Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/collegerequiremeOObostrich COLLEGE REQUIREMENTS IN ENGLISH FOR CAREFUL STUDY FOR THE YEARS 1909-1915 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY Boston : 4 Park Street ; New York : 85 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 378-388 Wabash Avenue TABLE OF CONTENTS BURKE'S CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES CARLYLE'S ESSAY ON BURNS MACAULAY'S LIFE OF JOHNSON MILTON'S L'ALLEGRO, AND OTHER POEMS SHAKESPEARE'S MACBETH TENNYSON'S GARETH AND LYNETTE, AND OTHER POEMS WASHINGTON'S FAREWELL ADDRESS WEBSTER'S FIRST BUNKER HILL ORATION PUBLISHERS' NOTE The success of the small books issued by us in paper and clothy containing each a work on which examination is required for admissio?i to American Colleges^ has led us to bring together in a single volume all those specified as requir- ing ^^ careful study ^^ for examination in the years igoQ to igi^ inclusive. While we shall continue to publish all the works separately, we trust that this single-volume form, on account of its compactness and cheapness, will prove a con- venience to many both for library and class-room purposes. A list of all the requirements for admission will be found at the end of the book. « • • • 2Dl)e Htbersitie ^Literature ^erie0 CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES THE SPEECH BY EDMUND BUKKE EDITED BY EGBERT ANDERSEN MASTER OP ENGLISH IN THE EPISCOPAL ACADEMY, PHILADBLPHIA HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY Boston : 4 Park Street ; New York : 85 Fifth Avenue Chicago: S78-388 Wabash Avenue (52rbc lUincrsitJc press CambuiDoe Copyright, 1896, By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. All rights reserved. I • » • • • PEEFACE. The importance attaching to the study of the Speech on Conciliation is indicated by the fact that the Committee have assigned it for study in the years 1897-1908. In this edition, the editor, in addition to preparing the notes explanatory of the text, has aimed at exhibiting its logical form and structure. Such a plan of editing and of study gives an excellent opportunity of impressing, by the force of Burke's example, some of the fundamental processes of composition — and it is to be remembered that the most persistent demand which the colleges are at present making of the teacher of English is the demand for skill in this art — for '* clearness and accuracy of expreSv sion." The Speech is valuable as a model : it is commonly accepted as a masterpiece : it is constructed on such a definite, orderly plan ; its various parts are so nicely articu- lated; it is, indeed, such a finely developed organism, — that the study of its details cannot fail to impress the pupil with the importance of the rhetorical principles upon which it is constructed. What claimed Burke's attention in the construction of his work will impress the pupil in the con- struction of his own. The method of study proposed is indicated on pages ix— xiv — i. e.f in the careful reading of groups of paragraphs as they express successive units of thought ; in the construc- tion of the skeleton analysis ; in the study of appropriate rhetorical notes, together with such of the exercises as the teacher finds time for. The teacher will see on examina- tion that some of the work appointed may be omitted ; but, according to the idea and purpose of the editor, the con- struction of the skele^:on outline is an essential. It is not 41.1433 iv PREFACE. sufficient for the pupil to attempt to follow the outline mentally, without writing it out. To do that much is, so far, good ; but to construct it in detail, preserving the rela- tive rank of the thought in the manner indicated, will force the pupil, as he sees it growing under his hand, to appre- hend the truth that this great literary work is wrought out in accordance with steady, consistent purpose, with definite plan and method, — a truth that will appear more clearly in the carefully constructed analysis than it can possibly ap pear from a mere reading of the Speech, however careful. Let the pupil apprehend that truth and he will have made a great, practical gain. Purpose, plan, method, are the foundations of all good composition. With the reading of the Speech, and the construction of the analysis, there should go as much synthetic work — composition — as possible. The study of Burke's theme ; of his paragraph structure ; of his outline, or plan, will naturally suggest that the pupil be given practice in finding definite themes under general subjects ; in writing para- graphs upon narrowly limited themes ; in making skeleton outlines of compositions on these themes. The importance of this work cannot be overrated : it is in the highest de- gree formative : to require it of the pupil is to help him to value and attain the power of direct and definite thought. Help in this work is given occasionally at the foot of the page, where, under the general term Exercise, the editor has grouped a variety of suggestions, which may, according to the teacher's opportunity, prove valuable. It is well to have the exercises, as far as possible, written, so as to guard against the looseness that sometimes occurs in oral recita- tions. Such constructive work may, of course, take the place of the ordinary class compositions. The exercises are intended to be suggestive only : the teacher who is in sympathy with the purpose of the present study may make his own exercises. The Episcopal Academy, PnHiADBLPHiA, June 12, 1896. EDMUND BURKE. BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCH. Edmund Burke was born in Dublin, probably in Jan« uary, 1729, although the precise date is in question. At fifteen he entered Trinity College, Dublin, where he re- mained five years, and in 1750 went to London to study law, — the profession for which his father, an attorney, had destined him. Finding the law dry and irksome, he aban- doned its pursuit, and was compelled, by the withdrawal of his father's allowance, to devote himself to literature and politics. His two works, " A Vindication of Natural Society " and " A Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas on the Sublime and Beautiful," soon gained him marked distinction as a writer. In 1765 he was elected to Parliament, holding his seat throughout the exciting and critical times that culminated in the American Revolution and the recognition of American independence. From 1765 till 1794, when he retired from Parliament, his ex- traordinary genius and political wisdom made him one of the most conspicuous of the able men with whom he was associated. He died at Beaconsfield, England, July 9, 1797. His appointment as private secretary to Lord Rock- ingham, and his election to Parliament a few months after, brought him into immediate touch with the mightiest problems of the day. He became the active opponent of the king's policy, which was to concentrate all power in the king's hands ; the ministers were to be nominees of the court, carrying out his plans and answerable to him alone. Backed up by Parliament, the king had determined to force America into submission. They contended, inasmuch as English law was supreme in the colonies as well as in ▼i EDMUND BURKE. England itself, that Parliament had a right to tax America. Establishing themselves in the notion of their right, they proceeded to enforce the right by the Stamp Act and other acts of taxation, regardless of the claims and petitions of the colonies. America could be kept in subjection only by the employment of an army. To silence the demand for constitutional rights by the employment of the military was, in Burke's judgment, a most serious menace to the cause of liberty in England itself. Since the struggle between Amer- ica and Parliament was on a demand for a constitutional right, the victory of the army over the Americans might in the end be the downfall of liberty in England itself. To him this was a real fear: the idea runs through several of his speeches and writings. His efforts, however, were unavailing, — king and Parliament persisted. Fortunately for England, the colonies were successful, and the royal policy of coercing the people in their demand for a consti- tutional right received its death-blow. Shortly after the conclusion of the American Revolution, Burke was stirred up by what he believed to be the cruel and unjust policy of Warren Hastings in India, and by the fact that he believed the East India Company to be exert- ing a corrupt influence among members of Parliament. Acting upon this belief, he made probably the most strenu- ous effort of his life, — the impeachment of Hastings. Dur- ing the proceedings — which lasted for fourteen years — Burke labored incessantly. At the end of this period Hastings was acquitted, the question of his guilt being viewed in different lights. The probability is that the pol= icy of the East India Company was blamable for much that was charged upon Hastings. " Never," says Lord John Russell, ^' has the great object of punishment — the prevention of crime — been attained more completely than by this trial. Hastings was acquitted, but tyranny, deceit, and injustice were condemned." To Burke more than to any other belongs the credit of this achievement. His views on the French Revolution have brought against BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, vii him the charge of inconsistency. As was said, he had been the boldest, the most generous advocate of liberty in 1776, and yet thirteen years after, he had nothing but exe- cration for those miserable subjects who in France were suffering from far greater wrongs than the Americans. It was charged that he had no sympathy but for the misery of kings or queens, and that he forgot the suffering millions of the wretched common people. Whatever the explana- tion, his passionate denunciation of revolutionary leaders and principles became in the end a sort of frenzy. As the horrors of the Revolution increased, they excited him to such a degree as to render him incapable of judging the case dispassionately. The Revolution was a "foul, mon- strous thing, wholly out of the course of moral nature," — " generated in treachery, frauds and falsehood, hypocrisy, and unprovoked murder ; " the revolutionists were mere " quacks and impostors," " a nation of murderers," " mur- derous atheists," etc. All this may have been more or less true, but the fact remains that his denunciation was one- sided and intemperate. His temper in this exciting crisis was quite unlike the calm wisdom of his treatment of the American question. His violence has been attributed by some of his biographers, in part, to the eft'ect on his mind of the death of his only son, — a youth for whom he had a most passionate affection, — and in part to the fact that his intense love for the established order of things was shocked beyond measure by the utter license into which the revolu- tionists were betrayed. It is probable, too, that he had not formed an adequate notion of the corruption and incompe- tency of the French government and society. His pam- phlet, "Reflections on the Revolution in France," made him the most popular man of his day among the sovereigns of Europe, although it was the occasion of his losing many of his friends in Parliament. His sense of right and justice made him careless of re- sults to himself. He accompanied William Gerard Hamil- ton when the latter was made Secretary to Ireland, and on Viii EDMUND BURKE. his retapn received through the influence of Hamilton a pension of three hundred pounds. It soon appeared, how- ever, that the pension was intended as a bribe to bind him to a slavish devotion to the will of his patron. Burke in- dignantly resigned the pension. In those days no man might oppose the king and hope for preferment. And yet, knowing this, Burke was for years the head and front of opposition to the king's policy; so that in spite of his acknowledged ability he was never in the ministry, nor indeed in any other considerable office. When, in 1778, it was proposed in Parliament to relax some of the trade re- strictions imposed upon Ireland, Bristol, the city for which Burke was at that time sitting in Parliament, with other trading cities, raised a violent opposition. Burke, however, had the courage to speak and vote in favor of the bill. His action in this particular, together with his advocacy of Cath- olic toleration, gave offence to his constituents. Two years after, he lost his seat in Parliament. Literature and literary men had always been his delight : it was this love that had turned him aside from the study of the law; it was this that, in the midst of the most engross- ing parliamentary responsibilities, made him seek the com- panionship of that famous club that included Reynolds, Grarrick, Goldsmith, Gibbon, Johnson, and Boswell. His speeches have become of greater influence in the literary world than they ever were in the political. His intensity of purpose, his high sense of justice, impressed him pro- foundly with the responsibility of his work as a pleader : hence the whole of his genius, his enthusiasm, energy, ima- gination, were poured into the volume of his eloquence. The best recent accounts of Burke are by Mr. John Morley, " Edmund Burke : 'English Men of Letters ; " and "Edmund Burke, A Historical Study." The student will also find an excellent sketch by the same author, article " Burke," in the " Encyclopaedia Britannica ; " and he may profitably consult Leslie Stephen's "English Thought in the Eighteenth Century," volume ii., chapter ix. LOGICAL FORM OF THE SPEECH. THE STRUCTUEE OF THE INTRODUCTION. In the Introduction, the author proposes that Parliament originate measures looking towards concession or conciliation with the colonies. Read the Introduction, — i. e., to the end of paragraph 13. Show the logical structure of the Introduction by making a skeleton analysis of the thought. The following is given as a specimen of the method of arranging divisions and subdivisions : — I. Renewed opportunity is given for deliberating upon a plan for governing America. 1. We are therefore called upon to attend to the matter. II. The awfulness of the subject so oppressed me that 1. I instructed myself in everything that re- lated to the colonies. 2. I formed fixed ideas as to the general policy of the British Empire. State accurately and clearly in a single sentence the essential thought of the whole Introduction. Study Notes I.-V. of Rhetorical Principles, page xv. What is the exact meaning of the word "partaker' occurring in par. 2 ? EXERCISES ON THE INTRODUCTION. Express in single sentences the essential thought of the following paragraph groups: Paragraphs 1 and 2; 3, 4, and 5 ; 6, 7, and 8 ; 9 and 10 ; 11, 12, and 13. X THE STRUCTURE OF THE DEVELOPMENT. THE STRUCTURE OF THE DEVELOPMENT. In the Development, the author sets forth the arguments in favor of conciliation under the two general heads of (A) Whether Parliament ought to concede, and (B) What Parliament's coHcession ought to be. Study Note VI. of Rhetorical Principles, page xx. Remembering, then, that the one purpose for which the author is contending is that Parliament should adopt a policy of conciliation, read par. 14. Read pars. 15 and 16, and continue the construction of the skeleton analysis. Designate the main divisions by Roman numerals, subdivisions by Arabic, minor divisions by italic letters, according to the following specimen : — WHETHER PARLIAMENT OUGHT TO CONCEDE. I. The Population of the Colonies. 1. Two millions of Europeans with 500,000 others. (Par. 15.) 2. Burke's reasons for putting the population in the forefront. (Par. 16.) a. No narrow system will be applicable. b. Care is needed in dealing with such an object. Read pars. 17-30 inclusive. Here the author gives another reason for concession, viz. : II. The Industries of the Colonies. Add this to the analysis, and show the form and structure of the thought by continuing the skeleton an- alysis, thus : — II. The Industries of the Colonies. 1. The Commerce. (Pars. 17—28 inclusive.) Express in your own words the idea contained in the sen- tence (par. 10), " Refined policy ever has been the parent of confusion.** THE STRUCTURE OF THE DEVELOPMENT, xi a. Two comparative statements of export trade. (Pars. 19-24 inclusive.) h. Reflections upon the wonderful increase. (Par. 25.) c. Increase in the case of Pennsylvania, and reference to imports. (Pars. 26, 279 and 28.) 2. Agriculture. (Par. 29.) a. At the beginning of the century, colo- nies imported corn. h. For some time past the Old World has been fed by the New. 3. Fisheries. (Par. 30.) a. The energy with which they have been prosecuted. h. It has been due not to the constraints of our government. Read pars. 31-35 inclusive. Here the author has paused in his direct argument to answer those who contend that, if America is so important, it is worth fighting for. Burke's retort is that America certainly is worth fighting for, if fighting a people be the best way of gaining them, but that he is in favor of more prudent management. The teacher may provide for this thought in the outline, by making a fourth subdivision, " Objections to the Employment of Force," under II., The Industries of the Colonies. After this digression or negative argument, the author returns (in par. 36) to his direct argument. Read pars. 36-46 inclusive. Here the author assigns another reason for Conciliation, viz. : — III. The Temper and Character of the People. Add this to the analysis, together with the six subdi- visions. Study Note VII. of Rhetorical Principles, page xx. Read carefully pars. 47-64 inclusive, remembering that in this argument the details or subdivisions come first, as shown in Note VII. of Rhetorical Principles. xii THE STRUCTURE OF THE DEVELOPMENT, Add the following to the analysis : — 1. Three ways in which (pars. 47-64) Parlia^ ment may proceed relative to this rebellious spirit of the colonies, — to change it, to prosecute it as criminal, to comply with it as necessary. 2. But to change it is impossible ; to prosecute it is inexpedient ; therefore IV. Compliance is a necessity. (Par. 64.) See Note VIII. of Rhetorical Principles, page xxi. Read pars. 65-68. Continue the construction of the analysis, thus : — B WHAT parliament's CONCESSION OUGHT TO BE. I. The Nature of the Concession demanded by the Colonies. 1. They are taxed by a Parliament in which they are not represented. (Par. 65.) a. Burke limits himself (pars. 66, 67) to the policy of the question. 2. Burke's idea is, therefore, to admit the colo- nists to an interest in the Constitution. (Par. 68.) Bead pars. 69-76 inclusive. They contain objections to Burke's idea, together with his answer. Add to the an- alysis the words (a) '* Objections to the idea," as a minor division, under 2, Burke's idea. Read pars. 77-90 for the third subdivision under the Nature of the concession and continue the analysis with proper subdivisions. See Note IX. of Rhetorical Principles, page xxi. Read par. 91 and continue the analysis. This paragraph gives the second main division under B, viz. : — II. The Actual Concession proposed by Burke. Read pars. 92-112, arranging the thought as sub- divisions and minor divisions under II., The Actual Con- cession proposed by Burke.^ Express the meaning of each 1 To do this may make the outline too long, and it may, at the dis- cretion of the teacher, be omitted. THE STRUCTURE OF THE DEVELOPMENT, xm resolution as briefly as is consistent with clearness and ac- curacy. See Note X. of Rhetorical Principles, page xxii. EXERCISES ON THE DEVELOPMENT. What is the precise meaning of the word "circum^ stance " in par. 14 ? What are abstract ideas of right ? (Par. 14.) Commit to memory par. 25. What is a seminal principle ? (Par. 25.) Give an accurate statement of Burke's ohjections to Force as a means of governing a people. (Pars. 32-35 in- clusive.) What does the word " restive," par. 37, mean ? Do not assume that you know. Look it up. Commit to memory par. 38. Amplify the statement contained in par. 45, " Obedience is what makes government, and not the names by which it is called." Write a brief abstract of pars. 47-64. Restate carefully the idea (in par. 61) contained in the sentence, "Sir, these considerations have great weight • . . that very litigation." Commit to memory par. 88, xiv THE STRUCTURE OF THE AUTHOR'S PLAN THE STRUCTURE OF THE CONCLUSION. Read par. 113 to the end. The thought contained in the Conclusion may he arranged under four main divisions : — I. Resolutions proposed by Burke. (Pars. 113-122.) II. Objections Answered. (Pars. 123-127.) III. Burke's Objections to Lord North's Plan. (Pars. 128-136.) rV. Comparison of the Two Plans. (Pars. 137-141.) V. The Peroration. 142 to the end. Complete the analysis by adding the above with proper subdivisions and minor divisions of the thought. Study Note XI. of Rhetorical Principles, page xxii. THE STRUCTURE OF THE AUTHOR'S PLAN. For the study of this subject, see Note XII. of Rhetori- cal Principles, page xxiii. THE PARAGRAPH STRUCTURE OF THE SPEECH. See Note XIII. of Rhetorical Principles, page xxvii. Exercise. Give a Summary of the rhetorical principle^ illustrated by the author's Introduction ; by the Develop ment ; by the Conclusion ; the Plan ; Paragraph Structure. EXERCISES ON THE CONCLUSION. Express in your own words the argument in par. 125. What is the author's Theme in the Peroration ? In a single sentence give the essential idea of the whole Speech. TOPICAL OUTLINE OF THE SPEECH.^ The Speech consists of three well defined parts : The Introduction — to the end of Paragraph 13. The Development — Paragraphs 14-112 inclusive. The Conclusion — Paragraph 113 to the end. The Introduction. I. Renewed opportunity to consider the question. II. The awfulness of the subject, III. The demand for a fixed policy. IV. Burke's proposition is peace. V. Parliament has already granted that conciliation is admissible. The Development. A. Whether Parliament ought to concede. B. What Parliament's concession ought to be. Whether Parliament ought to concede. The ar^ment of the author is that Parliament ought to concede, because of — I. The population of the Colonies. II. The industries. 1. The commerce. 2. The agriculture. 3. The fisheries. 1 To those who are not disposed to study the speech with the minuteness sug- gested in the Logical Form of the Speech, page ix, the topical outline will be of service. xvi TOPICAL OUTLINE OF THE SPEECH. 4. Objections to the employment of force in over- coming the opposition of the Colonies. a. It is temporary. b. It is uncertain. c. It impairs the object. d. Parliament has had no experience. HI. The temper and character of the people (which is de- termined by — ) 1. Descent. 2. Their form of government. 3. The form of religion in the North. ■ 4. The haughty spirit in the South. 6. Education of the people. 6. Their remoteness. (Here the author changes the form of his argument, giving the details of his argument first, and from these draws a conclusion : ) 1. The three ways of dealing with this spirit are, to change it by removing the cause ; to prose- cute it as criminal; to comply with it as a necessity. 2. But to change it is impossible ; to prosecute it as criminal is inexpedient and impossible. The author concludes therefore that nothing is left for Parliament to do but to comply with the demand for concession. It is this conclusion which becomes the last argument in favor of concession, viz. : IV. Compliance with the demand for concession is a necessity. B. What Parliamenfs Concession should he. I. The nature of the concession demanded : 1. The Colonies are taxed without representation. 2. Burke's idea is that the people .should be ad* mitted to an interest in the Constitution. TOPICAL OUTLINE OF THE SPEECH, xvii 3. Precedents for conciliation. a. Ireland. h. Wales. c. Chester. d. Durham. II. The Actual Concession proposed, — to pass a resolu- tion acknowledging that — 1. The Colonies have no representation in Parlia- ment. 2. They have therefore been touched mid grieved by taxation. 3. No method has yet been devised for giving them representation. 4. The Colonies have legal assemblies — capable of raising taxes. 5. These assemblies have in times past granted *^ aids '* to his majesty. 6. Experience shows that these " aids " have been more profitable than the measures for taxing the Colonies. The Conclusion. I. Resolutions proposed by Burke. 1. To repeal the acts that interfere with the local courts and legislatures. 2. To order that judges shall hold their offices during good behavior and be removed for good cause only and by due process of law. 3. To make the Courts of Admiralty more conve- nient. IL Burke's answer to the objection that — 1. If the concession be made to the Colonies in the matter of taxation, they will make further demands. 2. The plan will destroy the unity of empire. xviii TOPICAL OUTLINE OF THE SPEECH. m. Burke's objections to Lord North's plan. 1. The plan is a mere project. 2. It would be fatal to the Constitution, 3. It will not give satisfaction to the Colonies. 4. It will bring in greater difficulties. IV. Comparison of the two plans. V. The peroration. The safety of the kingdom lies in the devotion of the people of the Colonies to the Constitution and in their affection for the Mother Country. RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED BY THE SPEECH. THE INTRODUCTION. In an argument, the Introduction may have an important function. What it is in the Speech on Conciliation will now be considered. The Introduction contains, as has been seen, various con- trasts of the plan pursued by ParHament with the one pro- posed by Burke. He tells them that he has a definite plan, — they have not ; that his opinions have been steadfast, — theirs wavering ; under Parliament's government " things have been hastening to an incurable alienation of the colo- nies, " — Burke's plan proposes to restore " the former UU' suspecting confidence in the mother country." By reason of the plan pursued by Parliament — or, rather, by reason of their frequent change of plan — " America has been kept in continual agitation ; " the one advocated by Burke means to give peace. XL The contrasts are not, of course, arranged as above : to have done so would probably have offended his hearers, whereas his desire, as will be seen hereafter, was quite the reverse of this. Nevertheless, without placing the two EXERCISE. Find other points of contrast in the two plans. XX RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED. methods of government in offensive contrast, the author has 30 skilfully arranged the points of difference, that his own plan stands out with prominence. Without giving details, he sets forth clearly and unmistakably what he intends to show. " I mean," he says, " to give peace ; " and again, " I make no difficulty in affirming that the proposals of concili- ation and concession ought to originate from us ; " i. e., he means to show that Parliament, abandoning its policy of coercion, should give the colonies peace by originating pro- posals of concession and conciliation. The author has thus a definite object in view, and has given it an exact statement in the Introduction. This, indeed, is the first common function of the Introduction. But if the above — i. e,, to give an exact statement of his object — had been his only purpose, the author would probably have made his Introduction shorter. For the sim- ple purpose of stating his meaning clearly, the single sen- tence, " I make no difficulty in affirming that the proposals of concession should originate from us," would have been sufficient. It will be seen, however, that to have introduced his theme so bluntly might have excited only disgust and opposition, instead of the interest, attention, and coopera- tion which he desired. Hence that another reason existed for the long Introduction may easily be inferred. A fur- ther examination of the Speech will show what the rea- son is. Occurring with such frequency as to give a distinct tone to what the author says, are expressions of the same general nature as the following : " I had no sort of reason to rely upon the strength of my natural abilities for the proper execution of that trust ; " he assures them that he " bows under the high authority of the House ; " he does not haz- ard " a censure upon the motives of former Parliaments ; " he looks upon their present opportunity to reconsider the subject as " a providential favor ; " he admonishes them that they are called upon to attend to America as by a RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED, xxi " superior warning voice." " It is," he says, " an awfal subject, or there is none this side of the grave." * III. In spite, however, of all that he had done to conciliate their favor, and to centre their thought upon the gravity of the subject, Burke could not be certain that his efforts thus far would induce Parliament to give his plan calm, un- prejudiced consideration : he might find that the House did not regard their opportunity " as a providential favor ; " he might find their prejudice stronger than their reason ; and consequently that some further effort might still be necessary before it would be safe to trust the details of his plan to their judgment. He proceeds, therefore, to argue that his plan commends itself to their consideration in the fact that the House, by accepting the resolution moved by Lord North, had thereby declared conciliation (^. e., the plan he was urging) to be admissible ; he reminds them also that they had gone further, -— that they had declared conciliation to be admissible previous to any submission on the part of America ; and, still further, that the House had gone " a good deal beyond even that mark," and had admitted that the " complaints of the former mode of exerting the right of taxation had not been altogether unfounded." The author has kept this argument as the climax in his effort to conciliate their favor. It is easy to see, if he could show the plan for which he was contending to be based upon a principle which Parliament had already admitted and acted upon, that he had presumably done much to overcome prejudice, to awaken interest in his plan, and thereby to lessen the labor of persuading Parliament to adopt it. , . — 1^ EXERCISE. ^ What sentiments does the author desire to arouse to- wards himself and his subject bj the employment of these and similar expressions ? Find other expressions indicating the same general pur- pose. xxii RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED. To arouse interest, to overcome prejudice, to gain favor- able consideration for his project, appears therefore to have been the author's serious purpose, — a purpose that he has endeavored to effect by his respectful attitude towards the high authority of the House, by directing their minds to the gravity of the subject, and by showing that the principle for which he was contending, they had already admitted. It appears, therefore, that the twofold purpose ^ for which the author employs the Introduction is, as has been shown, first, to set forth clearly the purpose for which the Speech was written ", second, to gain for his plan — and for himself in urging it — the goodwill of his auditors, their favorable consideration beforehand. 1 This twofold purpose may be taken as governing the construction and employment of prose Introductions. From the study of the Speech thus far certain inferences may be drawn : — First. When the subject is easily understood, when its meaning is clear from its mere statement, when the minds of the hearers are favor- ably disposed to the speaker's views, the Introduction may be dis- pensed with altogether, or at most made only so long as to prevent inartistic or inelegant bluntness. Second. Where the subject is complex, difficult to understand; where, on account of its importance, it needs a full and careful state- ment ; or where, on the other hand, prejudice and indifference are to be encountered, — the Introduction affords the opportunity of explaining the one and of overcoming the other. In such cases the Introduction is of vital consequence. Third. The Introduction existing simply as an aid to the Develop- ment, it foUows that nothing may properly form part of it but what is essentially connected with the author's purpose in the Development. However interesting in itself, matter that does not in some way bear upon the discussion has no right in the Introduction. Cicero's dictum expresses the true idea : " Nor is the exordium of a speech to be sought from without, or from anything unconnected with the subject, but to be derived from the very essence of the cause." Fourth. The Introduction should not be written until the Develop- ment has been written, or at least definitely planned. This is for the obvious reason that, until the author has determined upon the latter, the question as to how his subject shall be most successfully introduced eannot be intelligently settled. RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED, xxiii IV. When the author (par. 13) states that he means to give peace, and affirms that, in order thereto, Parliament should originate a policy of conciliation and concession, he states what is known in Rhetoric as the Theme. The Theme is the definite statement of the purpose for which the work is written. In the present case, and generally in arguments, the Theme is a proposition, a statement to be proved. It is a clear-cut, definite statement ; it may be expressed in a single sentence. Thus it serves as a limit to the subject and to the speaker. Everything admitted to the Development must in some way bear upon the truth of the one definite Theme which the author has proposed. How well the au- thor keeps to this requirement will be seen as the thought is studied. V. There is a great difference between the Theme and the Subject. The Subject is general, under which a number of specific Themes may be suggested. A Theme is fixed upon only when the general subject is limited to a par- ticular line of discussion, thus ; under the general subject, "American Affairs,*' Burke might have proposed several themes, for instance : " The Americans should be allowed to govern themselves;" "Parliament's misgovernment is directly responsible for the condition of affairs in the colo- nies ; " " The Americans should be restrained by force of arms;" "The restrictive measures should be made more severe ; " " Parliament should originate proposals of conces- sion to the colonies." In each of these cases the general topic, American Affairs, is limited to a particular line of dis- cusssion, and hence each becomes a Theme.^ EXERCISE. State other Themes under the general topic, Americatt AiEairs. xxiv RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED, THE DEVELOPMENT. VI. The Introduction has prepared the way for the most im«' portant part of the Speech, — the Development. The latter, in fact, is not so much a part of the Speech as that it is the Speech. It sets forth the Development of the author's pur- pose, and his purpose is to convince the House of the truth of his Theme, viz., that Parliament, abandoning its policy of coercion, should make proposals of concession and con- ciliation to the colonies. This is the single Theme that the author sets before his hearers. Thus limited, he will natu- rally keep from the Development everything that does not bear upon the Theme under discussion ; and, by a natural inference, will endeavor to exhibit his Theme completely and fully. The study of the author's thought will show ^w successfully he meets both requirements.^ vn. After the third argument, " the Temper and Character of ihe people," the fourth might naturally be expected. But ^t is not immediately given. The reason is, that the author (in pars. 47-64) has changed the form of his reasoning. The arguments given thus far are known in rhetoric as Deductive, i. e., arguments in which the general truth or ^ The editor's purpose is not to discuss the Development from the standpoint of a technical argument. Throughout the Speech evi- dences of the technique of the trained reasoner and pleader are found, but they are of such special application that they might prove to the preparatory student unprofitable in themselves, and serve only to divert the mind from lessons that are plainer and of wider scope. It b rather the purpose, by directing attention to the thought, to show that the Development has been constructed upon a skilfully laid plan, — a plan that will appear clear and direct as the Theme was definite and single. The more closely Burke's work is analyzed, the more clearly will appear his esdmate of singleness of purpose and definite- tess of method. RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED, xxv principle is stated first, while particulars and details come afterwards. In pars. 47-64, however, the author, changing the form of his argument, gives the details first, and from these draws a conclusion ; and the conclusion is the fourth main argu- ment. This mode of reasoning is cabled Inductive. The author leads his hearers from point to point towards a conclusion that he has had in mind from the beginningo The skill and art he shows in changing the form of his argument at this point will be discussed in Note XII. VIII. • The last point in the author's argument was, that com- pliance was a necessity. He has thus proved that Parlia- ment ought to concede, first, because of the Population ; second, because of their Industries ; tliird, because of the Temper and Character of the people ; fourth, because com- pliance is a necessity, — Parliament has no other course left : it is driven to concession and conciliation by the necessity of the case. This finishes the first leading division of the author's argument, given in par. 14. The author then pro- ceeds to answer B, What Parliament's Concession ought to be. IX. It will be observed that thus far the author has not stated the actual concession that he has in mind, but simply tha Nature of the Concession. Citing the examples of Ireland. Wales, Durham, and Chester, he shows the authority of the crown to have been acknowledged and respected just in pro- portion to their enjoyment of the benefits of the English Con- stitution. As shown, therefore, by the appeal to the British Constitution, the Nature of the Concession demanded for the colonies is an extension of their rights and privileges as English subjects. " Why not apply these principles to America," asks the author, " especially as America is in< finitely greater ? " (Par. ^^.) 2cxvi RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED, X. This is really the end of the author's direct argument. He has answered the second of the leading questions into which he divided the Development, and is now ready for the third part of the Speech, — the Conclusion. This extends from par. 113 to the end of the Speech. " The question now is," says the author, " whether you will abide by experience or by a mischievous theory." THE CONCLUSION. XI. An examination of the Conclusion, particularly pars. 113- 122, shows that, — First, it bears strict relation to what has formed the sub- ject of discourse. It comes in consequence of the ideas worked out in the Development ; it comes as a direct in- ference from the truths of the Development. If the Develop- ment be true, then the Conclusion must follow. This arrange- ment is part of the author's plan : the thought is so arranged as to lead the hearer to the Conclusion which the author has had in mind from the beginning. Thus Burke argues that, inasmuch as Conciliation has been proved to be the proper course of action, every law that has been passed to uphold a contrary system should be repealed. Accept the truth of the argument and you must accept the reasonableness of the Conclusion. Burke's Conclusion, therefore, as far as pars, 113—122, comes as a necessary consequence of what he has shown in the Development. From an artistic point of view, this is the end of the Speech : Burke himself says, " Here I should close." But, second, an argument addressed simply to the under- standing, particularly if, as in the present case, the hearers be prejudiced and obstinate, may sometimes fail to effect the desired object. Hence the speaker labors to overcome objeo tions. Moreover, orators and pleaders have recognized the RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED, xxvii occasional necessity of an appeal to the feelings and emotions. Burke employs this method of appeal in the Peroration, par. 142 to the end. Here he dwells with earnestness upon the love of the people, upon their attachment to the Englisl Constitution, as the sure basis of all service to the empire. The purpose of the appeal is to stimulate the hearers to take the action desired. Burke's knowledge of his hearers per- haps led him to this final effort.^ THE author's plan. XII. The Plan upon which the Speech is constructed presents features that require careful study. It is desirable, for this study, that the student have before him the outline which he has been directed to construct throughout the reading. First. It is evident that the Development proceeds ac- cording to a clearly defined Plan. Evidences of this orderly arrangement of thought occur throughout the course of the Speech. It is simple in its parts and definite in its methods. Second. We shall consider more in detail the Plan of the Development, — the essential part of the Speech. The Development has kept to the one Theme proposed in the Introduction, viz., that Parliament should make proposals of concession. As was suggested in the Introduction and Development, the author, having limited himself to a Definite Theme, has kept from the discussion everything irrelevant. Looking over the outline or plan of the thought, it will be ^ The Conclusion does not exist for itself independent of the De- velopment. Its purpose is simply in line with the Development : whatever is effective in this line is in place ; whatever is not thus in line has no place in the Conclusion. The same general considerations that govern the construction and use of the Introduction govern the Conclusion, — it must be long enough to effect its legitimate purpose ; t. e., to enable the pleader to set forth any consequences that may flow from the truths which he has urged In the Development. sxYiii RHET0RIC4L PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED. seen that nothing there presented may be omitted without; impairing the argument. Every division smd subdivision of the argument has its part in effecting the one purpose of the author. Besides, the study of the thought will show how complete and conclusive the argument is. The Develop ment, therefore, has Unity and Completeness. Third. The Arriangement of thought is made with the studied purpose of gaining the best effect. Evidences oi this purpose are found in tlie fact that attention is centred upon one thought at a time. The author does not distract the mind by any confusion or overlapping of the arguments : the lines between the arguments are distinctly marked ; and yet, while this is true, the different arguments are made to fit each other so nicely that they make a cliain of reasoning. Thus, out of No. I., Population, there naturally grow the next two ; while from the Temper and Character of the people there naturally grows No. IV. The hearer is thus made to follow the speaker in a series of logical, natural steps. Again, evidence of the author's studied arrangement of thought is found in his continued effort after Climax, Climax consists in arranging thought in the order of strength, with a view to increasing the force of the presentation. Numerous evidences of this occur. It is found in the In- troduction, where, in his effort to gain favorable considera- tion for his Plan, the author finally shows that what he is contending for the House has already admitted. It is found again in his leading divisions of the Development : the ques« tion as to whether Parliament ought to concede is naturally preparatory to what Parliament ought to concede. It is found in the arrangement of arguments under A. Observe the increasing strength of the arguments : first, the Popula- tion — 2,500,000. This number, great as it is, might not have appealed to the prejudiced Englishman : the question of their commercial interest might, however. Hence the author places their Industries as an argument of additional ftrength. This in turn is followed by the Temper and Cha» RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED, xxix acter of the people : they are not men of slavish spirit,— there prevails among them a fierce and intractable spirit of liberty. The Climax is evident when in pars. 45 and 47 the author asks, What shall we do with this spirit ? There are only three things they can attempt, — to change the spirit, to prosecute it as criminal, to comply with it as a necessary evil. But they can't change it, — unalterable conditions are against the change : they can't prosecute it as criminal, be- cause they can't bring a prosecution against a whole nation. Consequently there is only one thing left, and that is to comply with the spirit, to submit to it as to a necessary evil. It was doubtless with the purpose of making this Climax still more forcible that the author (pars. 47-64) changed the form of his argument from the Deductive to the Inductive, because the latter proceeds from particulars to an inference ; and the inference finally given, which the hearers themselves have been led to draw, forms an argument the most forcible of all. The last argument would have lost much of its force if it had been arranged as the others were. Finally, the studied effort of the author after the best effect in the arrangement of thought is shown in the em- ployment of the principle of Suspense. Everything in the early part of the Speech points towards a concession which Burke is going to propose, but it is not until the final para- graphs of the Development that the actual concession is set forth. Had the author stated the actual concession in the beginning, interest in it, as may easily be seen, would have gradually waned, and, by the time the Speech were finished, the proposed concession might, perhaps, have been forgotten. According to the arrangement of the author, the mind is kept looking on and on towards a concession to be proposed, but only after the mind has been stimulated by arguments in favor of concession is the concession actually given. This arrangement of thought is the Principle of Suspense. It seems clear from these particulars that the Plan shows a studied effort after the best attainable effect. XXX RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED. Fourth. The author writes under strong feeling. He appears to be thoroughly in earnest, to he completely under the sway of the idea which he is urging. One has only to read to be impressed with this characteristic of the Speech. Take it at almost any point, and the deep onward §weep of its thought carries our sympathies with it. Paragraphs (taken at random) that show this depth of feeling are the following: 25, 30, 38, 40, 45, 79, 88, 142. The features that have been touched upon as characterise tic of this Speech are among those from which language acquires in great degree " clearness, precision, fitness, and effectiveness." ^ 1 There are two steps in composition-writing which, to untrained minds, are especially irksome and difficult, — the selection of a definite, narrowly limited Theme, and the construction of a Plan ; and yet, of all its processes, Composition gains most from the selection of the one and the construction of the other. In this Speech the student has followed the plan of a Master in the Art of Composition, has observed the defi- niteness of his Theme, the skill shown in the plan. To the common testimony of literary men regarding the importance of earnest, pains- taking arrangement of thought, it may be added that the study of every ■work of serious purpose shows it to proceed according to a plan carefully constructed. Even to trained minds, thought does not always occur in logical sequence and proportion. For the best arrangement, labor even to these is essential. It is of still greater importance to those who are beginners in the Art. To construct a plan with a logical, effective arrangement of parts, means labor, but it is labor that must be borne. It is when the thought lies before us in an outline or plan that we can, as it were, see it in its force or weakness ; see it in its various relations ; see it to be proper or improper in arrangement and proportion. We can, in a word, criticise it, and put to ourselves the question whether our thought and our method are the best suited to effect our purpose. For the beginner in composition the plan is a necessity. The observations made upon the plan of Burke's Speech have a general application, to the student's work and composition. 