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ClIAHACTER-SKETCIIES. 
 
 ARxXAUD-MACAULAY-KLOPSTOCK AND HIS META 
 MARY SOMERVILLE- MADAME DE STAEL- 
 VOLTAlRE-CHAi\x\D(G-WESLEY. 
 
 BV 
 
 ABEL STEVENS, LL.D 
 
 Uyi7BR3I 
 
 A^EIV YORK: HUNT &- EATON. 
 
 CINCINNATI: CRANSTON dr* STOWE. 
 
 1S89. 
 
Copyright 1882, by 
 
 PHILLIPS & HUNT, 
 
 New York. 
 
 ■i-2-7fO 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTKB PACK 
 
 I. Arnaud, "Pastor and Colonel " — Heroism 5 
 
 II. Macaulay — Literary Life 53 
 
 III. Klopstock and his Met a — Love and Literature. ioS 
 
 IV. Mary Somerville — Woman and Science 154 
 
 V. Madame de Stael — Woman and Literature 186 
 
 VI. Voltaire among the Swiss — Literary Power 248 
 
 VII. Channing — Heresy and Reform 296 
 
 VIII. Wesley — Apostleship 352 
 
'•[JHIVBRSITY] 
 CHARACTER-SKETCHES, 
 
 ARNAUD, "PASTOR AND COLONEL"— HEROISM. 
 
 A NOTABLE old book has been lately repro- 
 duced by the Paris press. It was mostly 
 written by Henri Arnaud, *' Pastor and Colonel of 
 the Vaudois," a man who, preaching, praying, and 
 fighting for the faith which was once delivered 
 unto the saints, would have gladdened the heart 
 of Cromwell, and who deserves to be ranked 
 among the heroes of history. The recent edition 
 of the work is, as nearly as possible, a reproduction 
 in form, typography, etc., of the original edition, 
 issued about a century and three quarters ago. Its 
 full title, almost literally rendered, is " The History 
 of the Glorious Return of the Vaudois into their 
 Valleys ; in which it will be seen that a troop of 
 these people, less than a thousand strong, sus- 
 tained a war against the King of France and the 
 Duke of Sayoy ; made headway against their army 
 of twenty-two thousand men ; opened a passage 
 through Savoy and High Dauphiny; beat many 
 
6 Character-Sketches. 
 
 times the enemy, and at last miraculously re- 
 entered their heritage ; maintained themselves 
 therein, arms in hand, and re-established the wor- 
 ship of God, which had been interdicted during 
 three years and a half. The whole compiled from 
 memoirs which have been faithfully made of all 
 that occurred in this war of the Vaudois," etc. 
 
 We propose to narrate, though it must be in 
 mere outline, the ** Glorious Return ; " but some 
 preliminary pages are necessary. An American 
 writer complains of the comparative ignorance of 
 our Churches respecting the Vaudois — the most 
 interesting people, perhaps, in the whole history of 
 Christendom since the apostolic age. American 
 Christians know, in a vague way, that somewhere in 
 the mountains between France and Italy lived and 
 still linger the Waldenses ; that they have had a 
 curiously antique history; and that, since the uni- 
 fication of Italy, they have been descending their 
 mountains to propagate pure Christianity over the 
 peninsula, for which task they have peculiar advan- 
 tages as Italians, with the national language for 
 their vernacular. 
 
 Only the best-informed minds among us know 
 how surpassingly marvelous has been their history, 
 and how equally marvelous seems their destiny ; 
 that in their valleys, up among the snows and 
 clouds of the Cottian Alps, looking down to the 
 south-eastward upon Italy, and to the north-west- 
 
Arnaud, ''Pastor and Colonel." 7 
 
 ward upon France, they maintained their Church, 
 pure in doctrine, morals, and polity, as that of 
 Scotland itself, while all the rest of Europe fell 
 away into paganized Christianity ; that, according 
 to their local traditions, their religious history 
 dates from the time of Paul's preaching in Rome ; 
 that Paul himself possibly passed through their 
 valleys on his way to Spain ; that, at least, some of 
 his Roman converts, or their early successors, fled 
 at the outbreak of the imperial persecutions into 
 these mountains, and founded the faith which re- 
 mains there in our day; that while, century after 
 century, all the rest of the Christian world was 
 sunk in moral death, and shrouded in the night of 
 the Dark Ages, the pure apostolic light shone un- 
 dimmed on these mountain heights ; that France 
 on the one hand, Italy on the other, prompted by 
 Rome, attempted age after age to break through 
 the Alpine barriers and extinguish the strange 
 heresy, as it was called ; that the one terrible St, 
 Bartholomew's Day of France went on here through 
 successive generations, but in vain ; that every val- 
 ley, almost every cliff, has its traditions of martyr- 
 dom ; that deeds of prowess by the mountaineers, 
 hurling back the hosts of papal invaders, now on 
 France, now on Italy, in at least thirty-three dis- 
 tinct wars, have given them a heroic history never 
 surpassed in the military annals of any other peo- 
 ple, dotting their territory with scores of Ther- 
 
8 Character-Sketches. 
 
 mopylaes and Marathons; that, after centuries of 
 praying, watching, and fighting for their faith, they 
 stood, bearing arms, amid the ruins of their homes 
 and their churches, and laid down their weapons 
 only when a solemn pledge from the enemy con- 
 ceded their rights ; that this pledge was immedi- 
 ately violated, nearly all their heroic men impris- 
 oned in thirteen Piedmontese dungeons, their 
 children put in Catholic schools, their women in 
 nunneries ; that the Vaudois were at last consid- 
 ered extinguished, their own historians, who had 
 fled to other countries, declaring " the ancient 
 Church of the mountains," the " Israel of the Alps," 
 "obliterated," "irrecoverably lost," as one of them 
 said ; that of the fourteen thousand heroic pris- 
 oners of Piedmont all died of starvation or disease 
 save three thousand, who, hberated at last, but 
 forbidden ever to re-enter their valleys, made their 
 way to Protestant Switzerland and Germany ; that 
 seven or eight hundred of them afterward com- 
 bined under a vow to redeem their lost cause and 
 country, armed themselves clandestinely, marched, 
 under the command of their pastor, Arnaud, 
 through the most intricate ravines of Switzerland 
 and Savoy, under the shadow of Mont Blanc, along 
 the cliffs of Mont Cenis, through passages in which 
 only mountaineers could make their way, with no 
 commissariat, each man carrying his own ammuni- 
 tion and food, the CathoHc towns and villas^es 
 
Arnaud, ** Pastor and Colonel." 9 
 
 rising against them, but quailing before them, as if 
 a terror from God had fallen upon the land ; that 
 France on the one hand, Italy on the other, sent 
 armies to arrest their triumphant march, twenty-two 
 thousand men in all; that the band of Vaudois rolled 
 back the enemy in victorious fights, entered their an- 
 cient valleys with singing and shouting, fought the 
 Catholic foe from rock to rock through months, sup- 
 plying themselves with ammunition only by their 
 victories, destroying ten thousand of the enemy in 
 eighteen victorious attacks, winning peace at last, 
 restoring their old ho'mes, schools, and churches, 
 receiving their expatriated wives and children, 
 sheltering even their persecuting sovereign, who 
 had to flee from his enemies below to seek their 
 protection ; and that, re-established in their mount- 
 ains and enfranchised by their government, they 
 are now bearing the Gospel over Italy, and are 
 thus displaying before the eyes of this skeptical age 
 the providential significance of their history. 
 
 Such are a few mere allusions to this remarkable 
 history — the most remarkable, we are inclined to 
 think, on record. We delay not to discuss the 
 questions which have excited so much inquiry 
 among European scholars respecting the date of 
 the origin of the Vaudois, a date lost in the ob- 
 scurity of remote time. We have mentioned their 
 own traditions on the subject, as attested by Ar- 
 naud, in his history of the Glorieuse Rentree, We 
 
lo Character-Sketches. 
 
 know that centuries before the Reformation they 
 were a pure Church ; that their doctrines, forms of 
 worship, church government, show no traces of 
 ever having been reformed, as they show none of 
 ever having needed reform. We know, also, that 
 as early as the fourth century St. Ambrose, Bishop 
 of Milan, testifies that the Church corruptions of 
 Italy had not penetrated these mountains, and 
 that in about the year 1125, Catholic writers allude 
 to them as soiled by inveterate lieresy. These evi- 
 dences are sufficient for our present purpose, and 
 we can now approach our main subject. 
 
 The Glorieuse Rentree originated in the persecu- 
 tions which attended the revocation of the Edict of 
 Nantes. The Vaudois on the French side of the 
 Cottian Alps were, of course, included in that most 
 impolitic and disastrous measure of Louis XIV. 
 The king was determined to extinguish Protestant- 
 ism in France. According to the historian Cape- 
 figue — himself no friend to Protestantism — no less 
 than two hundred and thirty thousand Protestants 
 fled from their country to escape the persecution ; 
 nearly one thousand six hundred of these were 
 preachers, two thousand three hundred were elders 
 of the Churches, fifteen thousand were " gentle- 
 men," the others mostly merchants and artisans — 
 the best in the kingdom. Capefigue's figures were 
 taken from official statistical returns made at the 
 period ; the emigration continued years later. 
 
Arnaud, " Pastor and Colonel/' i i 
 
 Charles Coquerel says that the revocation " kept 
 France under a perpetual St. Bartholomew's for 
 about sixty years," and that more than a million 
 of the best citizens were either driven abroad, 
 sent to the galleys or to dungeons, or put to death. 
 A single province, that of Languedoc, was officially 
 reported to have sacrificed a hundred thousand by 
 the wheel, the sword, or the gibbet. Three years 
 before the revocation, the Protestant pastors re- 
 ported to the Government one million eight hun- 
 dred Protestant households in the kingdom ; in 
 about twenty-five years after that act, the king 
 declared that Protestantism was exterminated in 
 France. His bigoted and ferocious policy had 
 struck disastrously the best interests of his coun- 
 try, but it had laid the foundations of the manu- 
 facturing and commercial prosperity of the Low 
 Countries of England, and of much of Germany, 
 and had given to the American colonies some of 
 their best families, from New Rochelle to Savan- 
 nah. The emigration comprised some twenty-one 
 thousand Protestant soldiers and sailors, and six 
 hundred military officers. Most of these entered 
 foreign service, and avenged on France in many a 
 battle the wrongs of their brethren. Thousands 
 helped to save the Protestant throne of England 
 by fighting in Ireland against the attempt of Louis 
 XIV. to restore the apostate Stuarts. They con- 
 quered their old persecutors at the battle of the 
 
12 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Boyne, and on other Irish fields. Marshal Schom- 
 berg was one of them. Their descendants in Ger- 
 many, still bearing their ancestral names, were 
 among the best heroes of the last war with France ; 
 and Jules Simon, the French statesman, had occa- 
 sion to show his country that the revocation of 
 the Edict of Nantes had given at least eighty 
 eminent officers of the German staff of the terrible 
 invasion of 1870, by which France was trodden in 
 the dust. 
 
 The king's assertion, that his realm was emptied 
 of Protestants, was apparently, though not really, 
 correct. The Protestant houses of worship were 
 either demolished or given to the Catholics. Prot- 
 estant pastors were hanged or broken on the wheel 
 all over the south. None remained except in con- 
 cealment, and with the certainty of death if they 
 were discovered. Their people could worship only 
 in caves, or in recesses of forests. Never was there 
 a more studiedly minute or more diabolical edict 
 issued by a government than the Act of Revoca- 
 tion, and its accompanying acts. They reached all 
 classes and all interests of the Protestant popula- 
 tion. It was death if they were found worshiping 
 in public ; it was the galleys for life if they were 
 heard singing their hymns in their own houses. It 
 was five hundred livres fine if they did not send 
 their children to the Catholic priest for baptism. 
 Protestant marriages were illegal, and their chil- 
 
Arnaud, "Pastor and Colonel." 13 
 
 drcn illegitimate. All children above five years 
 of age were to be taken by the magistrate from 
 Protestant homes. Protestant midwives were for- 
 bidden to assist their Christian sisters in childbirth. 
 Protestant physicians, surgeons, druggists, lawyers, 
 notaries, school-teachers, librarians, booksellers, 
 printers, grocers, were all suppressed — and there 
 were hundreds of thousands of them. All Prot- 
 estant schools, charitable, public, or private, were 
 closed. Protestants could no longer be in any 
 government employment, even as workingmen on 
 the highways. All Bibles and Protestant books 
 were to be publicly burned. " There were bonfires 
 of them," says a good authority, " in every town." 
 Protestants were not allowed to seek employment 
 as servants, nor Protestant families to hire them, 
 the penalty being the galleys for life. Protestant 
 mechanics were not allowed to work without cer- 
 tificates that they had become Catholics. Even 
 Protestant washerwomen were interdicted the com- 
 mon washing-places on the rivers. " In fact," says 
 Samuel Smiles, our best popular authority on 
 French Protestantism, " there was scarcely a degra- 
 dation that could be invented, or an insult that 
 could be perpetrated, that was not practiced upon 
 these poor Huguenots who refused to be of the 
 king's religion." Such was the persecution of the 
 infamous Revocation. According to Coquerel's 
 statement, it drove a million of the French out of 
 
14 Character-Sketches. 
 
 their country, and suppressed a thousand pastors, 
 one tenth of whom were either put to death or en- 
 dured a worse fate in the horrors of the galleys. 
 
 When the king supposed his work of extermina- 
 tion done, he was reminded of the humble Vaudois, 
 hidden away in the ravines of the French side of the 
 Cottian Alps. The atrocious work could not be 
 pronounced complete while these remained. The 
 light might again stream down from these heretic 
 heights upon the plains and towns of southern 
 France. They were one in faith, and in almost 
 every other respect, except political allegiance, 
 with the Italian Vaudois of the other side of the 
 mountains. The king, therefore, demanded the 
 co-operation of the Duke of Savoy in the exter- 
 mination of both. The duke hesitated ; blood 
 enough had flowed in these mountains, and but 
 thirty years before fourteen thousand of their de- 
 voted population had been massacred, in vain; 
 they appeared invincible ; but he had to yield to 
 the superior sovereign, who threatened to* do the 
 bloody work himself and to appropriate the terri- 
 tory as his own. Thus began the thirty-third war 
 against these unconquerable mountaineers. The 
 armies of both nations made simultaneous inva- 
 sions ; terrible struggles ensued at three or four 
 different points, but we cannot here detail them. 
 On Easter Monday, 1686, a general attack was 
 made. The pastor, Arnaud, became this day first 
 
Arnaud, " Pastor and Colonel." 15 
 
 known as a hero— the hope of the persecuted peo- 
 ple for the future, if not for the present. The Duke 
 of Savoy led one attack ; Catinat, with his French, 
 another. Both were hurled back the first day; on 
 the next, Catinat destroyed the little force opposed 
 to him, and massacred men, women, and children. 
 The commanders of the Italian troop sent messen- 
 gers to the Vaudois at other points, assuring them 
 that their brethren in the Valley of St. Martin had 
 surrendered and received pardon ; the positive 
 promise of the duke, assuring them of their pardon, 
 their lives, and liberties, was declared to them, 
 and on this pledge they laid down their arms, sur- 
 rendering impregnable positions. Immediately the 
 pledge was violated; they were loaded with irons, 
 and fourteen thousand of them, according to Ar- 
 naud were incarcerated in the prisons of Piedmont. 
 "Their children," says the historian Mustan, ''were 
 carried off and dispersed through Roman Catholic 
 districts ; their wives and daughters were violated, 
 massacred, or made captives. As for those who 
 still remained, all whom the enemy could seize be- 
 came a prey devoted to carnage, spoliation, fire, ex- 
 cess which cannot be told, and outrages which it 
 would not be possible to describe." 
 
 The great aim of the Revocation was now sup- 
 posed to be accomplished. Louis XIV. declared, as 
 we have seen, that there were no more Protestants 
 in his realm. One of his officers in these mountains 
 
1 6 Character-Sketches. 
 
 wrote that " all the valleys are now depopulated ; the 
 people all killed, hanged, or massacred." '* Rome," 
 says Smiles, ''rang with Te Demns in praise of 
 the final dispersion of the Vaudois." The Pope 
 congratulated the Duke of Savoy in a special brief. 
 Roman Catholics were settled in the valleys on the 
 lands of the dispersed Protestants. It was at this 
 time that one of their historians, a refugee in Lon- 
 don, wrote, " The world looks upon them no other- 
 wise than as irrecoverably lost and finally destroyed." 
 But the Vaudois Church was inextinguishable ; it 
 was still alive in the thirteen dungeons of Piedmont. 
 Of the fourteen thousand prisoners there, many 
 were daily perishing by hunger, thirst, or disease, 
 martyrs for their apparently lost cause ; eleven thou- 
 sand thus perished, according to Arnaud, and the 
 three thousand that at last came forth to wander in 
 foreign lands looked, he says, " more like shadows 
 than men." On reaching Protestant Switzerland 
 they were but " moving skeletons," he adds. The 
 people of Geneva were affected with deepest pity 
 for them, and as they moved along, some to Lau- 
 sanne, some to Berne, to Basle, to Neufchatel, and 
 into Germany, they were not only fed and sheltered^ 
 but many of the feebler sufferers were borne in th^ 
 arms of the good citizens. Some died on the route. 
 The scene reminded the generous Swiss of the 
 hosts who, in the days of their fathers, had filled 
 their highways, fleeing from the horrors of St. 
 
Arnaud, '' Pastor and Colonel." 17 
 
 Bartholomew's in France; and many a devout heart 
 sent up the appeal to heaven, '* How long, O Lord, 
 how long?" They dare not dream that these 
 '* moving skeletons " were soon to rise up like those 
 of the '* valley of vision," and bear again to their 
 ancient mountain heights the standard of the faith, 
 and thence march down at last with triumphant 
 hymns to Rome itself. 
 
 Assuredly such a purpose, in such circumstances, 
 must have been a superhuman inspiration. In the 
 heart of the heroic Pastor Arnaud, and many oth- 
 ers, it was strong at this very moment. The stran- 
 gers were allotted settlements in several places in 
 Switzerland and Germany, but Arnaud had whis- 
 pered the bold design to some hundreds, who there- 
 fore declined remote invitations, and kept together 
 as much as possible, to be ready for the coming 
 hour. There was no visible hope of it, but these 
 men had as much faith as valor. Could the cause 
 of their Lord Christ suffer any final defeat? Why 
 had they been sustained, fighting successfully 
 through more than twelve hundred years against 
 the attempted invasions of Papal corruption and 
 trained armies? Why was almost every valley, 
 every cave, every cliff, of their country consecrated 
 with martyr blood? Was there no providential 
 design in these things? Could not the Lord God 
 of hosts raise up unknown means of salvation for 
 them ? Had not a great man, one Oliver Cromwell, 
 
1 8 Character-Sketches. 
 
 the greatest sovereign who had ever ruled England, 
 made France and Italy tremble when he threat- 
 ened to interpose for them ? Had he not refused 
 to sign a treaty with France till the alarmed Ma- 
 zarin consented to join his intervention ? Had not 
 a greater man, his secretary, one John Milton, the 
 greatest poet of the nations, written for them, and 
 thrilled Europe with his indignant words: 
 
 '* Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 
 Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold," etc. 
 
 And was there not a man of power rising, in the 
 Protestant north, William of Orange, the enemy of 
 their enemy, and one who could aid them ? But 
 what if no help were apparent ? Could God's " al- 
 mightiness," as John Milton delighted to say, 
 could this fail ? Had he not rescued their valleys 
 time and again ? Therefore they silently, but 
 bravely, passed the word along their new, scattered 
 settlements : *' The valleys can and shall be rescued 
 again. We can march into them under the Cap- 
 tain of our salvation — and, if need be, under Him 
 alone." They found in Geneva the old Vaudois 
 hero, Javenel, who had done many a brave deed in 
 the valleys. He was too aged, and too disabled 
 by wounds, to return, but he planned their cam- 
 paign and exhorted them to adhere to it. " You 
 will be told," he said, '' that all France and Italy 
 will be gathered against you. But were it the 
 
Arnaud, *• Pastor and Colonel." 19 
 
 whole world, and only yourselves against all, fear 
 ye the Almighty alone ; he is your protection.' 
 
 This secret must be sacredly kept, for the Prot- 
 estant governments that had given them shelter had 
 delicate relations with France and Savoy, which 
 ought not to be compromised. Three faithful 
 men were sent to spy out the land and report on 
 the route. Arnaud went to Holland, consulted 
 William of Orange, and obtained funds for the out- 
 fit of arms, and other provisions. Tw^ice they 
 started on their march, and had to abandon it and 
 return — their own Protestant friends, the cantonal 
 authorities, interposing and warning them back. 
 Arnaud, though of undaunted courage, had a saga- 
 cious eye, and saw that the hour had not yet come; 
 but he did not allow them to disperse a second 
 time without inspiriting their hope by a sermon at 
 Bex on the text, *' Fear not, little flock ; for it is 
 your Father's good pleasure to give you the 
 kingdom." 
 
 They now waited more than a year, to allay pub- 
 lic suspicion, before resuming the attempt. At 
 last, in August, 1689, they secretly assembled in 
 the woods back of Nyon, on the northern shore 
 of Lake Leman, and, with prayer and preaching 
 from Arnaud, hastily organized. Between eight 
 and nine hundred were there. The secret had 
 been well kept, but the neighboring peasants were 
 wondering at the strange gathering, and reports 
 
20 Character-Sketches. 
 
 would immediately reach the municipal authori- 
 ties. Curiosity to learn what was going on in the 
 forest attracted some fifteen boats to the neighbor- 
 ing shore. Arnaud saw his opportunity. After 
 prayer, at the head of the little army, he ordered 
 the boats to be seized ; their owners were com- 
 pelled to row them across the lake to the Savoy 
 shore. The first passage was successfully made by 
 two o'clock on the night of August 16-17, but the 
 boatmen, fearing for their lives on the Catholic 
 coast, on returning for the remainder escaped up 
 and down the lake. There could be no delay for 
 the waiting two hundred ; the transported little force, 
 now but about seven hundred, were in the enemy's 
 country. They were arrayed in three divisions 
 — main column, vanguard, and rear guard — com- 
 prising nineteen companies under select captains. 
 They had plenty of officers, but Arnaud was their 
 leader. They were near Yvoire, and they knew 
 that the alarm would be spread by daylight through 
 the country. They must pray and move forward 
 immediately. One of their three pastors went in 
 search of a guide, but was taken prisoner by the 
 authorities and sent to Chambery. They imme- 
 diately summoned Yvoire to surrender, threatening 
 to burn it in case of refusal ; it had to open its gates 
 and give up three of its functionaries as hostages, to 
 be taken with the Vaudois to the next town, and to 
 be sent back only when they could be substituted 
 
Arnaud, "Pastor and Colonel." 2\ 
 
 by new hostages — a policy which was maintained 
 throughout the campaign. 
 
 And now commenced this wondrous march, the 
 Gloriaise Rentn^c — compared with which Xeno- 
 phon's Retreat of the Ten Thousand was an insig- 
 nificant feat. The Httle army had no commissariat, 
 as we have said, each man carrying his own provis- 
 ion of food and ammunition ; they had no animals 
 — none but chamois could go where they had to go ; 
 they had no drums — even these would have been an 
 incumbrance ; their only music was that of trump- 
 ets and psalms. We are reminded of that night 
 when the Hebrews began their march for the Holy 
 Land, *' that night of the Lord, to be observed of 
 all the children of Israel in their generations." 
 
 They moved rapidly, but in unbroken order 
 and with unshakable resolution ; their determined 
 bearing struck with awe the hostile populations 
 through which they advanced. They knew that 
 they must sometimes use desperate expedients, but 
 they hesitated before none that were necessary ; 
 they must seize their food as they passed, but they 
 scrupulously paid for it with the money sent from 
 Holland. They could take no prisoners, save hos- 
 tages ; for how could they feed them or guard them 
 through the Alpine passes? and prisoners might 
 soon be more numerous than themselves. They 
 must dispatch them on the spot, and give no quar- 
 ter in battle. Their whole route lay through the 
 
22 Character-Sketches. 
 
 territory of the Catholic government which had at- 
 tempted their extermination ; woe to any man who 
 challenged them ! Few words, decisive acts, were 
 the only ones possible in the emergency. A desper- 
 ate Puritanic rigor was their only policy, and it was 
 grimly expressed in all their features and bearing. 
 The Catholic populations could not mistake them, 
 and recoiled, or obsequiously supplied their needs. 
 Even the priests sometimes laid down their stores 
 before them, and bade them go on '' in the name 
 of God." From town to town they took the nobles 
 of the castles, the priests, or the leading citizens, as 
 hostages ; it was submission or death ; the first alter- 
 native was always chosen, for there could not be a mo- 
 mentary doubt of the determined earnestness of the 
 Vaudois.. They sometimes had forty or more hos- 
 tages, and had no little trouble with the cures and fat 
 friars, who puffed and halted in their difficult mount- 
 ain climbings. On the first day of the march four 
 "gentlemen," or Savoyard knights, *' on horse- back, 
 well armed and followed by peasants," confronted 
 them, demanded wherefore they advanced in this 
 array, and proudly commanded them to lay down 
 their arms. There was but one reply : " Down 
 from your steeds and march with us, our hostages! *' 
 Mounting a hill they saw two hundred armed peas- 
 ants awaiting them, commanded by a Savoyard 
 nobleman. They dispersed them at a blow, broke 
 to pieces their arms, and took some of them as 
 
Arnaud, '* Tastor and Colonkl." 23 
 
 guides, " with the menace," says Arnaud, " of be- 
 in<^ luing to the first tree if they should be found 
 unfaithful." Their commanders wrote to munici- 
 palities beyond that the Vaudois were honest, pay- 
 ing for all they took, demanding only a passage. 
 They prayed their fellow-citizens not to sound the 
 tocsin, and not to appear in arms. Accordingly, 
 during this day the people on the way met them 
 w ith provisions. They halted at Viu, where they 
 were treated with bread and wine, and then re- 
 sumed their march in the moonlight. At St. Jayre 
 the frightened magistrates had rolled out a hogs- 
 head of wine for them into the street, but '' some 
 drank not, fearing it was poisoned." They marched 
 on till midnight, when they sent back their first 
 hostages, and, taking a brief sleep on the ground, 
 after prayer, were early again on their way ; for it 
 was necessary to hasten ; all the country was now 
 in alarm, and the French and Italian troops were 
 in motion to intercept them. They reach the 
 town of Cluse, in the valley of Arve. Mont Blanc 
 towers sublimely above them. The town is walled, 
 and the people hostile ; the municipal authorities 
 threaten them, and bar the gates ; " but it is nec- 
 essary," says Arnaud, "to traverse this town." The 
 inhabitants, under arms, line the fosses, and the 
 peasants are descending the surrounding mount- 
 ains with resounding shouts. There is but a prompt 
 word from the Vaudois ; they must pass, if they 
 
24 Character-Sketches. 
 
 have to break down the walls, and go by fire and 
 sword. Their remaining hostages, fearing for their 
 own lives, write to the municipality to save them; 
 the gates open, and the little troop marches in 
 triumph through lines of awe-struck citizens under 
 arms on either side of the street. Beyond the 
 town bread and wine are sent to them ; the Vau- 
 dois send back money in payment. The leading 
 citizens, admiring their chivalry, or glad for their 
 own escape, send a polite invitation to the officers 
 to return and dine with them ; but there is no time 
 for such courtesies. They forcibly take new hos- 
 tages, and march on for Salanches. They defile 
 through a narrow valley, inaccessible mountains on 
 one side, the Arve, swollen by rains and impassable, 
 on the other. *' Stones rolled down the steeps 
 could have wiped out an army," writes Arnaud. 
 Here they face a town, a castle, and a force of 
 armed peasants, but the latter are content to let 
 them pass unmolested, though they bear off the 
 nobleman of the chateau and his priests as hostages. 
 They have now twenty of these necessary incum- 
 brances — the first men of the country hitherto. 
 
 As they approached Salanches they heard the 
 tocsin ringing ; they must cross a bridge to reach 
 the town, and it was defended by armed men. 
 They rushed forward, and the enemy fled. Once 
 across, the Vaudois formed in order of battle ; for 
 a troop of six hundred were before them. Terror 
 
Arnaud, " Pastor and Colonel/* 25 
 
 (ell upon the town and its defenders. Four monks 
 were sent to parley with them, and offer them pas- 
 sage and two hostages if they would release the 
 forty now with them and hasten away. This was 
 all the Vaudois wished ; but when the two hos- 
 tages appeared they were found to be poverty- 
 stricken townsmen, deux miserableSy says Arnaud. 
 The monks, seeing him indignant, attempted to 
 escape ; he seized two of them and " enrolled them 
 in the company of hostages; " and "it is proper to 
 say," he adds, " that they were of great advantage 
 to us afterward, for their remonstrances, prayers, 
 and intercessions with the enemy on our farther 
 passage were so efficacious that we were astonished 
 at the power of these good fathers over their co- 
 religionists." Threatening now to burn the town, 
 they were allowed to pass on and encamp a league 
 beyond, where they slept under a drenching rain, 
 but " thanking God," says Arnaud, " that the storm 
 probably kept the enemy from rallying " in pursuit 
 of them. The next three days were terrible by rea- 
 son of the weather and the steeps they had to climb. 
 French troops awaited them in the valley of the 
 Is^re, and they must evade them if possible. Pur- 
 chasing ample provision from the peasants, they 
 resolutely moved on, sometimes passing through 
 villages which were deserted by their frightened 
 inhabitants ; at others, meeting armed populations 
 which fled before them. The rain drenched them ; 
 
26 Character-Sketches. 
 
 they waded through " snow up to their knees ; " 
 they scaled Lez Pras and Haute Luce mountains, 
 seven thousand feet above the sea; on the latter 
 they were lost in the clouds, " by which God hid 
 the Vaudois from the eye of their enemies." The 
 ** good and holy exhortations of Arnaud animated 
 the courage of the troops,'* says one of his com- 
 panions, '* under all sorts of miseries in this place, 
 mounting and descending on steps cut in the rock, 
 where twenty persons could have overthrown an 
 army of twenty thousand." They ascended, or 
 rather, says the history, ** crawled up the Col du 
 Bonhomme, knee deep in snow, the rain on their 
 backs," and, standing at last on the heights of the 
 Alps, beheld the valley of Isere, in which the 
 French troops, waiting, were prepared for them. 
 Descending to it, they turned into the valley of 
 Tignes, and thus escaped the enemy. Arriving at 
 the base of Mont Iseran, they thanked God and 
 rested a few hours, Arnaud having had no sleep for 
 about a week. Besides all the horrors of the weather 
 and the mountains which they passed through in 
 these days, they encountered in some places hostile 
 peasant forces ; they heard the tocsin, *' a horrible 
 clatter of all the steeples," says Arnaud; they had 
 to break over barricaded paths guarded by armed 
 mountaineers ; they broke through fortifications 
 which had been erected in anticipation of their 
 former advance ; these were now deserted, but they 
 
Arnaud, "Pastor and Colonel." 27 
 
 were so situated that a small force could have an- 
 nihilated the little army — their failure the year 
 before had saved them. 
 
 The next day, as they passed over Mont Iseran, 
 word reached them that troops awaited them at the 
 foot of Mont Cenis. ** Instead of alarmin<j us," 
 says Arnaud, " this news inflamed our hearts, for, 
 knowing that the strength of our arms depended 
 absolutely on God, for whose glory we fought, we 
 doubted not that he could open our way against 
 all who should attempt to close it." They ad- 
 vanced to Bci-is, where an insolent mob defied 
 them ; they seized their chatelain, their priest, and 
 six of the people, and, scattering the rest, went on- 
 ward. The seventh day (Friday, 23d,) they ascend- 
 ed Mont Cenis ; some of their scouts seized the 
 baggage mules of the Cardinal Ranuzzi, the papal 
 nuncio in France, who had passed on another route 
 to Rome to assist at the election of a Pope. The 
 spoils were rich, but all were given back to the 
 muleteers, except some papers which exposed the 
 designs of the French king. The loss of these 
 documents defeated, it is reported, the hope of the 
 cardinal for the papacy, and he died of mortifica- 
 tion, exclaiming, "' My papers, O my papers .f^ 
 
 The little army traversed the Grande and the 
 Petite Cenis through appalling sufferings — " sur- 
 passing the imagination," says Arnaud. The snow 
 was deep, they lost their way, were enveloped with 
 
28 Character-Sketches. 
 
 clouds. They were overtaken by night ; not a few- 
 sank down exhausted and were left behind, but 
 rejoined the main body the next day in the Valley 
 of the Gaillon. Again climbing the steeps, they 
 could see the mountain outposts of their native val- 
 leys. They were approaching the large and forti- 
 fied towns. Before them stood Exilles; to their left 
 Susa. The struggle onward had been terrible thus 
 far, but now came the severest tug of war. Twen- 
 ty-two thousand French and Italian trained troops 
 were before them, and the seven hundred must 
 soon encounter their outposts. Lut the heroic 
 band advanced, says Arnaud, "with ntrepid cour- 
 age." They attempted to evade the garrison of 
 Exilles through a lateral ravine, but the French 
 troops and peasants fired from the steeps upon 
 them, and rolled down rocks ; the way became im- 
 passable; they lost several men, were forced to retire, 
 and attempted to turn, in another direction, the 
 heights occupied by the enemy. They soon heard 
 drums, and saw the garrison marching to intercept 
 them. Descending the valley of the Doire, they 
 saw before them, on and beyond a bridge, nearly 
 four times their own number, twenty-five hundred 
 troops, with all the provisions of war. What was 
 now to be done? They must pass through this 
 force or go back. The night was falling; could 
 they dare to rush across the guarded bridge, and 
 plunge into this armed host in the darkness? They 
 
Arnaud, " Pastor and Colonel." 29 
 
 counseled and prayed together. Forward was the 
 final, the only, word. They advanced in the dark- 
 ness, and encountered a formidable body of French 
 at the bridge, under the command of Colonel de 
 Larrey. They heeded not a shout from the enemy 
 to halt; they received a volley, and three fell; but 
 they rushed on the bridge, sweeping all before 
 them. Arnaud's sharp eye saw, on the other side, 
 the main body preparing to fire, and quickly cried 
 out, ** Down ! " They bowed, and the volley passed 
 over them. " Forward, the bridge is ours ! " cried 
 one of his captains, and the Vaudois leaped to their 
 feet, and pressed onward under the fire of the whole 
 French force. They threw themselves upon it, 
 broke its line, and prostrated .it every-where. The 
 day, or rather the night, was gloriously won. The 
 whole two thousand five hundred French were 
 dispersed or killed, for no quarter could be given 
 them^ 
 
 " Is it possible," cried their commander, a French 
 marquis, " that I have lost both the battle and my 
 honor!" He escaped wounded, and was carried 
 to Briangon. Seven hundred of the enemy lay 
 dead on the earth when the moon, breaking through 
 the night, enabled the victors to survey the field — 
 one for every man of their own force. The latter 
 had lost but fifteen killed and twelve wounded. 
 Valor and impetuosity had made up for their lack of 
 numbers. They had taken the camp of the enemy. 
 
30 Character-Sketches. 
 
 and were thus supplied abundantly with ammuni- 
 tion and other provisions. 
 
 And now occurred a memorable scene. The 
 Greeks erected monumental trophies on the fields 
 of their victories ; these mountaineers cared for 
 no such commemorations ; but there, under the 
 shadow of the everlasting hills, in the moonlight, 
 they threw up a trophy befitting the occasion — a 
 pyramid of all the baggage and arms of the enemy, 
 beyond what they could carry, over barrels of 
 powder ; and withdrawing, after touching a match, 
 saw the heavens illuminated and felt the earth 
 tremble under an explosion which sent among the 
 heights reverberations such as the Alps probably 
 never echoed before nor since. It was heard, says 
 the history, even in the city of Briangon, in France. 
 As the echoes rolled along the mountain peaks the 
 trumpets sounded ; the victors '* threw their hats 
 toward heaven," writes Arnaud, '' and made the 
 air resound with the shout, ' Glory be to the God 
 of armies, who hath given us the victory over all 
 our enemies ! ' " 
 
 All but six of their forty hostages escaped in the 
 confusion of this battle. The little troop needed 
 rest, for during three days they had marched " day 
 and night ; " but new foes might arrive at any 
 hour ; they employed, therefore, the remainder of 
 " this glorious night to climb, by the favor of the 
 moon, the mountain of Sci," and penetrate to the 
 
Arnaud, ''Pastor and Colonel." 31 
 
 valley of Pragelas. They would thus be in the 
 Vaudois mountains. 
 
 In one week and one day they had made their 
 way through a hostile country, across the most 
 difficult mountain passes, amid rains and snows, 
 and through armed enemies, to the very gates of 
 their own mountains. On the ninth day, Sunday 
 morning, they stood far up on the heights, looking 
 down upon Fenestrelles. Before them lay 'their 
 ancient homes, their consecrated valleys, now occu- 
 pied by Papists and desecrated by more than 
 twenty thousand French and Italian troops wailing 
 for their coming. Arnaud ordered the force to be 
 gathered around him, and pointed to the peaks of 
 their beloved mountains, " exhorting them to thank 
 God, who, after they had passed through such mi- 
 raculous deliverances, permitted them once more 
 to see their old homes." He then offered a prayer 
 " which animated them all anew." Forthwith they 
 marched down into the valley of Pragelas, and en- 
 camped before the church. Though it is the Sab- 
 bath, there is no mass to-day in all the valley, for 
 the " priests, thinking only of their own safety, had 
 taken to flight." They march on toward the val- 
 ley of St. Martin, driving before them some of the 
 dragoons of the enemy, and spend the night on the 
 highest settled point of the Col du Pis. The next 
 morning they discover, at the foot of the mountain, 
 Italian troops, ** well arrayed." They pause that 
 
32 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Arnaud may pray, which he does ''with loud voice 
 and great devotion," and then they move in three 
 columns on the enemy, who take to flight, leaving 
 all their baggage to the Vaudois. The pass was 
 thus opened to the strongest hold in all their 
 mountains, the " famous Balsille," a natural mount- 
 ain fortification, with but a single approach, with 
 three almost inaccessible terraces, with caverns cut 
 into its rocky sides, the old asylums of the perse- 
 cuted mountaineers, now convenient barracks and 
 magazines, and with fountains of good water. 
 Hardly had they reached this important refuge 
 when they perceived a company of ItaHan troops 
 appearing in another part of the valley to hold the 
 pass. The Vaudois rushed upon them, took them, 
 and, after a council of war, '* exhorting them to 
 pray to God," slew them all — a half hundred men 
 lacking two. It was a grim, an atrocious policy, 
 but the enemy had necessitated it by establishing it. 
 All the Vaudois who had been taken prisoners had 
 been immediately hanged ; no rights of war were 
 allowed them. If they were not disposed to retali- 
 ate they nevertheless had no means of guarding 
 their prisoners, and to release them was only to re- 
 enforce the enemy. 
 
 The twelfth day is entitled in the history the 
 " Day of Consolation," for they advanced to Pralis, 
 and, after burning a new Catholic chapel, took 
 possession of one of their own old churches, and, 
 
Arnaud, '• Pastor and Colonel." 33 
 
 divesting it of its Romish paraphernalia, worshiped 
 there again the God of their fathers for the first 
 time since their expulsion. They sung the Seventy- 
 fourth Psalm, an appropriate war-song. Arnaud 
 stood in the door-way, addressing them, within and 
 without, from the One Hundred and Twenty-ninth 
 Psalm : '' Many a time have they afflicted me from 
 my youth, may Israel now say: many a time have 
 they afflicted me from my youth : yet they have not 
 prevailed against me. . . . Let them all be con- 
 founded and turned back that hate Zion." Arnaud 
 writes, " It was remarkable that this first public 
 worship of the returned Vaudois was in the temple 
 served by Pastor Leidet, who, three years before, 
 was hanged for the faith in the fort of St. Michael.'* 
 The whole force chanted the psalm, upon which, 
 also, Arnaud preached. The service ended, all pre- 
 pared to march onward. 
 
 The next day, August 29, after prayer, they ad- 
 vanced for the valley of Luzerne, and had to pass 
 over the Col du Julier. They captured on the 
 way the Marquis de Parelle, an important officer of 
 the enemy. All the country was now swarming 
 with hostile troops. They soon met their vanguard, 
 who shouted to them, " Come on, come on, ye bar- 
 bets of the devil ; we have seized all the forts, and 
 are more than thirty thousand." But the Vaudois 
 drove them back, charged on the fortified position 
 
 of their main force, and in half an hour dispersed 
 3 
 
34 Character-Sketches. 
 
 tliem all, taking their camp, baggage, and am- 
 munition, even to the *' rich habits " of their com- 
 manders, and losing but one of their own heroes, 
 whose name the historian deems worthy to be re- 
 corded : Joshua Mandan, a " valiant man," whom 
 they buried with honors " under a rock." The 
 victors pursued the flying foe as far as the " Pas- 
 sarelles de Julier," and took and slew thirty-one 
 of them. They found, also, the horse of the com- 
 mander, with his pistols yet on the saddle ; the over- 
 throw was complete. The pursuit was continued 
 through the next day, driving the enemy out of Bobi, 
 where the heroes took possession of their ancient 
 homes, and expelled the Catholic intruders who had 
 occupied them for some three years. " Thus," says 
 Smiles, their English historian, '* thus, after a lapse 
 of only fourteen days, this little band of heroes 
 had marched from the shores of the Lake of Ge- 
 neva, by difficult mountain passes, through bands of 
 hostile troops, which they had defeated in two 
 severe fights, and at length reached the very cen- 
 ter of the Vaudois valleys, and entered into pos- 
 session of the promised land." 
 
 Here they paused for an impressive solemnity. 
 The next day was Sunday, Sept. I ; a pulpit was 
 extemporized on the rocks, and one of the pastors, 
 Montaux, mounting it, preached from Luke xvi, i6. 
 Arnaud then proclaimed '* with a loud voice " an 
 oath, to which all responded, " lifting their hands 
 
Arnaud, "Pastor and Colonel." 35 
 
 to God," and swearing " before the face of the 
 hving God and at the damnation of our souls " not 
 to succumb, ** even if reduced to three or four 
 men," but to persist in '' re-estabhshing the reign 
 of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, even unto 
 death." They stood on the hill of Silaoud, and the 
 surrounding mountains — the witnesses, through 
 centuries, of the persecutions of their fathers— re- 
 verberated their chant of the Seventy-fourth Psalm, 
 ** sung to the clash of arms." 
 
 Meanwhile they knew that their hardest trials were 
 yet before them. The enemy was pressing in upon 
 them from all sides. It would not do for them to 
 shut themselves up yet in any stronghold ; not 
 even in the nearly impregnable Balsille, for they 
 could be starved out. They must march and fight 
 through all the country; either they or the mul- 
 titudinous enemy must apparently be utterly over- 
 thrown before the unparalleled struggle could end. 
 The latter was the only alternative they thought of 
 amid the tremendous odds. The combined armies 
 of France and Italy were not only more than twenty 
 thousand strong, but the Catholic peasants were 
 impressed into their service. The little force must 
 fight back nearly thirty-five times their own num- 
 ber. Their only commissariat must be foragings on 
 the herds and stores of the Catholic usurpers of their 
 old lands. They must fight the enemy with the 
 enemy's own ammunition, won by incessant assaults. 
 
