he 
 ' is taken, to butcher him without more ado ?' 
 
 But a king of any spirit would probably answer 
 that he preferred to have his despotism tempered by 
 assassination than by the mercy of a court of John 
 Miltons. To which answer Milton would have re- 
 joined, ' Despotism, I know you not, since we are as 
 ' free as any people under heaven.' 
 
 The weakest part in Milton's case is his having to 
 admit that the Parliament was overawed by the army, 
 which he says was wiser than the senators. 
 
 Milton's address to his countrymen, with which he 
 concludes the first defence, is veritably in his grand 
 style : 
 
 * He has gloriously delivered you, the first of nations.
 
 ISO JOHN MILTON 
 
 * from the two greatest mischiefs of this Hfe — tyranny 
 ' and superstition. He has endued you with greatness 
 ' of mind to be First of Mankind, who after having 
 ' confined their own king and having had him deUvered 
 ' into their hands, have not scrupled to condemn him 
 
 * judicially, and pursuant to that sentence of condemna- 
 ' tion to put him to death. After performing so glorious 
 ' an action as this, you ought to do nothing that's 
 ' mean and little ; you ought not to think of, much 
 ' less do, anything but what is great and sublime. 
 ' Which to attain to, this is your only way : as you 
 ' have subdued your enemies in the field, so to make 
 ' it appear that you of all mankind are best able to 
 ' subdue Ambition, Avarice, the love of Riches, and 
 ' can best avoid the corruptions that prosperity is apt 
 ' to introduce. These are the only arguments by 
 ' which you will be able to evince that you are not 
 ' such persons as this fellow represents you, traitors, 
 ' robbers, murderers, parricides, madmen, that you 
 ' did not put your king to death out of any ambitious 
 ' design — that it was not an act of fury or madness, 
 ' but that it was wholly out of love to your liberty, 
 ' your religion, to justice, virtue, and your country, 
 ' that you punished a tyrant. But if it should fall out 
 ' otherwise (which God forbid), if, as you have been 
 ' valiant in war, you should grow debauched in peace, 
 ' and that you should not have learnt, by so eminent* 
 ' so remarkable an example before your eyes, to fear 
 
 * God, and work righteousness ; for my part I shall 
 ' easily grant and confess (for I cannot deny it), what- 
 ' ever ill men may speak or think of you, to be very 
 
 * true. And you will find in time that God's dis-
 
 JOHN MILTON 151 
 
 * pleasure against you will be greater than it has been 
 
 * against your adversaries — greater than His grace and 
 ' favour have been to yourselves, which you have had 
 ' larger experience of than any other nation under 
 ' heaven.' 
 
 This controversy naturally excited greater interest 
 abroad, where Latin was familiarly known, than ever 
 it did here at home. Though it cost Milton his sight, 
 or at all events accelerated the hour of his blindness, 
 he appears greatly to have enjoyed conducting a high 
 dispute in the face of Europe. ' I am,' so he says, 
 ' spreading abroad amongst the cities, the kingdoms, 
 ' and nations, the restored culture of civility and 
 ' freedom of life.' We certainly managed in this affair 
 of the execution of Charles to get rid of that note of 
 insularity which renders our politics uninviting to the 
 stranger. 
 
 Milton, despite his blindness, remained in the public 
 service until after the death of Cromwell ; in fact, he 
 did not formally resign until after the Restoration. 
 He played no part, having none to play, in the per- 
 formances that occurred between those events. He 
 poured forth pamphlets, but there is no reason to 
 believe that they were read otherwise than carelessly 
 and by few. His ideas were his own, and never had 
 a chance of becoming fruitful. There seemed to him 
 to be a ready and an easy way to establish a free 
 Commonwealth, but on the whole it turned out that 
 the easiest thing to do was to invite Charles Stuart to 
 reascend the throne of his ancestors, which he did, 
 and Milton went into hiding. 
 
 It is terrible to think how risky the situation was.
 
 152 JOHN MILTON 
 
 Milton was undoubtedly in danger of his life, and 
 Paradise Lost was unwritten. He was for a time under 
 arrest. But after all he was not one of the regicides 
 — he was only a scribe who had defended regicide. 
 Neither was he a man well associated. He was a 
 solitary, and, for the most part, an unpopular thinker, 
 and blind withal. He was left alone for the rest of 
 his days. He lived first in Jewin Street, off Alders- 
 gate Street, and finally in Artillery Walk, Bunhill 
 Fields. He had married, four years after his first 
 wife's death, a lady who died within a twelvemonth, 
 though her memory is kept ever fresh, generation 
 after generation, by her husband's sonnet beginning, 
 
 ' Methought I saw my late espoused saint.' 
 
 Dr. Johnson, it is really worth remembering, called 
 this a poor sonnet. In 1664 Milton married a third 
 and last wife, a lady he had never seen, and who 
 survived her husband for no less a period than fifty- 
 three years, not dying till the year 1727. The poet's 
 household, like his country, never realized any of his 
 ideals. His third wife took decent care of him, and 
 there the matter ended. He did not belong to the 
 category of adored fathers. His daughters did not 
 love him — it seems even probable they disliked him. 
 Mr. Pattison has pointed out that Milton never was 
 on terms even with the scholars of his age. Political 
 acquaintances he had none. He was, in Puritan 
 language, ' unconnected with any place of w^orship,' 
 and had therefore no pastoral visits to receive, or 
 sermons to discuss. The few friends he had were 
 mostly young men who were attracted to him, and
 
 JOHN MILTON 153 
 
 were glad to give him their company ; and it is well 
 that he had this pleasure, for he was ever in his wishes 
 a social man — not intended to live alone, and blindness 
 must have made society little short of a necessity for 
 him. 
 
 Now it was, in the evening of his days, with a 
 Stuart once more upon the throne, and Episcopacy 
 finally installed, that Milton, a defeated thinker, a 
 baffled pamphleteer — for had not Salmasius triumphed ? 
 — with Horton and Italy far, far behind him, set him- 
 self to keep the promise of his 'glorious youth, and 
 compose a poem the world should not willingly let die. 
 His manner of life was this. In summer he rose at 
 four, in winter at five. He went to bed at nine. He 
 began the day with having the Hebrew Scriptures 
 read to him. Then he contemplated. At seven his 
 man came to him again, and he read and wrote till an 
 early dinner. For exercise he either walked in the 
 garden or swung in a machine. Besides conversation, 
 his only other recreation was music. He played the 
 organ and the bass viol. He would sometimes sing 
 himself. After recreation of this kind he would return 
 to his study to be read to till six. After six his 
 friends were admitted, and would sit with him till 
 eight. At eight he had his supper — olives or some- 
 thing light. He was very abstemious. After supper 
 he smoked a pipe of tobacco, drank a glass of water, 
 and went to bed. He found the night a favourable 
 time for composition, and what he composed at night 
 he dictated in the day, sitting obliquely in an elbow 
 chair with his leg thrown over the arm. 
 
 In 1664 Paradise Lost was finished, but as in 1665
 
 154 JOHN MILTON 
 
 came the Great Plague, and after the Great Plague 
 the Great Fire, it was long before the MS. found its 
 way into the hands of the licenser. It is interesting 
 to note that the first member of the general public 
 who read Paradise Lost, I hope all through, was a 
 clergyman of the name of Tomkyns, the deputy of the 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Sheldon. The Arch- 
 bishop was the State Licenser for religious books, but 
 of course did not do the work himself. Tomkyns did 
 the work, and was for a good while puzzled what to 
 make of the old Republican's poem. At last, and 
 after some singularly futile criticisms, Tomkyns con- 
 sented to allow the publication of Paradise Lost, which 
 accordingly appeared in 1667, admirably printed, and at 
 the price of 35. a copy. The author's agreement with 
 the publisher is in writing — as Mr. Besant tells us all 
 agreements with publishers should be — and may be 
 seen in the British Museum. Its terms are clear. 
 The poet was to have £^ down ; another £^ when the 
 first edition, which was not to exceed 1,500 copies, 
 was sold ; a third £^ when a second edition was sold ; 
 and a fourth and last £^ when a third edition was 
 sold. He got his first £^, also his second, and after 
 his death his widow sold all her rights for £d). Con- 
 sequently ^18, which represents perhaps ^'50 of our 
 present currency, was Milton's share of all the money 
 that has been made by the sale of his great poem. 
 But the praise is still his. The sale was very con- 
 siderable. The ' general reader ' no doubt preferred 
 the poems of Cleaveland and Flatman, but Milton 
 found an audience which was fit and not fewer than 
 ever is the case when noble poetry is first produced.
 
 JOHN MILTON 155 
 
 Paradise Regained was begun upon the completion 
 of Paradise Lost, and appeared with Samson Agonistes in 
 1671, and here ended Milton's life as a producing poet. 
 He hved on till Sunday, 8th November, 1674, when 
 the gout, or what was then called gout, struck in and 
 he died, and was buried beside his father in the Church 
 of St. Giles's, Cripplegate. He remained laborious to 
 the last, and imposed upon himself all kinds of drudgery, 
 compiling dictionaries, histories of Britain and Russia. 
 He must have worked not so much from love of 
 his subjects as from dread of idleness. But he had 
 hours of relaxation, of social intercourse, and of music ; 
 and it is pleasant to remember that one pipe of tobacco. 
 It consecrates your own. 
 
 Against Milton's great poem it is sometimes alleged 
 that it is not read ; and yet it must, I think, be ad- 
 mitted that for one person who has read Spenser's 
 Fairy Queen, ten thousand might easily be found who 
 have read Paradise Lost. Its popularity has been 
 widespread. Mr. Mark Pattison and Mr. John Bright 
 measure some ground between them. No other 
 poem can be mentioned which has so coloured 
 English thought as Milton's, and yet, according to the 
 French senator whom Mr. Arnold has introduced to 
 the plain reader, 'Paradise Lost is a false poem, a 
 ' grotesque poem, a tiresome poem.' It is not easy 
 for those who have a touch of Milton's temper, though 
 none of his genius, to listen to this foreign criticism 
 quite coolly. Milton was very angry with Salmasius 
 for venturing to find fault with the Long Parliament 
 for having repealed so many laws, and so far forgot 
 himself as to say, ' Nam nostra; leges, Ok, quid ad te ?'
 
 156 JOHN MILTON 
 
 But there is nothing municipal about Paradise Lost. 
 All the world has a right to be interested in it and to 
 find fault with it. But the fact that the people for 
 whom primarily it was written have taken it to their 
 hearts and have it on their lips ought to have pre- 
 vented it being called tiresome by a senator of France, 
 
 But what is the matter with our great epic ? That 
 nobody ever wished it longer is no real accusation. 
 Nobody ever did wish an epic longer. The most 
 popular books in the world are generally accounted 
 too long — Don Quixote, the Pilgrim's Progress, Tom 
 Jones. But, says Mr. Arnold, the whole real interest 
 of the poem depends upon our being able to take it 
 literally ; and again, ' Merely as a matter of poetry, 
 ' the story of the Fall has no special force or effective- 
 ' ness — its effectiveness for us comes, and can only 
 * come, from our taking it all as the literal narrative of 
 ' what positively happened.' These bewildering utter- 
 ances make one rub one's eyes. Carlyle comes to our 
 relief: ' All which propositions I for the present con- 
 ' tent myself with modestly, but peremptorily and 
 ' irrevocably denying.' 
 
 Mr. Pattison surely speaks the language of ordinary 
 good sense when he writes : ' For the world of Paradise 
 ' Lost is an ideal, conventional world quite as much as 
 'the world of the Arabian Nights, or the world of the 
 ' chivalrous romance, or that of the pastoral novel.' 
 
 Coleridge, in the twenty-second chapter of the 
 Biographia Literaria, points out that the fable and 
 characters of Paradise Lost are not derived from Scrip- 
 ture, as in the Messiah of Klopstock, but merely 
 suggested by it — the illusion on which all poetry is
 
 JOHN MILTON 157 
 
 founded being thus never contradicted. The poem 
 proceeds upon a legend, ancient and fascinating, and 
 to call it a commentary upon a few texts in Genesis 
 is a marvellous criticism. 
 
 The story of the Fall of Man, as recorded in the 
 Semitic legend, is to me more attractive as a story 
 than the Tale of Troy, and I find the rebellion of 
 Satan and his dire revenge more to my mind than 
 the circles of Dante. Eve is, I think, more interest- 
 ing than ' Heaven-born Helen, Sparta's queen ' — I 
 mean in herself, and as a woman to write poetry 
 about. 
 
 The execution of the poem is another matter. So 
 far as style is concerned its merits have not yet been 
 questioned. As a matter of style and diction, Milton 
 is as safe as Virgil. The handling of the story is more 
 vulnerable. The long speeches put in the mouth of 
 the Almighty are never pleasing, and seldom effective. 
 The weak point about argument is that it usually 
 admits of being answered. For Milton to essay to 
 justify the ways of God to man was well and pious 
 enough, but to represent God Himself as doing so by 
 argumentative process was not so well, and was to 
 expose the Almighty to possible rebuff. The king is 
 always present in his own courts, but as judge, not as 
 advocate ; hence the royal dignity never suffers. 
 
 It is narrated of an eminent barrister, who became a 
 most polished judge, Mr. Knight Bruce, that once, 
 when at the very head of his profession, he was taken 
 in before a Master in Chancery, an office since 
 abolished, and found himself pitted against a little 
 snip of an attorney's clerk, scarce higher than the
 
 158 JOHN MILTON 
 
 table, who, nothing daunted, and by the aid of 
 authorities he cited from a bundle of books as big as 
 himself, succeeded in worsting Knight Bruce, whom 
 he persisted in calling over again and again ' my 
 ' learned friend.' Mr. Bruce treated the imp with 
 that courtesy which is always an opponent's due, but 
 he never went before the Masters any more. 
 
 The Archangel has not escaped the reproach often 
 brought against affable persons of being a bit of a 
 bore, and though this is to speak unbecomingly, it 
 must be owned that the reader is glad whenever Adam 
 plucks up heart of grace and gets in a word edgeways. 
 Mr. Bagehot has complained of Milton's angels. He 
 says they are silly. But this is, I think, to intellec- 
 tualize too much. There are some classes who are 
 fairly exempted from all obligation to be intelligent, 
 and these airy messengers are surely amongst that 
 number. The retinue of a prince or of a bride 
 justify their choice if they are well - looking and 
 group nicely. 
 
 But these objections do not touch the main issue. 
 Here is the story of the loss of Eden, told enchantingly, 
 musically, and in the grand style, ' Who,' says 
 M. Scherer, in a passage quoted by Mr. Arnold, ' can 
 ' read the eleventh and twelfth books without yawn- 
 ' ing ?' People, of course, are free to yawn when they 
 please, provided they put their hands to their mouths ; 
 but in answer to this insulting question one is glad to 
 be able to remember how Coleridge has singled out 
 Adam's vision of future events contained in these 
 books as specially deserving of attention. But to 
 read them is to repel the charge.
 
 JOHN MILTON 159 
 
 There was no need for Mr. Arnold; of all men, to 
 express dissatisfaction with Milton : 
 
 ' Words which no ear ever to hear in heaven 
 Expected ; least of all from thee, ingrate, 
 In place thyself so high above thy peers.' 
 
 The first thing for people to be taught is to enjoy 
 great things greatly. The spots on the sun may be 
 an interesting study, but anyhow the sun is not all 
 spots. Indeed, sometimes in the early year, when he 
 breaks forth afresh, 
 
 ' And winter, slumbering in the open air, 
 Wears on his smiling face a dream of spring,' 
 
 we are apt to forget that he has any spots at all, and, 
 as he shines, are perhaps reminded of the blind poet 
 sitting in his darkness, in this prosaic city of ours, 
 swinging his leg over the arm of his chair, and dicta- 
 ting the lines : 
 
 ' Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
 Or sight of vernal bloom or summer's rose. 
 Or flocks or herds, or human face divine. 
 But cloud instead, and ever-during dark 
 Surrounds me — from the cheerful ways of men 
 Cut off ; and for the book of knowledge fair 
 Presented with a universal blank 
 Of nature's works, to me e.xpunged and razed, 
 And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 
 So much the rather. Thou, Celestial Light, 
 Shine inwards, and the mind through all her powers 
 Irradiate — there plant eyes ; all mist from thence 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight.' 
 
 Coleridge added a note to his beautiful poem, ' The 
 Nightingale,' lest he should be supposed capable of 
 speaking with levity of a single line in Milton. The
 
 i6o JOHN MILTON 
 
 note was hardly necessary, but one loves the spirit 
 that prompted him to make it. Sainte-Beuve re- 
 marks : ' Parler des pontes est toujoursune chose bien 
 ' delicate, et surtout quand on I'a ete un peu soi-meme.' 
 But though it does not matter what the little poets do, 
 great ones should never pass one another without a 
 royal salute.
 
 POPE. 
 
 A Lecture delivered at Birmingham before the Midland 
 
 Institute. 
 
 THE eighteenth century has been well abused by 
 the nineteenth. So far as I can gather, it is 
 the settled practice of every century to speak evil of 
 her immediate predecessor, and I have small doubt 
 that, had we gone groping about in the tenth century, 
 we should yet have been found hinting that the ninth 
 was darker than she had any need to be. 
 
 But our tone of speaking about the last century has 
 lately undergone an alteration. The fact is, we are 
 drawing near our own latter end. The Head Master 
 of Harrow lately thrilled an audience by informing 
 them that he had, that very day, entered an existing 
 bond fide boy upon the school books, whose education, 
 however, would not begin till the twentieth century. 
 As a parent was overheard to observe, ' An illustration 
 ' of that sort comes home to one.' The older we grow 
 the less confident we become, the readier to believe 
 that our judgments are probably wrong, and Uable, 
 
 II
 
 i62 POPE 
 
 and even likely, to be reversed ; the better disposed to 
 live and let live. The child, as Mr. Browning has 
 somewhere elaborated, cries for the moon and beats 
 its nurse, but the old man sips his gruel with avidity 
 and thanks Heaven if nobody beats him. And so we 
 have left off beating the eighteenth century. It was 
 not so, however, in our lusty prime. Carlyle, historian 
 though he was of Frederick the Great and the French 
 Revolution, revenged himself for the trouble it gave 
 him by loading it with all vile epithets. If it had 
 been a cock or a cook he could not have called it 
 harder names. It was century spendthrift, fraudulent, 
 bankrupt, a swindler century, which did but one true 
 action, ' namely, to blow its brains out in that grand 
 'universal suicide named French Revolution.' 
 
 The leaders of the neo-Catholic movement very 
 properly shuddered at a century which whitewashed 
 its churches and thought even monthly communions 
 affected. The ardent Liberal could not but despise a 
 century which did without the franchise, and, despite 
 the most splendid materials, had no Financial Reform 
 Almanack. The sentimental Tory found little to 
 please him in the House of Hanover and Whig 
 domination. The lovers of poetry, with Shelley in 
 their ears and Wordsworth at their hearts, made 
 merry with the trim muses of Queen Anne, with their 
 sham pastorals, their dilapidated classicism, and still 
 more with their town-bred descriptions of the country, 
 with its purling brooks and nodding groves, and, 
 hanging over all, the moon — not Shelley's ' orbed 
 * maiden,' but ' the refulgent lamp of night.' And 
 so, on all hands, the poor century was weighed in a
 
 POPE 163 
 
 hundred different balances and found wanting. It 
 lacked inspiration, unction, and generally all those 
 things for which it was thought certain the twentieth 
 century would commend us. But we do not talk like 
 that now. The waters of the sullen Lethe, rolling 
 doom, are sounding too loudly in our own ears. We 
 would die at peace with all centuries. Mr. Frederic 
 Harrison writes a formal Defence of the Eighteenth 
 Century. Mr. Matthew Arnold reprints half a dozen 
 of Dr. Johnson's Lives of the Poets. Mr. Leslie 
 Stephen composes a history of thought during this 
 objurgated period, and also edits, in sumptuously 
 inconvenient volumes, the works of its two great 
 novelists, Richardson and Fielding ; and, finally, there 
 now trembles on the very verge of completion a 
 splendid and long-laboured edition of the poems and 
 letters of the great poet of the eighteenth century, the 
 abstract and brief chronicle of his time, a man who 
 had some of its virtues and most of its vices, one 
 whom it is easy to hate, but still easier to quote — 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 Twenty years ago the chances were that a lecturer 
 on Pope began by asking the, perhaps not imperti- 
 nent, question, ' Was he a poet ?' And the method 
 had its merits, for the question once asked, it was 
 easy for the lecturer, like an incendiary who has just 
 fired a haystack, to steal away amidst the cracklings 
 of a familiar controversy. It was not unfitting that 
 so quarrelsome a man as Pope should have been the 
 occasion of so much quarrelsomeness in others. For 
 long the battle waged as fiercely over Pope's poetry 
 as erst it did in his own Homer over the body of the 
 
 II — 2
 
 i64 POPE 
 
 slain Patroclus. Stout men took part in it, notably 
 Lord Byron, whose letters to Mr. Bowles on the 
 subject, though composed in his lordship's most 
 ruffianly vein, still make good reading — of a sort. But 
 the battle is over, at all events for the present. It is 
 not now our humour to inquire too curiously about 
 first causes or primal elements. As we are not pre- 
 pared with a definition of poetry, we feel how im- 
 possible it would be for us to deny the rank of a poet 
 to one whose lines not infrequently scan and almost 
 always rhyme. For my part, I should as soon think 
 of asking whether a centipede has legs or a wasp a 
 sting as whether the author of the Rape of the Lock 
 and the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot was or was not a 
 poet. 
 
 Pope's life has been described as a succession of 
 petty secrets and third-rate problems, but there seems 
 to be no doubt that it began on May 21st, 1688, in 
 Lombard Street, in the city of London. But this 
 event over, mystery steps in with the question, What 
 was his father ? The occupation of the elder Pope 
 occasioned nearly as fierce a controversy as the poetical 
 legitimacy of the younger. Malice has even hinted 
 that old Pope was a hatter. The poet, of course, 
 knew, but wouldn't tell, being always more ready, as 
 Johnson observes, to say what his father was not than 
 what he was. He denied the hatter, and said his 
 father was of the family of the Earls of Downe ; but 
 on this statement being communicated to a relative of 
 the poet, the brutal fellow, who was probably without 
 a tincture of polite learning, said he heard of the rela- 
 tionship for the first time ! ' Hard as thy heart, and
 
 POPE 165 
 
 * as thy birth obscure,' sang one of Pope's too numerous 
 enemies in the easy numbers he had taught his age. 
 It is, however, now taken as settled that the elder 
 Pope, like Izaak Walton and John Gilpin, and many 
 other good fellows, was a linen-draper. He made 
 money, and one would like to know how he did it in 
 the troublesome times he lived in ; but his books have 
 all perished. He was a Roman Catholic, as also was 
 the poet's mother, who was her husband's second wife, 
 and came out of Yorkshire. It used to be confidently 
 asserted that the elder Pope, on retiring from business, 
 which he did early in the poet's childhood, put his 
 fortune in a box and spent it as he needed it, — a course 
 of conduct the real merits of which are likely to be 
 hid from a lineal descendant. Old Pope, however, 
 did nothing of the kind, but invested money in the 
 French funds, his conscience not allowing him to do 
 so in the English, and he also lent sums on bond to 
 fellow-Catholics, one of whom used to remit him his 
 half-year's interest calculated at the rate of £^ per 
 cent, per annum, whereas by the terms of the bond he 
 was to pay £^h per cent, per annum. On another 
 occasion the same borrower deducted from the interest 
 accrued due a pound he said he had lent the youthful 
 poet. These things annoyed the old gentleman, as 
 they would most old gentlemen of my acquaintance. 
 The poet was the only child of his mother, and a 
 queerly constituted mortal he was. Dr. Johnson has 
 recorded the long list of his infirmities with an almost 
 chilling bluntness ; but, alas ! so malformed was 
 Pope's character, so tortuous and twisted were his 
 ways, so elaborately artificial and detestably petty
 
 i66 POPE 
 
 many of his devices, that it is not mahce, but charity, 
 that bids us remember that, during his whole maturity, 
 he could neither dress nor undress himself, go to bed 
 or get up without help, and that on rising he had to 
 be invested with a stiff canvas bodice and tightly 
 laced, and have put on him a fur doublet and 
 numerous stockings to keep off the cold and fill out his 
 shrunken form. If ever there was a man whose life 
 was one long provocation, that man was the author of 
 the Dunciad. Pope had no means of self-defence save 
 his wit. Dr. Johnson was a queer fellow enough, 
 having inherited, as he tells us, a vile melancholy 
 from his father, and he certainly was no Adonis to 
 look at, but those who laughed at him were careful to 
 do so behind his gigantic back. When a rapacious 
 bookseller insulted him he knocked him down. When 
 the caricaturist Foote threatened to take him off upon 
 the stage, the most Christian of lexicographers caused 
 it to be intimated to him that if he did the author of 
 Rasselas would thrash him in the public street, and the 
 buffoon desisted. ' Did not Foote,' asked Boswell, 
 'think of exhibiting you, sir?' and our great moralist 
 replied, ' Sir, fear restrained him ; he knew I would 
 ' have broken his bones.' When he denounced Mac- 
 pherson for his Ossian frauds, and the irate Celt said 
 something about personal chastisement, Johnson told 
 him, in writing, that he was not to be deterred from 
 detecting a cheat by the menaces of a ruffian, and by 
 way of a temporary provision for his self-defence 
 selected a most grievous cudgel, six feet in height, 
 and terminating in a head (once the root) of the size 
 of a large orange. The possession of great physical
 
 POPE 167 
 
 strength is no mean assistance to a straightforward 
 life. The late Professor Fawcett, who, though blind, 
 delighted, arm-in-arm with a friend, to skate furiously 
 on the fens, never could be brought to share the fears 
 entertained on his behalf by some of the less stalwart 
 of his acquaintances. ' Why,' he used to exclaim 
 apologetically, ' even if I do run up against anybody, 
 ' it is always the other fellow who gets the worst of 
 ' it.' But poor Pope, whom a child could hustle, had 
 no such resources. We shoidd always remember 
 this ; it is brutal to forget it. 
 
 Pope's parents found in their only son the vocation 
 of their later life. He might be anything he liked. 
 Did he lisp in numbers, the boyish rhymes were duly 
 scanned and criticised ; had he a turn for painting, 
 lessons were provided. He might be anything he 
 chose, and everything by turns. Many of us have 
 been lately reading chapters from the life of another 
 only son, and though the comparison may not bear 
 working out, still, that there were points of strong 
 similarity between the days of the youthful poet at 
 Binfield and those of Ruskin at Heme Hill may be 
 suspected. Pope's education was, of course, private, 
 for a double reason — his proscribed faith and his frail 
 form. Mr. Leslie Stephen, with a touching faith in 
 pubhc schools, has the hardihood to regret that it was 
 obviously impossible to send Pope to Westminster. 
 One shudders at the thought. It could only have 
 ended in an inquest. As it was, the poor little cripple 
 was whipped at Twyford for lampooning his master. 
 Pope was extraordinarily sensitive. Cruelty to 
 animals he abhorred. Every kind of sport, from
 
 i68 POPE 
 
 spinning cockchafers to coursing hares, he held In 
 loathing, and one cannot but be thankful that the 
 childhood of this supersensitive poet was shielded from 
 the ruffianism of the nether world of boys as that 
 brood then existed. Westminster had not long to 
 wait for Cowper. Pope was taught his rudiments by 
 stray priests and at small seminaries, where, at all 
 events, he had his bent, and escaped the contagious 
 error that Homer wrote in Greek in order that English 
 boys might be beaten. Of course he did not become 
 a scholar. Had he done so he probably would not 
 have translated Homer, though he might have lectured 
 on how to do it. Indeed, the only evidence we have 
 that Pope knew Greek at all is that he translated 
 Homer, and was accustomed to carry about with him 
 a small pocket edition of the bard in the original. 
 Latin he could probably read with decent comfort, 
 though it is noticeable that if he had occasion to refer 
 to a Latin book, and there was a French translation, 
 he preferred the latter version to the original. Voltaire, 
 who knew Pope, asserts that he could not speak a 
 word of French, and could hardly read it ; but Voltaire 
 was not a truthful man, and on one occasion told lies 
 in an affidavit. The fact is, Pope's curiosity was too 
 inordinate — his desire to know everything all at once 
 too strong — to admit of the delay of learning a foreign 
 language ; and he was consequently a reader of trans- 
 lations, and he lived in an age of translations. He 
 was, as a boy, a simply ferocious reader, and was 
 early acquainted with the contents of the great poets, 
 both of antiquity and the modern world. His studies, 
 at once intense, prolonged, and exciting, injured his
 
 POPE 169 
 
 feeble health, and made him the lifelong sufferer he 
 was. It was a noble zeal, and arose from the immense 
 interest Pope ever took in human things. 
 
 From 1700 to 1715, that is, from his fourteenth to 
 his twenty-ninth year, he Uved with his father and 
 mother at Binfield, on the borders of Windsor Forest, 
 which he made the subject of one of his early poems, 
 against which it was alleged, with surely some force, 
 that it has nothing distinctive about it, and might as 
 easily have been written about any other forest ; to 
 which, however, Dr. Johnson characteristically re- 
 plied that the omts lay upon the critic of first proving 
 that there is anything distinctive about Windsor 
 Forest, which personally he doubted, one green field 
 in the Doctor's opinion being just like another. In 
 1715 Pope moved with his parents to Chiswick, where, 
 in 1717, his father, aged seventy-five, died. The 
 following year the poet again moved with his mother 
 to the celebrated villa at Twickenham, where in 1733 
 she died, in her ninety-third year. Ten years later 
 Pope's long disease, his life, came to its appointed 
 end. His poetical dates may be briefly summarized 
 thus : his Pastorals, 1709 ; the Essay on Criticism, 171 1 ; 
 the first version of the Rape of the Lock, 171 2 ; the 
 second, 1714; the Iliad, begun in 1715, was finished 
 1720; Eloisa, 1717; the Elegy to the memory of an 
 Unfortunate Lady and the Diinciad, 1728 ; the Essay on 
 Man, 1732 ; and then the Epistles and Satires. Of all 
 Pope's biographers, Dr. Johnson is still, and will 
 probably ever remain, the best. The Life, indeed, 
 like the rest of the Lives of the Poets, is a lazy perform- 
 ance. It is not the strenuous work of a young author
 
 ijo POPE 
 
 eager for fame. When Johnson sat down, at the 
 instance of the London booksellers, to write the lives 
 of those poets whose works his employers thought it 
 well to publish, he had long been an author at grass, 
 and had no mind whatever again to wear the collar. 
 He had great reading and an amazing memory, and 
 those were at the service of the trade. The facts he 
 knew, or which were brought to his door, he recorded, 
 but research was not in his way. Was he not already 
 endowed — with a pension, which, with his customary 
 indifference to attack, he wished were twice as large, 
 in order that his enemies might make twice as much 
 fuss over it ? None the less — nay, perhaps all the 
 more — for being written with so little effort, the Lives 
 of the Poets are delightful reading, and Pope's is one of 
 the very best of them.''' None knew the infirmities of 
 ordinary human nature better than Johnson. They 
 neither angered him nor amused him ; he neither 
 storms, sneers, nor chuckles, as he records man's 
 vanity, insincerity, jealousy, and pretence. It is with 
 a placid pen he pricks the bubble fame, dishonours 
 the overdrawn sentiment, burlesques the sham philo- 
 sophy of life ; but for generosity, friendliness, affection, 
 he is always on the watch, whilst talent and achieve- 
 ment never fail to win his admiration ; he being ever 
 eager to repay, as best he could, the debt of gratitude 
 surely due to those who have taken pains to please, 
 and who have left behind them in a world, which 
 
 * Not Horace Walpole's opinion. ' Sir Joshua Reynolds has 
 ' lent me Dr. Johnson's Life of Pope, which Sir Joshua holds to 
 ' be a chef d'ceuvre. It is a most trumpery performance, and 
 ' stuffed with all his crabbed phrases and vulgarisms, and much 
 ' trash as anecdotes.' — Letters, vol. viii., p. 26.
 
 POPE 171 
 
 rarely treated them kindly, works fitted to stir youth 
 to emulation, or solace the disappointments of age. 
 And over all man's manifold infirmities, he throws 
 benignantly the mantle of his stately style. Pope's 
 domestic virtues were not likely to miss Johnson's 
 approbation. Of them he writes : 
 
 ' The filial piety of Pope was in the highest degree 
 ' amiable and exemplary. His parents had the happi- 
 ' ness of living till he was at the summit of poetical 
 ' reputation — till he was at ease in his fortune, and 
 ' without a rival in his fame, and found no diminution 
 ' of his respect or tenderness. Whatever was his 
 ' pride, to them he was obedient ; and whatever was 
 ' his irritability, to them he was gentle. Life has, 
 ' amongst its soothing and quiet comforts, few things 
 ' better to give than such a son.' 
 
 To attempt to state in other words a paragraph like 
 this would be indelicate, as bad as defacing a tomb- 
 stone, or rewriting a collect. 
 