1. The Development should keep to a single definite Theme. 2. The Development should proceed according to a definite plan. 3. The Thought should be arranged with a view to the best effect, 4. The student should write with earnestness. 5. In making the outline the mind should be occupied with the masses and arrangement of thought. BHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED, xxxi THE PARAGRAPH STRUCTURE OF THE SPEECH. XIII. Clearness and Force are aided by the Structure of the author's Paragraphs. A Paragraph is a chain of sentences leading to the development of the single thought that forms its topic. An unsystematic, haphazard collection of sen- tences, without unity of purpose, does not therefore conform to the definition. Since its purpose is to develop a single idea or theme, the place and number of Paragraphs will be determined in part by the divisions under which the thought is logically grouped. Each important thought will have its Paragraph; each Paragraph its thought. Constructed according to this plan, they add to the effectiveness of the work by indicating precisely the thought under discussion. The theme will be more or less clear according to the nature of the composition. In Narrative and Descriptive writing, it is frequently difficult to express the Paragraph theme in words ; but ift works of a formal kind, such as the Speech on Conciliation, the difficulty does not exist. In the Construction of the Paragraph three general quali- ties are essential, — Unity, Proportion, and Sequence. Unity requires that everything admitted to the Paragraph be directed to one end, — the development of the single idea that forms the Paragraph subject. In fact this requirement is simply an extension of the idea of Unity that governs the construction of the discourse as a whole. As to the Unity of the Paragraph, while authors of Burke's day were not so particular as those of recent times, yet the study of the Speech will show with what earnestness the author has ad- hered to its essential requirements. Proportion requires that, the thought best suited for de- veloping the idea having been determined upon, a proper relation be maintained between the principal and subordinate parts, — that what is important be given importance, both Id xxxii RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES ILLUSTRATED, the position it occupies in the Paragraph and in the space it occupies ; and that what is of subordinate importance be correspondingly subordinated. Sequence requires that the thoughts of the Paragraph fol- low each other in natural logical order. This order should be towards a climax in interest and importance. This quality of Burke's plan of work has been pointed out : it appears in the Speech as a whole and in its several parts. EXERCISE. Test these requirements in paragraphs taken at random. Do the same with pars. 30-40. Show the sequence of thought in par. 66 by making a Shain of short sentences expressing the successive ideas. EDMUND BURKE'S SPEECH ON MOVING HIS RESOLUTIONS FOR CONCILIATION" WITH THE AMERICAN COLONIES. HOUSE OF COM-' MONS, MARCH 22, 1775. HISTORICAL NOTE. Incensed at the violent proceedings in the colonies, and partio> ularly at those in the city of Boston, Parliament proceeded to retaliate. First, they passed the Boston Port Bill, forbidding all vessels to leave or enter Boston harbor. The hope was, of course, to punish Boston by crippling its trade. As is well known, other cities in the vicinity offered the use of their ports to the Boston merchants. But this — much as it showed sympathy for Boston — could not save the latter from serious inconvenience and loss. The act failed, however, to effect all that Parliament had designed. The second act in retaliation was the Massachu- setts Bill, which took the government of the colony from the hands of the people and gave it into the power of the King or his agents ; third, the Transportation Bill, which directed that Americans committing murder in resisting law should be sent for trial to England. The effect of all these laws was to lead to a still closer union than ever among the colonies in their pur- pose of resisting English encroachment. The outgrowth of this purpose was the first Continental or General Congress, which met in Philadelphia, September, 1774. They at once agreed upon a Declaration of Rights, commended the people of Massa- chusetts for their brave resistance, demanded the repeal of va- rious Acts which they regarded as infringements of their rights, and issued a call for another Congress to meet in the May fol- lowing. The union of the American Colonies in the sentiment and purpose of resisting the invasion of their rights was now general. By this time the English statesman had begun to real- ize that this united resistance was a source of great danger. Chatham, a warm friend of the colonies, more than once, in violent a -V ' :- ^:$i)Ml^ND BURKE, denunciation of the Acts of Parliament, praised the colonies for their boldness ; and, declaring that effectual opposition to America was under the circumstances impossible, urged that the obnoxious laws be repealed. Throughout the discussions, Burke, who had entered Parliament about the time of the repeal of the Stamp Act, had been on the side of liberal and fair treatment of the colonies. In the midst of the stormy debates that occurred. Lord North, who had been offensively active in urging the King's and Parlia- ment's policy of coercion, brought into the House what he called a plan for conciliating the differences with the colonies. It pro- vided, in brief, that when any of the colonies should propose to make provision, according to its " condition, circumstances, and situation," for contributing to the common defense and for the support of the civil government. Parliament would refrain from laying any taxes upon such a colony, except such as were neces- sary for the regulation of commerce. Burke charged that the Ministry knew this to be a mere trick for the purpose of disuniting the colonies. Since Parliament was to be the judge of what was the proper proportion for each colony to pay, according to its " condition, circumstances, and situ- ation," he represented that the scheme would prove a sort of auc- tion in which Parliament would give the exemption from taxes to the colonies bidding highest for the privilege. Moreover, he urged that the plan was likely to produce greater disorders tJian before, because, under the conditions of the plan, neither the amount of the tax nor the purpose to which it was to be applied was in the hands of the colony. Nevertheless, the word Conciliation had been used, and shortly after, March 22, 1775, Burke brought in his scheme of concilia- tion, which in his judgment would be effective in removing the ground of difference between Parliament and the colonies. This scheme is set forth in the Speech on Conciliation. Meantime stirring events were occurring in the colonies : the Provincial Congress, which now governed Massa(>husetts, had ordered the enrollment of 20,000 minute-men ; provisions, arms, and ammunition were being purchased and collected : General Gage, alarmed at the threatening aspect of affairs, had begun to erect fortifications for his defence ; and within a month of the time when Burke delivered his Speech on Conciliation, Lexington was fought. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES, 3 EDMUND BURKE'S SPEECH. I HOPE, Sir, that notwithstanding the austerity ^ of the Chair, your ffood nature will incline you to some r. . 1 1 / M AT TheIntbo- degree of indulgence towards human frailty. 1 ou duction will not think it unnatural that those who have an object depending, which strongly engages their hopes and fears, should be somewhat inclined to superstition. As I came into the House full of anxiety about the event ^ of my motion, I found, to my infinite surprise, that the grand penal bill,^ by which we had passed sentence on the trade and sustenance of America, is to be returned to us * from the other House. I do confess I could not help looking on this event as a fortunate omen. I look upon it as a sort of providential favor, by which we are put once more in pos- session of our deliberative capacity upon a business so very questionable in its nature, so very uncertain in its issue. By the return of this bill, which seemed to have taken its flight forever, we are at this very instant nearly j Renewed as free to choose a plan for our American Gov- ^J^^o^^De- ernment as we were on the first day of the session, liberation. 1 austerity, i. c, your dignity as Chairman of the House. 2 event = outcome or result. 8 grand penal bill, i. e., " an Act to restrain the trade and commerce of the Provinces of Massachusetts Bay and New Hampshire and the colonies of Connecticut and Rhode Island and Providence Plantation in North America, to Great Britain, Ireland, and the British Islands in the West Indies; and to prohibit such Provinces and colonies from carrying on any fish- ery on the Banks of New Foundland and other places therein mentioned under certain conditions and Hmitations." The latter purt of this bill was especially hateful to the colonies, in view ot what Burke says about the importance of the fisheries. * is to be returned to us, i. e., the bill had, according to English parliamentary procedure, been sent to the House of Lords for consideration ; but failing of approval, it had been returned with an amendment to the House in which it had originated. 4 EDMUND BURKE. If, Sir, we incline to the side of conciliation, we are not at all embarrassed (unless we please to make ourselves so) by any incongruous mixture of coercion and restraint. We are therefore called upon, as it were by a superior warning We are voice, again to attend to America; to attend to to^attendto *^® whole of it together ; and to review the sub- America, ject with an unusual degree of care and calmness. 2. Surely it is an awful subject, or there is none so on this side of the ffrave. When I first had the n. The . * . "Awful- honor of a seat in this House, the affairs of that ness"of . Ill the Sub- contment pressed themselves upon us as the most important and most delicate ^ object of Parlia- mentary attention. My little share in this great delibera- tion oppressed me. I found myself a partaker in a very high trust ; and, having no sort of reason to rely on the strength of my natural abilities for the proper execution of that trust, I was obliged to take more than common pains to instruct myself in everything which relates to our colo- nies. I was not less under the necessity of forming some fixed ideas concerning the general policy of the British Empire. Something of this sort seemed to be indispensa- ble, in order, amidst so vast a fluctuation of passions and opinions, to concentre my thoughts, to ballast my conduct, to preserve me from being blown about by every wind ^ of fashionable doctrine. I really did not think it safe or manly to have fresh principles to seek upon every fresh mail which should arrive from America. 3. At that period ^ I had the fortune to find myself in My Senti- perfect concurrence with a large majority in this Serfund? House. Bowing under that high authority, and viating. penetrated with the sharpness and strength of that early impression, I have continued ever since, without ^ delicate, i. c, requiring care in its treatment. ^ by every wind. See Ephesians iv. 14. « At that period; referring to the repeal of the Stamp Ad early in 1766. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 5 the least deviation, in my original sentiments. Whether this be owing to an obstinate perseverance in error, or to a religious adherence to what appears to me truth and reason, it is in your equity to judge. 4. Sir, Parliament, having an enlarged view of objects, made during this interval more frequent changes Parliament in their sentiments and their conduct than could ^re^ent be justified in a particular jDerson upon the con- Changes. tracted scale of private informrtion. But though I do not hazard anything approaching to a censure on the motives of former Parliaments to all those alterations, one fact is undoubted — that under them the state of America has been kept in continual agitation. Everything administered as remedy to the public complaint, if it did not produce, was at least followed by, an heightening of the distemper ; until, by a variety of experiments, that important country has been brought into her present situation ^ — a situation which I will not miscall, which I dare not name, which I scarcely know how to comprehend in the terms of any description. 5. In this posture, Sir, things stood at the beginning of the session. About that time, a worthy member ^ of great Parliamentary experience, who, in the year 1766, filled the chair of the American committee with much ability, took me aside ; and, lamenting the present aspect of our politics, told me things were come to such a pass that our former methods of proceeding in the House would be no longer tolerated : that the public tribunal (never too indulgent to a long and unsuccessful opposition) would now scrutinize our conduct with unusual severity : that the very vicissi- 1 her present situation. At the very time Burke was speaking, the people of the colonies were preparing for war in earnest, collecting powder, weapons, and provisions, recruiting and arming the *' minute-men." General Gage, alarmed at the threatening aspect of affairs, had begun to erect fortifications; Lexington was fought within a month. " -wrorthy member; Mr. Rose Fuller. 6 EDMUND BURKE. tudes and shiftlngs of Ministerial measures, instead of convicting their authors of inconstancy and want of system, would be taken as an occasion of charging us with a prede- termined discontent, which nothing could satisfy ; whilst we accused every measure of vigor as cruel, and every proposal of lenity as weak and irresolute. The public, he said, would not have patience to see us play the game out with our adversaries ; we must produce our hand. It would III. The ^® expected that those who for many years had forTrfxed ^®®^ active in such affairs should show that they Policy. had formed some clear and decided idea of the principles of colony government ; and were capable of drawing out something like a platform ^ of the ground which might be laid for future and permanent tranquillity. 6. I felt the truth of what my honorable friend repre- sented ; but I felt my situation too. His application might have been made with far greater propriety to many other gentlemen. No man was indeed ever better disposed, or worse qualified, for such an undertaking than myself. Though I gave so far in to his opinion that I immediately threw my thoughts into a sort of Parliamentary form, I was by no means equally ready to produce them. It gen- erally argues some degree of natural impotence of mind, or some want of knowledge of the world, to hazard plans of government except from a seat of authority. Propositions £vre made, not only ineffectually, but somewhat disreputa- bly,*^ when the minds of men are not properly disposed for their reception ; and, for my part, I am not ambitious of ridicule ; not absolutely a candidate for disgrace. 7. Besides, Sir, to speak the plain truth, I have in gen- eral no very exalted opinion of the virtue of paper govern- ment ; nor of any politics in which the plan is to be wholly separated from the execution. But when I saw that anger * platform =r plan. 2 disreputably, i. e., the maker of the proposition falls into disrepute or discredit. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 7 and violence prevailed every day more and more, and that things were hastening towards an incurable alienation of our colonies, I confess my caution gave way. I felt this as one of those few moments in which decorum yields to a higher duty. Public calamity is a mighty leveller ; and there are occasions when any, even the slightest, chance of doing good must be laid hold on, even by the most incon- siderable person. 8. To restore order and repose to an empire so great and so distracted as ours, is, merely in the attempt, an undertaking that would ennoble the flights of the highest genius, and obtain pardon for the efforts of the mean- est understanding. Struggling a good while with these thoughts, by degrees I felt myself more firm. I derived, at length, some confidence from what in other circum- stances usually produces timidity. I grew less anxious, even from the idea of my own insignificance. For, judging of what you are by what you ought to be, I persuaded myself that you would not reject a reasonable proposition because it had nothing but its reason to recommend it. On the other hand, being totally destitute of all shadow of influence, natural or adventitious, I was very sure that, if my proposition were futile or dangerous — if it were weakly conceived, or improperly timed — there was nothing exterior to it of power to awe, dazzle, or delude you. You will see it just as it is ; and you will treat it just as it deserves. 9. The proposition is peace. Not peace through the medium of war ; not peace to be hunted through jy -^ the labyrinth of intricate and endless negotia- fj^^PJ^' tions ; not peace to arise out of universal discord Peace, fomented, from principle, in all parts of the empire; not peace to depend on the juridical determination of perplex- ing questions, or the precise marking the shadowy bounda- ries of a complex government. It is simple peace ; sought in its natural course, and in its ordinary haunts. It is 8 EDMUND BURKE. peace sought in the spirit of peace, and laid in principles purely pacific. I propose, by removing the ground of the difference, and by restoring the former unsuspecting con' fidence'^ of the colonies in the Mother Country^ to give permanent satisfaction to your people ; and (far from a scheme of ruling by discord) to reconcile them to each other in the same act and by the bond of the very same interest which reconciles them to British government. 10. My idea is nothing more. Refined policy ever has been the parent of confusion ; and ever will be so, as long as the world endures. Plain good intention, which is as easily discovered at the first view as fraud is surely detected at last, is, let me say, of no mean force in the government of mankind. Genuine simplicity of heart is an healing and cementing principle. My plan, therefore, being formed upon the most simple grounds imaginable, may disappoint some people when they hear it. It has nothing to recommend it to the pruriency of curious ears. There is nothing at all new and captivating in it. It has nothing of the splendor of the project ^ which has been lately laid upon your table by the noble lord in the blue ribbon.^ It does not propose to fill your lobby with squab- bling colony agents,* who will require the interposition of your mace, at every instant, to keep the peace amongst them. It does not institute a magnificent auction of ^ unsuspecting confidence. This expression was used by the Congress at Philadelphia to express the state of feeling in the colonies after the repeal of the Stamp Act. 2 the project. See Historical Note — referring to Lord North's project. 8 lord in the blue ribbon ; referring to Lord North — a Knight of the Garter. The badge of the order was a blue ribbon. * colony agents. Since the colonies had no direct repre- sentatives in Parliament they engaged some particular member to look after their interests. Burke was such an agent for a short time for New York. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 9 finance, where captivated provinces come to general ransom by bidding against each other, until you knock down the hammer, and determine a proportion of payments beyond all the powers of algebra to equalize and settle. 11. The plan which I shall presume to suggest derives, however, one great advantage from the proposition and registry of that noble lord's project. The idea of y pariia- coaciliation is admissible. First, the House, in ment has ' already accepting: the resolution moved by the noble lord,^ granted that , . , . , T 1 • Conciliation has admitted, notwithstandmg the menacing isAdmis- front of our address,^ notwithstanding our heavy bills of pains and penalties — that we do not think our- selves precluded from all ideas of free grace and bounty. 12. The House has gone farther; it has declared con- ciliation admissible, previous to any submission on the part of America. It has even shot a good deal beyond that mark, and has admitted that the complaints of our former mode of exerting the right of taxation were not wholly unfounded. That right thus exerted is allowed to have something reprehensible in it, something unwise, or some- thing grievous ; since, in the midst of our heat and resent- ment, we, of ourselves, have proposed a capital alteration ; and in order to get rid of what seemed so very exception- able, have instituted a mode that is altogether new; one that is, indeed, wholly alien from all the ancient methods and forms of Parliament. 13. The principle of this proceeding is large enough for 1 resolution moved by the noble lord ; referring to Lord North's scheme of conciliation. 2 menacing front of our address. Lord North had moved that an address be presented to his Majesty, thanking him for submitting papers relating to disturbances in America; declar- ing that Massachusetts Bay was in a state of rebellion; beseech- ing his Majesty to take effectual measures to enforce obedience; and finally assuring him of their fixed determination to stand by his Majesty at the risk of their lives and property against all rebellious attempts. 10 EDMUND BURKE. my purpose. The means proposed by the noble lord for carrying his ideas into execution, I think, indeed, are very indifferently suited to th^ end ; and this I shall endeavor to show ^ you before I sit down. But, for the present, I take my ground on the admitted principle. I mean to give peace. Peace implies reconciliation ; and where there has been a material dispute, reconciliation does in a manner always imply concession on the one part or on the other. In this state of things I make no difficulty in affirming that the proposal ought to originate from us. Great and acknowledged force is not impaired, either in effect or in opinion, by an unwillingness to exert itself. The superior power may offer peace with honor and with safety. Such an offer from such a power will be attributed to magnanim- ity. But the concessions of the weak are the concessions oi fear. When such an one is disarmed, he is wholly at the fcuercy of his superior ; and he loses forever that time and those chances, which, as they happen* to all men, are the strength and resources of all inferior power. 14. The capital leading questions on which you must TheDevel- *^is ^^y decide, are these two : First, whether tn^^iio y^^ ought to concede ; and secondly, what your Whether concession ouffht to be. On the first of these you ought , » . i t i • . -i to concede? questions we have gained, as i have just taken What your , ,., CI* 1 concession the liberty 01 observing to you, some ground. oug e. -g^^ J ^^ sensible that a good deal more is still to be done. Indeed, Sir, to enable us to determine both on the one and the other of these great questions with a firm and precise judgment, I think it may be necessary to consider distinctly the true nature and the peculiar circum- stances of the object which we have before us ; because after all our struggle, whether we will or not, we must govern America according to that nature and to those cir- cumstances, and not according to our own imaginations, HOP according to abstract ideas of right — by no means 1 I shall endeavor to show. See page 69. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 11 according to mere general theories of government, the resort to which appears to me, in our present situation, no better than arrant trifling. I shall therefore endeavor, with your leave, to lay before you some of the most mate- rial of these circumstances in as full and as clear a manner as I am able to state them. 15. The first thing we have to consider with regard to the nature of the object is the number of people ^ ^^^ in the colonies. I have taken for some years a ther you •^ OUGHT TO good deal of pains on that point. I can by no co^edb? calculation justify myself in placing the number popula- below two millions of inhabitants of our own Euro- pean blood and color, besides at least five hundred thousand others, who form no inconsiderable part of the strength and opulence of the whole. This, Sir, is, I believe, about the true number. There is no occasion to exaggerate where plain truth is of so much weight and importance. But whether I put the present numbers too high or too low is a matter of little moment. Such is the strength with which population shoots in that part of the world, that, state the numbers as high as we will, whilst the dispute continues, the exaggeration ends. Whilst we are discuss- ing any given magnitude, they are grown to it. Whilst we spend our time in deliberating on the mode of governing two millions, we shall find we have millions more to man-i age. Your children do not grow faster from infancy to manhood than they spread from families to communities, and from villages to nations. 16. I put this consideration of the present and the grow ing numbers in the front of our deliberation, because. Sir, this consideration will make it evident to a blunter dis- cernment than yours, that no partial,^ narrow, contracted, pinched, occasional system will be at all suitable to such ^ partial system. Observe how the author characterizes Parliament's system. H^e desired to give permanent tranquil- lity. 12 EDMUND BURKE. an object. It will show you that it is not to be considered as one of those minima'^ which are out of the eye and consideration of the law ; not a paltry excrescence of the state ; not a mean dependant, who may be neglected with little damage and provoked with little danger. It will prove that some degree of care and caution is required in the handling such an object ; it will show that you ought not, in reason, to trifle with so large a mass of the interests and feelings of the human race. You could at no time do so without guilt ; and be assured you will not be able to do it long with impunity. 17. But the population of this country, the great and n. The In- growing population, though a very important i^(?oM-^' consideration, will lose much of its weight if MERGE. not combined with other circumstances. The commerce of your colonies is out of all proportion beyond the numbers of the people. This ground of their com- merce indeed has been trod ^ some days ago, and with great ability, by a distinguished person at your bar. This gentle- man,^ after thirty-five years — it is so long since he first appeared at the same place to plead for the commerce of Great Britain — has come again before you to plead the same cause, without any other effect of time, than that to the fire of imagination and extent of erudition which even then marked him as one of the first literary characters of his age, he has added a consummate knowledge in the com- mercial interest of his country, formed by a long course of enlightened and discriminating experience. 18. Sir, I should be inexcusable in coming after such a person with any detail, if a great part of the members who 1 minima := things of trifling consequence. 2 ground has . . . been trod = the matter has been treated or presented. ^ this gentlema?!; Mr. Glover — author of the two epics Leonidas and the Atheniad, and the tragedies Boadicea and Medea. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 13 now fill the House had not the misfortune to be absent when he appeared at your bar. Besides, Sir, I propose to take the matter at periods of time somewhat different from his. There is, if I mistake not, a point of view from whence, if you will look at tlie subject, it is impossible that it should not make an impression upon you. 19. I have in my hand two accounts ; one a comparative state ^ of the export trade of England to its colonies, as it stood in the year 1 704, and as it stood in the year 1772 ; the other a state of the export trade of this country to its colonies alone, as it stood in 1772, compared with the whole trade of England to all parts of the world (the colonies included) in the year 1704. They are from good vouchers ; the latter period from the accounts on your table, the ear- lier from an original manuscript of Davenant, who first established the Inspector-General's office, which has been ever since his time so abundant a source of Parliamentary information. 20. The export trade to the colonies consists of three great branches : the African — which, terminating almost wholly in the colonies, must be put to the account of their commerce, — the West Indian, and the North American. All these are so interwoven that the attempt to separate them would tear to pieces the contexture of the whole ; and, if not entirely* destroy, would very much depreciate the value of all the parts. I therefore consider these three denominations to be, what in effect they are, one trade. 21. The trade to the colonies, taken on the export side, at the beginning of this century, that is, in the year 1704, stood thus : — Exports to North America and the West Indies £483,265 To Africa 86,665 £569,930 ^ comparative state = statement. 14 EDMUND BURKE. 22. In the year 1772, which I take as a middle year between the highest and lowest of those lately laid on your table, the account was as follows : — To North America and the West Indies . . £4,791,734: To Africa 866,398 To which, if you add the export trade from Scotland, which had in 1704 no existence . 364,000 £6,022,132 23. From five hundred and odd thousand, it has grown to six millions. It has increased no less than twelve-fold. This is the state of the colony trade as compared with itself at these two periods within this century ; — and thif is matter for meditation. But this is not all. Examine my second account. See how the export trade to the colo- nies alone in 1772 stood in the other point of view ; that is, as compared to the whole trade of England in 1704 : — The whole export trade of England, including that to the colonies, in 1704 £6,509,000 Export to the colonies alone, in 1772 . . . 6,024,000 Difference, £485,000 24. The trade with America alone is now within less than £500,000 of being equal to what this great commercial nation, England, carried on at the beginning of this century with the whole world ! If I had taken the largest year o£ those on your table, it would rather have exceeded. But, it will be said, is not this American trade an unnatural protuberance, that has drawn the juices from the rest of the body? The reverse. It is the very food that has nourished every other part into its present magnitude. Our general trade has been greatly augmented, and aug- mented more or less in almost every part to which it ever extended ; but with this material difference, that of the six CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 15 millions which in the beginning of the century constituted the whole mass of our export commerce, the colony trade was but one-twelfth part ; it is now (as a part of sixteen millions) considerably more than a third of the whole. This is the relative proportion of the importance of the colonies at these two periods ; and all reasoning concerning our mode of treating them must have this proportion as its basis ; or it is a reasoning weak, rotten, and sophistical. 25. Mr. Speaker, I cannot prevail on myself to hurry over this great consideration. It is good for us to be here.^ We stand where we have an immense view of what is, and what is past. Clouds, indeed, and darkness, rest upon the future. Let us, however, before we descend from this noble eminence, reflect that this growth of our national prosperity has happened within the short period of the life of man. It has happened within sixty-eight years. There are those alive whose memory might touch the two extrem- ities. For instance, my Lord Bathurst might remember all the stages of the progress. He was in 1704 of an age at least to be made to comprehend such things. He was then old enough acta parentum jam legere, et quce sit poterit cognoscere virtus.'^ Suppose, Sir, that the angel of this auspicious youth, foreseeing the many virtues which made him one of the most amiable, as he is one of the most fortunate, men of his age, had opened to him in vision that when in the fourth generation' the third Prince of the House of Brunswick had sat twelve years on the throne of that nation which, by the happy issue of moderate and healing counsels, was to be made Great Britain,* he should ^ It is good for us to be here. See Mark ix. 5. ^ acta parentum jam legere, etc. = "to read the deeds of his forefathers and to know what manly worth is." From Virgil's Fourth Eclogue, 26, 27. 8 fourth generation ; George III. was the grandson of George II. * made Great Britain ; Scotland was united with England in 1707. 16 EDMUND BURKE. see his son, Lord Chancellor of England, turn back the current of hereditary dignity to its fountain, and raise him to a higher rank ^ of peerage, whilst he enriched the family with a new one — if, amidst these bright and happy scenes of domestic honor and prosperity, that angel should have drawn up the curtain, and unfolded the rising glories of his country, and, whilst he was gazing with admiration on the then commercial grandeur of England, the genius should point out to him a little speck, scarcely visible in the mass of the national interest, a small seminal principle, rather than a formed body, and should tell him : " Young man, there is America — which at this day serves for little more than to amuse you with stories of savage men, and uncouth manners ; yet shall, before you taste of death, show itself equal to the whole of that commerce which now attracts the envy of the world. Whatever England has been grow- ing to by a progressive increase of improvement, brought in by varieties of people, by succession of civilizing conquests and civilizing settlements in a series of seventeen hundred years, you shall see as much added to her by America in the course of a single life ! " If this state of his country had been foretold to him, would it not require all the san- guine credulity of youth, and all the fervid glow of enthu- siasm, to make him believe it? Fortunate man, he has lived to see it ! Fortunate, indeed, if he lives to see no- thing that shall vary the prospect, and cloud the setting of his day ! 26. Excuse me. Sir, if turning from such thoughts I resume this comparative view once more. You have seen it on a large scale ; look at it on a small one. I will point out to your attention a particular instance of it in the single province of Pennsylvania. In the year 1704 that province called for £11,459 in value of your commodities, native and foreign. This was the whole. What did it demand in 1772 ? Why, nearly fifty times as much ; for in that ^ higher rank ; Bathurst was made Earl in 1772. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES, 17 year the export to Pennsylvania was £507,909, nearly equal to the export to all the colonies together in the first period. 27. I choose, Sir, to enter into these minute and partic- ular details, because generalities, which in all other cases are apt to heighten and raise the subject, have here a tendency to sink it. When we speak of the commerce with our colonies, fiction lags after truth,^ invention is unfruitful, and imagination cold and barren. 28. So far. Sir, as to the importance of the object, in view of its commerce, as concerned in the exports from England. If I were to detail the imports, I could show how many enjoyments they procure which deceive ^ the burthen of life ; how many materials which invigorate the .springs of national industry, and extend and animate every part of our foreign and domestic commerce. This would be a curious subject indeed ; but I must prescribe bounds to myself in a matter so vast and various, 29. I pass, therefore, to the colonies in another point of view, their agriculture. This they have prose- 2. aoei- cnted with such a spirit, that besides feeding plen- cultueb. tifully their own growing multitude, their annual export of grain, comprehending rice, has some years ago exceeded a million in value. Of their last harvest I am persuaded they will export much more. At the beginning of the century some of these colonies imported corn ^ from the mother country. For some time past the Old World has been fed from the New. The scarcity which you have felt would have been a desolating famine, if this child of your old age, with a true filial piety, with a Roman charity, had ^ fiction lags after truth — three clauses in which the author amplifies and enforces the idea that imagination cannot suggest anything more wonderful than the real facts of the case. ^ deceive = beguile. • corn = grain. 18 EDMUND BURKE. not put t\ie full breast ^ of its youthful exuberance to the mouth of its exhausted parent. 30. As to the wealth which the colonies have drawn from 8. Fish- ^^® ^^^ ^7 their fisheries, you had all that matter KKIE8. fully opened at your bar. You surely thought those acquisitions of value, for they seemed even to excite your envy ; and yet the spirit by which that enterprising employment has been exercised ought rather, in my opin- ion, to have raised your esteem and admiration. And pray, Sir, what in the world is equal to it ? Pass by the other parts, and look at the manner in which the people of New England have of late carried on the whale fishery. Whilst we follow them among the tumbling mountains ^ of ice, and behold them penetrating into the deepest frozen recesses of Hudson's Bay and Davis's Straits, w^hilst we are looking for them beneath the arctic circle, we hear that they have pierced into the opposite region of polar cold, that they are at the antipodes, and engaged under the frozen Serpent ^ of the south. Falkland Island,^ which seemed too remote and romantic an object for the grasp of national ambition, is but a stage and resting-place in the progress of their victorious industry. Nor is the equinoc- tial heat more discouraging to them than the accumulated winter of both the poles. We know that whilst some of 1 Put the full breast ; an allusion to the story of the Roman, who, condemned to death by starvation, was nourished by his daughter from her own breast. 2 tumbling mountains ; a picturesque epithet of the author referring to a phenomenon seen occasionally by sailors; i. e., icebergs having melted away under water, or being honeycombed by it, become heavier above than below and hence " tumble " over. ^ frozen Serpent of the South ; a constellation of the ant- arctic region. The word "frozen" is Burke's picturesque touch. ^ Falkland Island. 250 miles northeast of Terra del Fuego. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 19 them draw the line and strike the harpoon on the coast of Africa, others run the longitude ^ and pursue their gigantic game along the coast of Brazil. No sea but what is vexed ^ by their fisheries ; no climate that is not witness to their toils. Neither the perseverance of Holland, nor the activity of France, nor the dexterous and firm sagacity of English enterprise ever carried tliis most perilous mode of hardy industry to the extent to which it has been pushed by this recent people ; a people who are still, as it were, but in the gristle, and not yet hardened into the bone of manhood. When I contemplate these things; when I know that the colonies in general owe little or nothing to any care of ours, and that they are not squeezed into this happy form by the constraints of watchful and suspicious government, but that, through a wise and salu- tary neglect, a generous nature has been suffered to take her own way to perfection ; when I reflect upon these effects, when I see how profitable they have been to us, I feel all the pride of power sink, and all presumption in the wisdom of human contrivances melt and die away within me. My rigor relents. I pardon something to the spirit of liberty. 31. I am sensible. Sir, that all which I have asserted ip my detail is admitted in the gross ; but that quite a differ ent conclusion is drawn from it. America, gen- tlemen say, is a noble obiect. It is an obiect tions to THE ICMPLOY^ well worth fighting for. Certainly it is, if fight- ment op ing a people be the best way of gaining them. Gentlemen in this respect will be led to their choice of means by tliieir complexions ^ and their habits. Those who understand the military art will of course have some pre- 1 run the longitude ; an expression the precise meaning of which, as used by Burke, is difficult to determine. It is not current among nautical men of this day. 2 vexed = agitated. ' complexions = temperament 20 EDMUND BURKE. dilection for it. Those who wield the thunder of the state may have more confidence in the efficacy of arms. But I confess, possibly for want of this knowledge, my opinion is much more in favor of prudent management than of force ; considering force not as an odious, but a feeble instrument for preserving a people so numerous, so active, so growing, so spirited as this, in a profitable and subordinate connec-. tion with us. 32. First, Sir, permit me to observe that, the use of force alone is but temjjorary. It may subdue for a moment, but it does not remove the necessity of subduing again ; and a nation is not governed which is perpetually to be conquered. 33. My next objection is its uncertainty. Terror is not always the effect of force, and an armament is not a vic- tory. If you do not succeed, you are without resource; for, conciliation failing, force remains ; but, force failing, no further hope of reconciliation is left. Power and authority are sometimes bought by kindness ; but they can never be begged as alms by an impoverished and defeated violence. 