^6 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Never did heroes confront worse odds than those now 
 before them. The narrator may well wax dithy- 
 rambic over such a story. But how can we go on 
 with it in our restricted limits ? We have been 
 gleaning, thus far, only salient facts from a hundred 
 and fifty pages of Arnaud, the pastor-colonel ; 
 more than two hundred of his most thrilling pages 
 remain ; but we have followed the gallant little 
 army into the very heart of their old mountain 
 homes ; we can only summarize the remaining and 
 the bravest part of their campaign. 
 
 They had struggled through half a month ; they 
 were to struggle on through nearly ten months 
 more. " The war now became," says Smiles, '' one 
 of reprisals and mutual devastations, the two par- 
 ties seeking to deprive each other of shelter and 
 the means of subsistence. Armies concentrated 
 on the Vaudois from all points. They were pressed 
 by the French on the north and west, by the Pied- 
 montese on the south and east, furnished with all 
 the munitions of war." They fight from valley to 
 valley, from cliff to cliff, " now in one place, and 
 perhaps the next day, some twenty miles across the 
 mountains, in another, with almost invariable suc- 
 cess. It seems little short of miraculous/' They 
 divide their small force to carry on the struggle in 
 separate valleys, sometimes without knowing each 
 other's fate for weeks together. Their clothing 
 has become rags; they often scale heights on 
 
Arnaud, "Pastor and Colonel." 37 
 
 their hands and feet; they are sometimes famish- 
 ing by lack of provisions. They take many prison- 
 ers who have to die ; but one of them they dis- 
 cover to be a surgeon : him they spare, providen- 
 tially for him and themselves; they retain him for 
 their own wounded, and he serves them well, for he 
 knows that instant death would be the consequence 
 of any unfaithfulness. At another time, while Ar- 
 naud is praying, the sentinels see the enemy mov- 
 ing to secure a necessary post on the mountain of 
 Vach^re ; the pastor abridges his prayer and sends 
 a detachment, " who made such diligence and bore 
 themselves so well that they gained the post in the 
 face of the enemy, slaying a hundred of them with- 
 out losing a man." At one time their leader, Ar- 
 naud, is separated from them and seems lost, but 
 " after praying three times with six soldiers who 
 remain with him, he is able to rejoin the band on 
 the mountain of Vendalin." His fellow-pastor, 
 Montaux, is not so fortunate ; he is captured and 
 sent to prison in Turin, where he languished till 
 the end of the war. 
 
 A sadder trial came upon them ; most of the 
 French Vaudois gave up in despair, and retired 
 with Turrel, their chief, down into France. Turrel 
 had been the nominal head of the army, though 
 Arnaud was its real leader, its Leonidas. The re- 
 treating band were nearly all captured by the ene- 
 my, and killed or sent to the galleys, where they 
 
38 Character-Sketches. 
 
 and their leader perished. Smiles can almost apol- 
 ogize for them. " Flesh and blood," he says, " could 
 not endure such toil and privations much longer. 
 No wonder that the faint-hearted began to de- 
 spair." But the Italian Vaudois knew no despair. 
 Arnaud prayed and preached on, and their dimin- 
 ished numbers fought on and conquered almost 
 from day to day. 
 
 Winter was at hand, and they must provide for it. 
 They cut their way through the enemy, toward 
 their ancient stronghold of the Balsille. They 
 never could have reached it again had it not been 
 for their knowledge of the mountain passes, and 
 their ability to climb ; the enemy was waiting for 
 then in all the surrounding valleys, but they scaled 
 the intervening heights by night, and stood in the 
 dawn on the Balsille, above all the hostile hosts. 
 
 Here they immediately laid in provisions by 
 foraging on the neighboring farms, and prepared 
 for the winter and for their fiercest struggle. They 
 made stronger every point of their naturally strong 
 position by barricades and intrenchments one above 
 the other. The winter begins early in these mount- 
 ains, and lasts long; it was now November; ar- 
 mies operate with difficulty at any time in the 
 valleys ; it was now next to impossible ; but the 
 honor of two great sovereigns was concerned in the 
 desperate struggle ; among their troops were regi- 
 ments who had won distinction on historic fields ; 
 
Arxaud, *• Pastor and Colonel." 39 
 
 they were led by eminent officers, who were morti- 
 fied by the superior valor and success of these 
 *' devil's barbets ; " and, above all, the faith was dis- 
 honored. It would not;do to give up, and the con- 
 test went on more or less amid the incessant hor- 
 rors of an Alpine winter. " Through six months 
 the Vaudois beat back every force that was sent 
 against them." Arnaud " preached twice," says 
 the history, " every Sunday, and once every Thurs- 
 day, and prayed with them every morning and 
 evening, very seriously, all kneeling with their faces 
 on the earth." ** They had an unshakable resolu- 
 tion to await with firm foot the enemy, and to no 
 more fatigue themselves in wandering from mount- 
 ain to mountain, as they had done." The repeated 
 assaults of the enemy failing, the latter had to retire 
 to Maneille and Perier for a season, confounded and 
 profoundly chagrined. They burned all the houses 
 and barns around, to deprive the Vaudois of pro- 
 visions, and cried in departing, ** You shall see us 
 again at Easter." The Vaudois, now only four 
 hundred, by the absence of some of their brethren 
 in a distant valley, "commenced to respire again." 
 *' They could say with reason," adds Arnaud, " that 
 the eternal God had declared himself for them." 
 
 Meanwhile favorable overtures are made to them, 
 but they know too well the treachery of the enemy 
 to accept them. They send out frequent detach- 
 ments for forage : they slay the enemy at his out- 
 
40 Character-Sketches. 
 
 posts and burn his outer barracks. At last, on 
 April 30, 1690, while Arnaud is preaching, the foe 
 is seen thronging up the valley and on all the 
 neighboring summits. Tliek position was entirely 
 surrounded. The struggle was recommenced '' un- 
 der the direction of General Catinat in person." 
 *'The enemy," says Arnaud, *' to the number of 
 twenty-two thousand, (ten thousand French, and 
 twelve thousand Italians,) sent a detachment of 
 five hundred men, selected by Catinat to open the 
 attack. On May 2 they reached the first bastion, 
 which had been covered with prostrate trees. They 
 supposed that they had only to draw away the 
 trees and their way would be clear, but they found 
 them made sure by heavy stones. ** Then com- 
 menced so grand a fire from the Vaudois that they 
 prostrated the assailants to the earth. It was a 
 thing surprising, the hail-storm of balls which filled 
 the air; the younger Vaudois recharged the arms 
 while the older fired, insomuch that there was a 
 continual fire, abyssing the enemy, ' while a snow- 
 storm played upon them.* " 
 
 At last the Vaudois made a sortie, and slew the 
 whole assaulting column except ten or twelve, who 
 escaped without hats or arms to report their defeat 
 to the mortified Catinat. '' We must sleep in these 
 barracks to-night," had said, in the morning, their 
 commander. Colonel de Parat ; he was now wounded 
 and taken prisoner, and, after being kept some 
 
Arxaud, "Pastor and Colonel." 41 
 
 time in the Balsillc, was put to death. The enemy 
 lost a colonel, a lieutenant-colonel, and other officers 
 — twenty in all. Not a single Vaudois was killed 
 or wounded on this " bloody day," as Arnaud calls 
 it. *• The French retreated in astonishment to 
 Macer; the Piedmontese, who had been spectators 
 of the bravery of the Vaudois, holding their only 
 way of escape, retired to Champ la Salse." Arnaud 
 preached after the victory, the tears flowing from 
 his eyes, and his flock weeping around him. 
 
 General Catinat was not willing to risk his honor 
 by risking another defeat ; he was hoping for the 
 marshal's baton, and it evidently could never be 
 earned here ; he committed the desperate work to 
 the Marquis de Fenguieres, who determined on 
 thorough measures, and was saluted beforehand as 
 "the conqueror of the barbets." By May 12 the 
 position of the Vaudois was again surrounded ; the 
 neighboring mountains were planted with artillery 
 completely commanding it, and threatening to bat- 
 ter it to fragments ; all the outletting valleys were 
 occupied. Five corps of disciplined troops bore 
 down upon it, each man preceded by a pioneer, 
 who bore for him a protection against the fire of 
 the Vaudois. 
 
 The day of consummate trial for the little corps 
 had now come, and they could fully appreciate it ; 
 but they swerved not ; God had been with them, 
 would he now desert them? They could see no 
 
42 Character-Sketches. 
 
 way of escape ; but had it not seemed that the an- 
 gels of heaven had protected them, that the very 
 stars had fought for them in their courses, and 
 could they not still expect miraculous deliverance ? 
 A French writer, in contemplating their condition, 
 says, " We know not in all history a more striking- 
 illustration of the phrase, * Nothing is impossible to 
 iiim that believeth.' Faith transformed them into 
 heroes, and rendered them invincible." Each man 
 knew that defeat now meant death for each. Yet 
 no man spoke of capitulation. The Marquis de 
 Fengui^res, having arranged all his positions for an 
 overwhelming attack, again sent overtures to them. 
 
 " What is your demand ? " asked the Vaudois of 
 the messenger. 
 
 " That you surrender at once," was the reply ; 
 " if you do so, you shall be accorded passports to a 
 foreign country, and five hundred louis (Tor each ; 
 if you do not you must all perish." 
 
 "That shall be as the Lord will," was their 
 answer. 
 
 The commander wrote to Arnaud again, offering 
 favorable terms, but declaring that if they were de- 
 clined every man taken alive should be hanged. 
 Arnaud wrote back : ** We are not under your 
 French king; he is not master of this country; we 
 can make no treaty with your messieurs ; we are in 
 the heritage that our fathers have possessed in all 
 times, and we shall, by the help of the Lord God ^ 
 
Arnaud, " Pastor and Colonel.** 43 
 
 of armies, live and die here, should there remain 
 only ten men of us. If your cannon fire, our rocks 
 will not be frightened, and we know how to return 
 your fire." That very night the Vaudois made a 
 sortie, slaying a number of the enemy. The mar- 
 quis ordered his guns to be pointed from Mont 
 Guigneverte, his most formidable position, and 
 hung out a white flag, and soon after a red one, to 
 signify that there would be no hope after he began 
 to fire. 
 
 Finally, on May 14, the guns began to play de- 
 structively upon the Vaudois' position ; it had been 
 gallantly held for nearly seven months, but the 
 rocky defenses were now crumbling under power- 
 ful artillery. The assailing columns attacked the 
 Vaudois at three points, " pouring upon us," says 
 Arnaud, " an incessant hail-storm, so thick that, 
 after a hundred thousand shot, we had to abandon 
 our lowest terrace." It w^as no longer tenable, but 
 they ascended to a higher one under protection of 
 a thick mist, which saved them from the fire of a 
 redoubt, which might have swept them to destruc- 
 tion. They fought on till nightfall, but it Was now 
 seen that the stronghold would be battered into 
 ruins and overwhelmed ; they must escape or be 
 lost. How to escape was the question. They were 
 encompassed by tens of thousands of troops and 
 hostile peasants ; all known passes were occupied 
 by the enemy ; if seen the next day attempting to 
 
44 Character-Sketches. 
 
 escape their little troop could be instantly annihi- 
 lated. 
 
 " The night fires of the enemy," writes Arnaud, 
 " were blazing all around ; the obstacles seemed 
 invincible. In fine, we saw that the hand of God 
 could alone deliver us. Committing ourselves to 
 him, we learned very soon that he who had rescued 
 us from so many dangers had now led us into this 
 extremity only the better to show in what manner 
 he could save us." One of their number was a 
 native of this very region ; he reported to them 
 that he knew a solitary, though extremely perilous, 
 path through which he might be able to guide them. 
 The enemy's watch-fires enabled him to see from 
 the Balsille that no other outlet remained for them. 
 " It was along a frightful precipice," says the his- 
 tory. But how were they to get out of the Bal- 
 sille and reach it under the universal fire which 
 they might expect from the enemy? " Precisely," 
 says Arnaud, " at the moment which seemed fatal 
 with a cruel, an appalling death, a thick mist (such 
 is common in these mountains) fell upon them," 
 and rendered their movements invisible to the 
 enemy. They marched silently out of the Balsille, 
 under their mountain guide, Captain Paulat — '' un- 
 der the protection of heaven," continues Arnaud, 
 " and the guidance of this brave captain." Stealthily 
 they crept along the precipice of the ravine, *' on 
 hands and knees, holding to shrubs for momentary 
 
Arnaud, "Pastor and Colonel." 45 
 
 rest and for taking breath ; those in front careful- 
 ly feeling the way with feet and hands to be sure 
 of safe footing." Paulat ordered them to take 
 off their shoes, lest the enemy's outposts should 
 hear them, for they had to pass close by some of 
 these. A slight noise actually brought back the 
 challenge of a sentinel, "Who goes there?" It 
 was a critical moment for them ; they maintained 
 breathless silence, and the sentinel, hearing no 
 reply, supposed he had deceived himself, and did 
 not repeat his qui vive. They pressed forward, 
 scaling a part of the Guigneverte, and drawing 
 toward Salse — the friendly mist still covering them 
 until ten o'clock in the morning, when they were 
 out of danger. They had encountered an outpost 
 of the enemy on a slope of the Guigneverte, but 
 the alarmed soldiers fled in all haste to their main 
 force ; for no one knew what to make of them, all 
 supposing the Vaudois to be hermetically sealed 
 up and doomed in the Balsille. Unutterable was 
 the mortification of the French when, at the rising 
 of the mist, they approached the Balsille to take it, 
 and found that their expected prey had all escaped. 
 *' Looking," says Smiles, ** across the valley, far off, 
 they saw the fugitives thrown into relief by the 
 snow, amid which they marched like ants, appar- 
 ently making for the mass of central Alps." The 
 enemy had written to the city of Pignerol that 
 they might lodk there for the Vaudois as prisoners 
 
46 Character-Sketches. 
 
 to be hanged the next day : the expectant people 
 saw arrive instead only wagons loaded with wounded 
 and dying. 
 
 This was the grand crisis — the climax — of the 
 Gloriciise Rentree. After many fights in most of the 
 valleys, after repeatedly hurling back the combined 
 forces of Italy and France from the Balsille, through 
 long months, they still stood triumphant on their 
 mountain heights. 
 
 No man of them could now doubt that the God 
 of armies w^as leading them, and would lead them, 
 however mysteriously, to a successful issue. And 
 yet they could discern no signs of that issue. Their 
 country was still thronged with armed enemies. 
 They themselves were but a handful — though ap- 
 parently invincible. What next ? was the anxious 
 question. But that belonged to the responsibility of 
 their divine Commander. They must leave it to 
 Him ; w^hat they had to do was still to pray, march, 
 and defend themselves. They go on, mounting pre- 
 cipices by steps which they cut in the hard snow. 
 On the summit of Mont Galmon they pause for 
 rest, review their forces, and, sending their sick 
 and wounded under care of the surgeon to a secret 
 shelter, descend hastily into concealment in the 
 woods of Serrelemi to aw^ait the night. Another 
 thick mist providentially covering them, they re- 
 sume their march, and attain a height where they 
 expected to find water with whidi to boil their 
 
Arnaud, '* Pastor and Colonel.' 47 
 
 food, for they have fasted long ; but none is there. 
 "Heaven," says Arnaud, "seeing our need, com- 
 passionately sent us rain." The next day, having 
 early extinguished their fires, that the enemy might 
 not discover them, they advance to Prajet, where 
 they conceal themselves in deserted barns for rest, 
 but without daring to make fires; there, after 
 prayer by Arnaud, a spy is sent out to see whether 
 troops are near; he finds them at Rodaret. An- 
 other fog favoring them, they hasten forward ; at 
 intervals, when it breaks, they lie extended on the 
 earth till it thickens again, and thus make their 
 way to Fayet by midnight, having " suffered in- 
 credible pains, creeping along dangerous precipices, 
 and holding on to bushes to prevent falls into the 
 abysses." 
 
 They after^vard descended into the village of 
 Riia, where they found the enemy, with all the in- 
 habitants, intrenched in the church cemetery. Ar- 
 naud led an attack upon them, slaying fifty-seven, 
 taking their commander, the Sieurde Vignaux, with 
 three lieutenants prisoners, and burning down the 
 village. The Vaudois supplied themselves here 
 abundantly with cattle, and marched on to the 
 mountain of Angrogone. There, with no apparent 
 end to their perplexities and conflicts, but equally 
 no end to their resolution, astonishing news reached 
 them. The God in whom alone they trusted had 
 confounded all their enemies. The two sovereigns 
 
48 Character-Sketches. 
 
 who had combined to exterminate them, given up 
 to judicial blindness, had quarreled, and had de- 
 clared war against each other. A strange, an in- 
 credible providence it at first seemed, even to these 
 praying heroes, whose faith, like their valor, had 
 hitherto* seemed superior to any surprise. Now 
 messages were sent from each hostile party, en- 
 treating their alliance and aid. They took sides 
 with their own sovereign, badly as he had treated 
 them. The Italian officers were soon with them, 
 hearty in congratulations and friendship. The re- 
 mainder of their fighting was side by side with their 
 late Italian foes, against the French, and it was not 
 long before they swept the latter out of all their 
 mountains. Arnaud hastened down into Italy, to 
 the camp of his sovereign, where he was received 
 with honors. All the Vaudois prisoners, both in 
 the mountains and below, were set free and rejoined 
 their brethren to fight the French ; *' and our joy 
 was redoubled," says the history, " when one of 
 them brought word that, among other kind things 
 said to them by the duke, he assured them that 
 henceforth they might preach their faith every- 
 where, even in his capital of Turin." '' It is the 
 work of God," exclaimed Arnaud ; *' to him alone 
 be the glory ! " " Eight persons out of every ten 
 who hear these surprising and miraculous things 
 will consider them as fables and tales of the old 
 times," he wrote later. It was, indeed, the work 
 
Arnaud, *' Pastor and Colonel." 49 
 
 of God ; and, if any thing in the history of the hu- 
 man race appears miraculous, this certainly does. 
 But God works by means. Arnaud himself was the 
 one conspicuous agent of this unparalleled military 
 episode ; his own character gave character to the 
 whole of it ; his faith and courage were invincible; 
 his heroism made every man under him a hero; if 
 he had wavered for a moment, like the French nom- 
 inal commander of the movement, all would, prob- 
 ably, have been lost. The whole thrilling story is 
 an illustration of his personal character. 
 
 A remarkable historic coincidence had occurred 
 during the campaign. William of Orange, the friend 
 of these heroes, had ascended the throne of England, 
 and, while they were confounding with miracles of 
 faith and valor the troops of the royal author of the 
 Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, in these mount- 
 ain heights, their Huguenot brethren, refugees from 
 France, led by Marshal Schomberg, himself a refu- 
 gee, w^ere fighting for William in Ireland against 
 the attempt of Louis XIV. to restore the Stuarts 
 and popery in England. On the very day in which 
 Arnaud stood in the camp of his reconciled sov- 
 ereign, the representative of his delivered people, 
 the battle of the Boyne was fought, (July i,) and 
 the hopes of the Stuart dynasty were extinguished 
 forever. 
 
 On July 5 Arnaud was in the capital, Turin, and 
 wrote to a friend in Switzerland: ** His royal high- 
 
50 Character-Sketches. 
 
 ness gives us complete liberty, and desires only the 
 peace of the country. We wish, therefore, all our 
 people immediately to return. Great miracles has 
 God wrought for us in the last ten months. None 
 but He alone knows, or ever can know, the struggles 
 we have had, the horrible combats ; but our ene- 
 mies have failed ; when they supposed we were 
 theirs, the great God of armies has always given 
 us the victory. We have not lost thirty men in 
 these battles ; our enemies have lost about ten 
 thousand." 
 
 Their friends and most of the outer world had 
 known little or nothing of their fate during much 
 of the time, but supposed they must have perished. 
 One of them, who had kept a journal of their move- 
 ments, had been captured and sent to prison in 
 Turin. His journal was secretly conveyed to Swit- 
 zerland, and excited such enthusiasm that an army 
 of a thousand Protestants, ambitious to share in 
 their heroic deeds, was soon moving to fight its 
 way to them in the mountains ; but it failed, and 
 was not needed. 
 
 The victorious mountaineers had sustained at 
 least eighteen distinct attacks. But three hundred 
 and sixty-seven of them held the Balsille during 
 the eight months' siege, '' living on little bread 
 and herbs," says Arnaud, *' shut in by ten thou- 
 sand French and twelve thousand Piedmontese," 
 hurling back assault after assault, and at last escap- 
 
Arnaud, "Pastor and Colonel." 51 
 
 ing, " when the enemy had provided executioners 
 and mules loaded with cords in order to hang 
 them." 
 
 But the trial was over; the Glorieuse Rcntrde was 
 accomplished. The " Israel of the Alps "was saved. 
 The Vaudois families returned from Switzerland, 
 Germany, Holland. Their temples and schools 
 were re-opened, and their mountains echoed again 
 their ancient hymns. Their own sovereign, suffer- 
 ing, at first, reverses in his war below, had to fly to 
 them for refuge, and was loyally protected in their 
 valleys. Their Catholic country had reason to be 
 proud of them. In 1848 a petitio^i was signed by 
 Cavour, Balbo, d'Azeglio, and hosts of other Italian 
 patriots, demanding and procuring their complete 
 enfranchisement, for they were among the best cit- 
 izens and best soldiers of the country. With the 
 emancipation and unification of Italy they com- 
 menced what seems to be their great destination 
 and mission, the design of their unparalleled his- 
 tory — the evangelization of the peninsula. They 
 have been marching down from their mountains, 
 planting churches and schools all over the land, 
 from Piedmont to Sicily, from Genoa to Venice. 
 They have chapels, Sunday-schools, week-day 
 schools, charity schools, hospitals, a printing-house, 
 a theological seminary, and periodicals. Palaces 
 have been given them for their theological school 
 and printing operations, and, in some cases, for 
 
52 Character-Sketches. 
 
 chapels. They have districted the whole country 
 into five sections, that of Rome and Naples com- 
 prising eleven stations. They are the most legit- 
 imate religious reformers of Italy. Their remark- 
 able story affords a lesson to the Church in all the 
 world and for all ages. 
 
MaCAULAV— LliLKAKV LlFE. 53 
 
 II. 
 
 MACAULAY— LITERARY LIFE. 
 
 TAKE him all in all, Lord Macaulay is one 
 of the best examples of the " literary life " 
 recorded in English history. As critic, ** conversa- 
 tionist," historian, orator, and even as poet — for he 
 was characteristically " literary" in all— he may be 
 taken as a type, a very impersonation, of that elect 
 life. His political career was long and active 
 enough to render him historical, and pre-eminent 
 over most of the British statesmen of his day. 
 But his literary life was not incidental to his par- 
 liamentary and official life. The latter was but 
 exceptional to the former — a salutary alternative, 
 or rather alterative, as medical men would say. 
 Like Addison, whom, above all English writers save 
 Milton, he most admired, but least imitated in 
 other respects, he was a good example of Cole- 
 ridge's theory of the literary life — that it should 
 always be associated with some more practical or 
 secular pursuit, which may afford, not only a less 
 precarious subsistence, but also the intellectual in- 
 vigoration that comes of habitual contact with the 
 world. Addison had hardly begun to write fugi- 
 tive pieces for the public, under the auspices of 
 
54 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Dryden, when he became a pensioned and party 
 politician. His travels on the Continent, during 
 which he wrote his once famous epistle to Lord 
 Halifax, and began his treatise on medals, his 
 Cato, and the narrative of his tour in Italy, were 
 undertaken at the expense of the Government, as 
 a preparation for its diplomatic service. Through 
 nearly all his life he was in Parliament or in office 
 in either England or Ireland. The first of his im- 
 mortal Essays were sent from Ireland to Steele, 
 for the " Tattler." He was in the Cabinet, as Sec- 
 retary of State, when he was compelled to retire by 
 reason of the malady which, not long after, ended 
 his days; and he died at Holland House, the center 
 of the higher social and intellectual world of Lon- 
 don. Addison died comparatively young, aged not 
 forty-eight years. He had eleven or twelve years 
 less of life than Macaulay. Had he been permitted 
 to work in the rich maturity of his powers, through 
 those eleven years, he might have achieved as much 
 as Macaulay, and might also have given as crown- 
 ing a proof of the compatibility of an active public 
 career with the highest order of intellectual culture 
 and of literary productiveness. 
 
 Walter Scott, Robert Southey, Samuel Johnson, 
 or any other modern Englishman exclusively de- 
 voted to literature, can hardly dispute the palm 
 with Macaulay, notwithstanding his active political 
 life. As a poet he was their equal, not excepting 
 
M.KAULAV — LllKkAkN LllK. 55 
 
 Scott. The " Lays of Ancient Rome " have pas- 
 sages of as genuine poetry as can be found in the 
 " Lay of the Last Minstrel," or in any other of Scott's 
 metrical productions. As a critic he was incom- 
 parably their superior. His linguistic attainments, 
 to say nothing of his rare critical acumen, might 
 have enabled him to compete with Johnson, even, 
 as a lexicographer. Few men have been more ca- 
 pable of reproducing the scheme, repeated by 
 Richardson, of Johnson's great dictionary — the ex- 
 emplification of the use of words by citations from 
 authors. His powers as a historian were far 
 above those of Johnson as a critical biographer, 
 and may well be compared with those of Scott as a 
 historical novelist. In the versatility as well as 
 the accuracy of his knowledge in languages, an- 
 cient and modern, in literature of all ages and 
 nearly all nations, in history, in political and even 
 in theological science, he surpasses them. We 
 cannot, indeed, recall another Englishman who so 
 completely represents the literary life ; though, of 
 course, scores can be named who have shown more 
 special genius. 
 
 It were much to be wished that the example of 
 such men as Bacon, Clarendon, Bolingbroke, Addi- 
 son, Fox, Burke, Jeffrey, Brougham, Mackintosh, 
 Macaulay, Gladstone, Disraeli, Lubbock, Grote, 
 Bulwer, Derby, Kinglake, and many others in En- 
 glish political life, could be imitated by our own 
 
56 Character-Sketches. 
 
 public men. If some of our statesmen, like Frank- 
 lin, Jefferson, the younger Adams, Everett, and Sum- 
 ner, have carried into public life some devotion 
 to letters or philosophy, few, if any of them, have 
 ever yielded any direct results of such culture after 
 they have once entered the political arena. Amer- 
 ican politics are an engulfing abyss, fathomless and 
 shoreless. Bancroft, Motley, Bryant, Irving, Haw- 
 thorne', and a few others, have kept up their liter- 
 ary aims, with a partial devotion to political or 
 official life ; but we have yet to produce a single 
 example of high statesmanship allied with high and 
 productive literary culture. Gibbon records that 
 he found his experience in a camp of British mil- 
 itia a help to the composition of his great History, 
 and that his intellect was never more vigorous, nor 
 his style more facile, than '' in the winter hurry of 
 society and Parliament." His services as Commis- 
 sioner of Trade and Plantations, and the exhila- 
 rating debates of the House, relieved his mind of 
 the fatigue of study, and healthfully stimulated his 
 faculties to resume, the next day, their wonted 
 task. Grote, the historian of Greece, derived sim- 
 ilar advantage from his parliamentary experience. 
 Macaulay's biographer says that " the routine of 
 the Pay-office, and the obligations of the Treasury 
 Bench in the House of Commons, were of benefit 
 to him while he was engaged upon Monmouth's 
 invasion and the Revolution of 1688." His vivid 
 
MaCAULAY— LlTKRARY LiFE. 5/ 
 
 and virile style ; the athletic manner, at once grace- 
 ful and powerful, with which he attacks every diffi- 
 culty of his subject ; his liberal and wholesome 
 temper; his universal humanity, without a tinge of 
 Pharisaism or cant — the whole individuality of the 
 man, in fine, spontaneously manifest on every 
 page, and bearing his reader irresistibly along with 
 him, must be attributed largely to the fact that he 
 was no literary recluse, but a man of affairs, a man 
 of society, a man of the world, in the best sense 
 of the phrase. There is no figure of more manly 
 bearing in the whole lists of English authorship 
 since the day of Raleigh. His every step is strong 
 and forward, down to the last few years, in which, 
 by the splendid success of the early volumes of his 
 History, he became absorbed in the composition 
 of the remainder, retired mostly from public life, 
 declined dinner invitations and society generally, 
 became mortally sick, and began to record in his 
 journals new and startling experiences of low spir- 
 its, irresolution in work, and other of those more 
 or less disabling infirmities which, though com- 
 mon enough in the ordinary, exclusive life of 
 literary men, were seldom or never known to him 
 before. 
 
 It would be an interesting task to trace, if po*s- 
 sible, in his writings and memoirs, the conditions 
 of his vigorous and manifold intellectual life. We 
 attempt this task, not without foreseeing, however, 
 
S8 Character-Sketches. 
 
 that the limits and necessarily cursory manner of a 
 brief essay must render it only an attempt. 
 
 He built on a good natural basis — the mens sana 
 in corpore sano. We need hardly affirm that he 
 possessed that ambiguous power called genius. If 
 extraordinary native capacities, or special aptitudes 
 of mind, are meant by the word, he certainly had 
 it to a rare degree ; for in historical painting, in bio- 
 graphic portraiture, in dramatic effects, he has sel- 
 dom been equaled. If Buffon's definition of genius 
 is correct, we may still more decidedly claim it for 
 him. The great naturalist, who ranks among his 
 countrymen as a literary model as well as a sci- 
 entist, defined it to be a habitude of patience in 
 intellectual work. " I trace a first sketch," he said, 
 in the not ungenial egotism of his old age, " and 
 in doing this I do what a hundred writers in Eu- 
 rope can do. I copy it, and obtain a result which 
 but twenty writers can obtain. I recop)^ a second 
 and a third time, and achieve at last what Buffon 
 alone can do." Macaulay had, at least, a genius, a 
 capacity for work ; and is not this the most nor- 
 mal and most effective genius for our " work-day 
 planet } " Before his health failed he went to his 
 daily task with the zest with which an epicure goes 
 to a banquet. His biographer says that '' he would 
 do nothing against the grain ; " but with his 
 healthy and versatile nature nothing, save mathe- 
 matics and metaphysics, was against the grain. 
 
MaCAULAY— LliERAKV LllK. 59 
 
 He followed, in this respect, Goethe's theory of 
 education and intellectual life, as taught in Wil- 
 helm Meister — that the training and work of a 
 man should be in the line of his natural aptitudes, 
 his natural proclivities, these being the instincts of 
 his natural capabilities. Like all healthy minds, 
 he loved labor for its own sake as well as for its 
 sure results. *' The pleasure of writing pays it- 
 self," he said. He lived in books more than in 
 politics, or in society, or in any thing else. It 
 may be doubted whether any man of his day read 
 more, or more indiscriminately. He devoured 
 books, good, bad, and indifferent. His friend, 
 Sydney Smith, said, '* Macaulay not only over- 
 flows with knowledge ; he stands in the slop." 
 Bad or indifferent books were, at least, of negative 
 advantage to him ; they warned him against their 
 own faults. In his usual walks through the streets 
 of London, he wended his way among the crowd 
 poring over a volume. His research for his writ- 
 ings was tireless ; and the minutest or obscurest 
 data, in obsolete periodicals, pamphlets, street bal- 
 lads, caricatures, seldom eluded his keen glance. 
 He never recoiled from the lowest drudgery of 
 composition. He reconstructed chapters, recast 
 paragraphs, added or erased sentences, for the 
 slightest improvements. In finishing either his 
 manuscript or his " proof," he was fastidious even 
 to the smallest matter of punctuation. He equaled 
 
6o Character-Sketches. 
 
 Buffon in labor on his style, and his manuscript 
 pages, an example of which may be seen in the 
 British Museum, were a maze of interlineations, 
 erasures, and blotches. He knew, by experience, 
 the value of Johnson's rule, not to pause in the 
 heat of composition, for any verbal matters what- 
 ever, but to reserve these for correction when the 
 inspiration of his subject should be exhausted. 
 His usual daily task, after his first rough draft, was 
 to cover six foolscap pages, filling in the outlines ; 
 and then to correct and complete them with elab- 
 orate care, condensing the^six manuscript into two 
 of his printed pages. 
 
 Mr. Trevelyan says that " the secret of his proc- 
 ess lay in this, that to extraordinary fluency and 
 facility he united patient, minute, and persistent 
 diligence. He " never allowed a sentence to pa.-^s 
 muster till it was as good as he could make it." 
 
 It was in this laborious manner that he required 
 his transcendent style — a style so elegant, and yet 
 so impetuous and swift, that it reminds us of one 
 of its finest examples, in one of the finest passages 
 of his *' Lays : " 
 
 " Now, by our sire Quirinus, 
 
 It was a goodly sight 
 To see the thirty standards 
 
 Swept down the tide of flight." 
 
 — " That is the way of doing business," exclaimed 
 Wilson, of Blackwood's Magazine, though his critical 
 
Macaulav— Lit LIRA Kv Life. 6i 
 
 as well as political antagonist — " a cut-and-thrust 
 style; Scott's style when his blood was up, and the 
 first words came like a vanguard impatient for bat- 
 tle." It was Scott's style only when his blood was 
 up, but it was, more or less, Macaulay's habitual 
 style, for his blood was always up when his subject 
 allowed it to be so. His style was like a full-blooded 
 steed on the race-course, fleet, direct, and of simple 
 but splendid proportions. A society of English 
 workmen sent him a vote of thanks for having 
 written a history of their country which they could 
 understand ; and yet what English scholar does not 
 read him with enthusiasm for his style, in spite of 
 its occasional obvious defects? Doubtless what we 
 may call his intellectual temperament had some- 
 thing to do with it, for, to cite Buffon again, *' the 
 style is the man,*' or, as he more pertinently has it, 
 *V^ riiomme;'' but it was labor, we repeat, that 
 made it the most vigorous and admirable, perhaps, in 
 our literature. It is a dangerous style for imitators, 
 as he himself said ; more so than even Johnson's 
 pompous Latinism. He had early to combat its 
 tendency to rhetorical excess. Some of the finest 
 passages of his essays are more or less marred by 
 that tendency. The gorgeous description of West- 
 minister Hall, at the trial of Hastings, shows it. 
 But in spite of it, his healthful temperament, and 
 his inexorable self-discipline and labor, made him, 
 to both foreign and native readers, the best of 
 
62 Character-Sketches. 
 
 English writers, in respect of his manner of writ- 
 ing- 
 Genius, then, it maybe admitted, he had, whether 
 in the sense of Buffon, or in the more popular 
 sense of that word. But from Macaulay's health- 
 ful and well-balanced mind, the usual salient, or ec- 
 centric distinctions of genius, so called, were en- 
 tirely absent. He contemned all attempts at 
 originality of style, whether style of thought or 
 language; and had, therefore, but little respect for 
 Carlyle. He reprobated the '' spasmodic and ec- 
 centric " character of much of our popular litera- 
 ture. " Every writer," he remarks, " seems to aim 
 at doing something odd — at defying all rules and 
 canons of criticism. The meter must be queer; 
 the diction queer ; so great is the taste for oddity, 
 that men who have no recommendation but oddity 
 hold a high place in vulgar estimation." In his 
 own pages our attention is struck by no bizarre 
 trait, but by his sustained and* decisive mastery of 
 whatever he attempts. He had nothing in common 
 with the weird genius of Carlyle. It is fortunate, 
 for the language, that the two historians were con- 
 temporaries. Carlyle's early style showed his capa- 
 bility for the best English, but he chose to abandon 
 it for an originality or oddity, which has justly 
 been called " word mangling ; " his books are verbal 
 torture chambers. His historical writings, in spite 
 of his research and dramatic power, have so much 
 
MaCALLAV — LllEKAKV LUK O3 
 
 the character of rhapsodies as to justify the excla- 
 mation of Prescott, when he closed " The French 
 Revolution : " " This will never do for history." 
 Carlyle's chief portrait in this book is that of Mira- 
 beau ; an able historian of our times (Justin McCar- 
 thy) justly says that '* Carlyle's * Mirabeau ' is as 
 truly a creature of romance as the * Monte Cristo ' of 
 Dumas." " The reader dares not trust such history 
 as Frederick the Great." Fortunate it is that, of 
 the two most influential writers of our day, while 
 one has threatened the utter perversion of the nor- 
 mal English style, of both thought and expression, 
 the other has been stanchly loyal to both, and has 
 shown that they can both be as splendid as they 
 have always been vigorous. The Apollo Belvedere 
 is assuredly a more attractive work of art than the 
 writhing Laocoon. 
 
 Macaulay was precocious, and his precocity prob- 
 ably gave him some eight or ten years* advantage 
 over most students.^ Intellectual precocity is usu- 
 ally supposed to imply premature decay; but while 
 some facts favor the supposition, more facts contra- 
 dict it. Most remarkable men have given more or 
 less promise of their hereafter in childhood. It is 
 seldom that intellectual greatness is not founded in 
 some original or inborn capability. ** The child is 
 father to the man " in this, as in other respects J 
 and human nature is more self-revealing in child- 
 hood than in any other period of life. Intellectual 
 
64 Character-Sketches. 
 
 precocity, with physical feebleness, may, naturally 
 enough, prematurely break down ; but, with a 
 sound body, it may be an enviable vantage ground. 
 It was so with Macaulay. '-He was small but ro- 
 bust in stature, with strongly knitted limbs, broad 
 rugged features, expressive of health and the men- 
 tal self-command which comes of health. There 
 was little, if any, Gaelic or Celtic blood in him. 
 If not precisely Anglo-Saxon, he was of as good 
 metal, as both his mental and physical constitu- 
 tion showed, for the Teutonic element was strong 
 in him. His mother was Anglo-Saxon. His fa- 
 ther was a Scotchman, descended from the old 
 Norwegian invaders who settled in the Western 
 Isles. Carlyle, a genuine Scotchman, discerned his 
 lineage at a glance. " I noticed," he says, " the 
 homely Norse features that you find every-where in 
 the Western Isles, and I thought to myself, ' Well! 
 any one can see that you are an honest, good sort 
 of fellow, made out of oat-meal.' " One of the 
 feats of his precocious genius was an epic, in his 
 eighth year, on Olaus, the king of Norway, from 
 whom the Scotch clan to which the young writer 
 belonged, received its name. Two cantos remain, 
 extracts from which, given by his biographer, show 
 ability astonishing in a child. 
 
 Incredible things are told of his early habits and 
 achievements. From his third year he read inces- N^ 
 santly, " lying on the rug, before the fire, with his 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 65 
 
 open book on the ground, and a piece of bread and 
 butter in his hand." At other times he would *• sit 
 in his nankeen frock, perched upon the table, ex- 
 pounding to the parlor-maid out of a book as big 
 as himself." In his walks with the maid or his 
 mother he-would tell innumerable stories out of his 
 own head, using already, as the maid said, " quite 
 printed words." It cannot be doubted that his 
 speech often appeared, as Mr. Trevelyan says, 
 "very droll." He was carried to the famous 
 Strawberry Hill of Walpole, and ever afterward 
 bore in his head a catalogue of its " Oxford Collec- 
 tion." While there, a servant waiting upon the 
 company spilled some hot coffee over his legs. 
 After the kind hostess had done what she could 
 for his relief she inquired how he was feeling. 
 " The little fellow looked up in her face and re- 
 plied, * Thank you, madam, the agony is abated.' " 
 He wrote hymns which Hannah More, one of the 
 best friends of the family, pronounced ** quite ex- 
 traordinary for such a baby." Of course, his fond 
 mother, a gentle Quakeress, was delighted with his 
 surprising gifts. She wrote, " My dear Tom con- 
 tinues to show marks of uncommon genius. He 
 gets on wonderfully in all branches of his educa- 
 tion, and the extent of his reading, and of the 
 knowledge he has derived from it, are truly aston- 
 ishing in a boy not eight years old. He is, at 
 the same time, as playful as a kitten. He took 
 
^ Character-Sketches. 
 
 into his head to write a ' Compendium of Universal 
 History ' about a year ago, and he really contrived 
 to give a tolerably connected view of the leading 
 events from the creation to the present time, filling 
 about a quire of paper. He told me one day that 
 he had been writing a paper which Henry Daly 
 was to translate into Malabar, to persuade 'the 
 people of Travancore to embrace the Christian relig- 
 ion. On reading it, I found it to contain a very 
 clear idea of the leading facts and doctrines of that 
 religion, with some strong arguments for its adop- 
 tion." " To a somewhat later period," adds his 
 biographer, ** probably belongs a vast pile of blank 
 verse, entitled, * Fingal, a Poem of XH Books,' two 
 of which are in a complete and connected shape,- 
 while the rest of the story is lost amid a labyrinth 
 of many hundred scattered lines, so transcribed as 
 to suggest a conjecture that the boy's demand for 
 foolscap had outrun the paternal generosity." 
 
 Another trait, hardly less marvelous than his pre- 
 cocity, was his quickness of apprehension. It gave 
 him rare facility in the acquisition of knowledge. 
 His rapid glance pervaded, not only the subject of 
 the book he was reading, but also its relations to 
 other subjects — its lateral bearings, unnoticed by 
 the author. This power seemed a sort of unique 
 faculty with him. Paradoxical as it may appear, he 
 could learn a book, and learn it, too, '' by heart," 
 without apparently reading it. Mr. Trevelyan tries 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 67 
 
 to explain this fact, but the explanation is hardly 
 intelligible. The quickness of his brain seemed to 
 give quickness to his vision, so that he saw, at a 
 glance, the contents of a printed page. It was like 
 the power of some accountants, who by a mere 
 flash of the eye, on a column of figures, can infal- 
 libly estimate their sum. This ** extraordinary fac- 
 ulty, of assimilating printed matter, at first sight," 
 remained the same, we are assured, " through life." 
 " To the end he read books faster than other people 
 skimmed them, and skimmed them as fast as any 
 one else could turn the leaves." " He seemed to 
 read through the skin," said one who had often 
 witnessed the operation. There was no sacrifice of 
 accuracy in the process, as Mr. Trevelyan assures 
 us. *' Any thing which had once appeared in type, 
 from the highest effort of genius down to the most 
 detestable trash that ever consumed ink and paper 
 manufactured for better things, had, in his eyes, an 
 authority which led him to look upon misquotation 
 as a species of minor sacrilege." 
 