 Pope has had many editors, but the last edition will 
 probably long hold the field. It is more than sixty 
 years since the original John Murray, of Albemarle 
 Street, determined, with the approval of his most 
 distinguished client Lord Byron, to bring out a library 
 edition of Pope. The task was first entrusted to 
 Croker, the man whom Lord Macaulay hated more 
 than he did cold boiled veal, and whose edition, had it 
 seen the light in the great historian's lifetime, would 
 have been, whatever its merits, well basted in the 
 Edinburgh Review. But Croker seems to have made 
 no real progress ; for though occasionally advertised 
 amongst Mr. Murray's list of forthcoming works, the
 
 172 POPE 
 
 first volume did not make its appearance until 1871, 
 fourteen years after Croker's death. The new editor 
 was the Rev. Whitwell Elwin, a clergyman, with 
 many qualifications for the task, — patient, sensible, 
 not too fluent, but an intense hater of Pope. ' To be 
 ' wroth with one you love,' sings Coleridge, ' doth 
 ' work like madness in the brain ;' and to edit in 
 numerous volumes the works of a man you cordially 
 dislike and always mistrust has something of the same 
 effect, whilst it is certainly hard measure on the poor 
 fellow edited. His lot — if I may venture upon a 
 homely comparison founded upon a lively reminiscence 
 of childhood — resembles that of an unfortunate infant 
 being dressed by an angry nurse, in whose malicious 
 hands the simplest operations of the toilet, to say 
 nothing of the severer processes of the tub, can easily 
 be made the vehicles of no mean torture. Good cause 
 can be shown for hating Pope if you are so minded, 
 but it is something of a shame to hate him and edit 
 him too. The Rev. Mr. Elwin unravels the web of 
 Pope's follies with too rough a hand for my liking ; 
 and he was, besides, far too apt to believe his poet in 
 the wrong simply because somebody has said he was. 
 For example, he reprints without comment De 
 Quincey's absurd strictures on the celebrated lines — 
 
 ' Who but must laugh if such a man there be ; 
 Who would not weep if Atticus were he !' 
 
 De Quincey found these lines unintelligible, and 
 pulls them about in all directions but the right one. 
 The ordinary reader never felt any difficulty. How- 
 ever, Mr. Elwin kept it up till old age overtook him,
 
 POPE 173 
 
 and now Mr. Courthope reigns in his stead. Mr. 
 Courthope, it is easy to see, would have told a very 
 different tale had he been in command from the first, 
 for he keeps sticking in a good word for the crafty 
 little poet whenever he decently can. And this is 
 how it should be. Mr. Courthope's Life, which will 
 be the concluding volume of Mr. Murray's edition, is 
 certain to be a fascinating book. 
 
 It is Pope's behaviour about his letters that is now 
 found peculiarly repellent. Acts of diseased egotism 
 sometimes excite an indignation which injurious crimes 
 fail to arouse. 
 
 The whole story is too long to be told, and is by 
 this time tolerably familiar. Here, however, is part 
 of it. In early life Pope began writing letters, bits of 
 pompous insincerity, as indeed the letters of clever 
 boys generally are, to men old enough to be his 
 grandparents, who had been struck by his precocity 
 and anticipated his fame, and being always master of 
 his own time, and passionately fond of composition, he 
 kept up the habit so formed, and wrote his letters as 
 one might fancy the celebrated Blair composing his 
 sermons, with much solemnity, very slowly, and with- 
 out emotion. A packet of these addressed to a gentle- 
 ^ man owning the once proud name of Cromwell, and 
 who was certainly ' guiltless of his country's blood ' — 
 for all that is now known of him is that he used to go 
 hunting in a tie-wig, that is, a full-buttoned wig tied 
 up at the ends — had been given by that gentleman to 
 a lady with whom he had relations, who being, as will 
 sometimes happen, a little pressed for money, sold 
 them for ten guineas to Edmund Curll, a bold pirate of
 
 174 POPE 
 
 a bookseller and publisher, upon whose head every 
 kind of abuse has been heaped, not only by the authors 
 whom he actually pillaged, but by succeeding genera- 
 tions of penmen who never took his wages, but none 
 the less revile his name. He was a wily ruffian. In 
 the year 1727 he was condemned by His Majesty's 
 judges to stand in the pillory at Charing Cross for 
 publishing a libel, and thither doubtless, at the ap- 
 pointed hour, many poor authors flocked, with their 
 pockets full of the bad eggs that should have made 
 their breakfasts, eager to wreak vengeance upon their 
 employer ; but a printer in the pillory has advantages 
 over other traders, and Curll had caused handbills to 
 be struck off and distributed amongst the crowd, 
 stating, with his usual effrontery, that he was put in 
 the pillory for vindicating the blessed memory of her 
 late Majesty Queen Anne. This either touched or 
 tickled the mob — it does not matter which — who pro- 
 tected Curll whilst he stood on high from further out- 
 rage, and when his penance was over bore him on 
 their shoulders to an adjacent tavern, where (it is 
 alleged) he got right royally drunk."" Ten years 
 earlier those pleasant youths, the Westminster scholars, 
 had got hold of him, tossed him in a blanket, and beat 
 him. This was the man who bought Pope's letters to 
 Cromwell for ten guineas, and published them. Pope, 
 oddly enough, though very angry, does not seem on 
 this occasion to have moved the Court of Chancery, 
 as he subsequently did against the same publisher, for 
 an injunction to restrain the vending of the volume. 
 Indeed, until his suit in 1741, when he obtained an 
 
 * Howell's State Trials, vol. xvii., p. 159.
 
 POPE 175 
 
 injunction against Curll, restraining the sale of a 
 volume containing some of his letters to Swift, the 
 right of the writer of a letter to forbid its publication 
 had never been established, and the view that a letter 
 was a gift to the receiver had received some coun- 
 tenance. But Pope had so much of the true temper 
 of a litigant, and so loved a nice point, that he might 
 have been, expected to raise the question on the first 
 opportunity. He, however, did not do so, and the 
 volume had a considerable sale — a fact not likely to 
 be lost sight of by so keen an author as Pope, to whom 
 the thought occurred, ' Could I only recover all my 
 ' letters, and get them published, I should be as 
 ' famous in prose as I am in rhyme.' His communi- 
 cations with his friends now begin to be full of the 
 miscreant Curll, against whose machinations and 
 guineas no letters were proof. Have them Curll 
 would, and publish them he would, to the sore injury 
 of the writer's feelings. The only way to avoid this 
 outrage upon the privacy of true friendship was for all 
 the letters to be returned to the writer, who had 
 arranged for them to be received by a great nobleman, 
 against whose strong boxes Curll might rage and 
 surge in vain. Pope's friends did not at first quite 
 catch his drift, ' You need give yourself no trouble,' 
 wrote Swift, though at a later date than the trans- 
 action I am now describing ; * every one of your letters 
 * shall be burnt.' But that was not what Pope 
 wanted. The first letters he recovered were chiefly 
 those he had written to Mr. Caryll, a Roman Catholic 
 gentleman of character. Mr. Caryll parted with his 
 letters with some reluctance, and even suspicion, and
 
 176 POPE 
 
 was at the extraordinary pains of causing them all to 
 be transcribed ; in a word, he kept copies and said 
 nothing about it. Now it is that Pope set about as 
 paltry a job as ever engaged the attention of a man of 
 genius. He proceeded to manufacture a sham corre- 
 spondence ; he garbled and falsified to his heart's 
 content. He took a bit of one letter and tagged it on 
 to a bit of another letter, and out of these two foreign 
 parts made up an imaginary letter, never really written 
 to anybody, which he addressed to Mr. Addison, who 
 was dead, or to whom else he chose. He did this 
 without much regard to anything except the manu- 
 facture of something which he thought would read 
 well, and exhibit himself in an amiable light and in a 
 sweet, unpremeditated strain. This done, the little 
 poet destroyed the originals, and deposited one copy, 
 as he said he was going to do, in the library of the 
 Earl of Oxford, whose permission so to do he sought 
 with much solemnity, the nobleman replying with 
 curtness that any parcel Mr. Pope chose to send to 
 his butler should be taken care of. So far good. 
 The next thing was to get the letters published from 
 the copy he had retained for his own use. His vanity 
 and love of intrigue forbade him doing so directly, 
 and he bethought himself of his enemy, the piratical 
 Curll, with whom, there can now be no reasonable 
 doubt, he opened a sham correspondence under the 
 initials ' P. T.' ' P. T.'. was made to state that he 
 had letters in his possession of Mr. Pope's, who had 
 done him some disservice, which letters he was willing 
 to let Curll publish. Curll was as wily as Pope, to 
 whom he at once wrote and told him what ' P.T.' was
 
 POPE 177 
 
 offering him. Pope replied by an advertisement in a 
 newspaper, denying the existence of any such letters. 
 ' P.T.,' however, still kept it up, and a mysterious 
 person was introduced as a go-between, wearing a 
 clergyman's wig and lawyer's bands. Curll at last 
 advertised as forthcoming an edition of Mr. Pope's 
 letters to, and, as the advertisement certainly ran, 
 from divers noblemen and gentlemen. Pope affected 
 the utmost fury, and set the House of Lords upon the 
 printer for threatening to pubHsh peers' letters with- 
 out their leave. Curll, however, had a tongue in his 
 head, and easily satisfied a committee of their Lord- 
 ships' House that this was a mistake, and that no 
 noblemen's letters were included in the intended pub- 
 lication, the unbound sheets of which he produced. 
 The House of Lords, somewhat mystified and dis- 
 gusted, gave the matter up, and the letters came out 
 in 1735. Pope raved, but the judicious even then 
 opined that he protested somewhat too much. He 
 promptly got a bookseller to pirate Curll's edition — a 
 proceeding on his part which struck Curll as the un- 
 kindest cut of all, and flagrantly dishonest. He took 
 proceedings against Pope's publisher, but what came 
 of the litigation I cannot say. 
 
 The Caryll copy of the correspondence as it actually 
 existed, after long remaining in manuscript, has been 
 pubHshed, and we have now the real letters and the 
 sham letters side by side. The effect is grotesquely 
 disgusting. For example, on September 20th, 1713, 
 Pope undoubtedly wrote to Caryll as follows : — 
 
 ' I have been just taking a walk in St. James's 
 * Park, full of the reflections of the transitory nature 
 
 12
 
 178 POPE 
 
 ' of all human delights, and giving ray thoughts a loose 
 ' into the contemplation of those sensations of satis- 
 ' faction which probably we may taste in the more 
 ' exalted company of separate spirits, when we range 
 ' the starry walks above and gaze on the world at a 
 ' vast distance, as now we do on those.' 
 
 Poor stuff enough, one would have thought. On 
 re-reading this letter Pope was so pleased with his 
 moonshine that he transferred the whole passage to 
 an imaginary letter, to which he gave the, of course 
 fictitious, date of February loth, 1715, and addressed 
 to Mr. Blount ; so that, as the correspondence now 
 stands, you first get the Caryll letter of 171 3, ' I have 
 ' been just taking a solitary walk by moonshine,' and 
 so on about the starry walks ; and then you get the 
 Blount letter of 171 5, 'I have been just taking a soli- 
 ' tary walk by moonshine ;' and go on to find Pope 
 refilled with his reflections as before. Mr. Elwin does 
 not, you may be sure, fail to note how unlucky Pope 
 was in his second date, February loth, 1715; that 
 being a famous year, when the Thames was frozen 
 over, and as the thaw set in on the 9th, and the streets 
 were impassable even for strong men, a tender morsel 
 like Pope was hardly likely to be out after dark. But, 
 of course, when Pope concocted the Blount letter in 
 1735, and gave it any date he chose, he could not be 
 expected to carry in his head what sort of night it 
 was on any particular day in February twenty years 
 before. It is ever dangerous to tamper with written 
 documents which have been out of your sole and 
 exclusive possession even for a few minutes. 
 
 A letter Pope published as having been addressed
 
 POPE 179 
 
 to Addison is made up of fragments of three letters 
 actually written to Caryll. Another imaginary letter 
 to Addison contains the following not inapt passage 
 from a letter to Caryll : — 
 
 ' Good God ! what an incongruous animal is man ! 
 ' how unsettled in his best part, his soul, and how 
 ' changing and variable in his frame of body. What 
 ' is man altogether but one mighty inconsistency ?' 
 
 What, indeed ! The method subsequently em- 
 ployed by Pope to recover his letters from Swift, and 
 to get them published in such a way as to create the 
 impression that Pope himself had no hand in it, cannot 
 be here narrated. It is a story no one can take 
 pleasure in. Of such an organized hypocrisy as this 
 correspondence it is no man's duty to speak seriously. 
 Here and there an amusing letter occurs, but as a 
 whole it is neither interesting, elevating, nor amusing. 
 When in 1741 Curll moved to dissolve the injunction 
 Pope had obtained in connection with the Swift corre- 
 spondence, his counsel argued that letters on familiar 
 subjects and containing inquiries after the health of 
 friends were not learned works, and consequently were 
 not within the copyright statute of Queen Anne, which 
 was entitled, ' An Act for the Encouragement of 
 Learning ;' but Lord Hardwicke, with his accustomed 
 good sense, would have none of this objection, and 
 observed (and these remarks, being necessary for the 
 judgment, are not mere ohitev dicta, but conclusive) : 
 
 ' It is certain that no works have done more service 
 ' to mankind than those which have appeared in this 
 ' shape upon familiar subjects, and which, perhaps, 
 * were never intended to be published, and it is this 
 
 12 — 2
 
 i8o POPE 
 
 ' which makes them so valuable, for I must confess, 
 ' for my own part, that letters which are very elaborately 
 ' written, and originally intended for the press, are 
 ' generally the most insignificant, and very little worth 
 ' any person's reading ' (2 Atkyns, p. 357). 
 
 I am encouraged by this authority to express the 
 unorthodox opinion that Pope's letters, with scarcely 
 half-a-dozen exceptions, and only one notable excep- 
 tion, are very little worth any person's reading. 
 
 Pope's epistolary pranks have, perhaps, done him 
 some injustice. It has always been the fashion to 
 admire the letter which, first appearing in 1737, in 
 Pope's correspondence, and there attributed to Gay, 
 describes the death by lightning of the rustic lovers 
 John Hewet and Sarah Drew. An identical descrip- 
 tion occurring in a letter written by Pope to Lady 
 Mary Wortley Montagu, and subsequently published 
 by Warton from the original, naturally caused the 
 poet to be accused of pilfering another man's letter, 
 and sending it off as his own. Mr. Thackeray so puts 
 it in his world-famous Lectures, and few literary 
 anecdotes are better known ; but the better opinion 
 undoubtedly is that the letter was Pope's from the 
 beginning, and attributed by him to Gay because he 
 did not want to have it appear that on the date in 
 question he was corresponding with Lady Mary. 
 After all, there is a great deal to be said in favour of 
 honesty. 
 
 When we turn from the man to the poet we have at 
 once to change our key. A cleverer fellow than Pope 
 never commenced author. He was in his own mun- 
 dane way as determined to be a poet, and the best
 
 POPE i8i 
 
 going, as John Milton himself. He took pains to be 
 splendid — he polished and pruned. His first draft 
 never reached the printer — though he sometimes said 
 it did. This ought, I think, to endear him to us in 
 these hasty days, when authors high and low think 
 nothing of emptying the slops of their minds over their 
 readers, without so much as a cry of ' Heads below !' 
 
 Pope's translation of the Iliad was his first great 
 undertaking, and he worked at it like a Trojan. It 
 was published by subscription for two guineas ; that 
 is, the first part was. His friends were set to work to 
 collect subscribers. Caryll alone got thirty-eight. 
 Pope fully entered into this. He was always alive to 
 the value of his wares, and despised the foppery of 
 those of his literary friends who would not make 
 money out of their books, but would do so out of 
 their country. He writes to Caryll : 
 
 ' But I am in good earnest of late, too much a man 
 ' of business to mind metaphors and similes. I find 
 ' subscribing much superior to writing, and there is a 
 ' sort of little epigram I more especially delight in, 
 ' after the manner of rondeaus, which begin and end 
 'all in the same words, namely — '"Received" and 
 ' " A. Pope." These epigrams end smartly, and each 
 ' of them is tagged with two guineas. Of these, as I 
 ' have learnt, you have composed several ready for me 
 ' to set my name to.' 
 
 This is certainly much better than that trumpery 
 walk in the moonshine. Pope had not at this time 
 joined the Tories, and both parties subscribed. He 
 cleared over ^5,000 by the Iliad. Over the Odyssey 
 he slackened, and employed two inferior wits to do
 
 i82 POPE 
 
 half the books ; but even after paying his journeymen 
 he made nearly ;^4,ooo over the Odyssey. Well might 
 he write in later life — 
 
 ' Since, thanks to Homer, I do live and thrive.' 
 
 Pope was amongst the first of prosperous authors, 
 and heads the clan of cunning fellows who have turned 
 their lyrical cry into consols, and their odes into 
 acres. 
 
 Of the merits of this great work it is not necessary 
 to speak at length. Mr. Edmund Yates tells a pleasant 
 story of how one day, when an old school Homer lay 
 on his table, Shirley Brooks sauntered in, and taking 
 the book up, laid it down again, dryly observing : 
 
 ' Ah ! I see you have Homer's Iliad ! Well, I 
 believe it is the best.' And so it is. Homer's Iliad is 
 the best, and Pope's Homer's Iliad is the second best. 
 Whose is the third best is controversy. 
 
 Pope knew next to no Greek, but then he did not 
 work upon the Greek text. He had Chapman's 
 translation ever at his elbow, also the version of John 
 Ogilby, which had appeared in 1660 — a splendid folio, 
 with illustrations by the celebrated Hollar. Dryden 
 had not got farther than the first book of the Iliad, 
 and a fragment of the sixth book. A faithful render- 
 ing of the exact sense of Homer is not, of course, to 
 be looked for. In the first book Pope describes the 
 captive maid Briseis as looking back. In Homer she 
 does not look back, but in Dryden she does ; and 
 Pope followed Dryden, and did not look, at all events, 
 any farther back. 
 
 But what really is odd is that in Cowper's transla-
 
 POPE 183 
 
 tion Briseis looks back too. Now, Cowper had been 
 to a public school, and consequently knew Greek, and 
 made it his special boast that, though dull, he was 
 faithful. It is easy to make fun of Pope's version, 
 but true scholars have seldom done so. Listen to 
 Professor Conington* : — 
 
 ' It has been, and I hope still is, the delight of every 
 ' intelligent schoolboy. They read of kings, and 
 ' heroes, and mighty deeds in language which, in its 
 ' calm majestic flow, unhasting, unresting, carries 
 ' them on as irresistibly as Homer's own could do 
 ' were they born readers of Greek, and their minds 
 ' are filled with a conception of the heroic age, not 
 ' indeed strictly true, but almost as near the truth as 
 ' that which was entertained by Virgil himself.' 
 
 Mr. D. G. Rossetti, himself both an admirable 
 translator and a distinguished poet, has in effect laid 
 down the first law of rhythmical translation thus : 
 ' Thou shalt not turn a good poem into a bad one.' 
 Pope kept this law. 
 
 Pope was a great adept at working upon other 
 men's stuff. There is hardly anything in which men 
 differ more enormously than in the degree in which 
 they possess this faculty of utilization. Pope's Essay 
 on Criticism, which brought him great fame, and was 
 thought a miracle of wit, was the result of much hasty 
 reading, undertaken with the intention of appropria- 
 tion. Apart from the limes labor, which was enormous, 
 and was never grudged by Pope, there was not an 
 hour's really hard work in it. Dryden had begun the 
 work of English criticism with his Essay on Dramatic 
 * In Oxford Essays for 1858.
 
 i84 POPE 
 
 Poesy, and other well-known pieces. He had also 
 translated Boileau's Art of Podry. Then there were 
 the works of those noble lords, Lord Sheffield, Lord 
 Roscommon, Lord Granville, and the Duke of Buck- 
 ingham. Pope, who loved a brief, read all these 
 books greedily, and with an amazing quick eye for 
 points. His orderly brain and brilliant wit re-arranged 
 and rendered resplendent the ill-placed and ill-set 
 thoughts of other men. 
 
 The same thing is noticeable in the most laboured 
 production of his later Hfe, the celebrated Essay on 
 Man. For this he was coached by Lord Bolingbroke. 
 
 Pope was accustomed to talk with much solemnity 
 of his ethical system, of which the Essay on Man is but 
 a fragment, but we need not trouble ourselves about 
 it. Dr. Johnson said about Clarissa Havlovje that the 
 man who read it for the story might hang himself ; so 
 we may say about the poetry of Pope : the man who 
 reads it for its critical or ethical philosophy may hang 
 himself. We read Pope for pleasure, but a bit of his 
 philosophy may be given : 
 
 ' Presumptuous man ! the reason wouldst thou find, 
 Why formed so weak, so Httle, and so blind ? 
 First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess. 
 Why formed no weaker, bUnder, and no less ? 
 Ask of thy mother Earth why oaks are made 
 Taller and stronger than the weeds they shade ! 
 Or ask of yonder argent fields above 
 Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove !' 
 
 To this latter interrogatory presumptuous science, 
 speaking through the mouth of Voltaire, was ready 
 with an answer. If Jupiter were less than his satellites 
 they wouldn't go round him. Pope can make no
 
 POPE 185 
 
 claim to be a philosopher, and had he been one, Verse 
 would have been a most improper vehicle to convey 
 his speculations. No one willingly fights in hand- 
 cuffs or wrestles to music. For a man with novel 
 truths to promulgate, or grave moral laws to expound, 
 to postpone doing so until he had hitched them into 
 rhyme would be to insult his mission. Pope's gifts 
 were his wit, his swift-working mind, added to all the 
 cunning of the craft and mystery of composition. He 
 could say things better than other men, and hence it 
 comes that, be he a great poet or a small one, he is a 
 great writer, an English classic. What is it that con- 
 stitutes a great writer ? A bold question, certainly, 
 but whenever anyone asks himself a question in public 
 you may be certain he has provided himself with an 
 answer. I find mine in the writings of a distinguished 
 neighbour of yours, himself, though living, an English 
 classic — Cardinal Newman. He says :■■'■ 
 
 ' I do not claim for a great author, as such, any 
 ' great depth of thought, or breadth of view, or philo- 
 ' sophy, or sagacity, or knowledge of human nature, 
 ' or experience of human life — though these additional 
 ' gifts he may have, and the more he has of them the 
 ' greater he is, — but I ascribe to him, as his charac- 
 ' teristic gift, in a large sense, the faculty of expres- 
 ' sion. He is master to the two-fold Aoyos, the thought 
 * and the word, distinct but inseparable from each 
 ' other. . . . He always has the right word for the 
 ' right idea, and never a word too much. If he is 
 ' brief it is because few words suffice ; if he is lavish 
 
 * Lectures and Essays on University Subjects : Lecture on Litera- 
 ture.
 
 i86 POPE 
 
 ' of them, still each word has its mark, and aids, not 
 ' embarrasses, the vigorous march of his elocution. 
 ' He expresses what all feel, but all cannot say, and 
 * his sayings pass into proverbs amongst his people, 
 ' and his phrases become household words and idioms 
 ' of their daily speech, v/hich is tessellated with the 
 ' rich fragments of his language, as we see in foreign 
 ' land the marbles of Roman grandeur worked into the 
 ' walls and pavements of modern palaces.' Pope 
 satisfies this definition. He has been dead one hundred 
 and forty-two years ; yet, next to Shakespeare, who 
 has been dead two hundred and seventy years, and 
 who was nearer to Pope than Pope is to us, he is the 
 most quoted of English poets, the one v/ho has most 
 enriched our common speech. Horace used, but has 
 long ceased, to be the poet of Parliament ; for Mr. 
 Gladstone, who, more than any other, has kept alive in 
 Parliament the scholarly traditions of the past, has 
 never been very Horatian, preferring, whenever the 
 dignity of the occasion seemed to demand Latin, the 
 long roll of the hexameter, something out of Virgil or 
 Lucretius. The new generation of honourable mem- 
 bers might not unprofitably turn their attention to 
 Pope. Think how, at all events, the labour members 
 would applaud, not with ' a sad civility,' but with 
 downright cheers, a quotation they actually under- 
 stood. 
 
 Pope is seen at his best in his satires and epistles, 
 and in the mock-heroic. To say that the Rape of the 
 Lock is the best mock-heroic poem in the language is 
 to say nothing ; to say that it is the best in the world 
 is to say more than my reading warrants ; but to say
 
 POPE 187 
 
 that it and Paradise Regained are the only two fault- 
 less poems, of any length, in English is to say 
 enough. 
 
 The satires are savage — perhaps satires should be ; 
 but Pope's satires are sometimes what satires should 
 never be — shrill. Dr. Johnson is more to my mind 
 as a sheer satirist than Pope, for in satire character 
 tells more than in any other form of verse. We 
 want a personality behind — a strong, gloomy, brood- 
 ing personality ; soured and savage if you will — nay, 
 as soured and savage as you like, but spiteful never. 
 
 Pope became rather by the backing of his friends 
 than from any other cause a party man. Party feeling 
 ran high during the first Georges, and embraced things 
 now outside its ambit — the theatre, for example, and 
 the opera. You remember how excited politicians got 
 over Addison's Cato, which, as the work of a Whig, 
 and appearing at a critical time, was thought to be 
 full of a wicked wit and a subtle innuendo future ages 
 have failed to discover amidst its obvious dulness. 
 Pope, who was not then connected with either party, 
 wrote the prologue, and in one of the best letters 
 ever written to nobody tells the story of the first 
 night. 
 
 ' The numerous and violent claps of the Whig 
 ' party, on the one side the theatre, were echoed back 
 ' by the Tories on the other, while the author sweated 
 ' behind the scenes with concern to find their applause 
 ' proceeded more from the hand than the head. This 
 ' was the case too of the prologue-writer, who was 
 ' clapped into a stanch Whig, sore against his will, at 
 ' almost every two lines. I believe that you have
 
 i88 POPE 
 
 ' heard that, after all the applause of the opposite 
 ' faction, my Lord Bolingbroke sent for Booth, who 
 ' played Cato, into the box between one of the acts, 
 ' and presented him with fifty guineas, in acknow- 
 ' ledgment, as he expressed it, for his defending the 
 ' cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator. 
 ' The Whigs are unwilling to be distanced this way, 
 ' as it is said, and, therefore, design a present to the 
 ' said Cato very speedily. In the meantime they are 
 ' getting ready as good a sentence as the former on 
 ' their side. So, betwixt them, it is probable that 
 ' Cato, as Dr. Garth expressed it, may have something 
 ' to live upon after he dies.' 
 
 Later on music was dragged into the fray. The 
 Court was all for Handel and the Germans ; the 
 Prince of Wales and the Tory nobility affected the 
 Italian opera. The Whigs went to the Haymarket ; 
 the Tories to the Opera House in Lincoln's Inn 
 Field. In this latter strife Pope took small part ; for, 
 notwithstanding his Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, he hated 
 music with an entire sincerity. He also affected to 
 hate the drama ; but some have thought this accounted 
 for by the fact that, early in his career, he was damned 
 for the farce of Three Hours after Marriage, which, after 
 the fashion of our own days, he concocted with another, 
 the co-author in this case being a wit of no less calibre 
 than Gay, the author of The Beggars' Opera. The 
 astonished audience bore it as best they might till the 
 last act, when the two lovers, having first inserted 
 themselves respectively into the skins of a mummy 
 and a crocodile, talk at one another across the boards ; 
 then they rose in their rage, and made an end of that
 
 POPE 189 
 
 farce. Their yells were doubtless still in Pope's ears 
 when, years afterwards, he wrote the fine lines — 
 
 ' While all its throats the gallery extends 
 And all the thunder of the pit ascends, 
 Loud as the wolves on Orca's stormy steep 
 Howl to the roarings of the northern deep.' 
 
 Pope, as we have said, became a partisan, and so 
 had his hands full of ready-made quarrels ; but his 
 period was certainly one that demanded a satirist. 
 Perhaps most periods do ; but I am content to repeat, 
 his did. Satire like Pope's is essentially modish, and 
 requires a restricted range. Were anyone desirous of 
 satirizing humanity at large, I should advise him to 
 check his noble rage, and, at all events, to begin with 
 his next-door neighbour, who is almost certain to 
 resent it, which humanity will not do. This was 
 Pope's method. It was a corrupt set amongst whom 
 he moved. The gambUng in the South Sea stock had 
 been prodigious, and high and low, married and single, 
 town and country, Protestant and Catholic, Whig and 
 Tory, took part in it. One could gamble in that stock. 
 The mania began in February 1720, and by the end of 
 May the price of ;^ioo stock was up to ^340. In 
 July and August it was ;^950, and even touched 
 /"ijOoo. In the middle of September it was down to 
 ^590, and before the end of the year it had dropped 
 to ^^125. Pope himself bought stock when it stood so 
 low as £10^, but he had never the courage to sell, and 
 consequently lost, according to his own account, half 
 his worldly possessions. The Prime Minister, Sir 
 Robert Walpole, also bought stock, but he sold — as 
 did his Most Gracious Majesty the King— at ^1,000.
 
 igo POPE 
 
 The age was also a scandalous, ill-living age, and 
 Pope, who was a most confirmed gossip and tale- 
 bearer, picked up all that was going. The details of 
 every lawsuit of a personal character were at his 
 finger-ends. Whoever starved a sister, or forged a 
 will, or saved his candle-ends, made a fortune dis- 
 honestly, or lost one disgracefully, or was reported to 
 do so, be he citizen or courtier, noble duke or plump 
 alderman, Mr. Pope was sure to know all about it, 
 and as likely as not to put it into his next satire. 
 Living, as the poet did, within easy distance of 
 London, he always turned up in a crisis as regularly 
 as a porpoise in a storm, so at least writes a noble 
 friend. This sort of thing naturally led to quarrels, 
 and the shocking incompleteness of this lecture stands 
 demonstrated by the fact that, though I have almost 
 done, I have as yet said nothing about Pope's quarrels, 
 which is nearly as bad as writing about St. Paul and 
 leaving out his journeys. Pope's quarrels are cele- 
 brated. His quarrel with Mr. Addison, culminating 
 in the celebrated description, almost every line of 
 which is now part and parcel of the Enghsh language ; 
 his quarrel with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, whom 
 he satirized in the most brutal lines ever written by 
 man of woman ; his quarrel with Lord Hervey ; his 
 quarrel with the celebrated Sarah, Duchess of Marl- 
 borough, ought not to be dismissed so lightly, but 
 what can I do ? From the Duchess of Marlborough 
 Pope is said to have received a sum of money, some- 
 times stated at ;^i,ooo and sometimes at ;/r3>ooO' ^°^ 
 consenting to suppress his description of her as Atossa^ 
 which, none the less, he published. I do not believe
 
 POPE 191 
 
 the story ; money passed between the parties and 
 went to Miss Martha Blount, but it must have been 
 for some other consideration. Sarah Jennings was no 
 fool, and loved money far too well to give it away 
 without security ; and how possibly could she hope 
 by a cash payment to erase from the tablets of a poet's 
 memory lines dictated by his hate, or bind by the law 
 of honour a man capable of extorting blackmail ? 
 Then Pope quarrelled most terribly with the elder 
 Miss Blount, who, he said, used to beat her mother ; 
 then he quarrelled with the mother because she per- 
 sisted in living with the daughter and pretending to be 
 fond of her. As for his quarrels with the whole tribe 
 of poor authors, are they not writ large in the four 
 books of the Diinciad ? Mr. Swinburne is indeed able 
 to find in some, at all events, of these quarrels a 
 species of holy war, waged, as he says, in language 
 which is at all events strong, ' against all the banded 
 ' bestialities of all dunces and all dastards, all black- 
 ' guardly blockheads and all blockheaded blackguards.' 
 I am sorry to be unable to allow myself to be 
 wound up in Mr. Swinburne's bucket to the height of 
 his argument. There are two kinds of quarrels, the 
 noble and the ignoble. When John Milton, weary 
 and depressed for a moment in the battle he was 
 fighting in the cause of an enlightened liberty and an 
 instructed freedom, exclaims, with the sad prophet 
 Jeremy, ' Woe is me, my mother, that thou hast borne 
 ' me, a man of strife and contention,' we feel the 
 sublimity of the quotation, which would not be quite 
 the case were the words uttered by an Irishman re- 
 turning home with a broken head from Donnybrook
 
 / 
 
 192 POPE 
 
 Fair. The Dunciad was quite uncalled-for. Even 
 supposing that we admit that Pope was not the 
 
 aggressor 
 
 ■ The noblest answer unto such 
 Is kindly silence when they brawl.' 
 
 But it is, to say the least of it, doubtful whether Pope 
 did not begin brawling first. Swift, whose misanthropy 
 vv^as genuine, and who begged Pope whenever he 
 thought of the world to give it another lash on his 
 (the Dean's) account, saw clearly the danger of Pope's 
 method, and wrote to him : ' Take care the bad poets 
 ' do not outwit you as they have done the good ones 
 ' in every age ; whom they have provoked to transmit 
 ' their names to posterity. Maevius is as well known 
 ' as Virgil, and Gildon will be as well known as you 
 ' if his name gets into your verses ; and as for the 
 ' difference between good and bad fame, it is a mere 
 ' trifle.' The advice was far too good to be taken. 
 But what has happened ? The petty would-be Popes, 
 but for the real Pope, would have been entirely for- 
 gotten. As it is, only their names survive in the 
 index to the Dunciad ; their indecencies and dastardly 
 blockheadisms are as dead as Queen Anne ; and if the 
 historian or the moralist seeks an illustration of the 
 coarseness and brutality of their style, he finds it only 
 too easily, not in the works of the dead dunces, but in 
 the pages of their persecutor. Pope had none of the 
 grave purpose which makes us, at all events, partially 
 sympathize with Ben Jonson in his quarrels with the 
 poetasters of his day. It is a mere toss-up whose 
 name you may find in the Dunciad — a miserable 
 scribbler's or a resplendent scholar's ; a tasteless
 
 POPE 
 
 193 
 
 critic's or an immortal wit's. A satirist who places 
 Richard Bentley and Daniel Defoe amongst the 
 Dunces must be content to abate his pretensions to be 
 regarded as a social purge. 
 