34. A further objection to force is, that you imjiair the object by your very endeavors to preserve it. The thing you fought for is not the thing which you recover; but depreciated, sunk, wasted, and consumed in the contest. Nothing less will content me than whole America. I do not choose to consume its strength along with our own, because in all parts it is the British strength that I con- sume. I do not choose to be caught by a foreign enemy at the end of this exhausting conflict ; and still less in the midst of it. I may escape ; but I can make no insurance against such an event. Let me add, that I do not choose wholly to break the American spirit; because it is the spirit that has made the country. 35. Lastly, we have no sort of experience in favor of force as an instrument in the rule of our colonies. Their CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 21 growth and their utility has been owing to methods alto- gether different. Our ancient indulgence has been said to be pursued to a fault. It may be so. But we know, if feeling is evidence, that our fault was more tolerable than our attempt to mend it ; and our sin far more salutary than our penitence. 36. These, Sir, are my reasons for not entertaining that high opinion of untried force by which many gentlemeuj for whose sentiments in other particulars I have great respect, seem to be so greatly captivated. But there is still behind a third consideration concerning this object which serves to determine my opinion on the sort of jjj rpj^^. policy which ought to be pursued in the manage- J^^^^hak- ment of America, even more than its population acter of . ^ ^ THE PeO- and its commerce — I mean its temper and char- ple. acter. 37. In this character of the Americans, a love of free- dom is the predominating feature which marks and distin- guishes the whole ; and as an ardent is always a jealous affection, your colonies become suspicious, restive, and untractable whenever they see the least attempt to wrest from them by force, or shuffle from them by chicane, what they think the only advantage worth living for. This fierce spirit of liberty is stronger in the English colonies probably than in any other people of the earth, and this from a great variety of powerful causes ; which, to under- stand the true temper of their minds and the direction which this spirit takes, it will not be amiss to lay open somewhat more largely. 38. First, the people of the colonies are descendants of Englishmen. England, Sir, is a nation which Still, I hope, respects, and formerly adored, her ' ^°^" " freedom. The colonists emigrated from you when this part of your character ^ was most predominant ; and they 1 part of your character, i. e., in the times leading up to the establishment of the Commonwealth. 22 EDMUND BURKE. took this bias and direction the moment they parted from your hands. They are therefore not only devoted to lib- erty, but to liberty according to English ideas, and on English principles. Abstract liberty, like other mere ab- stractions, is not to be found. Liberty inheres in some sensible object ; ^ and every nation has formed to itself some favorite point, which by way of eminence becomes the criterion of their happiness. It happened, you know. Sir, that the great contests for freedom in this country were from the earliest times chiefly upon the question of taxing. Most of the contests in the ancient commonwealths turned primarily on the right of election of magistrates ; or on the balance among the several orders of the state. The ques- tion of money was not with them so immediate. But in England it was otherwise. On this point of taxes the ablest pens, and most eloquent tongues, have been exer- cised; the greatest spirits have acted and suffered. In order to give the fullest satisfaction concerning the impor- tance of this point, it was not only necessary for those who in argument defended the excellence of the English Con- stitution to insist on this privilege of granting money as a dry point of fact, and to prove that the right had been acknowledged in ancient parchments and blind usages to reside in a certain body called a House of Commons. They went much farther ; they attempted to prove, and they succeeded, that in theory it ought to be so, from the particular nature of a House of Commons as an immediate representative of the people, whether the old records had delivered this oracle or not. They took infinite pains to inculcate, as a fundamental principle, that in all monarchies the people must in effect themselves, mediately or immedi- ately, possess the power of granting their own money, or no shadow of libertv can subsist. The colonies draw from you, as with their life-blood, these ideas and principles, ^sensible objects: an external object, — an object that may be perceived by the senses. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 23 Their love of liberty, as with you, fixed and attached on this specific point of taxing. Liberty might be safe, or might be endangered, in twenty other particulars, without their being much pleased or alarmed. Here they felt its pulse I and as they found that beat, they thought them- selves sick or sound. I do not say whether they were right or wrong in applying your general arguments to their own case. It is not easy, indeed, to make a monopoly of the^ orems and corollaries. The fact is, that they did thus apply those general arguments ; and your mode of govern- ing them, whether through lenity or indolence, through wisdom or mistake, confirmed them in the imagination that they, as well as you, had an interest in these common principles. 39. They were further confirmed in this pleasing error by the form of their provincial legislative assem- 11. rr., . 11- 2. Form of blies. iheir governments are popular* in a Govem- high degree ; some are merely popular ; in all, the popular representative is the most weighty ; and this share of the people in their ordinary government never fails to inspire them with lofty sentiments, and with a strong aversion from ^ whatever tends to deprive them of their chief importance. 40. If anything were wanting to this necessary operation of the form of government, reliction would have , ,*. -r. ?. . T 3. Religion given it a complete eiiect. Keligion, always a intne principle of energy, in this new people is no way worn out or impaired ; and their mode of professing it is also one main cause of this free spirit. The people are Protestants ; and of that kind which is the most adverse to all implicit submission of mind and opinion. This is a persuasion not only favorable to liberty, but built upon it. I do not think. Sir, that the reason of this averseness in ^ governments are popular, i. e., controlled by the people. 2 aversion from. A precise etymological form which was once insisted en. 24 EDMUND BURKE. the dissenting churches from all that looks like absolute government is so much to be sought in their religious tenets, as in their history. Every one knows that the Roman Catholic religion is at least coeval with most of the governments where it prevails; that it. has generally gone hand in hand with them, and received great favor and every kind of support from authority. The Church of England too was formed from her cradle under the nursing care of regular government. But the dissenting interests have sprung up in direct opposition to all the ordinary powers of the world, and could justify that opposition only on a strong claim to natural liberty. Their very existence depended on the powerful and unremitted assertion of that claim. All Protestantism, even the most cold and passive, is a sort of dissent. But the religion most prevalent in our northern colonies is a refinement on the principle of resistance ; it is the dissidence of dissent,^ and the pro- testantism of the Protestant religion. This religion, under a variety of denominations agreeing in nothing but in the communion of the spirit of liberty, is predominant in most of the northern provinces, where the Church of England, notwithstanding its legal rights, is in reality no more than a sort of private sect, not composing most probably the tenth of the people. The colonists left England when this spirit was high, and in the emigrants was the highest of all ; and even that stream of foreigners which has been constantly flowing into these colonies has, for the greatest part, been composed of dissenters from the establishments of their several countries, who have brought with them a temper and character far from alien to that of the people with whom they mixed. 41. Sir, I can perceive by their manner that some gen- tlemen object to the latitude of this description, because in the southern colonies the Church of England forms a large 1 dissidence of dissent =: dissent of dissent; dissent carried to its utmost. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 25 body, and has a regular establishment. It is certainly true. There is, however, a circumstance attending these 4 j,^^ colonies which, in my opinion, fully counterbal- g^"fj.^^ ances this difference, and makes the spirit of lib- ^^e South, erty still more high and haughty than in those to the northward. It is that in Virginia and the Carolinas they have a vast multitude of slaves. Where this is the case in any part of the world, those who are free are by far the most proud and jealous of their freedom. Freedom is to them not only an enjoyment, but a kind of rank and privi- lege. Not seeing there, that freedom, as in countries where it is a common blessing and as broad and general as the air, may be united with much abject toil, with great misery, with all the exterior of servitude ; liberty looks, amongst them, like something that is more noble and liberal. I do not mean. Sir, to commend the superior morality of this sentiment, which has at least as much pride as virtue in it ; but I cannot alter the nature of man. The fact is so ; and these people of the southern colonies are much more strongly, and with an higher and more stubborn spirit, at- tached to liberty than those to the northward. Such were all the ancient commonwealths ; such were our Gothic an- cestors ; such in our days were the Poles ; and such will be all masters of slaves, who are not slaves themselves. In such a people the haughtiness of domination combines with the spirit of freedom, fortifies it, and renders it invincible. 42. Permit me, Sir, to add another circumstance in our colonies which contributes no mean part towards 5 Educa- the growth and effect of this untractable spirit. *^'°"- I mean their education. In no country perhaps in the world is the law so general a study. The profession itself is numerous and powerful ; and in most provinces it takes the lead. The greater number of the deputies sent to the Congress were lawyers. But all who read, and most do read, endeavor to obtain some smattering in that science. I have been told by an eminent bookseller, that in no 20 EDMUND BURKE. branch of his business, after tracts of popular devotion, were so many books as those on the law exported to the Planta-tions. The colonists have now fallen into the way of printing them for their own use. I hear that they have sold nearly as many of Blackstone's Commentaries in America as in England. General Gage marks out this dis- position very particularly in a letter on your table. He states that all the people in his government are lawyers, or smatterers in law ; and that in Boston they have been ena- bled, by successful chicane,^ wholly to evade many parts of one of your capital penal constitutions. The smartness of debate will say that this knowledge ought to teach them more clearly the rights of legislature, their obligations to obedience, and the penalties of rebellion. All this is mighty well. But my honorable and learned friend ^ on the floor, who condescends to mark what I say for animad- version, will disdain that ground. He has heard, as well as I, that when great honors and great emoluments do not win over this knowledge to the service of the state, it is a formidable adversary to government. If the spirit be not tamed and broken by these happy methods, it is stubborn and litigious. Aheunt studia in mores. ^ This study ren- ders men acute, inquisitive, dexterous, prompt in attack, ready in defence, full of resources. In other countries, the people, more simple, and of a less mercurial cast, judge of 1 by successful chicane, i. e/, trickery, sharp practice. When the order was issued forbidding the holding of town meet- ings after August, 1774, the last meeting held prior to that date was adjourned to meet at a definite time. By the rule of Par- liamentary practice, an adjourned meeting is a continuation of the original meeting; hence by this legal fiction these ad- journed meetings could not be regarded as called after August 1, 1774, and were therefore not illegal. 2 learned friend ; Attorney-General Thurlow — who was making notes of points on Burke's Speech. 8 abeunt studia in mores ; a quotation from Ovid which, freely translated, means " pursuits pass into character." CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 27 an ill principle in government only by an actual grievance ; here they anticipate the evil, and judge of the pressure of the grievance by the badness of the principle. They augur misgovernment at a distance, and snuff the approach of tyranny in every tainted breeze. 43. The last cause of this disobedient spirit in the colo- nies is hardly less powerful than the rest, as it is g Remote- not merely moral, but laid deep in the natural "®^^- constitution of things. Three thousand miles of ocean lie between you and them. No contrivance can prevent the effect of this distance in weakening government. Seas roll, and months pass, between the order and the execution ; and the want of a speedy explanation of a single point is enough to defeat a whole system. You have, indeed, winged min- isters of vengeance, who carry your bolts in their po.unces ^ to the remotest verge of the sea. But there a power steps in that limits the arrogance of raging passions and furious elements, and says. So far shalt thou go, and no farther. Who are you, that you should fret and rage, and bite the chains of nature ? Nothing worse happens to you than does to all nations who have extensive empire ; and it hap- pens in all the forms into which empire can be thrown. In large bodies the circulation of power must be less vigorous at the extremities. Nature has said it. The Turk cannot govern Egypt and Arabia and Kurdistan as he governs Thrace ; nor has he the same dominion in Crimea and Algiers which he has at Brusa and Smyrna. Despotism itself is obliged to truck and huckster. The Sultan gets such obedience as he can. He governs with a loose rein, that he may govern at all ; and the whole of the force and vigor of his authority in his centre is derived from a pru- dent relaxation in all his borders. Spain, in her provinces, is, perhaps, not so well obeyed as you are in yours. She complies, too ; she submits ; she watches times. This is the immutable condition, the eternal law of extensive and detached empire. 1 pounces = claws or talons. 28 EDMUND BURKE. 44. Then, Sir, from these six capital sources — of de- scent, of form of government, of religion in the northern provinces, of manners in the southern, of education, of the remoteness of situation from the first mover of government — from all these causes a fierce spirit of liberty has grown up. It has grown with the growth of the people in your colonies, and increased with the increase of their wealth ; a spirit that unhappily meeting with an exercise of power in England which, however lawful, is not reconcilable to any ideas of liberty, much less with theirs, has kindled this flame that is ready to consume us. 45. I do not mean to commend either the spirit in* this excess, or the moral causes which produce it. Perhaps a more smooth and accommodating spirit of freedom in them would be more acceptable to us. Perhaps ideas of liberty might be desired more reconcilable with an arbitrary and boundless authority. Perhaps we might wish the colonists to be persuaded that their liberty is more secure when held in trust for them by us, as their guardians during a perpet- ual minority, than with any part of it in their own hands. The question is, not whether their spirit deserves jiraise ft* blame, but — what, in the name of God, shall we do with it? You have before you the object, such as it is, with all its glories, with all its imperfections on its head. You see the magnitude, the importance, the temper, the habits, the disorders. By all these considerations we are strongly urged to determine something concerning it. We are called upon to fix some rule and line for our future conduct which may give a little stability to our politics, and prevent the return of such unhappy deliberations as the present. Every such return will bring the matter before us in a still more untractable form. For, what astonishing and incredi- ble things have we not seen already ! What monsters have not been generated from this unnatural contention ! Whilst every principle of authority and resistance has been pushed, upon both sides, as far as it would go, there is nothing so CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 29 solid and certain, either in reasoning or in practice, that has not been shaken. Until very lately all authority in America seemed to be nothing but an emanation from yours. Even the popular part of the colony constitution derived all its activity and its first vital movement from the pleasure of the crown. We thouglu, Sir, that the utmost which the discontented colonists could do was to disturb authority ; we never dreamt they, could of them- selves supply it — knowing in general what an operose business it is to establish a government absolutely new. But having, for our purposes in this contention, resolved that none but an obedient Assembly should sit, the humors of the people there, finding all passage through the legal channel stopped, with great violence broke out another way. Some provinces have tried their experiment, as we have tried ours ; and theirs has succeeded. They have formed a government sufficient for its purposes, without the bustle of a revolution or the troublesome formality of an election. Evident necessity and tacit consent have done the business in an instant. So well they have done it, that Lord Dun- more ^ — the account is among the fragments on your table — tells you that the new institution is infinitely better obeyed than the ancient government ever was in its most fortunate periods. Obedience is what makes government, and not the names by which it is called ; not the name of Governor, as formerly, or Committee, as at present. This new government has originated directly from the people, and was not transmitted through any of the ordinary artifi- cial media of a positive constitution. It was not a manu- facture ready formed, and transmitted to them in that condition from England. The evil arising from hence is this ; that the colonists having once found the possibility of enjoying the advantages of order in the midst of a strug- ^ Lord Dunmore ; Governor of Virginia. His testimony was the more important because he was regarded as a bitte* enemy of the colonies. \ 30 EDMUND BURKE, gle for liberty, such struggles will not henceforward seem so terrible to the settled and sober part of mankind as they had appeared before the trial. 46. Pursuing the same plan of punishing by the denial of the exercise of government to still greater lengths, we wholly abrogated the ancient government ^ of Massachu- setts. We were confident that the first feeling, if not the very prospect, of anarchy would instantly enforce a com- plete submission. The experiment was tried. A new, strange, unexpected face of things appeared. Anarchy is found tolerable. A vast province has now subsisted, and subsisted in a considerable degree of health and vigor for near a twelvemonth, without Governor, without public coun- cil, without judges, without executive magistrates. How long it will continue in this state, or what may arise out of this unheard-of situation, how can the wisest of us conjec- ture? Our late experience has taught us that many of those fundamental principles, formerly believed infallible, are either not of the importance they were imagined to be, or that we have not at all adverted to some other far more important and far more powerful principles, which entirely overrule those we had considered as omnipotent. I am much against any further experiments which tend io put to the proof any more of these allowed opinions which contrib- ute so much to the public tranquillity. In effect, we suffer as much at home by this loosening of all ties, and this con- cussion of all established opinions, as we do abroad ; for in order to prove that the Americans have no right to their liberties, we are every day endeavoring to subvert the maxims which preserve the whole spirit of our own. To prove that the Americans ought not to be free, we are obliged to depreciate the value of freedom itself ; and we ^ abrogated the ancient government. In 1774, Parlia- ment forbade the people of Massachusetts to hold town meet- ings, changed the charter of the colony, and gave the appoint- ment of judges into the hands of the King or his agents. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES, 31 never seem to gain a paltry advantage over them in debate without attacking some of those principles, or deriding some of those feelings, for which our ancestors have shed their blood. 47. But, Sir, in wishing to put an end to pernicious experiments, I do not mean to preclude the fullest inquiry. Far from it. Far from deciding on a sudden or partial view, I would patiently go round and round the subject, and survey it minutely in every possible aspect. Sir, if I were capable of engaging you to an equal attention, I would state that, as far as I am capable of dis- ^^^^^ ^^ ^ cernine:, there are but three ways of proceedin^^ of Dealing 1 . , . 11 . . , . , ., . with this relative to this stubborn spirit which prevails in Rebellious your colonies, and disturbs your government. These are — to change that spirit, as inconvenient, by re- moving the causes ; to prosecute it as Criminal ;' or to com- ply with it as necessary. I would not be guilty of an imperfect enumeration ; I can think of but these three. Another has indeed been started, — that of giving up the colonies ; but it met so slight a reception that I do not think myself obliged to dwell a great while upon it. It is nothing but a little sally of anger, like the forwardness of peevish children, who, when they cannot get all they would have, are resolved to take nothing. 48. The first of these plans — to change the spirit, as inconvenient, by removing the causes — I think is the most like a systematic proceeding. It is radical in its principle ; but it is attended with great difficulties, some of them little short, as I conceive, of impossibilities. This will appear by examining into the plans which have been proposed. 49. As the growing population in the colonies is evi- dently one cause of their resistance, it was last session mentioned in both Houses, by men of weight, and received not without applause, that in order to check this evil it would be proper for the crown to make no further grants of land. But to this scheme there are two objections^ 32 EDMUND BURKE. The first, that there is already so much unsettled land in private hands as to afford room for an immense future population, although the crown not only withheld its grants, but annihilated its soil. If this be the case, then the only effect of this avarice of desolation, this hoarding of a royal wilderness, would be to raise the value of the possessions in the hands of the great private monopolists, without any adequate check to the growing and alarming mischief of population. 50. But if you stopped your grants, what would be the consequence ? The people would occupy without grants. They have already so occupied in many places. You can- not station garrisons in every part of these deserts. If you drive the people from one place, they will carry on their annual tillage, and remove with their flocks and herds to another. Many hi the people in the back settlements are already little attached to particular situations. Already they have topped the Appalachian mountains. From thence they behold before them an immense plain, one vast, rich, level meadow ; a square of five hundred miles. Over this they would wander without a possibility of restraint ; they would change their manners with the habits of their life ; would soon forget a government by which they were disowned ; would become hordes of English Tar- tars ; ^ and, pouring down upon your unfortified frontiers a fierce and irresistible cavalry, become masters of your governors and your counsellors, your collectors and comp- trollers, and of all the slaves that adhered to them. Such would, and in no long time must be, the effect of attempt- ing to forbid as a crime and to suppress as an evil, the command and blessing of providence. Increase and mul- tiply. Such would be the happy result of the endeavor to keep as a lair of wild beasts that earth which God, by ' English Tartars ; alluding probably to the host of Mon- gol and Tartar warriors, who under Jengis Khan swept over Asia in almost irresistible force. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 35 an express charter, has given to the children of men. Far different, and surely much wiser, has been our policy hith- erto. Hitherto we have invited our people, by every kind of bounty, to fixed establishments. We have invited the husbandman to look to authority for his title. We have taught him piously to believe in the mysterious virtue of wax and parchment.^ We have thrown each tract of land, as it was peopled, into districts, that the ruling power should never be wholly out of sight. We have settled all we could ; and we have carefully attended every settlement with government. 51. Adhering, Sir, as I do, to this policy, as well as for the reasons I have just given, I think this new project of hedging-in population to be neither prudent nor practicable. 52. To impoverish the colonies in general, and in partic- ular to arrest the noble course of their marine enterprises, would be a more easy task. I freely confess it. We have shown a disposition to a system of this kind, a disposition even to continue the restraint after the offence, looking on ourselves as rivals to our colonies, and persuaded that of course we must gain all that they shall lose. Much mis- chief we may certainly do. The power inadequate to all other things is often more than sufficient for this. I do not look on the direct and immediate power of the colonies to resist our violence as very formidable. In this, how- ever, I may be mistaken. But when I consider that we have colonies for no purpose but to be serviceable to us, it seems to my poor understanding a little preposterous to make them unserviceable in order to keep them obedient. It is, in truth, nothing more than the old and, as I thought, exploded problem of tyranny, wliich proposes to beggar its subjects into submission. But remember, when you have completed your system of impoverishment, that nature still proceeds in her ordinary course ; that discontent will in- ^ wax and parchment =i the observance of legal ^orsns and modes of procedure. 34 EDMUND BURKE. crease with misery; and that there are critical moments in the fortune of all states when thpy who are too weak to contribute to your prosperity may be strong enough to complete your ruin. Spoliatis arma super sunt} 53. The temper and character which prevail in our colo- nies are, I am afraid, unalterable by any human art. We cannot, I fear, falsify the pedigree of this fierce people, and persuade them that they are not sprung from a nation in whose veins the blood of freedom circulates. The lan- guage in which they would hear you tell them this tale would . detect the imposition ; your speech would betray * you. An Englishman is the unfittest person on earth to argue another Englishman into slavery. 54. I think it is nearly as little in our power to change their republican religion as their free descent ; or to sub- stitute the Roman Catholic as a penalty, or the Church of England as an improvement. The mode of inquisition and dragooning is going out of fashion in the Old World and I should not confide much to their efficacy in the New. The education of the Americans is also on the same un- alterable bottom with their religion. You cannot persuade them to burn their books ^ of curious science ; to banish their lawyers from their courts of laws ; or to quench the lights of their assemblies by refusing to choose those per- sons who are best read in their privileges. It would be no less impracticable to think of wholly annihilating the popu- lar assemblies in which these lawyers sit. The army, by which we must govern in their place, would be far more chargeable to us, not quite so effectual, and perhaps in the end full as difficult to be kept in obedience. 55. With regard to the high aristocratic spirit of Vir ^ Spoliatis arma supersunt ; a quotation from Juvenal, VIII. 124, meaning "to the despoiled, their arms remain." 2 language would betray ; a probable allusion to Matthew Xxvi. 73, or to Judges xii. 6. 8 burn their books. See Acts xix. 19. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 35 ginia and the southern colonies, it has been proposed, I know, to reduce it by declaring a general enfranchisement of their slaves. This object has had its advocates and panegyrists ; yet I never could argue myself into any opinion of it. Slaves are often much attached to their masters. A general wild offer of liberty would not always be accepted. History furnishes few instances of it. It is sometimes as hard to persuade slaves to be free, as it is to compel freemen to be slaves ; and in this auspicious scheme we should have both these pleasing tasks on our hands at once. But when we talk of enfranchisement, do we not perceive that the American master may enfranchise too. and arm servile hands in defence of freedom ? — a measure to which other people have had recourse more than once, and not without success, in a desperate situation of their affairs. 56. Slaves as these unfortunate black people are, and dull as all men are from slavery, must they not a little susj^ect the offer of freedom from that very nation which has sold them to their present masters — from that nation, one of whose causes of quarrel with those masters is their refusal to deal any more in that inhuman traffic ? An offer of freedom from England would come rather oddly, shipped to them in an African vessel which is refused an entry into the poi-ts of Virginia or Carolina wdth a cargo of three hundred Angola ^ negroes. It would be curious to see the Guinea captain attempting at the same instant to publish his proclamation of liberty, and to advertise his sale of slaves. 57. But let us suppose all these moral difficulties got over. The ocean remains. You cannot pump this dry ,; and as long as it continues in its present bed, so long al! the causes which weaken authority by distance will con tinue. '■ Angola ; on the west coast of Africa, noted for its activit;; in the slave trade. 36 EDMUND BURKE. " Ye gods,^ annihilate but space and time. And make two lovers happy ! " was a pious and passionate prayer ; but just as reasonable as many of the serious wishes of grave and solemn poli- ticians. 58. If then, Sir, it seems almost desperate to think of any alterative course for changing the moral causes, and not quite easy to remove the natural, which produce preju- dices irreconcilable to the late exercise of our authority — but that the spirit infallibly will continue, and, continuing, will produce such effects as now embarrass us — the second XQode under consideration is to prosecute that spirit in its overt acts as criminaL 59. At this proposition I must pause a moment. The thing seems a great deal too big for my ideas of jurispru- dence. It should seem to my way of conceiving such matters that there is a very wide difference, in reason and policy, between the mode of proceeding on the irregular conduct of scattered individuals, or even of bands of men who disturb order within the state, and the civil dissensions which may, from time to time, on great questions, agitate the several communities which compose a great empire. It looks to me to be narrow and pedantic to apply the ordinary ideas of criminal justice to this great public contest. I do not know the method of drawing up an indictment against a whole people. I cannot insult and ridicule the feelings of millions of my fellow-creatures as Sir Edward Coke in- sulted ^ one excellent individual (Sir Walter Haleigh) at the bar. I hope I am not ripe to pass sentence on the gravest public bodies, intrusted with magistracies of great authority and dignity, and charged with the saiety of their 1 Ye gods ; of uncertain origin. 2 Sir Ed-ward Coke insulted ; referring to Raleigh's trial, when Coke, then attorney-general, assailed him with bitter in- iustice, denouncing him in the words : — *' Thou bast an English face, but a Spanish heart. " CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 3T fellow-citizens, upon the very same title that I am. I really think that, for wise men, this is not judicious ; for sober men, not decent ; for minds tinctured with humanity, not mild and merciful. 60. Perhaps, Sir, I am mistaken in my idea of an em- pire, as distinguished from a single state or kingdom. But my idea of it is this ; that an empire is the aggregate of many states under one common head, whether this head be a monarch or a presiding republic. It does, in such con- stitutions, frequently happen — and nothing but the dismal, cold, dead uniformity of servitude can prevent its happen- ing — that the subordinate parts have many local privileges and immunities. Between these privileges and the supreme common authority the line may be extremely nice. Of course disputes, often, too, very bitter disputes, and much ill blood, will arise. But though every privilege is an exemption, in the case, from the ordinary exercise of the supreme authority, it is no denial of it. The claim of a privilege seems rather, ex vi termini,'^ to imply a superior power ; for to talk of the privileges of a state or of a per- son who has no superior is hardly any better than speaking nonsense. Now, in such unfortunate quarrels among the component parts of a great political union of communities, I can scarcely conceive anything more completely impru- dent than for the head of the empire to insist that, if any privilege is pleaded against his will or his acts, his whole authority is denied ; instantly to proclaim rebellion, to beat to arms, and to put the offending provinces under the ban. Will not this. Sir, very soon teach the provinces to make no distinctions on their part ? Will it not teach them that the government, against which a claim of liberty is tanta- mount to high treason, is a government to which submission is equivalent to slavery? It may not always be quite con- venient to impress dependent communities with such an idea. * Bx vi termini = by the meaning of the term. 38 EDMUND BURKE, 61. We are, indeed, in all disputes with the colonies, by the necessity of things, the judge. It is true, Sir. But I confess that the character of judge in my own cause is a thing that frightens me. Instead of filling me with pride, I am exceedingly humbled by it. I cannot proceed with a stern, assured, judicial confidence, until I find myself in. something more like a judicial character. I must have these hesitations as long as I am compelled to recollect that, in my little reading upon such contests as these, the sense of. mankind has at least as often decided against the superior as the subordinate power. Sir, let me add, too, that the opinion of my having some abstract right in my favor would not put me much at my ease in passing sen- tence, unless I could be sure that there were no rights which, in their exercise under certain circumstances, were not the most odious of all wrongs and the most vexatious of all injustice. Sir, these considerations have great weight with me when I find things so circumstanced, that I see the same party at once a civil litigant against me in point of right and a culprit before me, while I sit as a criminal judge on acts of his whose moral quality is to be decided upon the merits of that very litigation. Men are every now and then put, by the complexity of human affairs, into strange situations ; but justice is the same, let the judge be in what situation he will. 62. There is, Sir, also a circumstance which convinces me that this mode of criminal proceeding is not, at least in the present stage of our contest, altogether expedient ; which is nothing less than the conduct of those very persons who have seemed to adopt that mode by lately declaring a rebellion in Massachusetts Bay, as they had formerly addressed^ to have traitors brought hither, under an Act of Henry the Eighth, for trial. For though rebellion is declared, it is not proceeded against as such, nor have any steps been taken towards the apprehension or conviction of 1 addressed = petitioned. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES. 39 any individual offender, either on our late or our former Address ; but modes of public coercion have been adopted, and such as have much more resemblance to a sort of qualified hostility towards an independent power than the punishment of rebellious subjects. All this seems rather inconsistent ; but it shows how difficult it is to apply these juridical ideas to our present case. • 63. In this situation, let us seriously and coolly pondero What is it we have got by all our menaces, which have been many and ferocious ? What advantage have we derived from the penal laws we have passed, and which, for the time, have been severe and numerous ? What advances have we made towards our object by the sending of a force which, by land and sea, is no contemptible strength? Has the disorder abated ? Nothing less. When I see things in this situation after such confident hopes, bold promises, and active exertions, I cannot, for my life, avoid a suspicion that the plan itself is not correctly right. 64. If, then, the removal of the causes of this spirit of American liberty be for the greater part, or rather entirely, impracticable ; if the ideas of criminal process be inapplica- ble — or, if applicable, are in the highest degree jy qq^_ inexpedient — what way yet remains ? No way ^^^^^gg.^ is open but the third and last — to comply with sity. the American spirit as necessary ; or, if you please, to submit to it as a necessary evil. Qb. If we adopt this mode, — if we mean to conciliate and concede — let us see of what nature the con- b. What cession ought to be. To ascertain the nature of SSon^^ our concession, we must look at their complaint. BE*^"i'^Na^ The colonies complain that they have not the tureofthe *■ '' Conces- characteristic mark and seal of British freedom, sion. They complain that they are taxed in a Parliament in which they are not represented. If you mean to ^ Taxed satisfy them at all, you must satisfy them with Re^preggn, regard to this complaint. If you mean to please tation. 40 EDMUND BURKE. any people, you must give them the boon which they ask ; not what you may think better for them, but of a kind totally different. Such an act may be a wise regulation, but it is no concession ; whereas our present theme is the mode of giving satisfaction. 66. Sir, I think you must perceive that I am resolved this day to have nothing at all to do with the question of the right of taxation. Some gentlemen startle — but it is true ; I put it totally out of the question. It is less than nothing in my consideration. I do not indeed wonder, nor will you, Sir, that gentlemen of profound learning are 52 THOMAS CARLYLE. with his brother, and for his father and mother, whom he loves, and would fain shield from want. Wis- dom is not banished from their poor hearth, nor the balm of natural feeling : the solemn words, "Let us worship God," are heard there from a "priest-like father; " ^ if threatenings of unjust men throw mother and children into tears, these are tears not of grief only, but of holiest affection; every heart in that humble group feels itself the closer knit to every other ; in their hard warfare they are there together, a "little band of brethren." Neither are such tears, and the deep beauty that dwells in them, their only portion. Light visits the hearts as it does the eyes of all living : there is a force, too, in this youth, that enables him to trample on misforl^une ; nay to bind it under his feet to make him sport. For a bold, warm, buoyant humor of character has been given him ; and so the thick-coming shapes of evil are welcomed with a gay, friendly irony, and in their closest pressure he bates no jot of heart or hope. Vague yearnings of ambition fail not, as he grows up; dreamy fancies hang like cloud-cities around him; the curtain of Existence is slowly rising, in many-colored splendor and gloom : and the auroral light of first love is gild- ing his horizon, and the music of song is on his path; and so he walks ... "in glory and in joy, Behind his plough, upon the mountain side." ^ We ourselves know, from the best evidence, that up to this date Burns was happy; nay that he was • 1 See The Cotter's Saturday Night. 2 Wordswortli : Resolution and Independence (1807 edition). Our editions read : " Following his plough, along the mountain side." The reference in the poem is to Burns. ( ESSAY ON BURNS. 53 the gayest, brightest, most fantastic, fascinating being to be found in the world; more so even than he ever afterwards appeared.^ But now, at thi^ early age, he quits the paternal roof; goes forth into looser, louder, more exciting society; and becomes initiated in those dissipations, those vices, which a certain class of phi- losophers have asserted to be a natural preparative for entering on active life: a kind of mud-bath, in which the youth is, as it were, necessitated to steep, and, we suppose, cleanse himself, before the real toga of Manhood can be laid on him. We shall not dis- pute much with this class of philosophers; we hope they are mistaken: for Sin and Remorse so easily beset us at all stages of life, and are always such in- different company, that it seems hard we should, at any stage, be forced and fated not onty to meet but to yield to them, and even serve for a term in their leprous armada. We hope it is not so. Clear we are, at all events, it cannot be the training one re- ceives in this Devil's service, but only our determin- ing to desert from it, that fits us for true manly Action. We become men, not after we have been dissipated, and disappointed in the chase of false pleasure ; but after we have ascertained, in any way, what impassable barriers hem us in through this life; how mad it is to hope for contentment to our infinite soul from the gifts of this extremely finite world; ^ Apparently the " best evidence " is conflicting. Burns, in his autobiographical letter to Dr. Moore, says of himself as a boy : " I was, perhaps, the most ungainly, awkward being in the parish." And Murdock, Burns's schoolmaster, in a letter printed in Carrie's Life and reproduced in Lockhart's, says : "Robert's ear was remarkably dull, and his voice untunable. . . . Robert's countenance was generally grave and expressive of a serious, eontemplative, and thoughtful mind." 54 THOMAS CARLYLE. that a man must be sufficient for himself; and that for suffering and enduring there is no remedy but striving and doing. Manhood begins when we have m any way made truce with necessity; begins even when we have surrendered to necessity, as the most part only do; but begins joyfully and hopefully only when we have reconciled ourselves to Necessity; and thus, in reality, triumphed over it, and felt that in Necessity we are free. Surely such lessons as this last, which, in one shape or other, is the grand lesson for every mortal man, are better learned from the lips of a devout mother, in the looks and actions of a devout father, while the heart is yet soft and pliant, than in collision with the sharp adamant of Fate, attracting us to shipwreck us, when the heart is grown hard, and may be broken before it will become contrite. Had Burns continued to learn this, as he was already learning it, in his father's cottage, he would have learned it fully, which he never did; and been saved many a lasting aberration, many a bitter hour and year of remorseful sorrow. It seems to us another circumstance of fatal import in Burns 's history, that at this time too he became involved in the religious quarrels of his district; that he was enlisted and feasted, as the fighting man of the New-Light Priesthood, in their highly unprofit- able warfare. At the tables of these freeminded clergy he learned much more than was needful for him. Such liberal ridicule of fanaticism awakened in his mind scruples about Religion itself; and a whole world of Doubts, which it required quite another set of conjurers than these men to exorcise. We do not say that such an intellect as his could have escaped similar doubts at some period of his history; or even ESSAY ON BURNS. 