 One of the most surprising things in the innu- 
 merable criticisms of authors recorded in his essays, 
 his journals, and his letters, is his chronological 
 and verbal minuteness and exactitude. His essay 
 on Miss Aikin's " Addison," and his scathing review 
 of Croker's ** Johnson " — a terrible instance of lit- 
 erary ** vivisection" — and the still more terrible 
 essay on Barere, ar-e examples. A striking instance 
 
68 Character-Sketches. 
 
 may be found in his brilliant essay on the " Comic 
 Dramatists of the Restoration,*' where he refutes 
 Wycherley's claim to precocious genius, by dis- 
 proving the dates given by Wycherley himself, of 
 the composition of some of his dramas. After 
 reasoning on more general grounds against the hon- 
 esty of these dates, he remarks : ** When we look 
 minutely at the pieces themselves, we find in every 
 part of them reason to suspect the accuracy of 
 Wycherley's statements. In the first scene of 
 ' Love in a Wood,' to go no further, we find many 
 passages which he could not have written when he 
 was nineteen. There is an allusion to gentlemen's 
 periwigs, which first came in fashion in 1663 ; an allu- 
 sion to guineas, which were first struck in 1663 ; an 
 allusion to the vests which Charles ordered to be 
 worn at court in 1666; an allusion to the fire of 
 1666; and several political allusions which must be 
 assigned to times later than the year of the Resto- 
 ration, to times when the government and the city 
 were opposed to each other, and when the Presby- 
 terian ministers had been driven from the parish 
 churches to the conventicles. But it is needless to 
 dwell on particular expressions ; the whole air and 
 spirit of the piece belong to a period subsequent 
 to that mentioned by Wycherley. As to the * Plain 
 Dealer,' which is said to have been written when he 
 was twenty-five, it contains one scene unquestion- 
 ably written after 1675, several which are later than 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 69 
 
 1668, and scarcely a line which can hav^e been 
 composed before the end of 1666." 
 
 Almost every one of his essays shows this min- 
 ute accuracy ; his letters and journals abound also 
 in similar examples. He makes particular criti- 
 cisms and emendations of the original text of his 
 favorite Latin and Greek authors. Besides abun- 
 dant marginal notes, he pencils, at the end of each 
 drama of the three Greek tragedians, small critical 
 essays, and, judging from the specimens given by 
 Mr. Trevelyan, they show not only good sense and 
 taste, but exact scholarship. He changes his early 
 estimate of Euripides, the representative of the de- 
 cline of the Attic tragedy, and gives good critical 
 reasons for the change ; he places him above Soph- 
 ocles, the representative of its climax ; he exults 
 over the genius of ^schylus, and traces in him the 
 studies of Milton, not without correcting Milton's 
 " sad Electra's poet," by showing that he alluded 
 to the Orestes, not the Electra. Even the dull 
 pages of the Thebais of Statins are critically stud- 
 ied, and marked with such observations as " Gray 
 has translated this passage ; " " Racine took a 
 hint here ; " and " Nobly imitated, and, indeed, far 
 surpassed, by Chaucer." He gives thanks for 
 having been able to finish Silius Italicus — for he 
 finished the very fag-ends of Greek and Latin lit- 
 erature — and remarks that ** Pope must have read 
 him before me ; in the Temple of Fame and the 
 
70 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Essay on Criticism are some touches plainly sug- 
 gested by Silius." He looks over Coleridge's 
 "Remains," and exclaims: "What stuff some of 
 his criticisms on style are ! Think of his saying 
 that scarcely any English writer before the Revo- 
 lution used the Saxon genitive, except with a name 
 indicating a living being, as where a personification 
 was intended. About twenty lines of Shakspeare 
 occurred to me in five minutes. In King John : 
 *'Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course/ 
 In Hamlet : ' Th« law's delay.' In Romeo and 
 Juliet : * My bosom's lord sits lightly on his throne.' 
 In Richard III., strongest of all: * Why, then, All 
 Souls' Day is my body's doomsday.' " 
 
 He dines at Baron Parke's, with Brougham, his 
 malicious enemy, and says : " He was pleasant, but, 
 as usual, excessively absurd, and exposed himself 
 quite ludicrously on one subject. He maintained 
 that it was doubtful w^hether the tragic poet was 
 Euripides or Euripides. It was Euripides in his 
 Ainsworth. There is, he said, no authority either 
 way. I answered by quoting a couple of lines from 
 Aristophanes. I could have overwhelmed him with 
 quotations. * O,' said this great scholar, ' those are 
 iambics. Iambics are very capricious and irregular, 
 not like hexameters.* I kept my countenance, and 
 so did Parke." Macaulay was seldom, probably 
 never, caught napping, and woe to any pretentious 
 critic who was so found in his presence. 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 71 
 
 Both the swiftness and the accuracy of this strange 
 acquisitive power were shown in his method of 
 learning a language. He says: " My way is always 
 to begin with the Bible, which I can read without a 
 dictionary. After a few days passed in this way, I 
 am master of all the common particles, the common 
 rules of syntax, and a pretty large vocabulary. 
 Then I fall on some good classical work." In a few 
 weeks he was reading the classical works as readily 
 as his favorite English books. He proposed to 
 " make himself a good German scholar" on his pas- 
 sage back from India to England, and did so. After 
 reading Luther's New Testament, he plunged into 
 Schiller's " Thirty Years' War," and was soon famil- 
 iar with Goethe, Miiller, Tieck, Lessing, and most 
 of the classics of the language. During the years 
 which he spent in India, though he did good official 
 work in education and legislation, especially in his 
 ** Code," through which he is becoming recognized 
 as the modem legislator of India, he seemed, never- 
 theless, buried in miscellaneous books. Not even 
 Southey, at Keswick, was more a bookworm ; for 
 he could in three hours do more real study than 
 most students could do in fifteen. He went through, 
 critically, nearly the whole course of Greek and 
 Latin authors in serial editions, which Napier, of 
 the Edinburgh Review, had sent out to him, and 
 this besides an incredible amount of French, Italian, 
 Spanish, and English reading. Many of the largest 
 
72 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Greek and Latin classics he read over and over 
 again, and meanwhile sent to Napier some of his 
 finest review articles. On his way out to India he 
 kept himself in his state-room, among his books, 
 with the devotion of an old Benedictine monk in 
 his studious cell. He writes: ** Except at meals I 
 hardly exchanged a word with any human being. 
 I never was left so long a time so completely to my 
 own resources, and I am glad to say that I found 
 them quite sufficient to keep me cheerful and em- 
 ployed. During the whole voyage I read with keen 
 and increasing enjoyment. I devoured Greek, Latin, 
 Spanish, Italian, French, and English ; folios, quar- 
 tos, octavos, and duodecimos." Again he says: 
 " My power of finding amusement without compan- 
 ions was pretty well tried on my voyage. I read 
 insatiably the Iliad and Odyssey, Virgil, Horace, 
 Caesar's Commentaries, Bacon's De Augmentis, 
 Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Tasso, Don Quixote, Gib- 
 bon's Rome, Mill's India, all the seventy volumes 
 of Voltaire, Sismondi's History of France, and the 
 seven thick folios of the Biographia Britannica. I 
 found my Greek and Latin in good condition 
 enough." 
 
 He proceeds to give striking critical observations 
 on many of these authors, for, rapid as was his 
 reading, it was, nevertheless, by his peculiar faculty 
 of quick apprehension and insight, remarkably 
 thorough. 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. y^ 
 
 After being some time in India he writes : " Dur- 
 ing the last thirteen months I have read ^Eschylus 
 twice, Sophocles twice, Euripides once, Pindar 
 twice, Callimachus, Apollonius Rhodius, Quintus, 
 Calabar, Theocritus twice, Herodotus, Thucydides, 
 almost all Xenophon's works, almost all Plato, Aris- 
 totle's Politics, and a good deal of his Organon, be- 
 sides dipping elsewhere in him ; the whole of Plu- 
 tarch's Lives ; about half of Lucan, two or three 
 books of Atheneus twice, Plautus twice, Terence 
 twice, Lucretius twice, Catullus, Tibullus, Pro- 
 pertius, Lucan, Statius, Silius Italicus, Livy, Vel- 
 leius Paterculus, Sallust, Caesar, and, lastly, Cicero ; 
 I am now deep in Aristophanes and Lucian." 
 
 Mr. Trevelyan says that these works were read 
 critically, as the penciled notes, covering the mar- 
 gins and blank leaves, show. He read as a mental 
 recreation not only the great masters, but, as we 
 have intimated, the minor and least read of Greek 
 and Latin writers — their poorest remnants — anno- 
 tating them with learned particularity, but dis- 
 patching them with his usual speed. At the con- 
 clusion of each volume of his own History he read 
 through, as relaxation, Herodotus, who, next to 
 Thucydides, was his model historian. He would 
 read through the Melpomene in a single sitting. 
 He read through the last five books of the Iliad '* at 
 a stretch, on a walk," and with hearty apprecia- 
 tion : " I could not," he writes, ** tear myself away. 
 
74 Character-Sketches. 
 
 I was forced to turn into a by-path lest the parties 
 of walkers should see me blubbering for imaginary 
 beings, the creations of a ballad-maker who has 
 been dead two thousand seven hundred years. 
 What is the power and glory of Caesar and Alex- 
 ander to such power as his ! " 
 
 He finished Buckle's first ponderous volume in 
 one day — skimming some parts, certainly, but ac- 
 curately comprehending the whole, and critically 
 estimating it. Elaborate works, in foreign lan- 
 guages, over which most scholars would pore for 
 weeks, he could dispatch in as many days, closing 
 them often with criticisms important and minute 
 enough to elate the pedantry of a plodding German 
 professor. 
 
 We may well again lift a warning voice to youth- 
 ful literary aspirants who would wish to imitate him. 
 Admirable Crichtons are fatal models. Macau- 
 lay's example would be ruinous to most students 
 who should attempt to copy it. He was an intel- 
 lectual anomaly, and had it not been for the rare 
 balance of his mental constitution, he would have 
 been an intellectual monster. 
 
 Some of our readers are, doubtless, by this time 
 disposed to suspect that we have been dealing in 
 exaggerations. But we have adhered to the literal 
 truth. Another of his characteristics, which was as 
 remarkable as those already treated — his precocity, 
 his genius, his working power, his quickness of 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 75 
 
 apprehension and insight — and which, in union 
 with these, was one of the most important condi- 
 tions of his intellectual growth and literary success, 
 was a marvelous retentive power. An extraordi- 
 nary memory is not invariably the accompani- 
 ment of a colossal intellect. Insight, and the 
 reasoning faculty, are the chief constituents of a 
 great mind ; and many a man of genius, like Mon- 
 taigne, who often forgot the names of his serv- 
 ants, and sometimes even his own, suffered life- 
 long vexation from a memory treacherous in mat- 
 ters of detail. The almost perfect balance of Ma- 
 caulay's faculties saved him from the tendency of 
 most men of extraordinary memories, to waive, in 
 their mental exigencies, the exercise of the logical 
 faculty, and to fall back, for guidance, on mere prec- 
 edents. With him, memory was subsidiary to that 
 faculty ; a magazine of resources for every kind of 
 intellectual effort. 
 
 It would be hardly possible to believe the feats 
 recorded about his memor>', were they not indis- 
 putably authenticated. " The secret " of his im- 
 mense acquirements lay " in two invaluable gifts of 
 nature," says Mr. Trevelyan, " an unerring memory, 
 and the capacity of taking in, at a glance, the con- 
 tents of a printed page." ** During the first part of 
 his life, whatever caught his fancy he remembered 
 without going through the process of consciously 
 getting it by heart." When a child, calling with his 
 
"j^ Character- Sketches. 
 
 father on a neighbor, he found, on the parlor table, 
 Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, and read it, for 
 the first time, while the elders were conversing. 
 On his return he sat down on his mother's bed and 
 repeated to her canto after canto till her patience 
 gave out. He used to say, in later life, that if, by 
 any vandalism, every copy of Paradise Lost and Pil- 
 grim's Progress, were destroyed, he could repro- 
 duce them from his memory. When but thirteen 
 years old, while waiting in a coffee-house for a post- 
 chaise, he picked up a country journal in which were 
 two poems, such as ordinarily occupy the corners 
 of weekly newspapers. *' He looked them once 
 through, and never gave them a thought for forty 
 years, at the end of which time he repeated them 
 both without missing, or, as far as he knew, chang- 
 ing a single word." He believed he could rewrite 
 Richardson's *' Sir Charles Grandison" from memory. 
 " He was always willing to accept a friendly chal- 
 lenge to a feat of memory. One day, in the Board 
 room of the British Museum, Sir David Dundas saw 
 him hand to Lord Aberdeen a sheet of foolscap 
 covered with writing arranged in three parallel col- 
 umns down each of the four pages. This docu- 
 ment, of which the ink was still wet, proved to be 
 a full list of the Senior Wranglers at Cambridge, 
 with their dates and colleges for the hundred years 
 during which the names of Senior Wranglers had 
 been recorded in the university calendar. On 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. ^y 
 
 another occasion Sir David asked : * Macaulay, do 
 you know your Popes? ' * No,' was the answer; * I 
 always get wrong among the Innocents.* * But can 
 you say your Archbishops of Canterbury ? ' * Any 
 fool,' said Macaulay, ' could say his Archbishops of 
 Canterbury backwards : ' and he went off at score, 
 drawing breath only once, in order to remark on the 
 oddity of there having been both an Archbishop 
 Bancroft and an Archbishop Bancroft,— until Sir 
 David stopped him at Cranmer." 
 
 In his fifty-fifth year he writes: " My memory I 
 often try, and find it as good as ever." Two years 
 later he says : " I walked in the portico, and learned 
 by heart the noble fourth act of the Merchant of 
 Venice." There are four hundred lines in the act ; 
 he had known one hundred and fifty of them. In 
 two hours he now made himself master of them all, 
 including the prose letter. This was about three 
 years before his death. The only difference in his 
 wonderful memory between his childhood and this 
 period was that in the former " whatsoever he took 
 a fancy to " was involuntarily remembered ; now to 
 learn by heart was a voluntary, but never a labo- 
 rious, act. It was an intellectual recreation. When 
 made a peer he ** studied the peerage,** and could 
 repeat the entire roll of the House of Lords. When 
 done with the peerage, he turned to the calendars 
 of Cambridge and Oxford, and wrote, " I have now 
 the whole of our university Fasti by heart ; all, 
 
78 Character-Sketches. 
 
 I mean, that is worth remembering — an idle thing, 
 but I wished to try whether my memory is as strong 
 as it used to be, and I perceive no decay." Such 
 acquisitive and retentive faculties are valuable be- 
 yond all estimation for a student. They enable 
 him to work miracles. They relieve him of nearly 
 all the drudgery of scholarship. 
 
 Another notable characteristic, the result of these 
 rare powers, was his extraordinary versatility. Our 
 remarks thus far have necessarily anticipated this 
 fact. Its proofs are visible in all his works, and 
 throughout his '* Life and Letters." We have men- 
 tioned his knowledge of languages. He knew their 
 respective literatures well enough to be a professor 
 of any of them in any university of England, 
 France, Germany, Italy, or Spain. He studied the 
 Portuguese to read Camoens, but found the Lusiad 
 " enough " for him in that tongue. In a casual 
 conversation at a dinner table, he could discuss any 
 of their important authors with critical minuteness, 
 discriminating not only the best plays, but the best 
 characters, in Moliere and Corneille, Goethe and 
 Schiller, Alfieri and Goldoni, or in the almost end- 
 less lists of Calderon and Lope de Vega. Nearly 
 every one of his essays is a good example of his 
 versatility, an ample resume of the best students' 
 knowledge, not only of the character or subject 
 treated, but of its epoch, summarized with a mar- 
 velous tact, and colored by an artist's hand. Thack- 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 79 
 
 eray wrote of him : " Take, at hazard, any three 
 pages of the essay or history, and, glimmering below 
 the stream of the narrative, you, an average reader, 
 see one, two, three, a half score of allusions to other 
 historic facts, characters, literature, poetry, with 
 which you are acquainted. Your neighbor, who 
 has his reading and his little stock of literature 
 stowed away in his mind, shall detect more points, 
 allusions, happy touches, indicating not only the 
 prodigious memory and vast learning of this mas- 
 ter, but the wonderful industry, the honest, humble, 
 previous toil, of this great scholar. He reads twenty 
 books to write a sentence ; he travels a hundred 
 miles to make a line of description." 
 
 We can hardly be surprised that, with such ver- 
 satility, and voracity of appetite for books, he be- 
 came well acquainted with theological as with all 
 other kinds of literature. Few clergymen have 
 excelled him in the knowledge of their own science 
 and of its standard authors. He was familiar with 
 the history and doctrines of the numerous sects 
 of his country. He understood well the great 
 Methodistic movement, a part of which his own 
 father represented in the " Christian Observer." 
 Methodists, naturally enough, have been partial to 
 him for his estimate of their founder, of whom he 
 said, in his article on Southey, that he initiated 
 a most remarkable moral revolution ; that he was 
 " a man whose eloquence and logical acuteness 
 
8o Character-Sketches. 
 
 might have made him eminent in literature; whose 
 genius for government was not inferior to that of 
 Richeheu ; and who, whatever his errors may have 
 been, devoted all his powers, in defiance of obloquy 
 and derision, to what he sincerely considered as the 
 highest good of his species." He has a poor opin- 
 ion '' of some writers of books called Histories 
 of England under the reign of George H., in which 
 the rise of Methodism is not mentioned," and says 
 that in a hundred years " such a breed of authors 
 will be extinct." Mr. Trevelyan says " he was 
 never tired of ranging " in works of " religious 
 speculation, and was widely and profoundly read 
 in ecclesiastical history. ... His partiality for 
 studies of this nature is proved by the full and 
 elaborate notes with which he has covered the 
 margin of such books as Warburton's ' Julian,' 
 Middleton's * Free Inquiry,* Middleton's ' Letters 
 to Venn and Waterland,* and all the rest of the 
 corps of polemical treatises which the * Free In- 
 quiry' produced. ... It may be safely asserted 
 that in one corner or another of Macaulay's library 
 there is his estimate of every famous or notorious 
 English prelate from the beginning of the sixteenth 
 to the end of the eighteenth century." 
 
 We have alluded to his rank as essayist, poet, 
 and historian. No one will dispute his unapproach- 
 able pre-eminence as a critical essayist. He was 
 first recognized by the literary world in this char- 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 8i 
 
 acter, and the recognition was immediate and 
 general. From his first article, on Milton, in the 
 Edinburgh Review, written in his twenty-fifth 
 year, he was acknowledged as a new power in the 
 intellectual world. The most exclusive circles of 
 London society opened their doors to welcome 
 him, and from that day till his death he was one of 
 the celebrities of the metropolis. He became the 
 chief dependence of the great Scotch review ; it 
 was importunate for his contributions, and he could 
 command his own price for them. Murray de- 
 clared that it would be worth the copyright of 
 Childe Harold to have Macaulay on the staff of 
 the "Quarterly" — the competitor of the "Edin- 
 burgh." Nearly every one of his articles produced 
 a sensation through not only the literary and social, 
 but often through the political, circles of the coun- 
 try. They made Brougham rancorously jealous, 
 eclipsed Sydney Smith, Mackintosh, and even Jef- 
 frey himself. The latter, unlike Brougham, hailed 
 with a sort of rapture the new ascending star, and 
 deeply mourned the departure of Macaulay from 
 England for India ; for the veteran editor never 
 expected to see him again. In the collected re- 
 publication of his essays, Macaulay deprecates 
 criticism on his " Milton," and his other early re- 
 views, especially on their youthful enthusiasm ; 
 but the world has demanded no apology for them. 
 
 They are so replete with knowledge and reason — 
 6 
 
82 Character-Sketches. 
 
 their rhetoric itself has, with whatever faults, such 
 superb and genuine qualities — that we would not 
 wish them retouched. We have known grave and 
 cultivated men to burst into tears over his vindica- 
 tion of the blind old Puritan bard, who, abandoned 
 of the world, remained superior to it. He did more 
 for the right appreciation of Milton than any other 
 critic save Addison. In this and other writings he 
 has proved to Englishmen that, while they had in 
 Cromwell the mightiest of their sovereigns, and in his 
 Roundhead army the bravest of their soldiers, they 
 had, also, in his secretary, the sublimest of their poets, 
 and one of the noblest models of British manhood. 
 Other and even more surprising papers than that 
 on Milton followed, all making an impression never 
 before known in English periodical literature : in 
 his twenty-seventh year that on Macchiavelli, so 
 comprehensive of his epoch, and so decisive of the 
 old. problem of his " Prince ; " in his twenty-eighth 
 year that on Hallam's " Constitutional History," 
 so thorough on the religious questions of the times 
 of Elizabeth and the Commonwealth, and so ap- 
 preciative of Cromwell ; that on Southey's '' Col- 
 loquies," so able in its discussions of political 
 economy; that on Croker's Johnson, so remarkable 
 for its critical corrections, and its estimate of Bos- 
 well and Johnson ; that on Bunyan, in which he 
 vindicates the high rank of the Bedford Tinker 
 among English men of genius ; that on Gladstone's 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 83 
 
 " Church and State," in which he has made out the 
 best argument for reh'gious liberty and for the "vol- 
 untary principle," though without propounding — 
 perhaps without intending to propound — the latter; 
 that on Ranke's " Popes," so thoroughly apprecia- 
 tive of the era of the Reformation, and of the com- 
 parative policies of Popery and Protestantism ; that 
 on Temple, in which the notable " Phalaris " fight 
 between Oxford and Bentley, and Bentley's signal 
 victory, are commemorated ; the two articles on 
 Clive and Warren Hastings, so comprehensive of 
 the history and policy of British India, and so 
 brilliant in their rhetoric ; the masterly articles on 
 Burleigh, Hampden, and Chatham ; those on the 
 Comic Dramatists of the Restoration, on Byron, 
 Walpole's Letters to Sir Horace Mann, Madame 
 D'Arblay's Life and Letters, and Miss Aiken's Life 
 and Writings of Addison, so full of entertaining 
 information, Hterary gossip and criticism ; and 
 the unrivaled essay on Bacon, in w^hich he drew 
 with as much partiality as ability the character 
 of the great philosopher, and made the best state- 
 ment of his system ever given by any of his critics. 
 The latter is the largest and most elaborate of his 
 essays. It was written in India, and sent to the 
 '^Edinburgh " with an apology for its " interminable 
 length." He wrote to Napier, Jeffrey's successor 
 in the editorial chair: "My opinion is formed 
 not at second hand, hkc those of nine tenths of the 
 
84 Character-Sketches. 
 
 people who talk about Bacon, but after several very 
 attentive perusals of his greatest works, and after 
 a good deal of thought. I never bestowed so 
 much care on any thing I have written. There is 
 not a sentence in the latter half of the article which 
 has not been repeatedly recast. The trouble has 
 been so great a pleasure to me that I have been 
 greiatly overpaid." 
 
 Napier sent it to Jeffrey for advice on the pro- 
 priety of dividing it. Jeffrey wrote back : " What 
 mortal could ever dream of cutting out the least 
 particle of this precious work to make it better fit 
 in your review? It would be worse than paring 
 down the Pitt diamond to fit the old setting of a 
 dowager's ring. Since Bacon himself, I do not 
 know that there has been any thing so fine. The 
 first five or six pages are in a lower tone, but still 
 magnificent, and not to be deprived of a word." 
 It was inserted entire, filling a hundred and four 
 pages of the review. 
 
 These essays excited so much interest in America 
 that they were first published here in a collected 
 form. Copies of the edition were sent over 
 "wholesale," and Macaulay diffidently consented 
 to prepare a new collected edition for the English 
 market, in order to protect Longman, his pub- 
 lisher, from the enterprising American house. Mr. 
 Trevelyan says: '* The world was not slow to 
 welcome, and, having welcomed, was not in a hurry 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 85 
 
 to shelve, a book so unwillingly and unostenta- 
 tiously presented to its notice. Upward of a hun- 
 dred and twenty thousand copies have been sold 
 in the United Kingdom alone, by a single publisher. 
 Considerably over a hundred thousand copies of 
 separate essays have been printed in the series 
 known as the Traveler's Library. More than six 
 thousand copies have, one year with another, been 
 disposed of annually. In the United States, in 
 British Lidia, and on the Continent of Europe, 
 these productions, which their author classed as 
 ephemeral, are so greedily read, and so constantly 
 reproduced, that, taking the world as a whole, 
 there is probably never a moment when they are 
 out of the hands of the compositor." 
 
 Macaulay's literary reputation became universal 
 by his essays alone. No other man had ever won 
 equal fame by mere Review articles. They were a 
 monument seen and read of all cultivated men 
 throughout the Anglo-Saxon world. But no one 
 beyond the circle of his immediate friends sus- 
 pected that he was capable of success in poetry 
 till his Lays of Rome appeared. Of course, he 
 cannot be ranked among the great poets, any more 
 than Addison, Johnson, Southey, or Scott can be so 
 ranked ; but had he lived before Johnson he would 
 certainly have had a place in the Lives of the 
 Poets, and a rank above three fourths of John- 
 son's characters. But if he cannot be placed among 
 
86 Character-Sketches. 
 
 the gods in the cclla of the temple, he is entitled 
 at least to a prominent position among the demi- 
 gods who stand in its exterior niches. The rhyth- 
 mical instinct was inborn with him, and was as 
 early, if not as thoroughly, developed as in Pope. 
 Throughout his youth he could throw off rhymed 
 verses, in the sports of his home, impromptu and 
 without end. But there is often a fatal facility in 
 versification, seducing the young aspirant from the 
 deeper things of poetry. It came near spoiling 
 Pope himself. The Horatian lesson of delay and 
 labor can never be disregarded with impunity in 
 this highest department of literary art. Macaulay 
 was the last man to disregard it, and his '' Lays," 
 therefore, met with immediate success. 
 
 Niebuhr had revived the theory that most of the 
 romantic stories which fill the first three or four 
 books of Livy come from lost ballads of the early 
 Romans. Macaulay was no disciple of Niebuhr, 
 and did not unqualifiedly accept his historical 
 criticisms ; but he was fully convinced of the truth 
 of this theory. As a mere literary recreation he 
 attempted, in India, to restore some of these long- 
 lost poems; and the "Lays" sprung from the at- 
 tempt, full-winged. His friend, Arnold of Rugby, 
 a disciple of Niebuhr, saw seme of them in man- 
 uscript, after Macaulay's return to England, and 
 he wrote to their author in such terms of eulogy 
 upon them, as to kindle his ambition for a higher 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 87 
 
 literary fame than he had yet attained ; he de- 
 clined the importunities of Napier for new review 
 articles, and gave himself to the correction and com- 
 pletion of his poems. He bestowed the utmost 
 labor upon them, doing what, perhaps, is the hard- 
 est, though the most indispensable, task of the 
 poet — abridging and condensing. He ruthlessly 
 cut out scores of lines — at least thirty out of the 
 battle of Regillus alone. The ancient Roman 
 ballads were, most probably, in the Saturnian meter, 
 pure examples of which have been preserved by the 
 grammarians. It was a proof of the poetic instinct 
 of Macaulay, a proof which could not but cheer 
 him, that his own ballads were, without intention, 
 very like the Saturnian meter. Goethe had suc- 
 ceeded, in his Iphigenia and his Roman elegies, in 
 reproducing the spirit of classic antique poetry; 
 Macaulay, with less poet^ genius, reproduced the 
 Latin legends by recreating the Latin ballads — re- 
 produced them in form and substance, as well as in 
 spirit ; not merely by his meter and perfect detail of 
 facts and allusions, but by the affinities of his own 
 robust nature with the ancient Roman energy and 
 heroism. 
 
 He was anxious about the success of his new 
 venture ; but, says his biographer, ** the little craft, 
 launched without noise, went bravely down the 
 wind of popular favor." We have already seen 
 Blackwood's opinion of it. Wilson had been his 
 
88 Character-Sketches. 
 
 relentless literary and political antagonist. He had 
 sarcastically described him as, " twenty years ago, 
 like a burnished fly, in pride of May, bouncing 
 through the open window of Knight's Maga- 
 zine " — a short-lived periodical, to which he had 
 been a contributor. He now hailed the Lays with 
 "a paean of hearty, unqualified panegyric." He 
 exclaimed: ''What! poetry from Macaulay? Ay, 
 and why not? The House hushes itself to hear 
 him, even though Stanley is the cry. If he be not 
 the first of critics, (spare our blushes!) who is? 
 Name the young poet who could have written the 
 Armada. The young poets all want fire ; Macau- 
 lay is full of fire. The young poets are somewhat 
 weakly ; he is strong. The young poets are rather 
 ignorant ; his knowledge is great. The young 
 poets mumble books ; he devours them. The 
 young poets dally with their subject ; he strikes its 
 heart. The young poets are still their own heroes ; 
 he sees but the chiefs he celebrates. The young 
 poets weave dreams with shadows transitory as 
 clouds, without substance ; he builds realities last- 
 ing as rocks. The young poets steal from all and 
 sundry, and deny their theft ; he robs in the face of 
 day. Whom ? Homer ! " 
 
 For twenty years editions of the Lays, averag- 
 ing two thousand copies a year, have been sold, 
 and by the spring of 1875 upward of a hundred 
 thousand had been issued. They were received by 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 89 
 
 the public not only as an example of his versatility, 
 but as a work of genuine art. 
 
 He had a loftier ambition, and is to be immortal 
 chiefly as an historian. He was not unconscious 
 of his powers for his historical task. Many of 
 his essays had been historical studies; more es- 
 pecially, studies in historical biography. Their suc- 
 cess could be taken as a presage of the success of 
 his higher undertaking. He had reason, however, 
 for diffidence. The English historians were pre- 
 eminent. They were at the head of the artistic 
 historians of modern literature ; and history has 
 its artistic properties not less than the epic or the 
 drama. The Germans excelled in research, but were 
 heavy by the very masses of their materiale, and 
 the drudgery, the tameness, of their workmanship. 
 The French were mostly dramatists and rhetoricians 
 in historical writing, with an occasional exception, 
 like Guizot, whose philosophy of history excluded 
 most of its artistic qualities. The English, with 
 Gibbon at their head, who, notwithstanding his 
 defects, stands imperially supreme over all modern 
 historians, had shown a special genius for the art. 
 There were many giants, if not many artists, among 
 them — Gibbon, Clarendon, Hume, Robertson, Lin- 
 gard, Thirlwall, Grote, Arnold, Milman, Hallam, 
 not to speak of Alison, Russell, Stanhope, and a 
 host of others. It required not only ability, but 
 courage to step into the ranks of such men. Amofig 
 
go Character-Sketches. 
 
 good ordinary writers Macaulay could be certain of 
 pre-eminence, but it might be otherwise among the 
 giants. Swift's GulHver among the LiHputians 
 found that the emperor was taller by about the 
 breadth of his finger-nail than any of his court, a su- 
 periority " enough to strike awe into the beholders." 
 But it required other proportions for distinction 
 among the men of Brobdignag. Hume had written 
 English history as a Jacobite, Lingard as a Roman 
 Catholic ; Macaulay wrote it as a Whig, believing 
 that the doctrines of British Whig politics are the 
 fundamental ideas of modern civilization and 
 progress. How he succeeded we need not here re- 
 count; the whole Anglo-Saxon world has said it. 
 It can hardly be questioned that his History, with 
 whatever faults, has done more to promote Whig 
 principles than any other contemporaneous agency. 
 There was no great reform in English politics in 
 which he was not a representative statesman, down 
 to his last year; his History is, and will be for indefi- 
 nite time, an oriflamme in front of the onward move- 
 ment of the Anglo-Saxon race. Hume will always 
 be read for his entertaining manner, the ease and 
 felicity of his style, in spite of his Scottisms ; Lin- 
 gard, whose ability Macaulay acknowledged in his 
 article on Temple, will always be valuable for his 
 research, and for his qualification of religious prej- 
 udices in English historical literature ; Macaulay 
 will always be read, not only for his brilliant style, 
 
Macaulay — Literary Life. 
 
 91 
 
 but for his love of liberty and humanity, for his 
 characteristic portraiture, for his dramatic power, 
 and for his thorough mastery of nearly every thing 
 pertaining to his task — especially his exhaustive 
 research, in which he was hardly surpassed by 
 Gibbon himself. Lord Carlisle wrote that " his vol- 
 umes are full of generous impulse, judicial imparti- 
 ality, wide research, deep thought, picturesque de- 
 scription, and sustained eloquence. Was iiistory 
 ever better written? Guizot praises Macaulay." 
 Of '* his immense research," said Buckle, ** few 
 people are competent judges. I cannot refrain 
 from expressing my admiration of his unwearied 
 diligence, of the consummate skill with which he 
 has arranged his materials, and the noble love of 
 liberty which animates his works." 
 
 Taken as a whole, Macaulay's work is one of the 
 most genuine examples of historical writing in our 
 literature. He did not much esteem Voltaire's un- 
 veracious histories ; but Voltaire was the founder 
 of modern history as something more than a mere 
 record of kingcraft, diplomacy and war — a record 
 of national life — of laws, manners, and religions. 
 Macaulay's work is a history of the English people, 
 as well as of their government ; and no other writer 
 has so well described them. We have seen how, at 
 the close of each volume, he renewed himself for 
 the next by reading Herodotus, the Father of histo- 
 ry, and eminently a story-teller. He p 
 
 ^ 
 
 \..^r 
 
 ^> OP TH:' N^^ 
 
93 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Thucydides, the Father of philosophic history, 
 and pronounced him '' the greatest historian that 
 ever wrote." He was acquainted with every other 
 historical model in ancient or modern literature. 
 But, while availing himself of these, he faithfully 
 maintained the individuality of his own genius, and 
 stands conspicuously alone in historic literature. 
 His relative rank we need not try to determine ; 
 that is usually a fallacious attempt, and a right 
 which belongs to posterity alone. But that his 
 History will be a permanent monument to his mem- 
 ory, no man can doubt. 
 
 He knew the importance of little things, of mi- 
 nute data in the illustration of the life of a people — 
 the eccentricities of character, the sayings of great 
 men, the personal peculiarities of statesmen and 
 kings, the characteristic anecdote, the habits of the 
 common people : and, like Cromwell before the 
 painter, insisted that every feature, even to the 
 wart on the face, should be given. To him, George 
 Fox's leathern breeches, and the veriest antics of 
 his honest fanaticism, were essential indications in 
 the genesis of a new form of religion. He dis- 
 dained no hint which a street ballad could afford 
 him. Having formed his outlines with ** consum- 
 mate skill," as Buckle says — the chronological skel- 
 eton of the earlier historians, made up of regality, 
 diplomacy and war — he filled it out, giving it body 
 and living blood, by the common facts of the pop- 
 
MACAULAV— LiTKRAKY LiFE. 93 
 
 ular life. He feared not the critics, for he knew they 
 would fall before the verdict of the aggregate good 
 sense of the people. He knew that critical pretend- 
 ers — " his puny detractors, unworthy to loosen his 
 shoe-latchet," as Buckle again says — would dis- 
 parage his facts and call his style irrelevantly fine 
 writing ; but to him no facts indicating the real 
 life of a people were unworthy of history ; and noth- 
 ing worthy of history was unworthy of the best 
 literary art. Some one said to Dr. Johnson that he 
 surpassed all his competitors in writing biography. 
 " Sir," replied the veteran author, " I believe that 
 is true ; the dogs don't know how to write trifles 
 with dignity." 
 
 As he wrote for the people, though with the most 
 conscientious regard for the art, the people gave him 
 a recognition such as no other historian has ever re- 
 ceived. " Within three days after the appearance 
 of the book," says Mr. Trevelyan, " its fortune was 
 already secure. It was greeted by an ebullition of 
 national pride and satisfaction." Three competing 
 editions were quickly published in the United 
 States. Our own Harpers wrote him that " no 
 work of any kind has ever so completely taken our 
 whole country by storm." Edward Everett wrote 
 him that " no book has ever had such a sale in 
 the United States, except the Bible, and one or 
 two school-books of universal use." Tauchnitz, in 
 Germany, had sold ten thousand copies, in En- 
 
94 Character-Sketches. 
 
 1 
 
 ourtHJ 
 
 glish, within six months after the third and fourt 
 volumes appeared. Six rival translators were at 
 work, at one and the same time, turning it into 
 German. There have been Danish, Swedish, Polish, 
 Dutch, French, Italian, Spanish, Hungarian, Bohe- 
 mian, Russian, and even Persian versions. He had 
 said, '*I shall not be satisfied unless I produce some- 
 thing which shall for a few days supersede the last 
 fashionable novel on the table of young ladies." 
 His biographer says that '' the annual sale of the 
 History has frequently, since 1857, surpassed the 
 sale of the fashionable novel of the current year." 
 " Within the generation that have come up since 
 the first appearance of the work, upward of a hun- 
 dred and forty thousand volumes will have been 
 printed and sold within the United Kingdom 
 alone." Twenty-six thousand five hundred copies 
 were sold in ten weeks. " I should not wonder," 
 wrote Macaulay, *' if I made twenty thousand 
 pounds ($100,000) clear this year by literature." 
 His publishers actually deposited in the bank for 
 him a hundred thousand dollars, '* as part of what 
 would be due him in December" of that year. 
 " What a sum," he exclaimed, " to be gained by 
 one edition of a book ! " At another time he 
 speaks of receiving thirty thousand dollars in a 
 single year. Longman could hardly keep pace, 
 sometimes, with the demand for the work. Twen- 
 ty-five thousand copies of the third volume; were 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 95 
 
 ordered before the day of publication. The stock 
 at the book-binder's was insured for fifty thousand 
 dollars. " The whole weight was fifty-six tons ! " 
 ** No such edition was ever published of any work 
 of the same bulk." 
 
 We cannot spare room enough to speak of him 
 adequately as a statesman and parliamentary ora- 
 tor, for, as we have intimated, he stands pre-emi- 
 nent above the majority of contemporary British 
 statesmen, and would be historical in this charac- 
 ter, apart from his literary fame. It is a proof of 
 the generous instincts of his heart that he early 
 broke away from the prejudices of his Tory educa- 
 tion ; for, curious as the fact may seem, his father, 
 Zachary Macaulay, the philanthropist, the anti- 
 slavery leader, and the editor of the evangelical 
 " Christian Observer," was inclined to Tory poli- 
 tics. Zachary Macaulay was one of the ** good 
 men of Clapham," commemorated in Methodist 
 history, as the Calvinistic Methodists in the Low- 
 Church party of the Establishment, who had arisen 
 under the religious movement conducted by Wes- 
 ley, Whitefield, and the Countess of Huntingdon. 
 Though leaders in most of the philanthropies of 
 the day, these good men were inclined to Tory 
 politics by their dread of the Jacobinism of the 
 French Revolution, which had considerably infected 
 England. Macaulay, while yet at the university, 
 emancipated himself from their prejudices, but 
 
96 Character-Sketches. 
 
 retained through life their best political ideas. 
 Though he believed, with Buckle, that expedi- 
 ency, or " compromise," must be fundamental in 
 any successful administrative policy, yet he held 
 the boldest theoretical political ethics, and fear- 
 lessly avowed his theories and their consequences. 
 The enduring English common sense dominated 
 in all his speculations ; and if he believed that a 
 given public evil should be exterminated root and 
 branch, yet he deemed it a violation of not only 
 political sagacity, but of political ethics, to take to- 
 day, by assault, and by the sacrifice of thousands 
 of lives, a fortress which would have to surrender 
 at discretion to-morrow ; and that many a good 
 cause famously won might have been better won. 
 In other words, he was a genuine statesman. He 
 came into public life, and remained till his death, 
 an unwavering reformer. He was found at the front 
 in the contest of every great parliamentary ques- 
 tion of his times — the Antislavery question, the 
 Reform bill, the India bill, the Franchise bill, the 
 Factory bill. West India Apprenticeship, the Bal- 
 lot, the Corn Laws, Catholic Emancipation, Jew- 
 ish Disabilities, Copyright. He was virtually the 
 author of the Copyright Law, which now protects 
 British authors and their families — the '' charter of 
 his craft " — after the defeats of Talfourd and Lord 
 Mahon in the same good cause. A speech of re- 
 markable logic and lucidity rallied the House to 
 
Macaulay — Literary Life. 97 
 
 his position with enthusiasm. Peel walked across 
 the Hall, and told him that within twenty minutes 
 his views on the question had been entirely al- 
 tered ; and one member after another of the oppo- 
 sition acknowledged a similar change. 
 
 Without being precisely an orator, he was one 
 of the most eloquent speakers in Parliament. 
 His first public speech was at a London anti- 
 slavery meeting, in his twenty-fourth year. He 
 was surrounded on the platform by the good men 
 of Clapham, his anxious father among them. 
 The Edinburgh Review spoke of the speech as 
 " a display of eloquence so signal for rare and ma- 
 ture excellence, that the most practiced orator may 
 well admire how it should have come from one 
 who then, for the first time, addressed a public as- 
 sembly." " It was hailed with a whirlwind of 
 cheers," says his biographer. " That was prob- 
 ably the happiest hour of Zachary Macaulay's 
 life." When Wilberforce rose to speak, he said 
 of the father : *' My friend would doubtless will- 
 ingly bear with all the base falsehoods, all the vile 
 calumnies, all the detestable artifices, which have 
 been aimed against him to render him the victim 
 and martyr of our cause, for the gratification he 
 has this day enjoyed in hearing one so dear to him 
 plead such a cause in such a manner." 
 
 After the first of his Parliamentary Reform 
 speeches the Speaker of the House sent for him, 
 7 
 
98 Character-Sketches. 
 
 and " told him that in all his prolonged experience 
 he had never seen the House in such an excite- 
 ment." Denman, who spoke afterward, " said, 
 with universal acceptance, that the orator's words 
 remained tingling in the ears of all who heard 
 them, and would last in their memories as long as 
 they should have memories to employ." Peel re- 
 marked that '* parts of the speech were as beauti- 
 ful as any thing I ever heard or read. It reminds 
 one of the old times." " The names of Fox, 
 Burke, and Canning were, during that evening, 
 in every body's mouth," says his biographer. 
 Jeffrey, who heard him later on the same subject, 
 said his speech " was prodigiously applauded, and 
 I think puts him at the head of the great speakers, 
 if not the great debaters, of the House." Mackin- 
 tosh wrote from the library of the House, " Ma- 
 caulay and Stanley have made two of the finest 
 speeches ever spoken in Parliament ; " he pro- 
 nounced them " the chiefs of the next, or, rather, 
 of this, generation." Lord Althorp said of one of 
 his speeches, that '' it was the best he had ever 
 heard." Graham, Stanley, and Russell made sim- 
 ilar remarks, and O'Connell followed him out of 
 the House to *' pay him most enthusiastic compli- 
 ments." The " principal men " on the Whig side 
 *' agreed that it was the best ever made since the 
 death of Fox." Of his speech on the India bill 
 one of the speakers said, " I will venture to assert 
 
Macaulav — Literary Life. 99 
 
 that it has never been exceeded within these 
 walls." 
 
 It is the uniform testimony of those who heard 
 him that he owed nothing to the usual artifices of 
 the orator. He had few gestures and little inflec- 
 tion of the voice. " Vehemence of thought, ve- 
 hemence of language, vehemence of manner, were 
 his chief characteristics," says the " Daily News." 
 It was " fullness of mind, which broke out in 
 many departments, that constituted him a born 
 orator." He " plunged at once into the heart of 
 the matter, and continued his loud, resounding 
 pace from beginning to end, without pause or 
 halt." " Macaulay," says another witness, " was 
 wonderfully telling in the House. Every sentence 
 was devoured by the listeners." 
 