 Men and women, we can well believe, went in 
 terror of little Mr. Pope. Well they might, for he 
 made small concealment of their names, and even 
 such as had the luck to escape obvious recognition 
 have been hoisted into infamy by the untiring labours 
 of subsequent commentators. It may, perhaps, be 
 still open to doubt who was the Florid Youth referred 
 to in the Epilogue to the Satires : 
 
 ' And how did, pray, the Florid Youth offend 
 Whose speech you took and gave it to a friend ?' 
 
 Bowles said it was Lord Hervey, and that the 
 
 adjective is due to his lordship's well-known practice 
 
 of painting himself; but Mr. Croker, who knew 
 
 everything, and was in the habit of contradicting tlie 
 
 Duke of Wellington about the battle of Waterloo, 
 
 says, ' Certainly not. The Florid Youth was young 
 
 Henry Fox.' 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, in our hours of languor and 
 
 dejection, when 
 
 ' The heart is sick, 
 And all the wheels of being slow,' 
 
 the question forces itself upon us, What can it matter 
 who the Florid Youth was, and who cares how he 
 offended ? But this questioning spirit must be 
 checked. ' The proper study of mankind is man,' and 
 that title cannot be denied even to a florid youth. 
 Still, as I was saying, people did not like it at the 
 
 13
 
 194 POPE 
 
 time, and the then Duke of Argyll said, in his place in 
 the House of Lords, that if anybody so much as 
 named him in an invective, he would first run him 
 through the body, and then throw himself — not out of 
 the window, as one was charitably hoping — but on a 
 much softer place — the consideration of their Lord- 
 ships' House. Some persons of quality, of less trucu- 
 lent aspect than McCallum More, thought to enlist 
 the poet's services, and the Duchess of Buckingham 
 got him to write an epitaph on her deceased son — a 
 feeble lad — to which transaction the poet is thought 
 to allude in the pleasing lines, 
 
 ' But random praise — the task can ne'er be done, 
 Each mother asks it for her booby son.' 
 
 Mr. Alderman Barber asked it for himself, and was 
 willing — so at least it was reported — to pay for it at 
 the handsome figure of ^"4,000 for a single couplet. 
 Pope, however, who was not mercenary, declined to 
 gratify the alderman, who by his will left the poet a 
 legacy of ^100, possibly hoping by this benefaction, 
 if he could not be praised in his lifetime, at all events 
 to escape posthumous abuse. If this were his wish it 
 was gratified, and the alderman sleeps unsung. 
 
 Pope greatly enjoyed the fear he excited. 
 
 With something of exultation he sings : — 
 
 ' Yes, I am proud : I must be proud to see 
 Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me ; 
 Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne. 
 Yet touched and shamed by ridicule alone. 
 O sacred weapon ! left for Truth's defence. 
 Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence ! 
 To all but heaven-directed hands denied. 
 The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide :
 
 POPE 195 
 
 Reverent I touch thee, but with honest zeal, 
 
 To rouse the watchmen of the public weal. 
 
 To Virtue's work provoke the tardy Hall 
 
 And goad the prelate slumb'ring in his stall. 
 
 Ye tinsel insects ! whom a court maintains, 
 
 That counts your beauties only by your stains. 
 
 Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day, 
 
 The Muse's wing shall brush you all away. 
 
 All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings. 
 
 All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings, — 
 
 All, all but truth drops dead-born from the press, 
 
 Like the last gazette, or the last address.' 
 
 The poet himself was very far from being in- 
 \ulnerable, and he writhed at every sarcasm. There 
 was one of his contemporaries of whom he stood in 
 mortal dread, but whose name he was too frightened 
 even to mention. It is easy to guess who this was. 
 It was Hogarth, who in one of his caricatures had 
 depicted Pope as a hunchback, whitewashing Bur- 
 lington House. Pope deemed this the most grievous 
 insult of his life, but he said nothing about it ; the 
 spiteful pencil proving more than master of the 
 poisoned pen. 
 
 Pope died on May 30th, 1744, bravely and cheer- 
 fully enough. His doctor was offering him one day 
 the usual encouragements, telling him his breath was 
 easier, and so on, when a friend entered, to whom the 
 poet exclaimed, ' Here I am, dying of a hundred good 
 ' symptoms.' In Spence's Anecdotes there is another 
 story, pitched in a higher key : ' Shortly before his 
 ' death, he said to me, "What's that ?" pointing into 
 ' the air with a very steady regard, and then looked 
 ' down on me and said, with a smile of great pleasure, 
 'and with the greatest softness, " 'Twas a vision."' 
 It may have been so. At the very last he consented 
 
 13—2
 
 196 POPE 
 
 to allow a priest to be sent for, who attended and 
 administered to the dying man the last sacraments of 
 the Church. The spirit in which he received them 
 cannot be pronounced religious. As Cardinal Newman 
 has observed, Pope was an unsatisfactory Catholic. 
 
 Pope died in his enemies' day. 
 
 Dr. Arbuthnot, who was acknowledged by all his 
 friends to have been the best man who ever lived, be 
 the second-best who he might, had predeceased the 
 poet ; and it should be remembered, before we take 
 upon ourselves the task of judging a man we never 
 saw, that Dr. Arbuthnot, who was as shrewd as he 
 was good, had for Pope that warm personal affection 
 we too rarely notice nowadays between men of mature 
 years. Swift said of Arbuthnot : ' Oh ! if the world 
 ' had but a dozen Arbuthnots in it I would burn my 
 ' Travels.' This may be doubted without damage to 
 the friendly testimony. The terrible Dean himself, 
 whose azure eyes saw through most pretences, loved 
 Pope ; but Swift was now worse than dead — he was 
 mad, dying a-top, like the shivered tree he once gazed 
 upon with horror and gloomy forebodings of impending 
 doom. 
 
 Many men must have been glad when they read in 
 their scanty journals that Mr. Pope lay dead at his 
 villa in Twickenham. They breathed the easier for 
 the news. Personal satire may be a legitimate, but it 
 is an ugly weapon. The Muse often gives what the 
 gods do not guide ; and though we may be willing 
 that our faults should be scourged, we naturally like 
 to be sure that we owe our sore backs to the black- 
 ness of our guilt, and not merely to the fact that we
 
 POPE 197 
 
 have the proper number of syllables to our names, or 
 because we occasionally dine with an enemy of our 
 scourger. 
 
 But living as we do at a convenient distance from 
 Mr. Pope, we may safely wish his days had been pro- 
 longed, not necessarily to those of his mother, but to 
 the Psalmist's span, so that he might have witnessed 
 the dawn of a brighter day. 1744 was the nadir of 
 the eighteenth century. With Macbeth the dying 
 Pope might have exclaimed, — 
 
 ' Renown and grace is dead ; 
 The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees 
 Is left in the vault to brasr of.' 
 
 ■^o 
 
 The feats of arms that have made the first Ministry 
 of the elder Pitt for ever glorious would have appealed 
 to Pope's better nature, and made him forget the 
 scandals of the court and the follies of the town. 
 Who knows but they might have stirred him, for he 
 was not wholly without the true poet's prophetic gift, 
 which dreams of things to come, to foretell, in that 
 animated and animating style of his, which has no 
 rival save glorious John Dryden's, the expansion of 
 England, and how, in far-off summers he should never 
 see, Enghsh maidens, living under the Southern Cross, 
 should solace their fluttering hearts before laying 
 themselves down to sleep with some favourite bit 
 from his own Eloisa to Ahelavd ? Whether, in fact, 
 maidens in those latitudes do read Eloisa before blow- 
 ing out their candles I cannot say ; but Pope, I 
 warrant, would have thought they would. And they 
 might do worse — and better.
 
 198 POPE 
 
 Both as a poet and a man Pope had many nega- 
 tions. 
 
 ' Of love, that sways the sun and all the stars,' 
 
 he knew absolutely nothing. Even of the lesser 
 
 light, 
 
 ' The eternal moon of love, 
 Under whose motions life's dull billows move,' 
 
 he knew but little. 
 
 His Eloisa, splendid as is its diction, and vigorous 
 though be the portrayal of the miserable creature to 
 whom the poem relates, most certainly lacks ' a 
 gracious somewhat,' whilst no less certainly is it 
 marred by a most unfeeling coarseness. A poem 
 about love it may be — a love-poem it is not. Of the 
 ' wild benefit of nature,' — 
 
 ' The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills,' 
 
 Pope had small notion, though there is just a whiff of 
 Wordsworth in an observation he once hazarded, that 
 a tree is a more poetical object than a prince in his 
 coronation robes. His taste in landscape gardening 
 was honoured with the approbation of Horace Walpole, 
 and he spent £1,000 upon a grotto, which incurred 
 the ridicule of Johnson. Of that indescribable some- 
 thing, that ' greatness ' which causes Dryden to uplift 
 a lofty head from the deep pit of his corruption, neither 
 Pope's character nor his style bears any trace. But 
 still, both as a poet and a man we must give place, 
 and even high place, to Pope. About the poetry there 
 can be no question. A man with his wit, and faculty 
 of expression, and infinite painstaking, is not to be
 
 POPE 199 
 
 evicted from his ancient homestead in the affections 
 and memories of his people by a rabble of critics, or 
 even a posse of poets. As for the man, he M^as ever 
 eager and interested in life. Beneath all his faults — 
 for which he had more excuse than a whole congrega- 
 tion of the righteous need ever hope to muster for their 
 own shortcomings — we recognise humanity, and we 
 forgive much to humanity, knowing how much need 
 there is for humanity to forgive us. Indifference, 
 known by its hard heart and its callous temper, is the 
 only unpardonable sin. Pope never committed it. 
 He had much to put up with. We have much to put 
 up with — in him. He has given enormous pleasure 
 to generations of men, and will continue so to do. 
 We can never give him any pleasure. The least we 
 can do is to smile pleasantly as we replace him upon 
 his shelf, and say, as we truthfully may, ' There was a 
 ' great deal of human nature in Alexander Pope.'
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 IF we should ever take occasion to say of Dr. 
 Johnson's Preface to Shakspeare what he him- 
 self said of a similar production of the poet Rowe, 
 ' that it does not discover much profundity or penetra- 
 ' tion,' we ought in common fairness always to add 
 that nobody else has ever written about Shakspeare 
 one-half so entertainingly. If this statement be ques- 
 tioned, let the doubter, before reviling me, re-read the 
 Preface, and if, after he has done so, he still demurs, 
 we shall be content to withdraw the observation, 
 which, indeed, has only been made for the purpose of 
 introducing a quotation from the Preface itself. 
 
 In that document, Dr. Johnson, with his unrivalled 
 stateliness, writes as follows : — ' The poet of whose 
 * works I have undertaken the revision may now begin 
 ' to assume the dignity of an ancient, and claim the 
 ' privilege of established fame and prescriptive venera- 
 ' tion. He has long outlived his century, the term 
 ' commonly fixed as the test of Hterary merit.' 
 
 The whirligig of time has brought in his revenges. 
 The Doctor himself has been dead his century. He
 
 DR JOHNSON 20I 
 
 died on the 13th of December, 1784. Come, let us 
 criticise him. 
 
 Our quahfications for this high office need not be 
 investigated curiously. 
 
 ' Criticism,' writes Johnson in the 60th Idler, ' is a 
 ' study by which men grow important and formidable 
 ' at a very small expense. The power of invention 
 ' has been conferred by nature upon few, and the 
 ' labour of learning those sciences which may by mere 
 ' labour be obtained, is too great to be willingly en- 
 * dured ; but every man can exert such judgment as 
 ' he has upon the works of others ; and he whom 
 ' nature has made weak, and idleness keeps ignorant, 
 ' may yet support his vanity by the name of a critick.' 
 
 To proceed with our task by the method of com- 
 parison is to pursue a course open to grave objection, 
 yet it is forced upon us when we find, as we lately 
 did, a writer in the Times newspaper, in the course of 
 a not very discriminating review of Mr. Froude's 
 recent volumes, casually remarking, as if it admitted 
 of no more doubt than the day's price of consols, that 
 Carlyle was a greater man than Johnson. It is a good 
 thing to be positive. To be positive in your opinions 
 and selfish in your habits is the best recipe, if not for 
 happiness, at all events for that far more attainable 
 commodity, comfort, with which we are acquainted. 
 ' A noisy man,' sang poor Cowper, who could not 
 bear anything louder than the hissing of a tea-urn, ' a 
 ' noisy man is always in the right,' and a positive man 
 can seldom be proved wrong. Still, in literature it is 
 very desirable to preserve a moderate measure of 
 independence, and we, therefore, make bold to ask
 
 202 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 whether it is as plain as the ' old hill of Howth,' that 
 Carlyle was a greater man than Johnson ? Is not the 
 precise contrary the truth ? No abuse of Carlyle 
 need be looked for here or from me. When a man of 
 genius and of letters happens to have any striking 
 virtues, such as purity, temperance, honesty, the novel 
 task of dwelling on them has such attraction for us, 
 that we are content to leave the elucidation of his 
 faults to his personal friends, and to stern, unbending 
 moralists like Mr. Edmund Yates and the World news- 
 paper.* To love Carlyle is, thanks to Mr. Froude's 
 superhuman ideal of friendship, a task of much 
 heroism, almost meriting a pension ; still, it is quite 
 possible for the candid and truth-loving soul. But a 
 greater than Johnson he most certainly was not. 
 
 There is a story in Lockhart's Life of Scott of an 
 ancient beggar-woman, who, whilst asking an alms of 
 Sir Walter, described herself, in a lucky moment for 
 her pocket, as ' an old struggler.' Scott made a note 
 of the phrase in his diary, and thought it deserved to 
 become classical. It certainly clings most tenaciously 
 to the memory — so picturesquely does it body forth 
 the striving attitude of poor battered humanity. John- 
 son was ' an old struggler.' f So too, in all conscience, 
 was Carlyle. The struggles of Johnson have long 
 been historical ; those of Carlyle have just become 
 so. We are interested in both. To be indifferent 
 would be inhuman. Both men had great endow- 
 
 * ' The late Mr. Carlyle was a brute and a boor.' — The World, 
 October 29th, 1884. 
 
 f In the first edition, by a strange and distressing freak of the 
 imagination, I took the ' old struggler' out of Lockhart and put 
 her into Boswell.
 
 DR. JOHNSON 203 
 
 ments, tempestuous natures, hard lots. They were 
 not amongst Dame Fortune's favourites. They had to 
 fight their way. What they took they took by storm. 
 But — and here is a difference indeed — Johnson came 
 off victorious, Carlyle did not. 
 
 Boswell's book is an arch of triumph, through 
 which, as we read, we see his hero passing into eternal 
 fame, to take up his place with those — 
 
 ' Dead but sceptred sovereigns who still rule 
 Our spirits from their urns.' 
 
 Froude's book is a tomb over which the lovers of 
 Carlyle's genius will never cease to shed tender but 
 regretful tears. 
 
 We doubt whether there is in English literature a 
 more triumphant book than Boswell's. What materials 
 for tragedy are wanting ? Johnson was a man of 
 strong passions, unbending spirit, violent temper, as 
 poor as a church-mouse, and as proud as the proudest 
 of church dignitaries ; endowed with the strength of a 
 coal-heaver, the courage of a lion, and the tongue of 
 Dean Swift, he could knock down booksellers and 
 silence bargees ; he was melancholy almost to mad- 
 ness, ' radically wretched,' indolent, blinded, diseased. 
 Poverty was long his portion ; not that genteel poverty 
 that is sometimes behindhand with its rent, but that 
 hungry poverty that does not know where to look for 
 its dinner. Against all these things had this ' old 
 struggler ' to contend ; over all these things did this 
 ' old struggler ' prevail. Over even the fear of death, 
 the giving up of this ' intellectual being,' which had 
 haunted his gloomy fancy for a lifetime, he seems
 
 204 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 finally to have prevailed, and to have met his end as 
 a brave man should. 
 
 Carlyle, writing to his wife, says, and truthfully 
 enough, ' The more the devil worries me the more I 
 ' wring him by the nose ;' but then if the devil's was 
 the only nose that was wrung in the transaction, why 
 need Carlyle cry out so loud ? After buffeting one's 
 way through the storm-tossed pages of Froude's 
 Carlyle— in which the universe is stretched upon the 
 rack because food disagrees with man and cocks crow 
 — with what thankfulness and reverence do we read 
 once again the letter in which Johnson tells Mrs. 
 Thrale how he has been called to endure, not dyspepsia 
 or sleeplessness, but paralysis itself : 
 
 ' On Monday I sat for my picture, and walked a 
 ' considerable way with little inconvenience. In the 
 ' afternoon and evening I felt myself light and easy, 
 ' and began to plan schemes of Hfe. Thus I went to 
 ' bed, and, in a short time, waked and sat up, as has 
 ' long been my custom ; when I felt a confusion in 
 ' my head which lasted, I suppose, about half a 
 ' minute ; I was alarmed, and prayed God that how- 
 ' e\er much He might afflict my body He would spare 
 ' my understanding. . . . Soon after I perceived that 
 ' I had suffered a paralytic stroke, and that my speech 
 ' was taken from me. I had no pain, and so little 
 ' dejection, in this dreadful state, that I wondered at 
 ' my own apathy, and considered that perhaps death 
 ' itself, when it should come, would excite less horror 
 ' than seems now to attend it. In order to rouse the 
 ' vocal organs I took two drams. ... I then went to 
 ' bed, and, strange as it may seem, I think, slept.
 
 DR. JOHNSON 205 
 
 ' When I saw light it was time I should contrive what 
 ' I should do. Though God stopped my speech He 
 ' left me my hand. I enjoyed a mercy which was not 
 ' granted to my dear friend Lawrence, who now per- 
 ' haps overlooks me, as I am writing, and rejoices 
 ' that I have what he wanted. My first note was 
 ' necessarily to my servant, who came in talking, and 
 ' could not immediately comprehend why he should 
 ' read what I put into his hands. . . . How this will 
 ' be received by you I know not. I hope you will 
 ' sympathize with me ; but perhaps — 
 
 ' " My mistress, gracious, mild, and good. 
 Cries — Is he dumb ? 'Tis time he shou'd.' 
 
 ' I suppose you may wish to know how my disease 
 ' is treated by the physicians. They put a blister upon 
 ' my back, and two from my ear to my throat, one on 
 ' a side. The blister on the back has done little, and 
 ' those on the throat have not risen. I bullied and 
 ' bounced (it sticks to our last sand), and compelled 
 ' the apothecary to make his salve according to the 
 ' Edinburgh dispensatory, that it might adhere better. 
 ' I have now two on my own prescription. They like- 
 ' wise give me salt of hartshorn, which I take with no 
 ' great confidence ; but I am satisfied that w^hat can 
 ' be done is done for me. I am almost ashamed of 
 ' this querulous letter, but now it is written let it go.' 
 
 This is indeed tonic and bark for the mind. 
 
 If, irritated by a comparison that ought never to 
 have been thrust upon us, we ask why it is that the 
 reader of Boswell finds it as hard to help loving 
 Johnson as the reader of Froude finds it hard to
 
 2o6 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 avoid disliking Carlyle, the answer must be that 
 whilst the elder man of letters was full to overflowing 
 with the milk of human kindness, the younger one was 
 full to overflowing with something not nearly so nice ; 
 and that whilst Johnson was pre-eminently a reason- 
 able man, reasonable in all his demands and expecta- 
 tions, Carlyle was the most unreasonable mortal that 
 ever exhausted the patience of nurse, mother, or wife. 
 
 Of Dr. Johnson's affectionate nature nobody has 
 written with nobler appreciation than Carlyle himself. 
 ' Perhaps it is this Divine feeling of affection, through- 
 ' out manifested, that principally attracts us to John- 
 ' son. A true brother of men is he, and filial lover of 
 'the earth.' 
 
 The day will come when it will be recognised that 
 Carlyle, as a critic, is to be judged by what he himself 
 corrected for the press, and not by splenetic entries in 
 diaries, or whimsical extravagances in private con- 
 versation. 
 
 Of Johnson's reasonableness nothing need be said, 
 except that it is patent everywhere. His wife's judg- 
 ment was a sound one : ' He is the most sensible man 
 ' I ever met.' 
 
 As for his brutality, of which at one time we used 
 to hear a great deal, we cannot say of it what Hook- 
 ham Frere said of Landor's immorality, that it was : 
 
 ' Mere imaginary classicality 
 Wholly devoid of criminal reality.' 
 
 It was nothing of the sort. Dialectically the great 
 Doctor was a great brute. The fact is, he had so 
 accustomed himself to wordy warfare, that he lost all
 
 DR. JOHNSON 207 
 
 sense of moral responsibility, and cared as little for 
 men's feelings as a Napoleon did for their lives. 
 When the battle was over, the Doctor frequently did 
 what no soldier ever did that I have heard tell of, 
 apologized to his victims and drank wine or lemonade 
 with them. It must also be remembered that for the 
 most part his victims sought him out. They came to 
 be tossed and gored. And after all, are they so much 
 to be pitied ? They have our sympathy, and the 
 Doctor has our applause. I am not prepared to say, 
 with the simpering fellow with weak legs whom David 
 Copperfield met at Mr. Waterbrook's dinner-table, 
 that I would sooner be knocked down by a man with 
 blood than picked up by a man without any ; but, 
 argumentatively speaking, I think it would be better 
 for a man's reputation to be knocked down by Dr. 
 Johnson than picked up by Mr. Froude. 
 
 Johnson's claim to be the best of our talkers cannot, 
 on our present materials, be contested. For the most 
 part we have only talk about other talkers. Johnson's 
 is matter of record. Carlyle no doubt was a great 
 talker — no man talked against talk or broke silence to 
 praise it more eloquently than he, but unfortunately 
 none of it is in evidence. All that is given us is a sort 
 of Commination Service writ large. We soon weary 
 of it. Man does not live by curses alone. 
 
 An unhappier prediction of a boy's future was surely 
 never made than that of Johnson's by his cousin, Mr. 
 Cornelius Ford, who said to the infant Samuel, ' You 
 ' will make your way the more easily in the world as 
 ' you are content to dispute no man's claim to con- 
 ' versation excellence, and they will, therefore more
 
 2o8 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 ' willingly allow your pretensions as a writer,' Un- 
 fortunate Mr. Ford ! The man never breathed whose 
 claim to conversation excellence Dr. Johnson did not 
 dispute on every possible occasion, whilst, just because 
 he was admittedly so good a talker, his pretensions as 
 a writer have been occasionally slighted. 
 
 Johnson's personal character has generally been 
 allowed to stand high. It, however, has not been 
 submitted to recent tests. To be the first to ' smell a 
 ' fault ' is the pride of the modern biographer. Boswell's 
 artless pages afford useful hints not lightly to be dis- 
 regarded. During some portion of Johnson's married 
 life he had lodgings, first at Greenwich, afterwards at 
 Hampstead. But he did not always go home o' nights ; 
 sometimes preferring to roam the streets with that 
 vulgar ruffian Savage, who was certainly no fit com- 
 pany for him. He once actually quarrelled with 
 ' Tetty,' who, despite her ridiculous name, was a very 
 sensible woman with a very sharp tongue, and for a 
 season, like stars, they dwelt apart. Of the real 
 merits of this dispute we must resign ourselves to 
 ignorance. The materials for its discussion do not 
 exist ; even Croker could not find them. Neither was 
 our great moralist as sound as one would have liked 
 to see him in the matter of the payment of small debts. 
 When he came to die, he remembered several of these 
 outstanding accounts ; but what assurance have we 
 that he remembered them all ? One sum of £io he 
 sent across to the honest fellow from whom he had 
 borrowed it, with an apology for his delay ; which, 
 since it had extended over a period of twenty years, 
 was not superfluous. I wonder whether he ever
 
 DR. JOHNSON 209 
 
 repaid Mr. Dilly the guinea he once borrowed of him 
 to give to a very small boy who had just been 
 apprenticed to a printer. If he did not, it was a great 
 shame. That he was indebted to Sir Joshua in a 
 small loan is apparent from the fact that it was one of 
 his three dying requests to that great man that he 
 should release him from it, as, of course, the most 
 amiable of painters did. The other two requests, it 
 will be remembered, were to read his Bible, and not 
 to use his brush on Sundays. The good Sir Joshua 
 gave the desired promises with a full heart, for these 
 two great men loved one another ; but subsequently 
 discovered the Sabbatical restriction not a little irk- 
 some, and after a while resumed his former practice, 
 arguing with himself that the Doctor really had no 
 business to extract any such promise. The point is a 
 nice one, and perhaps ere this the two friends have 
 met and discussed it in the Elysian fields. If so, I hope 
 the Doctor, grown ' angelical,' kept his temper with 
 the mild shade of Reynolds better than on the historical 
 occasion when he discussed with him the question of 
 
 * strong drinks.' 
 
 Against Garrick, Johnson undoubtedly cherished a 
 smouldering grudge, which, however, he never allowed 
 anyone but himself to fan into flame. His pique was 
 natural. Garrick had been his pupil at Edial, near 
 Lichfield ; they had come up to town together with 
 an easy united fortune of fourpence — ' current coin o' 
 
 * the realm.' Garrick soon had the world at his feet 
 and garnered golden grain. Johnson became famous 
 too, but remained poor and dingy. Garrick surrounded 
 himself with what only money can buy, good pictures 
 
 H
 
 210 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 and rare books. Johnson cared nothing for pictures 
 — how should he ? he could not see them ; but he did 
 care a great deal about books, and the pernickety- 
 little player was chary about lending his splendidly 
 bound rarities to his quondam preceptor. Our sym- 
 pathies in this matter are entirely with Garrick ; 
 Johnson was one of the best men that ever lived, but 
 not to lend books to. Like Lady Slattern, he had a 
 ' most observant thumb.' But Garrick had no real 
 cause for complaint. Johnson may have soiled his 
 folios and sneered at his trade, but in life Johnson 
 loved Garrick, and in death embalmed his memory in 
 a sentence which can only die with the English 
 language : ' I am disappointed by that stroke of death 
 ' which has eclipsed the gaiety of nations, and im- 
 ' poverished the public stock of harmless pleasure.' 
 
 Will it be believed that puny critics have been 
 found to quarrel with this colossal compliment on the 
 poor pretext of its falsehood ? Garrick's death, urge 
 these dullards, could not possibly have eclipsed the 
 gaiety of nations, since he had retired from the stage 
 months previous to his demise. When will mankind 
 learn that literature is one thing, and sworn testimony 
 another ? 
 
 Johnson's relations with Burke were of a more 
 crucial character. The author of Rasselas and The 
 English Dictionary can never have been really jealous 
 of Garrick, or in the very least desirous of ' bringing 
 ' down the house ;' but Burke had done nobler things 
 than that. He had made politics philosophical, and 
 had at least tried to cleanse them from the dust and 
 cobwebs of party. Johnson, though he had never sat
 
 DR. JOHNSON 211 
 
 in the House of Commons, had yet, in his capacity of 
 an unauthorized reporter, put into the mouths of 
 honourable members much better speeches than ever 
 came out of them, and it is no secret that he would 
 have liked to make a speech' or two on his own 
 account. Burke had made many. Harder still to 
 bear, there were not wanting good judges to say that, 
 in their opinion, Burke was a better talker than the 
 great Samuel himself. To cap it all, was not Burke 
 a ' vile Whig ' ? The ordeal was an unusually trying 
 one. Johnson emerges triumphant. 
 
 Though by no means disposed to hear men made 
 much of, he always listened to praise of Burke with a 
 boyish delight. He never wearied of it. When any 
 new proof of Burke's intellectual prowess was brought 
 to his notice, he would exclaim exultingly, ' Did we 
 ' not always say he was a great man ?' And yet how 
 admirably did this ' poor scholar ' preserve his inde- 
 pendence and equanimity of mind ! It was not easy 
 to dazzle the Doctor. What a satisfactory story that 
 is of Burke showing Johnson over his fine estate at 
 Beaconsfield, and expatiating in his exuberant style 
 on its ' liberties, privileges, easements, rights, and 
 advantages,' and of the old Doctor, the tenant of ' a 
 two-pair back ' somewhere off Fleet Street, peering 
 cautiously about, criticising everything, and observing 
 with much coolness — 
 
 ' Non equidem invideo, miror magis.' 
 
 A friendship like this could be disturbed but by death, 
 and accordingly we read : 
 
 * Mr. Langton one day during Johnson's last illness 
 
 14 — 2
 
 212 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 ' found Mr. Burke and four or five more friends. 
 ' sitting with Johnson. Mr. Burke said to him, " I 
 ' " am afraid, sir, such a number of us may be oppres- 
 
 * " sive to you." " No, sir," said Johnson, " it is not 
 ' " so ; and I must be in a wretched state indeed when 
 
 * " your company would not be a deHght to me." Mr. 
 ' Burke, in a tremulous voice, expressive of being very 
 ' tenderly affected, replied : "My dear sir, you have 
 ' "always been too good to me." Immediately after- 
 
 * wards he went away. This was the last circumstance 
 
 * in the acquaintance of these two eminent men.' 
 
 But this is a well-worn theme, though, like some 
 other well-worn themes, still profitable for edification 
 or rebuke. A hundred years can make no difference 
 to a character like Johnson's, or to a biography like 
 Boswell's. We are not to be robbed of our conviction 
 that this man, at all events, was both great and good. 
 
 Johnson the author is not always fairly treated. 
 Phrases are convenient things to hand about, and it is 
 as little the custom to inquire into their truth as it is 
 to read the letterpress on banknotes. We are content 
 to count banknotes, and to repeat phrases. One of 
 these phrases is, that whilst everybody reads Boswell, 
 nobody reads Johnson. The facts are otherwise. 
 Everybody does not read Boswell, and a great many 
 people do read Johnson. If it be asked. What do the 
 general public know of Johnson's nine volumes octavo ? 
 I reply, Beshrew the general public ! What in the 
 name of the Bodleian has the general public got to do 
 with literature ? The general public subscribes to 
 Mudie, and has its intellectual, like its lacteal susten- 
 ance, sent round to it in carts. On Saturdays these
 
 DR. JOHNSON 213 
 
 -carts, laden with ' recent works in circulation,' traverse 
 the Uxbridge Road ; on Wednesdays they toil up 
 Highgate Hill, and if we may believe the reports of 
 travellers, are occasionally seen rushing through the 
 wilds of Camberwell and bumping over Blackheath, 
 It is not a question of the general public, but of the 
 lover of letters. Do Mr. Browning, Mr. Arnold, Mr. 
 Lowell, Mr. Trevelyan, Mr. Stephen, Mr. Morley, 
 Jinow their Johnson ? ' To doubt would be disloyalty.' 
 And what these big men know in their big way 
 hundreds of little men know in their little way. We 
 have no writer with a more genuine literary flavour 
 about him than the great Cham of literature. No 
 -man of letters loved letters better than he. He knew 
 literature in all its branches — he had read books, he 
 had written books, he had sold books, he had bought 
 books, and he had borrowed them. Sluggish and 
 inert in all other directions, he pranced through 
 libraries. He loved a catalogue ; he dehghted in an 
 index. He was, to employ a happy phrase of Dr. 
 Holmes, at home amongst books, as a stable-boy is 
 amongst horses. He cared intensely about the future 
 of literature and the fate of literary men. ' I respect 
 ^ Millar,' he once exclaimed ; * he has raised the price 
 ' of literature.' Now Millar was a Scotchman. Even 
 Home Tooke was not to stand in the pillory : ' No, 
 ' no, the dog has too much literature for that.' The 
 only time the author of Rasselas met the author of the 
 Wealth of Nations witnessed a painful scene. The 
 EngHsh moralist gave the Scotch one the lie direct, 
 and the Scotch moralist applied to the English one a 
 phrase which would have done discredit to the lips of
 
 214 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 a costermonger ;" but this notwithstanding, wheni 
 Boswell reported that Adam Smith preferred rhyme 
 to blank verse, Johnson hailed the news as enthusi- 
 astically as did Cedric the Saxon the English origin 
 of the bravest knights in the retinue of the Norman 
 king. ' Did Adam say that ?' he shouted : ' I love 
 ' him for it. I could hug him !' Johnson no doubt 
 honestly believed he held George III. in reverence^ 
 but really he did not care a pin's fee for all the 
 crowned heads of Europe. All his reverence was 
 reserved for ' poor scholars.' When a small boy in a 
 wherry, on whom had devolved the arduous task of 
 rowing Johnson and his biographer across the Thames, 
 said he would give all he had to know about the 
 Argonauts, the Doctor was much pleased, and gave 
 him, or got Boswell to give him, a double fare. He 
 was ever an advocate of the spread of knowledge 
 amongst all classes and both sexes. His devotion to- 
 letters has received its fitting reward, the love and 
 respect of all ' lettered hearts.' 
 
 Considering him a little more in detail, we find it 
 plain that he was a poet of no mean order. His 
 resonant lines, informed as they often are with the 
 force of their author's character — his strong sense, his 
 fortitude, his gloom — take possession of the memory, 
 and suffuse themselves through one's entire system of 
 thought. A poet spouting his own verses is usually a 
 figure to be avoided ; but one could be content to be 
 a hundred and thirty next birthday to have heard 
 
 * Anyone who does not wish this story to be true, will find 
 good reasons for disbelieving it stated in Mr. Napier's edition of 
 Boswell, vol. iv., p. 385.
 