55 that he could, at a later period, have come through them altogether victorious and unharmed: but it seems peculiarly unfortunate that this time, above all others, should have been fixed for the encounter. For now, with principles assailed by evil example from without, by "passions raging like demons " ^ from within, he had little need of sceptical misgivings to whisper treason in the heat of the battle, or to cut off his retreat if he were already defeated. He loses his feeling of innocence; his mind is at variance with itself; the old divinity no longer presides there; but wild Desires and wild Repentance alternately oppress him. Ere long, too, he has committed himself before the world; his character for sobriety, dear to a Scot- tish peasant as few corrupted worldlings can even con- ceive, is destroyed in the eyes of men; and his only refuge consists in trying to disbelieve his guiltiness, and is but a refuge of lies. The blackest desperation now gathers over him, broken only by red lightnings of remorse. The whole fabric of his life is blasted asunder; for now not only his character, but his per- sonal liberty is to be lost ; men and Fortune are leagued for his hurt; "hungry Kuin has him in the wind." He sees no escape but the saddest of all : exile from his loved country, to a country in every sense inhos- pitable and abhorrent to him. While the "gloomy night is gathering fast,"^ in mental storm and soli- tude, as well as in physical, he sings his wild farewell to Scotland: — Farewell, my friends ; farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those : ^ The phrases are drawn from Burns's letter to Dr. Moore 66 THOMAS CARLYLE. The bursting tears my heart declare ; Adieu, my native banks of Ayr ! ^ Light breaks suddenly in on him in floods; but still a false transitory light, and no real sunshine. He is invited to Edinburgh ; hastens thither with an- ticipating heart ; is welcomed as in a triumph, and with universal blandishment and acclamation ; whatever is wisest, whatever is greatest or loveliest there, gathers round him, to gaze on his face, to show him honor, sympathy, affection. Burns 's appearance among the sages and nobles of Edinburgh must be regarded as one of the most singular phenomena in modern Lit- erature; almost like the appearance of some Napo- leon among the crowned sovereigns of modern Pol- itics. For it is nowise as "a mockery king,"^ set there by favor, transiently and for a purpose, that he will let himself be treated, still less is he a mad Rienzi, whose sudden elevation turns his too weak head: but he stands there on his Own basis; cool, unastonished, holding his equal rank from Nature herself; putting forth no claim which there is not strength in him, as well as about him to vindicate. Mr. Lockhart has some forcible observations on this point : — "It needs no effort of imagination," says he, "to conceive what the sensations of an isolated set of ^ Farewell Song to the Banks of Ayr. The last line should read : — Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr. 2 Shakespeare, Richard II. iv. 1. Carlyle was a man of enor- mous reading, and no one can hope to recognize all his allusions. But the two books to which he, like most of the great writers of modern England, refers most frequently, are within the reach of every one : they are the Bible and Shakespeare. ESSAY ON BURNS. 5T scholars (almost all either clergymen or professors) must have been in the presence of this big-boned, black-browed, brawny stranger, with his great flash- ing eyes, who, having forced his way among them from the plough-tail at a single stride, manifested in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation a most thorough conviction, that in the society of the most eminent men of his nation he was exactly where he was entitled to be; hardly deigned to flatter them by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered by their notice; by turns calmly measured himself against the most cultivated understandings of his time in discussion; overpowered the hon-mots of the most celebrated convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with all the burning life of genius; astounded bosoms habitually enveloped in the thrice - piled folds of social reserve, by compelling them to tremble, — nay to tremble visibly, — beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos; and all this with- out indicating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those professional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid in money and smiles for doing what the spectators and auditors would be ashamed of doing in their own persons, even if they had the power of doing it; and last, and probably worst of all, who was known to be in the habit of enlivening societies which they would have scorned to approach, still more frequently than their own, with eloquence no less magnificent; with wit, in all likelihood still more daring; often enough, as the superiors whom he fronted without alarm might have guessed from the beginning, and had ere long no oc- casion to guess, with wit pointed at themselves." ^ ^ Lockhart, chap. v. 58 THOMAS CARLYLE. The farther we remove from this scene, the more singular will it seem to us: details of the exterior aspect of it are already full of interest. Most readers recollect Mr. Walker's personal interviews with Burns as among the best passages of his Narrative : a time will come when this reminiscence of Sir Walter Scott's, slight though it is, will also be precious : — "As for Burns," writes Sir Walter, "I may truly say, Virgilium vidi tantum,^ I was a lad of fifteen in 1786-87, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and feeling enough to be much interested in his poetry, and would have given the world to know him : but I had very little acquaintance with any lit- erary people, and still less with the gentry of the west country, the two sets that he most frequented. Mr. Thomas Grierson was at that time a clerk of my father's. He knew Burns, and promised to ask him to his lodgings to dinner; but had no opportunity to keep his word; otherwise I might have seen more of this distinguished man. As it was, I saw him one day at the late venerable Professor Ferguson's,^ where there were several gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I remember the celebrated Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course, we youngsters sat silent, looked and listened. The only thing I remember which was remarkable in Burns 's manner, was the effect pro- duced upon him by a print of Bunbury's,^ represent- ing a soldier lying dead on the snow, his dog sitting in misery on one side, — on the other, his widow, 1 Ovid, Tristia, IV. x. 51. ^ Adam Ferguson (1723-1816), professor of philosophy at Edinburgh University. He was succeeded by Dugald Stewart. ^ Henry William Bunbury (1750-1811) was an amateur artist and caricaturist of some note. ESSAY ON BURNS. 59 with a child in her arms. These lines were written beneath : — * Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, Perhaps that mother wept her soldier slain ; Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery baptised in tears.' "Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather by the ideas which it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the lines were; and it chanced that nobody but myself remem- bered that they occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's called by the unpromising title of ' The Justice of Peace. ' ^ I whispered my information to a friend present; he mentioned it to Burns, who re- warded me with a look and a word, which, though of mere civility, I then received and still recollect with very great pleasure. "His person was strong and robust; his manners rustic, not clownish; a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its effect perhaps from one's knowledge of his. extraordinary talents. His features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's^ pic- ture: but to me it conveys the idea that they are diminished, as if seen in perspective. I think his ^ The poem may be found in Chalmers's British Poets, vol. xvi., under the title The Country Justice. There the second line reads : " Perhaps that parent mourn'd her soldier slain." John Langhorue (1735-1779) and his brother William made the trans- lation of Plutarch's Lives which, in spite of its dreary style, is still the one in general use. 2 Alexander Nasmyth (1758-1840) painted in 1787 a bust portrait of Burns, which is the likeness most commonly repro« duced. 60 THOMAS CARLYLE. countenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I should have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sagacious country farmer of the old Scotch school, i. e., none of your modern agriculturists who keep laborers for their drudgery, but the douce gudeman who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments; the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and tempera- ment. It was large, and of a dark cast, which glowed (I say literally glowed) when he spoke with feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a hu- man head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed per- fect self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who were the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himself with perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness : and when he differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at the same time with mod- esty. I do not remember any part of his conversa- tion distinctly enough to be quoted; nor did I ever see him again, except in the street, where he did not recognize me, as I could not expect he should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh: but (consid- ering what literary emoluments have been since his day) the efforts made for his relief were extremely trifling. "I remember, on this occasion I mention, I thought Burns 's acquaintance with English poetry was rather limited; and also that, having twenty times the abili- ties of Allan Ramsay and of Ferguson, he talked of them with too much humility as his models: there was doubtless national predilection in his estimate. ESSAY ON BURNS. 61 "This is all I can tell you about Burns. I have only to add, that his dress corresponded with his manner. He was like a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the laird. I do not speak in malam partem^ when I say, I never saw a man in company (vith his superiors in station or information more per- fectly free from either the reality or the affectation of embarrassment. I was told, but did not observe it, that his address to females was extremely deferen- tial, and always with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged their attention particularly. I have heard the late Duchess of Gordon remark this. — I do not know anything I can add to these recollec- tions of forty years since." ^ The conduct of Burns under this dazzling blaze of favor; the calm, unaffected, manly manner in which he not only bore it, but estimated its value, has justly been regarded as the best proof that could be given of his real vigor and integrity of mind. A little natural vanity, some touches of hypocritical modesty, some glimmerings of affectation, at least some fear of being thought affected, we could have pardoned in almost any man; but no such indication is to be traced here. In his unexampled situation the young peasant is not a moment perplexed; so many strange lights do not confuse him, do not lead him astray. Nevertheless, we cannot but perceive that this win- ter did him great and lasting injury. A somewhat clearer knowledge of men's affairs, scarcely of their characters, it did afford him; but a sharper feeling of Fortune's unequal arrangements in their social destiny it also left with him. He had seen the gay and gorgeous arena, in which the powerful are born ^ Quoted in Lockhart, chap. v. 62 THOMAS CARLYLE. to play their parts; nay had himself stood in th,: midst of it; and he felt more bitterly than ever, that here he was but a looker-on, and had no part or lot in that splendid game. From this time a jealous in- dignant fear of social degradation takes possession of him ; and perverts, so far as aught could pervert, his private contentment, and his feelings towards his richer fellows. It was clear to Burns that he had talent enough to make a fortune, or a hundred for- tunes, could he but have rightly willed this; it was clear also that he willed something far different, and therefore could not make one. Unhappy it was that he had not power to choose the one, and reject the other; but must halt forever between two opinions, two objects; making hampered advancement towards either. But so is it with many men: we "long for the merchandise, yet would fain keep the price; " and so stand chaffering with Fate in vexatious altercation, till the night come, and our fair is over! The Edinburgh Learned of that period were in general more noted for clearness of head than for warmth of heart : with the exception of the good old Blacklock,^ whose help was too ineffectual, scarcely one among them seems to have looked at Burns with any true sympathy, or indeed much otherwise than as at a highly curious thing. By the great also he is treated in the customary fashion; entertained at their ^ Lockhart gives in a foot-note (at end of chap, iv.) the fol- lowing quotation from a letter of Dr. Johnson to Mrs. Thrale, August 17, 1773 : — " This morning I saw at breakfast Dr. Blackloek, the blind poet, who does not remember to have seen light, and is read to by a poor scholar in Latin, Greek, and French. He was originally a poor scholar himself. I looked on him with rev- erence." ESSAY ON BURNS. 63 tables and dismissed : certain modica of pudding and praise are, from time to time, gladly exchanged for the fascination of his presence; which exchange once effected, the bargain is finished, and each party goes his several way. At the end of this strange season, Burns gloomily sums up his gains and losses, and meditates on the chaotic future. In money he is somewhat richer; in fame and the show of happiness, infinitely richer; but in the substance of it, as poor as ever. Nay poorer ; for his heart is now maddened still more with the fever of worldly Ambition; and through long years the disease will rack him with un- profitable sufferings, and weaken his strength for all true and nobler aims. What Burns was next to do or to avoid; how a man so circumstanced was now to guide himself towards his true advantage, might at this point of time have been a question for the wisest. It was a question too, which apparently he was left altogether to answer for himself : of his learned or rich patrons it had not struck any individual to turn a thought on this so trivial matter. Without claiming for Burns the praise of perfect sagacity, we must say, that his Excise and Farm scheme does not seem to us a very unreasonable one; that we should be at a loss, even now, to suggest one decidedly better. Certain of his admirers have felt scandalized at his ever resolving to gauge ; and would have had him lie at the pool, till the spirit of Patronage stirred the waters, that so, with one friendly plunge, all his sorrows might be healed. 1 Unwise counsellors! They know not the manner of this spirit; and how, in the lap of most golden dreams, a man might have happiness, 1 Cf. John V. 1-9. 64 THOMAS CARLYLE. were it not that in the interim he must die of hunger ! It reflects credit on the manliness and sound sense of Burns, that he felt so early on what ground he was standing; and preferred self-help, on the humblest scale, to dependence and inaction, though with hope of far more splendid possibilities. But even these possibilities were not rejected in his scheme : he might expect, if it chanced that he had any friend, to rise, in no long period, into something even like opulence and leisure; while again, if it chanced that he had no friend, he could still live in security; and for the rest, he "did not intend to borrow honor from any profession."^ We reckon that his plan was honest and well-calculated : all turned on the execution of it. Doubtless it failed; yet not, we believe, from any vice inherent in itseK.^ ^ay, after all, it was no failure of external means, but of internal, that over- took Burns. His was no bankruptcy of the purse, i Words of Burns quoted in Lockhart, chap. vii. 2 "If. Burns had much of a farmer's skill, he had little of a farmer's prudence and economy. I once inquired of James Corrie, a sagacious old farmer, whose ground marched with EUiesland, the cause of the poet's failure. * Faith,' said he, * how could he miss but fail, when his servants ate the bread as fast as it was baked ? I don't mean figuratively, I mean liter- ally. Consider a little. At that time close economy was neces- sary to have enabled a man to clear twenty pounds a year by EUiesland. Now Bums's own handy work was out of the ques- tion; he neither ploughed, nor sowed, nor reaped, at least like a hard-working farmer; and then he had a bevy of servants from Ayrshire. The lasses did nothing but bake bread, and the lads sat by the fireside, and ate it warm, with ale. Waste of time and consumption of food would soon reach to twenty pounds a year.'" — (Letter to Lockhart from Allan Cunningham, quoted in Lockhart's Life, chap, vii.) I ESSAY ON BURNS, 65 but of the soul; to his last day, he owed no man any thing. ^ Meanwhile he begins well : with two good and wise actions. His donation to his mother, munificent from a man whose income had lately been -seven pounds a-year, was worthy of him, and not more than worthy. Generous also, and worthy of him, was the treatment of the woman whose life's weKare now depended on his pleasure. A friendly observer might have hoped serene days for him: his mind is on the true road to peace with itself: what clearness he still wants will be given as he proceeds ; for the best teacher of duties, that still lie dim to us, is the Practice of those we see and have at hand. Had the "patrons of gen- ius," who could give him nothing, but taken nothing from him, at least nothing more ! The wounds of his heart would have healed, vulgar ambition would have died away. Toil and frugality would have been wel- come, since Virtue dwelt with them; and Poetry would have shone through them as of old : and in her clear ethereal light, which was his own by birthright, he might have looked down on his earthly destiny, and all its obstructions, not with patience only, but with love. But the patrons of genius would not have it so. Picturesque tourists,^ all manner of fashionable dan- ^ In reality Burns occasionally borrowed money ; but at his death he left only a few small debts. ^ There is one little sketch by certain " English gentlemen " of this class, which, though adopted in Currie's narrative, and since then repeated in most others, we have all along felt an invincible disposition to regard as imaginary : " On a rock that projected into the stream, they saw a man employed in angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap made of fox- Bkin on his head, a loose greatcoat fix^ round him by a belt, 66 THOMAS CARLYLE. glers after literature, and, far worse, all manner of convivial Maecenases, ^ hovered round him in his re- treat; and his good as well as his weak qualities se- cured them influence over him. He was flattered bj) their notice; and his warm socialnature made it im- possible for him to shake them off, and hold on his way apart from them. These men, as we believe, were proximately the means of his ruin. Not that they meant him any ill; they only meant themselves a little good; if he suffered harm, let him look to it! But they wasted his precious time and his precious talent; they disturbed his composure, broke down his returning habits of temperance and assiduous contented exertion. Their pampering was baneful to him; their cruelty, which soon followed, was equally baneful. The old grudge against Fortune's inequality awoke with new bitterness in their neighborhood; and Burns had no retreat but to "the Rock of Inde- from which depended an enormous Highland broad-sword. It was Burns." Now, we rather think, it was not Burns. For, to say nothing of the foxskin cap, the loose and quite Hibernian watchcoat with the belt, what are we to make of this "enormous Highland broad-sword " depending from him ? More especially, as there is no word of parish constables on the outlook to see whether, as Dennis phrases it, he had an eye to his own midriff or that of the public ! Burns, of all men, had the least need, and the least tendency, to seek for distinction, either in his own eyes or those of others, by such poor mummeries. — [Carlyle's note.] Carlyle thinks this petty vanity inconsistent with Burns's wise self-control at Edinburgh. But we cannot reason thus in the case of a man with so variable a temperament, and the anecdote is fairly well authenticated. ^ Maecenas was the great literary patron of the Augustan age of Rome. Virgil addressed to him his Georgics, and Horace honors his name repeatedly. ESSAY ON BURNS. 67 pendence," whicli is but an air-castle after all, that looks well at a distance, but will screen no one from real wind and wet. Flushed with irregular excite- ment, exasperated alternately by contempt of others, and contempt of himself. Burns was no longer regain- ing his peace of mind, but fast losing it forever. There was a hoUowness at the heart of his life, for his conscience did not now approve what he was doing. Amid the vapors of unwise enjoyment, of bootless remorse, and angry discontent with Fate, his true loadstar, a life of Poetry, with Poverty, nay with Famine if it must be so, was too often altogether hidden from his eyes. And yet he sailed a sea, where without some such loadstar there was no right steering. Meteors of French Politics rise before him, but these were not his stars. An accident this, which hastened, but did not originate, his worst distresses. In the mad contentions of that time, he comes in col- lision with certain official Superiors; is wounded by them; cruelly lacerated, we should say, could a dead mechanical implement, in any case, be called cruel: and shrinks, in indignant pain, into deeper self -seclu- sion, into gloomier moodiness than ever. His life has now lost its unity: it is a life of fragments; led with little aim, beyond the melancholy one of securing its own continuance, — in fits of wild false joy when such offered, and of black despondency when they passed away. His character before the world begins to suffer: calumny is busy w^ith him; for a miserable man makes more enemies than friends. Some faults he has fallen into, and a thousand misfortunes; but deep criminality is what he stands accused of, and they that are not without sin cast the first stone at I 68 THOMAS CARLYLE. liim! For is he not a well-wisher to the French Revolution, a Jacobin, and therefore in that one act guilty of all? These accusations, political and moral, it has since appeared, were false enough: but the world hesitated little to credit them.^ Nay his con- vivial Maecenases themselves were not the last to do it. There is reason to believe that, in his later years, the Dumfries Aristocracy had partly withdrawn them- selves from Burns, as from a tainted person, no longer worthy of their acquaintance. That painful class, stationed, in all provincial cities, behind the outmost breastwork of Gentility, there to stand siege and do battle against the intrusions of Grocerdom and Gra- zierdom, had actually seen dishonor in the society of Burns, and branded him with their veto; had, as we ^ vulgarly say, cut him ! We find one passage in this Work of Mr. Lockhart's, which will not out of our thoughts : — "A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already more than once had occasion to refer to, has often told me that he was seldom more grieved, than when riding into Dumfries one fine summer evening about this time to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone, on the shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn together for the festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him. The horseman dismounted, and joined Burns, who on his proposing to cross the street said : ' Nay, nay, my young friend, that 's all over now; ' and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baillie's pathetic ballad : — * Lockhart (chap, viii.) devotes much time to confuting them. ESSAY ON BURNS. 69 * His bonnet stood ance f u' fair on his brow, His auld ane look'd better than mony ane's new 5 But now he lets 't wear ony way it will hiug, And casts himsell dowie upon the coru-biiig. * O, were we young as we ance hae been, We sud hae been galloppiug down on yon green, And linking it ower the lily-white lea ! And werena my heart light, I wad die.* It was little in Burns 's character to let his feelings on certain subjects escape in this fashion. He, im- mediately after reciting these verses, assumed the sprightliness of his most pleasing manner; and taking his young friend home with him, entertained him very agreeably till the hour of the ball arrived."^ Alas ! when we think that Burns now sleeps " where bitter indignation can no longer lacerate his heart," ^ and that most of those fair dames and frizzled gentle- men already lie at his side, where the breastwork of gentility is quite thrown down, — who would net sigh over the thin delusions and foolish toys that divide heart from heart, and make man unmerciful to his brother ! It was not now to be hoped that the genius of Burns would ever reach maturity, or accomplish aught worthy of itself. His spirit was jarred in its melody: not the soft breath of natural feeling, but the rude hand of Fate, was now sweeping over the strings. And yet what harmony was in him, what music even in his discords ! How the wild tones had a charm for the simplest and the wisest; and all men felt and knew that here also was one of the Gifted ! " If he 1 Lockhart, chap. viii. 2 Ubi scBva indignatio cor ulterius lacerare nequit. Swift's Epi taph. [Carlyle's note.] 70 THOMAS CARLYLE. entered an inn at midnight, after all the inmates were in bed, the news of his arrival circulated from the cellar to the garret; and ere ten minutes had elapsed, the landlord and all his guests were assembled ! " Some brief pure moments of poetic life were yet ap- pointed him, in the composition of his Songs. We can understand how he grasped at this employment; and how, too, he spurned all other reward for it but what the labor itself brought him. For the soul of Burns, though scathed and marred, was yet living in its full moral strength, though sharply conscious of its errors and abasement; and here, in his destitution and degradation, was one act of seeming nobleness and self-devotedness left even for him to perform. He felt, too, that with all the "thoughtless follies" that had ''laid him low,"^ the world was unjust and cruel to him ; and he silently appealed to another and calmer time. Not as a hired soldier, but as a patriot, would he strive for the glory of his country: so he cast from him the poor sixpence a-day, and served zealously as a volunteer. Let us not grudge him this last luxury of his existence ; let him not have appealed to us in vain! The money was not necessary to him; he struggled through without it: long since, these guineas would have been gone, and now the high- mindedness of refusing them will plead for him in all hearts forever. We are here arrived at the crisis of Burns 's life; for matters had now taken such a shape with him as could not long continue. If improvement was not to be looked for. Nature could only for a limited time maintain this dark and maddening warfare against the world and itself. We are not medically informed ^ A Bard^s Epitaph. ESSAY ON BURNS. 71 whether any continuance of years was, at this period, probable for Burns; whether his death is to be looked on as in some sense an accidental event, or only as the natural consequence of the long series of events that had preceded. The latter seems to be the like- lier opinion; and yet it is by no means a certain one. At all events, as we have said, some change could not be very distant. Three gates of deliverance, it seems to us, were open for Burns: clear poetical activity; madness; or death. The first, with longer life, was still possible, though not probable; for physical causes were beginning to be concerned in it : and yet Burnj* had an iron resolution; could he but have seen anc^ felt, that not only his highest glory, but his first duty, and the true medicine for all his woes, lay here. The second was still less probable ; for his mind was ever among the clearest and firmest. So the milder third gate was opened for him: and he passed, not softly yet speedily, into that still country, where the hail-storms and fire-showers do not reach, and the heaviest-laden wayfarer at length lays down his load ! Contemplating this sad end of Burns, and how he sank unaided by any real help, uncheered by any wise sympathy, generous minds have sometimes fig- ured to themselves, with a reproachful sorrow, that much might have been done for him ; that by counsel, true affection and friendly ministrations, he might have been saved to himself and the world. We ques- tion whether there is not more tenderness of heart than soundness of judgment in these suggestions. It seems dubious to us whether the richest, wisest, most benevolent individual could have lent Burns any effec- tual help. Counsel, which seldom profits any one, 72 THOMAS CARLYLE. he did not need; in his understanding, he knew the right from the wrong, as well perhaps as any man ever did; but the persuasion, which would have availed him, lies not so much in the head as in the heart, where no argument or expostulation could have assisted much to implant it. As to money again, we do not believe that this was his essential want; or well see how any private man could, even presuppos- ing Burns 's consent, have bestowed on him an inde- pendent fortune, with much prospect of decisive ad- vantage. It is a mortifying truth, that two men, in any rank of society, could hardly be found virtuous enough to give money, and to take it as a necessary gift, without injury to the moral entireness of one or both. But so stands the fact : Friendship, in the old heroic sense of that term, no longer exists ; except in the cases of kindred or other legal affinity, it is in reality no longer expected, or recognized as a virtue among men. A close observer of manners has pro- nounced "Patronage," that is, pecuniary or other economic furtherance, to be "twice cursed;" curs- ing him that gives, and him that takes ! ^ And thus, in regard to outward matters also, it has become the rule, as in regard to inward it always was and must be the rule, that no one shall look for effectual help to another; but that each shall rest contented with what help he can afford himself. Such, we say, is the principle of modern Honor; naturally enough growing out of that sentiment of Pride, which we in- culcate and encourage as the basis of our whole social morality. Many a poet has been poorer than Burns; but no one was ever prouder: we may question whether, without great precautions, even a pension 1 The parody is from The Merchant of Venice, iv. 1. I ESSAY ON BURNS. 73 from Royalty would not have galled and encumbered, more than actually assisted him. Still" less, therefore, are we disposed to join with another class of Burns 's admirers, who accuse the higher ranks among us of having ruined Burns by their selfish neglect of him. We have already stated our doubts whether direct pecuniary help, had it been offered, would have been accepted, or could have proved very effectual. We shall readily admit, how- ever, that much was to be done for Burns ; that many a poisoned arrow might have been warded from his bosom ; many an entanglement in his path cut asun- der by the hand of the powerful; and light and heat, shed on him from high places, would have made his humble atmosphere more genial ; and the softest heart then breathing might have lived and died with some fewer pangs. Nay, we shall grant farther, and for Burns it is granting much, that, with all his pride, he would have thanked, even with exaggerated grati- tude, any one who had cordially befriended him: patronage, unless once cursed, needed not to have been twice so. At all events, the poor promotion he desired in his calling might have been granted: it was his own scheme, therefore likelier than any other to be of service. All this it might have been a lux- ury, nay it was a duty, for our nobility to have done. No part of all this, however, did any of them do ; or apparently attempt, or wish to do : so much is granted against them. But what then is the amount of their blame? Simply that they were men of the world, and walked by the principles of such men ; that they treated Burns, as other nobles and other commoners had done other poets; as the English did Shake- speare; as King Charles and his Cavaliers did But- 74 THOMAS CARLYLE. ler,^ as King Philip and his Grandees did Cervantes. Do men gather grapes of thorns ;2 or shall we cut down our thorns for yielding only 2i fence and haws? How, indeed, could the "nobility and gentry of his native land" hold out any help to this "Scottish Bard, proud of his name and country " ? ^ Were the nobility and gentry so much as able rightly to help themselves? Had they not their game to j)reserve; their borough interests to strengthen; dinners, there- fore, of various kinds to eat and give? Were their means more than adequate to all this business, or less than adequate? Less than adequate, in general; few of them in reality were richer than Burns; many of them were poorer; for sometimes they had to wring their supplies, as with thumbscrews, from the hard hand; and, in their need of guineas, to forget their duty of mercy; which Burns was never reduced to do. Let us pity and forgive them. The game they preserved and shot, the dinners they ate and gave, the borough interests they strengthened, the little Babylons they severally builded by the glory of their might,* are all melted or melting back into the pri- meval Chaos, as man's merely selfish endeavors are fated to do : and here was an action, extending, in vir- tue of its worldly influence, we may say, through all time ; in virtue of its moral nature, beyond all time, being immortal as the Spirit of Goodness itself ; this action was offered them to do, and light was not given ^ Cf . page 1, above. 2 Cf. Matthew vii. 16. * An echo from Burns's dedication to the first Edinburgh ©di* tion of his poems. Cf. page 3, above. * Cf . Daniel iv. 30. ESSAY ON BURNS. 75 them to do it. Let us pity and forgive them. But better than pity, let us go and do otherwise. Human suffering did not end with the life of Burns ; neither was the solemn mandate, "Love one another, bear one another's burdens," ^ given to the rich only, but to all men. True, we shall find no Burns to relieve, to assuage by our aid or our pity; but celestial na- tures, groaning under the fardels of a weary life, we shall still find; and that wretchedness which Fate has rendered voiceless and tuneless is not the least wretched, but the most.^ Still we do not think that the blame of Burns 's failure lies chiefly with the world. The world, it seems to us, treated him with more rather than with less kindness than it usually shows to such men. It has ever, we fear, shown but small favor to its Teach- ers: hunger and nakedness, perils and revilings, the prison, the cross, the poison-chalice have, in most times and countries, been the market - price it has offered for Wisdom, the welcome with which it has greeted those who have come to enlighten and purify it. Homer and Socrates, and the Christian Apostles, belong to old days ; but the world's Marty rology was not completed with these. Roger Bacon and Galileo languish in priestly dungeons ; Tasso pines in the cell of a madhouse; Camoens dies begging on the streets of Lisbon.^ So neglected, so "persecuted they the ^ The first half of this precept occurs eight times in the New Testament ; the second only in Galatians vi. 2. ^ This cry of indignation at the absorption of men in the cares of this world, and their indifference to higher things, occurs repeatedly in Carlyle. 3 Every reader should have a clear idea, not necessarily of the details in the lives of these men, but of the general signifi- cance of each in the history of the world. 76 THOMAS CARLYLE. Prophets,"^ not in Judea only, but in all places where men have been. We reckon that every poet of Burns 's order is, or should be, a prophet and teacher to his age; that he has no right to expect great kindness from it, but rather is bound to do it great kindness ; that Burns, in particular, experienced fully the usual proportion of the world's goodness; and that the blame of his failure, as we have said, lies not chiefly with the world. Where, then, does it lie? We are forced to an- swer: With himself; it is his inward, not his out- ward, misfortunes that bring him to the dust. Sel- dom, indeed, is it otherwise; seldom is a life morally wrecked but the grand cause lies in some internal mal-arrangement, some want less of good fortune than of good guidance. Nature fashions no creature without implanting in it the strength needful for its action and duration; least of all does she so neglect her masterpiece and darling, the poetic soul. Neither can we believe that it is in the power of any exter- nal circumstances utterly to ruin the mind of a man ; nay, if proper wisdom be given him, even so much as to affect its essential health and beauty. The stern- est sum - total of all worldly misfortunes is Death ; nothing more can lie in the cup of human woe : yet many men, in all ages, have triumphed over Death, and led it captive; ^ converting its physical victory into a moral victory for themselves, into a seal and immortal consecration for all that their past life had achieved. What has been done, may be done again : nay it is but the degree and not the kind of such heroism that differs in different seasons ; for without ^ Matthew v. 12; and compare Luke vi. 23. ^ There is an allusion to Ephesians iv. 8. i ESSAY ON BURNS. 11 some portion of this spirit, not of boisterous daring, but of silent fearlessness, of Self - denial in all its forms, no good man, in any scene or time, has ever attained to be good.^ We have already stated the error of Burns; and mourned over it, rather than blamed it. It was the want of unity in liis purposes, of consistency in his aims; the hapless attempt to mingle in friendly union the common spirit of the world with the spirit of poetry, which is of a far different and altogether irreconcilable nature. Burns was nothing wholly, and Burns could be nothing, no man formed as he was can be anything, by halves. The heart, not of a mere hot- blooded, popular Verse-monger, or poetical Hestaura- teur^^ but of a true Poet and Singer, worthy of the old religious heroic times, had been given him : and he fell in an age, not of heroism and religion, but of scep- ticism, selfishness, and triviality, when true Nobleness was little understood, and its place supplied by a hol- low, dissocial, altogether barren and unfruitful princi- ple of Pride. The influences of that age, his open, kind, susceptible nature, to say nothing of his highly untoward situation, made it more than usually diffi- cult for him to cast aside, or rightly subordinate; the better spirit that was within him ever sternly de- manded its rights, its supremacy : he spent his life in endeavoring to reconcile these two ; and lost it, as he must lose it, without reconciling them. ^ This moral is worked out with wonderful power in Sartor Resartus. 2 The word means simply restorer ; but Carlyle uses it to de- note a man who uses his literary talent merely to give amuse- ment, not to inculcate truth. Here again is a veiled sneer at Byrou and Scott. 78 THOMAS CARLYLE. Burns was born poor; and born also to continue poor, for he would not endeavor to be otherwise : this it had been well could he have once for all admitted, and considered as finally settled. He was poor, truly ; but hundreds even of his own class and order of minds have been poorer, yet have suffered nothing deadly from it : nay his own Father had a far sorer battle with ungrateful destiny than his was ; and he did not yield to it, but died courageously warring, and to all moral intents prevailing, against it. True, Burns had little means, had even little time for poetry, his only real pursuit and vocation ; but so much the more precious was what little he had. In all these exter- nal respects his case was hard; but very far from the hardest. Poverty, incessant drudgery and much worse evils, it has often been the lot of Poets and wise men to strive with, and their glory to conquer. Locke was banished as a traitor; and wrote his "Es- say on the Human Understanding " sheltering himself in a Dutch garret. Was Milton rich or at his ease when he composed "" Paradise Lost " ? Not only low,but fallen from a height; not only poor, but im- poverished; in darkness and with dangers compassed round, he sang his immortal song, and found fit audi- ence, though few.i Did not Cervantes finish his work, a maimed soldier and in prison? Nay, was not the " Araucana, " 2 which Spain acknowledges as its Epic, written without even the aid of paper ; on ^ See Paradise Lost, vii. 24-31. 2 The Araucana is the best of a score of epics written in the reign of Philip II. of Spain in imitation of the Italian poets Ariosto and Tasso. Its author, Alonso de Ercilla y Zuuiga (1533-1595), writes of the Spanish campaigns against the In- dians of Arauco, in which he himself took part. The early part ESSAY ON BURNS. 79 scraps of leather, as the stout fighter and voyager snatched any moment from that wild warfare ? And what, then, had these men, which Burns wanted? Two things; both which, it seems to us, are indispensable for such men. They had a true, religious principle of morals; and a single, not a double aim in their activity. They were not self- seekers and self -worshippers; but seekers and wor- shippers of something far better than Self. Not personal enjoyment was their object; but a high, heroic idea of Religion, of Patriotism, of heavenly Wisdom, in one or the other form, ever hovered be- fore them; in which cause they neither shrank from suffering, nor called on- the earth to witness it as something wonderful; but patiently endured, count- ing it blessedness enough so to spend and be spent. Thus the "golden-calf of Self-love," however curiously carved, was not their Deity; but the Invisible Good- ness, which alone is man's reasonable service. This feeling was as a celestial fountain, whose streams refreshed into gladness and beauty all the provinces of their otherwise too desolate existence. In a word, they willed one thing, to which all other things were subordinated and made subservient; and therefore they accomplished it. The wedge will rend rocks; but its edge must be sharp and single : if it be double, the wedge is bruised in pieces and will rend nothing. Part of this superiority these men owed to their age; in which heroism and devotedness were still practised, or at least not yet disbelieved in ; but much of it likewise they owed to themselves. With of the poem was written in the field, in the manner that Carlyle describes. The Araucana is now little read ; and its author is no way comparable to the great epic poets of Italy and England. 80 THOMAS CARLYLE. Burns, again, it was different. His morality, in most of its practical points, is that of a mere worldly man; enjoyment, in a finer or coarser shape, is the only thing he longs and strives for. A noble instinct sometimes raises him above this; but an instinct only, and acting only for moments. He has no Reli- gion; in the shallow age, where his days were cast. Religion was not discriminated from the New and Old Light ybr/ns of Religion; and was, with these, becoming obsolete in the minds of men. His heart, indeed, is alive with a trembling adoration, but there is no temple in his understanding. He lives in dark- ness and in the shadow of doubt. His religion, at best, is an anxious wish; like that of Rabelais, "a great Perhaps." He loved Poetry warmly, and in his heart; could he but have loved it purely, and with his whole undi- vided heart, it had been well. For Poetry, as Burns could have followed it, is but another form of Wis- dom, of Religion: is itself Wisdom and Religion. But this also was denied him. His poetry is a stray vagrant gleam, which will not be extinguished within him, yet rises not to be the true light of his path, but is often a wildfire that misleads him. It was not necessary for Burns to be rich, to be, or to seem, "independent; " but it was necessary for him to be at one with his own heart; to place what was highest in his nature highest also in his life; "to seek within himself for that consistency and sequence, which ex- ternal events would forever refuse him." He was born a poet; poetry was the celestial element of his being, and should have been the soul of his whole endeavors. Lifted into that serene ether, whither he had wings given him to mount, he would have needed ESSAY ON BURNS. 