 Cicero says the orator should be a good man, 
 for the popular conviction of his integrity gives 
 sevenfold force to all he says. Macaulay 's unques- 
 tionable honesty made him mighty. He resigned 
 office in the ministry in order to make, honorably, 
 a speech against a bill of the Government — a bill 
 of his own party ; but the cabinet had the good 
 sense not to accept his resignation. He lost his 
 election in Edinburgh rather than yield to a 
 Scotch religious prejudice ; but his constituents be- 
 came, in time, ashamed of their conduct, re-elected 
 him with honors, and proudly kept him till the in- 
 firmities of his last years compelled him to retire, 
 
loo Character-Sketches. 
 
 when they took leave of him with demonstrations 
 of affection and admiration. Sydney Smith said 
 that he was absohitely incorruptible ; that no 
 money, no title, ribbon, or coronet, could change 
 him. His prejudices were strong and sometimes 
 extreme, but they were honest ; they shared the 
 strength and sincerity which characterized his in- 
 tellect and his virtues. 
 
 Pre-eminent in so many respects, he was al- 
 most equally so as a converser. Never in the 
 saloons of Paris, from the days of Rambouillet 
 down to ours, nor in the circles of London, not 
 excepting Johnson's Club, with the " great moral- 
 ist," and Burke, Reynolds, and Goldsmith around 
 its table, had conversational talent been more a 
 social power than during the life of Macaulay. 
 Coleridge, Charles Lamb, Sydney Smith, Rogers, 
 Mackintosh, Carlyle, Brougham, Milman, Dickens, 
 Thackeray, and many others, were his rivals, but 
 hardly his equals, much less his superiors, in the 
 table-talk of the metropolis. If Coleridge, with 
 his interminable monologues, was their oracle in 
 philosophy, if Sydney Smith and Charles Lamb were 
 their oracles in humor, Macaulay was their supreme 
 oracle in criticism and in universal knowledge. 
 
 Crabbe Robinson, whose entertaining autobiog- 
 raphy gives one of the best views of the best 
 London society of this period, alludes to Macau- 
 lay's earliest appearance in it, about his twenty- 
 
Macaulay— Literary Likk. ioi 
 
 sixth year, and says: ** I had a most interesting 
 companion at the table in young Macaulay; one of 
 the most promising of the rising generation I have 
 seen for a long time : very eloquent and cheerful, 
 overflowing with words, and not poor in thought, 
 he seems a correct as well as a full man. He 
 showed a minute knowledge of subjects not intro- 
 duced by himself. He was a good example of 
 Bacon's well-known remark in all its three particu- 
 lars : ' Reading maketh a full man, conference a 
 ready man, and writing an exact man.' " Lord 
 Carlisle's Journal gives many fine pictures of 
 Macaulay at the London symposia. ** Never," he 
 says on one occasion, '* were such torrents of good 
 talk as burst and sputtered over from Macaulay and 
 Hallam." At a breakfast with Macaulay, he says: 
 ** The conversation ranged the world — art, ancient 
 and modern ; the Greek tragedians ; character of 
 the orators. It is a refreshing break in common- 
 place life. I stayed till past twelve." 
 
 At another time, " Macaulay rather paradoxical, 
 as he is apt to be. The greatest wonder about 
 him is the quantity of trash he remembers. He 
 went off at a score with Lord Thurlow's poetry." 
 Again, " Macaulay's flow never ceased once during 
 the four hours, but it is never overbearing." Again, 
 " On being challenged, he repeated the names of the 
 owners of the several carriages that went to Clar- 
 issa's funeral." Though never overbearing, in tem- 
 
I02 Character-Sketches. 
 
 per, at least, yet in the afifluence of his thoughts he 
 was disposed, Hke Coleridge, to usurp the conver- 
 sation. Sydney Smith, whom he could usually 
 overwhelm, once remarked to him with mock pa- 
 thos, " Macaulay, what a loss you will suffer when 
 I die, having never heard me converse." Lord 
 Carlisle describes a scene in which Macaulay, Hal- 
 lam, and Whewell, discussing together a grave eth- 
 ical question, got so high, " without, however, the 
 slightest loss of temper," that when his lordship 
 left the table ** not one sentence could any of them 
 finish." 
 
 " His appearance and bearing," says Mr. Trevel- 
 yan, " in conversation were singularly effective. 
 Sitting bolt upright, his hands resting on the arms 
 of his chair or folded over the handle of his walk- 
 ing-stick, knitting his great eyebrows if the subject 
 was one which had to be thought out as he went 
 along, or brightening from the forehead downward 
 when a burst of humor was coming, his honest 
 glance and massive features suited well with the 
 manly, sagacious sentiments which he set forth in 
 his pleasant, sonorous voice, and in his racy and 
 admirably intelligible language." 
 
 But, brilliant as he was in society, his absorption 
 in literature made his library far more attractive to 
 him than any dinner party. He at last had a thor- 
 ough distaste for the chance society of a London 
 drawing-room, and almost entirely abandoned it, 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 103 
 
 as he " also relinquished that House of Commons, 
 which the first sentences of his speeches hushed 
 into silence, and the first five minutes filled to over- 
 flowing." He consecrated his last years to his His- 
 tory. He became a devotee of the " literary life," 
 of which, as we said in the outset, he is one of the 
 most admirable examples in English literary his- 
 tory, and in which we have endeavored chiefly to 
 consider him. Finally, giving up politics, as well 
 as society, he lived almost exclusively in his library 
 and the circle of his immediate kindred. He found 
 and declared his genuine happiness in this literary 
 consecration, for every virtue, as well as every muse, 
 dwelt with him there. Gibbon said that he would 
 not exchange his enjoyment of books for the riches 
 of the Indies; Montesquieu declared there was no 
 trouble, no chagrin, he could not get rid of in 
 his library; Lessing said that if the alternatives 
 were offered him, by the Creator, to acquire knowl- 
 edge immediately by intuition, or in his usual way, 
 by laborious study, he would choose the latter ; for 
 study is itself a felicity. 
 
 " Macaulay 's way of life," says Mr. Trevelyan, 
 " would have seemed solitary to others, but it was 
 not to him. While he had a volume in his hands 
 he never could be without" a quaint companion to 
 laugh with him or to laugh at ; a counselor to suggest 
 wise and lofty thoughts, and a friend with whom to 
 share them. When he opened for the tenth or 
 
104 Character-Sketches. 
 
 fifteenth time some history, or memoir, or romance, 
 every incident and almost every sentence of which 
 he had by heart, his feeling was precisely that 
 which we experience on meeting an old comrade 
 whom we like all the better because we know the 
 exact lines on which his talk will run." He wrote 
 from India : " Books are becoming every thing to 
 me. If I had this moment my choice of life I 
 would bury myself in one of those immense libra- 
 ries that we saw together at the universities, and 
 never pass a waking hour without a book be- 
 fore me." 
 
 He found, as he said, that a ** book is the best of 
 anodynes " for hours of suffering. A bibliomaniac 
 is never a pessimist. His strong affections ren- 
 dered the death of his youngest sister almost a 
 fatal blow to him. When the sad news reached 
 him in India, he wrote: "That I have not sunk 
 under this blow I owe chiefly to literature. What 
 a blessing it is to love books as I love them ; to be 
 able to converse with the dead, and live among the 
 unreal." He wrote still later: "Literature has 
 saved my life and my reason. Even now I dare not, 
 in the intervals of business, remain alone for a 
 minute without a book in my hand. I am more 
 than half resolved to abandon politics and give 
 myself wholly to letters." 
 
 No man has left us more delightful experiences 
 of the pleasures of literature. In his library he 
 
Macaulay— Literary Like. 105 
 
 could summon around him the great bards, to 
 chant him their immortal lays; the great histo- 
 rians, to recite their narratives ; the great orators, 
 to exhilarate him with their eloquence ; the great 
 novelists, to entertain him with their stories ; the 
 great travelers, with whom he could traverse the 
 world without leaving his fireside, and witness the 
 wonders, without sharing the perils, of their advent- 
 ures. A good library was to him the best of 
 material provisions for happiness, and a good au- 
 thor the best of companions. In his essay on 
 Bacon he eloquently says : " These friendships are 
 exposed to no danger from occurrences by which 
 other attachments are weakened or dissolved. 
 Time glides on, fortune is inconstant, tempers are 
 soured, bonds which seemed indissoluble are daily 
 sundered by interest, by emulation, or by caprice ; 
 but no such cause can affect the silent converse 
 which we hold with the highest of human intel- 
 lects. The placid intercourse is disturbed by no 
 jealousies or resentments. These are the old 
 friends who are never seen with new faces, who are 
 the same in wealth and in poverty, in glory and in 
 obscurity. With the dead there is no rivalry; in 
 the dead there is no change. Plato is never sullen, 
 Cervantes is never petulant, Demosthenes never 
 comes unseasonably, Dante never stays too long ; 
 no difference of political opinions can ever alienate 
 Cicero, no heresy can excite the horror of Bossuet.** 
 
io6 Character-Sketcpies. 
 
 It was befitting that such a man should die in 
 his study. " He was found dead," says his biog- 
 rapher, " in his Hbrary, seated in his easy-chair, 
 and dressed as usual, with his book on the table 
 still open." He died in his sixtieth year, and was 
 buried in Westminster Abbey, where, amid the 
 monuments of Addison, Johnson, Gray, and Gold- 
 smith, his tomb bears the inscription, " His body 
 is buried in peace, but his name liveth for ever- 
 more." 
 
 Such a life can be recorded only in emphatic 
 terms, for its facts are emphatic ; and, though his 
 biographer belonged to his party and to his kin- 
 dred, the reader is not disposed to accuse him of 
 undue partiality, and demands no qualification of 
 the eulogistic tone of his narrative. While living, 
 and still more after his death, Macaulay was criti- 
 cised, particularly by Tory critics, as declamatory, 
 exaggerated, and even superficial. He never publicly 
 replied to such derogations ; he could leave them 
 to the good sense of his readers ; their occasional 
 repetition in our day cannot effect his reputation. 
 He says in his Journal : " Like other writers, I 
 swallow the praise and think the blame absurd. 
 But, in truth, I do think that the fault-finding is 
 generally unreasonable, though the book is, no 
 doubt, faulty enough.'* " I often think that an 
 extensive knowledge of literary history is of inesti- 
 mable value to a literary man ! I mean as respects 
 
Macaulay— Literary Life. 107 
 
 the regulation of his mind, the moderating of his 
 hopes and of his fears, and the strengthening of his 
 fortitude. I have had detractors enough to annoy 
 me, if I had not known that no writer, equally suc- 
 cessful with myself, has suffered so little from de- 
 traction ; and that many writers, more deserving 
 and less successful than myself, have excited envy 
 which has appeared in the form of the most horri- 
 ble calumnies. The proper answer to abuse is con- 
 tempt, to which I am by nature sufficiently prone ; 
 and contempt does not show itself by contemptuous 
 expressions." 
 
io8 Character-Sketches. 
 
 III. 
 
 KLOPSTOCK AND HIS META — LOVE AND 
 LITERATURE. 
 
 NO name in modern literature is circled with a 
 purer halo than the awkward one of Klop- 
 stock, the German poet. He combined something 
 of the genius of Milton, with the simplicity of child- 
 hood, the affectionateness of woman, and the piety 
 of a saint. Like most Germans of genius, his great 
 original powers did not dispose him to claim ex- 
 emption from the hardest labors of the student. 
 He was profoundly learned, even in the dryest of 
 sciences — philology ; and from boyhood till a vet- 
 eran of eighty years, never relaxed his studious 
 habits. If, like most literary works of his time, his 
 writings have given way to more modern produc- 
 tions, he is, nevertheless, acknowledged to be the 
 founder of the modern German poetry, which cul- 
 minated in Goethe and Schiller. " It was the Mes- 
 siah of Klopstock," says Madame de Stael, in her 
 ** Germany," '' that marked the epoch of German 
 poetry." There is hardly a dissent among German 
 critics, respecting this fact. 
 
 He was born at Quedlinburg, July 2, 1724. His 
 childhood was spent under the instructions of pri- 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 109 
 
 vatc tutors and the gymnasium. In his sixteenth 
 year he entered college, and soon mastered the 
 classic authors with a success described as '* per- 
 fect." Virgil, especially, became his favorite, and 
 the model of his youthful attempts in poetical com- 
 position. 
 
 It was at this early period that he conceived, with 
 the boldness of true genius, the high design of 
 furnishing his language with a native epic. Ger- 
 many had not hitherto produced such a work, if we 
 except the legendary Nibelungenlied of the thir- 
 teenth century. His soul glowed with the hope of 
 being forever acknowledged as her first epic bard. 
 His enthusiasm for Homer and Virgil, his daily com- 
 panions, kindled with increased ardor this noble 
 ambition. If any thing further was necessary to 
 determine his purpose, it was the reading of a 
 Frenchman's attack on the German intellect, charg- 
 ing it with incapacity for poetry — a charge quite as 
 applicable to the Gallic mind as to any in Europe. 
 Voltaire, like Klopstock, was ambitious to give his 
 country a native epic ; and produced the abortive 
 Henriade. 
 
 There is a sort of mixed, unconscious self-con- 
 fidence and simplicity in true genius, that often 
 seems more akin to weakness than to strength. 
 Genius sees not usually the magnitude of the 
 difficulty, but it perceives the glory of its pur- 
 poses. Without calculating means, which appear 
 
I lo Character-Sketches. 
 
 like matters of instinct or intuition to it, it strikes 
 forward at the result, and from its very courage de- 
 rives a strength without which it must have failed. 
 The design of Klopstock would have hardly been 
 conceived at a more considerate age. But now in 
 his boyhood it glowed, a Promethean spark within 
 him, until it inflamed all his faculties. He im- 
 mediately set himself to search for a fitting theme ; 
 and after choosing and rejecting many, fixed upon 
 Henry the First, the founder of the freedom of his 
 native city, and conqueror of the Huns. 
 
 A profound element was at work in the develop- 
 ing mind of the poet — one stronger even than his 
 genius, and which soon imbued his whole nature. 
 It was religion. The characteristic earnestness of 
 the German mind— the basis at once of its doubt 
 and its piety, according to individual predisposi- 
 tions — was a marked trait of the whole life of Klop- 
 stock ; and while the ambition of his boyhood was 
 projecting a brilliant fame, the idea of a higher im- 
 mortality dawned upon his mind— the soul, God, 
 death, eternity, became overpowering conceptions, 
 in comparison with which all motives of human 
 ambition, all principles of aesthetic art or earthly 
 knowledge, became lighter than vanity. Henceforth 
 he was a consecrated man. He still felt the afflatus 
 of genius upon his spirit, and was more determined 
 than ever to signaHze his country and his day by a 
 great poem, which, as the blind old Milton hoped 
 
KlOPSTOCK and his META. Ill 
 
 of his own, ** the world would not willingly let 
 die : " but God, not the hero of barbarous victories, 
 was to be its theme. In an oration which he de- 
 livered about this time, before his college, he ex- 
 presses, after an able dissertation on the condition of 
 German poetry, his views of the character requisite 
 to the writer of an epic poem, and exclaims: "If 
 among our present poets there may not be one 
 who is destined to distinguish his native country 
 with this honor, hasten to arise, O glorious day, 
 which shall bring such a being to light ! May the 
 sun which shall first behold him, approach ! May 
 virtue, and wisdom, with the celestial muse, nurse 
 him with the tenderest care ! May the whole field 
 of nature be displayed before him, and the whole 
 magnificence of our adorable religion ! To him may 
 even the range of future ages be no longer wrapped 
 in impenetrable darkness ; and by these instructors 
 may he be rendered worthy of immortal fame, and 
 of the approbation of God himself, whom, above all, 
 let him celebrate." These were noble sentiments 
 for a young man but twenty-one years of age, a 
 time of life when students in Germany pride them- 
 selves most on their achievements over the wassail 
 bowl, or on the audacity of their skepticism. 
 
 The change in the project of his poem was not a 
 little owing to Milton, whom he read in Bodmer's 
 translation. In a letter which he afterward ad- 
 dressed to Bodmer, he gives us the following glimpse 
 
112 Character-Sketches. 
 
 at the early workings of his mind on the subject: 
 '* When yet a boy, reading Homer and Virgil, and 
 enraged at the German commentators, your criti- 
 cisms and Breitinger's came into my hands. Hav- 
 ing once read, or rather devoured them, they were 
 always at my left hand, to be continually turned 
 over, while Homer and Virgil were at my right. 
 How often I then wished, and still wish, for your 
 proposed treatise on the Sublime ! But Milton, 
 (whom, perhaps, I should too late have seen, if you 
 had not translated him,) when accidently he fell 
 into my hand, blew up at once the fire which had 
 been kindled by Homer, and raised my soul to 
 heaven and the poetry of religion. Often did I 
 then behold the image of an epic poet, such as you 
 have described in your critic poem, and I looked at 
 it, as Caesar on the bust of Alexander, in tears." 
 
 Whatever influence Milton's example had, in giv- 
 ing a religious direction to the genius of the young 
 German, was owing to a prior and profound suscep- 
 tibility. He had, in his childhood, become so famil- 
 iar with the Scriptures, and their poetical descrip- 
 tions " were," says Bodmer, *' so strongly impressed 
 upon his mind, that when the things themselves 
 came before his eyes, he would often say they were 
 not new to him — he had already seen them in the 
 Psalms and the prophets. When he approached to 
 manhood, the pathetic passages took the same 
 strong hold on his heart as the glittering and mag- 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 113 
 
 nificcnt images had before taken on his fancy. A 
 ])romisc that fallen man should find mercy drew 
 
 ars from his eyes ; a trace of the immortality of the 
 soul threw him into a transport of gratitude. Re- 
 ligion did not remain a mere speculation of the 
 brain ; it was a clear view of the greatness and glory 
 of the Messiah ; it was the pure feeling of love and 
 grateful adoration." 
 
 The subject finally chosen for his poem was the 
 ** Messiah," a name that now ranks first in the series 
 of great modern poems in the German language. 
 After leaving college, in his twenty-first year, he 
 spent a few months at the University of Jena. He 
 designed to study theology there, but the elevation 
 of his religious feelings could not accord with the 
 cold and scholastic subtilties which then formed 
 the theological attraction of the University. " He 
 wanted no evidence," says one of his biographers, 
 " to prove the truth of a religion which had taken 
 entire possession of his heart, and he could not listen 
 with patience to the cavils of infidels or the reason- 
 ings of metaphysicians." Withdrawing from the 
 dialectic contentions of the learned doctors of the 
 University, he consecrated himself in the stillness 
 of his studio to the great mission of his life — the 
 epic of the " Messiah." He sketched the first three 
 cantos, and wrote them out in prose. From the re- 
 tirement of his study he would frequently go forth 
 into the rural neighborhoods of Jena, and, wander- 
 
114 Character-Sketches. 
 
 ing about in meditative walks, trace out in his mind 
 the imagery of his poem. In one of these walks, 
 after several trials at other meters, he resolved to 
 adopt that of the great epics of antiquity. He im- 
 mediately transformed one of his pages into hexam- 
 eters, and continued the composition in this meas- 
 ure — the first successful experiment of that versifi- 
 cation in the German language. 
 
 In his twenty-second year he left Jena for the 
 University of Leipsic, carrying with him the first 
 three books of his poem. Here he became a 
 member of a small literary society, of which his 
 friends, Schmidt, Cramer, Gartner, Schlegel, Gie- 
 secke, Zachariae, Gellert, and Rabener, were the 
 chief supporters. His cantos were shown to a few 
 of these friends, and excited so much interest, that 
 others were intent on seeing them ; and at last they 
 were seized, by a species of violence, and read aloud 
 in his own chamber. They were afterward pub- 
 lished in '* The Bremen Contributions," a periodical 
 conducted by the society. 
 
 In his twenty-fourth year he left Jena, and re- 
 tired into a secluded life, at Langensalze, where he 
 had charge of the education of a friend's children. 
 But while in this retreat, " his Messiah," says his 
 biographer, " excited such a degree of attention as 
 no other book had ever awakened in Germany. 
 Friends and enemies, admirers and critics, appeared 
 on all hands. Young preachers quoted it in the 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 115 
 
 pulpit, and Christians loved to read it as a book 
 which afforded thenn, amid the rage of controversy, 
 some scope for devout feeling. By a. class of di- 
 vines it was condemned as a presumptuous fiction ; 
 and the partisans of the grammarian Gottsched 
 raised still greater clamors against the work, on ac- 
 count of its language ; while the Swiss critics, on 
 the other hand, extolled it to the greatest degree. 
 Bodmcr, the translator of Milton, in particular, em- 
 braced the cause of the German epic bard with en- 
 thusiastic ardor, and contributed greatly to the 
 celebrity of the poem." 
 
 Though but three cantos were yet published, and 
 tliey only in a periodical magazine, Klopstock had 
 at once, and in his twenty-fourth year, achieved an 
 immortal fame. He was recognized as the Milton 
 of his country; the charge against the German 
 mind, of incapacity for high poetic excellence, was 
 refuted ; his name was forever to stand first in the 
 list of great modern German bards. " He idealized 
 the German character," says a critic, " as no other 
 one has ever done — he created for the. Germans a 
 new, strong, free, and genuine poetic language ; " 
 and an illuminated path was now opened for that 
 series of splendid native poets who soon began to 
 follow him — Goethe, Wieland, Schiller, etc. 
 
 Meanwhile how did the young bard bear his suc- 
 cesses? ** Poetry," another German has said, "is 
 like the pearl in the oyster — a painful disease ; " 
 
ii6 Character-Sketches. 
 
 and the precious formations of genius are often 
 abstracted out of the Hfe-energy of the bard. He 
 wins the perpetuity of fame ; but it is not un- 
 frequently like the preservation of the golden- 
 winged insect, petrified in amber. Dante, Petrarch, 
 Byron, under the soft skies' of Italy, moving with 
 souls of fire amid its desolate memories and passion- 
 ate influences, were less happy than the lazzaroni, 
 lounging away their lives in indolence. Klopstock 
 was of a healthy mental constitution, though his 
 mind was incandescent, if we may so speak, with 
 the fire of genius and the glow of ardent sympa- 
 thies. Even in hoary age his friends called him 
 ** the forever youthful." Still, at this period of his 
 success and young life, a profound consciousness 
 of the emptiness of even the purest fame oppressed 
 him ; his heart clung with conscious dependence 
 to the hopes of religion, the affection of friends, 
 and longed for the sympathy of woman's love. 
 While the first sensation produced by the disclos- 
 ure of his genius was spreading through Europe, 
 and critics were wrangling in conflicting specula- 
 tions on the new sign in the heavens, which had 
 shone out upon them with the suddenness and 
 splendor of a comet, he continued buried in his 
 retirement at Langensalze '* in deep melancholy," 
 silent and indifferent to the critical clamors 
 around him, writing pathetic odes, and cherishing 
 the sadness of his thoughts. His friend Cramer 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 117 
 
 alludes to this period of his history when he re- 
 marks: " I could wish to. know from what causes it 
 arises, that, in many persons who are remarkable 
 for sensibility and strong powers of imagination, 
 precisely at that period when the body is in its 
 greatest vigor, and the animal spirits are the most 
 lively — when the prospect of all the delights of 
 honor and friendship is the most fair and blooming, 
 and when the termination of these enjoyments ap- 
 pears at the greatest distance — that period is, nev- 
 ertheless, frequently the time of melancholy reflec- 
 tions, of familiarity with the grave, and habitual 
 contemplation of death. This * youth forever,' 
 whose age even now shines with all the brightness 
 of a fine spring morning, and who, with the well- 
 regulated disposition of a wise man, his brow never 
 clouded with melancholy or ill-humor, gathers all 
 the flowers of joy, was formerly wrapped in the 
 mourning attire of Young. Never did he more se- 
 riously reflect on the instability of all earthly things, 
 or on the importance of eternity. Many times did 
 he then dip his pencil in the darkest colors, while 
 on the richest and most beautiful night-pieces he 
 painted — death.** 
 
 But a new and brighter epoch was at hand in the 
 young poet's life — literary success, royal patronage, 
 precious friendships, and, above all, the smiles and 
 affections of love were about to irradiate his career. 
 His subsequent history exhibits one of the finest 
 
ii8 Character-Sketches. 
 
 pictures of married life on record ; and it is more in 
 reference to this than to his Hterary claims that we 
 have introduced him to our readers. The farther 
 outlines of his Hfe will be chiefly in delineation of 
 another character — his "angelic Meta," made im- 
 mortal in his poetry and his biography. His ac- 
 quaintance with her was preceded by a transient 
 but vivid passion for another. Both cases afford a 
 biographic passage which is entitled to rank among 
 the most significant examples of the loves of the 
 poets. 
 
 Tacitus records the respect of the ancient Ger- 
 mans for woman. In the modern development of 
 the German mind the sentiment is not less strong. 
 Its literature is imbued, not merely with the gal- 
 lantry of love, like that of most other nations, 
 but the noble courtesy of the passion, which we 
 associate with the age of chivalry, survives in it — a 
 sort of reverence for the sex which partakes some- 
 what of the religious sentiment itself. The German 
 poet would recognize in woman a nature distinct 
 from that of man. Her finer organization, quicker 
 perceptions and insight, greater moral courage and 
 purer affections, indicate to him something preter- 
 human, if not divine. She is an angel to him, not 
 only in the ideal affections of poetry, but often in 
 the severer speculations of his philosophy. Klop- 
 stock was every inch a German. Young, glowing 
 with the ardor of poetical and religious feeling, the 
 
KLorsTucK AND HIS Meta. 119 
 
 vision of a beautiful, "a tender, holy maid," as he 
 calls her, rose before him in his solitude at Langen- 
 salze; and though the first object of his affection 
 was his own cousin, the sister of his dearest literary 
 friend, Schmidt, and, therefore, one with whom it 
 might be supposed he was on terms of sufficient 
 familiarity to allow of the usual frankness and per- 
 siflage of youthful courtship, yet, with a true Ger- 
 man's heart, he stands at a distance and in silence, 
 loving, reverencing, adoring the " holy maid." His 
 correspondents are made acquainted with his pas- 
 sion, but she knows it not. Beautiful odes to* her 
 come glowing from his pen, are received by his dis- 
 tant literary friends, find their way into the mag- 
 azines, and are sung by maiden lips throughout 
 Germany, but are unknown to her. 
 
 This '' heavenly girl," as he often styles her, 
 must have possessed rare charms of both person 
 and mind. In one of his letters to Bodmer he 
 says : " She has a certain character of beauty which 
 distinguishes her from all others. I can no other- 
 wise describe it to you, at present, than by saying 
 that it corresponds with what I have said of her in 
 my songs." In one of these songs he describes her 
 as "young and beautiful," with an "all-powerful, 
 all-subduing look of soul," which he pronounces 
 " an emanation of divinity ; " her " every move- 
 ment speaks the heavenly temper of her mind ; ** 
 she is " serene as the unruffled air, bright as the 
 
1 20 Character-Sketches. 
 
 dawn, full of simplicity as nature's self," etc. His 
 letters, about this period, incessantly refer to her. 
 " She is not accessible to me," he says to Bodmer, 
 " nor likely to be so ; for fortune separates us wide- 
 ly; yet without her I am miserable." Bodmer 
 attempts to console him. The poet replies: "Your 
 letter, the consciousness that my love is exalted 
 and pure, and my sense of religion, prevent my be- 
 ing completely miserable. She knows but little of 
 my sentiments, or if she has discovered them, she 
 does not let me know it ; but she is capable of feel- 
 ing them all. How would she feel your letter, if I 
 had courage to read it to her! and, if she loved me, 
 how would she look on me with those eyes so full 
 of soul ! " He writes a sweet ode to her, but, in- 
 stead of presenting it, sends it away to his friend 
 in Switzerland, remarking, " She who could best 
 reward it has not seen it, so timid does her appa- 
 rent insensibility make me ; " but beneath this ode 
 are sent, also, some lines from the manuscript of 
 the Messiah, rendered notable and endeared to him 
 because his "beloved critic" made him "read them 
 several times over to her." " O ! " he exclaims, 
 " how has this heavenly maiden captivated my 
 whole soul ! Without her I should be as unhappy 
 as I am capable of being." Bodmer, fearing that 
 the violence of his feelings might affect his health 
 and the progress of his " Messiah," writes a letter 
 to her, directed to the care of the poet ; but he 
 
KLOPSTOCK and his MeTA. 121 
 
 could not present it. " Much as it delighted me," 
 he says, " much as I wished to be able to give it to 
 her, and much as she herself would have prized it, 
 I had not courage." 
 
 A critic wrote an Italian review of his ** Messiah." 
 " Love," he writes, " bids me beg of you to send 
 me the Italian review while I remain here. Per- 
 haps-the divine maiden may smile upon these tro- 
 phies." And again he writes, " I cannot deny that 
 I am sometimes astonished at the degree of ten- 
 derness that I feel for this angelic woman." Her 
 occasional commendations of his writings fill him 
 with rapture. He observes, with deep emotion, 
 that she smiles with pleasure when she hears 
 him praised, and his heart beats with pride when 
 a remark escapes her in which he is compared to 
 Milton. 
 
 Here was love, beyond all doubt ; and many a 
 romantic dolt, under similar circumstances, would 
 consider himself in a desperate extremity, with 
 but one alternative — success or suicide. Our 
 poet felt profoundly the "apparent insensibility" 
 of the " angelic woman." ** I must await my 
 fate," he says, ** though I have never found any 
 thing more difficult." But he found support in 
 his religious principles. " What peace I have 
 hitherto enjoyed," he writes to a friend, " has 
 been chiefly the consequence of the following 
 thought : when by a taste for virtuous deeds, and 
 
122 Character-Sketches. 
 
 by some trifling good actions which to us are not 
 difficult — though to the vulgar they appear so — we 
 have made a show of appearing to be virtuous, then 
 Providence seizes our whole heart, and puts this 
 great question to us, Whether we will here, too, 
 submit — whether we will be virtuous even here? 
 You see that this is a very comprehensive thought; 
 but yet, when I measure my love against it, I won- 
 der that it has power to support me." 
 
 Yet this support would hardly have sufficed, had 
 he not entertained some hopes of success. His 
 friend Schmidt, brother to the young lady, ap- 
 proved his affection, and undertook to write to her 
 on the subject. The poet himself ventured, at last, 
 to present her an ode. She received it with kind- 
 ness, with " a little confusion, a slight blush, and 
 some almost tender looks." The perception of 
 women in matters of love, is as quick as intuition. 
 She understood him ; but her heart, it seems, was 
 elsewhere. She was afterward married to another ; 
 and Klopstock, quite broken down, prepared to 
 retire to his friend Bodmer, in Switzerland, de- 
 claring, " I will love only once in my life." 
 
 " Miserable ! " ** Completely miserable !" " Love 
 only once" in thy life ! This language is not for 
 thee, thou great -souled man; it is the proper 
 speech only of those who have less brains than 
 heart, and who, thus failing, make life a failure, 
 and know no better consummation for it than the 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 123 
 
 lover's leap. Better things arc prepared for thee ; 
 thou art to utter a hymn to all ages ; royalty is to 
 woo thee to its palaces, fame is to applaud thy name ; 
 thou shalt be ''den ewigen Jungiiug,'' '*the youth for- 
 ever ; " thou shalt again love and be loved. A beau- 
 tiful soul, young, ardent, and saintly, already loves 
 thee. She sits in her chamber at Hamburg, weeping 
 over thy pages. She has read the great poets of 
 Italy, France, England, and has found thee one like 
 unto them in her own noble tongue. Thou shalt find 
 her an angel, such as thou hast not seen in thy 
 holiest visions ; she shall exalt thine ideas of 
 
 m 
 
 humanity ; her presence shall sanctify thy youth, 
 and her memory thine old age. She shall love 
 thee with angelic affection ; she shall die for thee, 
 and die blessing thee. 
 
 " I will love only once in my life," said Klop- 
 stock, when he proposed to seek a retreat with Bod- 
 mer at Zurich. But here is another letter, written to 
 another person some months later : ** You are dearer 
 to me than all who are connected with me by blood 
 or by friendship, dearer to me than all which is dear 
 to me besides in the creation! My sister, my friend, 
 you are mine by love, by pure and holy love, which 
 Providence — ah, how grateful I am for the blessing! 
 has made the inhabitant of my soul on earth. It 
 appears to me that you were born my twin sister 
 in paradise. At present, indeed, we are not there ; 
 but we shall return thither. Since we have so 
 
124 Character-Sketches. 
 
 much happiness here, what shall we have there ? 
 My Meta, my forever beloved, I am entirely thine!" 
 
 So much for the sanitary influence of time on 
 the wounds of a broken heart, provided that it 
 is accompanied with a tolerable strength of brain. 
 Every man, as a rule, has his own Eve some- 
 where in the world, and every woman her Adam. 
 If we fail of the discovery in one instance, let 
 us have patience and try again. A little time 
 is often of marvelous efficacy in such cases. No 
 man ever felt more romance than Klopstock, and 
 no one ever wrote more than Sir Walter Scott ; yet 
 the former, after believing himself heart-broken 
 forever, found the " twin sister of his soul," and 
 lived and loved again ; and the latter, after a 
 similar failure of first love, allied himself with 
 a little French dame, lived a comfortable life 
 amid his children, his books, and his dogs at 
 Abbottsford, and acknowledged that, though his 
 heart had been broken at first, "it was hand- 
 somely pieced the second time." As he visited, 
 in a coasting pleasure excursion, the locality where 
 his first love used to reside, he wrote home to his 
 family this significant remark, ** I have been here 
 before. Whew ! " 
 
 Klopstock went to Zurich, where he spent several 
 months with his friend Bodmer. His Messiah had 
 produced a profound impression in Switzerland. 
 *' The people there," says one of his biographers, 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 125 
 
 "viewed him with a kind of veneration,** and 
 " much exertion was made to induce him to re- 
 main ; " but more brilliant fortunes awaited him. 
 The Danish embassador, Bernstorff", had read, in 
 Paris, the first three cantos of the Messiah. .He 
 immediately perceived the promise of its author, 
 recommended him to the favorite minister of the 
 court of Denmark, and through him to the king, 
 by whom the poet was called to reside at Copen- 
 hagen, on a pension which rendered him independ- 
 ent, and secured him leisure for the completion of 
 his poem. 
 
 It was while on his route to Copenhagen, in the 
 twenty-seventh year of his age, that he met, for 
 the first time, the " Meta " of his letters, the 
 " Cidli " of his poems — the " lovely and accom- 
 plished Margaretta Moller, who afterward made 
 him the happiest of men." This maiden was one 
 of the purest, loveliest beings that God ever gave to 
 our world — one from whom we may derive some 
 conception of the nature and moral loveliness of 
 angels. We hesitate as we approach the descrip- 
 tion of her incomparable character. It is too sa- 
 cred for an unskillful pen. We shall, however, 
 let her reveal it as much as possible in her own 
 words. 
 
 The character of the German woman is distinct- 
 ively peculiar and national. The very lowest 
 class of the sex in Germany are what they are 
 
126 Character-Sketches. 
 
 elsewhere in Europe — hardy drudges, sharing the 
 out-door toils of their husbands. But among the 
 women of the middle and higher classes are found 
 traits of character not surpassed by those of any 
 other nation of Europe. Among them are found, 
 of course, a large class of the superficial beings that 
 make up the gay world, so-called, and not unfre- 
 quent examples of the excess of that ideal senti- 
 mentality which seems inherent in the German 
 intellect, and forms the chief characteristic of the 
 Countess Hahn-Hahn's pictures of German society; 
 but the prevailing traits of the German woman are 
 profound moral feeling, tending strongly to abiding 
 love and religion ; an affection that clings to its first 
 romance through married life ; a romantic interest 
 in literature and literary men, combined often with 
 an extent of learning which would entitle a man 
 to be called a scholar in any other country; a love 
 of home comforts and endearments, with an unfail- 
 ing aptitude to provide them ; and a strong feeling 
 of that love and pride for their own country which 
 Tacitus ascribes to their ancient mothers. The 
 French woman recognizes in love little else than 
 its gallantry; to the English woman it is a sober 
 affection, with its sober household obligations ; the 
 German woman dreams of it as Wieland did of the 
 ''Affinity of Souls," and better than Goethe dreamed 
 of "Elective Affinities;" and this dream, if such it 
 should be called, lasts usually through her life, 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 127 
 
 irradiating its duties and its sorrows. "There is 
 hardly a German woman," says a writer, '• from the 
 top to the bottom of the social ladder, who would 
 not consider it as the greatest insult which could 
 be offered her, for any one to doubt her having 
 experienced what they call an internal life. To 
 this peculiarity may be ascribed the circumstance 
 that gossip — at least of the commoner kind — occu- 
 pies a less prominent place in the conversation 
 of German women than in that of the women 
 of England or France. While an English or a 
 French woman will inform you how much 'Lord 
 So-and-so * is in debt, or the probability of * Cap- 
 tain What-ye-call-him ' paying his addresses to 
 * Mademoiselle Chose,' a German matron will treat 
 you to an account of how her husband's pas- 
 sion for her first manifested itself — how the fire, 
 after smoldering awhile in a sweet unconsciousness, 
 at last burst forth into a mutual flame. She will 
 describe to you the change which her feelings 
 underwent after her verlobimg, (betrothal,) and 
 after she became a wife and mother ; and this with 
 the most perfect simplicity, without any intention 
 of exciting astonishment or admiration, and proba- 
 bly upon what an English woman would consider 
 a very casual acquaintance. It is a subject which 
 interests her more than any other; of which she 
 is constantly thinking, and of which she freely 
 speaks." 
 
128 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Margaretta MoUer combined in herself the best 
 traits of the German feminine character. She was 
 devout, learned, enthusiastic, confiding, simple- 
 hearted, and domestic. She corresponded in En- 
 glish with Young, the poet, and Richardson, the 
 author of '' Clarissa." In her letters to the latter 
 she gives, with all the naive frankness of her Ger- 
 man heart, an account of her first acquaintance 
 with Klopstock. '' You would know," she says, 
 ''all that concerns me. Love, dear sir, is all that 
 concerns me, and love is all that I will tell you in 
 this letter. In one happy night I read my hus- 
 band's poem — the Messiah. I was extremely 
 touched with it. The next day I asked one of his 
 friends who was the author of it ; and this was the 
 first time I heard Klopstock's name. I believe I 
 fell immediately in love with him ; at least, my 
 thoughts were ever filled with him ; but I had no 
 hope ever to see him, when, quite unexpectedly, 
 I heard that he would pass through Hamburg. I 
 wrote immediately to the same friend to procure 
 me the means of seeing the author of the Messiah. 
 He told him that a certain girl in Hamburg wished 
 to see him, and for a recommendation, showed him 
 some letters, in which I made bold to criticise Klop- 
 stock's verses. Klopstock came, and came to me. 
 This had its effect." The German maiden lost 
 fully her heart, at this first interview, if she had not 
 lost it before. ''After having seen him two hours," 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 129 
 
 she continues, " I was obliged to pass the evening 
 in company, which had never been so wearisome 
 to mc before. I could not speak — I could not play. 
 I thought I saw nothing but Klopstock. I saw 
 him the next day, and .the following, and we were 
 very seriously friends ; but on the fourth day he 
 departed. It was a strong hour, the hour of his 
 departure." A correspondence ensued, " during 
 which," she says, " I sincerely believed my love to 
 be friendship. At last Klopstock said that he 
 loved, and I started, as for a wrong thing." In 
 one year after their first interview the poet again 
 visited Hamburg. " We saw we were friends, wc 
 loved, and we believed that we loved," writes the 
 frank-hearted girl; "and a short time after, I could 
 even tell Klopstock that I loved. But we were 
 obliged to part again, and wait two years for our 
 wedding. My mother would not let me marry a 
 stranger. At this time, knowing Klopstock, she 
 loves him as her own son, and thanks God that 
 she has not persisted. We married, and I am the 
 happiest wife in the world. In a few months it 
 will be four years that I have been so happy, and I 
 still dote upon Klopstock as if he were my bride- 
 groom. If you knew my husband you would not 
 wonder. If you knew his poem, I could describe 
 him very briefly, in saying he is, in all respects, 
 what he is as a poet. This I can say with all 
 wifely modesty; but I dare not speak of my hus- 
 
I30 Character-Sketches. 
 
 band — I am all raptures when I do it. And as 
 happy as I am in love, so happy am I in friendship 
 — in my affection for my mother, for two elder 
 sisters, and for five other women. How rich I am ! 
 Sir, you have willed that I speak of myself; but I 
 fear that I have done it too much. Yet you see 
 how it interests me." 
 
 A few letters between the poet and his betrothed 
 have come to light. They breathe an ardent affec- 
 tion sanctified, by the highest religious feeling. On 
 the last evening of the interview above mentioned, 
 she wrote him as follows : " I must write to you this 
 evening, and you shall find my letter at Copenhagen. 
 Mysoul leans upon yours. This is the evening on 
 which we read your Ode to God. Do you remem- 
 ber it? You will leave me, but I shall again re- 
 ceive you, and receive you as your wife. Alas ! 
 after another day, you will be gone far, far from 
 me, and it will be long before I shall see you again ; 
 but I must restrain my grief; God will be with you 
 — your God and mine. I trust in our gracious God 
 that he will restore you to me ; that he will make 
 me happy. He knows that through you I shall be 
 continually improving. He has already bestowed 
 upon us so much happiness that I trust he will 
 complete our felicity. Begin, then, your journey ; 
 only let me weep ; I cannot help it. God be with 
 you." After an attack of illness, she wrote him : 
 *' I did not expect to be ever again as well as I now 
 
Klopstock and his Meta, 131 
 
 am. Praised be our God for it ! and you will praise 
 him with me. Yesterday evening, when I had re- 
 tired from company, and enjoyed a very delightful 
 hour, I said to myself, ' Perhaps my K. is now wor- 
 shiping God with me;' and at that thought my 
 devotions became more fervent. How delightful it 
 is to address ourselves to God — to feel his influence 
 on our minds. Thus how happy may we be even 
 in this world ! You say rightly, if our happiness is 
 so great here, what will it be hereafter ? And then 
 we shall never be separated ! Farewell, my be- 
 loved ! I shall think of you continually to-morrow. 
 The holiest thoughts harmonize with my idea of 
 you — of you who are more holy than I am — who 
 love our Creator not less than I do — more I think 
 you cannot love him — not more, but in a more 
 exalted manner. How happy am I to belong to 
 you ! Through you I shall be continually advanc- 
 ing in piety and virtue. I cannot express the feel- 
 ings of my heart on this subject ; but they are very 
 different from what they were half a year ago. 
 Before I was beloved by you, I dreaded my greatest 
 happiness ; I was uneasy lest it should draw me 
 away from God. How much was I mistaken ! It 
 is true that adversity leads us to God ; but such 
 felicity as mine cannot withdraw me from Him, or 
 I could not be worthy to enjoy it. On the con- 
 trary, it brings me nearer to him. The sensi- 
 bility, the gratitude, the joy, all the feelings at- 
 
132 Character-Sketches. 
 
 tendant on happiness, make my devotion the more 
 fervent." 
 