 DR, JOHNSON 215 
 
 Johnson recite, in his full sonorous voice, and with his 
 stately elocution, The Vanity of Human Wishes. When 
 he came to the following lines, he usually broke down, 
 and who can wonder ? — 
 
 ' Proceed, illustrious youth, 
 And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth ! 
 Yet should thy soul indulge the gen'rous heat 
 Till captive science yields her last retreat ; 
 Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray. 
 And pour on misty doubt resistless day ; 
 Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, 
 Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; 
 Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain. 
 And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain ; 
 Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, 
 Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart ; 
 Should no disease thy torpid veins invade. 
 Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ; 
 Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, 
 Nor think the doom of man revers'd for thee. 
 Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, 
 And pause a while from letters to be wise ; 
 There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, 
 Toil, envy, want, the patron and the gaol. 
 See nations, slowly wise and meanly just, 
 To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
 If dreams yet flatter, once again attend, 
 Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end.' 
 
 If this be not poetry, may the name perish ! 
 
 In another style, the stanzas on the young heir's 
 
 majority have such great merit as to tempt one to say 
 
 that the author of The Jolly Beggars, Robert Burns 
 
 himself, might have written them. Here are four of 
 
 them : 
 
 ' Loosen'd from the minor's tether. 
 Free to mortgage or to sell ; 
 Wild as wind and light as feather. 
 Bid the sons of thrift farewell. 
 
 ' Call the Betseys, Kates, and Jennies, 
 All the names that banish care. 
 Lavish of your grandsire's guineas, 
 Show the spirit of an heir.
 
 2t6 dr. JOHNSON 
 
 ' Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, 
 
 Let it wander as it will ; 
 Call the jockey, call the pander. 
 Bid them come and take their fill. 
 
 ' When the bonny blade carouses, 
 Pockets full and spirits high — 
 What are acres ? what are houses ? 
 Only dirt — or wet or dry.' 
 
 Johnson's prologues, and his lines on the death of 
 Robert Levet, are well known. Indeed, it is only fair 
 to say that our respected friend, the General Public, 
 frequently has Johnsonian tags on its tongue : 
 
 I ' Slow rises worth by poverty depressed.' 
 
 j ' The unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain. 
 
 ' He left the name at which the world grew pale 
 To point a moral or adorn a tale.' 
 
 jl ' Death, kind nature's signal of retreat.' 
 
 * ' Panting Time toiled after him in vain.' 
 
 'S 
 
 All these are Johnson's, who, though he is not, like 
 Gray, whom he hated so, all quotations, is yet oftener 
 in men's mouths than they perhaps wot of. 
 
 Johnson's tragedy, Irene, need not detain us. It is 
 unreadable, and to quote his own sensible words, ' It 
 is useless to criticise what nobody reads.' It was 
 indeed the expressed opinion of a contemporary called 
 Pot that Irene was the finest tragedy of modern times ; 
 but on this judgment of Pot's being made known to 
 Johnson, he was only heard to mutter, ' If Pot says 
 ' so. Pot lies,' as no doubt he did. 
 
 Johnson's Latin Verses have not escaped the con- 
 demnation of scholars. Whose have ? The true 
 mode of critical approach to copies of Latin verse is 
 by the question — How bad are they ? Croker took
 
 DR. JOHNSON 217 
 
 the opinion of the Marquess Wellesley as to the 
 degree of badness of Johnson's Latin Exercises. Lord 
 Wellesley, as became so distinguished an Etonian, 
 felt the solemnity of the occasion, and, after bargain- 
 ing for secrecy, gave it as his opinion that they were 
 all very bad, but that some perhaps were worse than 
 others. To this judgment I have nothing to add. 
 
 As a writer of English prose, Johnson has always 
 enjoyed a great, albeit a somewhat awful reputation. 
 In childish memories he is constrained to be associated 
 with dust and dictionaries, and those provoking 
 obstacles to a boy's reading — ' long words.' It would 
 be easy to select from Johnson's writings numerous 
 passages written in that essentially vicious style to 
 which the name Johnsonese has been cruelly given ; 
 but the searcher could not fail to find many passages 
 guiltless of this charge. The characteristics of John- 
 son's prose style are colossal good sense, though with 
 a strong sceptical bias, good humour, vigorous language, 
 and movement from point to point, which can only be 
 compared to the measured tread of a well-drilled com- 
 pany of soldiers. Here is a passage from the preface 
 to Shakspeare : 
 
 * Notes are often necessary, but they are necessary 
 ' evils. Let him that is yet unacquainted with the 
 ' powers of Shakspeare, and who desires to feel the 
 ' highest pleasure that the drama can give, read every 
 ' play from the first scene to the last, with utter 
 ' negligence of all his commentators. When his fancy 
 ' is once on the wing, let it not stoop at correction or 
 ' explanation. When his attention is strongly engaged, 
 ' let it disdain ahke to turn aside to the name of Theo-
 
 2i8 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 ' bald and of Pope. Let him read on, through bright- 
 ' ness and obscurity, through integrity and corruption ; 
 ' let him preserve his comprehension of the dialogue 
 ' and his interest in the fable. And when the pleasures 
 ' of novelty have ceased, let him attempt exactness 
 ' and read the commentators.' 
 
 Where are we to find better sense, or much better 
 English ? 
 
 In the pleasant art of chaffing an author Johnson 
 has hardly an equal. De Quincey too often overdoes 
 it. Macaulay seldom fails to excite sympathy with 
 his victim. In playfulness Mr. Arnold perhaps sur- 
 passes the Doctor, but then the latter's playfulness is 
 always leonine, whilst Mr. Arnold's is surely, some- 
 times, just a trifle kittenish. An example, no doubt a 
 very good one, of Johnson's humour must be allowed 
 me. Soame Jenyns, in his book on the Origin of Evil, 
 had imagined that, as we have not only animals for 
 food, but choose some for our diversion, the same 
 privilege may be allowed to beings above us, ' who 
 ' may deceive, torment, or destroy us for the ends 
 ' only of their own pleasure.' 
 
 On this hint writes our merry Doctor as follows : 
 
 ' I cannot resist the temptation of contemplating this 
 ' analogy, which I think he might have carried farther, 
 ' very much to the advantage of his argument. He 
 ' might have shown that these " hunters, whose game 
 ' " is man," have many sports analogous to our own. 
 
 * As we drown whelps or kittens, they amuse them- 
 ' selves now and then with sinking a ship, and stand 
 
 * round the fields of Blenheim, or the walls of Prague, 
 ' as we encircle a cockpit. As we shoot a bird flying.
 
 DR. JOHNSON 219 
 
 * they take a man in the midst of his business or 
 
 * pleasure, and knock him down with an apoplexy. 
 
 * Some of them perhaps are virtuosi, and delight in 
 ' the operations of an asthma, as a human philosopher 
 ' in the effects of the air-pump. Many a merry bout 
 ' have these frolick beings at the vicissitudes of an 
 ' ague, and good sport it is to see a man tumble with 
 
 * an epilepsy, and revive and tumble again, and all 
 ' this he knows not why. The paroxysms of the gout 
 
 * and stone must undoubtedly make high mirth, espe- 
 ' cially if the play be a little diversified with the 
 ' blunders and puzzles of the blind and deaf. . . . One 
 ' sport the merry malice of these beings has found 
 ' means of enjoying, to which we have nothing equal 
 ' or similar. They now and then catch a mortal, 
 
 * proud of his parts, and flattered either by the sub- 
 ' mission of those who court his kindness, or the notice 
 
 * of those who suffer him to court theirs. A head 
 ' thus prepared for the reception of false opinions, and 
 ' the projection of vain designs, they easily fill with 
 ' idle notions till, in time, they make their plaything an 
 ' author ; their first diversion commonly begins with 
 ' an ode or an epistle, then rises perhaps to a political 
 ' irony, and is at last brought to its height by a treatise 
 ' of philosophy. Then begins the poor animal to 
 ' entangle himself in sophisms and to flounder in 
 ' absurdity.' 
 
 The author of the philosophical treatise, A Free 
 Inquiry into the Nature and Origin of Evil, did not at all 
 enjoy this ' merry bout ' of the ' frolick ' Johnson. 
 
 The concluding paragraphs of Johnson's Preface to 
 his Dictionary are historical prose, and if we are
 
 220 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 anxious to find passages fit to compare with them in 
 the melancholy roll of their cadences and in their 
 grave sincerity and manly emotion, we must, I think, 
 take a flying jump from Dr. Johnson to Dr. Newman. 
 
 For sensible men the world offers no better reading 
 than the Lives of the Poets. They afford an admirable 
 example of the manner of man Johnson was. The 
 subject was suggested to him by the booksellers, 
 whom as a body he never abused. Himself the son 
 of a bookseller, he respected their calling. If they 
 treated him with civihty, he responded suitably. If 
 they were rude to him he knocked them down. These 
 worthies chose their own poets. Johnson remained 
 indifferent. He knew everybody's poetry, and was 
 always ready to write anybody's Life. If he knew 
 the facts of a poet's life — and his knowledge was 
 enormous on such subjects — he found room for them ; 
 if he did not, he supphed their place with his own 
 shrewd reflections and sombre philosophy of life. It 
 thus comes about that Johnson is every bit as in- 
 teresting when he is writing about Sprat, or Smith, or 
 Fenton, as he is when he has got Milton or Gray in 
 hand. He is also much less provoking. My own 
 favourite Life is that of Sir Richard Blackmore. 
 
 The poorer the poet the kindlier is the treatment he 
 receives. Johnson kept all his rough words for 
 Shakspeare, Milton, and Gray. 
 
 In this trait, surely an amiable one, he was much 
 resembled by that eminent man the late Sir George 
 Jessel, whose civility to a barrister was always in 
 inverse ratio to the barrister's practice ; and whose 
 friendly zeal in helping young and nervous practitioners
 
 DR. JOHNSON 221 
 
 over the stiles of legal difficulty was only equalled by 
 the fiery enthusiasm with which he thrust back the 
 Attorney and Solicitor General and people of that 
 sort. 
 
 As a political thinker Johnson has not had justice. 
 He has been lightly dismissed as the last of the old- 
 world Tories. He was nothing of the sort. His cast 
 of political thought is shared by thousands to this 
 day. He represents that vast army of electors whom 
 neither canvasser nor caucus has ever yet cajoled or 
 bullied into a polling-booth. Newspapers may scold, 
 platforms may shake ; whatever circulars can do may 
 be done, all that placards can tell may be told ; but 
 the fact remains that one-third of every constituency 
 in the realm shares Dr. Johnson's ' narcotic indif- 
 ference,' and stays away. 
 
 It is, of course, impossible to reconcile all Johnson's 
 recorded utterances with any one view of anything. 
 When crossed in conversation or goaded by folly he 
 was capable of anything. But his dominant tone 
 about politics was something of this sort. Provided 
 a man lived in a State which guaranteed him private 
 liberty and secured him public order, he was very 
 much of a knave or altogether a fool if he troubled 
 himself further. To go to bed when you wish, to get 
 up when you like, to eat and drink and read what you 
 choose, to say across your port or your tea whatever 
 occurs to you at the moment, and to earn your living 
 as best you may — this is what Dr. Johnson meant by 
 private liberty. Fleet Street open day and night — this 
 is what he meant by public order. Give a sensible man 
 these things, and take all the rest, the world goes round.
 
 222 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 Tyranny was a bugbear. Either the tyranny was 
 bearable, or it was not. If it was bearable, it did not 
 matter ; and as soon as it became unbearable the mob 
 cut off the tyrant's head, and wise men went home to 
 their dinner. To views of this sort he gave emphatic 
 utterance on the well-known occasion when he gave 
 Sir Adam Ferguson a bit of his mind. Sir Adam had 
 innocently enough observed that the Crown had too 
 much power. Thereupon Johnson : 
 
 ' Sir, I perceive you are a vile Whig. Why all this 
 
 * childish jealousy of the power of the Crown ? The 
 
 * Crown has not power enough. When I say that all 
 ' governments are alike, I consider that in no govern- 
 
 * ment power can be abused long ; mankind will not 
 
 * bear it. If a sovereign oppresses his people, they 
 
 * will rise and cut off his head. There is a remedy in 
 
 * human nature against tyranny that will keep us safe 
 ' under every form of government.' 
 
 This is not, and never was, the language of Toryism. 
 It is a much more intellectual ' ism.' It is indifferentism. 
 So, too, in his able pamphlet. The False Alavni, which 
 had reference to Wilkes and the Middlesex election, 
 though he no doubt attempts to deal with the con- 
 stitutional aspect of the question, the real strength of 
 his case is to be found in passages like the following : 
 
 ' The grievance which has produced all this tempest 
 
 * of outrage, the oppression in which all other oppres- 
 
 * sions are included, the invasion which has left us no 
 
 * property, the alarm that suffers no patriot to sleep in 
 ' quiet, is comprised in a vote of the House of Commons, 
 ' by which the freeholders of Middlesex are deprived 
 ■* of a Briton's birthright — representation in Parlia-
 
 DR. JOHNSON 223 
 
 * ment. They have, indeed, received the usual writ 
 ' of election ; but that writ, alas ! was malicious 
 *■ mockery ; they were insulted with the form, but 
 ' denied the reality, for there was one man excepted 
 ' from their choice. The character of the man, thus 
 
 * fatally excepted, I have no purpose to delineate. 
 
 * Lampoon itself would disdain to speak ill of him of 
 
 * whom no man speaks well. Every lover of liberty 
 ' stands doubtful of the fate of posterity, because the 
 
 * chief county in England cannot take its representative 
 
 * from a gaol.' 
 
 Temperament was of course at the bottom of this 
 indifference. Johnson was of melancholy humour and 
 profoundly sceptical. Cynical he was not — he loved 
 his fellow- men ; his days were full of 
 
 ' Little, nameless, unremembered acts 
 Of kindness and of love.' 
 
 / 
 
 But he was as difficult to rouse to enthusiasm about 
 humanity as Mr. Justice Stephen. He pitied the 
 poor devils, but he did not believe in them. They 
 were neither happy nor wise, and he saw no reason to 
 believe they would ever become either. ' Leave me 
 * alone,' he cried to the sultry mob, bawling ' Wilkes 
 ' and Liberty.' ' I at least am not ashamed to own 
 ' that I care for neither the one nor the other.' 
 
 No man, however, resented more fiercely than 
 Johnson any unnecessary interference with men who 
 were simply going their own way. The Highlanders 
 only knew Gaelic, yet political wiseacres were to be 
 found objecting to their having the Bible in their own 
 tongue. Johnson flew to arms : he wrote one of his
 
 224 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 monumental letters ; the opposition was quelled, and 
 the Gael got his Bible. So too the wicked interference 
 with Irish enterprise, so much in vogue during the last 
 century, infuriated him. ' Sir,' he said to Sir Thomas 
 Robinson, ' you talk the language of a savage. What, 
 ' sir ! would you prevent any people from feeding 
 * themselves, if by any honest means they can do so ?' 
 
 Were Johnson to come to life again, total abstainer 
 as he often was, he would, I expect, denounce the 
 principle involved in ' Local Option.' I am not at all 
 sure he would not borrow a guinea from a bystander 
 and become a subscriber to the * Property Defence 
 League ;' and though it is notorious that he never 
 read any book all through, and never could be got to 
 believe that anybody else ever did, he would, I think, 
 read a larger fraction of Mr. Spencer's pamphlet, 
 ' Man versus the State,' than of any other ' recent work 
 ' in circulation.' The state of the Strand, when two 
 vestries are at work upon it, would, I am sure, drive 
 him into open rebellion. 
 
 As a letter-writer Johnson has great merits. Let 
 no man despise the epistolary art. It is said to be 
 extinct. I doubt it. Good letters were always scarce. 
 It does not follow that, because our grandmothers 
 wrote long letters, they all wrote good ones, or that 
 nobody nowadays writes good letters because most 
 people write bad ones. Johnson wrote letters in two 
 styles. One was monumental — more suggestive of 
 the chisel than the pen. In the other there are traces 
 of the same style, but, like the old Gothic architecture, 
 it has grown domesticated, and become the fit vehicle 
 of plain tidings of joy and sorrow — of affection, wit,
 
 DR. JOHNSON 225 
 
 and fancy. The letter to Lord Chesterfield is the most 
 celebrated example of the monumental style. From 
 the letters to Mrs. Thrale many good examples of the 
 domesticated style might be selected. One must suffice : 
 ' Queeney has been a good girl, and wrote me a 
 ' letter. If Burney said she would write, she told you 
 ' a fib. She writes nothing to me. She can write 
 ' home fast enough. I have a good mind not to tell 
 ' her that Dr. Bernard, to whom I had recommended 
 ' her novel, speaks of it with great commendation, and 
 
 * that the copy which she lent me has been read by 
 
 * Dr. Lawrence three times over. And yet what a 
 ' gipsy it is. She no more minds me than if I were 
 ' a Branghton. Pray, speak to Queeney to write again. 
 ' . . . Now you think yourself the first writer in the 
 ' world for a letter about nothing. Can you write 
 ' such a letter as this ? So miscellaneous, with such 
 ' noble disdain of regularity, like Shakspeare's works ; 
 ' such graceful negligence of transition, like the ancient 
 ' enthusiasts. The pure voice of Nature and of Friend- 
 ' ship. Now, of whom shall I proceed to speak ? of 
 ' whom but Mrs. Montague ? Having mentioned 
 ' Shakspeare and Nature, does not the name of 
 ' Montague force itself upon me ? Such were the 
 
 ' transitions of the ancients, which now seem abrupt, 
 ' because the intermediate idea is lost to modern under- 
 ' standings.' 
 
 But the extract had better end, for there are (I fear), 
 ' modern understandings ' who will not perceive the 
 ' intermediate idea ' between Shakspeare and Mrs. 
 Montague, and to whom even the name of Branghton 
 will suggest no meaning. 
 
 15
 
 226 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 Johnson's literary fame is, in our judgment, as 
 secure as his character. Like the stone which he 
 placed over his father's grave at Lichfield, and which, 
 it is shameful to think, has been removed, it is ' too 
 ' massy and strong ' to be ever much affected by the 
 wind and weather of our literary atmosphere. ' Never,' 
 so he wrote to Mrs. Thrale, ' let criticisms operate 
 ' upon your face or your mind ; it is very rarely that 
 ' an author is hurt by his critics. The blaze of repu- 
 ' tation cannot be blown out ; but it often dies in the 
 ' socket. From the author of Fitzosborne's Letters I 
 ' cannot think myself in much danger. I met him 
 ' only once, about thirty years ago, and in some small 
 ' dispute soon reduced him to whistle.' Dr. Johnson 
 is in no danger from anybody. None but Gargantua 
 could blow him out, and he still burns brightly in his 
 socket. 
 
 How long this may continue who can say ? It is a 
 far cry to 1985. Science may by that time have 
 squeezed out literature, and the author of the Lives of 
 the Poets may be dimly remembered as an odd fellow 
 who lived in the Dark Ages, and had a very creditable 
 fancy for making chemical experiments. On the other 
 hand, the Spiritualists may be in possession, in which 
 case the Cock Lane Ghost will occupy more of public 
 attention than Boswell's hero, who will, perhaps, be 
 reprobated as the profane utterer of these idle words : 
 ' Suppose I know a man to be so lame that he is 
 ' absolutely incapable to move himself, and I find him 
 ' in a different room from that in which I left him, 
 ' shall I puzzle myself with idle conjectures, that per- 
 ' haps his nerves have by some unknown change all
 
 DR. JOHNSON 227 
 
 ■* at once become effective ? No, sir, it is clear how 
 * he got into a different room — he was cavvied.'' 
 
 We here part company with Johnson, bidding him 
 a most affectionate farewell, and leaving him in un- 
 disturbed possession of both place and power. His 
 character will bear investigation, and some of his 
 books perusal. The latter, indeed, may be submitted 
 to his own test, and there is no truer one. A book, 
 he wrote, should help us either to enjoy life or to 
 endure it. His frequently do both. 
 
 15-
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 A Lecture delivered before the Edinburgh Philosophical 
 
 Society. 
 
 MR. JOHN MORLEY, who among other things 
 has written two admirable books about 
 Edmund Burke, is to be found in the Preface to 
 the second of them apologizing for having intro- 
 duced into the body of the work extracts from his 
 former volume — conduct which he seeks to justify by 
 quoting from the Greek (always a desirable thing to 
 do when in difficulty), to prove that, though you may 
 say what you have to say well once, you cannot so 
 say it twice. 
 
 A difficulty somewhat of the same kind cannot fail 
 to be felt by everyone who takes upon himself to write 
 on Burke ; for however innocent a man's own past 
 life may be of any public references to the subject, the 
 very many good things other men have said about it 
 must seriously interfere with true liberty of treatment. 
 
 Hardly any man, and certainly no politician, has 
 been so bepraised as Burke, whose very name, suggest- 
 ing, as it does, splendour of diction, has tempted those
 
 EDMUND BURKE 229 
 
 who would praise him to do so in a highly decorated 
 style, and it would have been easy work to have 
 brought together a sufficient number of animated 
 passages from the works of well-known writers all 
 dedicated to the greater glory of Edmund Burke, and 
 then to have tagged on half-a-dozen specimens of his 
 own resplendent rhetoric, and so to have come to an 
 apparently natural and long-desired conclusion with- 
 out exciting any more than the usual post-lectorial 
 grumble. 
 
 This course, however, not recommending itself, 
 some other method had to be discovered. Happily, 
 it is out of the question within present limits to give any 
 proper summary of Burke's public life. This great 
 man was not like some modern politicians, a specialist, 
 confining his activities within the prospectus of an 
 association ; nor was he, like some others, a thing of 
 shreds and patches, busily employed to-day picking 
 up the facts with which he will overwhelm his 
 opponents on the morrow ; but was one ever ready to 
 engage with all comers on all subjects from out of the 
 stores of his accumulated knowledge. Even were we 
 to confine ourselves to those questions only which 
 engaged Burke's most powerful attention, enlisted his 
 most active sympathy, elicited his most bewitching 
 rhetoric, we should still find ourselves called upon to 
 grapple with problems as vast and varied as Economic 
 Reform, the Status of our Colonies, our Empire in 
 India, our relations with Ireland both in respect to her 
 trade and her prevalent religion ; and then, blurring 
 the picture, as some may think — certainly rendering it 
 Titanesque and gloomy — we have the spectacle of
 
 230 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 Burke in his old age, like another Laocoon, Avrithing- 
 and wrestling with the French Revolution ; and it 
 may serve to give us some dim notion of how great a 
 man Burke was, of how affluent a mind, of how 
 potent an imagination, of how resistless an energy, 
 that even when his sole unassisted name is pitted 
 against the outcome of centuries, and we say Burke 
 and the French Revolution, we are not overwhelmed 
 by any sense of obvious absurdity or incongruity. 
 
 What I propose to do is merely to consider a little 
 Burke's life prior to his obtaining a seat in Parlia- 
 ment, and then to refer to any circumstances which 
 may help us to account for the fact that this truly 
 extraordinary man, whose intellectual resources beggar 
 the imagination, and who devoted himself to politics 
 with all the forces of his nature, never so much as 
 attained to a seat in the Cabinet — a feat one has 
 known to be accomplished by persons of no proved 
 intellectual agility. Having done this, I shall then, 
 bearing in mind the aphorism of Lord Beaconsfield, 
 that it is always better to be impudent than servile, 
 essay an analysis of the essential elements of Burke's 
 character. 
 
 The first great fact to remember is that the 
 Edmund Burke we are all agreed in regarding as 
 one of the proudest memories of the House of 
 Commons was an Irishman. When we are in our 
 next fit of political depression about that island, and 
 are about piously to wish, as the poet Spenser tells us 
 men were wishing even in his time, that it were not 
 adjacent, let us do a little national stocktaking, and 
 calculate profits as well as losses. Burke was not
 
 EDMUND BURKE 231 
 
 only an Irishman, but a typical one — of the very 
 kind many Englishmen, and even possibly some 
 Scotsmen, make a point of disliking. I do not say 
 he was an aboriginal Irishman, but his ancestors are 
 said to have settled in the county of Galway, under 
 Strongbow, in King Henry the Second's time, when 
 Ireland was first conquered and our troubles began. 
 This, at all events, is a better Irish pedigree than 
 Mr. Parnell's. 
 
 Skipping six centuries, we find Burke's father an 
 attorney in Dublin — which somehow sounds a very 
 Irish thing to be — who in 1725 married a Miss Nagle, 
 and had fifteen children. The marriage of Burke's 
 parents was of the kind called mixed — a term which 
 doubtless admits of wide application, but when em- 
 ployed technically signifies that the religious faith of 
 the spouses was different ; one, the father, being a 
 Protestant, and the lady an adherent to what used to 
 be pleasantly called the ' old religion.' The severer 
 spirit now dominating Catholic councils has con- 
 demned these marriages, on the score of their bad 
 theology and their lax morality ; but the practical 
 politician, who is not usually much of a theologian — 
 though Lord Melbourne and Mr. Gladstone are dis- 
 tinguished exceptions — and whose moral conscience 
 is apt to be robust (and here I believe there are no 
 exceptions), cannot but regret that so good an oppor- 
 tunity of lubricating religious differences with the 
 sweet oil of the domestic affections should be lost to 
 us in these days of bitterness and dissension. Burke 
 was brought up in the Protestant faith of his father, 
 and was never in any real danger of deviating from it ;
 
 232 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 but I cannot doubt that his regard for his Catholic 
 fellow-subjects, his fierce repudiation of the infamies 
 of the Penal Code — the horrors of which he did some- 
 thing to mitigate — his respect for antiquity, and his 
 historic sense, were all quickened by the fact that a 
 tenderly loved and loving mother belonged through 
 life and in death to an ancient and an outraged faith. 
 
 The great majority of Burke's brothers and sisters, 
 like those of Laurence Sterne, were ' not made to 
 ' live ;' and out of the fifteen but three, beside him- 
 self, attained maturity. These were his eldest brother 
 Garrett, on whose death Edmund succeeded to the 
 patrimonial Irish estate, which he sold ; his younger 
 brother Richard, a highly speculative gentleman, who 
 always lost ; and his sister, Juliana, who married a 
 Mr. French, and was, as became her mother's 
 daughter, a rigid Roman Catholic — who, so we read, 
 was accustomed every Christmas Day to invite to the 
 Hall the maimed, the aged, and distressed of her 
 vicinity to a plentiful repast, during which she waited 
 upon them as a servant. A sister like this never did 
 any man any serious harm. 
 
 Edmund Burke was born in 1729, in Dublin, and 
 was taught his rudiments in the country — first by a 
 Mr. O'Halloran, and afterwards by a Mr. FitzGerald, 
 village pedagogues both, who at all events succeeded 
 in giving their charge a brogue which death alone 
 could silence. Burke passed from their hands to an 
 academy at Ballitore, kept by a Quaker, whence he 
 proceeded to Trinity College, Dublin. He was thus 
 not only Irish born, but Irish bred. His intellectual 
 habit of mind exhibited itself early. He belonged to
 
 EDMUND BURKE 233 
 
 the happy family of omnivorous readers, and, in the 
 language of his latest schoolmaster, he went to college 
 with a larger miscellaneous stock of reading than was 
 usual with one of his years ; which, being interpreted 
 out of pedagogic into plain English, means that ' our 
 good Edmund ' was an enormous devourer of poetry 
 and novels, and so he remained to the end of his days. 
 That he always preferred Fielding to Richardson is 
 satisfactory, since it pairs him off nicely with Dr. 
 Johnson, whose preference was the other way, and so 
 helps to keep an interesting question wide open. His 
 passion for the poetry of Virgil is significant. His 
 early devotion to Edward Young, the grandiose author 
 of the Night Thoughts, is not to be wondered at ; 
 though the inspiration of the youthful Burke, either 
 as poet or critic, may be questioned, when we find him 
 rapturously scribbling in the margin of his copy : 
 
 ' Jove claimed the verse old Homer sung, 
 But God Himself inspired Dr. Young.' 
 
 But a boy's enthusiasm for a favourite poet is a thing 
 to rejoice over. The years that bring the philosophic 
 mind will not bring — they must find — enthusiasm. 
 
 In 1750 Burke (being then twenty-one) came for 
 the first time to London, to do what so many of his 
 lively young countrymen are still doing — though they 
 are beginning to make a grievance even of that — eat 
 his dinners at the Middle Temple, and so qualify him- 
 self for the Bar. Certainly that student was in luck 
 who found himself in the same mess with Burke ; and 
 yet so stupid are men — so prone to rest with their full 
 weight on the immaterial and slide over the essential
 
 234 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 — that had that good fortune been ours we should 
 probably have been more taken up with Burke's 
 brogue than with his brains. Burke came to London 
 with a cultivated curiosity, and in no spirit of desperate 
 determination to make his fortune. That the study 
 of the law interested him cannot be doubted, for 
 everything interested him, particularly the stage. 
 Like the sensible Irishman he was, he lost his heart 
 to Peg Woffington on the first opportunity. He was 
 fond of roaming about the country, during, it is to be 
 hoped, vacation-time only, and is to be found writing 
 the most cheerful letters to his friends in Ireland (all 
 of whom are persuaded that he is going some day to 
 be somebody, though sorely puzzled to surmise what 
 thing or when, so pleasantly does he take hfe), from 
 all sorts of out-of-the-way country places, where he 
 lodges with quaint old landladies who wonder mater- 
 nally why he never gets drunk, and generally mistake 
 him for an author until he pays his bill. When in 
 town he frequented debating societies in Fleet Street 
 and Covent Garden, and made his first speeches ; for 
 which purpose he would, unhke some debaters, devote 
 studious hours to getting up the subjects to be dis- 
 cussed. There is good reason to believe that it was 
 in this manner his attention was first directed to India. 
 He was at all times a great talker, and, Dr. Johnson's 
 dictum notwithstanding, a good listener. He was 
 endlessly interested in everything — in the state of the 
 crops, in the last play, in the details of all trades, the 
 rhythm of all poems, the plots of all novels, and, indeed, 
 in the course of every manufacture. And so for six 
 years he went up and down, to and fro, gathering
 
 EDMUND BURKE 235 
 
 information, imparting knowledge, and preparing him- 
 self, though he knew not for what. 
 
 The attorney in Dublin grew anxious, and searched 
 for precedents of a son behaving like his, and rising to 
 eminence. Had his son got the legal mind ?— which, 
 according to a keen observer, chiefly displays itself by 
 illustrating the obvious, explaining the evident, and 
 expatiating on the commonplace. Edmund's powers 
 of illustration, explanation, and expatiation could not 
 indeed be questioned ; but then the subjects selected 
 for the exhibition of those powers were very far indeed 
 from being obvious, evident, or commonplace, and 
 the attorney's heart grew heavy within him. The 
 paternal displeasure was signified in the usual manner 
 — the supplies were cut off. Edmund Burke, how- 
 ever, was no ordinary prodigal, and his reply to his 
 father's expostulations took the unexpected and un- 
 precedented shape of a copy of a second and enlarged 
 edition of his treatise on the Sublime and Beautiful, 
 which he had pubUshed in 1756 at the price of three 
 shillings. Burke's father promptly sent the author a 
 bank-bill for £100 — conduct on his part which, con- 
 sidering he had sent his son to London and maintained 
 him there for six years to study law, was, in my judg- 
 ment, both sublime and beautiful. In the same year 
 Burke published another pamphlet — a one-and-six- 
 penny affair — written ironically in the style of Lord 
 Bolingbroke, and called A Vindication of Natural 
 Society ; or, A View of the Miseries and Evils arising to 
 Mankind from Every Species of Civil Society. Irony is 
 a dangerous weapon for a public man to have ever 
 employed, and in after-life Burke had frequently to
 
 236 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 explain that he was not serious. On these two 
 pamphlets' airy pinions Burke floated into the harbour 
 of literary fame. No less a man than the great David 
 Hume referred to him, in a letter to the hardly less 
 great Adam Smith, as an Irish gentleman who had 
 written a ' very pretty treatise on the Sublime.' After 
 these efforts Burke, as became an established wit, 
 went to Bath to recruit, and there, fitly enough, fell 
 in love. The lady was Miss Jane Mary Nugent, the 
 daughter of a celebrated Bath physician, and it is 
 pleasant to be able to say of the marriage that was 
 shortly solemnized between the young couple, that it 
 was a happy one, and then to go on our way, leaving 
 them — where man and wife ought to be left — alone. 
 Oddly enough, Burke's wife was also the offspring of 
 a ' mixed marriage ' — only in her case it was the 
 father who was the Catholic ; consequently both Mr. 
 and Mrs. Edmund Burke were of the same way of 
 thinking, but each had a parent of the other way. 
 Although getting married is no part of the curriculum 
 of a law student, Burke's father seems to have come 
 to the conclusion that after all it was a greater distinc- 
 tion for an attorney in Dublin to have a son living 
 amongst the wits in London, and discoursing familiarly 
 on the ' Sublime and Beautiful,' than one prosecuting 
 some poor countryman, with a brogue as rich as his 
 own, for stealing a pair of breeches ; for we find him 
 generously allowing the young couple £"200 a year, 
 which no doubt went some way towards maintaining 
 them. Burke, who was now in his twenty-eighth 
 year, seems to have given up all notion of the law. 
 In 1758 he wrote for Dodsley the first volume of the
 
 EDMUND BURKE 237 
 
 Annual Register, a melancholy series which continues 
 to this day. For doing this he got ;^ioo. Burke was 
 by this time a well-known figure in London literary 
 society, and was busy making for himself a huge 
 private reputation. The Christmas Day of 1758 wit- 
 nessed a singular scene at the dinner table of David 
 Garrick. Dr. Johnson, then in full vigour of his 
 mind, and with the all-dreaded weapons of his dialectics 
 kept burnished by daily use, was flatly contradicted 
 by a fellow-guest some twenty years his junior, and, 
 what is more, submitted to it without a murmur. 
 One of the diners, Arthur Murphy, was so struck by 
 this occurrence, unique in his long experience of the 
 Doctor, that on returning home he recorded the fact 
 in his journal, but ventured no explanation of it. It 
 can only be accounted for — so at least I venture to 
 think — by the combined effect of four wholly indepen- 
 dent circumstances : First, the day was Christmas 
 Day, a day of peace and goodwill, and our beloved 
 Doctor was amongst the sincerest, though most 
 argumentative, of Christians, and a great observer of 
 days. Second, the house was David Garrick's, and 
 consequently we may be certain that the dinner had 
 been a superlatively good one ; and has not Boswell 
 placed on record Johnson's opinion of the man who 
 professed to be indifferent about his dinner ? Third, 
 the subject under discussion was India, about which 
 Johnson knew he knew next to nothing. And fourth, 
 the offender was Edmund Burke, whom Johnson loved 
 from the first day he set eyes upon him to their last 
 sad parting by the waters of death. 
 