81 no other elevation: poverty, neglect, and all evil, save the desecration of himself and his Art, were a small matter to him; the pride and the passions of the world lay far beneath his feet; and he looked down alike on noble and slave, on prince and beggar, and all that wore the stamp of man, with clear recog- nition, with brotherly affection, with sympathy, with pity. Nay, we question whether for his culture as a Poet poverty and much suffering for a season were not absolutely advantageous. Great men, in looking back over their lives, have testified to that effect. "I would not for much," says Jean Paul, "that I had been born richer." And yet Paul's birth was poor enough; for, in another place, he adds: "The prisoner's allowance is bread and water; and I had often only the latter." ^ But the gold that is refined in the hottest furnace comes out the purest; or, as he has himself expressed it, "the canary-bird sings sweeter the longer it has been trained in a darkened cage." A man like Burns might have divided his hours between poetry and virtuous industry; industry which all true feeling sanctions, nay prescribes, and which has a beauty, for that cause, beyond the pomp of thrones : but to divide his hours between poetry and rich men's banquets was an ill-starred and inauspi- cious attempt. How could he be at ease at such ban- quets? What had he to do there, mingling his music 1 Jean Paul Friedrich Richter (1763-1825) is one of Carlyle's favorite authors, and one of those who influenced him most. He is the subject of Carlyle's first essay in the Edinburgh Re- view (1827), and is treated again in another and a greater essay in the Foreign Review (1830). These two papers by Carlyle remain among the best accounts of Richter accessible in Eng- Hsh. 82 THOMAS CARLYLE. with the coarse roar of altogether earthly voices; brightening the thick smoke of intoxication with fire lent him from heaven ? Was it his aim to enjoy life ! To-morrow he must go drudge as an Exciseman! We wonder not that Burns became moody, indignant, and at times an offender against certain rules of soci- ety; but rather that he did not grow utterly frantic, and run amuck against them all. How could a man, so falsely placed, by his own or others' fault, ever know contentment or peaceable diligence for an hour ? What he did, under such perverse guidance, and what he forbore to do, alike fill us with astonishment at the natural strength and worth of his character. Doubtless there was a remedy for this perverseness; but not in others; only in himself; least of all in simple increase of wealth and worldly "respectabil- ity." We hope we have now heard enough about the efficacy of wealth for poetry, and to make poets happy. Nay, have we not seen another instance of it in these very days ? Byron, a man of an endow- ment considerably less ethereal than that of Burns, is born in the rank not of a Scottish ploughman, but of an English peer : the highest worldly honors, the fairest worldly career, are his by inheritance; the richest harvest of fame he soon reaps, in another province, by his own hand. And what does all this avail him? Is he happy, is he good, is he true? Alas, he has a poet's soul, and strives towards the Infinite and the Eternal; and soon feels that all this is but mounting to the housetop to reach the stars ! Like Burns, he is only a proud man; might, like him, have "purchased a pocket-copy of Milton to study the character of Satan; " for Satan is also Byron's grand exemplar, the hero of his poetry, and ESSAY ON BURNS. 83 the model apparently of Ms conduct.^ As in Burns's case too, the celestial element will not mingle with the clay of earth; both poet and man of the world he must not be; vulgar Ambition will not live kindly with poetic Adoration; he cannot serve God and Mam- mon. Byron, like Burns, is not happy; nay he is the most wretched of all men. His life is falsely arranged: the fire that is in him is not a strong, still, central fire, warming into beauty the products of a world; but it is the mad fire of a volcano; and now — we look sadly into the ashes of a crater, which ere long will fill itself with snow ! Byron and Burns were sent forth as missionaries to their generation, to teach it a higher Doctrine, a purer Truth; they had a message to deliver, which left them no rest till it was accomplished; in dim throes of pain, this divine behest lay smouldering within them; for they knew not what it meant, and felt it only in mysterious anticipation, and they had to die without articulately uttering it. They are in the camp of the Unconverted; yet not as high mes- sengers of rigorous though benignant truth, but as soft flattering singers, and in pleasant fellowship will they live there: they are first adulated, then perse- cuted; they accomplish little for others; they find no peace for themselves, but only death and the peace of the grave. We confess, it is not without a certain mournful awe that we view the fate of these noble 1 " I have bought a pocket Milton, which I carry perpetually about me, in order to study the sentiments, the dauntless mag- nanimity, the intrepid unyielding independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hardship in that great personage ■ — Satan." — Letter of Burns, quoted in Lockhart, chap. vi. Bitter epigrams like this on Byron become a characteristic of Carlyle's style in his later writings. 84 THOMAS CARLYLE. souls, so richly gifted, yet ruined to so little purpose with all their gifts. It seems to us there is a stern moral taught in this piece of history, — twice told us in our own time ! Surely to men of like genius, if there be any such, it carries with it a lesson of deep impressive significance. Surely it would become such a man, furnished for the highest of all enterprises, that of being the Poet of his Age, to consider well what it is that he attempts, and in what spirit he attempts it. For the words of Milton are true in all times, and were never truer than in this: "He who would write heroic poems must make his whole life a heroic poem." ^ If he cannot first so make his life, then let him hasten from this arena; for neither its lofty glories, nor its fearful perils, are fit for him. Let him dwindle into a modish balladmonger; let him worship and besing the idols of the time, and the time will not fail to reward him. If, indeed, he can endure to live in that capacity! Byron and Burns could not live as idol-priests, but the fire of their own hearts consumed them; and better it was for them that they could not. For it is not in the favor of the great or of the small, but in a life of truth, and in the inexpugnable citadel of his own soul, that a Byron's or a Burns 's strength must lie. Let the great stand aloof from him, or know how to reverence him. Beautiful is the union of wealth with favor 1 Milton's real words are : " I was confirmed in this opinion, that he who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem ; that is, a composition and pattern of the best and honourablest things; not presuming to sing high praises of heroic men, or famous cities, unless he has in himself the experience and the practice of all that which is praiseworthy." — Apology for Smec- tymnuus. ESSAY ON BURNS. 85 and furtherance for literature; like the costliest flower- jar enclosing the loveliest amaranth. Yet let not the relation be mistaken. A true poet is not one whom they can hire by money or flattery to be a min- ister of their pleasures; their writer of occasional verses, their purveyor of table-wit; he cannot be their menial, he cannot even be their partisan. At the peril of both parties, let no such union be attempted I Will a Courser of the Sun work softly in the harness of a Dray-horse ? His hoofs are of fire, and his path is through the heavens, bringing light to all lands; will he lumber on mud highways, dragging ale for earthly appetites from door to door? But we must stop short in these considerations, which would lead us to boundless lengths. We had something to say on the public moral character of Burns ; but this also we must forbear. We are far from regarding him as guilty before the world, as guiltier than the average; nay from doubting that he is less guilty than one of ten thousand. Tried at a tribunal far more rigid than that where the Plehis- cita of common civic reputations are pronounced, he has seemed to us even there less worthy of blame than of pity and wonder. But the world is habitually unjust in its judgments of such men; unjust on many groimds, of which this one may be stated as the sub- stance : It decides, like a court of law, by dead stat- utes; and not positively but negatively, less on what is done right, than on what is or is not done wrong. Not the few inches of deflection from the mathemati- cal orbit, which are so easily measured, but the ratio of these to the whole diameter, constitutes the real aberration. This orbit may be a planet's, its diame- ter the breadth of the solar system; or it may be a 8G THOMAS CARLYLE. city hippodrome; nay the circle of a ginhorse, its diameter a score of feet or paces. But the inches of deflection only are measured : and it is assumed that the diameter of the ginhorse, and that of the planet, will yield the same ratio when compared with them ! Here lies the root of many a blind, cruel condemna- tion of Burnses, Swifts, Kousseaus, which one never listens to with approval. Granted, the ship comes into harbor with shrouds and tackle damaged; the pilot is blameworthy ; he has not been all- wise and all- powerful : but to know how blameworthy, tell us first whether his voyage has been round the Globe, or only to Ramsgate and the Isle of Dogs.^ With our readers in general, with men of right feeling anywhere, we are not required to plead for Burns. In pitying admiration he lies enshrined in all our hearts, in a far nobler mausoleum than that one of marble; neither will his Works, even as they are, pass away from the memory of men. While the Shakespeares and Miltons roll on like mighty rivers through the country of Thought, bearing fleets of traffickers and assiduous pearl-fishers on their waves; this little Valclusa "^ Fountain will also arrest our eye : for this also is of Nature's own and most cunning workmanship, bursts from the depths of the earth, with a full gushing current, into the light of day; and often will the traveller turn aside to drink of its clear waters, and muse among its rocks and pines. 1 Shipping ports in southern England. Carlyle is writing from the point of view of a Scotchman. 2 Vauduse ( Valclusa in Italian) is a town in southeast France where the great Italian poet Petrarch (1304-1374) lived for some time, and where he did much of his best work. Its foun- tain is celebrated in his poems. ^\)t M\}tt&it>t iliterature Series? ESSAY ON JOHNSON BY THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY EDITED BY WILLIAM P. TRENT HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY Boston : 4 Park Street ; New York : 85 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 378 388 Wabash Avenue (3tbe l!liUer?iDe pv£?9 CambriDoe COPYRIGHT 1906 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN * CO. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED PREFATORY NOTE. The Essay on Johnson, like those on Goldsmith and Bunyanj first appeared in the eighth edition of the Encyclopoedia Brir tannica and is still to be found there. The editors of the new edition were wise in retaining what is not only in all probability the best of Macaulay's essays, but also one of the finest biograph- ical sketches in any language. The praise which Macaulay gave perhaps too generously to Johnson's Life of Richard Savage should really be reserved for his own masterly account of the great Doctor's life and writings. One might almost bestow upon it the praise he gave to Boswell's Life, if compositions of essentially different kinds could be profitably compared. The secret of Macaulay's success is not far to seek, however much one may despair of equalling his performance. He knew his subject thoroughly and sympathized with him, and, as Matthew Arnold said, was for the nineteenth very much the sort of man that Dr. Johnson was for the eighteenth century. In addition his limited space kept him from being too discursive, and his years of practice enabled him to give to his style a precision and strength and pliability that, in the Essays at least, it had not hitherto attained. Both in substance and in form, then, this miniature biography, for such it is, represents Macaulay at his very best. It is needless to say more of it and it is equally need- less to discuss Dr. Johnson when Macaulay has practically said the last word about him. Industrious editors like Dr. Birk- beck Hill will continue to annotate Boswell and to bring small facts to light, but if they are wise they will not obscure the full-sized portrait that the inquisitive little Scotchman painted. Criticism of Johnson's works and an endeavor to give them greater currency is, of course, another matter, and such volumes as Matthew Arnold's selected Lives of the Poets may be thor« oughly recommended. Complete editions of Johnson's works are not often published, but copies of existing editions are easily obtained, and Rasselas, at least, is to be had in almost any form. 2 MACAULAY. The latest modern lives are by Mr. Leslie Stephen in the Eng- lish Men of Letters and by Colonel Grant in the Great Writers. For a more explicit study of points in the essay, the reader will find Woodrow Wilson's The State, HaUam's Literature of Europe, Gosse's Hhitory of English Literature in the Eighteenth Century f and Lord Mahon's History of England under Queen Anne convenient books of reference. 1 SAMUEL JOHNSON. Samuel Johnson, one of the most eminent Eng- lish writers of the eighteenth century, was the son of Michael Johnson, who was, at the beginning of that century, a magistrate of Lichfield, and a bookseller of great note in the midland counties. Michael's abilities and attainments seem to have been consider- able. He was so well acquainted with the contents of the volumes which he exposed to sale, that the country rectors ^ of Staffordshire and Worcestershire thought him an oracle on points of learning. Be- tween him and the clergy, indeed, there was a strong religious and political sympathy. He was a zealous churchman, and, though he had qualified himself for municipal office by taking the oaths to the sovereigns in possession, was to the last a Jacobite in heart. At his house, a house which is still pointed out to every traveller who visits Lichfield, Samuel was born on the 18th of September, 1709. In the child, the physical, intellectual, and moral peculiarities which afterwards distinguished the man were plainly discernible, — great muscular strength accompanied by much awk- wardness and many infirmities; great quickness of parts, 2 with a morbid propensity to sloth and procrag- ^ Country rectors were often marvellously ignorant in those days and earlier. See in Fielding's Joseph Andrews the charac- ter of Parson Trulliber. * That is, of mental endowments. 4 MACAULAY. tination; a kind and generous heart, with a gloomy and irritable temper. He had inherited from his ancestors? a scrofulous taint, which it was beyond the power of medicine to remove. His parents were weak enough to believe that the royal touch was a specific for this malady. In his third year he was taken up to London, inspected by the court surgeon, prayed over by the court chaplains, and stroked and pre- sented with a piece of gold by Queen Anne. One of his earliest recollections was that of a stately lady in a diamond stomacher and a long black hood. Her hand was applied in vain. The boy's features, which were originally noble and not irregular, were dis- torted by his malady. His cheeks were deeply scarred. He lost for a time the sight of one eye, and he saw but very imperfectly with the other. But the force of his mind overcame every impediment. Indo- lent as he was, he acquired knowledge with such ease and rapidity that at every school to which he was sent he was soon the best scholar. From sixteen to eighteen he resided at home, and was left to his own devices. He learned much at this time, though his studies were without guidance and without plan. He ransacked his father's shelves, dipped into a mul- titude of books, read what was interesting and passed over what was dull. An ordinary lad would have acquired little or no useful knowledge in such a way, but much that was dull to ordinary lads was interest- ing to Samuel. He read little Greek, for his profi- ciency in that language was not such that he could take much pleasure in the masters of Attic poetry and eloquence. But he had left school a good Lat- inist, and he soon acquired, in the large and miscel- laneous library of which he now had the command, I SAMUEL JOHNSON, 5 an extensive knowledge of Latin literature. That Augustan delicacy of taste which is the boast of the great public schools ^ of England he never possessed. But he was early familiar with some classical writers who were quite unknown to the best scholars in the sixth form at Eton. He was peculiarly attracted by the works of the great restorers of learning. ^ Once, while searching for some apples, he found a huge folio volume of Petrarch's works. The name excited his curiosity, and he eagerly devoured hundreds of pages. Indeed, the diction and versification of his own Latin compositions show that he had paid at least as much attention to modern copies from the antique as to the original models. While he was thus irregularly educating himself, his family was sinking into hopeless poverty. Old Michael Johnson was much better qualified to pore upon books, and to talk about them, than to trade in them. His business declined; his debts increased; it was with difficulty that the daily expenses of his household were defrayed. It was out of his power to support his son at either university,^ but a wealth^^ neighbor offered assistance, and, in reliance on prom- ises which proved to be of very little value, Samuel was entered at Pembroke College, Oxford. When the young scholar presented himself to the rulers of ^ That is, schools like Rugby, Eton, and Harrow, which are not ** public " in the American sense, but are supported by endow- ments and fees. 2 That is, the leaders of the Renaissance, Petrarch, Erasmus, Sir Thomas More, Colet, etc. * There were only two universities then in England, Oxford and Cambridge, and in popular opinion there are only two now, though London, Durham, and Victoria have been added within the present century. 6 MA CAUL AY. that society,^ they were amazed not more by his un- gainly figure and eccentric manners than by the quan- tity of extensive and curious information which he had picked up during many months of desultory but not unprofitable study. On the first day of his resi- dence, he surprised his teachers by quoting Macro- bins; 2 and one of the most learned among them declared that he had never knov/n a freshman of equal attainments. At Oxford, Johnson resided during about three years. He was poor, even to raggedness; and his appearance excited a mirth and a pity which were equally intolerable to his haughty spirit. He was driven from the quadrangle of Christ Church by the sneering looks which the members of that aristo- cratical society cast at the holes in his shoes. Some charitable person placed a new pair at his door, but he spurned them away in a fury. Distress made him, not servile, but reckless and ungovernable. No opulent gentleman commoner,^ panting for one and twenty, could have treated the academical authorities with more gross disrespect. The needy scholar was generally to be seen under the gate of Pembroke, a gate now adorned with his effigy,* haranguing a- circle of lads, over whom, in spite of his tattered gown and ^ An English college is an endowed and incorporated associa- tion of students. Its rulers are the Master (or Warden, etc) and the fellows. 2 Died 415 A. d., author of a miscellaneous collection of antiquarian and critical pieces entitled Saturnalia, but best known for his commentary on the famous Scipio^s Dream of Cicero. * One paying all charges and not dependent on the college funds for support. * Pembroke (founded 1624) has had many other distinguished sons — e. g. Shenstone, Blackstone, and Whitefield. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 7 dirty linen, his wit and audacity gave him an undis- puted ascendency. In every mutiny against the dis- cipline of the college, he was the ringleader. Much was pardoned, however, to a youth so highly distin- guished by abilities and acquirements. He had early made himself known by turning Pope's "Messiah "^ into Latin verse. The style and rhythm, indeed, were not exactly Virgilian ; but the translation found many admirers, and was read with pleasure by Pope him- self. The time drew near at which Johnson would, in the ordinary course of things, have become a bach- elor of arts ; but he was at the end of his resources. Those promises of support on which he had relied had not been kept. His family could do nothing for him. His debts to Oxford tradesmen were small indeed, yet larger than he could pay. In the autumn of 1731 he was under the necessity of quitting the univer- sity without a degree. In the following winter his lather died. The old man left but a pittance, and of that pittance almost the whole was appropriated to the support of his widow. The property to which Samuel succeeded amounted to no more than twenty pounds. His life during the thirty years which followed was one hard struggle with poverty. The misery of that struggle needed no aggravation, but was aggra- vated by the sufferings of an unsound body and an unsound mind. Before the young man left the uni- ^ This poem, first published in The Spectator for May 14, 1712, was in imitation of Virgil's Pollio {Eclogue IV.), and is one of the best of Pope's early works. The concluding lines have fur- nished us with one of the most familiar of modern hymns ; — "Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise !" 8 MACAULAV. versity, his hereditary malady had broken forth in a singularly cruel form. He had become an incurable hypochondriac. He said long after that he had been mad all his life, or at least not perfectly sane ; and, in truth, eccentricities less strange than his have often been thought grounds sufficient for absolving felons and for setting* aside wills. His grimaces, his ges- tures, his mutterings, sometimes diverted and some- times terrified people who did not know him. At a dinner table he would, in a fit of absence, stoop down and twitch off a lady's shoe. He would amaze a drawing-room by suddenly ejaculating a clause of the Lord's Prayer. He would conceive an unintelligible aversion to a particular alley, and perform a great circuit rather than see the hateful place. He would set his heart on touching every post in the streets through which he walked. If by any chance he missed a post, he would go back a hundred yards and repair the omission. Under the influence of his disease, his senses became morbidly torpid and his imagination morbidly active. At one time he would stand poring on the town clock without being able to tell the hour. At another he would distinctly hear his mother, who was many miles off, calling him by his name. But this was not the worst. A deep mel- ancholy took possession of him, and gave a dark tinge to all his views of human nature and of human des- tiny. Such wretchedness as he endured has driven many men to shoot themselves or drown themselves. But he was under no temptation to commit suicide. He was sick of life, but he was afraid of death ; and he shuddered at every sight or sound which reminded him of the inevitable hour. In religion he found but little comfort during his long and frequent fits of SAMUEL JOHNSON. 9 dejection, for his religion partook of his own charac- ter. The light from heaven shone on him indeed, but not in a direct line, or with its own pure splen- dor. The rays had to struggle through a disturbing medium: they reached him refracted, dulled, and discolored by the thick gloom which had settled on his soul; and, though they might be sufficiently cleai to guide him, were too dim to cheer him. With such infirmities of body and of mind, this celebrated man was left, at two and twenty, to fight his way through the world. He remained during about five years in the midland counties. At Lich- field, his birthplace and his early home, he had in- herited some friends and acquired others. He was kindly noticed by Henry Hervey,^ a gay officer of noble family, who happened to be quartered there. Gilbert Walmesley,^ registrar of the ecclesiastical court of the diocese, — a man of distinguished parts, learning, and knowledge of the world, — did himself honor by patronizing the young adventurer, whose repulsive person, unpolished manners, and squalid garb moved many of the petty aristocracy of the neighborhood to laughter or to disgust. At Lich- field, however, Johnson could find no way of earning a livelihood. He became usher of a grammar school ^ in Leicestershire; he resided as a humble companion in the house of a country gentleman ; * but a life of 1 Born in 1700 ; brother of Lord John Hervey. 2 (1680-1751). At the end of his Life of the poet Edmund Smith, Johnson paid a noble tribute to this early friend. * That is, assistant master in a school in which Latin and Greek were the chief studies. The school was that of Market Bosworth. He became usher in July, 1732. * Sir Wolstan Dixie, patron of the school. 10 MACAULAY. dependence was insupportable to his haughty spirit. He repaired to Birmingham, and there earned a few guineas by literary drudgery. In that town he printed a translation, little noticed at the time and long forgotten, of a Latin book about Abyssinia.^ He then put forth proposals for publishing by sub- scription the poems of Politian,^ with notes containing a history of modern Latin verse; but subscriptions did not come in, and the volume never appeared. While leading this vagrant and miserable life, Johnson fell in love. The object of iiis passion was Mrs. Elizabeth Porter, a widow who had children as old as himself. To ordinary spectators, the lady appeared to be a short, fat, coarse woman, painted half an inch thick, dressed in gaudy colors, and fond of exhibiting provincial airs and graces which were not exactly those of the Queensberrys and Lepels.^ To Johnson, however, whose passions were strong, whose eyesight was too weak to distinguish ceruse from natural bloom, and who had seldom or never been in the same room with a woman of real fashion, his Tetty, as he called her, was the most beautiful, graceful, and accomplished of her sex. That his ad- miration was unfeigned cannot be doubted, for she was as poor as himself. She accepted, with a readi- ness which did her little honor, the addresses of a ^ This was not a Latin book, but a French translation of a work by Lobo (1593-1678), a Portuguese Jesuit. 2 Politian (Angelo Ambrogini, 1454-1494) was one of the most brilliant scholars and teachers of the Renaissance. He not only succeeded in Latin verse, but was also an able Italian poet. ^ Mary Lepel (1700-1768), who married Lord John Hervey, author of the Memoirs of the Court of George II., and Catherine Hyde (died 1777), afterwards Duchess of Queensberry, were noted beauties of the period, and friends of Pope and Gay. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 11 suitor who might have been her son. The marriage, however, in spite of occasional wranglings, proved happier than might have been expected. The lover continued to be under the illusions of the wedding day till the lady died, in her sixty -fourth year. On her monument he placed an inscription extolling the charms of her person and of her manners; and when, long after her decease, he had occasion to mention her, he exclaimed, with a tenderness half ludicrous, half pathetic, "Pretty creature! " His marriage made it necessary for him to exert himself more strenuously than he had hitherto done.^ He took a house in the neighborhood of his native town, and advertised for pupils. ^ But eighteen months passed away, and only three pupils came to his academy. Indeed, his appearance was so strange, and his temper so violent, that his schoolroom must have resembled an ogre's den. Nor was ^ the tawdry, painted grandmother whom he called his Titty well qualified to make provision for the comfort of young gentlemen. David Garrick,^ who was one of the pupils, used many years later to throw the best com- pany of London into convulsions of laughter by mim- icking the endearments of this extraordinary pair. At length Johnson, in the twenty-eighth year of his age, determined to seek his fortune in the capital as a literary adventurer. He set out with a few 1 The marriage was performed July 9, 1735, at Derby, though Mrs. Porter Hved at Birmingham, to which place Johnson had returned. 2 In 1736. 8 The great actor (1716-1779), from whom many of the un- pleasing details about Mrs. Porter were, as Macaulay intimates, obtained by Boswell. 12 MACAULAY. guineas, three acts of the tragedy of "Irene" in manuscript, and two or three letters of introduction from his friend Walmesley. Never since literature became a calling in England had it been a less gainful calling than at the time when Johnson took up his residence in London. In the preceding generation, ^ a writer of eminent merit was sure to be munificently rewarded by the govern- ment. The least that he could expect was a pension or a sinecure place; and, if he showed any aptitude for politics, he might hope to be a member of Parlia ment, a lord of the treasury, an ambassador, a secre tary of state. ^ It would be easy, on the other hand, to name several writers ^ of the nineteenth century, of whom the least successful has received forty thousand pounds from the booksellers. But Johnson entered on his vocation in the most dreary part of the dreary interval which separated two ages of prosperity. Lit erature had ceased to flourish under the patronage of the great, and had not begun to flourish under the patronage of the public. One man of letters, indeed. Pope, had acquired by his pen what was then consid ered as a handsome fortune, and lived on a footing of equality with nobles and ministers of state. But this was a solitary exception. Even an author whose reputation was established, and whose works were pop ular — such an author as Thomson,^ whose " Seasons ' 1 That is, the reigns of William III. and Anne. See the essay on Addison. 2 With regard to literary men who i:ose in politics, the stu- dent should remember that Steele was a member of Parliament, Prior an ambassador, and Addison a secretary of state. ^ For example, Scott, Byron, Macaulay. * For James Thomson, the poet (1700-1748) and Henry Field- ing (1707-1754), the great novelist, see Gosse. Fielding's early SAMUEL JOHNSON. 13 were in every library; such an author as Fielding, whose "Pasquin" had had a greater run thq.n any drama since the "Beggar's Opera "^ — was some- times glad to obtain, by pawning his best coat, the means of dining on tripe at a cookshop underground, where he could wipe his hands, after his greasy meal, on the back of a Newfoundland dog. It is easy, there- fore, to imagine what humiliations and privations must have awaited the novice who had still to earn a name. One of the publishers to whom Johnson applied for employment measured with a scornful eye that athletic though uncouth frame, and exclaimed, "You had better get a porter's knot ^ and carry trunks." Nor was the advice bad, for a porter was likely to be as plentifully fed and as comfortably lodged as a poet. Some time appears to have elapsed before Johnson was able to form any literary connection from which he could expect more than bread for the day which was passing over him. He, never forgot the gener- osity with which Hervey, who was now residing in London, relieved his wants during this time of trial. "Harry Hervey," said the old philosopher many years later, "was a vicious man, but he was very kind to me. If you call a dog Hervey, I shall love him." At Hervey 's table, Johnson sometimes enjoyed work was as a dramatist, but none of his plays, including the satiric comedy mentioned, is read to-day, except possibly his Tragedy of Tragedies^ a parody which celebrates Tom Thumb. ^ A famous parody on the Italian opera, written by John Gay (1685-1732) on a hint from Swift. It was produced in 1728, and had an immense run, its chief characters representing high- waymen and pickpockets. For Gay, whose Fables and Black- eyed Susan are still read, and who was a delightful man, see Gosse. 2 A pad worn on the head. 14 MACAULAY. feasts which were made more agreeable by contrast. But in general he dined, and thought that he dined well, on sixpennyworth of meat and a pennyworth of bread at an alehouse near Drury Lane.^ The effect of the privations and sufferings which he endured at this time was discernible to the last in his temper and his deportment. His manners had never been courtly. They now became almost sav- age. Being frequently under the necessity of wearing shabby coats and dirty shirts, he became a confirmed sloven. Being often very hungry when he sat down to his meals, he contracted a habit of eating with ravenous greediness. Even to the end of his life, and even at the tables of the great, the sight of food affected him . as it affects wild beasts and birds of prey. His taste in cookery, formed in subterranean ordinaries^ and alamode beef shops, ^ was far from delicate. Whenever he was so fortunate as to have near him a hare that had been kept too long, or a meat pie made with rancid butter, he gorged himself with such violence that his veins swelled and the moisture broke out on his forehead. The affronts which his poverty emboldened stupid and low-minded men to offer to him, would have broken a mean spirit into sycophancy, but made him rude even to fero- city. Unhappily, the insolence which, while it was defensive, was pardonable and in some sense respect- ^ A famous street (not then or now aristocratic) in the heart of London. The student may consult books by Hare, Loftie* and Sir Walter Besant, in order to learn something about historic London. 2 Eating houses, where a fixed rate is charged for meals. ^ Where beef a la mode (i. c, larded with spices, vegetableSi wine, etc.) was sold. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 15 able, accompanied him into societies where he was treated with courtesy and kindness. He was repeat- edly provoked into striking those who had taken liberties with him. All the sufferers, however, were wise enough to abstain from talking about their beat- ings, except Osborne, the most rapacious and brutal of booksellers, who proclaimed everywhere that he had been knocked down by the huge fellow whom he had hired to puff the Harleian Library.^ About a year after Johnson had begun to reside in London, he was fortunate enough to obtain regular employment from Cave,^ an enterprising and intelli- gent bookseller, who was proprietor and editor of " The Gentleman's Magazine." That journal, just entering on the ninth year of its long existence, was the only periodical work in the kingdom which then had what would now be called a large circulation. It was, indeed, the chief source of parliamentary intelligence. It was not then safe, even during a recess, to publish an account of the proceedings of either House without some disguise. Cave, however, ventured to entertain his readers with what he called "Reports of the De- bates of the Senate of Lilliput."^ France was Ble- fuscu; London was Mildendo; pounds were sprugs; ^ A famous collection of books and manuscripts made by Rob- ert Harley, Earl of Oxford (1661-1724), the rival of Marlbor- ough and Godolphin, and bought by Osborne, who hired Dr. Johnson to assist in cataloguing it. - Edward Cave (1691-1754), under the name of " Sylvanus Urban," founded, in 1731, J'he Gentleman's Magazine (which is still running, though changed in plan, and the back volumes of which are a mine of miscellaneous information). Johnson wrote a good Latin ode to him, and a shoit sketch of him. '^ This and the following queer names are taken from Gulli-^ ver's Travels. For an account of how news was circulated at this period, and earlier, see Macaulay's History, chap. ill. 16 MACAULAY. the Duke of Newcastle ^ was the Nardac secretary of state; Lord Hardwicke was the Hugo Hickrad; and William Pulteney was Wingul Pulnub. To write ';he speeches was, during several years, the business of Johnson. He was generally furnished with notes ■ — meagre indeed and inaccurate — of what had been aaid ; but sometimes he had to find argument and elo- quence, both for the ministry and for the opposition. He was himself a Tory, not from rational conviction, — for his serious opinion was, that one form of gov- ernment was just as good or as bad as another, — but from mere passion, such as inflamed the Capulets against the Montagues,^ or the Blues of the Roman circus against the Greens.^ In his infancy he had heard so much talk about the villanies of the Whigs and the dangers of the Church, that he had become a furious partisan when he could scarcely speak. Before he was three, he had insisted on being taken to hear Sacheverell* preach at Lichfield Cathedral, 1 Thomas Pelham. For this fatuous statesman (1693-1768) Bee Macaulay's essays on Pitt and Chatham. Philip Yorke, Earl of Hardwicke (1690-1764), was a famous Lord Chancellor. William Pulteney, Earl of Bath (1682 ?-1764), was a leader of a Whig faction against Walpole. 2 See Romeo and Juliet. 8 See Gibbon's Decline and Fall, chap. xl. The drivers in the Koman circus wore liveries, — white, red, green, and blue, — and the populace took sides according to colors. Many riots resulted, and the feuds were transferred to Constantinople, where the great Nika riots of 532 A. d. took place. * The Rev. Dr. Henry Sacheverell (1672-1724) was a foolish High Churchman, who in 1709 preached two sermons of an intemperate character against the Whigs. He was impeached, tried by the Peers, and found guilty, with the natural result that lie became a hero with the Tories, and had not a little to do with the Whig downfall. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 17 and had listened to the sermon with as much re- spect, and probably with as much intelligence, as any Staffordshire squire in the congregation. The work which had been begun in the nursery had been com- pleted by the university. Oxford, when Johnson resided there, was the most Jacobitical place in Eng- land ; and Pembroke was one of the most Jacobitical colleges in Oxford. The prejudices which he brought up to London were scarcely less absurd than those of his own Tom Tempest.^ Charles II. and James II. were two of the best kings that ever reigned. Laud, a poor creature who never did, said, or wrote any- thing indicating more than the ordinary capacity of an old woman, was a prodigy of parts and learning, over whose tomb Art and Genius ^ still continued to weep. Hampden ^ deserved no more honorable name than that of "the zealot of rebellion." Even the ship money, condemned not less decidedly by Falk- land * and Clarendon ^ than by the bitterest Round- heads, Johnson would not pronounce to have been an unconstitutional impost. Under a government the mildest that had ever been known in the world, under a government which allowed to the people an unpre- cedented liberty of speech and action, he fancied that he was a slave ; he assailed the ministry with obloquy ^ See Johnson's IdleVy No. 10. 2 See The Vanity of Human Wishes, 1. 173. 3 John Hampden (1594-1643), the famous Puritan states- man, who resisted the ship-money tax, and was killed in a skir- mish with the Royalists. ** Lucius Gary, Viscount Falkland (1610?-1643), poet, scholar, and one of the noblest of Charles l.'s adherents. See Matthew Arnold's essay on him. * The great Lord Chancellor and historian. 18 MACAULAY. which refuted itself, and regretted the lost freedom and happiness of those golden days in which a writer who had taken but one tenth part of the license al- lowed to him would have been pilloried, mangled with the shears, whipped at the cart's tail,^ and flung into a noisome dungeon to die. He hated dissenters and stockjobbers, the excise and the army, septennial par- liaments, and continental connections. ^ He long had an aversion to the Scotch, — an aversion of which he could not remember the commencement, but which, he owned, had probably originated in his abhorrence of the conduct of the nation during the Great Rebel- lion. It is easy to guess in what manner debates on great party questions were likely to be reported by a man whose judgment was so much disordered by party spirit. A show of fairness was, indeed, neces- sary to the prosperity of the magazine. But Johnson long afterwards owned that, though he had saved appearances, he had taken care that the Whig dogs should not have the best of it; and, in fact, every passage which has lived, every passage which bears the marks of his higher faculties, is put into the mouth of some member of the opposition.^ A few weeks after Johnson had entered on these obscure labors, he published a work which at once placed him high among the writers of his age. It is 1 Obsolete methods of punishment. 2 All objects of Tory invective. Dissenters, of course, were op- posed to the church ; stockjobbers to the landed interests ; the ex- cise was favored by Walpole; the army was due to William III.; limiting the duration of Parliament (to seven years) was a Whig measure ; connections with foreign countries, especially with Hol- land, formed a part of Whig policy, — though Johnson would have done well to remember the Treaty of Dover. * That is, the Tories, the party out of power. I SAMUEL JOHNSON. W probable that what he had suffered during his first year in London had often reminded him of some parts of that noble poem in which Juvenal ^ had de- scribed the misery and degradation of a needy man of letters, lodged among the pigeons' nests in the tot- tering garrets which overhung the streets of Rome. Pope's admirable imitations of Horace's "Satires" and "Epistles" had recently appeared, were in every hand, and were by many readers thought superior to the originals. What Pope had done for Horace, John- son aspired to do for Juvenal. The enterprise was bold, and yet judicious. For between Johnson and Juvenal there was much in common, ^ — much more, certainly, than between Pope and Horace. Johnson's "London " appeared without his name in May, 1738. He received only ten guineas for this stately and vigorous poem; but the sale was rapid and the success complete. A second edition was re- quired within a week. Those small critics who are always desirous to lower established reputations ran about proclaiming that the anonymous satirist was superior to Pope in Pope's own peculiar department of literature. It ought to be remembered, to the honor of Pope, that he joined heartily in the applause with which the appearance of a rival genius was wel- comed. He made inquiries about the author of "Lon- don." Such a man, he said, could not long be con- cealed. The name was soon discovered; and Pope, with great kindness, exerted himself to obtain an academical degree, and the mastership of a grammar ^ Juvenars third satire is meant. Dryden had translated it, along with four others, and Oldham had applied it to London as Boileau had done to Paris. 2 For example, a certain severity of temper and morals. I ^0 MACAULAY. school, for the poor young poet. The attempt failed, and Johnson remained a bookseller's hack. It does not appear that these two men — the most eminent writer of the generation which was going out, and the most eminent writer of the generation which was coming in — ever saw each other. They lived in very different circles, — one surrounded by dukes and earls, the other by starving pamphleteers and index-makers. Among Johnson's associates at this time may be mentioned Boyse,^ who, when his shirts were pledged, scrawled Latin verses, sitting up in bed with his arms through two holes in his blan- kets, who composed very respectable sacred poetry when he was sober, and who was at last run over by a hackney coach when he was drunk; Hoole,^ sur- named the metaphysical tailor, who, instead of attend- ing to his measures, used to trace geometrical dia- grams on the board where he sat cross-legged; and the penitent impostor, George Psalmanazar,^ who, after poring all day, in a humble lodging, on the folios of Jewish rabbis and Christian fathers, in- dulged himself at night with literary and theological conversation at an alehouse in the city. But the most remarkable of the persons with whom at this time Johnson consorted was Eichard Savage,* an 1 Samuel Boyse (1708-1749). 2 Uncle of John Hoole, the translator of Tasso and Ariosto, who was also a friend of Johnson. 2 The famous impostor (1679 ?-1763), who pretended to be a native of Formosa, and wrote an account of that island which imposed on a great many people. He was born in France, but kept his real name concealed. * (1698-1743), reputed to be the illegitimate son of the Coun- tess of Macclesfield. He was a poet interesting rather as fore- shadowing future tendencies of English verse than as writing SAMUEL JOHNSON. 21 earl's son, a shoemaker's apprentice, who had seen life in all its forms, who had feasted among blue rib- bands in St. James's Square,^ and had lain with fifty pounds' weight of irons on his legs in the condemned ward of Newgate. ^ This man had, after many vicis- situdes of fortune, sunk at last into abject and hope- less poverty. His pen had failed him. His patrons had been taken away by death, or estranged by the riotous profusion with which he squandered their bounty, and the ungrateful insolence with which he rejected their advice. He now lived by begging. He dined on venison and champagne whenever he had been so fortunate as to borrow a guinea. If his questing had been unsuccessful, he appeased the rage of hunger with some scraps of broken meat, and lay down to rest under the piazza of Covent Garden ^ in warm weather, and in cold weather as near as he could get to the furnace of a glasshouse.