 The poet's ardent and devout heart responded 
 with similar language. Every despondent memory 
 of the disappointment of his former love is gone. 
 ** With what transport," he exclaimed, '' do I think 
 of you, my Meta, my only treasure, my wife ! 
 When, in fancy, I behold you, my mind is filled 
 with the heavenly thoughts which so often and de- 
 lightfully occupy it ; and while I think of you they 
 are still more fervent, more delightful. They glow 
 in my breast, but no words can express them. 
 With what sweet peace of mind do I contemplate, 
 in every point of view, the thought that you are 
 mine— that I am yours! O Meta, how entirely 
 are you formed to make me happy! and you are 
 bestowed upon me ! Can there be so much happi- 
 ness here below? Yet, what is the greatest earthly 
 happiness to that which we hope to enjoy in a 
 future state? Yes, my beloved, forever! " 
 
 During some three years did this affectionate 
 correspondence continue. Klopstock remembered 
 no more his former resolution, '* to love but once 
 in his life." All the poetical ardor of his soul was 
 lavished upon the beautiful and sweet-hearted girl ; 
 and she who was, according to contemporary writ- 
 ers, " Klopstock in feminine beauty," reciprocated 
 his tenderness with an affection, admiration, an 
 adoration even, next only to that which her devout 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 133 
 
 spirit paid to God himself. They were married in 
 the summer of 1754. 
 
 Having now passed through the courtship of our 
 hero, we ought to drop the pen in haste, accord- 
 ing to the canons of a certain cynical school of 
 writers ; for no love, according to their philosophy, 
 can long survive marriage. But the beauty, the 
 romance of the scene has only dawned thus far; 
 and the further history of Margaretta Klopstock 
 presents a picture of wedded love which an angel 
 might gladly contemplate. It is an abominable 
 perversion, practised upon society and against God, 
 that is implied in much of the modern light litera- 
 ture, which, under the extravagant forms of the 
 novel, pretends to picture human life, and in which 
 it seems a settled doctrine, that " the holy state of 
 matrimony " is, and of necessity must be, a holy 
 state of unhappiness — a tame, if not a worse ter- 
 mination of the young affections and hopes of the 
 heart. It is assumed by even more critical writers 
 sometimes, that men and women of. genius, as, for 
 instance, Madame de Stael, Mrs. Hemans, Mrs. 
 Norton, find it an intolerable relation ; and ex- 
 amples of conjugal infelicity are given from Soc- 
 rates to Milton, and from Milton to Coleridge. 
 
 Men of genius are often the poorest possible 
 specimens of those fine ideals of character which 
 they portray. They are irritable, whimsical, and 
 not unfrequently absolutely lunatic. It is not to 
 
134 Character-Sketches. 
 
 be wondered at, therefore, that a relation involv- 
 ing the most delicate sentiments, the highest obli- 
 gations, should be marred by their infirmities ; their 
 other relations in society share as often the same 
 fate. Still, literary biography abounds in examples 
 of wedded love ; examples in which some of the 
 highest minds have shown the highest affection and 
 attained their highest experience of life — men who 
 like Heine, one of Germany's greatest scholars and 
 critics, have wept broken-hearted over the graves 
 of their beloved. Heine, in the height of his suc- 
 cess and European reputation, revisiting the tomb 
 of his " Theresa," who had shared his early poverty 
 and struggles, wrote: " Here, then, reposes what is 
 left of the dearest that Heaven gave me ; amid 
 the dust of her four children she sleeps. I could 
 have continued at her grave forever ; there where 
 it cheered me to think that one day I shall rest by 
 her side. Her love was the strongest, truest, that 
 ever inspired the heart of woman, and made me 
 the happiest of men." Alluding to their early com- 
 mon sufferings, he exclaims, "When tears flowed 
 over our cheeks, did not a nameless, seldom-felt de- 
 light stream through my breast, oppressed equally 
 by joy and by sorrow!" Even Milton, though 
 driven by his domestic afflictions into sad heresies 
 about marriage, knew how to appreciate its bless- 
 edness, and has described it with the best beauty 
 and dignity of his verse : 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 135 
 
 ** Hail, wedded love, mysterious law, true source 
 Of human offspring, sole propriety 
 In paradise, of all things common else. 
 By thee adulterous love was driven from men 
 Among the bestial herds to range ; by thee 
 Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure, 
 Relations dear, and all the charities 
 Of father, son, and brother, first were known. 
 Far be it that I should write thee sin or blame, 
 Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, 
 , Perpetual fountain of domestic sweets. 
 
 • • * • ♦ 
 
 Here Love his golden shafts employs ; here lights 
 His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings ; 
 Reigns here and revels." 
 
 Klopstock had all the ardor and romance of 
 youthful affection, as we have seen, and few writers 
 have had more of the fine sensitiveness of genius 
 than he ; yet his married Hfe was a picture of the 
 purest felicity. There are not extant facts enough, 
 respecting this part of his history, to allow us to 
 construct it into a detailed narrative, but we have 
 many incidental and delightful glimpses of it. 
 
 In her charming letters to Richardson, Meta 
 shows an almost idolatrous love of her husband, 
 accompanied with the highest reverence for his 
 character. She speaks warmly of her friends, but 
 " in them all finds much to pardon, except in 
 Klopstock alone. He is good, really good," she 
 adds — " in all his actions, all the foldings of his 
 heart. I know him, and sometimes think that, if 
 we knew others in the same way, the better we 
 
136 Character-Sketches. 
 
 should find them." Four years after her marriage, 
 she exclaims, " How rich am I ! " ''I am the hap- 
 piest wife in the world." " I still dote upon Klop- 
 stock as if he were my bridegroom." '' No one of 
 my friends is as happy as I am ; but no one had 
 the courage to marry as I did." In another of these 
 letters she affords us a glance at their domestic 
 life : " It will be a delightful occupation for me," 
 she says, ** to make you more acquainted with my 
 husband's poem. No one can do it better than I, 
 being the person who knows the most of that 
 which is not published. I am always present at 
 the birth of the young verses, which begin by frag- 
 ments here and there of a subject of which his soul 
 is just then filled. He has many great fragments 
 of the whole work ready. You may suppose that 
 persons who love as we do, have no need of two 
 rooms ; we are always in the same ; I with my lit- 
 tle work, still, only regarding my husband's sweet 
 face," which she describes as expressive, at such 
 times, ^*of all the sublimity of his subject," and 
 often wet with tears prompted by his inspired emo- 
 tions. These young verses, she states, are read by 
 the poet to her, '' he suffering my criticisms." 
 
 The reader will infer justly from this deference 
 of the poet to the criticisms of his young wife, that 
 he found in her not only an ardent heart, but also 
 a cultivated mind. Her letters indicate that she 
 was familiar with at least four modern tongues. 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 137 
 
 Her enthusiasm for the " Messiah," which led to her 
 introduction to and love of Klopstock, is proof of 
 her intelli<^ence and discrimination. Her published 
 writings, which are, besides her correspondence, a 
 Dialogue with Klopstock on Fame, and Letters 
 from the Dead, are replete with the noblest senti- 
 ments, and marked by a discernment, a justness of 
 thought, that we should hardly have expected in 
 one whose letters show such ardor of feeling. " I 
 earnestly wish," says Klopstock after her death, 
 " that I could recollect some of her serious conver- 
 sations with me, so as to write them down; for 
 what a heart had she, and what a quick, and, at the 
 same time, accurate understanding ! " She else- 
 where says of her criticisms on the " Messiah : " " As 
 he knows that I delight to hear whatever he com- 
 poses, he always reads it to me immediately, though 
 it be often only a few verses. He is so far from 
 being opinionated, that on this first reading I am to 
 make my criticisms, just as they come into my 
 head." The poet, in quoting these remarks, adds, 
 " How much do I lose in her, even in this respect ! 
 How perfect was her taste — how exquisitely fine 
 her feelings! She observed every thing, even to 
 the slightest turn of the thought. I had only to 
 look at her, and could see in her face when even a 
 syllable pleased or displeased her; and when I led 
 her to explain the reason of her remarks, no demon- 
 stration could be more true, more accurate, or more 
 
138 Character-Sketches. 
 
 appropriate to the subject. But, in general, this 
 gave us very Httle trouble ; for we understood each 
 other, when we had scarcely begun to explain our 
 ideas." 
 
 During the four years of their married life they 
 were never separated except for two months, which 
 were near the close of her life. Her letters to 
 Klopstock, during this period of absence, breathe 
 all the fervor of first love. They were written un- 
 der circumstances of much indisposition and anx- 
 iety. She alludes to these circumstances, with deli- 
 cate but confiding naivete, in a letter to Richardson 
 about this time : " Have you not guessed," she 
 asks him, " that I, in summing up all my happiness, 
 and not speaking of children, had none ? Yes, sir, 
 this has been my only wish not gratified for these 
 four years ; I have been more than once unhappy 
 with disappointments ; but yet thanks, thanks to 
 God, I am in full hope to be a mother in Novem- 
 ber. The little preparations — and they are so dear 
 to me ! — have taken so much time that I could not 
 answer your letter, nor give you the promised 
 scenes of the ' Messiah ; ' this is also the reason why 
 I am still here, (in Hamburg ;) for properly we dwell 
 at Copenhagen. Our stay here is only a visit, but 
 a long one, which we pay my family. As I am not 
 able to travel yet, my husband has been obliged to 
 make a little voyage to Copenhagen without me. 
 He is yet absent — a cloud over my happiness. He 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 139 
 
 will soon return, but what does that help? He is 
 yet equally absent. We write each other every 
 post ; but what are letters to presence ? But I 
 will speak no more of this little cloud ; I will only 
 tell my happiness. But I cannot tell you how I 
 rejoice. A son of my dear Klopstock ; O, when 
 shall I have him ! When I have my husband and 
 my child I will write you more, if God gives me 
 life and health. You will think that I will be not 
 only a mother, but a nurse also ; though the latter, 
 (thank God that the former is not so too !) is quite 
 against the fashion and good breeding, and though 
 no one can think it possible to be always with the 
 child at home." 
 
 Familiar letters, like familiar conversations, are 
 among the best, because the least disguised, expo- 
 nents of real character. Klopstock himself pub- 
 lished the letters written him by his wife during 
 this period of absence and solicitude ; though 
 these letters contain but few allusions to her daily 
 life, they reveal so much of her heart that we 
 must give some fragments of them. In the first 
 after his departure, dated August 2, 1758, she 
 writes : " Did you go three times the distance to 
 the post, only to see me for one minute more ? Do 
 not imagine I think this a small matter. It con- 
 firms me in my old suspicion that you love me a 
 little. If you could see me to-day, I know you 
 would love me dearly. No one could know by my 
 
140 Character-Sketches. 
 
 appearance that you had left me. I cannot, indeed, 
 banish the thought of you, nor do I wish to ; but I 
 can view it in such a light that it does not disturb 
 me. Our God is with you, and will restore you." 
 August 3 : " They waked me this morning to give 
 me your letter, and I got the headache ; but that 
 pain was pleasure. Yesterday evening I had some 
 obscure notion of a letter, but could not imagine 
 how it should come. I never thought of Schonburg ; 
 but you thought of it ! You could not help writ- 
 ing ; yes, that is natural, for you love." August lo: 
 *' Where are you now? Still in the ship, I fear. 
 Last night it was very, very dark. I could not help 
 being anxious about you ; but it was not such anx- 
 iety as would have been ingratitude for my great 
 happiness ; it was tenderness, which I can never 
 cease to feel. God be with you, and grant that I 
 may hear from you on Tuesday ; but even if I should 
 not, I shall not be so uneasy as to hurt my health. 
 I was ready by eight o'clock. O if you had come 
 home ! How I wished for you ! It is hard, very 
 hard, after having lived with you to live without 
 you." August 15 : '* God be praised ! I have your 
 letter. O, what joy! What shall I feel when I 
 have you again ! I know not what I write. I re- 
 ceived your letter at table ; I could eat no more. 
 The tears started from my eyes, and I went into 
 my own room. I could only thank God with 
 my tears ; but he understands these." Klopstock 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 141 
 
 replies : " My Meta, I know how you think of mc. 
 I know it by my own feelings. It often comes so 
 strongly into my mind that you are with me, that I 
 am ready to press you to my heart. My only love, 
 what will be the joy of our meeting ! " August 24, 
 she writes : ** I am getting through all my letters, 
 all my visits, all my employments, agreeable or 
 disagreeable, that when you come I may live for 
 you alone. Yet I will really, in earnest, gladly do 
 without you till moonlight comes, though I tremble 
 in every nerve when I think of seeing you again." 
 Klopstock answers September 2 : " My beloved 
 Meta, how sweet it is to receive such letters from 
 you ! My confidence that God will spare you to 
 me yet remains, though I cannot say that now and 
 then a cloud does not come over it. There are 
 lighter and heavier hours of trial. These are some 
 of the heaviest. Let us take care, my dear Meta, 
 that we resign ourselves wholly to our God. This 
 solemn thought occupies me. What think you of 
 writing on it to each other, to strengthen us? O, 
 how my heart hangs on thine ! " Meta replies, Sep- 
 tember 7, in ominous words : " I shall indeed be in 
 continual misery if September passes without your 
 return. I shall expect to be confined and to die 
 without you. This would destroy all the peace of 
 which I wish to tell you ; for, God be praised ! I 
 am strong enough to speak of my death. I have 
 omitted it, hitherto, only on your account, and I am 
 
142 Character-Sketches. 
 
 happy that I need no longer refrain from it. Yet 
 let me be as uneasy as I may, do nothing that will 
 hurt your health. I ought not to have told you of 
 my fears, but I find it as impossible in a letter, as 
 when I am with you, to conceal any thing which 
 presses on my heart. I have left no room to tell 
 you of my peace and my courage, but I will do it 
 another time." Klopstock answers her in a letter 
 full of the noblest religious sentiments : '* When 
 God gives me grace," he says, *'to pursue these 
 ideas, then, Meta, I am not far from thee. He sur- 
 rounds both thee and me. His hand is over us. 
 God is where you are ; God is where I am. He has 
 numbered the hairs of our head. My soul is now 
 in a state of sweet composure, though mixed with 
 some degree of sadness. O my wife, whom God 
 has given me, be not careful, be not careful of the 
 morrow ! " A tender though sad reply she sends 
 him : '* You must not think that I mean any thing 
 more than that I am as willing to die as to live, and 
 that I prepare myself for both — I am perfectly re- 
 signed to either ; God's will be done. I often won- 
 der at the indifference I feel on the subject when 1 
 am so happy in this world. O what is our religion ! 
 What must that eternal state be of which we know 
 so little, while our souls feel so much ! More than 
 a life with you ! It does not appear to me so hard 
 to leave you and our child, and I only fear that I 
 may lose this peace of mind again, though it has 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 143 
 
 already lasted eight months. I well know that all 
 hours are not alike, and particularly the lasty since 
 death in my situation must be far from an easy one; 
 but let the last hour make no impression on you. 
 You know too well how much the body then presses 
 down the soul. Let God give what he will, I shall 
 still be happy. A longer life with you, or eternal 
 life with him ! O think where I am going ; and, 
 as far as sinners can judge of each other, you may 
 be certain that I go there; (the humble hopes of a 
 Christian cannot deceive ;) and thither you will fol- 
 low me — there we shall be forever united by love. 
 It is with the sweetest composure that I speak of 
 this. How I thank you for that kind permission! 
 I have done. I can write of nothing else. I am per- 
 haps too serious ; but it is a seriousness mixed with 
 tears of joy." 
 
 Premonitions were these of what soon followed ! 
 And yet, though painful, how admirable in their 
 womanly feeling and moral heroism ! But let 
 us see more of this pure and ardent spirit as 
 the catastrophe comes on. Three days after she 
 writes : " I hope, yet tremble, for your letter 
 to-day. O take not away my hope ! Set off to- 
 morrow. We have had since yesterday the finest 
 weather and the best north-west wind. You will 
 come exactly with the full moon. O set off! Do 
 not rob me of. my hope. Make me not unhappy. 
 Let this be the last letter. O come ! " In three 
 
144 Character-Sketches. 
 
 days more she writes, '' I know not how I shall 
 feel when I see you again. When I think of it I 
 am agitated as when I think of hearing the voice 
 of my child. Yesterday I went an airing for four 
 hours. I could go no other way than the road to 
 Lubeck, though I well knew you could not come so 
 soon. It was not possible for me to drive any other 
 way. Adieu till to-morrow. O may the letter to- 
 morrow tell me that you have set off — that I have 
 written this letter in vain ! O my only beloved, 
 come, come, come! " On September 19, Klopstock 
 writes that he is about ready to return : '' My soul 
 longs to see you again ; but I must not write of 
 this at present ; it affects me too much ; and I wish 
 to repress this emotion, because I wish to wait with 
 composure, and submission for the day of joy. Do 
 the same, my Meta. My hope that God would 
 spare you was yesterday very strong. But I scarcely 
 dare indulge this thought ; it affects me too power- 
 fully. Our God will order all things according to 
 his wisdom and love. O what true and peaceful 
 happiness lies in that thought, when we give our- 
 selves entirely to it. I press you to my heart, my 
 Meta." 
 
 Copenhagen, September 23 : " At length, my 
 Meta, I am in town, to go on board. I expect 
 every moment to be called. Our God will conduct 
 me. O how I love you, and how I rejoice at the 
 thought of our meeting! " Lubeck, September 26; 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 145 
 
 *• I shall soon be in your arms, my only love. God 
 be praised for my prosperous voyage ! How I re- 
 joice that I shall see you at last! My Meta, how 
 shall we thank God for having preserved thee to 
 me, and me to thee ! " 
 
 Meta wrote him, on the same day, one more 
 note, welcoming him. In about two months after 
 its date she was in heaven. The presentiment so 
 sadly but heroically expressed in these letters was 
 realized. She died at the birth of her only child, 
 November 28, 1758. Amid the peculiar suffer- 
 ings of her last hours her character revealed itself 
 in still saintHer loveliness, if that, indeed, were 
 possible. We know few scenes in the records of 
 death more heroic and more affecting. We may 
 well bow our souls with reverence, as passes before 
 us the scene in which this angel of earth is trans- 
 figured, through an ordeal of agony and dissolution 
 into an angel of heaven. 
 
 " Her sufferings," says Klopstock, in a letter to 
 
 Cramer, " continued from Friday till Tuesday after« 
 
 noon, about four o'clock ; but they were the most 
 
 violent from Monday evening about eight. On 
 
 Sunday morning I supported first myself and then 
 
 her, by repeating that, without our Father's will, 
 
 not a hair of the head could fall ; and more than 
 
 once I repeated to her the following lines from my 
 
 ode. Once I was so much affected as to be forced 
 
 to stop at every line : 
 10 
 
146 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Though unseen by human eye, 
 My Redeemer still is nigh ; 
 He has poured salvation's light 
 Far within the vale of night ; 
 There will God my steps control, 
 There his presence bless my soul 
 Lord, whate'er my sorrows be. 
 Teach me still to look to thee. 
 
 Some affecting circumstances I must omit ; I will 
 tell you them some other time. When she had al- 
 ready suffered greatly, I said to her with much emo- 
 tion, * The most Merciful is with thee.' I saw how 
 she felt. Perhaps she now first guessed that I 
 thought she would die. I saw this in her counte- 
 nance. I afterward often told her — as often as I 
 could go into the room and support the sight of her 
 sufferings — how visibly the grace of God was with 
 her. I came in just as she had been bled. A light 
 having been brought near on that account, I saw 
 her face clearly for the first time after many hours. 
 Ah, my Cramer, the hue of death was upon it ! But 
 God, who was so mightily with her, supported me 
 too at the sight. She was better after the bleeding, 
 but was soon worse again. I was allowed but very 
 little time to take leave of her. I had some hopes 
 that I might return for another farewell. I shall 
 never cease to thank God for the grace he gave me 
 at this parting. I said, ' I will fulfill my promise, 
 my Meta, and tell you that your life is in danger 
 from extreme weakness.' She heard perfectly, and 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 147 
 
 spoke without the least difficulty. I pronounced over 
 her the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy 
 Ghost: 'Now the will of Him who inexpressibly 
 supports thee — his will be done ! * * Let him do 
 according to his will/ she said; *he will do well.' 
 She said this in a most expressive tone of joy and 
 confidence. * You have endured like an angel. God 
 has been with you. He will be with you. His mighty 
 name be praised ! The most Merciful will sup- 
 port you. Were I so wretched as not to be a Chris- 
 tian, I should now become one.* Something of this 
 sort, and yet more, I said to her, in a strong emo- 
 tion of transport. * Be my guardian angel if God 
 permit.' ' You have been mine,' she said. * Be my 
 guardian angel,* repeated I, * if God permit.' ' Who 
 would not be so ? * said she. I would have hastened 
 away. Eliza [Klopstock's sister] said, * Give her 
 your hand once more.' I did so, and know not 
 whether I said any thing. I hastened away, and 
 then went into my own room and prayed. At part- 
 ing she said to me very sweetly, ' Thou wilt follow 
 me.' May my end be like thine ! O might I now 
 for one moment weep on her bosom ! for I cannot 
 refrain from tears, nor does God require it of me." 
 Such is true love! What romantic fiction ever 
 surpassed this? 
 
 Eliza Schmidt, (Klopstock's sister,) who loved 
 her tenderly, was with her during the last hours, 
 and describes them in a letter to Giesecke as fol- 
 
148 Character-Sketches. 
 
 lows : " She endured her sufferings with fortitude 
 and resignation seldom equaled. . Klopstock, who 
 determined not to leave her, could not support it. 
 He went out and came in again all night long. 
 About ten in the morning, from extreme fatigue, 
 no doubt, she had some faintings ; but they lasted 
 only a short time, and then she came to herself 
 again. She was always patient. She smiled on 
 Klopstock, kissed his hand, and spoke quite cheer- 
 fully. Now the trying scene began. Klopstock 
 went in and informed his wife that her life was in 
 danger. She answered, with perfect composure, 
 * What our God wills is right.' They took leave 
 of each other, but that I will not describe. When 
 he was gone I went to the bed and said, ' I will 
 stay with you.* ' God bless you for it, my Eliza ! ' 
 said she, and she looked at me with the calm, se- 
 rene smile of an angel. She then said to me, ' Is 
 my death, then, so near?' 'I cannot pronounce 
 that,' I answered. *Yes, my husband has told me 
 all that may happen. I know all.' * I know, too, 
 that you are prepared for all. You will die tran- 
 quil and happy.' * O, God must then forgive me 
 much ; but I think of my Redeemer, in whom I 
 trust.' At one time she said, ' I do not feel much, 
 Eliza ; very little.' * O that is well ! God will 
 soon help you.' * Yes, into heaven' she replied. 
 Now she was still, but appeared to feel pain. 
 Soon after she laid her head back and said, ' // is 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 149 
 
 over !' and at the same moment her face became 
 so composed that the change was observable to 
 every one. A moment before it expressed noth- 
 ing but pain, now nothing but peace. I began to 
 pray in short exclamations, such as she had taught 
 me ; and thus, after a few minutes, she died, so 
 softly, so still, so calm. On Monday she was 
 buried with her son in her arms.** 
 
 The same lady wrote to Klopstock's mother: 
 " The night before her death I was alone with her. 
 She suffered much, but with great composure. 
 She talked a good deal with me. O, happy hours 
 which God gave me with her, even then, though 
 deeply tinged with sorrow ! Among other things 
 she said, * O, Eliza, how should I now feel if I had 
 not employed the whole nine months in preparing 
 for my death ! Now my pains will not suffer me 
 to pray so continually, to think so worthily of 
 God, as I am at other times accustomed, and 
 would now most wish to do.' " Klopstock says, 
 to Giesecke, that he hastened away to Altona 
 " the evening after my Meta's death, after seeing 
 my dead son, but not my wife. I dreaded too 
 much the return of that image. Twice or thrice 
 my Meta looked at me without saying a word, and 
 then to heaven, in such a manner that it is utterly 
 impossible for me to describe it. I understood her 
 perfectly, I cannot tell you with what a mingling 
 of sorrow, of confidence in God, and of certainty 
 
I50 Character-Sketches. 
 
 that she was dying, she looked from me to heav- 
 en. Never, never — though often in sorrow and in 
 joy have I looked up with her to heaven — never 
 did I see her so. The situation of a dying person 
 is so singular, it seems to belong neither to this 
 world nor to the next." 
 
 A rare, a transcendently beautiful character must 
 this young German woman have possessed, if we 
 may judge from the intimations scattered through 
 the correspondence of Klopstock and his friends. 
 Several of the latter, who were among the most 
 eminent German literati of that age, deplored her 
 death as they would that of an endeared sister or 
 daughter. Frinke called her '' our angel," and de- 
 clared she possessed every perfection of the woman- 
 ly heart. Johanna v. Rahn, Klopstock's sister, says, 
 "■ I loved her more than if she had been my own 
 sister." Giesecke wept over her as a " departed 
 saint." " What a friend have I myself lost in 
 her ! " he exclaims to Klopstock. *' Our blessed 
 sister," says Rahn. " Our sainted friend ! " ex- 
 claims Cramer. ** How much satisfaction does it 
 afford me," writes one of her friends, " that I have 
 enjoyed an acquaintance with this heroic woman ! " 
 ** She was entirely formed for my son," says the 
 poet's mother. *' She was ripe for her birth into 
 the life of an angel," writes the linguist Frinke, 
 '* for how happy was she during the latter years of 
 her life, and almost to the hour of her translation ! 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 151 
 
 I am certain that your connection is one of those 
 few whose duration must be eternal." " That an- 
 gel ! " he again exclaims ; " how many virtuous 
 friends she had ! " ** O, she was all the happiness 
 of my life," writes the bereaved poet ; " what have 
 I not lost in losing her ! " 
 
 We attempt no explanation of her presentiment 
 of her fate. In her Letters from the Dead, writ- 
 ten during her husband's absence, but which he 
 accidentally discovered, is one addressed to her 
 child, on the presumption that she should die at 
 its birth. 
 
 Klopstock mourned her during thirty-three years 
 of widowed life. ** To the last," says one of his 
 biographers, " he loved to speak of his Meta, 
 and pleased himself by planting white lilies on her 
 grave." His mind was fascinated by the memory 
 of this beloved woman, as with an entrancing 
 vision ; and now that the grave had withdrawn 
 her endeared presence, he relieved the painful ab- 
 sence by writing a series of pathetic letters to her 
 departed spirit. They have been published. In 
 one of them he exclaims : ** Ah, Meta ! dost thou 
 not still love me ? love me so that thy soul, 
 though in heaven, longs for me? How sweet, 
 how inexpressibly sweet the thought ! Yes, thou 
 art forever mine — thou wert made for me, my now 
 quite heavenly love ! O that it would come, the 
 moment of our meeting; that moment full of joy 
 
152 Character-Sketches. 
 
 beyond expression ! O that it would come ! " 
 Again he writes : " The idea of thee, when thou 
 wert near death, at that moment of thy great 
 strengthening, often appears to me much more af- 
 fecting than it was at the moment I first saw thee. 
 I have need of all that is sweet and enchanting in 
 the thought of the resurrection and of the almighty 
 Awakener, to free myself from this image. Let 
 him who knows not yet the bliss of the resurrec- 
 tion, who has not tasted its comforts, let him see 
 a friend or wife die, and he will learn it." 
 
 Klopstock continued his residence at Copenha- 
 gen, with the patronage of the court, till 177 1, 
 when he returned to Hamburg. His royal pen- 
 sion was, however, continued. The Margrave of 
 Baden invited him to Carlsruhe, and made him 
 Counselor in 1775. In about a year he returned 
 to Hamburg, where he finished his " Messiah," 
 and continued the remainder of his life. When 
 nearly seventy years of age he married a near rel- 
 ative of his first wife, as a companion of his infirm 
 age. " He preserved his gentle animation, his fer- 
 vent piety, and admirable serenity, till the close 
 of his life," says one of his biographers. He 
 spoke of death with composure and with joyful 
 hope. When he apprehended its near approach ' 
 he sent affectionate messages to his friends, but 
 secluTied himself from them all, even the nearest 
 of them, that he might give himself wholly to the 
 
Klopstock and his Meta. 153 
 
 solemnity of the last scene. In this seclusion ho 
 continued several weeks, and at last expired in the 
 eightieth year of his life. During a severe conflict 
 with pain, he raised himself in his bed, clasped his 
 hands, and, lifting his eyes to heaven, exclaimed 
 with his faihng voice, " Can a woman forget her 
 child, that she should not have pity on the fruit 
 of her womb ? Yes, she may forget ; but I will 
 not forget thee." He fell back again upon his pil- 
 low. The struggle was over. A lethargy spread 
 through his frame, and he was no more. A fu- 
 neral pageant " such as Germany had never wit- 
 nessed for any man of letters " attended his re- 
 mains to the grave, where his dust now mingles 
 with that of her whom he loved and mourned 
 through his life. 
 
1 54 Character-Sketches. 
 
 IV. 
 
 MARY SOMERVILLE — WOMAN AND SCIENCE. 
 
 MARY SOMERVILLE'S name is familiar 
 throughout the civilized world ; and her re- 
 markable life, of scientific study and success, has 
 often been sketched as a demonstration of woman's 
 capacity for the highest intellectual pursuits ; but 
 its significance can hardly be exhausted, and it can 
 well bear repeated study as a phenomenon in the 
 history of her sex. 
 
 The present century has initiated a new era in the 
 intellectual life of woman. She has not failed, in 
 other periods, to give proof of literary capacity; 
 but the instances, before the present age, have been 
 only occasional, and have appeared, therefore, to 
 be exceptional. In our day women throng the 
 field of the lighter kinds of literary labor. In 
 fiction and poetry their success is no longer dis- 
 putable. In biography and history, also, they have 
 been taking rank by the side of man. Occasional 
 examples, like that of Mary Somerville, show that 
 they may aspire to the highest attainments of the 
 masculine intellect, to the loftiest regions of ab- 
 stract science. She says : " I was intensely ambi- 
 tious to excel in something, for I felt, in my own 
 
Mary Somerville. 155 
 
 breast, that women were capable of taking a higher 
 place in creation than that assigned to them in my 
 early days, which was very low." 
 
 In several respects Mary Somerville's success 
 should be an example, a provocation, to the intel- 
 lectual ambition of her sex ; for it is not attribut- 
 able to extraordinary advantages, or even to ex- 
 ceptional circumstances. Intellectually she made 
 herself, by means which are within the reach of 
 most women of the middle class ; for, though of 
 *' gentle blood," practically she pertained to that 
 class throughout her life. 
 
 She was born in Jedburgh, Scotland, December 
 26, 1780. Her father was a naval captain, and, 
 therefore, absent from home most of his time. 
 The family lived on a restricted income, at Burnt 
 Island, a small sea-port town on the coast of Fife, 
 immediately opposite Edinburgh. Her mother had 
 no special qualifications for the training of such 
 an intellect as her child subsequently revealed. 
 " My mother," she says, ** taught me to read the 
 Bible, and to say my prayers ; otherwise she allowed 
 me to grow up a wild creature." When between 
 eight and nine years old, she did not know how to 
 write, and '* read very badly." She had amused 
 herself with the Arabian Nights, Robinson Cru- 
 soe, and the Pilgrim's Progress. Her father, re- 
 turning from sea, and mortified at her want of 
 progress during his absence, put her to advanced 
 
156 Character-Sketches. 
 
 reading, but with slight advantage. If she was 
 not an example of mental stupidity at this pe- 
 riod of her life, she certainly showed no kind of 
 mental precocity. The compulsory reading of a 
 daily paper of the *' Spectator " was such a task 
 "that," she writes in her old age, "I have never 
 since opened the book. Hume's History of En- 
 gland was also a real penance to me. My father, 
 at last, said to my mother, * This kind of life will 
 never do ; Mary must at least know how to write 
 and keep accounts.' " So at ten years of age she 
 w^as sent to a boarding-school, where it is a wonder 
 that the small amount of intellect she seemed to 
 have was not entirely stultified by the absurd dis- 
 cipline to which she was subjected. " The chief 
 thing I had to do," she says, '' was to learn by 
 heart a page of Johnson's Dictionary ; not only to 
 spell the words, give their parts of speech and 
 meaning, but, as an exercise of memory, to re- 
 member their order of succession." On her return 
 home, after a year of such training, she was re- 
 proached with having *' cost so much money in 
 vain." " My mother said she would have been 
 contented if I had only learned to write well and 
 keep accounts, which were all a woman was ex- 
 pected to know. I was like a wild animal escaped 
 out of a cage." She complains of even an uncom- 
 monly defective memory : '* I could remember 
 neither names nor dates." Before she began to 
 
Mary Somerville. 157 
 
 read algebra she had to restudy arithmetic, having 
 forgotten much of it. *' I never was expert at ad- 
 dition," she says; "for in summing up a long col- 
 umn of pounds, shillings, and pence in the family 
 account-book, it seldom came out twice in the 
 same way." In her later studies she, of course, 
 used logarithms for the higher branches of science. 
 Here was certainly no portentous sign of genius, 
 nothing like that precocity which is usually sup- 
 posed to presage a great intellectual career. An 
 intellectual prodigy as a woman, she was appa- 
 rently below mediocrity as a child. The fact af- 
 fords a lesson which may well be remembered by 
 parents who grieve over the supposed inferiority 
 of their children. 
 
 It is a curious question, to say the least of it, 
 how such a mind came at last to be awakened to 
 higher aspirations and endeavors. It was not by 
 parental remonstrances or compulsory studies, nor 
 by any spasmodic impulse from within or from 
 without. It was entirely by a slow and sponta- 
 neous process. After her return from school, ** my 
 time," she says, " at Burnt Island was heavy on 
 my hands. I did not know what to do with my- 
 self." She spent hours on the sea-shore collecting 
 shells — the beginning of her knowledge of natural 
 history. Her sea-faring father had a passion for 
 flowers, and brought home seeds and bulbs from 
 other parts of the world. She soon shared his 
 
158 Character-Sketches. 
 
 taste, and turned the garden of her home into a 
 studio — the beginning of her knowledge of botany, 
 afterward appreciated and directed by CandoUe 
 and similar savants. She found a copy of Shak- 
 speare, and the great master inspired her with a 
 love of higher and more varied reading than she 
 had hitherto cared for. There were two small 
 globes in the house ; they excited her curiosity, 
 and she learned their use from the village school- 
 master, an evening guest in the family. They 
 were the beginning of the studies which culmi- 
 nated in her immortal works, *' The Mechanism 
 of the Heavens," and the '^ Physical Geography." 
 " My bedroom," she says, '' had a window to the 
 south, and a small closet near had one to the north. 
 At these I spent many hours, studying the stars 
 by the aid of the celestial globe." There was a 
 piano in the house ; she entertained herself with it 
 until music became a passion with her; and, not- 
 withstanding her poor memory, she could at last 
 '' play long pieces without the book." Nasmyth, 
 the artist, opened a school at Edinburgh for ladies; 
 she attended it, hardly as a student, more as a 
 looker-on or an amateur, but in time became an 
 accomplished painter. She casually overheard Na- 
 smyth say to a group of ladies, '' You should study 
 Euclid's Elements of Geometry, the foundation 
 not only of perspective, but of astronomy and all 
 mechanical science." Her curiosity was aroused by 
 
Mary Somerville. 159 
 
 the prospect of such a range of inquiry, and she 
 became the only woman in the world, as La Place 
 aflfirmcd, who understood his **Mdcaniquc Celeste." 
 Thus gradually opened before her the intellect- 
 ual career in which at last she stood foremost 
 of all the women of her age in scientific fame ; 
 the highest example, perhaps — certainly the high- 
 est recorded example — of feminine scholarship in 
 the history of the world. But, we repeat, it was 
 without the encouragements or aids that usually 
 prompt youthful genius; it was in the face of severe 
 discouragements. Her love of knowledge soon 
 became an irrepressible passion. ** I had to take 
 part in the household affairs," she writes, "and to 
 make and mend my own clothes. I rose early, 
 played on the piano, and painted, during the time 
 I could spare in the daylight hours ; but I sat up 
 very late reading Euclid. The servants, however, 
 told my mother, * It is no wonder the stock of 
 candles is soon exhausted, for Miss Mary sits up 
 reading to a very late hour,* whereupon an order 
 was given to take away my candle as soon as I was 
 in bed. I had, however, already gone through the 
 first six books of Euclid, and now I was thrown on 
 my memory, which I exercised by beginning with 
 the first book, and demonstrating in my mind a 
 certain number of problems every night, till I 
 could nearly go through the whole. My father 
 came home for a short time, and, somehow or other, 
 
i6o Character-Sketches. 
 
 finding out what I was about, said to my mother, 
 * Reg, we must put a stop to this, or we shall have 
 Mary in a strait-jacket some of these days. 
 There was X., who went raving mad about the 
 longitude.' " 
 
 There was genuine heroism in these intellect- 
 ual struggles of a young girl without sympathy, 
 and without the ordinary facilities of study ; and 
 there is a touching pathos in her allusion to her 
 surrounding disadvantages. She was trying, half 
 bewildered, to make out some consistent astro- 
 nomical theory from Robinson's Navigation — 
 her first book o( the kind, casually picked up 
 in her home. "As I persevered in studying the 
 book for a time," she says, *' I certainly got a dim 
 view of several subjects which were useful to me 
 afterward. Unfortunately not one of our acquaint- 
 ances or relations knew any thing of science or 
 natural history, nor, had they done so, should I 
 have had courage to ask any of them a question, 
 for I should have been laughed at. I was often 
 very sad and forlorn — not a hand held out to help 
 me." There was, nevertheless, an unseen, divine 
 hand held out to her, as to all who thus struggle 
 upward, and it lifted her at last not only to, but 
 above, the stars to which her faltering studies 
 aspired. 
 
 In the circle of her kindred she found but one 
 generous mind which could sympathize with her. 
 
Mary So^ierville. i6i 
 
 *' I spent four or five hours daily at the piano," 
 she says ; " and, for the sake of having something 
 to do, I taught myself Latin enough, from such 
 books as we had, to read Caesar's Commentaries. 
 I went that summer on a visit to my aunt at 
 Jedburgh, and, for the first time in my life, I 
 met in my uncle, Dr. Somerville, a friend who ap- 
 proved of my taste for knowledge. During long 
 walks with him in the early mornings he was so . 
 kind that I had the courage to tell him I had been 
 trying to learn Latin, but feared it was in vain ; for 
 my brother and other boys, superior to me in tal- 
 ent, and with every assistance, spent years in learn- 
 ing it. He assured me, on the contrary, that in 
 ancient times many women — some of them of the 
 highest rank in England — had been very elegant 
 scholars, and that he would read Virgil with me if 
 I would come to his study for an hour or two 
 every morning before breakfast, which I gladly 
 did. I never was happier in my life than during 
 the months I spent at Jedburgh." 
 
 She was beautiful in person as well as in mind ; 
 " extremely pretty " in her young womanhood, 
 with ** a delicate beauty both of face and figure," 
 and was called the " Rose of Jedburgh." She was, 
 therefore, not without early suitors, and in 1804 
 was married to her cousin, Samuel Greig. They 
 resided for some years in London, but she had few 
 
 opportunities to avail herself of its advantages for 
 11 
 
1 63 Charact]|r-Sketches. 
 
 her favorite studies. Her life was still a quiet, 
 patient struggle for knowledge under difficulties. 
 She says : '' I was alone the whole of the day ; so I 
 continued my mathematical and other pursuits, but 
 under great disadvantages ; for although my hus- 
 band did not prevent me from studying, I met with 
 no sympathy whatever from him, as he had a very 
 low opinion of the capacity of my sex, and had 
 neither knowledge of, nor interest in, science of 
 any kind. I took lessons in French, and learned 
 to speak it so as to be understood." 
 
 After three years of married life she returned, a 
 widow with two children, to her parental home at 
 Burnt Island, where she resumed her studies with 
 more diligence than ever. Professor Wallace, of 
 Edinburgh University, made her out a catalogue of 
 books in the highest branches of mathematics. 
 The list was formidable, but she procured them 
 and mastered them. They consisted of Fran- 
 coeur's " Pure Mathematics," and his " Elements of 
 Mechanics;" La Croix's "Algebra," and his large 
 work on the " Differential and Integral Calcu- 
 lus," together with his treatise on '' Finite Differ- 
 ences and Series;" Biot's ''Analytical Geometry 
 and Astronomy ; " Poisson's " Treatise on Mechan- 
 ics ; " La Grange's " Theory of Analytical Func^ 
 tions;*"' Euler's "Algebra," and his " Isoperimet- 
 rical Problems" in Latin; Clariault's "Figure of 
 the Earth ; " Monge's " Application of Analysis to 
 
Mary Somerville. 163 
 
 Geometry;" Callet*s "Logarithms;" La Place's 
 '* M^canique Celeste," and his " Analytical Theory 
 of Probabilities." To how many women in the 
 United States could such a list of books be offered 
 without its being considered a practical joke, or 
 rather an ironical mockery of the conventional esti- 
 mate of the capacity of the sex for higher education ? 
 Could not the number be counted on one's fingers? 
 Are there ten in all the new world ? Are there 
 fifty in all the world ? Yet it was to the mother of 
 a family, educating herself at home, that Wallace 
 prescribed this course of study! " I was thirty- 
 three years of age," she says, " when I bought this 
 excellent library. I could hardly believe that I 
 possessed such a treasure when I looked back on 
 the day that I first saw the mysterious word. 
 Algebra, and the long course of years in which I 
 had persevered almost without hope. It taught 
 me never to despair. I had now the means, and 
 pursued my studies with increased assiduity ; con- 
 cealment was no longer possible, nor was it at- 
 tempted. I was considered eccentric and foolish, 
 and my conduct was highly disapproved of by 
 many, especially by some members of my family. 
 As I was quite independent, I did not care for their 
 criticism." 
 
 Her second marriage with her cousin. Dr. Will- 
 iam Somerville, in 18 12, opened a new life before 
 her. He was a man of considerable learning, but 
 
164 Character-Sketches. 
 
 gratefully recognized the superiority of his wife. 
 Their domestic life, though attended by the usual 
 household trials, and at one time by an entire loss 
 of fortune through the treachery of a trusted friend, 
 was a scene of closest mutual sympathy, of 
 joint culture, and the purest happiness. One of 
 their daughters says : " Nothing can be more erro- 
 neous than the statement, repeated in several obitu- 
 ary notices of my mother, that Mr. Greig (her first 
 husband) aided her in her mathematical and other 
 pursuits. Nearly contrary was the case. Mr. 
 Greig took no interest in science or literature, and 
 possessed in full the prejudice against learned 
 women which was common at that time. Only on 
 her marriage with my father did my mother at last 
 meet with one who entirely sympathized with her, 
 and warmly entered into all her ideas, encouraging 
 her zeal for study to the utmost, and affording 
 her every facility for it in his power. His love and 
 admiration for her were unbounded ; he frankly 
 and willingly acknowledged her superiority to him- 
 self, and many of our friends can bear witness to 
 the honest pride and gratification which he always 
 testified in the fame and honors she attained." 
 
 Two facts are, then, apparent thus far in the 
 intellectual history of this remarkable woman : first, 
 that she had no precocious capacity for the success 
 which distinguished her career ; secondly, that she 
 had not even the ordinary facilities and encourage- 
 
Mary Somerville. 165 
 
 ments of such a career — that down to the time of 
 her second marriage, she prosecuted her studies in 
 the usual domestic circumstances of her sex. Hers 
 was, in fine, a rare, a splendid example of self-edu- 
 cation in ordinary life— education up to the loftiest, 
 most erudite, and most difficult attainments of 
 science, without a school, without teachers, with- 
 out one advantage for study. We know not where 
 to find a similar example in all literary history. 
 This quiet, sublime walk of a modest, and even 
 timid, woman — for such she was — in the common 
 path of the commonplace duties of domestic life, 
 and yet in the widest career of knowledge, com- 
 passing the earth and scaling the heavens, is a 
 marvel of intellectual development — a demonstra- 
 tion of the spiritual greatness, the immortal desti- 
 nation of the human soul. 
 