 In 1 76 1 that shrewd old gossip, Horace Walpole,
 
 238 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 met Burke for the first time at dinner, and remarks of 
 him in a letter to George Montague : 
 
 ' I dined at Hamilton's yesterday ; there were 
 ' Garrick, and young Mr. Burke, who wrote a book 
 ' in the style of Lord Bolingbroke, that was much 
 * admired. He is a sensible man, but has not worn 
 ' off his authorism yet, and thinks there is nothing so 
 ' charming as writers, and to be one. He will know 
 ' better one of these days.' 
 
 But great as were Burke's literary powers, and 
 passionate as was his fondness for letters and for 
 literary society, he never seems to have felt that the 
 main burden of his life lay in that direction. He 
 looked to the pubHc service, and this though he 
 always believed that the pen of a great writer was 
 a more powerful and glorious weapon than any to be 
 found in the armoury of politics. This faith of his 
 comes out sometimes queerly enough. For example, 
 when Dr. Robertson in 1777 sent Burke his cheerful 
 History of America, in quarto volumes, Burke, in the 
 most perfect good faith, closes a long letter of thanks 
 thus : — 
 
 * You will smile when I send you a trifling tem- 
 ' porary production made for the occasion of the day, 
 
 * and to perish with it, in return for your immortal 
 
 * work.' 
 
 I have no desire, least of all in Edinburgh, to say 
 anything disrespectful of Principal Robertson ; but 
 still, when we remember that the temporary produc- 
 tion he got in exchange for his History of America was 
 Burke's immortal letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol on 
 the American War, we must, I think, be forced to
 
 EDMUND BURKE 239 
 
 admit that, as so often happens when a Scotsman and 
 an Irishman do business together, the former got the 
 better of the bargain. 
 
 Burke's first pubUc employment was of a humble 
 character, and might well have been passed over in a 
 sentence, had it not terminated in a most delightful 
 quarrel, in which Burke conducted himself like an 
 Irishman of genius. Some time in 1759 he became 
 acquainted with William Gerard Hamilton, commonly 
 called * Single-speech Hamilton,' on account of the 
 celebrity he gained from his first speech in Parliament, 
 and the steady way in which his oratorical reputation 
 went on waning ever after. In 1761 this gentleman 
 went over to Ireland as Chief Secretary, and Burke 
 accompanied him as the Secretary's secretary, or, in 
 the unlicensed speech of Dublin, as Hamilton's jackal. 
 This arrangement was eminently satisfactory to 
 Hamilton, who found, as generations of men have 
 found after him, Burke's brains very useful, and he 
 determined to borrow them for the period of their 
 joint lives. Animated by this desire, in itself praise- 
 worthy, he busied himself in procuring for Burke a 
 pension of ;^30o a year on the Irish establishment, and 
 then the simple ' Single-speech ' thought the trans- 
 action closed. He had bought his poor man of 
 genius, and paid for him on the nail with other 
 people's money. Nothing remained but for Burke to 
 draw his pension and devote the rest of his life to 
 maintaining Hamilton's reputation. There is nothing 
 at all unusual in this, and I have no doubt Burke 
 would have stuck to his bargain, had not Hamilton 
 conceived the fatal idea that Burke's brains were
 
 240 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 exclusively his (Hamilton's). Then the situation became 
 one of risk and apparent danger. 
 
 Burke's imagination began playing round the sub- 
 ject : he saw himself a slave, blotted out of existence 
 — mere fuel for Hamilton's flame. In a week he was 
 in a towering passion. Few men can afford to be 
 angry. It is a run upon their intellectual resources 
 they cannot meet. But Burke's treasury could well 
 afford the luxury ; and his letters to Hamilton make 
 delightful reading to those who, like myself, dearly 
 love a dispute when conducted according to the rules 
 of the game by men of great intellectual wealth. 
 Hamilton demolished and reduced to stony silence, 
 Burke sat down again and wrote long letters to all his 
 friends, telling them the whole story from beginning 
 to end. I must be allowed a quotation from one of 
 these letters, for this really is not so frivolous a matter 
 as I am afraid I have made it appear — a quotation of 
 which this much may be said, that nothing more de- 
 lightfully Burkean is to be found anywhere : — 
 
 ' My dear Mason, — 
 
 ' I am hardly able to tell you how much satis- 
 ' faction I had in your letter. Your approbation of 
 ' my conduct makes me believe much the better of 
 I ' you and myself ; and I assure you that that approba- 
 ' tion came to me very seasonably. Such proofs of a 
 ' warm, sincere, and disinterested friendship were not 
 ' wholly unnecessary to my support at a time when I 
 ' experienced such bitter effects of the perfidy and in- 
 ' gratitude of much longer and much closer connec- 
 ' tions. The way in which you take up my affairs
 
 EDMUND BURKE 241 
 
 * binds me to you in a manner I cannot express ; for, 
 
 * to tell you the truth, I never can (knowing as I do 
 ' the principles upon which I always endeavour to act) 
 
 * submit to any sort of compromise of my character ; 
 ' and I shall never, therefore, look upon those who, 
 
 * after hearing the whole story, do not think me pev- 
 'fecily in the right, and do not consider Hamilton an 
 
 * infamous scoundrel, to be in the smallest degree my 
 
 * friends, or even to be persons for whom I am bound 
 ^ to have the slightest esteem, as fair and just esti- 
 ^ mators of the characters and conduct of men. Situated 
 ' as I am, and feeling as I do, I should be just as well 
 
 * pleased that they totally condemned me as that they 
 ' should say there were faults on both sides, or that it 
 
 * was a disputable case, as I hear is (I cannot forbear 
 •* saying) the affected language of some persons. . . . 
 
 * You cannot avoid remarking, my dear Mason, and I 
 ' hope not without some indignation, the unparalleled 
 ' singularity of my situation. Was ever a man before 
 
 * me expected to enter into formal, direct, and un- 
 ■^ disguised slavery ? Did ever man before him con- 
 
 * fess an attempt to decoy a man into such an alleged 
 
 * contract, not to say anything of the impudence of 
 ■* regularly pleading it ? If such an attempt be wicked 
 ' and unlawful (and I am sure no one ever doubted it), 
 •* I have only to confess his charge, and to admit 
 ' myself his dupe, to make him pass, on his own show- 
 ' ing, for the most consummate villain that ever lived. 
 ' The only difference between us is, not whether he is 
 ' not a rogue — for he not only admits but pleads the 
 ' facts that demonstrate him to be so ; but only whether 
 ' I was such a fool as to sell myself absolutely for a 
 
 16
 
 242 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 'consideration which, so far from being adequate, if 
 
 * any such could be adequate, is not even so much as 
 ' certain. Not to value myself as a gentleman, a free 
 'man, a man of education, and one pretending ta 
 ' literature ; is there any situation in life so low, or 
 'even so criminal, that can subject a man to the 
 ' possibility of such an engagement ? Would you 
 ' dare attempt to bind your footman to such terras ? 
 ' Will the law suffer a felon sent to the plantations to 
 
 * bind himself for his life, and to renounce all possi- 
 ' bility either of elevation or quiet ? And am I to 
 ' defend myself for not doing what no man is suffered 
 ' to do, and what it would be criminal in any man to 
 ' submit to ? You will excuse me for this heat.' 
 
 I not only excuse Burke for his heat, but love him 
 for letting me warm my hands at it after a lapse of a 
 hundred and twenty years. 
 
 Burke was more fortunate in his second master, for 
 in 1765, being then thirty-six years of age, he became 
 private secretary to the new Prime Minister, the 
 Marquis of Rockingham ; was by the interest of Lord 
 Verney returned to Parliament for Wendover, in 
 Bucks ; and on January 27th, 1766, his voice was first 
 heard in the House of Commons. 
 
 The Rockingham Ministry deserves well of the 
 historian, and on the whole has received its deserts. 
 Lord Rockingham, the Duke of Richmond, Lord John 
 Cavendish, Mr. Dowdeswell, and the rest of them,, 
 were good men and true, judged by an ordinary 
 standard ; and when contrasted with most of their 
 political competitors, they almost approach the ranks
 
 EDMUND BURKE 243 
 
 of saints and angels. However, after a year and 
 twenty days, his Majesty King George the Third 
 managed to get rid of them, and to keep them at bay 
 for fifteen years. But their first term of office, though 
 short, lasted long enough to establish a friendship of 
 no ordinary powers of endurance between the chief 
 members of the party nd the Prime Minister's private 
 secretary, who was at first, so ran the report, supposed 
 to be a wild Irishman, whose real name was O'Bourke, 
 and whose brogue seemed to require the allegation 
 that its owner was a popish emissary. It is satis- 
 factory to notice how from the very first Burke's 
 intellectual pre-eminence, character, and aims were 
 clearly admitted and most cheerfully recognised by his 
 political and social superiors ; and in the long corre- 
 spondence in which he engaged with most of them 
 there is not a trace to be found, on one side or the 
 other, of anything approaching to either patronage or 
 servility. Burke advises them, exhorts them, expostu- 
 lates with them, condemns their aristocratic languor, 
 fans their feeble flames, drafts their motions, dictates 
 their protests, visits their houses, and generally sup- 
 plies them with facts, figures, poetry, and romance. 
 To all this they submit with much humility. The 
 Duke of Richmond once indeed ventured to hint to 
 Burke, with exceeding delicacy, that he (the Duke) 
 had a small private estate to attend to as well as public 
 affairs ; but the validity of the excuse was not ad- 
 mitted. The part Burke played for the next fifteen 
 years with relation to the Rockingham party reminds 
 me of the functions I have observed performed in lazy 
 families by a soberly clad and eminently respectable 
 
 16 — 2
 
 244 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 person who pays them domiciUary visits, and, having 
 admission everywhere, goes about mysteriously from 
 room to room, winding up all the clocks. This is 
 what Burke did for the Rockingham party — he kept 
 it going. 
 
 But fortunately for us, Burke was not content with 
 private adjuration, or even public speech. His literary 
 instincts, his dominating desire to persuade everybody 
 that he, Edmund Burke, was absolutely in the right, 
 and every one of his opponents hopelessly wrong, 
 made him turn to the pamphlet as a propaganda, and 
 in his hands 
 
 ' The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew 
 Soul-animating strains.' 
 
 So accustomed are we to regard Burke's pamphlets 
 as specimens of our noblest literature, and to see them 
 printed in comfortable volumes, that we are apt to 
 forget that in their origin they were but the children 
 of the pavement, the publications of the hour. If, 
 however, you ever visit any old public library, and 
 grope about a little, you are likely enough to find a 
 shelf holding some twenty-five or thirty musty, ugly 
 little books, usually lettered ' Burke,' and on opening 
 any of them you will come across one of Burke's 
 pamphlets as originally issued, bound up with the 
 replies and counter-pamphlets it occasioned. I have 
 frequently tried, but always in vain, to read these 
 replies, which are pretentious enough — usually the 
 works of deans, members of Parliament, and other 
 dignitaries of the class Carlyle used compendiously to 
 describe as ' shovel-hatted ' — and each of whom was
 
 EDMUND BURKE 245 
 
 as much entitled to publish pamphlets as Burke him- 
 self. There are some things it is very easy to do, and 
 to write a pamphlet is one of them ; but to write such 
 a pamphlet as future generations will read with delight 
 is perhaps the most difficult feat in literature. Milton, 
 Swift, Burke, and Sydney Smith are, I think, our only 
 great pamphleteers. 
 
 I have now rather more than kept my word so far 
 as Burke's pre-parliamentary life is concerned, and 
 will proceed to mention some of the circumstances 
 that may serve to account for the fact that, when the 
 Rockingham party came into power for the second 
 time in 1782, Burke, who was their life and soul, was 
 only rewarded with a minor office. First, then, it 
 must be recorded sorrowfully of Burke that he was 
 always desperately in debt, and in this country no 
 politician under the rank of a baronet can ever safely 
 be in debt. Burke's finances are, and always have 
 been, marvels and mysteries ; but one thing must be 
 said of them — that the malignity of his enemies, both 
 Tory enemies and Radical enemies, has never suc- 
 ceeded in formulating any charge of dishonesty against 
 him that has not been at once completely pulverized, 
 and shown on the facts to be impossible.* Burke's 
 purchase of the estate at Beaconsfield in 1768, only 
 
 * All the difficulties connected with this subject will be found 
 collected, and somewhat unkindly considered, in Mr. Dilke's 
 Papers of a Critic, vol. ii. The equity draftsman will be indis- 
 posed to attach importance to statements made in a Bill of Com- 
 plaint filed in Chancery by Lord Verney against Burke fourteen 
 years after the transaction to which it had reference, in a suit 
 which was abandoned after answer put in. But, in justice to a 
 deceased plaintiff, it should be remembered that in those days a 
 defendant could not be cross-examined upon his sworn answer.
 
 246 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 two years after he entered Parliament, consisting as 
 it did of a good house and 1,600 acres of land, has 
 puzzled a great many good men — much more than it 
 ever did Edmund Burke. But how did he get the 
 money ? After an Irish fashion — by not getting it at 
 all. Two-thirds of the purchase-money remained on 
 mortgage, and the balance he borrowed ; or, as he 
 puts it, ' With all I could collect of my own, and by 
 * the aid of my friends, I have established a root in 
 ' the country.' That is how Burke bought Beacons- 
 field, where he lived till his end came ; whither he 
 always hastened when his sensitive mind was tortured 
 by the thought of how badly men governed the world ; 
 where he entertained all sorts and conditions of men 
 — Quakers, Brahmins (for whose ancient rites he pro- 
 vided suitable accommodation in a greenhouse), nobles 
 and abbes flying from revolutionary France, poets, 
 painters, and peers ; no one of whom ever long 
 remained a stranger to his charm. Burke flung him- 
 self into farming with all the enthusiasm of his nature. 
 His letters to Arthur Young on the subject of carrots 
 still tremble with emotion. You all know Burke's 
 Thoughts on the Present Discontents. You remember — 
 it is hard to forget — his speech on Conciliation with 
 America, particularly the magnificent passage begin- 
 ning, ' Magnanimity in politics is not seldom the truest 
 ' wisdom, and a great empire and little minds go ill 
 ' together.' You have echoed back the words in 
 which, in his letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol on the 
 hateful American War, he protests that it was not 
 instantly he could be brought to rejoice when he 
 heard of the slaughter and captivity of long lists of
 
 EDMUND BURKE 247 
 
 those whose names had been famiHar in his ears from 
 his infancy, and you would all join with me in sub- 
 scribing to a fund which should have for its object 
 the printing and hanging up over every editor's desk 
 in town and country a subsequent passage from the 
 same letter : 
 
 * A conscientious man would be cautious how he 
 ' dealt in blood. He would feel some apprehension at 
 
 * being called to a tremendous account for engaging in 
 ■* so deep a play without any knowledge of the game. 
 
 * It is no excuse for presumptuous ignorance that it is 
 
 * directed by insolent passion. The poorest being that 
 
 * crawls on earth, contending to save itself from injus- 
 ' tice and oppression, is an object respectable in the 
 ■ eyes of God and man. But I cannot conceive any 
 ' existence under heaven (which in the depths of its 
 
 * wisdom tolerates all sorts of things) that is more 
 ' truly odious and disgusting than an impotent, help- 
 *■ less creature, without civil wisdom or military skill, 
 
 * bloated with pride and arrogance, calling for battles 
 
 * which he is not to fight, and contending for a violent 
 *■ dominion which he can never exercise. . . . 
 
 * If you and I find our talents not of the great and 
 
 * ruling kind, our conduct at least is conformable to 
 
 * our faculties. No man's life pays the forfeit of our 
 ' rashness. No desolate widow weeps tears of blood 
 
 * over our ignorance. Scrupulous and sober in a well- 
 
 * grounded distrust of ourselves, we would keep in the 
 ' port of peace and security ; and perhaps in recom- 
 
 * mending to others something of the same diffidence, 
 
 * we should show ourselves more charitable to their 
 
 * welfare than injurious to their abilities.'
 
 248 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 You have laughed over Burke's account of how all 
 Lord Talbot's schemes for the reform of the King's 
 household were dashed to pieces, because the turnspit 
 of the King's kitchen was a Member of Parliament. 
 You have often pondered over that miraculous passage 
 in his speech on the Nabob of Arcot's debts, describ- 
 ing the devastation of the Carnatic by Hyder Ali — 
 a passage which Mr. John Morley says fills the young 
 orator with the same emotions of enthusiasm, emula- 
 tion, and despair that (according to the same autho- 
 rity) invariably torment the artist who first gazes on 
 
 * The Madonna ' at Dresden, or the figures of ' Night * 
 and ' Dawn ' at Florence. All these things you know, 
 else are you mighty self-denying of your pleasures. 
 But it is just possible you may have forgotten the 
 following extract from one of Burke's farming letters 
 to Arthur Young : 
 
 * One of the grand points in controversy (a contro- 
 ' versy indeed chiefly carried on between practice and 
 ' speculation) is that of deep ploughing. In your last 
 ' volume you seem, on the whole, rather against that 
 ' practice, and have given several reasons for your 
 ' judgment which deserve to be very well considered. 
 ' In order to know how we ought to plough, we ought 
 ' to know what end it is we propose to ourselves in 
 
 * that operation. The first and instrumental end is to 
 ' divide the soil ; the last and ultimate end, so far as 
 ' regards the plants, is to facilitate the pushing of the 
 ' blade upwards, and the shooting of the roots in all 
 ' the inferior directions. There is further proposed a 
 ' more ready admission of external influences — the 
 
 * rain, the sun, the air, charged with all those hetero-
 
 EDMUND BURKE 249 
 
 ' geneous contents, some, possibly all, of which are 
 ' necessary for the nourishment of the plants. By 
 ' ploughing deep you answer these ends in a greater 
 ' mass of the soil. This would seem in favour of deep 
 ' ploughing as nothing else than accomplishing, in a 
 ' more perfect manner, those very ends for which you 
 ' are induced to plough at all. But doubts here arise, 
 ' only to be solved by experiment. First, is it quite 
 ' certain that it is good for the ear and grain of fari- 
 * naceous plants that their roots should spread and 
 ' descend into the ground to the greatest possible dis- 
 ' tances and depths ? Is there not some limit in this ? 
 ' We know that in timber, what makes one part 
 ' flourish does not equally conduce to the benefit of 
 ' all ; and that which may be beneficial to the wood, 
 ' does not equally contribute to the quantity and good- 
 ' ness of the fruit ; and, vice versa, that what increases 
 ' the fruit largely is often far from serviceable to the 
 ' tree. Secondly, is that looseness to great depths, 
 ' supposing it is useful to one of the species of plants, 
 ' equally useful to all ? Thirdly, though the external 
 ' influences — the rain, the sun, the air — act undoubtedly 
 ' a part, and a large part, in vegetation, does it follow 
 ' that they are equally salutary in any quantities, at 
 ' any depths ? Or that, though it may be useful to 
 ' diffuse one of these agents as extensively as may be 
 ' in the earth, that therefore it will be equally useful 
 ' to render the earth in the same degree pervious to 
 ' all ? It is a dangerous way of reasoning in physics, 
 ' as well as morals, to conclude, because a given pro- 
 ' portion of anything is advantageous, that the double 
 ' will be quite as good, or that it will be good at all.
 
 250 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 ' Neither in the one nor the other is it always true 
 ' that two and two make four.' 
 
 This is magnificent, but it is not farming, and you 
 will easily believe that Burke's attempts to till the 
 soil were more costly than productive. Farming, if 
 it is to pay, is a pursuit of small economies ; and 
 Burke was far too Asiatic, tropical, and splendid to 
 have anything to do with small economies. His 
 expenditure, like his rhetoric, was in the 'grand 
 ' style.' He belongs to Charles Lamb's great race, 
 ' the men who borrow.' But indeed it Avas not so 
 much that Burke borrowed as that men lent. Right- 
 feeling men did not wait to be asked. Dr. Brocklesby, 
 that good physician, whose name breathes like a 
 benediction through the pages of the biographies of 
 the best men of his time, who soothed Dr. Johnson's 
 last melancholy hours, and for whose supposed hetero- 
 doxy the dying man displayed so tender a solicitude, 
 wrote to Burke, in the strain of a timid suitor propos- 
 ing for the hand of a proud heiress, to know whether 
 Burke would be so good as to accept ;^i,ooo at once, 
 instead of waiting for the writer's death. Burke felt 
 no hesitation in obliging so old a friend. Garrick, 
 who, though fond of money, was as generous-hearted 
 a fellow as ever brought down a house, lent Burke 
 ^i,ooo. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who has been reckoned 
 stingy, by his will left Burke .^2,000, and forgave him 
 another ^2,000 which he had lent him. The Marquis 
 of Rockingham by his will directed all Burke's bonds 
 held by him to be cancelled. They amounted to 
 ^30,000. Burke's patrimonial estate was sold by him 
 for ^4,000 ; and I have seen it stated that he had
 
 EDMUND BURKE 251 
 
 received altogether from family sources as much as 
 ;^2o,ooo. And yet he was always poor, and was glad 
 at the last to accept pensions from the Crown in order 
 that he might not leave his wife a beggar. This good 
 lady survived her illustrious husband twelve years, 
 and seemed as his widow to have had some success in 
 paying his bills, for at her death all remaining demands 
 were found to be discharged. For receiving this 
 pension Burke was assailed by the Duke of Bedford, 
 a most pleasing act of ducal fatuity, since it enabled 
 the pensioner, not bankrupt of his wit, to write a 
 pamphlet, now of course a cherished classic, and 
 introduce into it a few paragraphs about the House 
 of Russell and the cognate subject of grants from the 
 Crown. But enough of Burke's debts and difficulties, 
 which I only mention because all through his life 
 they were cast up against him. Had Burke been a 
 moralist of the calibre of Charles James Fox, he 
 might have amassed a fortune large enough to keep 
 up half a dozen Beaconsfields, by simply doing what 
 all his predecessors in the office he held, including 
 Fox's own father, the truly infamous first Lord 
 Holland, had done — namely, by retaining for his own 
 use the interest on all balances of the public money 
 from time to time in his hands as Paymaster of the 
 Forces. But Burke carried his passion for good 
 government into actual practice, and, cutting down 
 the emoluments of his office to a salary (a high one, 
 no doubt), effected a saving to the country of some 
 ^"25,000 a year, every farthing of which might have 
 gone without remark into his own pocket. 
 
 Burke had no vices, save of style and temper ; nor
 
 252 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 was any of his expenditure a profligate squandering 
 of money. It all went in giving employment or dis- 
 seminating kindness. He sent the painter Barry to 
 study art in Italy. He saved the poet Crabbe from 
 starvation and despair, and thus secured to the country 
 one who owns the unrivalled distinction of having 
 been the favourite poet of the three greatest intel- 
 lectual factors of the age (scientific men excepted) — 
 Lord Byron, Sir Walter Scott, and Cardinal New- 
 man. Yet so distorted are men's views that the 
 odious and anti-social excesses of Fox at the gam- 
 bling-table are visited with a blame usually wreathed 
 in smiles, whilst the financial irregularities of a noble 
 and pure-minded man are thought fit matter for the 
 fiercest censure or the most lordly contempt. 
 
 Next to Burke's debts, some of his companions and 
 intimates did him harm and injured his consequence. 
 His brother Richard, whose brogue we are given to 
 understand was simply appalling, was a good-for- 
 nothing, with a dilapidated reputation. Then there 
 was another Mr. Burke, who was no relation, but 
 none the less was always about, and to whom it was 
 not safe to lend money. Burke's son, too, whose 
 death he mourned so pathetically, seems to have been 
 a failure, and is described by a candid friend as a 
 nauseating person. To have a decent following is 
 important in politics. 
 
 A third reason must be given : Burke's judgment 
 of men and things was often both wrong and violent. 
 The story of Powell and Bembridge, two knaves in 
 Burke's own office, whose cause he espoused, and 
 whom he insisted on reinstating in the public service
 
 EDMUND BURKE 253 
 
 after they had been dismissed, and maintaining them 
 there, in spite of all protests, till the one had the 
 grace to cut his throat and the other was sentenced 
 by the Queen's Bench to a term of imprisonment and 
 a heavy fine, is too long to be told, though it makes 
 interesting reading in the twenty-second volume of 
 Howell's State Trials, where at the end of the report 
 is to be found the following note : 
 
 ' The proceedings against Messrs. Powell and Bem- 
 ' bridge occasioned much animated discussion in the 
 ' House of Commons, in which Mr, Burke warmly 
 ' supported the accused. The compassion which on 
 ' these and all other occasions was manifested by Mr. 
 ' Burke for the sufferings of those public delinquents, 
 ' the zeal with which he advocated their cause, and 
 * the eagerness with which he endeavoured to ex- 
 ' tenuate their criminality, have received severe re- 
 ' prehension, and in particular when contrasted with 
 ' his subsequent conduct in the prosecution of Mr. 
 ' Hastings.' 
 
 The real reason for Burke's belief in Bembridge is, 
 I think, to be found in the evidence Burke gave on 
 his behalf at the trial before Lord Mansfield. Bem- 
 bridge had rendered Burke invaluable assistance in 
 carrying out his reforms at the Paymaster's Office, 
 and Burke was constitutionally unable to believe that 
 a rogue could be on his side ; but, indeed, Burke was 
 too apt to defend bad causes with a scream of passion, 
 and a politician who screams is never likely to occupy 
 a commanding place in the House of Commons. A 
 last reason for Burke's exclusion from high office is to 
 be found in his aversion to any measure of Parlia-
 
 254 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 mentary Reform. An ardent reformer like the Duke 
 of Richmond — the then Duke of Richmond — who was 
 in favour of annual parliaments, universal suffrage, 
 and payment of members, was not likely to wish to 
 associate himself too closely with a politician who 
 wept with emotion at the bare thought of depriving 
 Old Sarum of parliamentary representation. 
 
 These reasons account for Burke's exclusion, and 
 jealous as we naturally and properly are of genius 
 being snubbed by mediocrity, my reading at all events 
 does not justify me in blaming anyone but the Fates 
 for the circumstance that Burke was never a Secretary 
 of State. And after all, does it matter much what he 
 was ? Burke no doubt occasionally felt his exclusion 
 a little hard ; but he is the victor who remains in pos- 
 session of the field ; and Burke is now, for us and for 
 all coming after us, in such possession. 
 
 It now only remains for me, drawing upon my stock 
 of assurance, to essay the analysis of the essential 
 elements of Burke's mental character, and I therefore 
 at once proceed to say that it was Burke's peculiarity 
 and his glory to apply the imagination of a poet of 
 the first order to the facts and the business of life. 
 Arnold says of Sophocles : 
 
 ' He saw life steadily, and saw it whole.' 
 
 Substitute for the word * life ' the words * organised 
 society,' and you get a peep into Burke's mind. There 
 was a catholicity about his gaze. He knew how the 
 whole world lived. Everything contributed to this : 
 his vast desultory reading ; his education, neither 
 wholly academical nor entirely professional ; his long
 
 EDMUND BURKE 255 
 
 years of apprenticeship in the service of knowledge ; 
 his wanderings up and down the country ; his vast 
 conversational powers ; his enormous correspondence 
 with all sorts of people ; his unfailing interest in all 
 pursuits, trades, manufactures — all helped to keep 
 before him, like motes dancing in a sunbeam, the 
 huge organism of modern society, which requires for 
 its existence and for its development the maintenance 
 of credit and of order. Burke's imagination led him 
 to look out over the whole land : the legislator devis- 
 ing new laws, the judge expounding and enforcing old 
 ones, the merchant despatching his goods and extend- 
 ing his credit, the banker advancing the money of his 
 customers upon the credit of the merchant, the frugal 
 man slowly accumulating the store which is to sup- 
 port him in old age, the ancient institutions of Church 
 and University with their seemly provisions for sound 
 learning and true religion, the parson in his pulpit, 
 the poet pondering his rhymes, the farmer eyeing his 
 crops, the painter covering his canvases, the player 
 educating the feelings. Burke saw all this with the 
 fancy of a poet, and dwelt on it with the eye of a 
 lover. But love is the parent of fear, and none knew 
 better than Burke how thin is the lava layer between 
 the costly fabric of society and the volcanic heats and 
 destroying flames of anarchy. He trembled for the 
 fair frame of all established things, and to his horror 
 saw men, instead of covering the thin surface with 
 the concrete, digging in it for abstractions, and asking 
 fundamental questions about the origin of society, and 
 why one man should be born rich and another poor. 
 Burke was no prating optimist : it was his very know-
 
 256 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 ledge how much could be said against society that 
 quickened his fears for it. There is no shallower 
 criticism than that which accuses Burke in his later 
 years of apostasy from so-called Liberal opinions. 
 Burke was all his life through a passionate main- 
 tainer of the estabhshed order of things, and a fero- 
 cious hater of abstractions and metaphysical politics. 
 The same ideas that explode like bombs through his 
 diatribes against the French Revolution are to be 
 found shining with a mild effulgence in the compara- 
 tive calm of his earlier writings. I have often been 
 struck with a resemblance, which I hope is not wholly 
 fanciful, between the attitude of Burke's mind towards 
 government and that of Cardinal Newman towards 
 religion. Both these great men belong, by virtue of 
 their imaginations, to the poetic order, and they both 
 are to be found dwelling with amazing eloquence, 
 detail, and wealth of illustration on the varied elements 
 of society. Both seem as they write to have one 
 hand on the pulse of the world, and to be for ever 
 alive to the throb of its action ; and Burke, as he 
 regarded humanity swarming like bees into and out 
 of their hives of industry, is ever asking himself. How 
 are these men to be saved from anarchy ? whilst 
 Newman puts to himself the question, How are these 
 men to be saved from atheism ? Both saw the perils 
 of free inquiry divorced from practical affairs. 
 
 ' Civil freedom,' says Burke, ' is not, as many have 
 ' endeavoured to persuade you, a thing that lies hid 
 
 * in the depth of abstruse science. It is a blessing 
 ' and a benefit, not an abstract speculation, and all 
 
 * the just reasoning that can be upon it is of so coarse
 
 EDMUND BURKE 257 
 
 * a texture as perfectly to suit the ordinary capacities 
 '* of those who are to enjoy and of those who are to 
 ^ defend it.' 
 
 ' Tell men,' says Cardinal Newman, * to gain notions 
 
 * of a Creator from His works, and if they were to set 
 ' about it (which nobody does), they would be jaded 
 ' and wearied by the labyrinth they were tracing ; 
 ' their minds would be gorged and surfeited by the 
 ' logical operation. To most men argument makes 
 ' the point in hand more doubtful and considerably 
 ' less impressive. After all, man is not a reasoning 
 "* animal, he is a seeing, feeling, contemplating, actual 
 ' animal.' 
 
 Burke is fond of telling us that he is no lawyer, 
 no antiquary, but a plain, practical man ; and the 
 Cardinal, in like manner, is ever insisting that he is 
 no theologian — he leaves everything of that sort to 
 the schools, whatever they may be, and simply deals 
 with rehgion on its practical side as a benefit to man- 
 kind. 
 
 If either of these great men has been guilty of intel- 
 lectual excesses, those of Burke may be attributed to 
 his dread of anarchy, those of Newman to his dread 
 of atheism. Neither of them was prepared to rest 
 content with a scientific frontier, an imaginary line. 
 So much did they dread their enemy, so alive were 
 they to the terrible strength of some of his positions, 
 that they could not agree to dispense with the protec- 
 tion afforded by the huge mountains of prejudice and 
 the ancient rivers of custom. The sincerity of either 
 man can only be doubted by the bigot and the fool. 
 
 But Burke, apart from his fears, had a consti- 
 
 17
 
 258 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 tutional love" for old things, simply because they 
 were old. Anything mankind had ever worshipped, 
 or venerated, or obeyed, was dear to him. I have 
 already referred to his providing his Brahmins with 
 a greenhouse for the purpose of their rites, which h& 
 watched from outside with great interest. One can- 
 not fancy Cardinal Newman peeping through a window 
 to see men worshipping false though ancient gods. 
 Warren Hastings' high-handed dealings with the 
 temples and time-honoured if scandalous customs of 
 the Hindoos filled Burke with horror. So, too, he 
 respected Quakers, Presbyterians, Independents, 
 Baptists, and all those Avhom he called Constitutional 
 Dissenters. He has a fine passage somewhere about 
 Rust, for with all his passion for good government he 
 dearly loved a little rust. In this phase of character 
 he reminds one not a little of another great writer — 
 whose death literature has still reason to deplore — 
 George Eliot ; who, in her love for old hedgerows 
 and barns and crumbling moss-grown walls, was a 
 writer after Burke's own heart, whose novels he 
 would have sat up all night to devour ; for did he not 
 deny with warmth Gibbon's statement that he had 
 read all five volumes of Evelina in a day ? ' The thing 
 ' is impossible,' cried Burke ; ' they took me three 
 * days doing nothing else.' Now, Evelina is a good 
 novel, but Silas Marner is a better. 
 