* Yet, in his misery, he was still an agreeable companion. He had an inexhaustible store of anecdotes about that gay and brilliant world from which he was now an out- cast. He had observed the great men of both parties in hours of careless relaxation, had seen the leaders of opposition without the mask of patriotism, and had heard the prime minister ^ roar with laughter and tell anything worth the general reader's attention. But the student should by all means read Johnson's Life of him. ^ That is, with Knights of the Garter, in one of the most aris- tocratic quarters of London. 2 The noted prison. 8 Originally " Convent " Garden, best known through its mar- ket and theatre. * Sometimes a conservatory, though the word is here used for * glass-works.'* * Sir Robert Walpole. 22 MACAULAY. stories not over-decent. During some months, Sav- age lived in the closest familiarity with Johnson ; and then the friends parted, not without tears. Johnson remained in London to drudge for Cave. Savage went to the west of England, lived there as he had lived everywhere, and in 1743 died, penniless and heart-broken, in Bristol jail. Soon after his death, while the public curiosity was strongly excited about his extraordinary character and his not less extraordinary adventures, a life of him appeared, widely different from the catchpenny lives of eminent men which were then a staple article of manufacture in Grub Street.^ The style was, in- deed, deficient in ease and variety; and the writer was evidently too partial to the Latin element of our language. But the little work, with all its faults, was a masterpiece. No finer specimen of literary biography 2 existed in any language, living or dead; and a discerning critic might have confidently pre- dicted that the author was destined to be the founder of a new school of English eloquence. The Life of Savage was anonymous, but it was well known in literary circles that Johnson was the writer. During the three years which followed, he produced no important work ; but he was not, and indeed could not be, idle. The fame of his abilities and learning continued to grow. Warburton^ pro- ^ A street " much inhabited by writers of small histories^ dictionaries, and temporary poems ; whence any mean produc* tion is called grubstreet." Johnson's Dictionary. ^ Does this mean a biography considered as a piece of litera- ture, or a biography of a literary person ? If the former, the praise will seem extravagant to those who admire the Agricola of Tacitus. * The famous William Warburton, Bishop of Gloucestei^ SAMUEL JOHNSON. 23 nounced him a man of parts and genius, and the praise of Warburjbon was then no light thing. Such was Johnson's reputation that in 1747 several emi- nent booksellers combined to employ him in the ardu- ous work of preparing a "Dictionary of the English Language," in two folio volumes. The sum which they agreed to pay him was only fifteen hundred guin- eas, and out of this sum he had to pay several poor men of letters who assisted him in the humbler parts of his task. The Prospectus of the Dictionary he addressed to the Earl of Chesterfield. ^ Chesterfield had long been celebrated for the politeness of his manners, the bril- liancy of his wit, and the delicacy of his taste. He was acknowledged to be the finest speaker in the House of Lords. He had recently governed Ireland, at a momentous conjuncture, ^ with eminent firmness, wisdom, and humanity; and he had since become secretary of state. He received Johnson's homage with the most winning affability, and requited it with a few guineas, bestowed, doubtless, in a very grace- ful manner, but was by no means desirous to see all his carpets blackened with the London mud, and his (1698-1779), a noted controversialist and dogmatic critic whose reputation, immense during his lifetime, has dwindled almost to nothing. 1 The Earl of Chesterfield (Philip Dormer Stanhope, 1694- 1773) is chiefly renowned as a man of fashion, and as the author of a series of Letters to his son which is still a classic manual of conduct. Johnson remarked of this famous book that it taught the morals of a courtesan and the manners of a dancing- master. Chesterfield was an accomplished diplomat, and fore- saw the coming of the French Revolution. ^ As Lord Lieutenant about 1745. He kept down factions and bribery, and established schools and manufactories. k 24 MA CAUL AY. soups and wines thrown to right and left over the gowns of fine ladies and the waistcoats of fine gen- tlemen, bj an absent, awkward scholar, who gave strange starts and uttered strange growls, — who dressed like a scarecrow and ate like a cormorant. During some time Johnson continued to call on his patron, 1 but, after being repeatedly told by the porter that his lordship was not at home, took the hint, and ceased to present himself at the inhospitable door. Johnson had flattered himself that he should have completed his Dictionary by the end of 1750, but it was not till 1755 that he at length gave his huge vol- umes to the world. During the seven years which he passed in the drudgery of penning definitions and marking quotations for transcription, he sought for relaxation in literary labor of a more agreeable kind. In 1749 he published "The Vanity of Human Wishes," an excellent imitation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal. It is in truth not easy to say whether the palm be- longs to the ancient or to the modern poet. The couplets 2 in which the fall of Wolsey is described, though lofty and sonorous, are feeble when compared with the wonderful lines which bring before us all * Down to the time of Pope, and later, the patron, a noble- man or other distinguished personage who would pay for the honor of a dedication, was necessary to the author, and was celebrated with a flattery that seems loathsome to us now. For- tunately, the growth of a reading public has relieved authors from this shameful necessity, a consummation toward which the stand taken by Pope and Johnson led the way. ^ Lines 99-128. The student will do well to compare with the Latin original (11. 56-80), and with the famous passage in Shakespeare's Henry VIII. Both London and The Vanity of Human Wislies are given with useful annotation in Hales's Longer English Poems. SAMUEL JOHNSON, 25 Rome in tumult on the day of the fall of Sejanus ; i the laurels on the doorposts; the v/hite bull stalking towards the Capitol; the statues rolling down from their pedestals ; the flatterers of the disgraced minister running to see him dragged with a hook through the streets, and to have a kick at his carcass before it is hurled into the Tiber. It must be owned, too, that in the concluding passage the Christian moralist has not made the most of his advantages, and has fallen decidedly short of the sublimity of his Pagan model. On the other hand, Juvenal's Hannibal must yield to Johnson's Charles; ^ and Johnson's vigorous and pathetic enumeration of the miseries of a literary life ^ must be allowed to be superior to Juvenal's lamenta- tion over the fate of Demosthenes and Cicero. For the copyright of " The Vanity of Human Wishes " Johnson received only fifteen guineas. A few days after the publication of this poem, his tragedy, begun many years before, was brought on the stage. His pupil, David Garrick, had in 1741 made his appearance on a humble stage in Goodman's Fields,* had at once risen to the first place among actors, and was now, after several years of almost uninterrupted success, manager of Drury Lane The- 1 The infamous minister of the Emperor Tiberius, whose fate had previously given Ben Jonson the subject for a tragedy. See Capes's Early Roman Empire in the Epochs series. Maeaulay is paraphrasing Juvenal. 2 That is, the great Charles XII. of Sweden. 3 " Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the gaol." The Vanity of Human Wishes, 1. 160. Johnson's satires have furnished several familiar quotations^ and are strong, though by no means great poems. * Near the Tower. 26 MACAULAY. atre.^ The relation between him and his old precep« tor was of a very singular kind. They repelled each other strongly, and yet attracted each other strongly. Nature had made them of very different clay, and circumstances had fully brought out the natural pecu- liarities of both. Sudden prosperity had turned Gar- rick's head. Continued adversity had soured John- son's temper. Johnson saw, with more envy than became so great a man, the villa, the plate, the china, the Brussels carpet, which the little mimic had got by repeating, with grimaces and gesticulations, what wiser men had written; and the exquisitely sen- sitive vanity of Garrick was galled by the thought that, while all the rest of the world was applauding him, he could obtain from one morose cynic, whose opinion it was impossible to despise, scarcely any comj)liraent not acidulated with scorn. Yet the two Lichfield men had so many early recollections in com- mon, and sympathized with each other on so many points on which they sympathized with nobody else in the vast population of the capital, that though the master was often provoked by the monkey-like im- pertinence of the pupil, and the pupil by the bearish rudeness of the master, they remained friends till they were parted by death. Garrick now brought "Irene" out, with alterations sufficient to displease the author, yet not sufficient to make the piece pleas- ing to the audience. The public, however, listened, with little emotion but with much civility, to five acts of monotonous declamation. After nine repre- sentations^ the play was withdrawn. It is, indeed, * Drury Lane Theatre was opened in 1674 with an address by Dryden. It has been several times rebuilt and is still used— chiefly for pantomimes. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 27 altogether unsuited to the stage, and, even when perused in the closet, will be found hardly worthy of the author. He had not the slightest notion of what blank verse should be. A change in the last syllable of every other line would make the versification of "The Vanity of Human Wishes" closely resemble the versification of "Irene." ^ The poet, however, cleared by his benefit nights, ^ and by the sale of the copyright of his tragedy, about three hundred pounds, then a great sum in his estimation.^ About a year after the representation of "Irene,'* he began to publish a series of short essays on morals, manners, and literature. This species of composition had been brought into fashion by the success of "The Tatler," and by the still more brilliant success of "The Spectator."* A crowd of small writers had vainly attempted to rival Addison. "The Lay Mon- 1 The subject of Johnson's tragedy is the passion of the Sul- tan Mahomet (the Great) for a beautiful Greek slave, Irene. Maeaulay's criticism seems eminently just. The student need not be a master of the technicalities of blank verse in order to feel that Johnson could not write it ; a feeling which will be strengthened by a perusal of the papers on Milton's versification contributed to The Rambler. 2 The author seems to have received the profits of every third night's performance. See Boswell, who gives many in- teresting details about the performance. Johnson took his disap- pointment philosophically. ^ Macau lay naturally has little more to say about Johnson as a poet. The Doctor's greatness did not lie that way, but his two satires, his elegy on Levet (see post), and one or two epitaphs a^d impromptus should be read by the serious student. Of the Latin poems the lines to Cave are excellent, and the version of Pope's Messiah is good. * See the essay on Addison, also Gosse, and, better still, read •elections from both papers, which originated in the fertile brain of Steele, but were made classical by Addison. 28 MA CAUL AY. astery," "The Censor,'^' "The Freethinker," "The Plain Dealer," "The Champion," ^ and other works of the same kind, had had their short day. None of them had obtained a permanent place in our literature; and they are now to be found only in the libraries of the curious. At length Johnson undertook the ad- venture in which so many aspirants had failed. In the thirty-sixth year after the appearance of the last number of "The Spectator," appeared the first num- ber of "The Eambler."2 From March, 1750, to March, 1752, this paper continued to come out every Tuesday and Saturday. From the first, "The Rambler " was enthusiastically admired by a few eminent men. Richardson,^ when only five numbers had appeared, pronounced it equal, if not superior, to "The Spectator." Young and Hartley expressed their approbation not less warmly. Bubb Dodington * — • among whose many faults indif- 1 The Lay Monastery ran from Nov. 16, 1713, to Feb. 15, 1714, under the direction of Sir Richard Blackmore and Mr. Hughes. The Censor, three volumes, appeared in 1717 under Lewis Theobald, the Shakespearean critic. Tlie Freethinker ran for 159 numbers, Mar. 24, 1718, to Sept. 28, 1719, under Ambrose Philips. The Plain Dealer ran for 117 numbers, Mar. 27, 1724, to May 7, 1725, under Aaron Hill. The Champion, two volumes, appeared in 1741, and was directed by no less a person- age than Henry Fielding. 2 Johnson with his accustomed piety composed a special prayer for success on this occasion. The exact dates of the paper are Tuesday, March 20, 1750, to Saturday, March 14, 1752, — 208 numbers, all but about five of which were by Johnson. ^ ^ Samuel Richardson (1689-1761), practically the first English novelist, author of Pamelaj etc. Johnson preferred him to his younger rival, Fielding. Richardson himself wrote No. 97 of The Rambler. ^ The famous author of Night-Thoughts, Dr. Edward Young SAMUEL JOHNSON. 29 ference to the claims of genius and learning cannot be reckoned — solicited the acquaintance of the writer. In consequence, probably, of the good offices of Dod- ington, who was then the confidential adviser of Prince Frederick, two of his Royal Highness 's gen- tlemen carried a gracious message to the printing- office, and ordered seven copies for Leicester House. ^ But these overtures seem to have been very coldly received. Johnson had had enough of the patronage of the great to last him all his life, and was not dis- posed to haunt any other door as he had haunted the door of Chesterfield. By the public "The Rambler" was at first very coldly received. Though the price of a number was only twopence, the sale did not amount to five hun- dred. The profits were therefore very small. But as soon as the flying leaves were collected and re- printed, they became popular. The author lived to see thirteen thousand copies spread over England alone. Separate editions were published for the Scotch and Irish markets. A large party pronounced the style perfect, — so absolutely perfect that in some essays it would be impossible for the writer himself to alter a single word for the better. Another party, not less numerous, vehemently accused him of hav- ing corrupted the purity of the English tongue. The best critics admitted that his diction was too monot- (1681-1765), David Hartley (1705-1757), the metaphysician, und George Bubb Dodington (Lord Melcombe, 1691-1762), a much talked of, and not very highly esteemed, courtier whom Browning has made the subject of one of his Parley ings. ^ The residence of the Prince of Wales, who quarreled with his father, George II. Frederick (1707-1751) was the father of George III. 30 MACAULAY. onous, too obviously artificial, and now and then turgid even to absurdity. But they did justice to the acuteness of his observations on morals and manners, to the constant precision and frequent brilliancy of his language, to the weighty and magnificent eloquence of many serious passages, and to the solemn yet pleas- ing humor of some of the lighter papers. On the question of precedence between Addison and Johnson, — a question which, seventy years ago, was much disputed, — posterity has pronounced a decision from which there is no appeal. Sir Roger, his chaplain and his butler. Will Wimble and Will Honeycomb, the Vision of Mirza, the Journal of the Retired Citi- zen, the Everlasting Club, the Dunmow Elitch, the Loves of Hilpah and Shalum, the Visit to the Ex- change, and the Visit to the Abbey, are known to everybody. 1 But many men and women, even of highly cultivated minds, are unacquainted with Squire Bluster and Mrs. Busy, Quisquilius and Ve- nustulus, the Allegory of Wit and Learning, the Chronicle of the Revolutions of a Garret, and the sad fate of Anningait and Ajut. The last " Rambler " was written in a sad and gloomy hour. Mrs. Johnson had been given over by the physicians. Three days later she died. She left her husband almost broken-hearted. Many people had been surprised to see a man of his genius and learning stooping to every drudgery, and denying himself almost every comfort, for the purpose of sup- plying a silly, affected old woman with superfluities, which she accepted with but little gratitude. But ^ " Dunmow Flitch " is Macaulay's own and not entirely accurate title for Nos. 607, 608 of The Spectator, which are not certainly by Addison. I SAMUEL JOHNSON. 31 all his affection had been concentrated on her. He had neither brother nor sister, neither son nor daugh^ ter. To him she was beautiful as the Gunnings,^ and witty as Lady Mary.^ Her opinion of his writings was more important to him than the voice of the pit of Drury Lane Theatre, or the judgment of " The Monthly Review." The chief support which had sustained him through the most arduous labor of his life was the hope that she would enjoy the fame and the profit which he anticipated from his Dictionary. She was gone ; and in that vast labyrinth of streets, peopled by eight hundred thousand human beings, he was alone. Yet it was necessary for him to set himself, as he expressed it, doggedly to work. After three more laborious years, the Dictionary was at length complete. It had been generally supposed that this great work would be dedicated to the eloquent and accomplished nobleman to whom the Prospectus had been ad- dressed. He well knew the value of such a com- pliment; and therefore, when the day of publication drew near, he exerted himself to soothe, by a show of zealous and at the same time of delicate and judicious kindness, the pride which he had so cruelly wounded. Since the "Ramblers" had ceased to appear, the town had been entertained by a journal called "The 1 Elizabeth (1734-1790) and Maria Gunning (1733-1760) were famous beauties, afterwards the Duchess of Hamilton and Countess of Coventry respectively. 2 Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689-1762), known to Pope and his set as " Lady Mary," was a small poetess better known for her wit and her talents as a letter writer. She originated the famous characterization of Pope as " the wicked wasp of Twickenham." She also introduced inoculation into Europe. 32 MAC A UL AY. World," to which many men of high rank and fash- ion contributed. 1 In two successive numbers of "The World " the Dictionary was, to use the modern phrase, puffed with wonderful skill. The writings of Johnson were warmly praised. It was proposed that he should be invested with the authority of a dictator, nay, of a pope, over our language, and that his deci- sions about the meaning and the spelling of words should be received as final. His two folios, it was said, would of course be bought by everybody who could afford to buy them. It was soon known that *;hese papers were written by Chesterfield. But the just resentment of Johnson was not to be so appeased. In a letter 2 written with singular energy and dig- nity of thought and language, he repelled the tardy advances of his patron. The Dictionary came forth without a dedication. In the preface the author truly declared that he owed nothing to the great, and de- scribed the difficulties with which he had been left to struggle so forcibly and pathetically that the ablest and most malevolent of all the enemies of his fame, Home Tooke,^ never could read that passage without ^ears. The public, on this occasion, did Johnson full jus- tice, and something more than justice. The best 1 Edited by Edward Moore (1712-1757), a forgotten poet, Chesterfield and Horace Walpole wrote for it, and it ran from Jan. 4, 1753, to Dec. 30, 1756 (209 numbers). 2 See Boswell for this justly famous letter. 8 John Home (1736-1812), who subsequently added the name Tooke, is famous as a politician tried for high treason but acquitted, as a philologist whose Diversions of Purley is still read, and as a conversationalist who rivaled Johnson himself. The passage over which he wept is the concluding paragraph of the Preface. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 33 lexicographer may well be content if his productions are received by the world with cold esteem. But Johnson's Dictionary was hailed with an enthusiasm such as no similar work has ever excited. It was, indeed, the first dictionary which could be read with pleasure. The definitions show so much acuteness of thought and command of language, and the passages quoted from poets, divines, and philosophers are so skilfully selected, that a leisure hour may always be very agreeably spent in turning over the pages. ^ The faults of the book resolve themselves, for the most part, into one great fault. Johnson was a wretched etymologist. He knew little or nothing of any Teu- tonic language except English, which, indeed, as he wrote it, w^as scarcely a Teutonic language ; and thus he was absolutely at the mercy of Junius and Skin- ner.2 The Dictionary, though it raised Johnson's fame, added nothing to his pecuniary means. The fifteen hundred guineas which the booksellers had agreed to pay him had been advanced and spent before the last sheets issued from the press. It is painful to relate that, twice in the course of the year which followed ^ Some of the definitions are famous for their humor ; in others Johnson showed his political bias, e. g., Lexicographer.^ a harmless drudge, and Excise, a hateful tax. 2 Francis Junius (1589-1677, of Huguenot extraction) and Stephen Skinner (1623-1667) were scholars who studied the Teutonic languages (i. e., Gothic, German, Scandinavian, Eng- lish, etc.) at a time when little was known of them. Junius is especially entitled to praise for his work in Anglo-Saxon. Macaulay*s criticism is just, but Johnson, in consideration of the general ignorance with regard to etymology, should not be unduly censured. See Boswell for an amusing account of the Doctor's methods of work. H MACAULAY. the publication of this great work, he was arrested and carried to sponging-houses, and that he was twice indebted for his liberty to his excellent friend Kich- ardson. It was still necessary for the man who had been formally saluted by the highest authority as dic- tator of the English language to supply his wants by constant toil. He abridged his Dictionary. He pro- posed to bring out an edition of Shakespeare by sub- scription, and many subscribers sent in their names, and laid down their money; but he soon found the task so little to his taste that he turned to more at- tractive employments. He contributed many papers to a new monthly journal which was called " The Literary Magazine." ^ Few of these papers have much interest, but among them was the very best thing that he ever wrote, a masterpiece both of rea- soning and of satirical pleasantry, the review of Jenyns's^ "Inquiry into the Nature and Origin of Evil." In the spring of 1758 Johnson put forth the first of a series of essays entitled "The Idler." During two years these essays continued to appear weekly. They were eagerly read, widely circulated, and, in- deed, impudently pirated while they were still in the original form, and had a large sale when collected into volumes. "The Idler" may be described as a second part of "The Eambler," somewhat liveli^ and somewhat weaker than the first part.^ ^ Founded in 1756, and lasted about three years, chiefly on Johnson's reputation. 2 Soanie Jenyns (1704-1787), a small poet, member of Parlia- ment, and author of the above-named book, the style of which, was much admired. • The first number appeared Saturday, April 15, 1758; tho SAMUEL JOHNSON, 35 While Johnson was busied with his "Idlers," his mother, who had accomplished her ninetieth year, died at Lichfield. It was long since he had seen her; but he had not failed to contribute largely, out of his small means, to her comfort. In order to defray the charges of her. funeral, and to pay some debts which she had left, he wrote a little book in a single week, and sent off the sheets to the press without reading them over. A hundred pounds were paid him for the copyright; and the purchasers had great cause to be pleased with their bargain, for the book was "Easselas."! The success of "Rasselas" was great, though such ladies as Miss Lydia Languish ^ must have been grievously disappointed when they found that the new volume from the circulating library was little more than a dissertation on the author's favorite theme, the vanity of human wishes ; that the Prince of Abys- sinia was without a mistress, and the princess without a lover; and that the story set the hero and the hero- ine down exactly where it had taken them up. The style was the subject of much eager controversy. "The Monthly Review" and "The Critical Review "^ took 103d and last appeared Saturday, April 5, 1760. Johnson wrote all except perhaps twelve. The increased liveliness may- even be seen in the fictitious names, which are no longer Latin as in The Rambler, but homely English, — such as Dick Linger, Betty Broom, and Deborah Ginger. Between The Rambler and The Idler Johnson wrote twenty-nine papers for The Adventurer of his friend. Dr. Hawkesworth, — so that, all told, he wrote nearly two hundred and twenty-five essays. ^' Rasselas, or the Prince of Abyssinia (1759) is the best known of Johnson's prose works after the Lives of the Poets. 2 A well-known character in Sheridan's Rivals. ® Set up by the Tories in 1756, under the editorship of Smol- lett, as a rival to the Monthly (1749), which was Whi^. 86 MAC AULA Y. different sides. Many readers pronounced the writer a pompous pedant, who would never use a word of two syllables where it was possible to use a word of six, and who could not make a waiting-woman relate her adventures without balancing every noun with another noun and every epithet with another epithet. Another party, not less zealous, cited with delight numerous passages in which weighty meaning was expressed \yith accuracy and illustrated with splen- dor. And both the censure and the praise were merited. About the plan of "Rasselas" little was said by the critics, and yet the faults of the plan might seem to invite severe criticism. Johnson has frequent^ blamed Shakespeare for neglecting the proprieties of time and place, and for ascribing to one age or nation the manners and opinions of another. Yet Shake- speare has not sinned in this way more grievously than Johnson. Easselas and Imlac, Nekayah and Pekuah, are evidently meant to be Abyssinian s of the eighteenth century, for the Europe which Imlac describes is the Europe of the eighteenth century; and the inmates of the Happy Valley talk familiarly of that law of gravitation which Newton discovered, and which was not fully received, even at Cambridge,^ till the eighteenth century. What a real company of Abyssinians would have been may be learned from Bruce's^ "Travels." But Johnson, not content with ^ Newton was a Cambridge man, and that university has been famous for mathematics, hence the use of " even." 2 James Bruce (1730-94), the celebrated African traveler, whose Travels appeared in 1790 in five quarto volumes. The student will recall Johnson's early interest in the Abyssinians and his translation of Lobo. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 37 turning filthy savages, ignorant of their letters and gorged with raw steaks cut from living cows, into philosophers as eloquent and enlightened as himself or his friend Burke, and into ladies as highly ac- comjjlished as Mrs. Lennox^ or Mrs. Sheridan,^ transferred the whole domestic system of England to Egypt. Into a land of harems, a land of polygamy, a land where women are married without ever being seen, he introduced the flirtations and jealousies of our ball-rooms. In a land where there is boundless liberty of divorce, wedlock is described as the indis- soluble compact. "A youth and maiden meeting by chance, or brought together by artifice, exchange glances, reciprocate civilities, go home and dream of each other. Such," says Kasselas, "is the common process of marriage." Such it may have been, and may still be, in London, but assuredly not at Cairo. A writer who was guilty of such improprieties had little right to blame the poet who made Hector quote Aristotle, and represented Julio Romano as flourish- ing in the days of the oracle of Delphi.^ By such exertions as have been described, Johnson 1 Mrs. Charlotte Lennox (1720-1804) was the author of The Female Quixote, a novel of some vogue, and a woman for whom Johnson seems to have had considerable respect. 2 Mrs. Frances Sheridan (1724-1766), the mother of the great dramatist and author of two novels. 3 See Troilus and Cressida, II. ii., and A Winter^s Tale, V. ii. Giulio Romano (1492-1546) was a distinguished Italian painter, a pupil of Raphael's. Maeaulay's criticism of Rasselas is just in the main, but in spite of all its faults the story, like many another classic, retains a hold upori- readers through the general appeal of its central theme and the soundness of its ethical content. Still Johnson was a moralist rather than a story- teller, though he actually tried his hand on a fairy tale (The Fountains^. k 38 MACAULAY. supported himself till the year 1762. In that year a great change in his circumstances took place. He had from a child been an enemy of the reigning dy- nasty. His Jacobite prejudices had been exhibited with little disguise both in his works and in his con- versation. Even in his massy and elaborate Diction- ary, he had, with a strange \yant of taste and judg- ment, inserted bitter and contumelious reflections on the Whig party. The excise, which was a favorite resource of Whig financiers, he had designated as a hateful tax. He had railed against the commissioners of excise in language so coarse that they had seri- ously thought of prosecuting him. He had with diffi- culty been prevented from holding up the lord privy seal ^ by name as an example of the meaning of the word "renegade." A pension he had defined as pay given to a state hireling to betray his country; a pensioner, as a slave of state hired by a stipend to obey a master. It seemed unlikely that the author of these definitions would himself be pensioned. But that was a time of wonders. George III. had as- cended the throne,^ and had, in the course of a few months, disgusted many of the old friends, and con- ciliated many of the old enemies, of his house. The city was becoming mutinous. Oxford was becoming loyal. ^ Cavendishes and Bentincks were murmuring. 1 The keeper of the seal affixed to less important documents and to grants that are afterwards to pass under the great seal (kept by the Lord Chancellor). The lord privy seal is a mem- ber of the cabinet with little work to do. The keeper referred to was Lord Gower, whom Johnson regarded as a renegade be- cause he gave up the Jacobite party. 2 In 1760. , * That is, to the Hanoverians. It has always been loyal, and •lung to the Stuarts as long as possible. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 39 Somersets and Wyndhams^ were hastening to kiss hands. The head of the treasury was now Lord Bute, 2 who was a Tory, and could have no objection to Johnson's Toryism. Bute wished to be thought a patron of men of letters, and Johnson was one of the most eminent and one of the most needy men of letters in Europe. A pension of three hundred a year was graciously offered, and with very little hesi- tation accepted. This event produced a change in Johnson's whole way of life. For the first time since his boyhood, he no longer felt the daily goad urging him to the daily toil. He was at liberty, after thirty years of anxiety and drudgery, to indulge his constitutional indolence, to lie in bed till two in the afternoon, and to sit up talking till four in the morning, without fearing either the printer's devil or the sheriff's officer. One laborious task, indeed, he had bound himseK to perform. He had received large subscriptions for his promised edition of Shakespeare; he had lived on those subscriptions during some years; and he could not, without disgrace, omit to perform his part of the contract. His friends repeatedly exhorted him to make an effort, and he repeatedly resolved to do so. But, notwithstanding their exhortations and his resolutions, month followed month, year followed year, and nothing was done. He prayed fervently against his idleness; he determined, as often as he received the sacrament, that he would no longer doze away and trifle away his time; but the spell under ^ Representative Whig and Tory families respectively. 2 John Stuart, Earl of Bute (1713-1792), became premier in 1762. For a good sketch of his incompetent administration see Macaulay's essay on Chatham. i 40 MACAULAY. which he lay resisted prayer and sacramento His private notes at this time are made up of self- reproaches, "My indolence," he wrote on Easteif Eve in 1764, "has sunk into grosser sluggishness. A ' kind of strange oblivion has overspread me, so that I know not what has become of the last year." Eas« ter, 1765, came, and found him still in the same state. "My time," he wrote, "has been unprofitably spent, and seems as a dream that has left nothing behind. My memory grows confused, and I know not how the days pass over me."^ Happily for his honor, the charm which held him captive was at length broken by no gentle or friendly hand. He had been weak enough to pay serious attention to a story about a ghost which haunted a house in Cock Lane, 2 and had actually gone himself, with some of his friends, at one in the morning, to St. John's Church, Clerkenwell, in the hope of receiving a com- munication from the perturbed spirit. But the spirit, though adjured with all solemnity, remained obstinately silent; and it soon appeared that a naughty girl of eleven had been amusing herself by making fools of so many philosophers. Churchill,^ who, confident in his powers, drunk with popularity, and burning with party spirit, was looking for some man of established fame and Tory politics to insult, celebrated the Cock Lane ghost in three cantos, nick- ^ Johnson's prayers and meditations were collected and pub- lished by George Strahan in 1785. 2 See a chapter in Andrew Lang's recent book, Cock Lane and Common SensCo Doctor Johnson really assisted in detecting the imposture, so that Macaulay is unjust to him. 8 Charles Churchill (1731-1764), a satirist of ability, whose vicious life was much talked of and is still remembered against him. I I SAMUEL JOHNSON. 41 named Johnson Pomposo, asked where the book was which had been so long promised and so liberally paid for, and directly accused the great moralist of cheating. 1 This terrible word proved effectual; and in October, 1765, appeared, after a delay of nine years, the new edition of Shakespeare. This publication saved Johnson's character for honesty, but added nothing to the fame of his abilities and learning. The preface, though it contains some good passages, is not in his best manner. ^ The most valuable notes are those in which he had an opportu- nity of showing how attentively he had, during many years, observed human life and human nature. The best specimen is the note on the character of Polonius.^ Nothing so good is to be found even in Wilhelm Meis- ter's* admirable examination of Hamlet. But here praise must end. It would be difficult to name a more slovenly, a more worthless, edition of any great classic. The reader may turn over play after play without finding one happy conjectural emendation, or one ingenious and satisfactory explanation of a pas- sage which had baffled preceding commentators. Johnson had, in his Prospectus, told the world that 1 Churchill's The Ghost was in four books. "Pomposo " is de- scribed in Book II., 11. 653-688.' In Book HI., 11. 799 seq., the Shakespeare matter is brought in : — " How, for integrity renown.'d, Which booksellers have often found, • He for subscribers baits his hook, And takes their cash — but where 's the book ? " Doctor Johnson said of this satire that he thought Churchill a shallow fellow in the beginning, and had seen no reason for altering his opinion. ^ This judgment will not pass unquestioned. * See Hamlet. * By Goethe — Wilhelm Meister^s LehrjahrCf IV. xiiL 42 MA CAUL AY. tie was peculiarly fitted for the task which he had undertaken, because he had, as a lexicographer, been under the necessity of taking a wider view of the English language than any of his predecessors. That his knowledge of our literature was extensive, is in- disputable. But, unfortunately, he had altogether neglected that very part of our literature with which it is especially desirable that an editor of Shakespeare should be conversant. It is dangerous to assert a negative. Yet little will be risked by the assertion that in the two folio volumes of the En owlish Die- tionary there is not a single passage quoted from any dramatist of the Elizabethan age except Shake- speare and Ben.i Even from Ben the quotations are few. Johnson might easily, in a few months, have made himself well acquainted with every old play that was extant. But it never seems to have occurred to him that this was a necessary preparation for the work which he had undertaken. He would doubtless have admitted that it would be the height of absurd- ity in a man who was not familiar with the works of ^schylus and Euripides to publish an edition of Sophocles. Yet he ventured to publish an edition of Shakespeare without having ever in his life, as far as can be discovered, read a single scene of Massin- ger. Ford, Dekker, Webster, Marlowe, Beaumont, or Fletcher. His detractors were noisy and scurrilous. Those who most loved and honored him had little to say in praise of the manner in which he had dis- charged the duty of a commentator. He had, how- ^ Ben Jonson (1573-1637). Macaulay practically gives a list of the chief Elizabethan dramatists (omitting Middleton, Peele, and one or two others), for whom the student may coiisult Saintsbury's History of Elizabethan Literature. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 43 ever, acquitted himself of a debt which had long lain heavy on his conscience, and he sank back into the repose from which the sting of satire had roused him. He long continued to live upon the fame which he had already won. He was honored by the Univer- sity of Oxford with a doctor's degree,^ by the Royal Academy 2 with a professorship, and by the King with an interview, in which his Majesty most gra- ciously expressed a hope that so excellent a writer would not cease to write. ^ In the interval, however, between 1765 and 1775, Johnson published only two or three political tracts,* the longest of which he could have produced in forty-eight hours, if he had worked as he worked on the Life of Savage and on "Ras- selas." But, though his pen was now idle, his tongue was active. The influence exercised by his conversation, directly upon those with whom he lived, and indirectly on the whole literary world, was altogether without a parallel. His colloquial talents were, indeed, of the highest order. He had strong sense, quick dis- cernment, wit, humor, immense knowledge of litera- ture and of life, and an infinite store of curious anec- dotes. As respected style, he spoke far better than he wrote. Every sentence which dropped from his ^ In 1755, just before his Dictionary was published, Oxford gave him an M. A. Dublin gave him the degree of LL. D. in 1765, Oxford ten years later that of D. C. L. ^ The Royal Academy of Arts was founded in 1768, Sir Joshua Reynolds being its first president. Johnson was made Professor in Ancient Literature, — an honor without salary. 3 In February, 1767, " in the library at the queen's house." See Boswell. * For example, The False Alarm ^- The Patriot; Taxation no Tyranny, etc. 44 MAC A UL AY. lips was as correct in structure as the most nicely balanced period of "The Rambler." But in his talk there were no pompous triads, and little more than a fair proportion of words in "osity" and "ation." All was simplicity, ease, and vigor. He uttered his short, weighty, and pointed sentences, with a power of voice and a justness and energy of emphasis of which the effect was rather increased than diminished by the rollings of his huge form, and by the asthmatic gaspings and puffings in which the peals of his elo- quence generally ended. Nor did the laziness which made him unwilling to sit down to his desk prevent him from giving instruction or entertainment orally. To discuss questions of taste, of learning, of casuistry, in language so exact and so forcible that it might have been printed without the alteration of a word, was to him no exertion, but a pleasure. He loved, as he said, to fold his legs and have his talk out. He was ready to bestow the overflowings of his full mind on anybody, who would start a subject, — on a fellow-passenger in a stage-coach, or on the person who sat at the same table with him in an eating- house. But his conversation was nowhere so brilliant and striking as when he was surrounded by a few friends ^ whose abilities and knowledge enabled them, as he once expressed it, to send him back every ball that he threw. Some of these, in 1764, formed them- selves into a club, 2 which gradually became a formid- ^ It was so with Addison. See the essay on him. 2 It met at the Turk's Head, Soho, and was called the Literary Club after Garrick's death. Macaulay gives the names of all the original members save those of Burke's father-in-law, Dr. Nugent, Mr. Anthony Charaier, and Sir John Hawkins (who wrote a life of Johnson). The club has been continued and SAMUEL JOHNSON. 45 able power in the commonwealth of letters. The verdicts pronounced by this conclave on new books were speedily known over all London, and were suffi- cient to sell off a whole edition in a day, or to con- demn the sheets to the service of the trunk-maker and the pastry cook. Nor shall we think this strange when we consider what great and various talents and acquirements met in the little fraternity. Goldsmith was the representative of poetry and light literature ; Reynolds, of the arts; Burke, of political eloquence and political philosophy. There, too, were Gibbon, the greatest historian, . and Jones, the greatest lin- guist, of the age. Garrick brought to the meetings his inexhaustible pleasantry, his incomparable mim- icry, and his consummate knowledge of stage effect. Among the most constant attendants were two high- born and high-bred gentlemen, closely bound together by friendship, but of widely different characters and habits, — Bennet Langton, distinguished by his skill in Greek literature, by the orthodoxy of his opinions, and by the sanctity of his life; and Topham Beau- clerk,^ renowned for his amours, his knowledge of the gay world, his fastidious taste, and his sarcastic Macaulay in Trevelyan's Life and Letters gives a pleasant account of attending a meeting of it. It maybe noted that in 1749 John- son had started a club which contained, however, no such celeb- rities. The idea of the great Club came from Sir Joshua. 1 Of this list the names of Goldsmith, Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723-1792), Burke, Gibbon (1737-1794), and Garrick are too familiar, or ought to be, to require a note. Macaulay says enough of Langton (1737-1801, who succeeded Johnson at the Royal Academy) and Beauclerk (1739-1780) ; and the student may look up the career of Sir William Jones (1746-1794), whose work as a jurist and oriental linguist is of very high importance. His poem What constitutes a State should also be read. 46 MA CAUL AY. wit. To predominate over such a society was not easy. Yet even over such a society Johnson predomi- nated. Burke might, indeed, have disputed the su- premacy to which others were under the necessity oi submitting. But Burke, though not generally a very patient listener, was content to take the second part when Johnson was present; and the club itself, con- sisting of so many eminent men, is to this day popu- larly designated as Johnson's Club. Among the members of this celebrated body was one to whom it has owed the greater part of its celeb- rity, yet who was regarded with little respect by his brethren, and had not without difficulty obtained a seat among them. This was James Boswell,^ a young Scotch lawyer, heir to an honorable name and a fair estate. That he was a coxcomb and a bore, weak, vain, pushing, curious, garrulous, was obvious to all who were acquainted with him. That he could not reason, that he had no wit, no humor, no eloquence, is apparent from his writings. And yet his writings are read beyond the Mississippi and under the South- ern Cross, and are likely to be read as long as the English exists, either as a living or as a dead lan- guage. Nature had made him a slave and an idolater. His mind resembled those creepers which the bot- anists call parasites, and which can subsist only by clinging round the stems, and imbibing the juices, of stronger plants. He must have fastened himself on somebody. He might have fastened himself on Wilkes,^ and have become the fiercest patriot in the 1 1740-1795. 