 A third fact is worthy of being emphasized, 
 though it has been already indicated ; namely, 
 that there was no scientific " hobbyism " in her 
 pursuit of knowledge ; no mere indulgence of a 
 special intellectual proclivity, or display of a spe- 
 cial mental capacity. She aimed at complete 
 self-culture and universal knowledge. Her collec- 
 tion of shells and minerals in childhood was the 
 necleus of a cabinet of conchology and mineralogy 
 which became one of the principal articles of her 
 domestic furniture in maturer life ; and while the 
 mathematics, the abstract sciences, were the chief 
 
I es Character- Sketches. 
 
 field of her fame, she was a technical and accom- 
 plished naturalist. It may well be doubted whether 
 any woman of her age excelled her in this depart- 
 ment alone. She was a thorough botanist. Geol- 
 ogy came up as a science in her day; she began 
 with it nearly at the beginning, kept pace with it 
 down to her ninety-second year, and was one of the 
 first sufferers of public obloquy for its theory of cre- 
 ation, at first misunderstood. She was denounced, 
 by name, from the pulpit of York Cathedral for 
 opinions which are now accepted by all authori- 
 tative biblical critics. She not only carefully read, 
 but studied through, the whole varied course of the 
 physical and experimental sciences, down to the 
 most obscure and minute subjects of molecular and 
 microscopic inquiry. Faraday delighted to con- 
 verse and to correspond with her, as an appre- 
 ciative authority in his most recondite researches. 
 La Place was proud to correspond with her, as one 
 of the very few minds, in all the intellectual world, 
 who could understand his treatise on the Celes- 
 tial Mechanism ; her reproduction and simplifica- 
 tion of that matchless work, in her " Mechanism of 
 the Heavens," was itself, it is said, above the intel- 
 lectual reach of all France, except a few — Poisson 
 said twenty — mathematical scholars. Sir John 
 Herschell read it with " the highest admiration." 
 " What a pity," he exclaimed, " that La Place did 
 not live to see this illustration of his great work ! " 
 
Mary Somerville. 167 
 
 Whewell, on receiving it, said : " When Mrs. Som- 
 erville shows herself in the field wherein we mathe- 
 maticians have been laboring all our lives, and puts 
 us to shame, she ought not to be surprised if we 
 move off to other grounds." Biot was appointed 
 by the Academic des Sciences, of Paris, to draw up 
 for it a report on the work. He pronounced it 
 *' an astonishing treatise ; " La Croix, Legendre, 
 and the other Parisian mathematicians, shared 
 his " vivid and profound admiration." She was 
 forthwith elected a member of most of the learned 
 societies of Europe ; the Royal Society of Lon- 
 don ordered her bust, from Chantrey, to be 
 placed in their great hall. To her womanhood, 
 her chief joy, amid this universal outburst of ap- 
 plause, in which her kindred, who had hitherto 
 ridiculed her, now enthusiastically joined, was in 
 " the warmth with which Somerville," her husband, 
 entered into her success. ** It deeply affected me," 
 she writes, " for not one in ten thousand would 
 have rejoiced at it as he did." 
 
 Her '* Physical Geography " displayed still more 
 the diversity of her learning. Humboldt read it 
 twice with delight. " It has charmed and instructed 
 me," he wrote. ** It showed that, to the great 
 superiority " of its author *' in the high region of 
 mathematical analysis," she joined " variety of 
 knowledge in all departments of physics and nat- 
 ural history." Her " Mechanism of the Heavens," 
 
1 68 Character-Sketches. 
 
 and her '' Connection of the Physical Sciences," 
 were objects of Humboldt's *' constant admiration." 
 " I know in no language a work on Physical Geog- 
 raphy that can be compared with hers," he said. 
 " The author of ' Cosmos' ought, more than any one 
 else, to hail the * Physical Geography ' of Mary Som- 
 erville." He expressed surprise at the correctness 
 of her views of the '' Geography of Plants and 
 Animals." She " dominates in these regions, as in 
 astronomy, meteorology, and magnetism." 
 
 This versatility of her knowledge, combined as it 
 was with depth and accuracy, is among the won- 
 ders of her intellectual character. Her daughter 
 says that, ''Although her favorite pursuit, and the 
 one for which she had decidedly most aptitude, 
 was mathematics, yet there were few subjects in 
 which she did not take interest, whether in science 
 or literature, philosophy or politics. She was pas- 
 sionately fond of poetry, her especial favorites be- 
 ing Shakspeare and Dante ; also the great Greek 
 dramatists, whose tragedies she read fluently in the 
 original, being a good classical scholar. She was 
 very fond of music, and devoted much time to it in 
 her youth ; and she painted from nature with con- 
 siderable taste. The latter was, perhaps, the rec- 
 reation in which she most delighted, from the op- 
 portunity it afforded her of contemplating the won- 
 derful beauty of the world, which was a never-failing 
 source of intense enjoyment to her, whether she 
 
Mary Somerville. 169 
 
 watched the changing effects of light and shade 
 on her favorite Roman Campagna, or gazed en- 
 chanted on the sunsets of the Bay of Naples, as 
 she witnessed them from her much-loved Sorrento, 
 where she passed the last summers of her life. All 
 things fair were a joy to her. The flowers we 
 brought to her from our rambles, the sea-weeds, 
 the wild birds she saw, all interested and pleased 
 her. Every thing in nature spoke to her of that 
 great God who created all things, the grand and 
 sublimely beautiful, as well as the exquisite loveli- 
 ness of minute objects. Above all, in the laws 
 which science unvails step by step, she found ever- 
 renewed motives for the love and adoration of their 
 Author and sustainer. This fervor of religious 
 feeling accompanied her through life, and very 
 early she shook off all that was dark and narrow in 
 the creed of her first instructors for a purer and 
 happier faith." 
 
 A fourth fact, and one to be especially noted, is, 
 that this high intellectual culture and labor — never 
 equaled among women, so far as we know — in no 
 wise interfered with her domestic life, or her duties 
 as woman, wife, and mother. She had the good sense 
 to guard her life not only against any perversion, but 
 against any misconstruction, in this respect. She 
 affected no eccentricities, claimed no exemptions 
 on the score of her intellectual supremacy, but was 
 of the simplest, purest, finest womanly nature. She 
 
I70 Character-Sketches. 
 
 brought up a considerable family, and her children 
 blessed her memory. '^ It would be almost in- 
 credible," says one of them, *^ how much my moth- 
 er contrived to do in the course of the day. When 
 my sister and I were small children, although busily 
 engaged in writing for the press, she used to teach 
 us for three hours every morning, besides managing 
 her house carefully, reading the newspapers, (for 
 she always was a keen and, I must add, a liberal 
 politician,) and the most important new books on 
 all subjects, grave and gay. In addition to all this, 
 she freely visited and received her friends. She 
 was, indeed, very fond of society, and did not look 
 for transcendent talent in those with whom she as- 
 sociated, although no one appreciated it more when 
 she found it. Gay and cheerful company was a 
 pleasant relaxation after a hard day's work. My 
 mother never introduced scientific or learned sub- 
 jects into general conversation. When they were 
 brought forward by others she talked simply and 
 naturally about them, without the slighest preten- 
 sion to superior knowledge. Finally, to complete 
 the list of her accomplishments, I must add that 
 she was a remarkably neat and skillful needle- 
 woman. We still possess some elaborate speci- 
 mens of her embroidery and lace work." 
 
 This symmetrical and truly beautiful life was not 
 without the usual tests of suffering. She buried 
 children and her two husbands, and at last survived 
 
Makv Somerville. 171 
 
 nearly all her early friends. After losing her for- 
 tune she was dependent upon a Government pen- 
 sion, first of one thousand, later of fifteen hundred 
 dollars a year, and, for economy, lived many years 
 in Italy. But her intellectual and moral life held 
 on, self-sustained, serene, even felicitous. Its noble 
 habitudes and aims rendered it superior not only 
 to defeat, but even to depression. She was a 
 notable example of the sanative effects of con- 
 tinuous, but prudent, mental labor. She ex- 
 pressed the secret of her whole intellectual his- 
 tory when she said, " I wrote because it was impos- 
 sible for me to be idle." Work is a condition of 
 happiness, and, to a great extent, of health. It is 
 a law of nature. A naturally superior mind can 
 never be happy without it, whatever blissful exemp- 
 tion vacant heads may have from the salutary ne- 
 cessity, the divine law. Great capability is always 
 accompanied with an instinct for great work, and a 
 consequent sense of distress in idleness. He that 
 would learn the art of happy and healthy living 
 must learn the art of wisely working; not of over- 
 work, indeed, but equally not of underwork. A 
 good medical authority. Dr. Wilks, of Guy's Hospi- 
 tal, has said : " The persons with unstrung nerves, 
 who apply to the doctor, are not the prime minis- 
 ter, the Bishops, judges, and hard-working profes- 
 sional men, but merchants and stock-brokers, re- 
 tired from business ; Government clerks who work 
 
1/2 Character-Sketches. 
 
 from ten to four ; women whose domestic duties 
 and bad servants are driving them to the grave ; 
 young ladies whose visits to the village school, or 
 Sunday performances on the organ, are undermin- 
 ing their health ; and so on. In short, in my ex- 
 perience I see more ailments arise from want of 
 occupation than from overwork ; and, taking the 
 various kinds of nervous and dyspeptic ailments 
 which we are constantly treating, I find at least six 
 due to idleness to one from overwork." 
 
 The sense of achievement, especially of achieving 
 something useful to others as well as to ourselves, 
 is an exhilarating, a health-giving consciousness. 
 More effectually than any thing else it expels 
 morbid self-consciousness, and misgivings about 
 the value and results of life. To the thorougrh 
 worker the so-called " mystery " of life is '' an open 
 secret." To him life is probation, and the most 
 obvious condition of that probation is productive, 
 beneficent labor. Most of the wretchedness of 
 human life, among persons of culture, arises from 
 either the lack of enough to do, or from the mis- 
 fortune of being wrongly placed in their sphere of 
 activity. The fundamental principle of Goethe's 
 theory of education, as developed in '' Wilhelm 
 Meister," that it must be conformed to the natural 
 capabilities, and especially to the natural proclivi- 
 ties of the student, applies equally to his subse- 
 quent career; for the latter is a continuous process 
 
Mary Somerville. 173 
 
 of self-education for good or evil. To have the 
 heart on the side of one's labor is to redouble the 
 probabilities of success, and to turn labor itself into 
 pleasure. 
 
 Mary Somerville had no morbid sensitiveness; 
 she maintained her whole nature in a tranquil, vig- 
 orous, wholesome tone by always having something 
 to do. When more than eighty years old, with a 
 fame that filled the civilized world, she proposed 
 still another great work, which would involve the 
 most laborious details of study and research. It 
 was a necessity of her being ; one of those necessi- 
 ties which made her life beautiful and blessed. 
 
 " I was now," she says, " unoccupied, and felt 
 the necessity of having something to do, desultory 
 reading being insufficient to interest me ; and as I 
 had always considered the section on chemistry 
 the weakest part of the ' Connection of Physical 
 Sciences,* I resolved to write it anew. My daugh- 
 ters strongly opposed this, saying, ' Why not write 
 a new book ? * They were right ; it would have 
 been lost time. So I followed their advice, though 
 it was a formidable undertaking at my age, con- 
 sidering that the general character of science had 
 greatly changed. By the improved state of the 
 microscope, an invisible creation in the air, the 
 earth, and the water, had been brought within the 
 limits of human vision ; the microscopic structure 
 of plants and animals had been minutely studied, 
 
174 Character-Sketches. 
 
 and, by synthesis, many substances had been 
 formed of the elementary atoms similar to those 
 produced by nature. Dr. Tyndall's experiments 
 had proved the inconceivable minuteness of the 
 atoms of matter. Mr. Gassiot and Professor Plii- 
 cher had published their experiments on the strat- 
 ification of the electric light ; and that series of 
 discoveries by scientific men abroad, but chiefly by 
 our own philosophers at home, which had been in 
 progress for a course of years, prepared the way 
 for Bunsen and Kirchhof's marvelous consumma- 
 tion. Such was the field opened to me ; but in- 
 stead of being discouraged by its magnitude, I 
 seemed to have resumed the perseverance and en- 
 ergy of my youth, and began to write with cour- 
 age, though I did not think I should hve to finish 
 even the sketch which I had made. I was now an 
 old woman, very deaf, and with shaking hands. I 
 wrote regularly every morning from eight till twelve 
 or one o'clock, before rising. I was not alone, for 
 I had a mountain sparrow, a great pet, which sat, 
 and, indeed, is sitting on my arm as I write these 
 lines." 
 
 When eighty-nine years old she says : " t have 
 still the habit of studying in bed from eight in the 
 morning till twelve or one o'clock ; but I am soli- 
 tary, for I have lost my little bird, who was my 
 constant companion for eight years." 
 
 To a poetically inclined critic her sympathy with 
 
Mary Somerville. 175 
 
 the brute creation must appear worthy of special 
 notice as one of her finest traits, and as hardly to 
 be expected in association with her abstract stud- 
 ies and severe mental habits. No lady-lounger 
 of the boudoir was ever fonder of pets than this 
 student of the most recondite problems of the 
 universe. Her great soul did not disdain to recog- 
 nize some affinity between itself and the *' mount- 
 ain sparrow" which sat upon her arm, ate from 
 her lips, or watched, through her studious hours, 
 her pen tracing mathematical diagrams which de- 
 fined the highest mechanism of the heavens. She 
 repeatedly alludes to it with genuine pathos. ** It 
 had both memory and intelligence," she says, 
 " and such confidence in me as to sleep upon my 
 arm while I was writing. My daughter, to whom 
 it was much attached, coming into my room early, 
 was alarmed at its not flying to meet her, as it 
 generally did, and at last, after a long search, the 
 poor little creature was found drowned in the water- 
 pitcher." She gathered almost an aviary of such 
 pets about her, and their life seemed to enter into 
 her own. 
 
 " We are fond of birds," she writes, " and have 
 several, all very tame. Our tame nightingales 
 sing beautifully, but, strange to say, not at night. 
 We have also some solitary sparrows, which are, 
 in fact, a variety of the thrush, {Turdus Cya- 
 neuSy) and some birds which we rescued from de- 
 
176 Character-Sketches. 
 
 struction in spring, when caught and ill used by 
 the boys in the streets ; besides, we have our dogs ; 
 all of which afford me amusement and interest." 
 In her numerous transitions about middle and 
 southern Italy, she speaks of taking with her *' our 
 pet birds " as well as ** our servants : " " For I now 
 have a beautiful long-tailed paroquet, called Sme- 
 raldo, who is my constant companion and is very 
 familiar. And here I must mention how much I 
 was pleased to hear that Mr. Herbert, M. P., has 
 brought in a bill, which has been passed in Parlia- 
 ment, to protect land birds ; but I am grieved to 
 find that the lark, which at heaven's gate sings, is 
 thought unworthy of man's protection. Among 
 the numerous plans for education of the young, let 
 us hope that mercy may be taught as a part of 
 religion." 
 
 It was a fine sentiment of humanity that led her 
 thus to sympathize with the lower animals, who 
 share so many of our sufferings and so few of our re- 
 liefs. Italy was, at this time, addicted to atrocious 
 cruelty toward them. It was the only civilized 
 land in Europe that had no law for their protec- 
 tion. For eight years attempts to provide such a 
 law had been defeated. A new attempt was made, 
 with which Mrs. Somerville heartily co-operated, 
 signing the petition and urging it upon the atten- 
 tion of the aristocratic women of the country. It 
 was, indeed, more than a sentiment of humanity ; 
 
Mary Somerville. 177 
 
 it was a sentiment of religion that prompted her 
 interest for these speechless sufferers. With Wes- 
 ley, Swedenborg, and many other large-minded as 
 well as large-hearted men, she believed in a future 
 compensative life for the brute creation — "the 
 creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, 
 but by reason of Him who hath subjected the same 
 in hope," but which, with "the whole creation, groan- 
 eth and travaileth in pain together until now;" 
 " because the creature itself also shall be delivered 
 from the bondage of corruption into the glorious 
 liberty of the children of God." " For the earnest 
 expectation of the creature waiteth for the mani- 
 festation of the sons of God." It was not only 
 the mystic light of these intimations of Reve- 
 lation on the ultimate fate of the living world, 
 that gave Mrs. Somerville sympathetic hope for 
 the lower forms of life ; her philosophy sanctioned 
 these sublime utterances. 
 
 When about to step into the invisible world 
 she says, with deep pathos as well as philosophy : 
 " We are told of the infinite glories of that 
 state, and I believe in them, though it is incom- 
 prehensible to us ; but as I do comprehend, in 
 some degree at least, the exquisite lovehness 
 of the visible world, I confess I shall be sorry 
 to leave it. I shall regret the sky, the sea, with 
 all the changes of their beautiful coloring ; the 
 earth, with its verdure and flowers ; but far more 
 12 
 
178 Character-Sketches. 
 
 shall I grieve to leave animals, who have followed 
 our steps affectionately for years, without knowing 
 for certainty their ultimate fate, though I firmly 
 believe that the living principle is never extin- 
 guished. Since the atoms of matter are indestruct- 
 ible, as far as we know, it is difficult to believe that 
 the spark which gives to their union life, memory, 
 affection, intelligence, and fidelity, is evanescent. 
 Every atom in the human frame, as well as in that 
 of animals, undergoes a radical change by contin- 
 ual waste and renovation ; the abode is changed, 
 not its inhabitant. If animals have no future, 
 the existence of many is most wretched ; multi- 
 tudes are starved, cruelly beaten, and loaded dur- 
 ing life ; many die under a barbarous vivisection. 
 I cannot believe that any creature was created 
 for uncompensated misery; it would be contrary 
 to the attributes of God's mercy and justice. 
 I am sincerely happy to find that 1 am not the 
 only believer in the immortality of the lower an- 
 imals." 
 
 It is delightful to trace along minutely so rare, 
 so satisfactory a life, as it tends toward its long- 
 deferred conclusion. When ninety-one years old 
 she resumes her mathematical studies in some new 
 books which had advanced to higher grounds in al- 
 gebra, and especially in quaternions. 
 
 " So now I got exactly what I wanted," she 
 writes, " and I am very busy for a few hours every 
 
Mary Somerville. 179 
 
 morning ; delighted to have an occupation so en- 
 tirely to my mind. I thank God that my intellect 
 is still unimpaired ! During the rest of the day I 
 have recourse to Shakspcare, Dante, and more 
 modern light reading, besides the newspapers, 
 which always interested me much. I have re- 
 sumed my habit of working, and can count the 
 threads of a fine canvas without spectacles. I re- 
 ceive every one who comes to see me, and often 
 have the pleasure of a visit from old friends very 
 unexpectedly. In the evening I read a novel, but 
 my tragic days are over ; I prefer a cheerful con- 
 versational novel to the sentimental ones. I have 
 recently been reading Walter Scott's novels again, 
 and enjoy the broad Scotch in them. I play a few 
 games of B^zique with one of my daughters for 
 honor and glory, and so our evenings pass pleas- 
 antly enough. It is our habit to be separately oc- 
 cupied during the morning, and to spend the rest 
 of the day together." 
 
 The next year she writes : " I am now in my 
 ninety-second year, (1872,) still able to drive out 
 for several hours. I am extremely deaf, and my 
 memory of ordinary events, and especially of the 
 names of people, is failing, but not for mathemat- 
 ical or scientific subjects. I am still able to read 
 books on the higher algebra for four or five hours 
 in the morning, and even to solve the problems. 
 Sometimes I find them difficult, but my old obsti- 
 
1 80 Character-Sketches. 
 
 nacy remains, for if I do not succeed to-day, I 
 attack them again on the morrow. I also enjoy 
 reading about the new discoveries and theories 
 in the scientific world and on all branches of 
 science." 
 
 Her last record, in her last year, is worthy of her 
 whole life : ** Though far advanced in^ years, I take 
 as lively an interest as ever in passing events. 
 The Blue Peter has been long flying at my fore- 
 mast, and now that I am in my ninety-second year 
 I must soon expect the signal for sailing. It is a 
 solemn voyage, but it does not disturb my tran- 
 quillity. Deeply sensible of my utter unworthiness, 
 and profoundly grateful for the innumerable bless- 
 ings I have received, I trust in the infinite mercy 
 of my almighty Creator. I have every reason to 
 be thankful that my intellect is still unimpaired ; 
 and although my strength is weakness, my daugh- 
 ters support my tottering steps, and, by incessant 
 care and help, make the infirmities of age so light 
 to me that I am perfectly happy." 
 
 This enviable happiness, and also this notable 
 longevity, could probably never have been attained 
 but by such persistent, practical life — the habit of 
 working on, which is, in the best sense, living on. 
 Beyond a doubt this was true in respect to the 
 continued integrity of her mental faculties and her 
 enjoyment of life. She enjoyed life in extreme age, 
 because it was filled with befitting occupation*, 
 
Mary Somerville. i8i 
 
 she kept her faculties in their integrity, because she 
 kept them in habitual exercise. Labor had become 
 a luxury to her, as it docs to all faithful workers. 
 She kept it up to the day of her death, and her 
 death itself was enviable. " My mother," writes her 
 daughter, " died in sleep on the morning of No- 
 vember 29, 1872." 
 
 The final testimony of her biographer is that her 
 " old age was a thoroughly happy one. She often 
 said that not even in the joyous spring of life had 
 she been more truly happy. Serene and cheerful, 
 full of life and activity, as far as her physical 
 strength permitted, she had none of the infirmities 
 of age, except difficulty in hearing, which prevented 
 her from joining in general conversation. She had 
 always been near-sighted, but could read small print 
 with the greatest ease without glasses, even by 
 lamp-light. To the last, her intellect remained per- 
 fectly unclouded ; her affection for those she loved, 
 and her sympathy for all living beings, as fervent as 
 ever ; nor did her ardent desire for and belief in the 
 ultimate religious and moral improvement of man- 
 kind diminish. She always retained her habit of 
 study ; and that pursuit in which she had attained 
 such excellence, and which was the most congenial 
 to her — mathematics — delighted and amused her to 
 the end. Her last occupations, continued to the 
 actual day of her death, were the revision and com- 
 pletion of a treatise which she had wjpt^jMLj^ears 
 
 /f^ OP th:-. ^ ^P^ 
 
 f/nifI7EF.:iTY 
 
1 82 Character-Sketches. 
 
 before, on the * Theory of Differences,' (with dia- 
 grams exquisitely drawn,) and the study of a book 
 on Quaternions. Though too reHgious to fear death, 
 she dreaded outHving her intellectual powers ; and 
 it was with intense delight that she pursued her in-, 
 tricate calculations after her ninetieth and ninety- 
 first years ; she repeatedly told me how she rejoiced 
 to find that she had the same readiness and facility 
 in comprehending and developing these extremely 
 difficult /or mu/cBf which she possessed when young. 
 Often, also, she said how grateful she was to the 
 almighty Father who had allowed her to retain her 
 faculties unimpaired to so great an age. God was, 
 indeed, loving and merciful to her ; not only did he 
 spare her this calamity, but also the weary trial of 
 long-continued illness. In health of body and vigor 
 of mind, having lived far beyond the usual span of 
 human life. He called her to Himself. For her, 
 death lost all its terrors. Her pure spirit passed 
 away so gently that those around her scarcely per- 
 ceived when she left them. It was the beautiful 
 and painless close of a noble and a happy life." 
 
 Such was one of the most noteworthy lives in 
 the history of the human race. Its rare length 
 alone would entitle it to be so regarded ; its rare 
 happiness in old age ; its still rarer success in the 
 highest culture ; the yet rarer fact of this success 
 being achieved by a woman, render it altogether 
 unique and admirable. But its most noteworthy 
 
MaRV St>.MhK\ ILl.K. lr,j 
 
 fact, because most instructive and consolatory to us 
 all, is that it was achieved, as we have shown, in the 
 ordinary circumstances, amid the pre-occupations 
 and duties of our common life. 
 
 That all minds, of average capacity, can equ;.l 
 her success it would be presumptuous to affirm ; 
 but some degree of success is within the reach of 
 all who have the resolution to be equally diligent 
 and persistent. Mary Somerville judged herself 
 very frankly, and she never claimed any thing like 
 genius ; she claimed nothing more than an unusual 
 degree of ** perseverance." If there was any ele- 
 ment of what is called genius in her mental consti- 
 tution, it must have been of a mathematical char- 
 acter. There are scattered through her writings 
 occasional indications of that insight, that presci- 
 ent perception of truth, which is usually esteemed 
 genius, but which may be largely the result of 
 persistent inquiry and thorough mental discipline. 
 One of the sublimest achievements of science in our 
 age is an illustration of her prophetic faculty in this 
 respect. In 1846 the learned world was startled by 
 the simultaneous announcement, from Adams, of 
 England, and Leverrier, of France, of the demon- 
 stration, by mere mathematical calculation, of the 
 existence, size, position in space, and the periodic 
 time, of a hitherto unseen planet, rolling around 
 our system, 3 ,(X)0,ooo,ooo of miles from the sun. 
 The telescopes of Europe were pointed to the desig- 
 
1 84 Character-Sketches. 
 
 nated place, and the declaration of the two mathe- 
 maticians was confirmed. Four years before this 
 discovery Mary Somerville had given, in her " Con- 
 nection of the Physical Sciences," this ever-mem- 
 orable sentence : " If after the lapse of years the 
 tables formed from a combination of numerous ob- 
 servations should be still inadequate to represent 
 the motions of Uranus, the discrepancies may re- 
 veal the existence, nay, even the mass and orbit, of 
 a body placed beyond the sphere of vision." This 
 suggestion led at least one of the mathematicians 
 — Adams — perhaps both of them, to calculate the 
 orbit of Neptune. But, though this prediction 
 looks like an intimation of genius, Mary Somerville 
 never believed she possessed any such innate power 
 even in mathematics. In her early studies she 
 complains of unusual difficulties and defeats in the 
 simplest calculations. She overcame them only by 
 persevering industry. If she had genius in mathe- 
 matics, yet it will hardly be claimed for her in other 
 respects; but she was an accomplished naturalist, 
 linguist, litUrateur, musician, and painter. Her 
 attainments, apart from her knowledge of the ab- 
 stract sciences, were such as few of her sex have 
 equaled, but they were the results of persistent 
 labor. In these, at least, she is an example for all 
 aspiring minds — a resplendent demonstration of 
 what men and women may achieve in self-culture, 
 though controlled by the ordinary circumstances of 
 
Mary Somerville. 185 
 
 life. None of us should close the review of such a 
 career without an exhilarating sense of the possibil- 
 ities of his own life, or without the determination 
 that henceforth his aims shall be pitched to a loftier 
 flight than ever before. 
 
 The law of our nature is ascendant. We do vio- 
 lence to it, to ourselves, when we fail to advance, 
 to move upward. He who aims at the sun flies 
 higher than he who aims at a tree, says an old 
 proverb. In the education of our mental, as in that 
 of our spiritual, capacities, we are in duty bound to 
 press toward the mark of the prize of our high call- 
 ing, as beings endowed with powers that are eter- 
 nally to endure and to expand. 
 
1 86 Character-Sketches. 
 
 V. 
 
 MADAME DE STAEL AND HER GERMANY — WOMAN 
 AND LITERATURE. 
 
 MADAME DE STAEL is known to the Anglo- 
 Saxon public chiefly by her two fictions, 
 " Delphine '* and '' Corinne," and by anecdotal dis- 
 paragements which Napoleonic partisan writers 
 have assiduously propagated under both Empires. 
 Hence it is that Anglo-Saxon criticism, respecting 
 her (always excepting a few of the highest English 
 authorities) has been almost uniformly detractive. 
 The ordinary critics, apparently, have never read 
 the books which her own countrymen recognize as 
 her greatest works — works which produced a sen- 
 sation throughout Europe three quarters of a cent- 
 ury ago, and which three of the largest Parisian 
 publishing houses of our day continue to issue.^ 
 Were we to judge from the usual English and Amer- 
 ican criticisms, we must suppose her to be an obso- 
 lete author ; every intelligent Frenchman knows, 
 however, that her books are still as vital in France 
 as those of any other writer of her times ; there 
 is no circulating library, no book store, hardly a 
 book stall, where they cannot be found. They 
 
 * Charpentier & Cie ; Didot, Freres ; and Gamier, Freres. 
 
Madame de Stael and iiek Germany. 187 
 
 have been issued in "complete editions" (originally 
 in seventeen volumes) at an average of every twenty 
 years since her death ; and particular works, which 
 seem to be hardly known to English readers, such 
 as those on Literature and the French Revolu- 
 tion, are frequently re-issued. The greatest au- 
 thors suffer a sort of displacement by time, but 
 not a loss of worth, or rank ; they may be con- 
 signed to the cemeteries of the past, but not to 
 oblivion ; their writings are still their monuments, 
 and, like those of the Memphian Kings, may be 
 eternal pyramids — out of date, yet never out of rec- 
 ognition. Madame de Stael's works have been pe- 
 culiarly fortunate ; they are neither out of date nor 
 out of recognition as popular books. Her essay 
 on " Literature considered in its Relations to Social 
 Institutions," which Sir James Mackintosh pro- 
 nounced " a great work, the first attempt, on a 
 bold and extensive scale, to define the philosopjiy 
 of literature ; " her " Considerations on the French 
 Revolution," which, for its broad and profound 
 views of civil polity, if not for its style, is worthy of 
 the pen of Burke, and of which Villemain said that 
 " it is incredible it should have proceeded from the 
 pen of a woman ; " and her " Allemagne," which 
 Mackintosh esteemed " the most elaborate and 
 masculine production of the faculties of woman," 
 are the best distinctions of her rank in the intellect- 
 ual world. These works, together with her Co- 
 
1 88 Character-Sketches. 
 
 rinne, constitute the third and highest series of her 
 productions. The first series comprises her juvenile 
 tales and her '' Letters on Rousseau," the latter be- 
 ing her first published book ; in the second, or inter- 
 mediate class, we would place her political brochures, 
 her " Plea for the Queen," her essays on Fiction and 
 Suicide, her dramas, her treatise on the Passions, 
 her " Ten Years of Exile," and her Delphine. 
 Though this classification is not strictly chronolog- 
 ical, it exhibits the intellectual grade of her works. 
 To most ordinary Anglo-Saxon critics, who esti- 
 mate her by the imperfect translations of her Del- 
 phine and Corinne, the claim made for her by 
 French liberal writers and by some high English 
 authorities that she is the greatest of literary women 
 seems ridiculous. If we consider her simply as a 
 Novelist this claim may not be tenable. There 
 are, however, but two writers who can be placed in 
 competition with her in this respect. The French 
 might presume to claim such a pre-eminence for 
 George Sand, the English for George Eliot ; but 
 could these women have written the philosophical 
 essay on " Literature," or measured themselves 
 with her in the philosophic statesmanship of the 
 ** Considerations on the French Revolution ? " Of 
 the latter work Sainte-Beuve, acknowledged to be 
 the foremost of French critics, says that " it marks 
 her completeness, her highest development ; it 
 made her the historic and political muse of the 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 189 
 
 period ; she is perfect only from this day ; the full 
 influence of her star is only at her tomb. Its post- 
 humous publication was an event. It was the 
 splendid obsequies of its authoress." And he af- 
 firms that " the nation should have awarded her the 
 obsequies which it gave to Mirabeau." 
 
 Besides her purely literary rank, her claims as an 
 historical character are manifold. She was a great 
 social power ; by almost universal consent of con- 
 temporary witnesses, her conversational eloquence 
 was unrivaled, and was the wonder of the best 
 circles in nearly all the capitals of Europe. As- 
 suredly we have no record of any other woman who 
 wielded a similar social sway, for as many years, 
 from Paris to St. Petersburg, from London to 
 Rome. Thirdly, she was notable as a philanthro- 
 pist, and her good deeds in this respect entitle 
 her to a place by the side of Elizabeth Fry or 
 Florence Nightingale. Through all the terrors of 
 the French Revolution she was the most active, 
 of recorded persons, in the rescue of the proscribed ; 
 she confronted death itself for this purpose; her 
 Swiss home was, for years, a sort of public asylum 
 for them ; she saved more lives from the guillotine 
 than any other known person. Lastly, like many 
 other historic French women, she exercised a re- 
 markable power in the politics of her times. In 
 spite of the Salic traditions of France, women have 
 had there a political influence which they have had 
 
190 Character-Sketches. 
 
 nowhere else ; Madame de Stael's power, in this 
 respect, was pre-eminent from her first introduction 
 to society, under the administration of her father, 
 to the year of her death. All these considerations 
 must enter into any just estimate of her rank as an 
 historical personage ; and it is simply an undenia- 
 ble matter of fact that we have no record of any 
 woman, in literary history, who can be compared 
 with her in these respects. The language of one of 
 her eulogists, whom some of our critics have im- 
 peached as extravagant, is literally true : that " she 
 was the greatest of literary women, greatest by the 
 events of her life, if not by her literary produc- 
 tions." 
 
 A living writer (Demogeat) whose book is recom- 
 mended by French University Professors as among 
 the best of recent critical works on French Lit- 
 erature, and has passed through seventeen edi- 
 tions,* says: "A woman opened courageously to 
 letters the route of the future ; and, without abdi- 
 cating the spirit of the Revolution, she purified it 
 and ennobled it by a splendid aureole of religion 
 and poetry. Never, perhaps, has the French spirit 
 displayed itself in a manner more complete and 
 more admirable than in the person of Madame de 
 Stael. Endowed with all talents, accessible to all 
 true ideas, to all generous emotions, the friend of 
 liberty, passionate for the elegancies of society and 
 
 * Histoire de la Litteraturc Francaise. Paris, 1880. 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 191 
 
 of arts ; ranging over all regions of thought, from 
 the severest considerations of politics and philos- 
 ophy to the most brilliant spheres of the imagina- 
 tion, she united the most diverse elements, but 
 without confusion and without discord. A harmo- 
 ny full of beauty co-ordinated, with her, all the 
 forces of the mind and the heart. She propagated 
 spiritualism without sacrificing the cause of liberty. 
 The general impression of her works is something 
 moral and beneficent. In all parts of them we feel 
 the intimate union of the good and the beautiful — 
 it is one of the effects of the powerful harmony of 
 this noble genius. She and Chateaubriand inaugu- 
 rated together the intellectual movement of our 
 epoch. By them the nineteenth century projected 
 its programme." Another living critic* says: **By 
 the power of her faith in the ideal, and of her love 
 for humanity, she has united two epochs which 
 seemed separated by an abyss. The works of Ma- 
 dame de Stael have prepared our epoch ; and we 
 can say that she resumes, represents, the nineteenth 
 century as Rousseau does the eighteenth. On the 
 one hand, she knew, in its plenitude, the life of the 
 heart, and on the other, she was directly mingled 
 with the great facts of her age ; her soul was, 
 therefore, from the beginning, at the very center of 
 the humanity of her times." 
 
 ♦ Horung, Professor of Jurisprudence in the University of Geneva, 
 See Revue Suisse, 1852. 
 
192 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Such was the woman at whose name not a few 
 critics, who have probably never read her principal 
 works, smile with affected superiority and snap their 
 critical fingers, notwithstanding the highest French 
 literary authorities of her day and since her day, 
 and some of the highest English ones, have affirmed 
 her supremacy among literary women. Though 
 she was one of the most vigorous thinkers and 
 most beautiful, womanly souls, she has often been 
 virtually caricatured as a sort of literary sham, a 
 sentimental Amazon, an obstreperous talker, a *' phi- 
 losopher in petticoats." So rife have been these 
 ungenerous insinuations throughout the English 
 literary world, that it is hardly possible for an En- 
 glishman to conceive of her as not in some sense 
 a bizarre, a grotesque character, a pedant, if not, 
 indeed, a species of literary charlatan. No concep- 
 tion of her character could be more false, more con- 
 trary to the profound sincerity and integrity of her 
 intellectual nature — to the manliness of her mind, 
 the womanliness of her heart. 
 
 There are two decisive tests of this prejudiced 
 judgment. One is her own writings, especially those 
 of her last and best style, as above stated. Who that 
 opens the essay on '* Literature," the "Allemagne," 
 or the ** French Revolution," and reads but a chap- 
 ter, does not feel that his self-respect requires him 
 to respect this woman ; to admire her as one of the 
 most remarkable of thinkers ? The other test is 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 193 
 
 the spontaneous and enthusiastic interest which 
 the highest minds of her day felt in her writings 
 and conversation. Certainly no woman, in literary 
 history, ever gathered about her a larger or more 
 brilliant circle of intellectual men ; and no such 
 men have ever been more fervent in their admira- 
 tion of such a woman. Who were these men, and 
 how do they compare with the critics of a later 
 day, who disparage her? One of them, who, above 
 all others, enjoyed her intimacy, was Benjamin 
 Constant, an astute statesman and critic, a man of 
 whom George Ticknor said that he had more sar- 
 castic acuteness and wit than any other French- 
 man since Voltaire ; a man of severest, cynical tem- 
 perament, who would have been the first to detect 
 and the last to tolerate a literary pretender. But 
 no man ever admired more Madame de Stael. He 
 was proud to be the organ of her political opinions 
 in the French Legislature ; he defended her in the 
 public journals ; he repelled her enemies with man- 
 ly disdain ; and, crediting her with the highest 
 conversational powers of her day, he claimed for 
 her the merit of being as good a listener as talker. 
 The sober-minded historian, Sismondi, was another 
 of her intimate and life-long associates, and at her 
 death declared that " to no other woman do I owe 
 so much as to her." Augustus Schlegel, one of 
 the highest German critics of his time, lived in 
 
 daily intercourse with her for fourteen years, and 
 13 
 
194 ' Character-Sketches. 
 
 affirmed that ** She was a woman great and mag- 
 nanimous even in the inmost recesses of her soul," 
 and that he learned from her " how to address suc- 
 cessfully the European public" in his writings. 
 Karl Ritter, the noted Berlin professor, always 
 grave, if not severe, in his judgment, said that "She 
 constantly gains by more intimate acquaintance, 
 has rare goodness of heart and a charming sim- 
 plicity ; " that ** in the whole course of his life, he 
 had never felt more inspiration " than under her 
 conversation. "Her analysis," he adds, "was so 
 clear, her illustrations so luminous, her positions so 
 crowded with ideas, that I consider her conversa- 
 tion one of the most interesting facts of my life. 
 Her intimate friends are all fascinated by her." 
 Lacretelle, the historian, fairly worshiped her, and 
 wrote, " Nature had denied her beauty, but had 
 given her an enchanting voice and charming eyes, 
 which reflected all the sky of her soul — a sky some- 
 times stormy. The man who should murmur 
 against her lack of beauty would fall at her feet 
 dazzled by her intellect ; she was born an intellect- 
 ual conqueror." De Gerando, the philosopher, de- 
 lighted in her conversation and correspondence, 
 and wrote, in the language of Socrates to Anaxi- 
 mandra, " You seem to me destined to become the 
 priestess of moral truth on earth, to show men the 
 sublime path to the beautiful and the good." The 
 veteran Swiss sage, Bonstetten, who knew her from 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 195 
 
 her childhood, wept at her grave, and wrote : **Ah ! 
 I cannot believe that she no longer lives. It 
 seems to me that I must always see her before me. 
 She was a good, a beautiful soul. O my God, when 
 I stand before this tomb, beneath the overhang- 
 ing trees, I cannot control my throbbing heart ! " 
 Barante.. the historian of the Dukes of Burgundy, 
 Chateaubriand, Villemain, Faurriel, and indeed 
 nearly all the French intellectual men of her day, 
 excepting the Napoleonists, thus recognized her: 
 not as a literary pretender, but as an unrivaled 
 woman, a colossal mind, a beautiful soul. Now, 
 we may soberly ask, Were these most conspicuous 
 literary men of that age all self-stultified before 
 this woman — this authoress whose pen attempted, 
 under their eyes, the highest tasks, and at whose 
 attempts foreign superficial critics affect a sarcastic 
 smile? 
 
 Hostile contemporary opinions of her we know 
 can be cited, especially from Englishmen and Ger- 
 mans ; but they cannot stand before the more 
 authentic judgments of her countrymen who knew 
 more intimately both herself and her writings. 
 Her conversation especially was misjudged abroad. 
 French women were conventionally authorized to 
 lead conversation in the salons of the day. They 
 dominated there in even political discussions. They 
 guided, to a considerable extent, public events from 
 these famous social centers. Their power and 
 
196 Character-Sketches. 
 
 demeanor, in this respect, were incomprehensible, 
 if not offensive, to Germans and EngHshmen, among 
 whom women had no such conventional privileges. 
 It is natural, if not inevitable, that superior talkers 
 should become leaders in conversation ; society con- 
 cedes this prerogative to them, or forces it upon 
 them. Mackintosh, Sheridan, Coleridge, and Ma- 
 caulay often turned conversation into monologue, 
 and admiring circles were grateful to them for doing 
 so. It is admitted that Madame de Stael was 
 equal to any of them ; our own Ticknor, who knew 
 her well, says that she had no equal in conversa- 
 tional talent in Europe, and nearly all witnesses 
 attest this fact. She may have felt the temptation 
 to use it to excess, though her friends deny the 
 charge ; but, eh bicn ! she was a woman ; the for- 
 bearance accorded to men could not be extended to 
 her, however much she might surpass them. Must 
 there not be sex in intellect ? Can great talent and 
 great character be recognized in petticoats and tur- 
 bans, as well as in frock-coats and stovepipe hats ? 
 