 Wordsworth has been called the High Priest of 
 Nature. Burke may be called the High Priest of 
 Order — a lover of settled ways, of justice, peace, and 
 security. His writings are a storehouse of wisdom, 
 not the cheap shrewdness of the mere man of the
 
 EDMUND BURKE 259 
 
 world, but the noble, animating wisdom of one who 
 has the poet's heart as well as the statesman's brain. 
 Nobody is fit to govern this country who has not 
 drunk deep at the springs of Burke. ' Have you read 
 * your Burke ?' is at least as sensible a question to 
 put to a parliamentary candidate, as to ask him 
 whether he is a total abstainer or a desperate 
 drunkard. Something there may be about Burke to 
 regret, and more to dispute ; but that he loved 
 justice and hated iniquity is certain, as also it is 
 that for the most part he dwelt in the paths of 
 purity, humanity, and good sense. May we be 
 found adhering to them ! 
 
 17 — 2
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY. 
 
 TWO distinguished men of letters, each an admir- 
 able representative of his University — Mr. John 
 Morley and Professor Seeley — have lately published 
 opinions on the subject of history, which, though very 
 likely to prove right, deserve to be carefully considered 
 before assent is bestowed upon them. 
 
 Mr. Morley, when President of the Midland Insti- 
 tute, and speaking in the Town Hall of Birmingham, 
 said : * I do not in the least want to know what hap- 
 ' pened in the past, except as it enables me to see my 
 ' way more clearly through what is happening to-day,' 
 and this same indifference is professed, though cer- 
 tainly nowhere displayed, in other parts of Mr. Morley's 
 writings,* 
 
 Professor Seeley never makes his point quite so 
 sharp as this, and probably would hesitate to do so, 
 but in the Expansion of England he expounds a theory 
 of history largely based upon an indifference like that 
 which Mr. Morley professed at Birmingham. His 
 book opens thus : ' It is a favourite maxim of mine 
 
 * Critical Miscellanies, vol. iii., p. 9.
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 261 
 
 ' that history, while it should be scientific in its 
 ' method, should pursue a practical object — that is, 
 ' it should not merely gratify the reader's curiosity 
 ' about the past, but modify his view of the present 
 
 * and his forecast of the future. Now, if this maxim 
 
 * be sound, the history of England ought to end with 
 ' something that might be called a moral.' 
 
 This, it must be admitted, is a big thing. The 
 task of the historian, as here explained, is not merely 
 to tell us the story of the past, and thus gratify our 
 curiosity, but, pursuing a practical object, to seek to 
 modify our views of the present and help us in our 
 forecasts of the future, and this the historian is to do, 
 not unconsciously and incidentally, but deliberately 
 and of set purpose. One can well understand how 
 history, so written, will usually begin with a maxim, 
 and invariably end with a moral. 
 
 What we are afterwards told in the same book 
 follows in logical sequence upon our first quotation — 
 namely, that ' history fades into mere literature ' (the 
 italics are ours) ' when it loses sight of its relation to 
 ' practical politics.' In this grim sentence we read 
 the dethronement of Clio. The poor thing must for- 
 swear her father's house, her tuneful sisters, the invo- 
 cation of the poet, the worship of the dramatist, and 
 keep her terms at the University, where, if she is 
 really studious and steady, and avoids literary com- 
 panions (which ought not to be difficult), she may 
 hope some day to be received into the Royal Society 
 as a second-rate science. The people who do not 
 usually go to the Royal Society will miss their old 
 playmate from her accustomed slopes, but, even were
 
 262 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 
 
 they to succeed in tracing her to her new home, access 
 would be denied them ; for Professor Seeley, that 
 stern custodian, has his answer ready for all such 
 seekers. ' If you want recreation, you must find it in 
 ' Poetry, particularly Lyrical Poetry. Try Shelley. 
 ' We can no longer allow you to disport yourselves in 
 ' the Fields of History as if they were a mere play- 
 ' ground. Clio is enclosed.' 
 
 At present, however, this is not quite the case ; for 
 the old literary traditions are still alive, and prove 
 somewhat irritating to Professor Seeley, who, though 
 one of the most even-tempered of writers, is to be 
 found on p. 173 almost angry with Thackeray, a 
 charming person, who, as we all know, had, after his 
 lazy literary fashion, made an especial study of Queen 
 Anne's time, and who cherished the pleasant fancy 
 that a man might lie in the heather with a pipe in his 
 mouth, and yet, if he had only an odd volume of the 
 Spectator or the Tatler in his hand, be learning history 
 all the time. * As we read in these delightful pages,' 
 says the author of Esmond, ' the past age returns ; the 
 ' England of our ancestors is revivified ; the Maypole 
 ' rises in the Strand ; the beaux are gathering in the 
 ' coffee-houses ;' and so on, in the style we all know 
 and love so well, and none better, we may rest 
 assured, than Professor Seeley himself, if only he 
 were not tortured by the thought that people were 
 taking this to be a specimen of the science of which 
 he is a Regius Professor. His comment on this pas- 
 sage of Thackeray's is almost a groan. ' What is 
 * this but the old literary groove, leading to no trust- 
 ' worthy knowledge ?' and certainly no one of us,
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 263 
 
 from letting his fancy gaze on the Maypole in the 
 Strand, could ever have foretold the Griffin. On the 
 same page he cries : ' Break the drowsy spell of nar- 
 ' rative. Ask yourself questions, set yourself pro- 
 ■* blems ; your mind will at once take up a new atti- 
 ^ tude. Now, modern English history breaks up into 
 ^ two grand problems — the problem of the Colonies 
 ' and the problem of India.' The Cambridge School 
 of History with a vengeance ! 
 
 In a paper read at the South Kensington Museum 
 in 1884, Professor Seeley observes: 'The essential 
 * point is this, that we should recognise that to study 
 "' history is to study not merely a narrative, but at the 
 ' same time certain theoretical studies.' He then pro- 
 ceeds to name them : — Political philosophy, the com- 
 parative study of legal institutions, political economy, 
 and international law. 
 
 These passages are, I think, adequate to give a fair 
 view of Professor Seeley's position. History is a 
 science, to be written scientifically and to be studied 
 scientifically in conjunction with other studies. It 
 should pursue a practical object and be read with 
 direct reference to practical politics — using the latter 
 word, no doubt, in an enlightened sense. History is 
 not a narrative of all sorts of facts — biographical, 
 moral, political — but of such facts as a scientific 
 diagnosis has ascertained to be historically interesting. 
 In fine, history, if her study is to be profitable and 
 not a mere pastime, less exhausting than skittles and 
 cheaper than horse exercise, must be dominated by 
 some theory capable of verification by reference to 
 "Certain ascertained facts belonging to a particular class.
 
 264 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 
 
 Is this the right way of looking upon history ? The 
 dictionaries tell us that history and story are the same 
 word, and are derived from a Greek source, signifying 
 information obtained by inquiry. The natural defini- 
 tion of history, therefore, surely is the story of man 
 upon earth, and the historian is he who tells us any 
 chapter or fragment of that story. All things that on 
 earth do dwell have, no doubt, their history as well 
 as man ; but when a member, however humble, of 
 the human race speaks of history without any ex- 
 planatory context, he may be presumed to be alluding 
 to his own family records, to the story of humanity 
 during its passage across the earth's surface. 
 
 ' A talent for history ' — I am quoting from an author 
 whose style, let those mock at it who may, will reveal 
 him — ' may be said to be born with us as our chief 
 ' inheritance. History has been written with quipo- 
 * threads, with feather pictures, with wampum belts, 
 ' still oftener with earth-mounds and monumental 
 ' stone-heaps, whether as pyramid or cairn ; for the 
 ' Celt and the Copt, the red man as well as the white, 
 ' lives between two eternities, and warring against 
 ' oblivion, he would fain unite himself in clear, con- 
 ' scious relation, as in dim, unconscious relation he 
 ' is already united, with the whole future and the 
 ' whole past.' 
 
 To keep the past alive for us is the pious function 
 of the historian. Our curiosity is endless, his the 
 task of gratifying it. We want to know what hap- 
 pened long ago. Performance of this task is only 
 proximately possible ; but none the less it must be 
 attempted, for the demand for it is born afresh with
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 265 
 
 every infant's cry. History is a pageant, and not a 
 philosophy. 
 
 Poets, no less than professors, occasionally say good 
 things even in prose, and the following oracular utter- 
 ance of Shelley is not pure nonsense : ' History is the 
 ' cyclic poem written by Time upon the memories of 
 
 * men. The past, like an inspired rhapsodist, fills 
 ' the theatre of everlasting generations with her 
 ' harmony.' 
 
 If this be thought a little too fanciful, let me adorn 
 these pages with a passage from one of the great 
 masters of English prose — Walter Savage Landor. 
 Would that the pious labour of transcription could 
 confer the tiniest measure of the gift ! In that bundle 
 of imaginary letters Landor called Pericles and Aspasia, 
 we find Aspasia writing to her friend Cleone as 
 follows : 
 
 ' To-day there came to visit us a writer who is not 
 ' yet an author ; his name is Thucydides. We under- 
 ' stand that he has been these several years engaged 
 ' in preparation for a history. Pericles invited him 
 ' to meet Herodotus, when that wonderful man had 
 ' returned to our country, and was about to sail from 
 ' Athens. Until then it was believed by the intimate 
 ' friends of Thucydides that he would devote his life 
 ' to poetry, and, such is his vigour both of thought 
 ' and expression, that he would have been the rival of 
 ' Pindar. Even now he is fonder of talking on poetry 
 
 * than any other subject, and blushed when history 
 ' was mentioned. By degrees, however, he warmed, 
 ' and listened with deep interest to the discourse of 
 
 * Pericles on the duties of a historian.
 
 266 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 
 
 ' " May our first Athenian historian not be the 
 greatest," said he, "as the first of our dramatists 
 has been, in the opinion of many. We are grow- 
 ing too loquacious, both on the stage and off. We 
 make disquisitions which render us only more and 
 more dim-sighted, and excursions that only con- 
 sume our stores. If some among us who have 
 acquired celebrity by their compositions, calm, 
 candid, contemplative men, were to undertake the 
 history of Athens from the invasion of Xerxes, I 
 should expect a fair and full criticism on the 
 orations of Antiphon, and experience no disap- 
 pointment at their forgetting the battle of Salamis. 
 History, when she has lost her Muse, will lose her 
 dignity, her occupation, her character, her name. 
 She will wander about the Agora ; she will start, 
 she will stop, she will look wild, she will look 
 stupid, she will take languidly to her bosom doubts, 
 queries, essays, dissertations, some of which ought 
 to go before her, some to follow, and all to stand 
 apart. The field of history should not merely be 
 well tilled, but well peopled. None is delightful 
 to me or interesting in which I find not as many 
 illustrious names as have a right to enter it. We 
 might as well in a drama place the actors behind 
 the scenes, and listen to the dialogue there, as in a 
 history push valiant men back and protrude our- 
 selves with husky disputations. Show me rather 
 how great projects were executed, great advantages 
 gained, and great calamities averted. Show me 
 the generals and the statesmen who stood foremost, 
 that I may bend to them in reverence ; tell me
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 267 
 
 ' " their names, that I may repeat them to my children. 
 ' " Teach me whence laws were introduced, upon what 
 ' "foundation laid, by what custody guarded, in what 
 * "inner keep preserved. Let the books of the trea- 
 ' " sury lie closed as religiously as the Sibyl's ; leave 
 '"weights and measures in the market-place, Com- 
 ' " merce in the harbour, the Arts in the light they 
 ' " love, Philosophy in the shade ; place History on 
 ' " her rightful throne, and at the sides of her Elo- 
 ' " quence and War." ' 
 
 This is, doubtless, a somewhat full-dress view of 
 history. Landor was not an author who liked ' to be 
 ' seen in his dressing-gown and slippers.' He always 
 took pains to be splendid, and preferred stately mag- 
 nificence to chatty familiarity. But, after allowing 
 for this, is not the passage I have quoted infused with 
 a great deal of the true spirit which should animate 
 the historian, and does it not seem to take us by the 
 hand and lead us very far away from Professor Seeley's 
 maxims and morals, his theoretical studies, his political 
 philosophy, his political economy, and his desire to 
 break the drowsy spell of narrative, and to set us all 
 problems ? I ask this question in no spirit of enmity 
 towards these theoretical studies, nor do I doubt for 
 one moment that the student of history proper, who 
 has a turn in their directions, will find his pursuit 
 made only the more fascinating the more he studies 
 them — ^just as a little botany is said to add to the 
 charm of a country walk ; but — and surely the asser- 
 tion is not necessarily paradoxical — these studies ought 
 not to be allowed to disfigure the free-flowing outline 
 of the historical Muse, or to thicken her clear utter-
 
 268 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 
 
 ance, which in her higher moods chants an epic, and 
 in her ordinary moods recites a narrative which need 
 not be drowsy. 
 
 As for maxims, we all of us have our ' little hoard 
 ' of maxims ' wherewith to preach down our hearts 
 and justify anything shabby we may have done ; but 
 the less we import their cheap wisdom into history 
 the better. The author of the Expansion of England 
 will probably agree with Burke in thinking that 'a 
 ' great empire and little minds go ill together,' and so, 
 surely, a fortiori, must a mighty universe and any pos- 
 sible maxim. There have been plenty of brave his- 
 torical maxims before Professor Seeley's, though only 
 Lord Bolingbroke's has had the good luck to become 
 itself historical. =i= And as for theories, Professor FHnt, 
 a very learned writer, has been at the pains to enume- 
 rate fourteen French and thirteen German philosophies 
 of history current (though some, I expect, never ran 
 either fast or far) since the revival of learning. 
 
 We are (are we not ?) in these days in no little 
 danger of being philosophy-ridden, and of losing our 
 love for facts simply as facts. So long as Carlyle 
 lived the concrete had a representative, the strength 
 of whose epithets sufficed, if not to keep the philo- 
 sophers in awe, at least to supply their opponents 
 with stones. But now it is different. Carlyle is no 
 more a model historian than is Shakspeare a model 
 dramatist. The merest tyro can count the faults of 
 
 * ' I will answer you by quoting what I have read somewhere 
 ' or other, in Dionysius Halicarnassensis I think, that history is 
 'philosophy teaching by examples.' See Lord Bolingbroke's 
 Second Letter on the Study and Use of History.
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 269 
 
 either on his clumsy fingers. That born critic, the 
 late Sir George Lewis, had barely completed his tenth 
 year before he was able, in a letter to his mother, to 
 point out to her the essentially faulty structure of 
 Hamlet, and many a duller wit, a decade or two later 
 in his existence, has come to the conclusion that 
 Frederick the Great is far too long. But whatever 
 were Carlyle's faults, his historical method was 
 superbly naturalistic. Have we a historian left us 
 so honestly possessed as he was with the genuine his- 
 torical instinct, the true enthusiasm to know what 
 happened ; or one half so fond of a story for its own 
 sake, or so in love with things, not for what they 
 were, but simply because they were ? ' What won- 
 ' derful things are events !' wrote Lord Beaconsfield 
 in Coningsby ; ' the least are of greater importance 
 ' than the most sublime and comprehensive specula- 
 ' tions.' To say this is to go perhaps too far; cer- 
 tainly it is to go farther than Carlyle, who none the 
 less was in sympathy with the remark ; for he also 
 worshipped events, believing as he did that but for the 
 breath of God's mouth they never would have been 
 events at all. We thus find him always treating even 
 comparatively insignificant facts with a measure of 
 reverence, and handling them lovingly, as does a 
 book-hunter the shabbiest pamphlet in his collec- 
 tion. We have only to think of Carlyle's essay on 
 the Diamond Necklace to fill our minds with his qualifi- 
 cations for the proud office of the historian. Were 
 that inimitable piece of workmanship to be submitted 
 to the criticisms of the new scientific school, we doubt 
 whether it would be so much as classed, whilst the
 
 270 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 
 
 celebrated description of the night before the battle of 
 Dunbar in Cromwell, or any hundred scenes from the 
 French Revolution, would, we expect, be catalogued as 
 good examples of that degrading process whereby 
 history fades into mere literature. 
 
 This is not a question, be it observed, of style. 
 What is called a picturesque style is generally a great 
 trial. Who was it who called Professor Masson's 
 style Carlyle on wooden legs ? What can be drearier 
 than when a plain matter-of-fact writer attempts to 
 be animated, and tries to make his characters live by 
 the easy but futile expedient of writing about them in 
 the present tense ? What is wanted is a passion for 
 facts ; the style may be left to take care of itself. 
 Let me name a historian who detested fine writing, 
 and who never said to himself, ' Go to, I will make a 
 ' description,' and who yet was dominated by a love 
 for facts, whose one desire always was to know what 
 happened, to dispel illusion, and establish the true 
 account — Dr. S. R. Maitland, of the Lambeth Library, 
 whose volumes entitled The Dark Ages and The Refor- 
 mation are to history what Milton's Lycidas is said to 
 be to poetry : if they do not interest you, your tastes 
 are not historical. 
 
 The difference, we repeat, is not of style, but of 
 aim. Is history a pageant or a philosophy ? That 
 eminent historian. Lord Macaulay, whose passion for 
 letters and for ' mere literature ' ennobled his whole 
 life, has expressed himself in some places, I need 
 scarcely add in a most forcible manner, in the same 
 sense as Mr. Morley. In his well-known essay on 
 history, contributed to the Edinburgh Review in 1828,
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 271 
 
 we find him writing as follows : * Facts are the mere 
 ' dross of history. It is from the abstract truth which 
 ' interpenetrates them, and lies latent amongst them 
 ' like gold in the ore, that the mass derives its whole 
 
 * value.' And again : ' No past event has any intrinsic 
 
 * importance. The knowledge of it is valuable only 
 
 * as it leads us to form just calculations with respect 
 ' to the future.' These are strong passages ; but Lord 
 Macaulay was a royal eclectic, and was quite out of 
 sympathy with the majority of that brotherhood who 
 are content to tone down their contradictories to the 
 dull level of ineptitudes. Macaulay never toned down 
 his contradictories, but, heightening everything all 
 round, went on his sublime way, rejoicing like a 
 strong man to run a race, and well knowing that he 
 could give anybody five yards in fifty and win easily. 
 It is, therefore, no surprise to find him, in the very 
 essay in which he speaks so contemptuously of facts, 
 laying on with his vigorous brush a celebrated purple 
 patch I would gladly transfer to my own dull page 
 were it not too long and too well known. A line or 
 two taken at random will give its purport : 
 
 ' A truly great historian would reclaim those 
 
 * materials the novelist has appropriated. We should 
 ' not then have to look for the wars and votes of the 
 ' Puritans in Clarendon and for their phraseology in 
 
 * Old Mortality, for one half of King James in Hume 
 ' and for the other half in the Fortunes of Nigel. . . . 
 ' Society would be shown from the highest to the 
 ' lowest, from the royal cloth of state to the den of 
 ' the outlaw, from the throne of the legate to the 
 
 * chimney - corner where the begging friar regaled
 
 272 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 
 
 * himself. Palmers, minstrels, crusaders, the stately 
 
 * monastery with the good cheer in its refectory, and 
 
 * the tournament with the heralds and ladies, the 
 
 * trumpets and the cloth of gold, would give truth and 
 
 * life to the representation.' It is difficult to see what 
 abstract truth interpenetrates the cheer of the refec- 
 tory, or what just calculations with respect to the 
 future even an upholsterer could draw from a cloth, 
 either of state or of gold ; whilst most people will 
 admit that, when the brilliant essayist a few years 
 later set himself to compose his own magnificent 
 history, so far as he interpenetrated it with the abstract 
 truths of Whiggism, and calculated that the future 
 would be satisfied with the first Reform Bill, he did ill 
 and guessed wrong. 
 
 To reconcile Macaulay's utterances on this subject 
 is beyond my powers, but of two things I am satisfied : 
 the first is that, were he to come to life again, a good 
 many of us would be more careful than we are how 
 we write about him ; and the second is that, on the 
 happening of the same event, he would be found pro- 
 testing against the threatened domination of all thmgs 
 by scientific theory. A Western American, who was 
 once compelled to spend some days in Boston, was 
 accustomed in after-life to describe that seat of polite 
 learning to his horrified companions in California as a 
 city in whose streets Respectability stalked unchecked. 
 This is just what philosophical theories are doing 
 amongst us, and a decent person can hardly venture 
 abroad without one, though it does not much matter 
 which one. Everybody is expected to have ' a system 
 ■* of philosophy with principles coherent, interde-
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 273 
 
 ' pendent, subordinate, and derivative,' and to be able 
 to account for everything, even for things it used 
 not to be thought sensible to believe in, like ghosts 
 and haunted houses. Keats remarks in one of his 
 letters with great admiration upon what he christens 
 Shakspeare's ' negative capability,' meaning thereby 
 Shakspeare's habit of complaisant observation from 
 outside of theory, and his keen enjoyment of the 
 unexplained facts of life. He did not pour himself 
 out in every strife. We have but little of this negative 
 capability. The ruddy qualities of delightfulness, of 
 pleasantness, are all ' sicklied o'er with the pale cast 
 ' of thought.' The varied elements of life — the 
 
 ' Murmur of living, 
 Stir of existence, 
 Soul of the world !' 
 
 seem to be fading from literature. Pure literary 
 enthusiasm sheds but few rays. To be lively is to be 
 flippant, and epigram is dubbed paradox. 
 
 That many people appear to like a drab-coloured 
 world hung round with dusky shreds of philosophy is 
 sufficiently obvious. These persons find any relaxation 
 they may require from a too severe course of theories, 
 religious, political, social, or now, alas ! historical, 
 in the novels of Mr. W. D. Howells, an American 
 gentleman who has not been allowed to forget that he 
 once asserted of fiction what Professor Seeley would 
 be glad to be able to assert of history, that the drowsy 
 spell of narrative has been broken. We are to look 
 for no more Sir Walters, no more Thackerays, no 
 more Dickens. The stories have all been told. Plots 
 
 18
 
 274 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 
 
 are exploded. Incident is over. In moods of dejec- 
 tion these dark sayings seemed only too true. Shak- 
 speare's saddest of sad lines rose to one's lips : 
 
 I ' My grief lies onward and my joy behind. 
 
 Behind us are Ivanhoe and Gtiy Manneving, Pendennis 
 and The Virginians, Pecksniff and Micawber. In 
 front of us stretch a never-ending series, a dreary 
 vista of Foregone Conclusions, Counterfeit Presentments, 
 and Undiscovered Countries. But the darkest watch of 
 the night is the one before the dawn, and relief is 
 often nearest us when we least expect it. All this 
 gloomy nonsense was suddenly dispelled, and the fact 
 that really and truly, and behind this philosophical 
 arras, we were all inwardly ravening for stories was 
 most satisfactorily established by the incontinent 
 manner in which we flung ourselves into the arms of 
 Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, to whom we could 
 almost have raised a statue in the market-place for 
 having written Treasure Island. 
 
 But to return to history. The interests of our poor 
 human life, which seems to become duller every day, 
 require that the fields of history should be kept for 
 ever unenclosed, and be a free breathing-place for a 
 pallid population well-nigh stifled with the fumes of 
 philosophy. 
 
 Were we, imaginatively, to propel ourselves for- 
 ward to the middle of the next century, and to fancy 
 a well-equipped historian armed with the digested 
 learning of Gibbon, endowed with the eye of Carlyle, 
 and say one-fifteenth of his humour (even then a 
 dangerous allotment in a dull world), the moral gravity
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 275 
 
 of Dr. Arnold, the critical sympathy of Sainte-Beuve, 
 and the style of Dr. Newman, approaching the period 
 through which we have lived, should we desire this 
 talented mortal to encumber himself with a theory 
 into which to thrust all our doings as we toss clothes 
 into a portmanteau, to set himself to extract the 
 essence of some new political philosophy, capable of 
 being applied to the practical politics of his own day, 
 or to busy himself with problems or economics ? To 
 us personally, of course, it is a matter of indifference 
 how the historians of the twentieth century conduct 
 themselves ; but ought not our altruism to bear the 
 strain of a hope that at least one of the band may 
 avoid all these things, and, leaving political philosophy 
 to the political philosopher and political economy to 
 the political economist, remember that the first, if not 
 the last, duty of the historian is to narrate, to supply 
 the text not the comment, the subject not the sermon, 
 and proceed to tell our grandchildren and remoter 
 issue the story of our lives ? The clash of arms will 
 resound through his pages as musically as ever it 
 does through those of the elder historians as he tells 
 of the encounter between the Northern and Southern 
 States of America, in which Right and Might, those 
 great twin-brethren, fought side by side; but Romance, 
 that ancient parasite, clung affectionately with her 
 tendril-hands to the mouldering walls of an ancient 
 wrong, thus enabling the historian, whilst awarding 
 the victor's palm to General Grant, to write kindly 
 of the lost cause, dear to the heart of a nobler and 
 more chivalrous man, General Lee, of the Virginian 
 army. And again, is it not almost possible to envy 
 
 18—2
 
 276 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 
 
 the historian to whom will belong the task of writing- 
 with full information, and all the advantage of the 
 true historic distance, the history of that series of 
 struggles and heroisms, of plots and counter-plots, of 
 crimes and counter-crimes, resulting in the freedom of 
 Italy, and of telling to a world, eager to listen, the 
 life-story of Joseph Mazzini ? 
 
 ' Of God nor man was ever this thing said, 
 
 That he could give 
 Life back to her who gave him, whence his dead 
 
 Mother might live. 
 But this man found his mother dead and slain, 
 
 With fast sealed eyes, 
 And bade the dead rise up and live again, 
 
 And she did rise.' 
 
 Nor will our imaginary historian be unmindful of 
 
 Cavour, or fail to thrill his readers by teUing them 
 
 how, when the great Italian statesman, with many 
 
 sins upon his conscience, lay in the very grasp of 
 
 death, he interrupted the priests, busy at their work 
 
 of intercession, almost roughly, with the exclamation, 
 
 ' Pray not for me. Pray for Italy !' — whilst if he be 
 
 one who has a turn for that ironical pastime, the 
 
 dissection of a king, the curious character, and muddle 
 
 of motives, calHng itself Carlo Alberto, will afford him 
 
 material for at least two paragraphs of subtle interest. 
 
 Lastly, if our historian is ambitious of a large canvas 
 
 and of deeper colours, what is there to prevent him> 
 
 bracing himself to the task, — 
 
 ' As when some mighty painter dips 
 His pencil in the hues of earthquake and eclipse,' 
 
 from writing the epitaph of the Napoleonic legend ? 
 But all this time I hear Professor Seeley whispering
 
 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 277 
 
 in my ear, ' What is this but the old literary groove 
 ' leading to no trustworthy knowledge ?' If by trust- 
 worthy knowledge is meant demonstrable conclusions, 
 capable of being expressed in terms at once exact and 
 final, trustworthy knowledge is not to be gained from 
 the witness of history, whose testimony none the less 
 must be received, weighed, and taken into account. 
 Truly observes Carlyle : ' If history is philosophy 
 ' teaching by examples, the writer fitted to compose 
 
 * history is hitherto an unknown man. Better were it 
 
 * that mere earthly historians should lower such preten- 
 ' sions, and, aiming only at some picture of the thing 
 ' acted, which picture itself will be but a poor approxi- 
 
 * mation, leave the inscrutable purport of them an 
 
 * acknowledged secret.' ' Some picture of the thing 
 
 * acted.' Here we behold the task of the historian ; 
 nor is it an idle, fruitless task. Science is not the 
 only, or the chief source of knowledge. The Iliad, 
 Shakspeare's plays, have taught the world more than 
 the Politics of Aristotle or the Novum Ovganum of 
 Bacon. 
 
 Facts are not the dross of history, but the true 
 metal, and the historian is a worker in that metal. 
 He has nothing to do with abstract truth, or with 
 practical politics, or with forecasts of the future. A 
 worker in metal he is, and has certainly plenty of 
 what Lord Bacon used to call ' stuff ' to work upon ; 
 but if he is to be a great historian, and not a mere 
 chronicler, he must be an artist as well as an artisan, 
 and have something of the spirit which animated such 
 a man as Francesco Francia of Bologna, now only 
 famous as a painter, but in his own day equally cele-
 
 278 THE MUSE OF HISTORY 
 
 brated as a worker in gold, and whose practice it was 
 to sign his pictures with the word Goldsmith after his 
 name, whilst he engraved Painter on his golden 
 crucifixes. 
 
 The true historian, therefore, seeking to compose a 
 true picture of the thing acted, must collect facts, 
 select facts, and combine facts. Methods will differ, 
 styles will differ. Nobody ever does anything exactly 
 like anybody else ; but the end in view is generally 
 the same, and the historian's end is truthful narration. 
 Maxims he will have, if he is wise, never a one ; and 
 as for a moral, if he tell his story well, it will need 
 none ; if he tell it ill, it will deserve none. 
 
 The stream of narrative flowing swiftly, as it does, 
 over the jagged rocks of human destiny, must often 
 be turbulent and tossed ; it is, therefore, all the more 
 the duty of every good citizen to keep it as undefiled 
 as possible, and to do what in him lies to prevent 
 peripatetic philosophers on the banks from throwing 
 their theories into it, either dead ones to decay, or 
 living ones to drown. Let the philosophers ventilate 
 their theories, construct their blow-holes, extract their 
 essences, discuss their maxims, and point their morals 
 as much as they will ; but let them do so apart. 
 History must not lose her Muse, or ' take to her 
 ' bosom doubts, queries, essays, dissertations, some of 
 ' which ought to go before her, some to follow, and all 
 ' to stand apart.' Let us at all events secure our 
 narrative first — sermons and philosophy the day 
 after.
 
 CHARLES LAMB.* 
 
 MR. WALTER BAGEHOT preferred Hazlitt 
 to Lamb, reckoning the former much the 
 greater writer. The preferences of such a man as 
 Bagehot are not to be lightly disregarded, least of all 
 when their sincerity is vouched for, as in the present 
 case, by half a hundred quotations from the favoured 
 author. Certainly no writer repays a literary man's 
 devotion better than Hazlitt, of whose twenty seldom 
 read volumes hardly a page but glitters with quotable 
 matter ; the true ore, to be had for the cost of cartage. 
 You may live like a gentleman for a twelvemonth on 
 Hazlitt's ideas. Opinions, no doubt, differ as to how 
 many quotations a writer is entitled to ; but, for my 
 part, I like to see an author leap-frog into his subject 
 over the back of a brother. 
 
 I do not remember whether Bagehot has anywhere 
 given his reasons for his preference — the open avowal 
 whereof drove Crabb Robinson well-nigh distracted ; 
 and it is always rash to find reasons for a faith you do 
 
 * The Works of Charles Lamb. Edited, with notes and intro- 
 duction, by the Rev. Alfred Ainger. Three volumes. London : 
 1883-5.
 
 28o CHARLES LAMB 
 
 not share ; but probably they partook of the nature 
 of a complaint that Ella's treatment of men and things 
 (meaning by things, books) is often fantastical, unreal, 
 even a shade insincere ; whilst Hazlitt always at least 
 aims at the centre, whether he hits it or not. Lamb 
 dances round a subject ; Hazlitt grapples with it. So 
 far as Hazlitt is concerned, doubtless this is sc ; his 
 literary method seems to realize the agreeable aspira- 
 tion of Mr. Browning's Italian in England : — 
 
 ' I would grasp Metternich until 
 I felt his wet red throat distil 
 In blood thro' these two hands.' 
 
 Hazlitt is always grasping some Metternich. He said 
 himself that Lamb's talk was like snap-dragon, and 
 his own ' not very much unlike a game of nine-pins.' 
 Lamb, writing to him on one occasion about his son, 
 wishes the little fellow a ' smoother head of hair and 
 * somewhat of a better temper than his father ;' and 
 the pleasant words seem to call back from the past 
 the stormy figure of the man who loved art, literature, 
 and the drama with a consuming passion, who has 
 described books and plays, authors and actors, with a 
 fiery enthusiasm and reality quite unsurpassable, and 
 who yet, neither living nor dead, has received his due 
 meed of praise. Men still continue to hold aloof from 
 Hazlitt ; his shaggy head and fierce scowling temper 
 still seem to terrorize ; and his very books, telling us 
 though they do about all things most delightful — 
 poems, pictures, and the cheerful playhouse — frown 
 upon us from their upper shelf. From this it appears 
 that would a genius ensure for himself immortality, 
 he must brush his hair and keep his temper ; but.
 
 CHARLES LAMB 281 
 
 alas ! how seldom can he be persuaded to do either. 
 Charles Lamb did both ; and the years as they roll 
 do but swell the rich revenues of his praise. 
 
 Lamb's popularity shows no sign of waning. Even 
 that most extraordinary compound, the rising genera- 
 tion of readers, whose taste in literature is as erratic 
 as it is pronounced ; who have never heard of James 
 Thomson who sang The Seasons (including the pleasant 
 episode of Musidora bathing), but understand by any 
 reference to that name only the striking author of The 
 City of Dreadful Night ; even these wayward folk — the 
 dogs of whose criticism, not yet full grown, will, when 
 let loose, as some day they must be, cry ' havoc ' 
 amongst established reputations — read their Lamb, 
 letters as well as essays, with laughter and with love. 
 