2 John Wilkes (1727-1797), the notorious demagogue, editor of The North Briton. The society mentioned by Macaulay was founded to help Wilkes in his struggle with Parliament. See the essay on Chatham. SAMUEL JOHNSON, 47 Bill of Rights Society. He miglit have fastened himself on Whitefield,^ and have become the loudest field-preacher among the Calvinistic Methodists. In a happy hour he fastened himself on Johnson. The pair might seem ill-matched. For Johnson had early been prejudiced against Boswell's country. ^ To a man of Johnson's strong understanding and irritable temper, the silly egotism and adulation of Boswell must have been as teasing as the constant buzz of a fly. Johnson hated to be questioned; and Boswell was eternally catechising him on all kinds of subjects, and sometimes propounded such questions as, " What would you do, sir, if you were locked up in a tower with a baby?" Johnson was a water-drinker and Boswell was a wine-bibber, and, indeed, little better than an habitual sot. It was impossible that there should be perfect harmony between two such compan- ions. Indeed, the great man was sometimes provoked into fits of passion, in which he said things which the small man, during a few hours, seriously resented. Every quarrel, however, was soon made up. During twenty years, the disciple continued to worship the master;^ the master continued to scold the disciple, to sneer at him, and to love him. The two friends ordinarily resided at a great distance from each other. Boswell practised in the Parliament House of Edin- burgh, and could pay only occasional visits to Lon- don. During those visits, his chief business was tc watch Johnson, to discover all Johnson's habits, to turn the conversation to subjects about which John- 1 George Whitefield (1714-1770), the famous revivalist. 2 Scotland. Cf. his well-known definition of oats as a grain used as food for horses in England but for people in Scotland. * Boswell first met -Johnson in 1763. I 48 MA CAUL AY. son was likely to say something remarkable, and tc fill quarto note-books with minutes of what Johnson had said. In this way were gathered the materials out of which was afterwards constructed the most interesting biographical work in the world. Soon after the club began to exist, Johnson formed a connection less important, indeed, to his fame, but much more important to his happiness, than his con- nection with Boswell. Henry Thrale — one of the most opulent brewers in the kingdom, a man of sound and cultivated understanding, rigid principles, and liberal spirit — was married to one of those clever, kind-hearted, engaging, vain, pert young women who are perpetually doing or saying what is not exactly right, but who, do or say what they may, are always agreeable.^ In 1765 the Thrales became acquainted with Johnson, and the acquaintance ripened fast into friendship. They were astonished and delighted by the brilliancy of his conversation. They were flat- tered by finding that a man so widely celebrated pre- ferred their house to any other in London. Even the peculiarities which seemed to unfit him for civilized society — his gesticulations, his rollings, his puffings, his mutterings, the strange way in which he put on his clothes, the ravenous eagerness with which he de- voured his dinner, his fits of melancholy, his fits of anger, his frequent rudeness, his occasional ferocity — increased the interest which his new associates J Mrs. Thrale was Hester Lynch Salisbury (1741-1821). She married Thrale in 1763, and after his death, in 1781, was fasci- nated by Gabriel Piozzi, an Italian music-teacher, and married Iiim (1784). In 1786 she issued her valuable Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson. She was a voluminous writer besides and a small poetess. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 49 took in him. For these things were the cruel marks left behind by a life which had been one long conflict with disease and with adversity. In a vulgar hack writer, such oddities would have excited only disgust; but in a man of genius, learning, and virtue, their effect was to add pity to admiration and esteem. Johnson soon had an apartment, at the brewery in Southwark,^ and a still more pleasant apartment at the villa of his friends on Streatham Common. ^ A large part of every year he passed in those abodes, — abodes which must have seemed magnificent and luxu- rious indeed, when compared with the dens in which he had generally been lodged. But his chief pleasures were derived from what the astronomer of his Abys- sinian tale called "the endearing elegance of female friendship." Mrs. Thrale rallied him, soothed him, coaxed him, and, if she sometimes provoked him by her flippancy, made ample amends by listening to his reproofs with angelic sweetness of temper. When he was diseased in body and in mind, she was the most tender of nurses. No comfort that wealth could pur- chase, no contrivance that womanly ingenuity, set to work by womanly compassion, could devise, was wanting to his sick-room. He requited her kind- ness by an affection pure as the affection of a father, yet delicately tinged with a gallantry which, though awkward, must have been more flattering than the attentions of a crowd of the fools who gloried in the names, now obsolete, of buck and maccaroni.^ It ^ A district on the south side of the Thames. 2 About six miles out from what was then the town. ^ Dandy or fop. Cf. " Yankee Doodle." Mac(c)aroni was the name given to a club of fast young men who had been abroad and bad brought back a taste for foreign dress and manners. L 50 MACAULAY. should seem that a full half of Johnson's life, during about sixteen years, was passed under the roof of the Thrales. He accompanied the family sometimes to Bath,i and sometimes to Brighton, ^ once to Wales, and once to Paris. ^ But he had at the same time a house in one of the narrow and gloomy courts on the north of Fleet Street. In the garrets was his library, a large and miscellaneous collection of books, falling to pieces, and begrimed with dust. On a lower floor he sometimes, but very rarely, regaled a friend with a plain dinner, — a veal pie, or a leg of lamb and spinach, and a rice pudding. Nor was the dwelling uninhabited during his long absences. It was the home of the most extraordinary assemblage of inmates that ever was brought together. At the head of the establishment Johnson had placed an old lady named Williams, whose chief recommendations were her blindness and her poverty. But, in spite of her mur- murs and reproaches, he gave an asylum to another lady who was as poor as herself, Mrs. Desmoulins, whose family he had known many years before in Staffordshire. Room was found for the daughter of Mrs. Desmoulins, and for another destitute damsel, who was generally addressed as Miss Carmichael, but whom her generous host called Polly. An old quack doctor named Levett,* who bled and dosed coal-heav- ^ The leading watering-place of the eighteenth century. 2 A famous seaside resort. « In 1775. * For this old quack, who died Jan. 17, 1782, Johnson wrote an elegy entitled On the Death of Mr. Robert Levet, a Practiser in Physic, that for genuine sentiment and admirable style de- serves a high place in its class of compositions, and suggests a regret that its author did not oftener try his hand on similar subJMftf. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 51 ers and hackney - coachmen, and received for fees crusts of bread, bits of bacon, glasses of gin, and sometimes a little copper, completed this strange menagerie. All these poor creatures were at constant war with each other and with Johnson's negro servant Frank. Sometimes, indeed, they transferred their hostilities from the servant to the master, complained that a better table was not kept for them, and railed or maundered till their benefactor was glad to make his escape to Streatham, or to the Mitre Tavern.^ And yet he who was generally the haughtiest and most irritable of mankind, who was but too prompt to resent anything which looked like a slight on the part of a purse-proud bookseller, or of a noble and powerful patron, bore patiently from mendicants, who bu.t for his bounty must have gone to the work- house, insults more provoking than those for which he had knocked down Osborne and bidden defiance to Chesterfield. Year after year Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Desmoulins, Polly and Levett, continued to tor- ment him and to live upon him. The course of life which has been described was interrupted in Johnson's sixty -fourth year by an im- portant event. He had early read an account of the Hebrides, and had been much interested by learning that there was so near him a land peopled by a race which was still as rude and simple as in the Middle Ages. A wish to become intimately acquainted with a state of society so utterly unlike all that he had ever seen, frequently crossed his mind. But it is not probable that his curiosity would have overcome his habitual sluggishness, and his love of the smoke, the mud, and the cries of London, had not Boswell im- » Id Fleet Street. 52 MACAULAY. portuned Mm to attempt the adventure, and offered to be his squire. At length, in August, 1773, John- son • crossed the Highland line, and plunged coura- geously into what was then considered, by most Eng- lishmen, as a dreary and perilous wilderness. After wandering about two months through the Celtic re- gion, sometimes in rude boats which did not protect him from the rain, and sometimes on small shaggy ponies which could hardly bear his weight, he re- turned to his old haunts with a mind full of new images and new theories. During the following year he employed himself in recording his adventures. About the beginning of 1775, his "Journey to the Hebrides " was published, and was, during some weeks, the chief subject of conversation in all circles in which any attention was paid to literature. The book is still read with pleasure. The narrative is entertaining; the speculations, whether sound or un- sound, are always ingenious; and the style, though too stiff and pompous, is somewhat easier and more graceful than that of his early writings. His preju- dice against the Scotch had at length become little more than matter of jest; and whatever remained of the old feeling had been effectually removed by the kind and respectful hospitality with which he had been received in every part of Scotland. It was, of course, not to be expected that an Oxonian Tory should praise the Presbyterian polity and ritual, or that an eye accustomed to the hedgerows and parks of England should not be struck by the bareness of Berwickshire and East Lothian. But even in cen- sure Johnson's tone is not unfriendly. The most enlightened Scotchmen, with Lord Mansfield ^ at their 1 William Murray, Earl of Mansfield (1705-1793), one of the Greatest of British jurists. (• SAMUEL JOHNSON. 63 bead, were well pleased. But some foolish and igno- rant Scotchmen were moved to anger by a little un- palatable truth which was mingled with much eulogy, and assailed him, whom they chose to consider as the enemy of their country, with libels much more dis' honorable to their country than anything that he had ever said or written. They published paragraphs in the newspapers, articles in the magazines, sixpenny pamphlets, five-shilling books. One scribbler abused Johnson for being blear-eyed; another, for being a pensioner ; a third informed the world that one of the doctor's uncles had been convicted of felony in Scot- land, and had found that there was in that country one tree capable of supporting the weight of an Eng- lishman. Macpherson,! whose "Fingal" had been proved in the " Journey "^ to be an impudent for- gery, threatened to take vengeance with a cane. The only effect of this threat was, that Johnson reiterated the charge of forgery in the most contemptuous terms, and walked about, during some time, with a cudgel, which, if the impostor had not been too wise to en- counter it, would assuredly have descended upon him, to borrow the sublime language of his own epic poem, "like a hammer on the red son of the furnace." ^ The details of the Ossian controversy started by James Macpherson's (1738-1796) epic Fingal (1762), which purported to be a translation from the Gaelic bard of the third century, A. D., cannot be given here. It is generally held that Macpherson drew mainly upon his own imagination, for he never produced documentary evidence for his claims. His poems were, however, immensely popular for a while both in England and on the Con- tinent. Thomas Jefferson admired him greatly. 2 In the division entitled " Ostig in Sky." All mention of Macpherson by name is carefully avoided, which doubtless made him more angry. L 54 MAC A UL AY. Of other assailants Johnson took no notice what- ever. He had early resolved never to be drawn into controversy; and he adhered to his resolution with a steadfastness which is the more extraordinary because he was, both intellectually and morally, of the stuff of which controversialists are made. In conversa- tion he was a singularly eager, acute, and pertina- cious disputant. When at a loss for good reasons, he had recourse to sophistry; and when heated by altercation, he made unsparing use of sarcasm and invective. But when he took his pen in his hand, his whole character seemed to be changed. A hun- dred bad writers misrepresented him and reviled him ; but not one of the hundred could boast of having been thought by him worthy of a refutation, or even of a retort. The Kenricks, Campbells, MacNicols, and Hendersons ^ did their best to annoy him, in the hope that he would give them importance by answer- ing them. But the reader will in vain search his works for any allusion to Kenrick or Campbell, to MacNicol or Henderson. One Scotchman, bent on vindicating the fame of Scotch learning, defied him to the combat in a detestable Latin hexameter : — " Maxime, si tii vis, cupio contendere tecum." ^ But Johnson took no notice of the challenge. He had learned, both from his own observation and from literary history, in which he was deeply read, that the place of books in the public estimation is fixed, not by what is written about them, but by what is written in them ; and that an author whose works are likely to live is very unwise if he stoops to wrangle ^ See Hill's or Napier's edition of Boswell for these obscure men. 2 " I desire very much to contend with you if you are willing.** SAMUEL JOHNSON: 55 with detractors whose works are certain to die. He always maintained that fame was a shuttlecock, which could be kept up only by being beaten back as well as beaten forward, and which would soon fall if there were only one battledore. No saying was oftener in bis mouth than that fine apothegm of Bentley,^ that no man was ever written down but by himself. Unhappily, a few months after the appearance of the "Journey to the Hebrides," Johnson did what none of his envious assailants could have done, and to a certain extent succeeded in writing himself down. The disputes between England and her Amer- ican colonies had reached a point at which no ami- cable adjustment was possible. Civil war was evi- dently impending; and the ministers seem to have thought that the eloquence of Johnson might with advantage be employed to inflame the nation against the opposition here, and against the rebels beyond the Atlantic. He had already written two or three tracts in defence of the foreign and domestic policy of the government; and those tracts, though hardly worthy of him, were much superior to the crowd of pamphlets which lay on the counters of Almon and Stockdale.2 But his "Taxation no Tyranny "^ was a pitiable failure. The very title was a silly phrase, ^ Richard Bentley (1662-1742), in some respects the greatest elassical scholar England has produced. He has gained a place in English literature by his masterly Dissertation, in which he showed that the so-called Epistles of Phalaris were spurious, and won a complete victory over such men as Atterbury, Swift, and Temple. See Swift's Battle of the Books, Macaulay's essay on Atterbury, and the Dissertation itself. ^ Well-known booksellers of the period. 8 Appeared in 1775, and was a defense of the government policy toward the American colonies. 56 MACAULAY. which can have been recommended to his choice by nothing but a jingling alliteration which he ought to have despised. The arguments were such as boys use in debating societies. The pleasantry was as awkward as the gambols of a hippopotamus. Even Boswell was forced to own that in this unfortunate piece he could detect no trace of his master's powers. The general opinion was, that the strong faculties which had produced the Dictionary and "The Ram- bler " were beginning to feel the effect of time and of disease, and that the old man would best consult his credit by writing no more. But this was a great mistake. Johnson had failed, not because his mind was less vigorous than when he wrote "Rasselas" in the evenings of a week, but be- cause he had foolishly chosen, or suffered others to choose for him, a subject such as he would at no time have been competent to treat. He was in no sense a statesman. He never willingly read, or thought, or talked about, affairs of state. He loved biogra- phy, literary history, the history of manners; but political history was positively distasteful to him. The question at issue between the colonies and the mother country was a question about which he had really nothing to say. He failed, therefore, as the greatest men must fail when they attempt to do that for which they are unfit; as Burke would have failed if Burke had tried to write comedies like those of Sheridan;^ as Reynolds would have failed if Rey- nolds had tried to paint landscapes like those of 1 Richard Brinsley (Butler) Sheridan (1751-1816) in his Rivals and School for Scandal was, with the possible exception of Goldsmith, the best writer of comedies since Congreve's tima Ke was also a noted orator. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 67 Wilson.^ Happily, Johnson soon had an opportu- nity of proving most signally that his failure was not to be ascribed to intellectual decay. On Easter Eve, 1777, some persons, deputed by a meeting which consisted of forty of the first book- sellers in London, called upon him. Though he had some scruples about doing business at that season, he received his visitors with much civility. They came to inform him that a new edition of the English poets, from Cowley downwards, was in contemplation, and to ask him to furnish short biographical prefaces. He readily undertook the task, a task for which he was preeminently qualified. His knowledge of the literary history of England since the Restoration was unrivalled. That knowledge he had derived partly from books, and partly from sources which had long been closed, — from old Grub Street traditions ; from the talk of forgotten poetasters and pamphleteers who had long been lying in parish vaults ; from the recollections of such men as Gilbert Walmesley, who had conversed with the wits of Button ; ^ Gibber,^ wlic had mutilated the plays of two generations of drama- tists ; Orrery,^ who had been admitted to the society 1 Richard Wilson (1714-1782). 2 Button's coffee-house, near Covent Garden, was frequented by Addison and his friends. Its proprietor had been butler to Lady Warwick. 8 Colley Gibber (1671-1757) was an actor and a dramatist of Versatility who, absurdly enough, was made poet laureate. He was satirized in the Dunciad and felt Dr. Johnson's wrath. He is now remembered chiefly for his Autobiography and for the line, " Richard is himself again," which he introduced into his version of Richard HI. * John Boyle (1707-1662), fifth earl of Orrery, who wrote a biography of Swift. 58 MACAULAY. of Swift; and Savage, who had rendered services of no very honorable kind to Pope.^ The biographer, therefore, sat down to his task with a mind full of matter. He had at first intended to give only a paragraph to every minor poet, and only four or five pages to the greatest name. But the flood of anec dote and criticism overflowed the narrow channel. The work, which was originally meant to consist only of a few sheets, swelled into ten volumes, — small volumes, it is true, and not closely printed. The first four appeared in 1779, the remaining six in 1781.2 The "Lives of the Poets" are, on the whole, the best of Johnson's works. The narratives are as en- tertaining as any novel. The remarks on life and on human nature are eminently shrewd and profound. The criticisms are often excellent, and, even when grossly and provokingly unjust, well deserve to be studied ; for, however erroneous they may be, they are never silly. Ihey are the judgments of a mind tram- meled by prejudice and deficient in sensibility, but vigorous and acute. They therefore generally con- tain a portion of valuable truth which deserves to be separated from the alloy, and at the very worst they mean something, — a praise to which much of what is called criticism in our time has no pretensions. Savage's "Life" Johnson reprinted nearly as it had appeared in 1744. Whoever, after reading that life, will turn to the other lives, will Be struck by the difference of style. Since Johnson had been at ease in his circumstances, he had written little and had 1 Helped him on the Dunciad. See Johnson's Life of Savage, 2 Matthew Arnold edited the more important Lives, and Mk Arthur Waugh has since edited the complete work. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 69 talked much. When, therefore, he, after the lapse of years, resumed his pen, the mannerism which he had contracted while he was in the constant habit of elaborate composition was less perceptible than for- merly; and his diction frequently had a colloquial ease which it had formerly wanted. The improve ^ ment may be discerned by a skiKul critic in the "Journey to the Hebrides," and in the "Lives of the Poets " is so obvious that it cannot escape the notice of the most careless reader. Among the lives the best are, perhaps, those of Cowley, Dryden, and Pope. The very worst is, be- yond all doubt, that of Gray.^ This great work at once became popular. There was, indeed, much just and much unjust censure; but even those who were loudest in blame were at- tracted by the book in spite of themselves. Malone^ computed the gains of the publishers at five or six thousand pounds. But the writer was very poorly remunerated. Intending at first to write very short prefaces, he had stipulated for only two hundred guineas. The booksellers, when they saw how far his performance had surpassed his promise, added only another hundred. Indeed, Johnson, though he did not despise, or affect to despise, money, and though his strong sense and long experience ought to have qualified him to protect his own interests, seems 1 Arnold selected the Lives of Milton, Addison, Swift, Dry- den, Pope and Gray, but he was influenced by the place they occupy in literature. Johnson was not well fitted to appreciate Thomas Gray (1716-1771), but this fact hardly accounts for the deficiencies of his account of that great scholar and poet. 2 Edmund Malone (1741-1812), chiefly noted for his labors |tt an editor of Shakespeare. He also edited Boswell. eO MACAULAY. \o have been singularly unskillful and unlucky in his literary bargains. He was generally reputed the first English writer of his time, yet several writers of his time sold their copyrights for sums such as he never ventured to ask. To give a single instance, Robert- son ^ received four thousand five hundred pounds for the "History of Charles V. ; " and it is no disrespect to the memory of Robertson to say that the "History of Charles V." is both a less valuable and a less amusing book than the "Lives of the Poets." Johnson was now in his seventy-second year. The infirmities of age were coming fast upon him. That inevitable event of which he never thought without horror was brought near to him, and his whole life was darkened by the shadow of death. He had often to pay the cruel price of longevity. Every year he lost what could never be replaced. The strange de- pendents to whom he had given shelter, and to whom, in spite of their faults, he was strongly attached by habit, dropped off one by one ; and in the silence of his home he regretted even the noise of their scolding- matches. The kind and generous Thrale was no more, and it would have been well if his wife had been laid beside him. But she survived to be the laughing-stock of those who had envied her, and to draw, from the eyes of the old man who had loved her beyond anything in the world, tears far more bitter than he would have shed over her grave. With some estimable and many agreeable qualities, she was not made to be independent. The control of 1 Dr. William Robertson (1721-1793), one of Johnson's few- Scotch friends. The history of the great Emperor and that relating to America are still standard books, but ^re probably little read. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 61 ft mind more steadfast than her own was necessary to her respectability. While, she was restrained by her husband, — a man of sense and firmness, indulgent to her taste in trifles, but always the undisputed master of his house, — her worst offences had been impertinent jokes, white lies, and short fits of pettish- ness ending in sunny good -humor. But he was gone ; and she was left an opulent widow of forty, with strong sensibility, volatile fancy, and slender judg- ment. She soon fell in love with a music-master from Brescia, in whom nobody but herself could dis- cover anything to admire. Her pride, and perhaps some better feelings, struggled hard against this degrading passion; but the struggle irritated her nerves, soured her temper, and at length endangered her health. Conscious that her choice was one which Johnson could not approve, she became desirous to escape from his inspection. Her manner towards him changed. She was sometimes cold and some- times petulant. She did not conceal her joy when he left Streatham ; she never pressed him to return ; and if he came unbidden, she received him in a manner which convinced him that he was no longer a welcome guest. He took the very intelligible . hints which she gave. He read, for the last time, a chapter of the Greek Testament in the library which had been formed by himself. In a solemn and tender prayer, he commended the house and its inmates to the Di- vine protection, and, with emotions which choked his voice and convulsed his powerful frame, left forever that beloved home for the gloomy and desolate house behind Fleet Street, where the few and evil days which stiy. remained to him were to run out. Here, in June, 1783, he had a paralytic stroke, from which, L 62 MAC AULA Y. however, he recovered, and which does not appear to have at all impaired his intellectual faculties. But other maladies came thick upon him. His asthma tormented him day and night. Dropsical symptoms made their appearance. While sinking under a com- plication of diseases, he heard that the woman whose friendship had been the chief happiness of sixteen years of his life had married an Italian fiddler, that all London was crying shame upon her, and that the newspapers and magazines were filled with allusions to the Ephesian matron ^ and the two pictures in "Hamlet. "2 He vehemently said that he would try to forget her existence. He never uttered her name. Every memorial of her which met his eye he flung into the fire. She, meanwhile, fled from the laughter and hisses of her countrymen and countrywomen to a land where she was unknown, hastened across Mont Cenis, and leafrned, while passing a merry Christmas of concerts and lemonade parties at Milan, that the great man with whose name hers is inseparably asso- ciated had ceased to exist. ^ He had, in spite of much mental and much bodily affliction, clung vehemently to life. The feeling de- scribed in that iine but gloomy paper * which closes the series of his "Idlers " seemed to grow stronger in ^ See Petronius Arbiter, chap. xiii. (Bohn). The matron went down to die in the tomb where her husband was lying dead, and fell in love with a guard stationed near by. The story is found in various forms. 2 Act III. scene iv. ^ Macaulay seems to have done injustice to Mrs. Piozzi andl her husband. Johnson's letter, to the widow, of July 8, 1784, should be read in connection with this passage. It is one of the most pathetic in literature. » , ■* The paper mentioned is an admirable specimen of Johnson's SAMUEL JOHNSON. 63 him as his last hour drew near. He fancied that he should be able to draw his breath more easily in a southern climate, and would probably have set out for Rome and Naples, but for his fear of the expense of the journey. That expense, indeed, he had the means of defraying; for he had laid up about two thousand pounds, the fruit of labors which had made the fortune of several publishers. But he was un- willing to break in upon this hoard, and he seems to have wished even to keep its existence a secret. Some of his friends hoped that the government might be induced to increase his pension to six hundred pounds a year; but this hope was disappointed, and he resolved to stand one English winter more. That winter was his last. His legs grew weaker; his breath grew shorter; the fatal water gathered fast, in spite of incisions which he — courageous against pain, but timid against death — urged his surgeons to make deeper and deeper. Though the tender care which had mitigated his sufferings during months of sickness at Streatham was withdrawn, he was not left desolate. The ablest physicians and surgeons attended him, and refused to accept fees from him. Burke parted from him with deep emotion. Wind- ham ^ sat much in the sick-room, arranged the pil- lows, and sent his own servant to watch at night by the bed. Frances Burney,^ whom the old man had power of moralizing in a sincere and moving way. It should be read by all who are interested in the Doctor, whether as a writer or as a man. ^ William Windham (1750-1810), a noted parliamentary orator. 2 1752-1840, afterwards Madame d'Arblay. (See Macaulay's essay on hey.) Her novel Evelina is a classic worthy of Macau- lay's well-known praise. ^ 64 MA CAUL AY. cherished with fatherly kindness, stood weeping at the door ; while Langton, whose piety eminently qual- ified him to be an adviser and comforter at such a time, received the last pressure of his friend's hand within. When at length the moment, dreaded through so many years, came close, the dark cloud passed away from Johnson's mind. His temper be- came unusually patient and gentle; he ceased to think with terror of death and of that which lies be- yond death; and he spoke much of the mercy of God and of the propitiation of Christ. In this serene frame of mind he died, on the 13th of December, 1784. He was laid a week later in Westminster Abbey, among the eminent men of whom he had been the historian, — Cowley and Denham, Dryden and Congreve, Gay, Prior, and Addison.^ Since his death, the popularity of his works • the "Lives of the Poets" and perhaps "The Vanity of Human Wishes" excepted — has greatly dimin- ished. His Dictionary has been altered by editors till it can scarcely be called his. An allusion to his "Rambler" or his "Idler" is not readily appre- hended in literary circles. The fame even of "Ras- selas " has grown somewhat dim. But, though the celebrity of the writings may have declined, the celeb- rity of the writer, strange to say, is as great as ever. Boswell's book has done for him more than the best ^ For these great inhabitants of " Poets' Corner " the text and notes have already given sufficient explanation, save, perhaps, in the case of William Congreve (1670-1729), the brilliant drama- tist, whose comedies are in some respects unrivaled, and of Matthew Prior (1664-1721), who as a writer of society verse is Btill uneclipsed, though Praed and Austin Dobson have followed iiim. SAMUEL JOHNSON, 65 of his own books could do. The memory of other authors is kept alive by their works, but the memory of Johnson keeps many^of his works alive. The old philosopher is still among us in the brown coat with the metal buttons, and the shirt which ought to be at wash, blinking, puffing, rolling his head, drumming with his fingers, tearing his meat like a tiger, and swallowing his tea in oceans. No human being who has been more than seventy years in the grave is so well known to us. And it is but just to say that our intiij^ate acquaintance with what he would himself have called the anf ractuosities ^ of his intellect and of his temper serves only to strengthen our conviction that he was both a great and a good man.^ ^ That is, the windings and turnings. 2 The style of this concluding paragraph may well be com- pared with that of the conclusion of the essay on Milton. It is much quieter and is free from many of the defects of the more youthful work, yet somewhat lacks the elan of the latter. Indeed, the whole essay shows a chastened Macaulay and so has won high praise from the fastidious critic, whom the panegyric on Milton sometimes displeased, Mr. Matthew Arnold. In its evolution, too, the essay is perfectly simple and straightforward, so that an analysis by paragraphs would be an easy task for the youngest student. This very freedom from complexity accounts IB part for the popularity of the composition. EXTRACTS FROM JOHNSON, BOSWELL, AND PIOZZL The following are quotations from Johnson's Works, Boswell's Johnson^ and Madame Piozzi's Anecdotes of Johnson to which Macaulay refers, directly or indirectly, upon the pages designated. Page 3. Of the power of his memory, for which he was all his life eminent to a degree almost incredible, the following early instance was told me in his presence at Lichfield, in 1776, by his step-daughter, Mrs. Lucy Porter, as related to her by his mother. When he was a child in petticoats, and had learnt to read, Mrs. Johnson one morning put the common prayer-book into his hands, pointed to the collect for the day, and said, " Sam, you must get this by heart." She went upstairs, leaving him to study it : but by the time she had reached the second floor, she heard him following het. " What 's the matter ? " said she. " I can say it," he re- plied ; and repeated it distinctly, though he could not have read it more than twice. Boswell. Page 8. He had another particularity, of which none of his friends ever ventured to ask an explanation. It appeared to me some superstitious habit, which he had contracted early, and from which he had never called upon his reason to dis- entangle him. This was his anxious care to go out or in at a door or passage, by a certain number of steps from a cer- tain point, or at least so as that either his right or his left foot (I am not certain which) should constantly make the first actual movement when he came close to the door or passage. Thus I conjecture : for I have, upon innumerable occasions, observed him suddenly stop, and then seem to count his steps with a deep earnestness ; and when he had neglected or gone wrong in this sort of magical movement, I have seen him go back again, put himself in a proper posture to begin the ceremony, and, having gone through k 94 ADDITIONAL NOTES. it, break from his abstraction, walk briskly on, and join his companion. A strange instance of something of this nature, even when on horseback, happened when he was in the Isle of Skye. Sir Joshua Keynolds had observed him to go a good way about, rather than cross a particular alley in Lei- cester Fields ; but this Sir Joshua imputed to his having had some disagreeable recollection associated with it. . BOSWELL. Page 11. I know not for what reason the marriage ceremony was not performed at Birmingham ; but a resolution was taken that it should be at Derby, for which place the bride and bridegroom set out on horseback, I suppose in very good humour. But though Mr. Topham Beauclerk used archly to mention Johnson's having told him, with much gravity, " Sir, it was a love-marriage on both sides," I have had from my illustrious friend the following curious account of their journey to church upon the nuptial morn (9th July) : — " Sir, she had read the old romances, and had got into her head the fantastical notion that a woman of spirit should use her lover like a dog. So, sir, at first she told me that I rode too fast, and she could not keep up with me ; and when I rode a little slower, she passed me, and com- plained that I lagged behind. I was not to be made the slave of caprice ; and I resolved to begin as I meant to end. I therefore pushed on briskly, till I was fairly out of her sight. The road lay between two hedges, so I was sure she could not miss it ; and I contrived that she should soon come up with me. When she did, I observed her to be in tears." This, it must be allowed, was a singular beginning of con- nubial felicity ; but there is no doubt, that Johnson, though he thus showed a manly firmness, proved a most affectionate and indulgent husband to the last moment of Mrs. Johnson's life ; and in his Prayers and Meditations, we find very remarkable evidence that his regard and fondness for her never ceased even after her death. Boswell. Page 14. " I dined," said he, " very well for eight-pence, with vei good company, at the Pine- Apple in New Street, just by. Sei eral of them had travelled. They expected to meet every dayj but did not know one another's names. It used to cost the] ADDITIONAL NOTES. 95 pest a shilling, for they drank wine ; but I had a cut of meat for sixpence, and bread for a penny, and gave the waiter a penny ; so that I was quite well served, nay, better than the rest for they gave the waiter nothing." Boswell. Johnson loved his dinner exceedingly, and has often said in my hearing, perhaps for my edification, " that wherever the dinner is ill-got there is poverty, or there is avarice, or there is stupidity ; in short, the family is somehow grossly wrong : for," continued he, " a man seldom thinks with more earnestness of anything than he does of his dinner ; and if he cannot get that well dressed, he should be suspected of inaccuracy in other things." One day, when he was speaking upon the subject, I asked him, if he ever huffed his wife about his dinner ? "So often," rr plied he, "that at last she called to me, and said, * Nay, hold, Mr. Johnson, and do not make a farce of thanking God for a dinner which in a few minutes you will protest not eatable.' " Piozzi. Page 17. Two of my companions, who are growing old in idleness are Tom Tempest and Jack Sneaker. Both of them consider themselves as neglected by their parties, and therefore en- titled to credit ; for why should they favour ingratitude ? They are both men of integrity, where no factious interest is to be promoted ; and both lovers of truth, when they are not heated with political debate. Tom Tempest is a steady friend to the house of Stuart. He can recount the prodigies that have appeared in the sky, and the calamities that have afflicted the nation every year from the Revolution ; and is of opinion, that, if the exiled family had continued to reign, there would have neither been worms in our ships, nor caterpillars on our trees. He won- ders that the nation was not awakened by the hard frost to a revocation of the true king, and is hourly afraid that the whole island will be lost in the sea. He believes that King William burnt Whitehall that he might steal the furniture ; and that Tillotson died an atheist. Of Queen Anne he speaks with more tenderness, owns that she meant well, and can tell by whom and why she was poisoned. In the succeeding reigns all has been corruption, malice, and design. He be- lieves that nothing ill has ever happened for these forty 96 ADDITIONAL NOTES. /• years by chance or error : he holds that the battle of Det- tingen was won by mistake, and that of Fontenoy lost by contract ; that the Victory was sunk by a private order ; that Cornhill was fired by emissaries from the council ; and the arch of Westminster bi^dge was so contrived as to sink, on purpose that the nation might be put to charge. He considers the new road to Islington as an encroachment on liberty, and often asserts that broad wheels will be the ruin of England. Tom is generally vehement and noisy, but nevertheless has some secrets which he always communicates in a whisper. Many and many a time has Tom told me, in a corner, that our miseries were almost at an end, and that we should see, in a month, another monarch on the throne ; the time elapses without a revolution ; Tom meets me again with new in- telligence, the whole scheme is now settled, and we shall see great events in another mouth. Johnson, Idler, No. 10. Nor deem, when Learning her last prize bestows, The g-litt'ring eminence exempt from woes ; See, when the vulgar 'scape, despised or awed, Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud. From meaner minds though smaller fines content, The plunder'd palace, or sequester'd tent ; Mark'd out by dangerous parts, he meets the shock, And fatal Learning leads him to the block : Around his tomb let Art and Genius weep, But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep. Johnson, The Vanity of Human Wishes. Page 18. Mr. Johnson's hatred of Scotch is so well known, and so many of his bonmots expressive of that hatred have been already repeated in so many books and pamphlets, that it is perhaps scarcely worth while to write down the conversation between him and a friend of that nation, who always resides in London, and who at his return from the Hebrides asked him, with a firm tone of voice, what he thought of his coun- try ? ** That it is a very vile country to be sure, sir;" re- turned for answer Dr. Johnson. " Well, sir ! " replies the other, somewhat mortified, " God made it." " Certainly he did," answers Mr. Johnson again, "but we must always remember that he made it for Scotchmen, and comparisons are odious, Mr. S ; but God made hell." Piozzi. ADDITIONAL NOTES, 97 Page 22. Sir Joshua Reynolds told me, that upon his return from Italy he met with it [the Life of Savage'] in Devonshire, knowing nothing of its author, and began to read it while he was standing with his arm leaning against a chimney-piece. It seized his attention so strongly, that, not being able to lay- down the book till he had finished it, when he attempted to move, he found his arm totally benumbed. The rapidity with which this work was composed is a wonderful circum- stance. Johnson has been heard to say, " I wrote forty-eight of the printed octavo pages of the * Life of Savage ' at a sit- ting ; but then I sat up all night." Boswell. Page 23. While the Dictionary was going forward, Johnson lived part of the time in Holborn, part in Gough Square, Fleet Street ; and he had an upper room fitted up like a count- ing-house for the purpose, in which he gave to the copyists their several tasks. The words partly taken from other dictionaries, and partly supplied by himself, having been first written down with spaces left between them, he de- livered in writing their etymologies, definitions, and various significations. The authorities were copied from the books themselves, in which he had marked the passages with a black-lead pencil, the traces of which could easily be effaced. I have seen several of them, in which that trouble had not been taken ; so that they were just as when used by the copyists. It is remarkable, that he was so attentive in the choice of the passages in which words were authorised, that one may read page after page of his Dictionary with im- provement and pleasure. Boswell. Page 24. In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand, Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand : To him the church, the realm, their powers consign, Through him the rays of regal bounty shine, Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows. His smile alone security bestows : Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, I Claim leads to claim, and power advances power ; Till conquest unresisted cease to please. And rights submitted, left him none to cease. At length his sovereign frowns — the train of state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. 