 The same paltry prejudice has depreciated nearly 
 all her other just claims. Her more than ten-years' 
 struggle against Bonaparte — which, as a simple 
 matter of fact, is one of the most heroic examples 
 in the history of her sex — has been caricatured as 
 the caprice of a woman ambitious for notoriety. It 
 cost her two millions of money — a conceded claim 
 whkh would have been paid at any moment in 
 
Madamk dk Stael AM) hi:r Germany, kj; 
 
 which she would consent to be reconciled to him ; 
 it involved her dearest friends in her proscription 
 and exile ; it sacrificed not only the pecuniary for- 
 tunes, but the careers, of her children, and menaced 
 her with imprisonment in Vincennes — all this for 
 notoriety by a woman who had already a European 
 reputation ! There could be no high principle in 
 her patriotic conduct ! A patriot, a man, thus suf- 
 fering for the liberties of his country and the rights 
 of mankind, would have been sublime even to the 
 smallest critics; but here the question is about a 
 wo7nan ; what could her conduct be in such a case 
 but a sort of burlesque ? And so of her grievous 
 mental sufferings under this imperial and prolonged 
 persecution. Her anguish is ignoble feebleness; Cic- 
 ero could grieve, in his letters to Atticus, over his 
 exile, but he was dignified ; he was a patriot, a man. 
 Ovid could mourn, broken-hearted, over his, and 
 fill his Tristia with very sobs ; but is not this gush- 
 ing Corinne a woman ? What could banishment be 
 to her ? What the loss of her native city, and, at 
 last, of her entire country? If La Fayette, or any 
 other patriotic man, had suffered similar long ban- 
 ishment, and, dying, had left behind him records 
 like hers, breathing incessant and inappeasable grief 
 about his ostracism and his country, the fact would 
 be intelligible enough and noble enough ; no excess 
 of anguish for such a privation could be ignoble in 
 a man, a patriot ; but in a woman ! To be sure, 
 
iqS Character-Sketches*. 
 
 she was a somewhat peculiar woman ; with a brain 
 which the Parisian anatomists said, after her death, 
 was larger than any they had ever found among 
 women ; and she certainly wrote much about her 
 country and politics — one book, at least, which is 
 Supposed to be remarkable for its statesmanship, 
 and which it is thought no statesmen of her day 
 could have excelled ; and she unquestionably inter- 
 meddled continually with practical politics, hav- 
 ing much to do with the political fortunes of Tal- 
 leyrand, Narbonne, Constant, etc., influencing not a 
 little political parties, and corresponding with Presi- 
 dent Jefferson and other leading Americans, as well 
 as with English statesmen, on the highest political 
 questions ; and it is true also that Lamartine called 
 her " the last of the Romans under the French 
 Caesar, who dared not destroy her, and could not 
 abase her;" and declared that, after the Restora- 
 tion, the king considered " her an ally to his crown, 
 because she represented the European spirit," and 
 that " her salon, in Paris, was one of the forces of 
 the restoration ; " and Guizot found in her writings 
 " the true moral atmosphere of politics, outside of 
 which there is no vital air; " and Sainte-Beuve rec- 
 ognized her as ** the founder " of the best modern 
 school of French politics, as represented by the 
 famous journal, " The Globe ; " but, after all, we 
 Anglo-Saxons know what qualifications, what abate- 
 ments, should be given to these very curious facts, 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 199 
 
 for \vc know that she was a — woman. Frenchmen, 
 indeed, and some of the greatest of them, continue 
 in our day to assert with preposterous exaggera- 
 tion her greatness ; Edmond Scherer, recognized 
 as among the first of Hving French critics, while 
 acknowledging her faults, declares that " the his- 
 tory of this woman, at once so masculine and so 
 tender, is unique in literature," and that " never 
 has a mind elevated itself more naturally to the 
 ideal ; " and Laboulaye has, foolishly enough, called 
 her *' the most remarkable of literary women ** — 
 le plus reinarquable dcs fenimes qui ont dcrit — and 
 these men, to be sure, know more about her writ- 
 ings and her epoch than we do ; but Anglo-Saxon 
 " common sense " can pronounce on them and their 
 heroine. 
 
 Some of her Anglo-Saxon critics have even 
 stooped to imitate the pedagogic criticism of 
 French Napoleonic writers on her style. Verbal 
 criticism could tear to pieces almost any of our 
 classics, from Chaucer to Johnson, from Johnson to 
 Carlyle, and with plausible enough reason regard- 
 ing the latter writer, as we have admitted. But 
 finical exactness, in this respect, is seldom a char- 
 acteristic of great writers ; it is a characteristic 
 usually of mediocrity or pedantry. Maximus in 
 minimus. Hercules, wielding his club, would dis- 
 dain the decorated sword of the courtier. " Style 
 is the man," unquestionably; but it is style of 
 
200 Character-Sketches. 
 
 thought rather than of language, however desirable 
 accuracy and elegance may be in the latter. Pre- 
 tentious amateurs can point out anatomic defects 
 in an arm of Michael Angelo's ** Moses ; " but they 
 dare not attempt a similar work, and the august 
 statue looks down serenely upon them as they 
 tattle their small, self-complacent criticisms around 
 its pedestal. Intent on the powerful utterance of 
 her thoughts, Madame de Stael, in whose writings 
 it would be difficult to find a single weak passage, 
 was nevertheless often careless of her verbal con- 
 structions; they are sometimes involved and ob- 
 scure. A certain class of writers, who would have 
 been better pedagogues than critics, have found 
 delight in pointing out her defects of this kind, the 
 dehght which mosquitoes might take in buzzing 
 about the ears of a lioness. The Napoleonlst, 
 Roederer, set the example. He was her early 
 friend, and favored her works and those of her 
 associates, Sismondi, Constant, etc., in Paris jour- 
 nals ; and he acknowledges that, in the days of his 
 peril, she was devoted to him, and offered him 
 money and shelter at Coppet. He became a fer- 
 vent Bonapartist, and was rewarded by his master; 
 was made a Count of the Empire, a Peer of France, 
 embassador, etc. " He was an amateur in literature/* 
 says Sainte-Beuve, '' a lover of thesis and of para- 
 dox." During the rest of his life he ceased not to 
 injure his old friend by '' faint praise." Capable of 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 201 
 
 better things, he became himself the victim of his 
 trivial criticism, his pedantry, and love of paradox. 
 To prove his *' thesis " that *' Madame de Stael has 
 great talent for writing, but does not know how to 
 write," he laboriously collected from her works a 
 long series of verbal defects, scores of them. He 
 became a member of the Institute, and his class, of 
 party writers, honored him highly. Madame de 
 Stael's writings are, to-day, in every respectable 
 library, in nearly every intelligent family of her 
 country; after his death, Roederer's heirs issued 
 his in eight octavos, but for *' limited " circulation ; 
 and the curious reader who would look into them 
 will seldom find them except on the shelves of the 
 public libraries, and there usually in uncut leaves. 
 The rights of intellect are indefeasible in spite of 
 many faults — faults which inferior minds are usually 
 eager to notice because they afford some grounds 
 of equality between themselves and the superior 
 objects of their jealousy. 
 
 Much of the depreciation of Madame de Stael by 
 the English world must be attributed to Byron's 
 scoffs at her conversation in London, as recorded 
 by Moore ; but Byron himself wonderingly admired 
 her intellect and, later, admired her social power; 
 and at last, amid his orgies in Venice, wrote,, at 
 her death, a pathetic eulogy on her character. Of 
 course such a man could never wholly surmount 
 his prejudices, but they only enhance the opinion 
 
202 Character-Sketches. 
 
 he gave of her talent, that it surpassed that of any 
 other woman in Hterary history. The Germans, 
 especially at Weimar, were chafed by the importu- 
 nity of her conversation, for she was seeking there 
 materials for her ^'AUemagne ; " but they acknowl- 
 edged her talent, and in the language of Schiller, 
 admitted that " She is all of a piece ; there is no 
 false or foreign element in the mixture ; one is, 
 therefore, in spite of all differences, completely at 
 ease with her ; one can listen to every thing from 
 her and say every thing to her. She represents 
 the acme of French culture — she is the most culti- 
 vated, the most spirituelle, of women." 
 
 The questiqn of her relative position among liter- 
 ary women is not an important one ; it may even 
 be said to be trivial ; for, not relative, but absolute, 
 worth must finally determine all claims in such a 
 case ; and, unfortunately, the restrictions imposed 
 by conventional prejudice on the capabilities of 
 women, have heretofore hardly allowed them to 
 produce any very remarkable works of literary art, 
 or of any other art. But some of the contem- 
 porary and later authorities who judged her, pro- 
 nounced upon her comparative merits as the best 
 expression of their judgment, and have thus pro- 
 voked no small amount of frivolous criticism ; 
 but their judgment has never been reversed, and 
 can never be, by an appeal to the historical facts 
 of the question — and it is, finally, but a simple 
 
Madamf. i)e Stael and hkr Germany. 203 
 
 question of fact. The opinions of these judges 
 are as relevant as they are interesting. They are 
 not advertising or journaHstic recommendations; 
 they are utterances of the representative men of an 
 epoch on an intellectual phenomenon of "Their 
 times; and intelligent men will always feel inter- 
 ested in such utterances from the leading minds of 
 other times. What would we not give for similar 
 judgments on Shakspeare from the representative 
 intellects of his age, in addition to those we have 
 from Ben Jonson, Milton, and a few others? 
 Any critic who would write honestly, not to say 
 generously, about Madame de Stael, must do so in 
 the spirit of these contemporary writers, her asso- 
 ciates; for they are his real authorities; he will 
 doubtless be accused of extravagance, but he need 
 not fear the charge ; he will not be more eulogistic 
 than they, for the simple reason that he cannot be. 
 They freely used emphatic epithets, but they used 
 them because they believed them to be legitimate. 
 They knew that this woman was altogether a phe- 
 nomenal character in the literary history of her 
 sex ; to deny this fact would have been ridiculous 
 to them, as it must be to all intelligent readers of 
 her chief works. 
 
 Allison considered her " the first of female, and 
 second to few male authors." Jeffrey, of the ** Ed- 
 inburgh Review," pronounced her " the greatest 
 of French writers since the time of Voltaire and 
 
204 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Rousseau." Byron, who met her often in London, 
 where the "Allemagne " was first published, read it 
 with admiration, notwithstanding his cynical opin- 
 ions of women of literary pretensions. '* What 
 
 the shall I say about the * Germany?'" he 
 
 writes. " I like it prodigiously. I read her again 
 and again." " She is the first of female writers of 
 this, perhaps of any, age," he remarks in a note to 
 his Bride of Abydos. He writes to Murray : " I 
 do not like Madame de Stael, but, depend upon it, 
 she beats all your natives hollow as an authoress, 
 and I would not say this if I could help it. . . . 
 She is a woman by herself, and has done more than 
 all the rest of them together, intellectually ; she 
 ought to have been a man." Vinet, the first of 
 modern Swiss thinkers, devotes a whole volume in 
 his Course of French Literature to her and Cha- 
 teaubriand as the two literary representatives of 
 their epoch ; and from his high theological stand- 
 point generously appreciates her moral influence 
 on her age. Sainte-Beuve regards her as the repre- 
 sentative woman of the times of the Revolution 
 and first Empire, and, like Vinet, places her by the 
 side of Chateaubriand, the two chiefs of French 
 literature since the period of Montesquieu, Vol- 
 taire, and Rousseau ; but he admits that she was 
 '' richer in ideas than Chateaubriand." We hazard 
 little in affirming that any one of the didactic 
 works of Madame de Stael (her treatises on the 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 205 
 
 "Passions" and on "Literature," the ** Germany, " 
 etc.) contains more original and profound ideas 
 than can be gathered from all the writings of Cha- 
 teaubriand. He was the superior painter, she the 
 superior thinker. He was her only rival — " Under 
 the Consulate and Empire, rivals," says Sainte- 
 Beuve, "but since accorded a common admira- 
 tion." Chateaubriand's " Genius of Christianity " 
 gave dclat to his name ; but its importance arose 
 principally from the coincidence of the book with a 
 reaction of the national mind from the materialistic 
 skepticism of the Revolution, a reaction which his 
 work doubtless aided among a limited class, but 
 which proceeded from antecedent causes, and was 
 essentially a tendency of the political reaction of 
 the period. This fortunate coincidence has ren- 
 dered historical and enduring a work the false 
 erudition and falser logic of which have been 
 redeemed from critical contempt only by its sur- 
 passing rhetoric, and its art, never surpassed, in the 
 painting of natural sceties.* The "Genie du Chris- 
 tianism " has no longer any rank among Christian 
 " apologetics." " It is," says Vinet, " too much for a 
 simple poem, too little for an apology ; the theolo- 
 gian and the painter mutually embarrass them- 
 selves in it ; they exchange and confound their 
 arguments." It was a plea for Christianism more 
 
 * See Macaulay's rather too severe judgment on the Genie^ in his 
 Life by Trevelyan. 
 
2o6 Character-Sketches. 
 
 than for Christianity. It aided Napoleon to restore 
 the mediaeval ecclesiasticism of France, but did lit- 
 tle for the rational " spiritualism," which alone can 
 be enduring, and of which Madame de Stael was 
 pre-eminently a representative writer. Lacretelle, 
 who passed through all the stages of the Revolu- 
 tion, and was himself a representative, in the Acad- 
 emy and in literature, of Christian spiritualism, says 
 that " Madame de Stael, born in the midst of the 
 philosophic circles of the times, but instructed by a 
 father and a mother always faithful to their relig- 
 ious sentiments, and inclined, by the elevation of 
 her soul as well as the power of her genius, to 
 spiritualism, was the first who made us comprehend 
 the necessity of returning to this high philosophy." 
 In every respect, except as a colorist, her rivalry 
 with Chateaubriand (not to say her supremacy) 
 may be asserted. 
 
 Most of her favorable critics esteem the Alle- 
 magne as her culminating literary production. 
 Though we place her French Revolution higher, 
 we may take the AUemagne as the best illustra- 
 tion of her varied powers, the best exponent of her 
 literary history and personality.* " It was," says 
 Vinet, *' an enterprise of reaction against a triple 
 
 * This paper, except the preceding pages, was published before 
 the writer's " Life and Times of Madame de Stael;" its chief facts 
 will be found scattered through the latter work with all necessary 
 marginal verifications, passim. 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 207 
 
 despotism, of a man in politics, a sect in philos- 
 ophy, and a tradition in literature." "A book," 
 says Lamartine, ** through which she has poured 
 and, as it were, filtrated all the resources of her 
 soul, of her imagination, of her religion." 
 
 The history of the "Allemagne" is extremely in- 
 teresting. It was not a temporary book, to be ren- 
 dered obsolete by time, as its title might seem to 
 imply— no more so than the Germania of Taci- 
 tus. It is stamped with genius, and genius is essen- 
 tially immortal. In our endeavor to trace its his- 
 tory, as best illustrating her own, we must claim the 
 forbearance of the reader, for the task has never 
 before been attempted, so far as we know. It will 
 necessarily be somewhat discursive, as it must ex- 
 tend over much of the period of the long exile of 
 the authoress. The complete history of the book 
 would require us to accompany her in her travels in 
 Germany, where she made her preliminary studies 
 for it, especially at Weimar, with Goethe, Schiller, 
 and Wieland ; to restore the literary coteries of her 
 chateau at Coppet, on the shore of the Leman, 
 where its pages were discussed by Sismondi, Schle- 
 gel, Barante, Bonstetten, Werner, and many other 
 brilliant men, who were among the best thinkers 
 of the period ; and, in fine, to reproduce much of 
 the contemporary criticism and literary gossip, and 
 of the correspondence that passed between Coppet, 
 Weimar, the salcm of Madame Recamier at Paris, 
 
2o8 Character-Sketches. 
 
 and that of the Countess of Albany (wife of Charles 
 Edward, the British Pretender) in the Casa d'Alfieri 
 at Florence, for these were then the intellectual 
 centers, the literary courts, of Europe, and main- 
 tained intimate relations. A more attractive range 
 of literary research could hardly be desired, but we 
 are compelled to confine ourselves to some of its 
 most salient points. 
 
 The Allemagne was a result, and also a further 
 provocation, of that remarkable persecution with 
 which Napoleon pursued its writer through her 
 " ten years of exile," a persecution which has hard- 
 ly had a parallel in literary history, and which at 
 last afforded to the world one of the best examples 
 on record of the triumph of the pen over the scep- 
 ter and the sword. She had passed through all 
 the stages of the Revolution, from its very incep- 
 tion. She abhorred its excesses, but never aban- 
 doned the essential principles of political reform, 
 of popular liberty, which it promulgated, and which, 
 in spite of its atrocities, have rendered it, in the 
 estimation of impartial writers, the epoch of mod- 
 ern history ; unless-, indeed, we must assume as 
 that epoch the great event which initiated it — the 
 North American Revolution. Though she always 
 insisted that she had no ** animal courage," she had 
 superlative moral courage, and faced bravely the 
 worst horrors of the revolutionary terrorism to save 
 her friends, and in some instances her enemies, from 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 209 
 
 the guillotine. She was dragged through the jcer- 
 ine mobs of the streets of Paris to the tribunal of 
 Robespierre, passed into the Hotel de Ville*under 
 an arch of pikes, was struck at on the stairs by- 
 one of the mob, and saved from death only by 
 the sword of the gendarme who conducted her 
 and averted the blow. She thus came near being 
 the first female victim of the Revolution. On the 
 next day the beautiful Princess de Lamballe be- 
 came its first feminine sacrifice, amid bloody orgies, 
 which history has hardly dared to record— hewed 
 into pieces, one of her limbs shot from a cannon, 
 and her heart and head borne on the points of 
 sabers through the streets in what has been called 
 **an infernal march." Fleeing to her Swiss home 
 at Coppet, Madame de Stael made her chateau, as 
 we have said, an asylum for the proscribed. It was 
 crowded with refugees for some years. No man or 
 woman rescued a greater number of such sufferers. 
 M. de Jacours knew, personally, at least twenty 
 whom she saved from death. No one was more emi- 
 nently the heroine of the Revolution than she, not 
 excepting Madame Roland. But on coming out 
 of its terrors she affirmed, down to her last hour, 
 the genuine rights of the people, which it had so 
 emphatically asserted and so much abused. When 
 almost every conspicuous literary character remain- 
 ing in France had compromised with the usurpations 
 
 of Napoleon, she was still loyal to liberty. When 
 14 
 
2 1 o Character-Sketches. 
 
 even her most intimate associates, political as well 
 as literary — Benjamin Constant, Sismondi, Lacre- 
 telle, Barante, Chateaubriand — had fallen away, she 
 and her friend. La Fayette, still stood erect for repub- 
 licanism, and stood almost alone. ** Liberty," she 
 wrote to General Moreau, ** must always be the no- 
 blest idea and force of great souls; we must never 
 disparage it on account of its abuses; if we aban- 
 don it we give up the hope of the world." 
 
 She would not, because she could not consist- 
 ently with the instincts of her genius and of her 
 generous heart, compromise with Napoleon. At 
 first she shared the universal enthusiasm of France 
 for the young conqueror of Italy. He professed 
 entire loyalty to the republic. She hailed him as 
 the restorer of order and the protector of freedom. 
 But in conversations with him she detected, as by 
 the intuition of her genius, his ulterior designs. 
 He perceived that he was detected, and tried to 
 win her. Through his brothers, Joseph and Lu- 
 cien, he made her tempting offers. He proposed 
 even to pay her the debt of the Government for 
 two millions loaned by her father, an honest debt 
 formally acknowledged by the Government, but 
 which he afterward refused to pay, and which she 
 recovered only after his downfall. It was a splen- 
 did opportunity for her and her sons ; but she 
 never wavered. She could not sacrifice her polit- 
 ical principles, for, w4th her, they were moral con- 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 211 
 
 victions. She chose rather to wander, a proscribed 
 exile, over Europe through all the years of the im- 
 perial reign. Napoleon came to fear this solitary 
 woman of genius more than any royal antagonist 
 on the Continent. He could appreciate her singu- 
 lar intellectual power, though on the island of St. 
 Helena he maliciously attempted to depreciate it ; 
 but even there he acknowledged to Las Cases that 
 "she will last." For years he persisted in attempts 
 to conciliate, that is to say, bribe her. His brother 
 Joseph (her cordial friend) was repeatedly used for 
 this purpose ; the French prefects at Geneva, in- 
 structed by the Minister of Police, frequented 
 Coppet to importune her to recognize him in her 
 writings — to say something, ** in the style of Co- 
 rinne," for him, or for the infant king of Rome ; 
 she was assured it would end her exile and restore 
 the fortunes of her family. She said nothing 
 against him in her writings, (nothing directly hos- 
 tile, at least,) but she would say nothing for him. 
 To have favored him would have been, in her 
 opinion, recreance not only to France, but to the 
 human race. 
 
 But though she wrote nothing against him, the 
 tacit opposition of such a character was an insuf- 
 ferable grievance to his egotism ; and, then, she 
 was the most eloquent talker in France, and her 
 saion, at Coppet or in Paris, was a social and polit- 
 ical center, where gathered not only all the higher 
 
2 1 2 Character-Sketches. 
 
 elements of the opposition, but the best minds of 
 Paris and the leading diplomatists of Europe. 
 " No one enters her salon;' said Napoleon, " who 
 does not leave it my opponent." " Coppet is an 
 arsenal furnishing arms against me to all Europe." 
 He could hardly have paid her a higher compli- 
 ment. She was, in fact, the oracle of the oppo- 
 sition ; and her friend, Benjamin Constant, one of 
 the most effective publicists of the day, was, as we 
 have intimated, her representative in the Legisla- 
 ture. At her instance he delivered a speech against 
 the monarchical designs of Napoleon. The even- 
 ing before he whispered in her ear, *' You see your 
 salon crowded ; if I speak to-morrow it will be de- 
 serted. Think again." " It is necessary to follow 
 our convictions," was her only reply. On the next 
 evening, which had been appointed for a special 
 gathering, all her usual guests were absent. They 
 sent apologies, and recoiled before the rising power 
 of the First Consul. Fouch^, the head of police, 
 went to her and advised her to " retire into the 
 country, and in a few days all would be appeased." 
 " But on my return," she says, " I found it quite 
 otherwise." She knew, however, that an invincible 
 power remained in her otherwise feeble woman's 
 hand — the pen. She resolved to vindicate by it 
 her claims to social and public recognition. In 
 this time of desertion and of the worst chagrins 
 that a woman can suffer, she composed her essay 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 213 
 
 on ** Literature." It produced an immediate and 
 surprising impression. No woman had ever at- 
 tempted so elaborate a literary work. ** Its suc- 
 cess," she says, ** entirely restored my position in 
 society ; my salon was again filled." Without a 
 word for or against Napoleon, it was a plea for lib- 
 erty as the best basis of literature and all social 
 ameliorations. It asserts the doctrine of the per- 
 fectibility of the race. " I adopt this doctrine," she 
 says in her introduction, " with all my faculties. It 
 is the conservative, the redeeming hope of the in- 
 tellectual world." It was Vico's theory of the phi- 
 losophy of history better applied ; he applied it to 
 monarchy, she to republicanism. Her social tri- 
 umph was complete ; her salon was again thronged 
 by the best Parisian society and the diplomatic 
 representatives of Europe ; even Napoleon's broth- 
 ers, Joseph and Lucien, could not be kept away. 
 Napoleon could never forgive her; she had struck 
 at all his hidden designs. He waited and watched 
 for his opportunity of revenge. 
 
 Necker, her father, not long afterward published 
 his ** Last Views of Politics and Finance." She was 
 with him, at Coppet, at the time, and Napoleon 
 falsely attributed it to her. Necker wished him to 
 be a Washington for France. This would never do. 
 He sent an order to him to let politics alone, and 
 threatened his daughter with banishment. She sub- 
 sequently ventured furtively back toward the capi- 
 
214 Character-Sketches. 
 
 tal, and hired a house ten leagues from it where her 
 friends again flocked to her. Napoleon was told that 
 she was holding court there, and seized the occasion 
 as a pretext for exiling her. She was informed that 
 a gendar^ne would soon take charge of her and her 
 children. He tortured her with delays. Unable 
 to bear this painful suspense, she recalled, with 
 hope, the image of a friend, the loveliest woman in 
 soul as well as in person then in Europe, of whom 
 the good Duke of Montmorency had said that he 
 ** loved her as an angel on earth," — one whose tran- 
 scendent beauty produced a sensation in the streets 
 wherever she passed, converged upon her the gaze 
 of public assemblies even when Napoleon himself 
 was speaking, and was excelled only by the grace of 
 her manners and the purity of her heart — a woman 
 who subdued the jealousy of women as well as the 
 passion of men, " invincibly protected by the aure- 
 ole of virtue which always surrounded her;" whose 
 *' presence anywhere was an event, and produced a 
 tumult of admiration, of curiosity, of enthusiasm;'* 
 even the common people in public places calling 
 upon her with shouts to rise, that they might pay 
 their homage to beauty in her person ; who, when 
 it was known that she was to be a collector for a 
 public charity at St. Roche, found it impossible to 
 make her way, without assistance, through the 
 throng that crowded the aisles, stood upon chairs, 
 hung upon the pillars, mounted even the altars of 
 
Madami: dk Stakl and iii:r G human v. 215 
 
 the side chapels, and gave twenty thousand francs, 
 more for the sight of her than for the sacred design 
 of the occasion ; who enchanted all men that behold 
 her, yet by her moral fascination compelled them to 
 abandon lower hopes for her coveted esteem and 
 her self-respectful friendship; who declined the 
 proffered hearts of princes, and even the possibility 
 of a throne, that she might maintain the obligations 
 of a marriage of " convenience," made when she 
 was but fifteen years old with a man who was forty- 
 two ; and who, when her opulent fortune was lost, 
 and after the Restoration had re-established the 
 factitious distinctions of society, and even in old age 
 and blindness, could still hold spell-bound around 
 her the ditc society of Paris. " She was," says her 
 niece and biographer, who knew her most intimate 
 life, " devoted, sympathetic, indulgent, self-respect- 
 ful. You found with her consolation, strength, 
 balm for suffering, guidance in the great resolutions 
 of life ; she had a passion for goodness." She was, 
 says another authority, '' an incomparable being in 
 all respects. Her charming qualities had something 
 so peculiar that they can never be perfectly de- 
 scribed. Only scattered traits of her supreme grace 
 can be given." Napoleon himself was smitten by 
 her charms, and, through Fouch6, persecuted her 
 with his importunities to induce her to become a 
 lady of his court, {''dame de palais ;'') but she dis- 
 liked the man, and declined the brilliant offer. He 
 
2i6 Character-Sketches. 
 
 seized the first opportunity of involving her in the 
 exile of Madame de Stael, compelHng her to leave 
 her family and the charmed circle of her innumer- 
 able Parisian friends, and wander obscurely in the 
 southern provinces and Italy for years. It was a 
 remarkable coincidence that in these degenerate 
 times two women, one the most beautiful, the 
 other the most intellectual, in modern history, 
 should appear in the same country, and should be 
 united in an inseparable sisterhood. Through all 
 the remainder of Madame de Stael's life Madame 
 Recamier was her most intimate feminine friend, 
 and consoled her in her last hours. 
 
 She now found shelter under her friend's roof at 
 Saint-Brice. But the gendarme reached her at last, 
 bringing an order, signed by Napoleon, and requir- 
 ing her to depart within twenty-four hours. After 
 harassing trials she escaped to Germany, and thus 
 did her great enemy open the way for the produc- 
 tion of one of her greatest literary monuments, the 
 "Allemagne," the work which, by a striking coinci- 
 dence, was to crown her fame in the very year in 
 which the crown was to fall from his head. We are 
 tempted to follow her in its preparatory studies 
 there, but our limits forbid. She observed with the 
 eyes, the insight, of genius every aspect of German 
 life and literature. At Weimar she learned the 
 German language, and astonished and perplexed 
 Goethe and Schiller by her remarkable conversation, 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 217 
 
 and her virile intellect so strongly contrasted with 
 the vivacity, the abandon, of her womanly heart ; for 
 the real problem of her character was the fact th t 
 in her were combined the intellect of man with the 
 heart of woman. She remained three months in 
 the little literary court of Weimar, and the grand 
 duchess, Louise, became her life-long correspondent. 
 She traveled over much of Germany, and studied 
 well its higher life in the court of Berlin, where she 
 was received with much distinction. An import- 
 ant event in her life was the friendship she formed, 
 in the Prussian capital, with Augustus Schlegel, one 
 of the greatest of living critics, who thenceforward 
 was a member of her household down to the year of 
 her death. 
 
 The death of Necker recalled her, heart-broken, 
 to Coppet, where her health gave way. Proscribed 
 in France, she sought relief in Italy, accompanied 
 by her children, Schlegel, and, part of the time, by 
 Sismondi. Genius alone knows the philosopher's 
 stone that turns every thing to gold ; her travels in 
 Italy produced "Corinne." On her return she vent- 
 ured again, clandestinely, to within some leagues 
 of Paris, to publish it. The prefect of the Seine- 
 Inferiiur was afterward dismissed for treating her 
 wdth courtesy. But her intellect was again to tri- 
 umph. Suddenly there broke in upon her almost 
 utter solitude the burst of enthusiasm with which 
 Europe hailed the appearance of " Corinne." ** It 
 
2i8 Character-Sketches. 
 
 was one of the greatest events of the epoch," says 
 Vinet. " It carried all suffrages," says the Biog- 
 raphie Universelle. '* There was but one voice, one 
 cry of admiration in lettered Europe, at its appear- 
 ance," says her cousin, Madame Necker de Saussure. 
 Napoleon, whose egotism was as petulant as his 
 ambition was great, was mortified by this success. 
 The official journals attacked the book, and Ville- 
 main says that Napoleon himself wrote the hostile 
 criticism of the Moniteur, But neither his scepter 
 nor his pen could touch the indefeasible honors 
 of her genius. She stood out before all Europe 
 crowned, like her own Corinne, on the capital of the 
 world. But he could still annoy and oppress her, 
 and he now resumed his persecutions of not only 
 herself, but of her dearest friends, with incredible 
 minuteness, cruelty, and perseverance. He renewed 
 her exile. She went to Coppet, where a court of 
 the best minds of Europe gathered about her; and 
 then again to Germany, to resume her preparations 
 for the Allemagne ; to Weimar, to Berlin, to Vienna, 
 accompanied by Schlegel, Sismondi, and Constant. 
 Her progress was an ovation ; but the Germans 
 hardly knew what to think of her. With their 
 views of woman, so different from those which 
 Tacitus attributed to their ancestors, they were dis- 
 posed at first to wonder at her, then to be equivo- 
 cally sarcastic, but at last to both wonder and ad- 
 mire. They could never, however, entirely sur- 
 
Madame de Stael and m:u Germany. 219 
 
 mount their first opinion, that there must be some- 
 thing inadmissible in such high intellectual claims 
 on the part of a woman, and she a French woman. 
 Her books, indeed, surprised them, and her conver- 
 sation fairly dazzled their slower wits ; but she was 
 so subtle, so oracular ! The Pythoness might be- 
 long to classic Greece, but could not come out of 
 France. 
 
 The American scholar, George Ticknor, met at 
 Berlin, some thirty years later, the old prime-minis- 
 ter, Ancillon, who told him a characteristic anecdote 
 of her visit to that city. He said : " When she was 
 here she excited a great sensation, and had the men 
 of letters trotted up and down, as it were, before 
 her successively, to see their paces. I was present 
 when Fichte's turn came. After talking a little 
 while she said, * Now, Monsieur Fichte, will yop be 
 so kind as to give me, in fifteen minutes or so, a 
 sort of idea, ox apercu, of your system, so that I may 
 know clearly what you mean by your ich^ (I,) your 
 vioi, (me,) for I am entirely in the dark about it?* 
 The notion of explaining in a little quarter of an 
 hour, to a person in total darkness, a system which 
 he had been all his lifetime in developing from a 
 single principle within himself, and spinning, as it 
 were, from his own bowels, till its web embraced 
 the whole universe, was quite shocking to the phil- 
 osopher's dignity. However, being much pressed, 
 he began, in rather bad French, to do the best he 
 
220 Character-Sketches. 
 
 could. But he had not gone on more than ten 
 minutes before Madame de Stael, who had followed 
 him with the greatest attention, interrupted him 
 with a countenance full of eagerness and satisfac- 
 tion : ' Ah ! it is sufficient — I comprehend — I com- 
 prehend you perfectly, Monsieur Fichte : your sys- 
 tem is perfectly illustrated by a story in Baron 
 Munchausen's travels.' Fichte looked like a trag- 
 edy; the faces of the rest of the company like a 
 comedie larmoyante. Madame de Stael heeded 
 neither, but went on : ' For, when he arrived once 
 on the banks of a vast river, where there was 
 neither bridge nor ferry, nor even a poor boat or 
 raft, he was at first quite confounded, quite in 
 despair, until, at last, his wits coming to his assist- 
 ance, he took a good hold of his own sleeve, and 
 jumped himself over to the other side. Now, Mon- 
 sieur Fitche, this, I take it, is just what you have 
 done with your ich, your moi, is it not?' There 
 was so much truth in this, and so much esprit^ that, 
 of course, the effect was irresistible on all but poor 
 Fichte himself. As for him, he never forgave 
 Madame de Stael, who certainly, however, had no 
 malicious purpose of offending him, and who, in 
 fact, praised him and his ich most abundantly in 
 her De rAllemagner 
 
 In June, 1808, she was again at Coppet, working 
 on the Allemagne. Baron von Vogt, a man of in- 
 tellect, was there assisting her by his conversations ; 
 
Madame de StaEl and her Germany. 221 
 
 Sismondi was there, preparing the fifth volume of 
 his Italian Republics ; Schlegel was there, busy in 
 the preparation of his Lectures on Dramatic Art 
 for publication at Heidelberg; Constant was there, 
 preparing his Wallenstein for the press. Matthieu 
 de Montmorency spent some time there, and no 
 man was more welcome. Etienne Dumont, the as- 
 sociate of Mirabcau, (some of whose best speeches 
 ho composed,) afterward the friend and editor of 
 Jeremy Bentham, was there, casually at least. 
 Madame Recamier cheered her friend by frequent 
 letters, and by the promise of a visit and of her 
 company in another journey to Vienna. Letters 
 passed often between Weimar and Coppet ; the 
 Duchess Louise, esteemed, since the battle of Jena, 
 with Napoleon's own acknowledgment, as one of 
 the great characters of the times, kept up her cor- 
 respondence with the authoress, and the marble 
 bust of the latter, by Tieck, was honored with a 
 place in the palace of Weimar. The Allemagne 
 was under incessant discussion in the conversations 
 and correspondence of the chateau. Three years 
 (1808, 1809, and 1 8 10) were devoted to its compo- 
 sition, six years in all to its preparation. Sismondi, 
 writing to the Countess of Albany, (September 6, 
 1809,) says: "She has completed about a quarter 
 of the work ; but that which is written appears to 
 me superior to any thing that we have yet had 
 from her pen. It is not like * Corinne,* the frame 
 
222 Character-Sketches. 
 
 of a romance in which observations on national 
 character are presented ; she treats directly her 
 subject, and handles it with a force that no one 
 would expect in a woman. There is a truly admi- 
 rable depth in its judgments of national traits, in its 
 intellectual pictures, etc. Nothing so new, so im- 
 partial, and so penetrating has yet been written, I 
 think, on the character of any nation." " This, 
 doubtless, will be her best work," wrote Baron von 
 Vogt to Madame Recamier. 
 
 When it was completed she again entered France 
 to publish it, but kept at the prescribed distance of 
 forty leagues from the capital. She obtained the 
 necessary authorization of the Censorship, after 
 the elimination of a few sentences. Her prefer- 
 ence of Goethe's '* Iphigenia " over that of Racine 
 had to be quafified, and, among other suppressions, 
 was that of a passage in which she described Ger- 
 many, deprived of liberty, as a temple which fails 
 of columns and roof. When it was printed, Napo- 
 leon changed his mind ; the French had conquered 
 Germany, but he was not mentioned in the book. 
 The ten thousand printed copies were cut into 
 pieces, and converted into pasteboard, and she was 
 ordered to leave France immediately. A hint was 
 given her, by the Minister of Police, of imprison- 
 ment in Vincennes, where the Due d'Enghien had 
 been murdered by her persecutor. '' Ah, my God ! " 
 she wrote to Madame Recamier, ** I am the Orestes 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 223 
 
 of Exile, and fate pursues me ! " She was in de- 
 spair, but was inflexible. The police demanded 
 her manuscript, for they wished to destroy the 
 book utterly; but her son escaped with the precious 
 original, and an imperfect copy was given them. 
 She took refuge again in her chateau at Coppet, 
 and dreary months of anxiety were spent there, 
 though she was soon surrounded by faithful friends, 
 the ^lite minds of the age. All continental Europe, 
 except Russia, was now controlled by Napoleon. His 
 Swiss gendarmes demanded again her manuscript, 
 but she would not surrender it. Her sons, as well as 
 herself, were not allowed to re-enter France, and 
 her home was under the surveillance of police spies. 
 She was not permitted to travel, even in Switzer- 
 land, except between Coppet and Geneva. Schlegel 
 was torn from her household and exiled ; the Duke 
 cf Montmorency visited her, and was exiled ; Mad- 
 ame Recamier, who, against her remonstrances, 
 spent a night under her roof on her way to the 
 baths of Aix, was exiled, and could never again 
 return to Paris till the downfall of the tyrant. 
 
 These painful details can be tedious to no man 
 of letters, to no woman of heart. With similar 
 facts before, and worse ones afterward, for which 
 we have not room, they present a spectacle for the 
 contemplation of the intellectual world — of, at least, 
 all students of human nature : the little, great man 
 of empire pursuing, with minutest inhumanity and 
 
224 Character-Sketches. 
 
 egotism, a helpless woman of genius — helpless, yet 
 greatest of her age, if not of any age. Great 
 enough to conquer Europe, this man was not great 
 enough to conquer himself. He was conquered by 
 his own pettiest passions ; and the truest function 
 of history regarding him is to hold him forth before 
 all eyes with the admonitory lesson that there is 
 no real greatness of genius without the moral great- 
 ness of the heart.* After breaking down the whole 
 political fabric of the continent for his own glory 
 and that of his family ; after sacrificing millions of 
 French and other lives to his selfish ambition, he 
 was to be cast out of Europe as an unendurable 
 political nuisance ; his restored dynasty was again 
 to corrupt France till it should dissolve in official 
 rottenness, and the bravest, most brilliant nation 
 of modern times be overrun by foreign troops and 
 trodden in the dust with a humiliation unparalleled 
 in the history of nations. The bewildered world 
 still cries '*Hosanna!" to the memory of Napo- 
 leon ; but in the coming ages of better light and 
 juster sentiments, when the glory of war shall be 
 righly estimated as barbarism, which shall stand out 
 worthiest and brightest in the recognition of man- 
 kind, the genius of the great military tyrant or that 
 
 * " When Bonaparte insisted that the heart is one of the entrails, 
 that it is the pit of the stomach that moves the world — do we thank 
 him for the gracious instruction ? Our disgust is the protest of hu- 
 man nature against a lie." — Emerson. 
 
Madame de Sta^l and her Germany. 225 
 
 of the great suffering writer ? Which alternative 
 will enlightened France then choose for her homage, 
 her greatest man of blood or her greatest woman 
 of intellect ? There arc men who will brush aside 
 such reflections as merely rhetorical, but destiny 
 itself will reinstate them. Alluding to her suffer- 
 ings Madame de Stael says : ** It may, perhaps, 
 excite astonishment that I compare exile to death, 
 but great men of antiquity and of modern times 
 have sunk under it. Many a man has confronted 
 the scaffold with more courage than he has been 
 able to command in the loss of his country. In all 
 codes of law perpetual banishment has been con- 
 sidered as one of the severest penalties ; but here 
 the caprice of one man inflicts, in a kind of sport, 
 what conscientious judges have pronounced with 
 regret on criminals." But her wrongs were yet to 
 be adjudicated by " conscientious judges." The 
 conscience of the world is always right in its ulti- 
 mate judgments, and wisdom and virtue have only 
 need to wait. Emerson says : '* Culture alters the 
 political status of an individual. It raises a rival 
 royalty in a monarchy. It is king against king. It 
 is ever the romance of history in all dynasties. It 
 creates a personal independence which the monarch 
 cannot look down, and to which he must often suc- 
 cumb. The history of Greece is at one time re- 
 duced to two persons, Phihp, or the successor of 
 
 Philip, on one side, and Demosthenes, a private 
 15 
 
226 Character-Sketches. 
 
 citizen, on the other. Kings feel that this is what 
 they themselves represent. This is no red-ker- 
 chiefed, red-shirted rebellion, but royalty — king- 
 ship. This is real kingship, and theirs only titular. 
 Literary history and all history is a record of the 
 power of minorities and of minorities of one." 
 
 Ever since the epoch of the Revolution France 
 has been reeling between the alternatives of the 
 personal government, exemplified by Bonaparte, 
 and the constitutional liberty for which her greatest 
 authoress pleaded and suffered. Destiny will in- 
 fallibly decide at last for the latter ; no other final 
 decision is possible under the moral laws of the 
 universe. 
 
 Madame de Stael dreaded imprisonment with a 
 morbid terror. It might be for life. She would 
 flee, but whither? She w^ould escape to England 
 or America, and had invested funds in the latter 
 for the purpose ; but Napoleon controlled all the 
 ports, except those of Russia, and he was about to 
 invade that country. Taking with her the Alle- 
 magne, she left secretly, with her children and her 
 second husband, Rocca. Schlegel joined them at 
 Berne, and they hastened through Germany, through 
 Austria, through Poland. Rocca disguised himself 
 as a French courier, for, though he had resigned as 
 a French officer, and was disabled by his honorable 
 w^ounds. Napoleon tried to tear him from her by 
 reclaiming him for the army. Descriptions of his 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 227 
 
 person were distributed along their route. They 
 read placards at the police stations every-where for 
 their detection or obstruction. The events of their 
 flight were, indeed, thrilling, but we cannot delay 
 for them. Fleeing before the nearly half-million 
 hosts of the conqueror, they at last enter Russia 
 with thankful hearts; but the French army is be- 
 tween them and St. Petersburgh ; they hasten to 
 Moscow, but the invaders march thitherward — to 
 their doom, indeed — but the exiles could not have 
 anticipated that doom. They flee again, and by a 
 wide detour reach the northern capital, where the 
 Emperor Alexander receives them gladly. They 
 reach the capital of Sweden, and are sheltered by 
 her faithful friend, Bernadotte, the ally of the 
 Czar. They at last reach London and are safe, 
 and the Allemagne is saved to the intellectual 
 world forever. 
 
 England knows little or nothing yet of the pro- 
 scribed book, but the genius of its author is known 
 there by her other works ; she is recognized as the 
 most distinguished woman in literature, and her 
 persecutions by Napoleon command for her enthu- 
 siastic sympathy. She is immediately the idol of 
 its best circles ; and such is the eagerness to see her 
 that " the ordinary restraints of high society," we 
 are told, are quite disregarded ; at the houses of 
 cabinet ministers the first ladies of the kingdom 
 mount chairs and tables to catch a glimpse of her. 
 
228 Character-Sketches. 
 
 She dines daily with statesmen, authors, and artists, 
 at the tables of Lords Landsdowne, Holland, Grey, 
 Jersey, Harrowby, and surpasses all by her splendid 
 conversation, not excepting Sheridan, Mackintosh, 
 Erskine, and Byron. 
 
 The interest excited by her . social qualities, her 
 literary fame, and her persecutions, was suddenly 
 and immeasurably enhanced by the publication of 
 her Germany, in London, in the autumn of 1813. 
 It proved to the sober, practical English mind 
 that the dazzling talker was also a profound 
 thinker. No work from a feminine hand had ever 
 equaled it in masculine vigor and depth of 
 thought, as well as of sentiment. 
 