 If it be really seriously urged against Lamb as an 
 author that he is fantastical and artistically artificial, 
 it must be owned he is so. His humour, exquisite as 
 it is, is modish. It may not be for all markets. How 
 it affected the Scottish Thersites we know only too 
 well — that dour spirit required more potent draughts 
 to make him forget his misery and laugh. It took 
 Swift or Smollett to move his mirth, which was 
 always, three parts of it, derision. Lamb's elaborate- 
 ness, what he himself calls his affected array of 
 antique modes and phrases, is sometimes overlooked 
 in these strange days, when it is thought better to 
 read about an author than to read him. To read 
 aloud the Praise of Chimney Sweepers without stumbling, 
 or halting, not to say mispronouncing, and to set in 
 motion every one of its carefully- swung sentences, is 
 a very pretty feat in elocution, for there is not what
 
 282 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 can be called a natural sentence in it from beginning 
 to end. Many people have not patience for this sort 
 of thing ; they like to laugh and move on. Other 
 people, again, like an essay to be about something 
 really important, and to conduct them to conclusions 
 they deem worth carrying away. Lamb's views about 
 indiscriminate almsgiving, so far as these can be ex- 
 tracted from his paper On the Decay of Beggars in the 
 Metropolis, are unsound, whilst there are at least three 
 ladies still living (in Brighton) quite respectably on 
 their means, who consider the essay entitled A 
 Bachelor's Complaint of the Behaviour of Married People 
 improper. But, as a rule, Lamb's essays are neither 
 unsound nor improper ; none the less they are, in the 
 judgment of some, things of naught — not only lacking, 
 as Southey complained they did, ' sound religious 
 ' feeUng,' but everything else really worthy of atten- 
 tion. 
 
 To discuss such congenital differences of taste is 
 idle ; but it is not idle to observe that when Lamb is 
 read, as he surely deserves to be, as a whole — letters 
 and poems no less than essays — these notes of fantasy 
 and artificiality no longer dominate. The man Charles 
 Lamb was far more real, far more serious, despite his 
 jesting, more self-contained and self-restrained, than 
 Hazlitt, who wasted his life in the pursuit of the 
 veriest will-o'-the-wisps that ever danced over the 
 most miasmatic of swamps, who was never his own 
 man, and who died, like Brian de Bois Gilbert, ' the 
 ' victim of contending passions.' It should never be 
 forgotten that Lamb's vocation was his life. Litera- 
 ture was but his by-play, his avocation in the true
 
 CHARLES LAMB 283 
 
 sense of that much-abused word. He was not a 
 fisherman, but an angler in the lake of letters ; an 
 author by chance and on the sly. He had a right to 
 disport himself on paper, to play the frolic with his 
 own fancies, to give the decalogue the slip, whose life 
 was made up of the sternest stuff, of self-sacrifice, 
 devotion, honesty, and good sense. 
 
 Lamb's letters from first to last are full of the philo- 
 sophy of life ; he was as sensible a man as Dr. John- 
 son. One grows sick of the expressions ' poor Charles 
 ' Lamb,' ' gentle Charles Lamb,' as if he were one of 
 those grown-up children of the Leigh Hunt type, who 
 are perpetually begging and borrowing through the 
 round of every man's acquaintance. Charles Lamb 
 earned his own living, paid his own way, was the 
 helper, not the helped ; a man who was beholden to 
 no one, who always came with gifts in his hand, a 
 shrewd man, capable of advice, strong in counsel. 
 Poor Lamb, indeed ! Poor Coleridge, robbed of his 
 will ; poor Wordsworth, devoured by his own ego ; 
 poor Southey, writing his tomes and deeming himself 
 a classic ; poor Carlyle, with his nine volumes of 
 memoirs, where he 
 
 ' Lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, 
 Tormenting himself with his prickles ' — 
 
 call these men poor, if you feel it decent to do so, but 
 not Lamb, who was rich in all that makes life valuable 
 or memory sweet. But he used to get drunk. This 
 explains all. Be untruthful, unfaithful, unkind; darken 
 the lives of all who have to live under your shadow, 
 rob youth of joy, take peace from age, live unsought
 
 284 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 for, die unmourned — and remaining sober you will 
 escape the curse of men's pity, and be spoken of as a 
 worthy person. But if ever, amidst what Burns 
 called ' social noise,' you so far forget yourself as to 
 get drunk, think not to plead a spotless life spent with 
 those for whom you have laboured and saved ; talk 
 not of the love of friends or of help given to the needy ; 
 least of all make reference to a noble self-sacrifice 
 passing the love of women, for all will avail you 
 nothing. You get drunk — and the heartless and the 
 selfish and the lewd crave the privilege of pitying you, 
 and receiving your name with an odious smile. It is 
 really too bad. 
 
 The completion of Mr. Ainger's edition of Lamb's 
 works deserves a word of commemoration. In our 
 judgment it is all an edition of Lamb's works should 
 be. Upon the vexed question, nowadays so much 
 agitated, whether an editor is to be allowed any dis- 
 cretion in the exclusion from his edition of the rinsings 
 of his author's desk, we side with Mr. Ainger, and 
 think more nobly of the editor than to deny him such 
 a discretion. An editor is not a sweep, and, by the 
 love he bears the author whose fame he seeks to 
 spread abroad, it is his duty to exclude what he 
 believes does not bear the due impress of the author's 
 mind. No doubt as a rule editors have no discretion 
 to be trusted ; but happily Mr. Ainger has plenty, 
 and most sincerely do we thank him for withholding 
 from us A Vision of Horns and The Pawnbroker's 
 Daughter. Boldly to assert, as some are found to do, 
 that the editor of a master of style has no choice but 
 to reprint the scraps or notelets that a misdirected
 
 CHARLES LAMB 285 
 
 energy may succeed in disinterring from the grave 
 the writer had dug for them, is to fail to grasp the dis- 
 tinction between a collector of curios and a lover of 
 books. But this policy of exclusion is no doubt a 
 perilous one. Like the Irish members, or Mark 
 Antony's wife — the ' shrill-toned Fulvia ' — the missing 
 essays are ' good, being gone.' Surley, so we are 
 inclined to grumble, the taste was severe that led Mr. 
 Ainger to dismiss Juke Judkins. We are not, indeed, 
 prepared to say that Judkins has been wrongfully 
 dismissed, or that he has any right of action against 
 Mr. Ainger, but we could have put up better with his 
 presence than his absence. 
 
 Mr. Ainger's introduction to the Essays of Elia is 
 admirable ; here is a bit of it : 
 
 ' Another feature of Lamb's style is its allusiveness. 
 ' He is rich in quotations, and in my notes I have 
 ' succeeded in tracing most of them to their source, a 
 ' matter of some difficulty in Lamb's case, for his 
 ' inaccuracy is all but perverse. But besides those 
 ' avowedly introduced as such, his style is full of 
 ' quotations held, if the expression may be allowed, in 
 ' solution. One feels, rather than recognises, that a 
 ' phrase or idiom or turn of expression is an echo of 
 ' something that one has heard or read before. Yet 
 ' such is the use made of the material, that a charm is 
 ' added by the very fact that we are thus continually 
 
 * renewing our experience of an older day. This style 
 ' becomes aromatic, like the perfume of faded rose- 
 
 * leaves in a china jar. With such allusiveness as 
 ' this I need not say that I have not meddled in my 
 ' notes ; its whole charm lies in recognising it for our-
 
 286 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 ' selves. The " prosperity " of an allusion, as of a 
 'jest, "lies in the ear of him that hears it," and it 
 ' were doing a poor service to Lamb or his readers to 
 ' draw out and arrange in order the threads he has 
 ' wrought into the very fabric of his English.' 
 
 Then Mr. Ainger's notes are not meddlesome notes, 
 but truly explanatory ones, genuine aids to enjoyment. 
 Lamb needs notes, and yet the task of adding them to 
 a structure so fine and of such nicely studied propor- 
 tions is a difficult one ; it is like building a tool-house 
 against La Sainte Chapelle. Deftly has Mr. Ainger 
 inserted his notes, and capital reading do they make ; 
 they tell us all we ought to want to know. He is no 
 true lover of Elia who does not care to know who the 
 
 ' Distant Correspondent ' was. And Barbara S . 
 
 ' It was not much that Barbara had to claim.' No, 
 dear child ! it was not — ' a bare half-guinea ' ; but you 
 are surely also entitled to be known to us by your 
 real name. When Lamb tells us Barbara's maiden 
 name was Street, and that she was three times married 
 — first to a Mr. Dancer, then to a Mr. Barry, and 
 finally to a Mr. Crawford, whose widow she was when 
 he first knew her — he is telling us things that were 
 not, for the true Barbara died a spinster, and was 
 born a Kelly. 
 
 Mr. Ainger, as was to be expected, has a full, in- 
 structive note anent the Old Benchers of the Inner 
 Temple. Some hasty editors, with a sorrowfully 
 large experience of Lamb's unblushing fictions and 
 Defoe-like falsehoods, and who, perhaps, have wasted 
 good hours trying to find out all about Miss Barbara's 
 third husband, have sometimes assumed that at all
 
 CHARLES LAMB 287 
 
 events most of the names mentioned by Lamb in his 
 immortal essay on the Benchers are fictitious. Mr. 
 Ainger, however, assures us that the fact is otherwise. 
 Jekyl, Coventry, Pierson, Parton, Read, Wharry, 
 Jackson, and Mingay, no less than ' unruffled Samuel 
 Salt,' were all real persons, and were called to the 
 Bench of the Honourable Society by those very 
 names. One mistake, indeed. Lamb makes — he 
 writes of Mr. Twopenny as if he had been a Bencher. 
 Now, there never yet was a Bencher of the name of 
 Twopenny ; though the mistake is easily accounted 
 for. There was a Mr. Twopenny, a very thin man 
 too, just as Lamb described him, who lived in the 
 Temple ; but he was not a Bencher, he was not even 
 a barrister ; he was a much better thing, namely, 
 stockbroker to the Bank of England. The holding of 
 this office, which Mr. Ainger rightly calls important, 
 doubtless accounts for Twopenny's constant good- 
 humour and felicitous jesting about his own person. 
 A man who has a snug berth other people want feels 
 free to crack such jokes. 
 
 Of the contents of these three volumes we can say 
 deliberately what Dr. Johnson said, surely in his 
 haste, of Baxter's three hundred works, ' Read them 
 ' all, they are all good.' Do not be content with the 
 essays alone. It is shabby treatment of an author 
 who has given you pleasure to leave him half unread ; 
 it is nearly as bad as keeping a friend waiting. Any- 
 how, read Mrs. Leicester s School ; it is nearly all Mary 
 Lamb's, but the more you like it on that account the 
 better pleased her brother would have been. 
 
 We are especially glad to notice that Mr. Ainger
 
 288 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 holds us out hopes of an edition, uniform with the 
 works, of the letters of Charles Lamb. Until he has 
 given us these, also with notes, his pious labours are 
 incomplete. Lamb's letters are not only the best text 
 of his life, but the best comment upon it. They 
 reveal all the heroism of the man and all the cunning 
 of the author ; they do the reader good by stealth. 
 Let us have them speedily, so that honest men may 
 have in their houses a complete edition of at least one 
 author of whom they can truthfully say, that they 
 never know whether they most admire the writer or 
 love the man.* 
 
 * We have them now (1899).
 
 EMERSON. 
 
 THERE are men whose charm is in their entirety. 
 Their words occasionally utter what their looks 
 invariably express. We read their thoughts by the 
 light of their smiles. Not to see and hear these men 
 is not to know them, and criticism without personal 
 knowledge is in their case mutilation. Those who did 
 know them listen in despair to the half-hearted praise 
 and clumsy disparagement of critical strangers, and 
 are apt to exclaim, as did the younger Pitt, when 
 some extraneous person was expressing wonder at the 
 ■enormous reputation of Fox, ' Ah ! you have never 
 
 * been under the wand of the magician.' 
 
 Of such was Ralph Waldo Emerson. When we 
 find so cool-brained a critic as Mr. Lowell writing 
 and quoting thus of Emerson : 
 
 ' Those who heard him while their natures were 
 ' yet plastic, and their mental nerves trembled under 
 ' the slightest breath of divine air, will never cease to 
 
 * feel and say : 
 
 ' " Was never eye did see that face, 
 
 Was never ear did hear that tongue, 
 Was never mind did mind his grace 
 
 That ever thought the travail long ; 
 But eyes, and ears, and every thought 
 Were with his sweet perfections caught ;" ' 
 
 19
 
 290 EMERSON 
 
 we recognise at once that the sooner we take off our 
 shoes the better, for that the ground upon which we 
 are standing is holy. How can we sufficiently honour 
 the men who, in this secular, work-a-day world,, 
 habitually breathe 
 
 ' An ampler ether, a diviner air,' 
 
 than ours ! 
 
 But testimony of this kind, conclusive as it is upon 
 the question of Emerson's personal influence, will not 
 always be admissible in support of his claims as an 
 author. In the long-run an author's only witnesses 
 are his own books. 
 
 In Dr. Holmes's estimate of Emerson's books every- 
 one must wish to concur.* These are not the days,, 
 nor is this dry and thirsty land of ours the place, when 
 or where we can afford to pass by any well of spiritual 
 influence. It is matter, therefore, for rejoicing that, 
 in the opinion of so many good judges, Emerson's 
 well can never be choked up. His essays, so at least 
 we are told by no less a critic than Mr. Arnold, are 
 the most valuable prose contributions to English 
 literature of the century ; his letters to Mr. Carlyle 
 carried into all our homes the charm of a most de- 
 Hghtful personality ; the quaint melody of his poems 
 abides in many ears. He would, indeed, be a churl 
 who grudged Emerson his fame. 
 
 But when we are considering a writer so full of 
 intelligence as Emerson — one so remote and detached 
 from the world's bluster and brag — it is especially 
 incumbent upon us to charge our own language with 
 
 * See Life of Emerson, by O. W. Holmes.
 
 EMERSON 291 
 
 intelligence, and to make sure that what we say is at 
 least truth for us. 
 
 Were we at liberty to agree with Dr. Holmes in his 
 unmeasured praise — did we, in short, find Emerson 
 full of inspiration — our task would be as easy as it 
 would be pleasant ; but not entirely agreeing with 
 Dr. Holmes, and somehow missing the inspiration, 
 the difficulty we began by mentioning presses heavily 
 upon us. 
 
 Pleasant reading as the introductory thirty-five 
 pages of Dr. Holmes's book make, we doubt the 
 wisdom of so very sketchy an account of Emerson's 
 lineage and intellectual environment. Attracted 
 towards Emerson everybody must be ; but there are 
 many who have never been able to get quit of an 
 uneasy fear as to his ' staying power.' He has seemed 
 to some of us a little thin and vague. A really great 
 author dissipates all such fears. Read a page and 
 they are gone. To inquire after the intellectual health 
 of such a one would be an impertinence. Emerson 
 hardly succeeds in inspiring this confidence, but is 
 more like a clever invalid who says, and is encouraged 
 by his friends to say, brilliant things, but of whom it 
 would be cruel to expect prolonged mental exertion. 
 A man, he himself has said, ' should give us a sense 
 ' of mass.' He perhaps does not do so. This gloomy 
 and possibly distorted view is fostered rather than 
 discouraged by Dr. Holmes's introductory pages about 
 Boston life and intellect. It does not seem to have 
 been a very strong place. We lack performance. It 
 is of small avail to write, as Dr. Holmes does, about 
 ' brilliant circles,' and ' literary luminaries,' and then 
 
 19 — 2
 
 292 EMERSON 
 
 to pass on, and leave the circles circulating and the 
 luminaries shining m vacuo. We want to know how 
 they were brilliant, and what they illuminated. If 
 you wish me to believe that you are witty I must 
 really trouble you to make a joke. Dr. Holmes's own 
 wit, for example, is as certain as the law of gravita- 
 tion, but over all these pages of his hangs vagueness, 
 and we scan them in vain for reassuring details. 
 
 ' Mild orthodoxy, ripened in Unitarian sunshine,' 
 does not sound very appetising, though we are assured 
 by Dr. Holmes that it is * a very agreeable aspect of 
 ' Christianity.' Emerson himself does not seem to 
 have found it very lively, for in 1832, after three years' 
 experience of the ministry of the ' Second Church ' of 
 Boston, he retires from it, not tumultuously or with 
 any deep feeling, but with something very like a 
 yawn. He concludes his farewell sermon to his 
 people as follows : 
 
 ' Having said this I have said all. I have no hos- 
 ' tility to this institution. I am only stating my want 
 ' of sympathy with it.' 
 
 Dr. Holmes makes short work of Emerson's child- 
 hood. He was born in Boston on the 25th May, 
 1803, and used to sit upon a wall and drive his 
 mother's cow to pasture. In fact. Dr. Holmes adds 
 nothing to what we already knew of the quiet and 
 blameless life that came to its appointed end on the 
 27th April, 1882. On the completion of his college 
 education, Emerson became a student of theology, 
 and after a turn at teaching, was ordained, in March, 
 1829, minister of the ' Second Church ' in Boston. In 
 September of the same year he married ; and the
 
 EMERSON 293 
 
 death of his young wife, in February, 1832, perhaps 
 quickened the doubts and disincHnations which severed 
 his connection with his ' Church ' on the gth Sep- 
 tember, 1832. The following year he visited Europe 
 for the first time, and made his celebrated call upon 
 Carlyle at Craigenputtock, and laid the keel of a 
 famous friendship. In the summer of 1834 ^^ settled 
 at Concord. He married again, visited England 
 again, wrote essays, delivered lectures, made orations, 
 published poems, carried on a long and most remark- 
 able correspondence with Carlyle, enjoyed after the 
 most temperate and serene of fashions many things 
 and much happiness. And then he died. 
 
 * Can you emit sparks ?' said the cat to the ugly 
 duckling in the fairy tale, and the poor abashed 
 creature had to admit that it could not. Emerson 
 could emit sparks with the most electrical of cats. 
 He is all sparks and shocks. If one were required 
 to name the most non-sequacious author one had ever 
 read, I do not see how one could help nominating 
 Emerson. But, say some of his warmest admirers, 
 ' What then ? It does not matter !' It appears to 
 me to matter a great deal. 
 
 A wise author never allows his reader's mind to be 
 at large, but casts about from the very first how to 
 secure it all for himself. He takes you (seemingly) 
 into his confidence, perhaps pretends to consult you 
 as to the best route, but at all events points out to 
 you the road, lying far ahead, which you are to travel 
 in his company. How carefully does a really great 
 writer, like Dr. Newman or M. Renan, explain to you 
 what he is going to do and how he is going to do it !
 
 294 
 
 EMERSON 
 
 His humour, wit, and fancy, however abundant they 
 may be, spring up like wayside flowers, and do but 
 adorn and render more attractive the path along 
 which it is his object to conduct you. The reader's 
 mind, interested from the beginning, and desirous of 
 ascertaining whether the author keeps his word and 
 adheres to his plan, feels the glow of healthy exercise, 
 and pays a real though unconscious attention. But 
 Emerson makes no terms with his readers — he gives 
 them neither thread nor clue, and thus robs them of 
 one of the keenest pleasures of reading — the being 
 beforehand with your author, and going shares with 
 him in his own thoughts. 
 
 If it be said that it is manifestly unfair to compare 
 a mystical writer like Emerson with a polemical or 
 historical one, I am not concerned to answer the 
 objection, for let the comparison be made with whom 
 you will, the unparalleled non - sequaciousness of 
 Emerson is as certain as the Correggiosity of Cor- 
 reggio. You never know what he will be at. His 
 sentences fall over you in glittering cascades, beautiful 
 and bright, and for the moment refreshing, but after 
 a very brief while the mind, having nothing to do on 
 its own account but to remain wide open, and see 
 what Emerson sends it, grows first restive and then 
 torpid. Admiration gives way to astonishment, 
 astonishment to bewilderment, and bewilderment to 
 stupefaction. 
 
 ' Napoleon is not a man, but a system,' once said, 
 in her most impressive tones, Madame de Stael to Sir 
 James Mackintosh, across a dinner-table. ' Magnifi- 
 cent !' murmured Sir James. ' But what does she
 
 EMERSON 295 
 
 mean ?' whispered one of those helplessly common- 
 place creatures who, like the present writer, go about 
 spoiling everything. ' Mass ! I cannot tell !' was 
 the frank acknowledgment and apt Shakspearian 
 quotation of Mackintosh. Emerson's meaning, owing 
 to his non-sequacious style, is often very difficult to 
 ■apprehend. Hear him for a moment on ' Experi- 
 ence': 
 
 ' I gossip for my hour concerning the eternal politic. 
 ■* I have seen many fair pictures, not in vain. A 
 
 * wonderful time I have lived in. I am not the novice 
 ' I was fourteen, nor yet seven years ago. Let who 
 
 * will ask. Where is the fruit ? I find a private fruit 
 
 * sufficient. This is a fruit, that I should not ask for 
 ■• a rash effect from meditations, counsels, and the 
 
 * hiving of truths.' 
 
 This surely is an odd way of hiving truths. It 
 follows from it that Emerson is more striking than 
 suggestive. He likes things on a large scale — he is 
 fond of ethnical remarks and typical persons. Not- 
 withstanding his habit of introducing the names of 
 common things into his discourses and poetry (' Hay, 
 
 * corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool, and wood,' is a 
 line from one of his poems), his familiarity therewith 
 is evidently not great. ' Take care, papa,' cried his 
 little son, seeing him at work with his spade, ' you 
 ' will dig your leg.' 
 
 His essay on Friendship will not be found satisfac- 
 tory. Here is a subject on which surely we are 
 -enticled to ' body.' The Over Soul was different ; there 
 it was easy to agree with Carlyle, who, writing to 
 Emerson, says : ' Those voices of yours which I
 
 296 EMERSON 
 
 ' likened to unembodied souls and censure sometimes. 
 
 * for having no body — how can they have a body ? 
 ' They are light rays darting upwards in the east !* 
 But friendship is a word the very sight of which in 
 print makes the heart warm. One remembers Elia : 
 
 * Oh ! it is pleasant as it is rare to find the same arm 
 
 * linked in yours at forty which at thirteen helped it to 
 ' turn over the Cicero De Ainicitid, or some other tale 
 ' of antique friendship which the young heart even 
 ' then was burning to anticipate.' With this in your 
 ear it is rather chilling to read, ' I do, then, with my 
 ' friends as I do with my books. I would have them 
 ' where I can find them, but I seldom use them. We 
 ' must have society on our own terms, and admit or 
 ' exclude it on the slightest cause. I cannot afford to 
 
 * speak much with my friend.' These are not genial 
 terms. 
 
 For authors and books his affection, real as it was, 
 was singularly impersonal. In his treatment of 
 literary subjects, we miss the purely human touch, 
 the grip of affection, the accent of storm, that so 
 pleasantly characterize the writings of Mr. Lowell. 
 Emerson, it is to be feared, regarded a company of 
 books but as a congeries of ideas. For one idea he 
 is indebted to Plato, for another to Dr. Channing. 
 Sartor Resartus, so Emerson writes, is a noble philo- 
 sophical poem, but ' have you read Sampson Read's 
 
 * Growth of the Mind P' We read somewhere of ' Pindar, 
 ' Raphael, Angelo, Dryden, and De Stael.' Emer- 
 son's notions of literary perspective are certainly 
 ' very early.' Dr. Holmes himself is every bit as 
 bad. In this very book of his, speaking about the
 
 EMERSON 297 
 
 dangerous liberty some poets — Emerson amongst the 
 number — take of crowding a redundant syllable into 
 a line, he reminds us ' that Shakspeare and Milton 
 ' knew how to use it effectively ; Shelley employed it 
 ' freely ; Bryant indulged in it ; Willis was fond of it.' 
 One has heard of the Republic of Letters, but this surely 
 does not mean that one author is as good as another. 
 ' Willis was fond of it.' I dare say he was, but we 
 are not fond of Willis, and cannot help regarding the 
 citation of his poetical example as an outrage. 
 
 None the less, if we will have but a little patience, 
 and bid our occasional wonderment be still, and read 
 Emerson at the right times and in small quantities, 
 we shall not remain strangers to his charm. He 
 bathes the universe in his thoughts. Nothing less 
 than the Whole ever contented Emerson. His was 
 no parochial spirit. He cries out : 
 
 ' From air and ocean bring me foods, 
 From all zones and altitudes.' 
 
 How beautiful, too, are some of his sentences ! Here 
 is a bit from his essay on Shakspeare in Representative 
 Men : 
 
 ' It is the essence of poetry to spring like the rain- 
 ' bow daughter of Wonder from the invisible, to 
 ' abolish the past, and refuse all history. Malone, 
 ' Warburton, Dyce, and Collier have wasted their 
 ' life. The famed theatres have vainly assisted. 
 ' Betterton, Garrick, Kemble, Kean, and Macready 
 ' dedicate their lives to his genius — him they crown, 
 ' elucidate, obey, and express — the genius knows them 
 * not. The recitation begins, one golden word leaps out
 
 298 EMERSON 
 
 ' immortal from all this painful pedantry, and sweetly tor- 
 ' nients us with invitations to his own inaccessible homes.'' 
 
 The words we have ventured to itaHcize seem to us 
 to be of surpassing beauty, and to express what many 
 a playgoer of late years must often have dimly felt. 
 
 Patience should indeed be the motto for any 
 Emerson reader who is not by nature ' author's kin.' 
 For example, in the essay on Character, after reading, 
 ' Everything in nature is bipolar, or has a positive 
 ' and negative pole. There is a male and a female, a 
 ' spirit and a fact, a north and a south. Spirit is the 
 ' positive, the event is the negative ; will is the north, 
 ' action the south pole. Character may be ranked as 
 ' having its natural place in the north ' — how easy to 
 lay the book down and read no more that day ; but a 
 moment's patience is amply rewarded, for but sixteen 
 lines farther on we may read as follows : ' We boast 
 ' our emancipation from many superstitions, but if we 
 ' have broken any idols it is through a transfer of the 
 ' idolatry. What have I gained that I no longer im- 
 ' molate a bull to Jove or to Neptune, or a mouse to 
 * Hecate ; that I do not tremble before the Eumenides 
 ' or the Catholic Purgatory, or the Calvinistic Judg- 
 ' ment Day — if I quake at opinion, the public opinion 
 ' as we call it, or the threat of assault or contumely, 
 ' or bad neighbours, or poverty, or mutilation, or at 
 ' the rumour of revolution or of wonder ! If I quake, 
 ' what matters it what I quake at ?' Well and truly 
 did Carlyle write to Emerson, ' You are a new era, 
 ' my man, in your huge country.' 
 
 Emerson's poetry has at least one of the qualities of 
 true poetry — it always pleases and occasionally de-
 
 EMERSON 299 
 
 lights. Great poetry it may not be, but it has the 
 happy knack of shpping in between our fancies, and 
 of cHnging like ivy to the masonry of the thought- 
 structure beneath which each one of us has his dwell- 
 ing. I must be allowed room for two quotations, one 
 from the stanzas called Give all to Love, the other from 
 Wood Notes. 
 
 ' Cling with life to the maid ; 
 But when the surprise, 
 First shadow of surmise. 
 Flits across her bosom young 
 Of a joy apart from thee, 
 Free be she, fancy-free. 
 Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, 
 Nor the palest rose she flung 
 From her summer's diadem. 
 Though thou loved her as thyself, 
 As a self of purer clay. 
 Though her parting dims the day, 
 Stealing grace from all alive ; 
 
 Heartily know 
 
 When half-gods go. 
 The gods arrive.' 
 
 The lines from Wood Notes run as follows : 
 
 ' Come learn with me the fatal song 
 Which knits the world in music strong. 
 Whereto every bosom dances. 
 Kindled with courageous fancies ; 
 Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes 
 Of things with things, of times with times 
 Primal chimes of sun and shade. 
 Of sound and echo, man and maid ; 
 The land reflected in the flood ; 
 Body with shadow still pursued. 
 For Nature beats in perfect tune 
 And rounds with rhyme her every rune 
 Whether she work in land or sea 
 Or hide underground her alchemy. 
 Thou canst not wave thy staff in air. 
 Or dip thy paddle in the lake, 
 But it carves the bow of beauty there, 
 And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake.
 
 300 EMERSON 
 
 Not unrelated, unaffied, 
 But to each thought and thing alHed, 
 Is perfect Nature's every part, 
 Rooted in the mighty heart.' 
 
 What place Emerson is to occupy in American 
 iterature is for America to determine. Some authori- 
 tative remarks on this subject are to be found in Mr. 
 Lowell's essay on ' Thoreau,' in My SUidy Windows ; 
 but here at home, where we are sorely pressed for 
 room, it is certain he must be content with a small 
 allotment, where, however, he may for ever sit 
 beneath his own vine and fig-tree, none daring to 
 make him afraid. Emerson will always be the 
 favourite author of somebody ; and to be always read 
 by somebody is better than to be read first by every- 
 body and then by nobody. Indeed, it is hard to fancy 
 a pleasanter destiny than to join the company of lesser 
 authors. All their readers are sworn friends. They 
 are spared the harsh discords of ill-judged praise and 
 feigned rapture. Once or twice in a century some 
 enthusiastic and expansive admirer insists upon drag- 
 ging them from their shy retreats, and trumpeting 
 their fame in the market-place, asserting, possibly 
 with loud asseverations (after the fashion of Mr. 
 Swinburne), that they are precisely as much above 
 Otway and Collins and George Eliot as they are 
 below Shakspeare and Hugo and Emily Bronte. 
 The great world looks on good-humouredly for a 
 moment or two, and then proceeds as before, and 
 the disconcerted author is left free to scuttle back to 
 his corner, where he is all the happier, sharing the 
 raptures of the lonely student, for his brief experience 
 of publicity.
 
 EMERSON 301 
 
 Let us bid farewell to Emerson, who has bidden 
 farewell to the world in the words of his own Good- 
 bye : 
 
 ' Good-bye to flattery's fawning face, 
 To grandeur with his wise grimace, 
 To upstart wealth's averted eye, 
 To supple office low and high. 
 To crowded halls, to court and street, 
 To frozen hearts and hasting feet, 
 To those who go and those who come, — 
 Good-bye, proud world, I'm going home 
 I am going to my own hearth-stone 
 Bosomed in yon green hills, alone, 
 A secret nook in a pleasant land. 
 Whose groves the frolic fairies planned 
 Where arches green the livelong day 
 Echo the blackbird's roundelay. 
 And vulgar feet have never trod, 
 A spot that is sacred to thought and God.'
 
 THE OFFICE OF LITERATURE. 
 
 DR. JOHN BROWN'S pleasant story has become 
 well known, of the countryman who, being 
 asked to account for the gravity of his dog, replied, 
 ' Oh, sir ! life is full of sairiousness to him — he can 
 'just never get eneugh o' fechtin'.' Something of the 
 spirit of this saddened dog seems lately to have entered 
 into the very people who ought to be freest from it — 
 our men of letters. They are all very serious and 
 very quarrelsome. To some of themi it is dangerous 
 even to allude. Many are wedded to a theory or 
 period, and are the most uxorious of husbands — ever 
 ready to resent an affront to their lady. This devo- 
 tion makes them very grave, and possibly very happy 
 after a pedantic fashion. One remembers what 
 Hazlitt, who was neither happy nor pedantic, has said 
 about pedantry : 
 
 ' The power of attaching an interest to the most 
 ' trifling or painful pursuits is one of the greatest 
 ' happinesses of our nature. The common soldier 
 ' mounts the breach with joy, the miser deliberately 
 ' starves himself to death, the mathematician sets 
 ' about extracting the cube-root with a feeling of
 
 THE OFFICE OF LITERATURE 30-? 
 
 ' enthusiasm, and the lawyer sheds tears of delight 
 ' over Coke upon Lyttleton. He who is not in some 
 ' measure a pedant, though he may be a wise, cannot 
 ' be a very happy man.' 
 
 Possibly not ; but then we are surely not content 
 that our authors should be pedants in order that they 
 may be happy and devoted. As one of the great 
 class for whose sole use and behalf literature exists — 
 the class of readers — I protest that it is to me a matter 
 of indifference whether an author is happy or not. I 
 want him to make me happy. That is his office. 
 Let him discharge it. 
 
 I recognise in this connection the corresponding 
 truth of what Sydney Smith makes his Peter Plymley 
 say about the private virtues of Mr. Perceval, the 
 Prime Minister : 
 
 ' You spend a great deal of ink about the character 
 ' of the present Prime Minister. Grant all that you 
 ' write — I say, I fear that he will ruin Ireland, and 
 ' pursue a line of policy destructive to the true in- 
 ' terests of his country ; and then you tell me that he 
 ' is faithful to Mrs. Perceval, and kind to the Master 
 * Percevals. I should prefer that he whipped his boys 
 ' and saved his country.' 
 
 We should never confuse functions or apply wrong 
 tests. What can books do for us ? Dr. Johnson, 
 the least pedantic of men, put the whole matter into a 
 nutshell (a cocoanut shell, if you will — Heaven forbid 
 that I should seek to compress the great Doctor within 
 any narrower limits than my metaphor requires !), 
 when he wrote that a book should teach us either to 
 enjoy life or endure it. ' Give us enjoyment !' ' Teach
 
 304 THE OFFICE OF LITERATURE 
 
 us endurance !' Hearken to the ceaseless demand 
 and the perpetual prayer of an ever unsatisfied and 
 always suffering humanity ! 
 
 How is a book to answer the ceaseless demand ? 
 