98 ADDITIONAL NOTES, Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye, His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly ; Now drops at once the pride of awful state, The golden canopy, the glittering plate, The regal palace, the luxurious board. The liveried army and the menial lord. With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd, He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings. And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. Johnson, The Vanity of Human Wishes, Page 25. On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide ; A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; Behold surrounding kings their power combine, And one capitulate, and one resign : Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; *' Think nothing gain'd," he cries, " till nought remain. On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, And all be mine beneath the Polar sky." His fall was destined to a barren strand, A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; He left a name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale. Johnson, The Vanity of Human Wishes. As I went into his room the morning of my birthday once and said to him, "Nobody sends me any verses now, because I am five-and-thirty years old ; and Stella was fed with them till forty-six, I remember." My being just re- covered from illness and confinement will account for the manner in which he burst out suddenly, for so he did with- out the least previous hesitation whatsoever, and without having entertained the smallest intention towards it half & minute before : — " Oft in danger, yet alive, We are come to thirty-five ; Long may better years arrive, Better years than thirty-five. ADDITIONAL NOTES, 99 Could philosophers contrive Life to stop at thirty-five, Time his hours should never driTe O'er the bounds of thirty-five. High to soar, and deep to dive, Nature gives at thirty-five. Ladies, stock and tend your hive, Trifle not at thirty-five ; For howe'er we boast and strive, Life declines from thirty-five : He that ever hopes to thrive Must begin by thirty-five ; And all who wisely wish to wive Must look on Thrale at thirty-five." ** And now," said he, as I was writing them down, " you may see what it is to come for poetry to a Dictionary- maker ; you may observe that the rhymes run in alphabet- ical order." And so they do. Piozzi^ Page 27. on the death of mb. robert levet, a practiser in PHYSIC. Condemn'd to Hope's delusive mind, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away. Well tried through many a varying year, See Levet to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere. Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind ; Nor letter'd arrogance deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting nature call'd for aid. And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy display' d The power of art without the show. In misery's darkest cavern known. His useful care was ever nigh. Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely want retired to die. 100 ADDITIONAL NOTES. No summons mock'd by chill delay, No petty gain disdain'd by pride, The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walk'd their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; And sure th' Eternal Master found The single talent well employ'd. The busy day — the peaceful night, Unf elt, uncounted, glided by ; His frame was firm — his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then, with no fiery throbbing pain. No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain. And freed his soul the nearest way. Johnson. EPITAPH FOR MR. HOGARTH. The hand of him here torpid lies, That drew th' essential form of grace ; Here closed in death th' attentive eyes. That saw the manners in the face. Johnson. Page 28. "Almighty God, the giver of all good things, without whose help all labour is ineffectual, and without whose grace all wisdom is folly : grant, I beseech Thee, that in this my undertaking, thy Holy Spirit may not be withheld from me, but that I may promote thy glory, and the Salvation both of myself and others ; grant this, O Lord, for the sake of Jesus Christ, Amen." Johnson, Prayer on The Rambler. Page 30. Her wedding-ring when she became his wife was, after death, preserved by him, as long as he lived, with an affec- tionate care, in a little round wooden box, in the inside of which he placed a slip of paper, thus inscribed by him in fair characters, as follows: — ADDITIONAL NOTES. 101 "EheuI "ELIZ. JOHNSON " NuPTA Jul. 9° 1736, " mortua, eheu ! " Mart. 17° 1752." Boswell. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. February 7, 1755. " My Lord, " I have been lately informed by the proprietor of * The World ' that two papers, in which my ' Dictionary ' is recommended to the public, were written by your lord- ship. To be so distinguished, is an honour, which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge. " When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre ; — that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending ; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could ; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little. " Seven years, my lord, have now past, since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door ; dur- ing which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before. " The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love and found him a native of the rocks. " Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind ; but it has been delayed till I 102 ADDITIONAL :nOTES. am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it ; till I am solitary and cannot impart it ; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself. " Having carried on my work thus far with so little obli- gation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disap- pointed though I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long av/akened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself with so much exulta- tion. My Lord, your lordship's most humble, most obe- dient servant, Sam. Johnson." There is a curious minute circumstance which struck me in comparing the various editions of Johnson's " Imitations of Juvenal." In the tenth Satire* one of the couplets upon the vanity of wishes even for literary distinction stood thus : — " Yet think what ills the scholar's life assail, Toil, envy, want, the garret, and the jail." But after experiencing the uneasiness which Lord Chester- field's fallacious patronage made him feel, he dismissed the word garret from the sad group, and in all the subsequent editions the line stands " Toil, envy, want, the Patron, and the jail." BOSWEIX. Page 32. The Preface furnishes an eminent instance of a double talent, of which Johnson was fully conscious. Sir Joshua Reynolds heard him say, " There are two things which I am confident I can do very well : one is an introduction to any literary work, stating what it is to contain, and how it should be executed in the most perfect manner ; the other is a conclusion, showing from various causes why the exe- cution has not been equal to what the author promised to himself and to the public." Boswell. " In this work, when it shall be found that much is omitted, let it not be forgotten that much likewise is performed ; and though no book was ever spared out of tenderness to the author, and the world is little solicitous to know whence proceeded the faults of that which it condemns ; yet it may ADDITIONAL NOTES. 103 gratify curiosity to inform it, that the English Dictionary was written with little assistance of the learned, and with- out any patronage of the great ; not in the soft obscurity of retirement, or under the shelter of academick bowers, but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow : and it may repress the triumph of malignant criti- cism to observe, that if our language is not here fully dis- played, I have only failed in an attempt which no human powers have hitherto completed. If the lexicons of ancient tongues, now immutably fixed, and comprised in a few vol- umes, be yet, after the toil of successive ages, inadequate and delusive ; if the aggregated knowledge, and cooperat- ing diligence of the Italian academicians, did not secure them from the ©ensure of Beni ; if the embodied criticks of France when fifty years had been spent upon their work, were obliged to change its economy, and give their second edi- tion another form ; I may surely be contented without the praise of perfection, which, if 1 could obtain, in this gloomy solitude, what would it avail me ? I have protracted my work till most of those whom I wish to please have sunk into the grave, and success and miscarriage are empty sounds : I therefore dismiss it with frigid tranquillity, hav- ing little to fear or hope from censure or from praise." Johnson, Preface to the Dictionary, concluding paragraph. Page 33. A few of his definitions must be admitted to be erroneous. Thus, Windward and Leeward, though directly of opposite meaning, are defined identically the same way ; as to which inconsiderable specks it is enough to observe, that his Pre- face announces that he was aware that there might be many such in so immense a work ; nor was lie at all disconcerted »when an instance was pointed out to him. A lady once asked him how he came to define Pastern the knee of a horse : instead of making an elaborate defence, as she expected, he at once answered, * Ignorance, Madam, pure ignorance." BOSWELL. Page 34. Many of these excellent essays were written as hastily as an ordinary letter. Mr. Langton remembers Johnson, when on a visit to Oxford, asking him one evening how long It was till the post went out ; and on being told about half an 104 ADDITIONAL NOTES. hour, he exclaimed, " Then we shall do very well." He upon this instantly sat down and finished an " Idler," which it was necessary should be in London the next day. Mr. Langton having signified a wish to read it, " Sir (said he) you shall not do more than I have done myself." He then folded it up and sent it off. Boswell. Page 44. That the most minute singularities which belonged to him, and made very observable parts of his appearance and man- ner, may not be omitted, it is requisite to mention, that, while talking, or even musing as he sat in his chair, he commonly held his head to one side towards his right shoulder, and shook it in a tremulous manner, moving his body backwards and forwards, and rubbing his left knee in the same direction, with the palm of his hand. In the intervals of articulating he made various sounds with his mouth, sometimes as if ruminating, or what is called chew- ing the cud, sometimes giving a half-whistle, sometimes making his tongue play backwards from the roof of his mouth, as if clucking like a hen, and sometimes protruding it against his upper gums in front, as if pronouncing quickly, under his breath, too, too, too : all this accompanied some- times with a thoughtful look, but more frequently with a smile. Generally, when he had concluded a period, in the course of a dispute, by which time he was a good deal ex- hausted by violence and vociferation, he used to blow out his breath like a whale. This, I suppose, was a relief to his lungs ; and seemed in him to be a contemptuous mode of expression, as if he had made the arguments of his oppo- nent fly like chaff before the wind. Boswell. Page 45. | Not very long after the institution of our Club, Sir Joshua Reynolds was speaking of it to Garrick. " I like it much," said he, "I think I shall be of you." When Sir Joshua mentioned this to Dr. Johnson, he was much displeased with the actor's conceit. " He 7/ be of us," said Johnson, " how does he know we will permit him ? The first duke in England has no right to hold such language." However, when Garrick was regularly proposed, some time afterwards, Johnson, though he had taken a momentary offence at his arrogance, warmly and kindly supported him, and he was ADDITIONAL NOTES. 105 accordingly elected, was a most agreeable member, and continued to attend our meetings to the time of his death. BOSWELL. Page 45. Dr. Goldsmith said once to Dr. Johnson that he wished for some additional members to the Literary Club, to give it an agreeable variety, " for," said he, " there can now be no- thing new among us : we have travelled over one another's minds." Johnson seemed a little angry, and said, " Sir, you have not travelled over my mind, I promise you." BoswELL. Page 61. "Almighty God, Father of all mercy, help me by Thy grace, fhat I may with humble and sincere thankfulness remember the comforts and conveniences which I have enjoyed at this place, and that I may resign them with holy submission, equally trusting in thy protection when Thou givest and when Thou takest away. Have mercy upon me, O Lord, have mercy upon me. To thy fatherly protection, O Lord, I commend this family. Bless, guide and defend them, that they may so pass through this world as finally to enjoy in thy presence everlasting happiness, for Jesus Christ's sake, Amen." " I was called early," his note continues, " I packed up my bundles and used the foregoing prayer, with my morning devotions somewhat, I think, enlarged. Being earlier than the family, I read St. Paul's farewell, in the Acts, and then, read fortuitously in the Gospels, which was my parting use of the library." Johnson, Prayer on leaving Thrale^s Family. Page 62. No. 103. Satueday, April 5, 1760. Respicere ad longse jussit spatia ultima vitse. Juv. Much of the pain and pleasure of mankind arises from the conjectures which every one makes of the thoughts of others ; we all enjoy praise which we do not hear, and resent con- tempt which we do not see. The Idler may therefore be forgiven, if he suffers his imagination to represent to him what his readers will say or think when they are informed that they have now his last paper in their hands. 106 ADDITIONAL NOTES. Value is more frequently raised by scarcity than by use. That which lay neglected when it was common, rises in es- timation as its quantity becomes less. We seldom learn the true want of what we have, till it is discovered that we can have no more. This essay will, perhaps, be read with care even by those who have not yet attended to any other ; and he that finds this late attention recompensed, will not forbear to wish that he had bestowed it sooner. Though the Idler and his readers have contracted no close friendship, they are perhaps both unwilling to part. There are few things not purely evil, of which we can say, without some emotion of uneasiness, " this is the last." Those who never could agree together, shed tears when mutual dis- content has determined them to final separation; of a place which has been frequently visited, though without pleasure, the last look is taken with heaviness of heart ; and the Idler, with all his chillness of tranquillity, is not wholly unaffected by the thought that his last essay is now before him. This secret horror of the last is inseparable from a thinking being, whose life is limited, and to whom death is dreadful. We always make a secret comparison between a part and the whole : the termination of any period of life reminds us that life itself has likewise its termination ; when we have done anything for the last time, we involuntarily reflect that a part of the days allotted us is past, and that as more are past there are less remaining. It is very happily and kindly provided, that in every life there are certain pauses and interruptions which force con- sideration upon the careless, and seriousness upon the light ; points of time where one course of action ends, and another begins ; and by vicissitudes of fortune, or alteration of em- ployment, by changes of place or loss of friendship, we are forced to say of something, " this is the last." An even and unvaried tenour of life always hides from our apprehension the approach of its end. Succession is not perceived but by variation ; he that lives to-day as he lived yesterday, and expects that as the present day is, such will be the morrow, easily conceives time as running in a circle and returning to itself. The uncertainty of our duration is impressed commonly by dissimilitude of condition ; it is only ADDITIONAL NOTES. 107 by finding life changeable that we are reminded of its shortness. This conviction, however forcible at every new impression, is every moment fading from the mind ; and partly by the inevitable incursion of new images, and partly by voluntary exclusion of unwelcome thoughts, we are again exposed to the universal fallacy ; and we must do another thing for the last time, before we consider that the time is nigh when we shall do no more. As the last Idler is published in that solemn week which the Christian world has always set apart for the examination of the conscience, the review of life, the extinction of earthly desires, and the renovation of holy purposes ; I hope that my readers are already disposed to view every incident with seriousness, and improve it by meditation ; and that when they see this series of trifles brought to a conclusion, they will consider that, by outliving the Idler, they have passed weeks, months, and years, which are now no longer in their power ; that an end must in time be put to everything great, as to everything little ; that to life must come its last hour, and to this system of being its last day, the hour at which probation ceases and repentance will be vain : the day in which every work of the hand, and imagination of the heart shall be brought to judgment, and an everlasting futurity shall be determined by the past. Johnson. Page 62. to mrs. piozzi. London, July 8th, 1784. Dear Madam, — What you have done, however I may lament it, I have no pretence to resent, as it has not been injurious to me ; I therefore breathe out one sigh more of tenderness, per- haps useless, but at least sincere. »I wish that God may grant you every blessing, that you may be happy in this world for its short continuance, and eternally happy in a better state ; and whatever I can con- tribute to your happiness I am very ready to repay, for that kindness which soothed twenty years of a life radically I wretched. Do not think slightly of the advice which I now presume to offer. Prevail upon Mr. Piozzi to settle in England : you 108 ADDITIONAL NOTES. may liye here with more dignity than in Italy, and with more security; your rank will be higher, and your fortune more under your own eye. I desire not to detail all my reasons ; but every argument of prudence and interest is for England, and only some phantoms of imagination seduce you to Italy. I am afraid, however, that my counsel is vain, yet I have eased my heart by giving it. When Queen Mary took the resolution of sheltering her- self in England, the Archbishop of St. Andrews, attempting to dissuade her, attended on her journey; and when they came to the irremediable stream that separated the two king- doms, walked by her side into the water, in the middle of which he seized her bridle, and with earnestness proportioned to her danger and his own affection pressed her to return. The queen went forward. If the parallel reaches thus far, may it go no farther. — The tears stand in my eyes. I am going into Derbyshire, and hope to be followed by your good wishes, for I am, with great affection, your, &c., Johnson. SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER STUDY. 109 SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER STUDY. Special points for investigation are suggested throughout the footnotes to the essay; to these the following may be added : — Endeavor through reading such books as Tom BrowrCs School- days to get a good idea of the life led by a pupil of a great Eng- lish public school. Consider in connection with Johnson's experiences at Oxford the alienation from their universities of such great writers as Milton, Dryden, Gibbon, and Shelley. Name other great English authors whose physical defects were notorious, e. g. Pope. Examine one of the early volumes of The Gentleman's Magazine. Examine a few pages of Johnson's Dictionary and compare them with some great modern dictionary. tRead Johnson's London^ Vanity of Human Wishes, and On the Death of Mr. Robert Levet. Read Rasselas, and try to form an opinion as to the justice of Macaulay's criticism, also to determine why the story became and has remained a classic. Compare Johnson's Irene with Addison's Cato and read the chapter on the drama of the eighteenth century in Brander Matthews's The Development of the Drama. This chapter can also be found in The Sewanee Review for January, 1903. Read Johnson's account of Gray in his Lives of the Poets, and compare with it the essays on Gray by Matthew Arnold and James Russell Lowell. Read one or more of the best of Johnson's Lives, e. g. that of Cowley. (See page 59.) Read one or more of the best of the Rambler papers (page 30) and compare Johnson's early with his later style. Read Johnson's Preface to his edition of Shakespeare. (Part of this may be found in Garnett's English Prose from Elizabeth to Victoria.) Widen your acquaintance with Garrick, Burke, Gibbon, Gold- smith, and others of Dr. Johnson's great contemporaries, using the articles in Craik's English Prose, the Encyclopcedia Britan- nica and the Dictionary of National Biography, Boswell's Life of Johnson, histories of English literature in the eighteenth century, 110 SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER STUDY. and the bibllog^raphies given in such a book as J. Scott Clark's Study of English Prose Writers. What part was played by Dr. Johnson in the publication of Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield ? Contrast the positions taken by Johnson and Burke with re- gard to the struggle of the American colonies against Great Britain. Is it likely that any one in our day could become such a liter* ary dictator as Johnson was ? I I 2Dl)f IStijeWttie iliteraturc ^ttite L'ALLEGRO AND OTHER POEMS BY JOHN MILTON EDITED BY HORACE E. SCUDDER mTH SUPPLEMENTARY NOTES FOR CARE- FUL STUDY, BY HENRY W. BOYNTON, M. A HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY Boston : 4 Park Street ; New York : 85 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 378-388 Wabash Avenue Copyright, 1895 and 1896, By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. All rights reserved. CONTENTS. Biographical Sketch 5 On Reading Milton's Veese , , 13 L'Allegro and II Penseroso Introductory Note 18 I. L'Allegro , ... 19 XI. II Penseroso .•••••••••23 CoMus : A Mask Introductory Note •••••••••38 Comus •••••...41 LVCIDAS Introductory Note . . . • 81 Lycidas 83 Sonnets I. On his being arrived to the age of twenty-three . , 93 II. To the Lord General Fairfax ,93 III. To the Lord General Cromwell 94 IV. To Sir Henry Vane the Younger . . • • • 95 V. On the Late Massacre in Piemont • • • • • 95 VL On his Blindness . ..,««.»• 96 BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH. John Milton was born in the heart of London, December 9, 1608. His father was born very near the time of Shakespeare's birth, and was a student at Oxford in his youth. It was while he was a student that England was wavering between Catholicism and Protestantism. The poet's grandfather held to the old order, and when his son was found leaning toward the new he disinherited him, and left him to his own devices. Thereupon the student went up to London, and shortly established himself as a scrivener, a term applied to men at that time who were copyists of legal docaments, law stationers, and draftsmen also of legal papers. Milton the scrivener prospered, married, and had three children who lived, a daughter and two sons, John Milton being younger than his sister and seven years older than his brother. Thus the poet came of a father who sympathized with the new order of things, and who was a con- temporary of Shakespeare. Shakespeare died when Milton was eight years old, but Milton was nearly thirty when Ben Jonson, who was more widely known than Shakespeare in his day, died, and he was eigh- teen years old when Bacon died. Milton's youth therefore was contemporaneous with the closing years of the august period of English dramatic poetry, and the glory of the spacious days of the great Queen Elizabeth was still within the near memory of men. He grew up also in a time when there were mutteringa 6 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. of the rising storm which was to shake England to its centre. He must have heard much in his boyhood of the attempt made by King James to marry his son to a Spanish princess, an heir to the throne of Protestant England, and a daughter of the house which was the stanch defender of the Pope, and the great rival and enemy of England in the days of Elizabeth. He must have been aware also of the widening breach between King and Parliament. He was seventeen years old when Charles I. ascended the throne. When this took place, Milton had just been entered ftt Christ's College, Cambridge. His schooldays had been spent in London at St. Paul's school, and he has himself recorded his devotion to books. " My father," he writes, " destined me while yet a little boy for the study of humane letters, which I seized with such eagerness that from the twelfth year of my age I scarcely ever went from my lessons to bed before midnight ; which, indeed, was the first cause of injury to my eyes, to whose natural weakness there were also added frequent headaches. All which not retarding my impetuosity in learning, he caused me to be daily iiistructed both at the grammar-school and under other masters at home ; and then, when I had acquired various tongues and also some not insignificant taste for the sweetness of philosophy, he sent me to Cambridge, one of our two national universities." The great studies in which Milton was nurtured were Latin and Greek. The latter had been generally studied in school only for a generation or so. It was a new study, very much as science is a new study now. Hebrew also was taught, and Mil- ton studied it. Moreover by his father's advice he BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. I learned to read and speak French and Italian, and his best friend at school was Charles Diodati, a young Englishman of Italian descent. But besides his learned studies, Milton was a reader of English poetry. The first folio of Shakespeare's plays was published in 1623, when Milton was fifteen, and it is clear from his own writing that he knew Shakespeare well, but after all Shakespeare was a great dramatist, and Milton was born out of the days when the drama was the great form. The poetry of English origin which he loved best was that of Edmund Spenser, whose Faerie Queene was published in 1590. Spen* ser has sometimes been called the poet's poet. He was Milton's at all events, and when we consider that the body of great English poetry which we know to- day consisted in Milton's time of Chaucer, Spenser, and Shakespeare, and that two of these poets were very modern to him, — for Milton to read Spenser was like our reading Tennyson, — we can see how largely he drew his poetic nourishment from classic literature. Indeed, though scholars did not despise the English tongue, it did not have to them then the value it has now. Bacon wrote his greatest work in Latin so as to be read more generally by scholars, and a considerable body of Milton's poetry is in Latin, When he was nineteen years old he had occasion to engage in a public exercise at college. There had been some Latin speeches, and when they were over^ Milton made an address in English verse to his native language which is interesting for showing the profound respect he had for it, and how energetically he desired to put his best thoughts into it, and to use its best form ; — - 8 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, ** Not those new-fangled toys, and trimming slight, AVhich take our late f antastics with delight, But call those richest robes, and gay'st attire, Which deepest spirits, and choicest wits desire." In his boyhood Milton had scribbled verses. In college, besides his Latin poems he wrote the Ode on the Morning of Chrisfs Nativity, some verses on the death of his sister Anne's infant child, a sonnet on Shakespeare, the sonnets on the university carrier, Hobson, and a number of other poems which are less read but bear the marks of his fine musical sense, his dignity, and the somewhat overmastering influence of his studies. He gained distinction at the univer- sity. He was in favor with the authorities, but unpopular, at first, with his fellow students, who nicknamed him " The Lady," both for the delicacy of his appearance and for a certain reserve of demeanor. There is a picture extant of the poet at the age of ten. It is described as showing a grave, fair boy with auburn hair, having a neat lace frill and a black braided dress which fitted closely round his chest and arms. He was already called a little poet, and his father took the greatest pride in him and taught him the music which he himself loved and knew well. This home-nurtured boy was the reserved, delicate- minded student, who kept aloof from coarse compan- ionship as he had taken little part in boyish gameSo He was thought vain by his fellows, and there is no doubt that he did set a high value on his scholarly and poetic tastes. There is another picture of the poet taken at the age of twenty-one and shows him a singularly clear-faced and handsome fellow. His father evidently intended John Milton to be a priest of the Church of England, but there were two BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, d forces which were at work in the student forbidding this. He was acquiring a certain independence of mind which made him out of sympathy with the grow- ing ecclesiasticism, and he was cherishing a noble am- bition to devote himself to high poetry. So, since his father had now retired from business and taken him- self to a little village named Horton about seventeen miles west of London, here in the midst of green fields intersected by numberless brooks and small streams, he lived quietly and studiously for haK a dozen years. It was during this musing country life in the flush of his opening power that he wrote the minor poems which would have given him a great place in English literature had he never written Paradise Lost ; for here he wrote the lovely pair of poems, L* Allegro and H Penseroso^ here he penned the playful fancies which gave poetic dignity to festi- vals. Arcades and Comus, and here he wrote the elegy Lycidas^ which rose above a personal lament into the place of a noble burst of patriotism. The last line of Lycidas seems to intimate a de- sign on Milton's part to engage in new poetic enter- prises, but if he had such design he laid it aside for a while to carry out a long cherished plan of travel on the continent. In the spring of 1638 he set out by easy stages for Italy and in the fall he was in Flor- ence. With his mind steeped in ancient literature and feeding eagerly on the new Italian literature and art, Milton seems to have had an intellectual feast, and the companionship which he held with the fore- most men in the cities he visited was of the same sort which he held with books. He demanded the best, and by his own attainments made himself welcomed by the best. He visited Galileo, then blind and liv- 10 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ing in retirement, and was constantly with men of scholarship and culture. At home he gave himself up to the life of ancient Rome, and ,he was planning further journeys when news came to him at Naples that turned him homeward. " While I was desirous," he says, " to cross into Sicily and Greece, the sad news of civil war coming from England called me back ; for I considered it disgraceful that, while my fellow-countrymen were fighting at home for liberty, I should be traveling abroad at ease for intellectual purposes." The civil war did more than break up Milton's plans for travel ; it changed the whole course of his life as he had laid it out. For twenty years the poet was lost to view in the patriot, the scholar, and the man of public affairs. For, as already hinted at, Milton had been born into a troubled age, of a family which had taken sides in religion, and the religious contest had become political, so that Puritanism was the sign of protest against kingly monopoly. Milton, with his independ- ent cast of mind and his passionate nature, was in dead earnest and he could not be a mere party fol- lower. He had splendid dreams for England, and all his poetic passion seemed to find vent^ in pamphlet after pamphlet as he took up one question after an- other. Some of these questions were social as well as political, and his own unhappy domestic life gave an impulse to some of his reasoning, for his sudden marriage with Mary Powel turned out badly, and though after a separation she came back to him and bore him three daughters, the bitter disappointment gave occasion for much passionate writing on the subject of divorce. During this stormy period Milton maintained him^ BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 11 self as a schoolmaster, but gave his energy to his writings. The volume of his prose greatly exceeds that of his poetry, but it is like the editorial work of newspapers, very effective for its purpose at the time when written and published, but quite lost to sis'ht afterward. There are one or two of his books, however, especially the one called Areopagitica ; or the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing., which are still read for their noble English and their great thoughts. For the most part, however, his pamphlets were crowded with arguments and invective meant to do execution in the heat of wordy warfare. During the latter part of the period he was Latin Secretary of the Commonwealth under Cromwell; that is, it was his business to translate despatches to and from foreign governments. In the midst of all this clamorous din of public affairs, there came from him those noble spontaneous sonnets which were prompted by the massacre in Piedmont, and by his friendship for Cromwell and Vane. There is an affecting sonnet also on his blindness, for in 1652, when he was forty-three years old, a gradual failing of sight had ended in total blindness. Thus when the end of his hopes for England seemed to have come and the kingdom was restored in 1660, Milton was a poor, blind man, driven into obscurity by the incoming to power of those he had opposed all his life. How strongly he felt all this is seen in his dramatic piece Samson Agonistes. For a while Milton was in hiding and he was forced to give up much of what property he had. He lost besides by fire, but though poor in worldly goods and blind, his mind to him a kingdom was, and so, bidding good-by to courts and the whirl of public life, he re- 12 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. turned to a scholar's ways. The stream which had been diverted returned to the channel of poetry, and the story of his last years is the story of writing Par- adise Lost and Paradise Pegained. He listened to readers and he dictated his poems. In his youth he had pondered over large schemes of verse. Now in his old age, after taking part in a revolution which had been set in motion by love of liberty and a deep religious earnestness, he took the great theme of the human race in its relation to God. The largeness of the poet's ideal, a largeness which had been before him all his life, finds expression in this great epic, just as the beauty which he loved finds expression in the group of poems printed in this little collection. Milton died November 8, 1674. ON EEADING MILTON'S VERSE. The to^ct of the long poems included in this vol« ame follows the edition of 1645 with occasional varia- tions suggested by the edition of 1673. By the end of 1652 Milton had become totally blind, and the earlier edition therefore could be the only one which would have the benefit of his eyesight in the pre- paration of copy and the correction of proof. This is an important consideration, for no one can give the most casual attention to Milton's writings, especially to his verse, without perceiving the scholarly delight which he took in all the niceties of his art. It becomes then of great moment in reading Mil- ton to have his verse just as he left it, and it is fortu- nate that the shorter poems here printed all appeared in the fresh strength of Milton's young manhood. At a superficial view, it is of no consequence whether we read L" Allegro in a text which is modernized, or in a text which scrupulously follows Milton's own. Indeed it might be argued that a listener would be better off if the reader had the aid of the more familiar form, inasmuch as there would be fewer ob stacles for the eye to overcome. But a closer inspec- tion will reveal the advantage which accrues to the slightly archaic form here given. Milton, as a scholar, was one of the arbiters of orthography. The time had not come when diction- ary makers and printers fixed the exact form. Con- sequently he varied the spelling of the same word 14 ON READING MILTON S VERSE. according to the demands of rhythm or even of rhyme to the eye. If he wished the accent to fall lightly on their^ he spelled it thir. If he wrote a line^ " Com, but keep thy wonted state," he allowed himself to spell the rhyme-making word of the next line in the same way, " With eev'n step, and musing- gate." The instances of each sort are many and very inter« esting to trace. The line just quoted affords another example of his delicate ear. He spelled even in a way to show the length of the first syllable and the elision in the second. The reader will perceive re- peatedly how nicely Milton distinguishes by typo- graphic marks between syllables dropped and sylla- bles sounded, and how carefully he indicates the t and the d sounds in past participles. The student of these poems will constantly be delighted by these evidences of Milton's punctilious care. There are other forms of spelling, which are inter- esting in an historical way. When one sees that Milton wrote Plowman^ and center^ and savory^ it sets him reflecting that the orthography which is so strongly contested is not the innovation of an imper° fectly trained lexicographer, and that the usage of a few generations of London writers does not neces-^ sarily determine the best usage of to-day. These and similar points of study and observation, which are sometimes referred to explicitly in the notes and sometimes left for the student to discover to his own pleasure, afford an admirable secondary pursuit in the reading of Milton. Those who read this book for the first time will not be persons unacquainted with the ordinary forms of English, and what they meet ON READING MILTON S' VERSE. 15 here, therefore, will not serve to undermine their confidence in the accepted spelling of the day; but they will be, for the most part, students ready for an introduction to one of the most pregnant subjects for intellectual excitement, the study of words, and the slight variation from regular orthography will suggest many interesting excursions in language It would be hard to find a book better calculated to initiate the student in a course of lexical inquiry than a collection of Milton's minor verse printed just as he intended it to be printed ; the student will have opportunity then to ask. Is this a form which Milton deliberately chose, or is it the common form of language in the time of Milton? and the answer in each case is likely to afford him great interest. We have said that this study of words is a second- ary pursuit. It is a great gain both to teacher and pupil to have such a secondary pursuit when reading the works of a great author. But the primary study of Milton supplies another reason for using a text which follows his own edition. We have hinted at it in referring to Milton's delicate ear. " Angelic," De Quincey calls it, and he adds : " Many are the prima facie anomalous lines in Milton ; many are the suspicious lines, which in many a book I have seen many a critic peering into, with eyes made up for mischief, yet with a misgiving that all was not quite safe, very much like an old raven looking down a marrow bone. In fact, such is the metrical skill of the man, and such the perfection of his metrical sensibility, that, on any attempt to take liberties with a passage of his, you feel as when coming in a forest, upon what seems a dead lion ; perhaps he 16 ON READING MILTON S VERSE. may not be dead ; nay, perhaps he may not be sleep* ing, but only shamming. And you have a jealousy, as to Milton, even in the most flagrant case of almost palpable error, that after all there may be a plot in it. You may be put down with shame by some man reading the line otherwise, reading it with a different emphasis, a different caesura, or perhaps a different suspension of the voice, so as to bring out a new and self-justifying effect." ^ And De Quincey gives an illustration of the singular enrichment of a line by proper reading when he takes a line from Samson Agonistes^ " Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves," and punctuates it thus, following Landor's suggestion, " Eyeless, in Gaza, at the mill, with slaves." " And why ? " he asks ; " because thus ' the grief of Samson is aggravated at every member of the sen- tence.' He (like Milton) was (1) blind ; (2) in a city of triumphant enemies ; (3) working for daily bread ; (4) herding with slaves, — Samson literally, and Milton with those whom he regarded as such." The appeal which great poetry makes is through its splendid music. No comment on L^ Allegro for example, no analysis of its contents, is such an inter- pretation as a beautiful reading aloud of its lovely measures. What would we not give if we could have a phonographic repetition of Milton's own recital ! In the absence of that we come most closely to Milton's voice when we read attentively as he has bidden us read, by his fine distinctions in accent, in length 1 Milton vs. Southey and Landor. Volume IV. of The Works a^ ^omas De Quincey. ON READING MILTONS VERSE. 17 of syllables, in pauses, in the slurring of notes or in sharp staccato speech, in punctuation, in elision. These refinements of reading are very greatly helped by the reading of his text as he meant people should read it. Nevertheless, it is undesirable that in making a first acquaintance with Milton we should be embarrassed by obstacles which do not add either to the music or the meaning of his verse. The fashion of capitaliza- tion, for example, is only a fashion, and therefore no attempt has been made to copy the edition of 1646 in this respect. Again the use of the apostrophe to mark the possessive case was very irregular in Milton's time ; nothing is gained by a departure from the customary regular usage of the present time. Punctuation also is simply an aid to clear reading, and an unaccustomed method is confusing, not helpful. Finally, there are words whose variation in spelling from that now current is rather curious than signifi- cant, and it has been thought better to spell these in the customary form rather ttian to puzzle the reader with unfamiliar and perhaps misleading forms. The present text, therefore, while a verbatim is not a liter' atim copy of that of 1643. L' ALLEGRO AND IL PENSEROSO. INTRODUCTORY NOTE. The titles of these two poems intimate their con- trasted character. Milton was deep in his Italian studies when he wrote of The Joyous Man and The Pensive One, as the titles may freely be rendered. The balance of parts is preserved and in the notes will occasionally be found specific reminders, but it is more in accordance with the spirit of the interpre- tation of poetry to look for the contrasts in masses and in broad counterparts. The scheme, indeed, is slightly artificial, and it may be guessed that Milton with his reflecting nature should have written the second of the poems first, at any rate that he should have given himself to its composition more freely. The two poems are indeed like two pieces of music, one in a major, the other in the minor key, and poetry is apt to find in the minor key a wider range of expression. It would be a good exercise to work out the parallel and contrast which underlie the two poems. It should >iever be lost out of sight in reading them that they nre not descriptive verses, but poems in which nature and human nature alike are seen under " The light that never was, on sea or land ; The consecration, and the Poet's dream." Come admirable remarks on this matter may be found in the introduction by Mark Pattison to the selection of Milton's poems printed in Ward's ITi^ English Poets, Both poems appear to have been written between 1632 and 1638. L' ALLEGRO. Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight bom, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy I 6 Find out some uncouth cell. Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings. And the night-raven sings ; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks, 10 In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou Goddes fair and free, In heav'n^yclep'd Euphrosyne, And h^ men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth 15 With two sister Graces more To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; 2. So natural is this parentage, that at first one is half-disposed to think this was an ancient myth instead of an invention of Milton's. But a moment's reflection upon the word in its origin, for in Greek " melancholy " is " black bile," reminds one how readily the ancients resolved mental disorder into physical ail. 8. Lo-w-brow'd = overhanging. 14. At a birth. As we say one at a time ; so here, it is equivalent to three at one birth. 15. The two sister Graces are Aglaia (Brightness) and Thalia (Bloom). 20 V ALLEGRO. Or whether (as som sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr with Aurora playing, 20 As he met her once a-Maying, There on beds of violets blew, And fresh-blown roses washt in dew, Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair, So buxom, blith, and debonair. 25 Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 3c And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport that wrinkled Care derides. And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as ye go On the light fantastic toe, 21. Ble^