 Self-forgetfulness is of the essence of enjoyment, 
 and the author who would confer pleasure must 
 possess the art, or know the trick, of destroying for 
 the time the reader's own personality. Undoubtedly 
 the easiest way of doing this is by the creation of a 
 host of rival personalities — hence the number and the 
 popularity of novels. Whenever a novelist fails his 
 book is said to flag ; that is, the reader suddenly (as 
 in skating) comes bump down upon his own person- 
 ality, and curses the unskilful author. No lack of 
 characters and continual motion is the easiest recipe 
 for a novel, which, like a beggar, should always be 
 kept ' moving on.' Nobody knew this better than 
 Fielding, whose novels, like most good ones, are full 
 of inns. 
 
 When those who are addicted to what is called 
 ' improving reading ' inquire of you petulantly why 
 you cannot find change of company and scene in books 
 of travel, you should answer cautiously that when 
 books of travel are full of inns, atmosphere, and 
 motion, they are as good as any novel ; nor is there 
 any reason in the nature of things why they should 
 not always be so, though experience proves the con- 
 trary. 
 
 The truth or falsehood of a book is immaterial. 
 George Borrow's Bible in Spain is, I suppose, true ; 
 though now that I come to think of it, in what is to 
 me a new light, one remembers that it contains some
 
 THE OFFICE OF LITERATURE 305 
 
 odd things. But was not Borrow the accredited agent 
 of the British and Foreign Bible Society ? Did he 
 not travel (and he had a free hand) at their charges ? 
 Was he not befriended by our Minister at Madrid, 
 Mr, Villiers, subsequently Earl of Clarendon in the 
 peerage of England ? It must be true ; and yet at 
 this moment I would as lief read a chapter of the 
 Bihle in Spain as I would Gil Bias ; nay, I positively 
 would give the preference to Don Jorge. 
 
 Nobody can sit down to read Borrow's books with- 
 out as completely forgetting himself as if he were a 
 boy in the forest with Gurth and Wamba. 
 
 Borrow is provoking, and has his full share of 
 faults, and, though the owner of a style, is capable of 
 excruciating offences. His habitual use of the odious 
 word * individual ' as a noun-substantive (seven times 
 in three pages of The Romany Rye) elicits the frequent 
 groan, and he is certainly once guilty of calling 
 fish the ' finny tribe.' He beHeved himself to be 
 animated by an intense hatred of the Church of 
 Rome, and disfigures many of his pages by Lawrence- 
 Boythorn-like tirades against that institution ; but no 
 Catholic of sense need on this account deny himself 
 the pleasure of reading Borrow, whose one dominating 
 passion was camaraderie, and who hob-a-nobbed in the 
 friendliest spirit with priest and gipsy in a fashion 
 as far beyond praise as it is beyond description by 
 any pen other than his own. Hail to thee, George 
 Borrow ! Cervantes himself, Gil Bias, do not more 
 effectually carry their readers into the land of the Cid 
 than does this miraculous agent of the Bible Society, 
 by favour of whose pleasantness we can, any hour of 
 
 20
 
 3o6 THE OFFICE OF LITERATURE 
 
 the week, enter Villafranca by night, or ride into 
 Gahcia on an Andalusian stalUon (which proved to 
 be a foohsh thing to do), without costing anybody a 
 peseta, and at no risk whatever to our necks — be they 
 long or short. 
 
 Cooks, warriors, and authors must be judged by 
 the effects they produce : toothsome dishes, glorious 
 victories, pleasant books — these are our demands. 
 We have nothing to do with ingredients, tactics, or 
 methods. We have no desire to be admitted into the 
 kitchen, the council, or the study. The cook may 
 clean her saucepans how she pleases — the warrior 
 place his men as he likes — the author handle his 
 material or weave his plot as best he can — when the 
 dish is served we only ask. Is it good ? when the 
 battle has been fought. Who won ? when the book 
 comes out. Does it read ? 
 
 Authors ought not to be above being reminded 
 that it is their first duty to write agreeably — some 
 very disagreeable men have succeeded in doing so, 
 and there is therefore no need for anyone to despair. 
 Every author, be he grave or gay, should try to make 
 his book as ingratiating as possible. Reading is not 
 a duty, and has consequently no business to be made 
 disagreeable. Nobody is under any obligation to 
 read any other man's book. 
 
 Literature exists to please — to lighten the burden 
 of men's lives ; to make them for a short while forget 
 their sorrows and their sins, their silenced hearths, 
 their disappointed hopes, their grim futures — and 
 those men of letters are the best loved who have best 
 performed literature's truest office. Their name is
 
 THE OFFICE OF LITERATURE 307 
 
 happily legion, and I will conclude these disjointed 
 remarks by quoting from one of them, as honest a 
 parson as ever took tithe or voted for the Tory candi- 
 date, the Rev. George Crabbe. Hear him in The 
 
 Frank Courtship : — 
 
 ' " I must be loved," said Sybil ; "I must see 
 The man in terrors, who aspires to me : 
 At my forbidding frown his heart must ache, 
 His tongue must falter, and his frame must shake ; 
 And if I grant him at my feet to kneel. 
 What trembling fearful pleasure must he feel : 
 Nay, such the raptures that my smiles inspire, 
 That reason's self must for a time retire." 
 " Alas ! for good Josiah," said the dame, 
 " These wicked thoughts would fill his soul with shame ; 
 He kneel and tremble at a thing of dust ! 
 He cannot, child;" — the child replied, " He must." ' 
 
 Were an office to be opened for the insurance of 
 literary reputations, no critic at all likely to be in 
 the society's service would refuse the life of a poet 
 who could write like Crabbe. Cardinal Newman, 
 Mr. Leslie Stephen, Mr. Swinburne, are not always 
 of the same way of thinking, but all three hold the 
 one true faith about Crabbe. 
 
 But even were Crabbe now left unread, which is 
 very far from being the case, his would be an enviable 
 fame — for was he not one of the favourite poets of 
 Walter Scott, and whenever the closing scene of the 
 great magician's life is read in the pages of Lockhart, 
 must not Crabbe's name be brought upon the reader's 
 quivering lip ? 
 
 To soothe the sorrow of the soothers of sorrow, to 
 bring tears to the eyes and smiles to the cheeks of the 
 lords of human smiles and tears, is no mean ministry, 
 and it is Crabbe's. 
 
 20 — 2
 
 WORN-OUT TYPES. 
 
 IT is now a complaint of quite respectable antiquity 
 that the types in which humanity was originally 
 set up by a humour-loving Providence are worn out 
 and require recasting. The surface of society has 
 become smooth. It ought to be a bas-relief — it is a 
 plane. Even a Chaucer (so it is said) could make 
 nothing of us as we wend our way to Brighton. We 
 have tempers, it is true — bad ones for the most part ; 
 but no humours to be in or out of. We are all far 
 too much alike ; we do not group well ; we only mix. 
 All this, and more, is alleged against us. A cheerfully- 
 disposed person might perhaps think that, assuming 
 the prevailing type to be a good, plain, readable one, 
 this uniformity need not necessarily be a bad thing ; 
 but had he the courage to give expression to this 
 opinion he would most certainly be at once told, with 
 that mixture of asperity and contempt so properly 
 reserved for those who take cheerful views of any- 
 thing, that without well-defined types of character 
 there can be neither national comedy nor whimsical 
 novel ; and as it is impossible to imagine any person 
 sufficiently cheerful to carry the argument further by
 
 WORN-OUT TYPES 309 
 
 inquiring ingenuously, ' And how would that matter?' 
 the position of things becomes serious, and demands a 
 few minutes' investigation. 
 
 As we said at the beginning, the complaint is an 
 old one — most complaints are. When Montaigne was 
 in Rome in 1580 he complained bitterly that he was 
 always knocking up against his own countrymen, and 
 might as well have been in Paris. And yet some 
 people would have you believe that this curse of the 
 Continent is quite new. More than seventy years ago 
 that most quotable of English authors, Hazlitt, wrote 
 as follows : 
 
 ' It is, indeed, the evident tendency of all literature 
 
 * to generalize and dissipate character by giving men 
 
 * the same artificial education and the same common 
 ' stock of ideas ; so that we see all objects from the 
 ' same point of view, and through the same reflected 
 
 * medium ; we learn to exist not in ourselves, but in 
 ' books ; all men become alike, mere readers — spec- 
 
 * tators, not actors in the scene, and lose all proper 
 
 * personal identity. The templar — the wit — the man 
 
 * of pleasure and the man of fashion, the courtier and 
 
 * the citizen, the knight and the squire, the lover and 
 
 * the miser — Lovelace, Lothario, Will Honeycomb 
 
 * and Sir Roger de Coverley, Sparkish and Lord 
 ' Foppington, Western and Tom Jones, my Father 
 ' and my Uncle Toby, Millaraent and Sir Sampson 
 
 * Legend, Don Quixote and Sancho, Gil Bias and 
 ' Guzman d'Alfarache, Count Fathom and Joseph 
 
 * Surface — have all met and exchanged commonplaces 
 ■* on the barren plains of the haute litUvatiire — toil 
 
 * slowly on to the Temple of Science, seen a long way
 
 3IO WORN-OUT TYPES 
 
 ' off upon a level, and end in one dull compound of 
 ' politics, criticism, chemistry, and metaphysics.' 
 
 Very pretty writing, certainly ;* nor can it be 
 disputed that uniformity of surroundings puts a tax 
 upon originality. To make bricks and find your own 
 straw are terms of bondage. Modern characters, like 
 modern houses, are possibly built too much on the 
 same lines. Dickens's description of Coketown is not 
 easily forgotten : 
 
 ' All the public inscriptions in the town were painted 
 ' alike, in severe characters of black and white. The 
 
 * jail might have been the infirmary, the infirmary 
 
 * might have been the jail, the town hall might have 
 
 * been either, or both, or anything else, for anything 
 ' that appeared to the contrary in the graces of their 
 ' construction.' 
 
 And the inhabitants of Coketown are exposed to 
 the same objection as their buildings. Every one 
 sinks all traces of what he vulgarly calls ' the shop ' 
 (that is, his lawful calling), and busily pretends to be 
 nothing. Distinctions of dress are found irksome. A 
 barrister of feeling hates to be seen in his robes save 
 when actually engaged in a case. An officer wears 
 his uniform only when obliged. Doctors have long 
 since shed all outward signs of their healing art. 
 Court dress excites a smile. A countess in her jewels 
 is reckoned indecent by the British workman, who, 
 
 * Yet in his essay On Londofiers and Country People we find 
 Hazlitt writing : ' London is the only place in which the child 
 ' grows completely up into the man. I have known characters 
 ' of this kind, which, in the way of childish ignorance and self- 
 ' pleasing delusion, exceeded anything to be met with in Shak- 
 ' speare or Ben Jonson, or the Old Comedy.'
 
 WORN-OUT TYPES 311 
 
 all unemployed, puffs his tobacco smoke against the 
 window-pane of the carriage that is conveying her 
 ladyship to a Drawing-room : and a West-end clergy- 
 man is with difficulty restrained from telling his con- 
 gregation what he had been told the British workman 
 said on that occasion. Had he but had the courage 
 to repeat those stirring words, his hearers (so he said) 
 could hardly have failed to have felt their force — so 
 unusual in such a place ; but he had not the courage, 
 and that sermon of the pavement remains unpreached. 
 The toe of the peasant is indeed kibing the heel of the 
 courtier. The passion for equality in externals can- 
 not be denied. We are all woven strangely in the 
 same piece, and so it comes about that, though our 
 modern society has invented new callings, those 
 callings have not created new types. Stockbrokers, 
 directors, official liquidators, philanthropists, secre- 
 taries — not of State, but of companies — speculative 
 builders, are a new kind of people known to many — 
 indeed, playing a great part among us— but who, for 
 all that, have not enriched the stage with a single 
 character. Were they to disappear to-morrow, to be 
 blown dancing away like the leaves before Shelley's 
 west wind, where in reading or playgoing would pos- 
 terity encounter them ? Alone amongst the children 
 of men the pale student of the law, burning the mid- 
 night oil in some one of the * high lonely towers ' 
 recently built by the Benchers of the Middle Temple 
 (in the Italian taste), would, whilst losing his youth 
 over that interminable series, The Law Reports, every 
 now and again strike across the old track, once so 
 noisy with the bayings of the well-paid hounds of
 
 312 WORN-OUT TYPES 
 
 justice, and, pushing his way along it, trace the 
 history of the bogus company, from the acclamations 
 attendant upon its illegitimate birth to the hour of 
 disgrace when it dies by strangulation at the hands of 
 the professional wrecker. The pale student will not 
 be a wholly unsympathetic reader. Great swindles 
 have ere now made great reputations, and lawyers 
 may surely be permitted to take a pensive interest in 
 such matters. 
 
 ' Not one except the Attorney was amused — 
 He, like Achilles, faithful to the tomb. 
 So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause. 
 Knowing they must be settled by the laws.' 
 
 But our elder dramatists would not have let any of 
 these characters swim out of their ken. A glance 
 over Ben Jonson, Massinger, Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 is enough to reveal their frank and easy method. 
 Their characters, like an apothecary's drugs, wear 
 labels round their necks. Mr. Justice Clement and 
 Mr. Justice Greedy ; Master Matthew, the town gull ; 
 Sir Giles Overreach, Sir Epicure Mammon, Mr. 
 Plenty, Sir John Frugal, need no explanatory con- 
 text. Are our dramatists to blame for withholding 
 from us the heroes of our modern society ? Ought 
 we to have — 
 
 • Sir Moses, Sir Aaron, Sir Jamramagee, 
 Two stock-jobbing Jews, and a shuffling Parsee '? 
 
 Baron Contango, the Hon. Mr. Guinea-Pig, poor 
 Miss Impulsia Allottee, Mr. Jeremiah Builder — Rare 
 Old Ben, who was fond of the city, would have given 
 us them all and many more ; but though we may well 
 wish he were here to do it, we ought, I think, to con-
 
 WORN-OUT TYPES 313 
 
 fess that the humour of these typical persons who so 
 swell the dramatis pevsouiv of an Elizabethan is, to say 
 the least of it, far to seek. There is a certain warm- 
 hearted tradition about their very names which makes 
 disrespect painful. It seems a churl's part not to 
 laugh, as did our fathers before us, at the humours of 
 the conventional parasite or impossible serving-man ; 
 but we laugh because we will, and not because we 
 must. 
 
 Genuine comedy — the true tickling scene, exquisite 
 absurdity, soul - rejoicing incongruity — has really 
 nothing to do with types, prevailing fashions, and 
 such-like vulgarities. Sir Andrew Aguecheek is not 
 a typical fool ; he is a fool, seised in fee simple of his 
 folly. 
 
 Humour lies not in generalizations, but in the indi- 
 vidual ; not in his hat nor in his hose, even though 
 the latter be ' cross-gartered '; but in the deep heart 
 of him, in his high-flying vanities, his low-lying 
 oddities — what we call his ' ways ' — nay, in the very 
 motions of his back as he crosses the road. These 
 stir our laughter whilst he hves and our tears when 
 he dies, for in mourning over him we know full well 
 we are taking part in our own obsequies. ' But 
 indeed,' wrote Charles Lamb, ' we die many deaths 
 ' before we die, and I am almost sick when I think 
 ' that such a hold as I had of you is gone.' 
 
 Literature is but the reflex of life, and the humour 
 of it lies in the portrayal of the individual, not the 
 type ; and though the young man in Locksley Hall no 
 doubt observes that the ' individual withers,' we have 
 but to take down George Meredith's novels to find
 
 31+ WORN-OUT TYPES 
 
 the fact is otherwise, and that we have still one 
 amongst us who takes notes, and against the battery 
 of whose quick wits even the costly raiment of Poole 
 is no protection. We are forced as we read to exclaim 
 with Petruchio : ' Thou hast hit it ; come sit on me.' 
 No doubt the task of the modern humorist is not so 
 easy as it was. The surface ore has been mostly 
 picked up. In order to win the precious metal you 
 must now work with in-stroke and out-stroke after 
 the most approved methods. Sometimes one would 
 enjoy it a little more if we did not hear quite so dis- 
 tinctly the snorting of the engine, and the groaning 
 and the creaking of the gear as it painfully winds up 
 its prize : but what would you ? Methods, no less 
 than men, must have the defects of their qualities. 
 
 If, therefore, it be the fact that our national comedy 
 is in decline, we must look for some other reasons for 
 it than those suggested by Hazlitt in 1817. When 
 Mr. Chadband inquired, ' Why can we not fly, my 
 friends ?' Mr. Snagsby ventured to observe, ' in a 
 ' cheerful and rather knowing tone, " No wings !" * 
 but he was immediately frowned down by Mrs. 
 Snagsby. We lack courage to suggest that the 
 somewhat heavy-footed movements of our recent 
 dramatists are in any way due to their not being 
 provided with those twin adjuncts indispensable for 
 the genius who would soar.
 
 CAMBRIDGE AND THE POETS. 
 
 WHY all the English poets, with a barely decent 
 number of exceptions, have been Cambridge 
 men, has always struck me, as did the abstinence of 
 the Greeks from malt Mr. Calverley, ' as extremely 
 ' curious.' But in this age of detail, one must, how- 
 ever reluctantly, submit to prove one's facts, and I, 
 therefore, propose to institute a ' Modest Inquiry ' 
 into this subject. Imaginatively, I shall don proc- 
 torial robes, and, armed with a duster, saunter up and 
 down the library, putting to each poet as I meet him 
 the once dreaded question, ' Sir, are you a member of 
 ' this University ?' 
 
 But whilst I am arranging myself for this function, 
 let me utilize the time by making two preliminary 
 observations — the first one being that, as to-day is 
 Sunday, only such free libraries are open as may 
 happen to be attached to public-houses, and I am 
 consequently confined to my own poor shelves, and 
 must be forgiven even though I make some palpable 
 omissions. The second is that I exclude from my 
 survey living authors, I must do so ; their very 
 names would excite controversy about a subject which, 
 when wisely handled, admits of none.
 
 3i6 CAMBRIDGE AND THE POETS 
 
 I now pursue my inquiry. That Chaucer was a 
 Cambridge man cannot be proved. It is the better 
 opinion that he was (how else should he have known 
 anything about the Trumpington Road ?), but it is 
 only an opinion, and as no one has ever been found 
 reckless enough to assert that he was an Oxford man, 
 he must be content to ' sit out ' this inquiry along 
 with Shakspeare, Webster, Ford, Pope, Cowper, 
 Burns, and Keats, no one of whom ever kept his 
 terms at either University. Spenser is, of course, the 
 glory of the Cambridge Pembroke, though were the 
 fellowships of that college made to depend upon 
 passing a yearly examination in the Faerie Queen, to 
 be conducted by Dean Church, there would be wailing 
 and lamentation within her rubicund walls. Sir 
 Thomas Wyatt was at St. John's, Fulke Greville 
 Lord Brooke at Jesus, Giles and Phineas Fletcher 
 were at King's, Herrick was first at St. John's, but 
 migrated to the Hall, where he is still reckoned very 
 pretty reading, even by boating men. Cowley, most 
 precocious of poets, and Suckling were at Trinity, 
 Waller at King's, Francis Quarles was of Christ's. 
 The Herbert family were divided, some going to 
 Oxford and some to Cambridge, George, of course, 
 falling to the lot of Cambridge. John Milton's name 
 alone would deify the University where he pursued 
 his almost sacred studies. Andrew Marvell, a pleasant 
 poet and savage satirist, was of Trinity. The author 
 of Hudibras is frequently attributed to Cambridge, but, 
 on being interrogated, he declined to name his college 
 ■ — always a suspicious circumstance. 
 
 I must not forget Richard Crashaw, of Peterhouse.
 
 CAMBRIDGE AND THE POETS 317 
 
 Willingly would I relieve the intolerable tedium of 
 this dry inquiry by transcribing the few lines of his 
 now beneath my eye. But I forbear, and ' steer right 
 on.' 
 
 Of dramatists we find Marlowe (untimeher death 
 than his was never any) at Corpus ; Greene (I do not 
 lay much stress on Greene) was both at St. John's 
 and Clare. Ben Jonson was at St. John's, so was 
 Nash. John Fletcher (whose claims to be considered 
 the senior partner in his well-known firm are simply 
 paramount) was at Corpus. James Shirley, the 
 author of The Maid's Revenge and of the beautiful 
 lyric beginning ' The glories of our birth and state,' 
 in the innocence of his heart first went to St. John's 
 College, Oxford, from whence he was speedily sent 
 down, for reasons which the delightful author ot 
 Athene Oxonienses must really be allowed to state for 
 himself. ' At the same time (16 12) Dr. William 
 ' Laud presiding at that house, he had a very great 
 ' affection for Shirley, especially for the pregnant parts 
 ' that were visible in him, but then, having a broad 
 ' or large mole upon his left cheek, which some 
 
 * esteemed a deformity, that worthy doctor would 
 ' often tell him that he was an unfit person to take 
 
 * the sacred function upon him, and should never have 
 < his consent to do so.' Thus treated, Shirley left 
 Oxford, that ' home of lost causes,' but not apparently 
 of large moles, and came to Cambridge, and entered 
 at St. Catharine's Hall, where, either because the 
 authorities were not amongst those who esteemed a 
 broad or large mole upon the left cheek to be a 
 deformity, or because a mole, more or less, made no-
 
 3i8 CAMBRIDGE AND THE POETS 
 
 sort of difference in the personal appearance of the 
 college, or for other good and sufficient reasons, poor 
 Shirley was allowed, without, I trust, being often 
 told of his mole, to proceed to his degree and to Holy 
 Orders. 
 
 Starting off again, we find John Dryden, whose 
 very name is a tower of strength (were he to come to 
 life again he would, like Mr. Brown of Calaveras, 
 ' clean out half the town '), at Trinity, In this poet's 
 later life he said he Hked Oxford better. His lines on 
 this subject are well known : 
 
 ' Oxford to him a dearer name shall be 
 Than his own Mother-University. 
 Thebes did his rude, unknowing youth engage, 
 He chooses Athens in his riper age.' 
 
 But idle preferences of this sort are beyond the scope 
 of my present inquiry. After Dryden we find Garth 
 at Peterhouse and charming Matthew Prior at John's. 
 Then comes the great name of Gray. Perhaps I 
 ought not to mention poor Christopher Smart, who 
 was a Fellow of Pembroke ; and yet the author of 
 David, under happier circumstances, might have con- 
 ferred additional poetic lustre even upon the college of 
 Spenser.* 
 
 In the present century, we find Byron and his bear 
 at Trinity, Coleridge at Jesus, and Wordsworth at 
 St. John's. The last-named poet was fully alive to 
 the honour of belonging to the same University as 
 Milton. In language not unworthy of Mr. Trumbull, 
 
 * This passage was written before Mr. Browning's ' Parley- 
 ings ' had appeared. Christopher is now ' a person of import- 
 ance,' and needs no apology.
 
 CAMBRIDGE AND THE POETS 319 
 
 the well-known auctioneer in Middlemarch, he has 
 recorded as follows : 
 
 ' Among the band of my compeers was one 
 Whom chance had stationed in the very room 
 Honoured by MiUon's name. O temperate Bard, 
 Be it confest that for the first time seated 
 Within thy innocent lodge and oratory, 
 One of a festive circle, I poured out 
 Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride 
 And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain 
 Never excited by the fumes of wine 
 Before that hour or since.'* 
 
 I know of no more amiable trait in the character of 
 Cambridge men than their willingness to admit having 
 been drunk once. 
 
 After the great name of Wordsworth any other 
 must seem small, but I must, before concluding, place 
 on record Praed, Macaulay, Kingsley, and Calverley. 
 
 A glorious Roll-call indeed ! 
 
 ■ Earth shows to Heaven the names by thousands told 
 That crown her fame.' 
 
 So may Cambridge. 
 
 Oxford leads off with one I could find it in my 
 heart to grudge her, beautiful as she is — Sir Philip 
 Sidney. Why, I wonder, did he not accompany his 
 friend and future biographer, Fulke Greville, to 
 Cambridge ? As Dr. Johnson once said to Boswell, 
 * Sir, you may wonder !' Sidney most indisputably 
 was at Christchurch. Old George Chapman, who I 
 suppose was young once, was (I believe) at Oxford, 
 though I have known Cambridge to claim him. Lodge 
 and Peele were at Oxford, so were Francis Beaumont 
 and his brother Sir John. PhiHp Massinger, Shakerley 
 
 * The Prelude, p. 55.
 
 320 CAMBRIDGE AND THE POETS 
 
 Marmion, and John Marston are of Oxford, also 
 Watson and Warner. Henry Vaughan the Silurist, 
 Sir John Davies, George Sandys, Samuel Daniel, 
 Dr. Donne, Lovelace, and Wither belong to the sister 
 University, so did Dr. Brady — but Oxford must not 
 claim all the merit of the metrical version of the 
 Psalms, for Brady's colleague. Dr. Nahum Tate, was 
 a Dublin man. Otway and CoUins, Young, Johnson, 
 Charles Wesley, Southey, Landor, Hartley Coleridge, 
 Beddoes, Keble, Isaac Williams, Faber, and Clough 
 are names of which their University may well be 
 proud. But surely, when compared with the Cam- 
 bridge list, a falling-off must be admitted. 
 
 A poet indeed once came into residence at Uni- 
 versity College, whose single name — for, after all, poets 
 must be weighed and not counted— would have gone 
 far to right the balance, but is Oxford bold enough to 
 claim Shelley as her own ? She sent him down, not 
 for riotous living, for no purer soul than his ever 
 haunted her courts, but for wanting to discuss with 
 those whose business it was to teach him questions of 
 high philosophy. Had Shelley only gone to Trinity 
 in 1810, I feel sure wise and witty old Dr. Mansel 
 would never have sent him down. Spenser, Milton, 
 and Shelley ! What a triad of immortal fames they 
 would have made. As it is, we expect Oxford, with 
 her accustomed composure, will insist upon adding 
 Shelley to her score — but even when she has been 
 allowed to do so, she must own herself beaten both in 
 men and metal. 
 
 But this being so — why was it so ? It is now my 
 turn to own myself defeated. I cannot for the life of 
 me tell how it happened.
 
 BOOK-BUYING. 
 
 THE most distinguished of living Englishmen, 
 who, great as he is in many directions, is 
 perhaps inherently more a man of letters than any- 
 thing else, has been overheard mournfully to declare 
 that there were more booksellers' shops in his native 
 town sixty years ago, when he was a boy in it, than 
 are to-day to be found within its boundaries. And 
 yet the place ' all unabashed ' now boasts its bookless 
 self a city ! 
 
 Mr. Gladstone was, of course, referring to second- 
 hand bookshops. Neither he nor any other sensible 
 man puts himself out about new books. When a new 
 book is published, read an old one, was the advice of 
 a sound though surly critic. It is one of the boasts 
 of letters to have glorified the term ' second-hand,' 
 which other crafts have ' soiled to all ignoble use.' 
 But why it has been able to do this is obvious. All 
 the best books are necessarily second-hand. The 
 writers of to-day need not grumble. Let them ' bide 
 a wee.' If their books are worth anything, they, too, 
 one day will be second-hand. If their books are not 
 worth anything there are ancient trades still in full 
 
 21
 
 322 BOOK-BUYING 
 
 operation amongst us — the pastrycooks and the trunk- 
 makers — who must have paper. 
 
 But is there any substance in the plaint that nobody 
 now buys books, meaning thereby second-hand books ? 
 The late Mark Pattison, who had 16,000 volumes, 
 and whose lightest word has therefore weight, once 
 stated that he had been informed, and verily believed, 
 that there were men of his own University of Oxford 
 who, being in uncontrolled possession of annual in- 
 comes of not less than ;^5oo, thought they were doing 
 the thing handsomely if they expended £^0 a year 
 upon their libraries. But we are not bound to believe 
 this unless we like. There was a touch of morosity 
 about the late Rector of Lincoln which led him to 
 take gloomy views of men, particularly Oxford men. 
 
 No doubt arguments a priori may readily be found 
 to support the contention that the habit of book-buy- 
 ing is on the decline. I confess to knowing one or 
 two men, not Oxford men either, but Cambridge men 
 (and the passion of Cambridge for literature is a by- 
 word), who, on the plea of being pressed with busi- 
 ness, or because they were going to a funeral, have 
 passed a bookshop in a strange town without so much 
 as stepping inside ' just to see whether the fellow had 
 ' anything.' But painful as facts of this sort neces- 
 sarily are, any damaging inference we might feel dis- 
 posed to draw from them is dispelled by a comparison 
 of price-lists. Compare a bookseller's catalogue of 
 1862 with one of the present year, and your pessimism 
 is washed away by the tears which unrestrainedly 
 flow as you see what bonnes fortunes you have lost. A 
 young book-buyer might well turn out upon Primrose
 
 BOOK-BUYING 323 
 
 Hill and bemoan his youth, after comparing old cata- 
 logues with new. 
 
 Nothing but American competition, grumble some 
 old stagers. 
 
 Well ! why not ? This new battle for the books is 
 a free fight, not a private one, and Columbia has 
 'joined in.' Lower prices are not to be looked for. 
 The book-buyer of igoo will be glad to buy at to-day's 
 prices. I take pleasure in thinking he will not be able 
 to do so. Good finds grow scarcer and scarcer. True 
 it is that but a few short weeks ago I picked up (such 
 is the happy phrase, most apt to describe what was 
 indeed a ' street casualty ') a copy of the original 
 edition of Endymion (Keats's poem — O subscriber to 
 Mudie's ! — - not Lord Beaconsfield's novel) for the 
 easy equivalent of half-a-crown — ^but then that was 
 one of my lucky days. The enormous increase of 
 booksellers' catalogues and their wide circulation 
 amongst the trade has already produced a hateful 
 uniformity of prices. Go where you will it is all the 
 same to the odd sixpence. Time was when you could 
 map out the country for yourself with some hopeful- 
 ness of plunder. There were districts where the 
 Elizabethan dramatists were but slenderly protected. 
 A raid into the * bonnie North Countrie ' sent you 
 home again cheered with chap-books and weighted 
 with old pamphlets of curious interests ; whilst the 
 West of England seldom failed to yield a crop of 
 novels. I remember getting a complete set of the 
 Bronte books in the original issues at Torquay, I may 
 say, for nothing. Those days are over. Your country 
 bookseller is, in fact, more likely, such tales does he 
 
 21 — 2
 
 324 BOOK-BUYING 
 
 hear of London auctions, and such catalogues does he 
 receive by every post, to exaggerate the value of his 
 wares than to part with them pleasantly, and as a 
 country bookseller should, ' just to clear my shelves, 
 * you know, and give me a bit of room.' The only 
 compensation for this is the catalogues themselves. 
 You get them, at least, for nothing, and it cannot be 
 denied that they make mighty pretty reading. 
 
 These high prices tell their own tale, and force upon 
 us the conviction that there never were so many 
 private libraries in course of growth as there are 
 to-day. 
 
 Libraries are not made ; they grow. Your first 
 two thousand volumes present no difficulty, and cost 
 astonishingly little money. Given ;^400 and five 
 years, and an ordinary man can in the ordinary course, 
 without undue haste or putting any pressure upon his 
 taste, surround himself with this number of books, all 
 in his own language, and thenceforward have at least 
 one place in the world in which it is possible to be 
 happy. But pride is still out of the question. To be 
 proud of having two thousand books would be absurd. 
 You might as well be proud of having two top-coats. 
 After your first two thousand difficulty begins, but 
 until you have ten thousand volumes the less you say 
 about your library the better. Then you may begin 
 to speak. 
 
 It is no doubt a pleasant thing to have a library 
 left you. The present writer will disclaim no such 
 legacy, but hereby undertakes to accept it, however 
 dusty. But good as it is to inherit a library, it is 
 better to collect one. Each volume then, however
 
 BOOK-BUYING 325 
 
 lightly a stranger's eye may roam from shelf to shelf, 
 has its own individuality, a history of its own. You 
 remember where you got it, and how much you gave 
 for it ; and your word may safely be taken for the 
 first of these facts, but not for the second. 
 
 The man who has a library of his own collection is 
 able to contemplate himself objectively, and is justified 
 in believing in his own existence. No other man but 
 he would have made precisely such a combination as 
 his. Had he been in any single respect different from 
 what he is, his library, as it exists, never would have 
 existed. Therefore, surely he may exclaim, as in the 
 gloaming he contemplates the backs of his loved ones, 
 ' They are mine, and I am theirs.' 
 
 But the eternal note of sadness will find its way 
 even through the keyhole of a library. You turn 
 some familiar page, of Shakspeare it may be, and his 
 ' infinite variety,' his ' multitudinous mind,' suggests 
 some new thought, and as you are wondering over it 
 you think of Lycidas, your friend, and promise your- 
 self the pleasure of having his opinion of your dis- 
 covery the very next time when by the fire you two 
 ' help waste a sullen day.' Or it is, perhaps, some 
 quainter, tenderer fancy that engages your solitary 
 attention, something in Sir Philip Sidney or Henry 
 Vaughan, and then you turn to look for Phyllis, ever 
 the best interpreter of love, human or divine. Alas ! 
 the printed page grows hazy beneath a filmy eye as 
 you suddenly remember that Lycidas is dead — ' dead 
 ' ere his prime ' — and that the pale cheek of Phyllis 
 will never again be relumined by the white light of 
 her pure enthusiasm. And then you fall to thinking
 
 326 BOOK-BUYING 
 
 of the inevitable, and perhaps, in your present mood, 
 not unwelcome hour, when the ' ancient peace ' of 
 your old friends will be disturbed, when rude hands 
 will dislodge them from their accustomed nooks and 
 break up their goodly company. 
 
 ' Death bursts amongst them Hke a shell, 
 And strews them over half the town.' 
 
 They will form new combinations, lighten other men's 
 toil, and soothe another's sorrow. Fool that I was to 
 call anything mine ! 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 Elliot Stock, Paternoster- Row, London.
 
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