 We have seen how the precious manuscript es- 
 caped the hands of the Government at Paris by 
 the forethought of her son, and afterward by her 
 own evasion of the police at Coppet. Secretly 
 carried through all her flight over Germany, Poland, 
 Russia, the Baltic Sea, and Sweden, it was now 
 secured to the world by the press of England, and 
 all intelligent Frenchmen have ever since been 
 proud of it as one of the monuments of their 
 national literature. In her preface she told the 
 British public the story of its misfortunes, inserting 
 the insulting letter of the Duke de Rovigo, the 
 Minister of Police, ordering her out of France. 
 *'At the moment," she said, *' when this work was 
 about to appear, and when ten thousand copies had 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 229 
 
 already been printed, the Minister of Police, known 
 by the name of General Savary, sent Kxsgcndarjnes to 
 the publisher, with orders to cut in pieces the whole 
 edition. Sentinels were stationed at the different 
 issues of the building to prevent the escaape of a 
 single copy of so dangerous a book. A commis- 
 sioner of police was charged to superintend this 
 expedition. General Savary obtained an easy vic- 
 tory, but the poor commissioner died, I am told, 
 from anxious labors to make sure, in detail, of the 
 destruction of so many volumes, or, rather, of their 
 transformation into pasteboard, perfectly white, 
 upon which no trace of human reason should re- 
 main. The intrinsic value of this card-paper, 
 estimated at twenty louiSj was the only indemnity 
 that the publisher obtained."**" At the moment my 
 book was destroyed at Paris, I received an order, 
 in the country, to surrender the copy from which 
 it had been printed, and to leave France in twenty- 
 four hours." Such a statement could not but ex- 
 cite the wonder of England. Such a petty, per- 
 secuting policy on the part of Napoleon was in- 
 conceivable to the British mind, accustomed to the 
 utmost liberty of thought and speech, and almost 
 as unrestricted liberty of the press. The incredible 
 history of the work now gave it incredible success. 
 
 She appended to her preface a brief outline of 
 its design and plan. ** I have thought," she said, 
 
 ♦ She, however, sent the publisher 15,000 francs. 
 
230 (character-Sketches. 
 
 ** that it would be beneficial to make known the 
 country of Europe where study and meditation 
 have been carried so far that we may consider it the 
 land of thought. The reflections which the coun- 
 try and its books have suggested to me may be 
 
 divided into four sections. The first will treat of 
 
 » 
 
 Germany and the Manners of the Germans ; the 
 second of Literature and Art ; the third of Philos- 
 ophy and Morals ; the fourth of Religion and 
 Enthusiasm." 
 
 The Allemagne could not, like Delphine and 
 Corinne, appeal to popular readers, the readers 
 of " light literature ; " but it commanded imme- 
 diately and universally the interest of the en- 
 lightened classes. We have noticed how Byron 
 admired it in spite of his cynical dislike of her con- 
 versation and her person. Mackintosh immediate- 
 ly reviewed it in the Edinburgh Quarterly. " The 
 voice of Europe," he said, " has already applauded 
 the genius of a national painter in the author of 
 ' Corinne.' But it was there aided by the power of 
 a pathetic fiction, by the vanity and opposition of 
 national character, and by the charm of a country 
 which unites beauty to renown. In the work be- 
 fore us she has thrown off the aid of fiction. She 
 delineates a less poetical character, and a country 
 more interesting by expectation than by recollec- 
 tion. But it is not the less certain that it is the 
 most vigorous effort of her genius, and probably 
 
Madamk 1)l: SiAKLAM) lii.K Gkrmans. .\;\ 
 
 tlie most elaborate and masculine production of the 
 faculties of woman." The chapters which treat of 
 society and conversation, he remarks, are the most 
 perfect, and " exhibit an unparalleled union of 
 graceful vivacity with philosophical ingenuity." 
 The chapter on Taste, he says, is " exquisite," 
 *' balancing with a skillful and impartial hand the 
 literary opinions of nations." The third part, which 
 treats of Metaphysical Systems, is, he adds, ** a 
 novelty in the history of the human mind, and, 
 whatever may be thought of its success in some of 
 the parts, must be regarded, on the whole, as the 
 boldest effort of the female intellect." The con- 
 cluding portion of the work, on Enthusiasm, he 
 pronounces the most eloquent, " if we except the 
 incomparable chapter on Conjugal Love." "Thus," 
 he says, after a long citation, " terminates a work 
 which, for variety of knowledge, flexibility of power, 
 elevation of view, and comprehension of mind, is 
 unequaled among the works of women, and which, 
 in the union of the graces of society and literature 
 with the genius of philosophy, is not surpassed by 
 many among those of men." 
 
 The London edition was issued by Murray in 
 three volumes, i2mo. In the following year it was 
 reproduced in Paris and Geneva, and in an Italian 
 version at Milan. In the next year another edition 
 appeared in Paris, in four volumes, i2mo, and in 
 three volumes, 8vo. In less than two years later 
 
232 Character-Sketches. 
 
 a revised edition was issued in Paris in two volumes, 
 8vo. Editions and translations followed in all the 
 principal tongues of Europe. 
 
 So imposing a work could not fail to provoke 
 criticism, and, besides innumerable " periodical " 
 reviews, no less than six publications, discussing its 
 merits and demerits, appeared in less than a year in 
 the German, French, and English languages, from 
 the presses of Heidelberg, Hanover, Bremen, Paris, 
 London, and Edinburgh. 
 
 It is from the stand-point of the Romantic 
 School that Madame de Stael considers Germany. 
 The two Schlegels, Ludwig Tieck, Goerres, Bren- 
 tano, Arnim, Kleist, were then the representatives 
 of that school, and Goethe was hailed as their 
 chieftain, though the universality of his genius ren- 
 dered him superior to the limitations of any liter- 
 ary sect. These writers endeavored to be national 
 by reproducing exclusively the spirit of the elder 
 German literature and legends — the idiosyncrasies 
 of the northern mind. They succeeded to some 
 extent, in spite of the claims of culture on all the 
 possibilities of literature and art. Madame de 
 Stael wrote under their inspiration, and thereby 
 painted a more genuine picture of intellectual and 
 social Germany than she could otherwise have pro- 
 duced. An able German critic remarks that it is 
 important her readers should bear in mind this 
 stand-point of her ** remarkable work." She took 
 
Madame'de Stael and her Germany. 233 
 
 it spontaneously, though influenced by her favorite 
 German authors ; her previous work on '* Litera- 
 ture " showed her predilection for the Romantic 
 School ; it is pervaded by the ideas of that school, 
 and she was among the first of its founders in 
 France. She gives in the AUemagne a fine chapter 
 discriminating the two schools. She says : " The 
 songs of the Troubadours, born of chivalry and 
 Christianity, originated in the poetry of the Ro- 
 mantic School. If we do not admit that paganism 
 and Christianity, the north and the south, antiquity 
 and the Middle Ages, chivalry and the Greek and 
 Roman institutions, divide the empire of literature, 
 we shall never be able to judge, from a philosophic 
 stand-point, ancient and modern taste. Classic 
 poetry is simple and salient, like exterior ob- 
 jects ; Christian poetry has need of all the colors 
 of the rainbow. But the question for us is not 
 between the classic and romantic poetry, but 
 between the imitation of the one and the in- 
 spiration of the other.- The literature of the 
 ancients is with the moderns a literature trans- 
 planted ; the romantic literature is with us indig- 
 enous; it is the product of our religion and our 
 institutions." 
 
 The fact that she was the principal founder of 
 the romantic school in French literature shows the 
 salient energy of her genius. Romanticism is le- 
 gitimate in its own sphere. Its chief fault was its 
 
234 Character-Sketches. 
 
 exclusiveness ; for the capabilities of art are as 
 manifold as the needs of culture. While vindicat- 
 ing the romantic school, Madame de Stael did not 
 exclude classicism. The partisan spirit provoked 
 by its theorists was irrelevant. Lerminier remarks 
 that " one party repeated, with Madame de Stael 
 and the Schlegels, that romanticism came forth 
 from Christianity and chivalry ; another, with some 
 English critics and poets, that its origin was in 
 Saxon and Norman traditions. There were still 
 others, more refined, more metaphysical, who saw 
 in romanticism the expression of the most pro- 
 found sentiments of the soul, and an indefinable 
 ideal. There was a resonant shock of systems and 
 theories." Romanticism, which produced, besides 
 Madame de Stael, such writers as Chateaubriand 
 and Lamartine, and has culminated in our day in 
 the genius of Victor Hugo, has enriched the liter- 
 ature of the modern, without impairing the literary 
 claims of the ancient world. Lerminier affirms a 
 truth, though not without a spice of malice, when 
 he says that " Hugo, wishing to establish his title 
 as chief of the romantic school, its Aristotle, has 
 appropriated the ideas long since put in circulation 
 by Madame de Stael, the Schlegels, Sismondi, and 
 Benjamin Constant, and thrust them to an ex- 
 treme." The romantic school has seen the end of 
 its day as an exclusive sect ; it will never see the 
 end of its day as a legitimate and brilliant school 
 
Madam K de Stakl and iikr Germany. 235 
 
 by the side of classicism. It is as legitimate there 
 as the Gothic architecture is by the side of the 
 Greek. 
 
 Considered as the initiative of foreign criticism 
 on German literature, Sainte-Beuve esteems the 
 Allemagne a work which ** no other person could 
 have produced at that period." Madame de 
 Stael was the first writer who effectively disclosed, 
 not only to France, but to Europe generally, the 
 rich mines of the German intellect. She was the 
 first of French writers to vindicate Shakspeare 
 against the prejudices of Voltaire. Villemain says: 
 " The unity of such a work is in the soul of the 
 author, in the spirit, the verve, continuous, yet ever 
 varied, with which she treats of so many and such 
 diverse topics. We admire the penetrating glance 
 which it casts on all the literature of a nation, its 
 profound intelligence, the vivid sensibility which 
 gives to the analysis all the interest of passion and 
 all the novelty of inspiration. The poetry of the 
 north, with what vivacity Madame de Stael repro- 
 duces and interprets it ! . . . This book, this en- 
 thusiasm of literary independence, this apotheosis 
 of duty, this ardor of spiritualism, were in reality an 
 indirect and continual protestation against the 
 system of government which then dominated 
 France. . . . The work of Madame de Stael, all 
 animated with a sort of moral independence, 
 breathing hatred of personal interest, enthusiasm 
 
236 Character-Sketches. 
 
 for noble sacrifice, for liberty, the liberty of the 
 soul subjected to the single law of duty, shocked 
 the political maxims of the conqueror. The pas- 
 sion which reigns in the book, and which animates 
 it with a single spirit in all the diversity of its sub- 
 jects and forms — it is moral sentiment." 
 
 Lamartine speaks of the AUemagne with all his 
 poetic ardor. We have seen in part his opin- 
 ion. He adds : " Appearing about the same time 
 in England and France, it became the subject of 
 the conversation of Europe. Her style, without 
 losing any of its youthful vigor and splendor, 
 seemed now to be illuminated with lights more 
 high and eternal, as she approached the evening of 
 life and the diviner mysteries of thought. This 
 style paints no more, it chants no more, it adores. 
 One respires the incense of a soul over its pages. 
 It is Corinne become a priestess, and seeing from 
 the border of life the unknown God beyond the 
 horizons of humanity." 
 
 Vinet says : " Its appreciations of authors and of 
 works are spirited and delicate, and show rare pen- 
 etration ; its analyses are full of movement and 
 life, and the cited passages are translated with great 
 talent. Respect for genius and the sentiment of 
 the beautiful illuminate every step of the writer. 
 French prejudice nowhere makes her misapprehend 
 true beauties ; nor does her enthusiasm, or docility, 
 or contempt for mere novelty, ever lead her, as so 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 237 
 
 many others, to mistake a deformed idol for a di- 
 \ inity." 
 
 Vinet, like Sainte-Bcuve, claims for the work a 
 hii;h moral and political purport. He says : " It 
 was one of those life-boats which, in the stress of 
 the storm, is employed courageously for the salva- 
 tion of a ship in distress. The ship was France, 
 all the liberties of which were, in the opinion of 
 Madame de Stael, perishing at the time. Persuad- 
 ed that the nations are called to help one another, 
 she went this time to demand from Germany — hu- 
 miliated and conquered Germany — the salvation of 
 France. There is more of patriotism than of na- 
 tional egotism in the work. ... It inaugurated in 
 literature a new era. For good or for evil its in- 
 fluence was capital. It put an end to the isolation 
 of two great neighboring nations. It revealed for 
 the first time Germany to France. All Germany 
 does not appreciate this fact ; but hear what Goethe 
 wrote in his old age : * This book,' he said, 'ought 
 to be considered as a powerful engine which made 
 a wide breach in the wall of antiquated prejudice 
 which divided the two countries ; so that beyond 
 the Rhine, and afterward beyond the channel, we 
 became better known — a fact that could not fail 
 to procure for us a great influence over all west- 
 ern Europe.* " Vinet thinks that the Allemagne 
 marks the point of maturity of thought and of tal- 
 ent in Madame de Stael ; that in style it is the 
 
238 Character-Sketches. 
 
 richest, and in moral sentiment the most advanced, 
 of all her works. " It is," he says, " in the Alle- 
 magne, if I am not deceived, and particularly in 
 its last part, that she shows herself, above all, a 
 poet. In approaching the regions of supreme 
 truth, and, by consequence, of repose, she has 
 felt commence in her soul that harmonious con- 
 cert of sensibility and imagination which is prop- 
 erly poetry. Without making use, as in Corinne, 
 of poetical phraseology, without deviating from the 
 movement of prose, she sings, perhaps for the first 
 time." Richter criticised the Allemagne, particu- 
 larly what it said of his own writings, but he ad- 
 mired the genius of its author, and said, *' Probably 
 she is the only woman in Europe, and still more 
 probably the only French person, that could have 
 written such a book." 
 
 The Allemagne, as Goethe admits, breached the' 
 wall that had barricaded the German literature. 
 It did so for England as well as for France, and 
 finally for the whole exterior intellectual world. 
 Some twenty years earlier Scott, influenced chief- 
 ly by Lewis, (author of the *' Monk," and a thor- 
 ough German scholar,) had given intimations of 
 the wealth of German thought, and made some 
 translations from Burger, and, later, from Goethe, 
 but lost money by their publication. Thirteen 
 years before the appearance of the Allemagne 
 Coleridge published his translation of Schiller's 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 239 
 
 *♦ Wallenstein," and began to talk German philoso- 
 phy among his friends ; but Englishmen continued 
 to think the language inexorable, if not barbarous, 
 and the originality of the German mind fantastic, 
 and incompatible with British '* common sense." 
 The AUemagne dispelled this prejudice, and, re- 
 vealing the abundant treasures of German ge- 
 nius and learning, opened the way for that influx 
 of German thought which, principally by the sub- 
 sequent labors of Coleridge and Carlyle, has, for 
 good or evil, been flooding the English mind, and 
 transforming English scholarship, criticism, and 
 speculation. 
 
 It was its author's good fortune to write it at a 
 time when the German intellect was at its zenith, 
 culminating in Goethe, and illustrated by a splen- 
 did array of other lights — by Klopstock, Schiller, 
 Wieland, Winkelman, Lessing, Herder, Tieck, 
 Richter, the Schlegels, Werner, Wolf, Jacobi, 
 Kant, Fichte, Schelling,* and almost innumerable 
 others, most of them still living when she last vis- 
 ited Germany. The enduring products of the Ger- 
 man mind have since multiplied vastly in every 
 department, but its splendor at the epoch of the 
 AUemagne has never been surpassed, and prob- 
 
 * Hegel, whose later influence on German thought was so impor- 
 tant, is not mentioned by her, though he began his first lectures at 
 Jena, near Weimar, in i8oi, two years before her arrival in Weimar, 
 and published his work on Schelling in the same year, and his 
 " Phenomenology of the Soul " in 1807. 
 
240 Character-Sketches. 
 
 ably never can be. Yet the book has, by the 
 course of time alone, become deficient, but not ob- 
 solete, and never can be, as a survey of German 
 life and literature. It abounds also in special 
 faults ; its critical estimates are sometimes inade- 
 quate, at others exaggerated. But works of genius, 
 as we have affirmed, are essentially immortal. It 
 is the distinction of genius that it imparts some- 
 what of its own personality to its productions. 
 " Style is the man ; " and style, of both thought 
 and expression — the individuality of the artist — is 
 the everlasting charm of classic works. The touch 
 of genius thus gives enduring life to even obsolete 
 facts. It is like the word of the prophet in the 
 *' valley of visions;" the dry bones rise up at its 
 bidding, embodied and armed. The fragments of 
 the Parthenon sculptures are precious, not because 
 of their mythologic fictions, but because, in their 
 very ruins, they still glow with the genius of 
 Phidias. The Allemagne is imbued with the rich- 
 est genius of its author — with exalted sentiment, 
 with profound thought, with grand moral truth, 
 with the eloquence of style, with the power, the 
 essence, of a great soul. There is scarcely a page 
 of it which does not present something that the 
 world can never willingly let die. As a monument 
 of intellect, especially of a woman's intellect, it is 
 classic and immortal. 
 
 It would betray an unpardonable lack of sensi- 
 
Madam K dk Stael and her Germany. 241 
 
 bility were we to feel no profounder sentiment 
 than mere satisfaction with this signal literary tri- 
 umph. In its peculiar circumstances it is a specta- 
 cle for generous, for enthusiastic admiration. It is 
 a vindication of the supremacy of the human intcl 
 lect, of that sovereignty of mind which, from the 
 prisons of Boethius, Tasso, Cervantes, and Bunyan, 
 from the exile of Ovid, Dante, and Spinoza, and from 
 the humiliation of the old age and poverty of Milton, 
 have sent forth through all the world and all time 
 proofs, if not of the invulnerability, yet of the in- 
 vincibility, of genius, irradiating their names with 
 honor when the sword or the scepter which op- 
 pressed them has sunk into oblivion or ignominy. 
 Throughout her prolonged sufferings the intellect 
 of this persecuted woman has been ever in the as- 
 cendant. Its every new production has been supe- 
 rior to its preceding one. The victory of the pen 
 over the scepter was now, in her case, incontest- 
 able. Corinne was crowned anew, in the land 
 of constitutional liberty, with laurels gathered in 
 " the land of thought." Meanwhile the crown 
 was falling from the brow of her heartless persecu- 
 tor. She had fled over Europe with her proscribed 
 manuscript, before his armed hosts. He knew 
 that she was fleeing in his front, as we have seen 
 by his attempts to embarrass her flight and to seize 
 Rocca. His hosts have been rolled back in disas- 
 trous overthrow from the ruins of the ancient cap- 
 16 
 
242 Character-Sketches. 
 
 ital of the land which then gave her shelter, leaving 
 in their retreat more that 250,000 dead men, vic- 
 tims of the sword or the climate. His unparalleled 
 energies rallied again, and he triumphed at Lutzen, 
 at Bautzen, at Dresden. But in the very month 
 in which the Allemagne issued from the London 
 press was fought the great ** battle of the na- 
 tions," as it has been called. Germany, united, 
 rose with overwhelmiiig resentment, and, on the 
 battle-field of Leipsic, broke forever the domina- 
 tion of the tyrant. The Edinburgh Quarterly ap- 
 peared, with Mackintosh's review of the Alle- 
 magne, amid the acclamations of England over 
 the great victory — the resurrection of the people 
 whose intellectual claims it had vindicated. In 
 less than six months Napoleon abdicated, and the 
 authoress, now the most distinguished woman of 
 Europe, re-entered the French capital. Her Co- 
 rinne had been the apotheosis of Italy ; her Al- 
 lemagne, delayed by her persecutor till the resur- 
 rection of Germany and his own downfall, was now 
 her own apotheosis. 
 
 A battle was fought on the 30th of March, 18 14, 
 under the walls of Paris, and the allies entered the 
 city. Madame de Stael's re-appearance there was 
 another social triumph. Her salon was again 
 opened and thronged. Her friends returned ; Mont- 
 morency and Chateaubriand to take office, and 
 Madame Recamier, from her exile in Italy, to cm- 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 243 
 
 hellish the society of the capital with her undimin- 
 ished beauty. The Government paid to the author- 
 ess the two millions of Necker's claim. She saw her 
 daughter married to the Due de Broglie, and placed 
 in the highest ranks of French society. Her fame 
 filled Europe ; no queen had more. She had been 
 faithful, and had triumphed at last. The " Hun- 
 dred Days " threatened that triumph, but Waterloo 
 secured it. 
 
 The world knows well the remainder of the re- 
 markable story. The persecutor — the greatest 
 captain of his age, if not of any age — died, himself 
 an exile on the rock of St. Helena; his victim — the 
 greatest feminine writer of her age, if not of any age 
 — became the idol of his lost capital, the intellect- 
 ual empress of Europe, and died peacefully in her 
 restored Parisian home — La Fayette, Wellington, 
 royal personages from the Tuileries, the represent- 
 atives of all European Courts, inquiring daily at her 
 door, and the world feeling that by her death, in 
 the language of Chateaubriand, " society was struck 
 with a general disaster ; ** that ** it made one of 
 those breaches which the fall of a superior intellect 
 produces once in an age, and which can never be 
 closed." 
 
 The history of such a woman teaches its own 
 lessons more effectively than could any dissertation, 
 or preachments of her eulogists. She vindicates 
 the highest claims of her sex, for emancipation and 
 
244 Character-Sketches. 
 
 fair play in the life of humanity. In spite of all 
 superficial and supercilious criticism, she takes her 
 place, without pretension, but invincibly, among 
 the elect minds of history, though she was never 
 allowed, in that place, the free action and sway 
 which would have been permitted to a man with 
 half her capability. She harmonized her literary, 
 and other public, activity with rare filial devotion, 
 and the faithful education of her children, for she 
 was a genuine woman as well as a virile intellect ; 
 and, if the impeachments which the gossip and 
 scandal of the day alleged against her, as against 
 nearly every other woman of her class, should 
 ever be confirmed, yet her whole history shows 
 that she possessed a profound morale which never 
 yielded to the corrupt " philosophy " of her times ; 
 which ever craved the happiness of pure relations ; 
 and which, especially after the death of her father, 
 developed, more and more, into high religious aspi- 
 rations ; and she died, at last, sustained by her 
 Christian faith, in peace with God and all the world. 
 In the language of the most brilliant of living 
 lecturers in the University of France : ^ " This 
 woman, contemporaneous with what was most sol- 
 emn and most tragic, most heroic and most terrible, 
 in French national history, presents herself, before 
 our minds, at Coppet, in her splendors and her sor- 
 rows. With a passionate imagination, the inspira- 
 
 * Prof. Caro, La Fin du Dix-Huitieme Siecle. Paris, 1880. 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 245 
 
 tion and highest movement of genius, energetic 
 eloquence, and enthusiastic will, Madame de Stael 
 had some of those qualities, some also of those 
 brilliant faults, which assure, in this world, the 
 triumphs of dite minds. Her powerful faculties 
 would have placed a man in the first ranks: a 
 woman, she had to use in ungrateful struggles and 
 in secondary roles^ those qualities which designate 
 her to great roles in the State. Born for action, she 
 had to consume her forces in resistance. The crit- 
 icism of the salon, political opposition in conver- 
 sation, by allusions, and by epigrams — what a medi- 
 ocre and sterile role ! If she had been a man, 
 though her principles, her instincts, or her ambition, 
 might have separated her from the Government, 
 yet she could, at least, have warred, face to face, in 
 full day, by public discourse or by acts ; she could 
 have acted directly on her country ; she could have 
 organized resistance and disciplined it according to 
 the law of her idea or her passion. There would 
 have been, in such a combat, vivid joys, compensa- 
 tions of popularity, great satisfaction of self-esteem; 
 and, if events should become propitious, what no- 
 bler pleasure than the exercise of power, the real- 
 ization of her ideas, the impression of her thoughts 
 on the history of her times ! But a woman, en- 
 slaved in the circle that opinion and natyre traced 
 around her, she could not fashion events and reveal 
 herself in public acts. Her compressed powers 
 
246 Character-Sketches. 
 
 changed their route; discovering no issue in action, 
 they sought it elsewhere ; they burst forth in her 
 works. Her faculties, applied to thought, redoubled 
 its energy and movement. Her Corinne, Allemagne, 
 and French Revolution consecrated her name, be- 
 fore Europe, in Romance, in Esthetics, in the Criti- 
 cism of comparative Literature, and in the analysis 
 and theory of Politics." 
 
 This will be called enthusiasm, French enthusi- 
 asm ; but it is legitimate enthusiasm ; and it should 
 be consoling to all men and women of letters, to 
 know that, through the more than half-century 
 during which this remarkable woman has been be- 
 littled and bespattered by a certain class of writ- 
 ers, she has been thus enthusiastically upheld by 
 men in the highest literary positions of her coun- 
 try — such as Villemain, Chateaubriand, Sainte- 
 Beuve, Lamartine, Guizot, Scherer, Laboulaye, 
 and Caro ; men who, while admitting her faults, 
 have delighted to eulogize her powers as seldom 
 or never equaled among women. To contemplate 
 such a character without somewhat of the enthu- 
 siasm which so much inspired her writing and 
 her life, and of which she so eloquently treats 
 in the last two chapters of her Allemagne, as 
 essential to all true art and all high character, 
 would be incompatible with the subject. It would 
 be a violation of the just principles of criticism, of 
 the canons of true taste, as applicable to such a case. 
 
Madame de Stael and her Germany. 247 
 
 Carlyle, in his notable paper on Burns, declines to 
 accept the doctrine that ** criticism should be a cold 
 business;" where it has to do with a heart as well 
 as with a head, as in this case, it should be from 
 the heart as well as from the head. Its ** coldness '* 
 here would be an impertinence, not to say a prof-- 
 anation. 
 
248 Character-Sketches. 
 
 VI. 
 
 VOLTAIRE— LITERARY POWER. 
 
 MORLEY'S book on Voltaire is a brilliant 
 essay notwithstanding his formidable style 
 and any objections we may have to his moral stand- 
 point. But it is no biography ; it is an abstract ; a 
 philosophical generalization of a life and an epoch. 
 Its last chapter, on '* Voltaire at Ferney," is its 
 most interesting one — the only one, in fact, which 
 is thoroughly intelligible to '' common readers," 
 who may not be familliar with the literature and 
 histpry of the eighteenth century. Even this chap- 
 ter fails of the most illustrative data of the period. 
 We can hardly suppose that the author was not 
 aware of Gaberel's Voltaire et les G^nevoiSy but he 
 has not availed himself of its original and singularly 
 interesting materials. Gaberel is an ancien pasteur 
 of Geneva, and has probably known old men who 
 knew Voltaire. He has, at least, known old Swiss 
 families which preserved collections of the corre- 
 spondence of the "■ patriarch " with their ancestors, 
 and records of his conversations and local doings. 
 To these, his influential function, as /<3:^/^/^r, gave 
 him ready access — papers of Dr. Condet, Mouchon, 
 Vernes, Professor De Roches, the naturalists Bon- 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 249 
 
 net and Candolle, of Picot, and Voltaire's celebrated 
 medical friend Tronchin — names still familiar in 
 Geneva. The good ancien pasteur searched thor- 
 oughly these sources, and, making out a striking 
 and somewhat amusing history of Voltaire's rela- 
 tions to the Genevese during a quarter of a century, 
 treated his fellow-citizens to a course of public 
 lectures on the subject, which were given to the 
 public in one of the most entertaining little vol- 
 umes of the whole Voltairean literature. The book 
 is scarcely tinged with the professional feeling 
 that we might expect from the writer ; it is per- 
 vii/ded by candor and a quiet good humor. Taken 
 with the author's similar work on Rousseau et les 
 Genevois, with the Correspondance of Grimm and 
 Diderot, and especially with the correspondance 
 generate of Voltaire, it gives us a thorough insight 
 into one of the most remarkable intellectual lives on 
 record. 
 
 We select the Swiss period of Voltaire's long ca- 
 reer, as affording not only some of the most charac- 
 teristic facts of his history, but also the most strik- 
 ing illustrations of his humor, and of the power of 
 his pen— its power especially in memorable, benefi- 
 cent achievements. But we can take, even within 
 this limitation, but cursory glimpses of this mar- 
 velous literary life, extending through a quarter of a 
 century. Whether for good or for evil, or for both, 
 Voltaire was, as Morley says, " a stupendous power.*' 
 
2 50 Character-Sketches. 
 
 His "life and character constitute in themselves 
 a new and most prodigious era." " His pen was 
 more potent than any king's scepter," says Carlyle. 
 This author treats justly his faults, both literary and 
 moral, but acknowledges him a '* European power," 
 the most forcible with the pen since Luther. He 
 was one of the most indefatigable workers known 
 to literary history, giving, at Ferney, fourteen hours 
 a day to labor, though much of the time sick in his 
 bed. There has never been a center of equal liter- 
 ary power in Europe, not excepting Weimar, under 
 Goethe's intellectual reign. He wrote there many 
 of those works which fill ninety-seven volumes in 
 Baudouin's first edition. His most telling corre- 
 spondence emanated thence — most of those seven 
 thousand pubhshed letters, which, his editor says, 
 are but half the number written, every sentence of 
 which, as Morley remarks, is characteristic, alive with 
 the mental vitality of the man. Thence, too, as 
 the greatest wit of his age, he flashed over Europe 
 his epigrams and sarcasms. There he fought out, 
 as probably no other man then living could have 
 fought, his great battles for toleration, in the mem- 
 orable cases of the Calas family, of Sirven, and of 
 La Barre — victorious contests, in which his ** ortho- 
 dox " neighbors, the ** venerable company of pastors 
 of Geneva " — good though grim men — were proud 
 to array themselves under his banner — that banner 
 which, Morley says, " was ever in the front and cen- 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 251 
 
 ter of the fight ; that was many a time rent, but was 
 never out of the field." Strange, scoffing, unscru- 
 pulous, yet humane old man, let him have his due ! 
 He was called by the devout Calvinists of Geneva 
 the vieux diablc de Fcrncy — ** the old devil of Fer- 
 ney;** but a generous proverb teaches us to '*give 
 the devil his due." 
 
 The most marvelous thing about Voltaire's rela- 
 tions with the Swiss is, that he ever pitched his 
 tent among them at all. He may not have felt 
 safe elsewhere, for he had memories of the Bastile. 
 The court at Versailles was hostile ; the Sorbonne 
 was inexorable. Satan himself, abroad with un- 
 mistakable hoof, horn, and tail, could hardly have 
 been more alarming to the Catholic doctors ; still 
 
 the irrepressible satirist had as yet the freedom 
 
 « 
 
 of most of Europe, He had lived and written 
 for years at Cirey with Madame du Ch^telet ; he 
 was a favorite at the little court of Lun^ville ; the 
 Elector Palatine, Charles Theodore, wished to im- 
 press him into the court of Mannheim ; and several 
 of the German princes were ambitious to possess 
 him. The Low Countries were as good a refuge 
 for literary freethinkers as Switzerland was for the 
 theologians. Spinoza had died in peace in the 
 former ; Servetus had died at the stake in the lat- 
 ter. The public executioner still burned proscribed 
 books before the Hotel de Ville of Geneva, and was 
 yet to burn there the works of Rousseau and of 
 
252 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Voltaire himself. Yet the gay old man turned away 
 from all the rest of Europe for the Swiss boundary. 
 Whatever was his chief motive for going thither, 
 we can hardly avoid suspecting that there was 
 mixed with it a spice of the humorous mischiev- 
 ousness which characterized him. He would not 
 only seek an asylum with the grave and metaphys- 
 ical Swiss, but also try his hand with them, as he 
 had tried it with the Jesuits and Jansenists in Paris. 
 At all events, wherever he found the men, he could 
 not help attempting the sport. It was in his na- 
 ture to do so. 
 
 Carlyle has told, fully enough, the story of his 
 rupture with Frederick the Great, his escape from 
 the court of Berlin, where his humor was more 
 
 supreme than Frederick's royalty ; and of the di- 
 
 * 
 
 atribe of " the doctor Akakia," which, in over- 
 whelming poor Maupertuis, the head of Frederick's 
 Academy, raised to its climax the ire of the mon- 
 arch. ColHni, the secretary of Voltaire, has told 
 naively the story of the journey to the Swiss front- 
 ier: the fantastic scenes at Frankfiirt with Fred- 
 erick's representative, in which the fury of the phi- 
 losopher became superlatively comical : and the 
 slow passage onward in his own carriage, " which 
 was large, commodious, well suspended, garnished 
 every-where with pockets and magazines," abun. 
 dance of baggage behind and in front, several port- 
 folios within full of manuscripts, a strong box for 
 
VoT.TAi RE— Literary Power. 253 
 
 his gold, letters of exchange, and other precious 
 effects ; two domestics on the banc ; the philoso- 
 pher, his niece, Madame Denis, and the secretary 
 in the interior— the whole wheeling along the high- 
 way in a sort of state, drawn by four, sometimes by 
 six, horses ; the philosopher speeding the hours 
 with inexhaustible humor, and writhing and jest- 
 ing at the pinches of his sciatica. On his way he is 
 greeted by the famous book-publisher of Geneva, 
 Gabriel Cramer, who comes to propose an edition 
 of his entire works — a noble-looking personage, who 
 makes a good first impression on the philosopher. 
 "You are a printer?" exclaimed Voltaire; "I 
 should have taken you for a field-marshal.** He 
 ever aftersvard, says Pastor Gaberel, cherished a 
 lively affection for the ** distinguished-looking book- 
 seller." Voltaire was a warm friend of booksellers. 
 He esteemed their craft next to that of book-mak- 
 ing. Except the " Henriade," which had been 
 published in London by subscription, he gave away 
 to his publishers his almost innumerable produc- 
 tions. Many a fortune has been made through his 
 liberality to them. 
 
 Arriving at Geneva, he negotiated for a beautiful 
 property, as a summer " hermitage," not far from 
 the confluence of the Arve and the Rhone, afterward 
 known as the D^lice : for his winter home he chose 
 Monrion, near Lausanne ; and, meanwhile, secured 
 a " magnificent house " in Lausanne, and two es- 
 
254 Character-Sketches. 
 
 tates in the immediate neighborhood of the Gene- 
 van frontier, one at Tournay, the other at Ferney 
 — the famous chateau which is still a Mecca to 
 literary pilgrims. " Here I see from my bed this 
 glorious lake," he writes from Monrion to d'Alem- 
 bert, " which bathes a hundred gardens, at the foot 
 of my terrace ; which forms a calm sea in front of 
 my windows, on right and left, a stream of a dozen 
 leagues, and which waters the fields of Savoy, 
 crowned with the Alps in the distance." " I have 
 a droll littFe kingdom of my own in a Swiss val- 
 ley," he again writes. '^ I am as the Old Man of the 
 Mountain ; with my four estates [the Delice being 
 not yet secured] I am on my four paws. Mon- 
 rion is my little cabin, my winter palace, sheltered 
 from the cruel north wind. I wish you were with 
 me in this delicious abode. There is no more 
 beautiful prospect in the world ; the Point of the 
 Seraglio at Constantinople is not finer." Though 
 he was always complaining that he had '' no stom- 
 ach," he now exults over his good fare. *' Allez ! " 
 he exclaims, "we need no sympathy; we have the 
 good wine of La Cote, the excellent wine of La- 
 vaux ; we eat fat young pullets, grouse, and trout 
 of twenty pounds weight." 
 
 Forthwith he began his experiment of reforming 
 the Swiss. He would Parisianize them. He archly 
 hints at his design of '' perverting" the " pedantic " 
 community " who preserve the good memory of 
 
Voltaire — Literary Powkr. 255 
 
 their reformers, submit to the tyrannical laws of 
 Calvin, and believe in their preachers. He made 
 hearty acquaintance with the dite citizens of Lau- 
 sanne, and with the Bernese gentry, who were then 
 masters of the Canton de Vaud. He kept open 
 doors and a luxurious table. His facile French 
 manners were irresistible even to the solid magis- 
 trates. His mansion became the resort of the grave 
 and the gay ; and, though now above sixty years 
 old, he .was the gayest of the gay. His uncontrol- 
 lable humor kept up a vivid sensation from Lau- 
 sanne to Berne on the one hand, and to Geneva 
 on the other — such a sensation as bewildered and 
 bewitched the hitherto sober, cultivated Swiss cir- 
 cles. As the best means of their emancipation, he 
 attempted theatrical entertainments, and extem- 
 porized a theater in his own house. He was sur- 
 rounded, says Gaberel, with a numerous circle of 
 men of talents and women of intelligence, and soon 
 had them playing his most recent dramatic crea- 
 tions, to the astonishment of themselves and the 
 whole canton. Adelaide de Guescliyt, L Enfant 
 prodigue, and Zaire were triumphant. He called 
 these dramas ** my Birds of Lake Leman." The 
 theater had hitherto been a foreign profanity, in- 
 admissible in the Protestant cantons. It had the 
 charm of novelty, and the Vaudois nobles, women 
 as well as men, gave themselves enthusiastically to 
 the study of their roles, as assigned by Voltaire. 
 
256 Character-Sketches. 
 
 He was astonished at their aptness in the histrionic 
 art. " Your Parisian actors," he wrote, " are ice 
 compared with these. All the company play with 
 ardor. We have a beautiful theater, an assembly 
 which melts into tears. Visitors run to us from 
 thirty leagues around ; and this beautiful country 
 has become the asylum of the arts, of the pleasures, 
 and of taste. The actors form themselves ; they 
 are fruits which the Alps and Jura never before 
 bore. Caesar never foresaw, when he came to rav- 
 age this little corner of the world, that there 
 would be one day here more esprit than at 
 Rome." 
 
 For a time he seemed to carry every thing be- 
 fore him. It appeared quite possible for him to 
 "Parisianize" Lausanne; but, while his humor gen- 
 erally charmed, his sarcasms hurt, and he could fore- 
 go no opportunity of satirizing his best friends. He 
 was on the best terms with the Bernese rulers ; but 
 most of these honest functionaries had no great 
 claims to culture, and their officious friendship af- 
 forded him irresistible opportunities of ridicule. 
 " Eh, why the deuce. Monsieur Voltaire," said one 
 of them to him, "are you all the time making so 
 many verses? For what good, I pray you? All 
 this leads to nothing. With your talent, you could 
 soon become something in this country. Behold 
 me ; I am a bailiff! " Voltaire kept his table, with 
 sometimes fifty convives at it, roaring with this and 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 257 
 
 similar stories ; for, however poor the story, he 
 could give it overwhelming effect by his fantastic 
 humor. The grave men of Lausanne soon became 
 shy of him, and the gay ones began to look askance 
 at him and at one another; for who could tell who 
 might be next flayed alive by the unconquerable 
 satirist? Haller — 'Me grand Haller" — the com- 
 manding Swiss intellect of the day, seemed alone 
 to hold him in check. Voltaire respected the ge- 
 nius of this eminent savant, and coveted his favor- 
 able opinion. Haller heard Zaire, and gave to an 
 enthusiastic fellow-auditor no flattering criticism 
 upon it. *' Eh, Monsieur de Voltaire," said the 
 hearer, *' you praise strongly Haller, who speaks of 
 you in a very different tone." '' You have reason 
 to be surprised, my friend," replied the ever-ready 
 humorist ; '* but it is quite possible, you know, that 
 we may both be mistaken." 
 
 Voltaire's experiment at Lausanne was evidently 
 failing ; his wit was too reckless, his irreverence for 
 religion too free. He quarreled with the city 
 savants and disputed with the clergy ; he saw, at 
 last, that it was time to decamp. Shooting some 
 Parthian arrows, he escaped to Geneva, where the 
 Ddice had been preparing for him ; and not far off, 
 almost shaded by the Jura, Ferney offered him 
 shelter, just within the French boundary. To re- 
 move to Geneva was "j^"^P^rig out of the frying- 
 pan into the fire," yet he set himself down before 
 17 
 
258 Character-Sketches. 
 
 the venerable city of Calvin with a hilarious ex- 
 pectation of what might follow. The little com- 
 monwealth was still an independent republic, and 
 remained such till 1814. It would seem to have 
 been the last place on the planet for the foremost 
 humorist and skeptic of the age. But the incom- 
 patibility between the man and the place may have 
 been one of its attractions to him. It piqued his 
 self-confident humor. Geneva retained yet its old 
 *' orthodoxy." It had no theater — had never had 
 one, except as an occasional indulgence to foreign 
 embassadors and their retinues, and then only 
 in their residences. It possessed many wealthy 
 and highly cultivated families ; but, though the 
 French language was its vernacular, the French 
 manners, and especially the French skepticism of 
 the eighteenth century, had hardly penetrated the 
 city. The successive issues of the '' Encyclopedia" 
 were received there with extraordinary interest, and 
 even caused a sort of intellectual ^nieute, as they 
 did, indeed, generally in Europe, by the prodigious 
 scheme, ability, and bold speculations of that nota- 
 ble work ; but the Genevese discriminated between 
 its science and its skepticism, and remained firm in 
 their religious traditions. D'Alembert's famous 
 article on " Geneva," in which he pronounced the 
 preachers of the city Socinians, was clamorously 
 resented. It called forth formal protests of their 
 orthodoxy, and strengthened the loyalty of the 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 259 
 
 people to their old faith and Church. At Voltaire's 
 arrival the " venerable company of pastors " had 
 still powerful sway, and the more than Spartan 
 regime o{ Calvin had been but slightly modified. 
 All citizens, high and low, were required, by that 
 rdgime, to be out of bed at four o'clock in the 
 morning in summer, and at six in winter. *'The 
 lodging, the nourishment, the clothing, the diver- 
 sions, the expenses of the people were determined 
 by inflexible regulations," says Pastor Gaberel. 
 The '* Consistoire " was an ecclesiastical tribunal 
 which watched, with Argus eyes, the manners as 
 well as the morals of the citizens; making no dis- 
 tinction between the social classes, censuring or 
 punishing with equal severity the highest magis- 
 trate and the humblest citizen, the millionaire and 
 the peasant, the military chief and the simple sol- 
 dier. The citizens had furniture only of ordinary 
 wood. The law required that they " should have 
 on their tables, on ordinary days, only two dishes, 
 one of animal, the other of vegetable food, without 
 pastry." The savants of the commonwealth (and 
 they were comparatively numerous) were as " or- 
 thodox " as the ** venerable company of pastors." 
 Voltaire could expect no sympathy from them. 
 Abauzit ranked foremost among them ; Voltaire 
 and Rousseau both revered him. ** I have been 
 a long time traveling in order to see a superior 
 man," said an eminent visitor to Ferney. " You 
 
26o Character-Sketches. 
 
 have been, then, to Geneva to see Abauzit," re- 
 joined Voltaire. Rousseau said the age had pro- 
 duced but one philosopher, " the wise and virtuous 
 Abauzit." But Abauzit was profoundly Christian. 
 Equally so were the great physicians, geologists, 
 botanists, etc., who then rendered the city famous 
 throughout Europe — Deluc, de Saussure, Bonnet, 
 Trembly, Odier, Tingry, Vieusseux, and Tronchin. 
 Bonnet published a "Defense of Christianity," which 
 is remarkable for its ability. It is improbable that 
 there ever has been another European city the elite 
 minds of which were so uniformly and profoundly 
 religious. D'Alembert acknowledged, in the Ency- 
 clopedia, that all the savants at Geneva are distin- 
 guished from their cofifr^res of France and Germany 
 by a complete adhesion to the evangelical dogmas." 
 Voltaire was amazed at the fact, but confronted it 
 with defiant humor. He found a small yet ram- 
 pant party of the citizens who were restless under 
 the prevailing puritanical regime — men and women 
 who had been to Paris and had brought home *' lib- 
 eral " ideas. These he hoped to enlist as his first 
 recruits, and, with them, overthrow and confound 
 the solid savants and stolid pastors. 
 
 He repeated the tactics he had attempted at Lau- 
 sanne, particularly the histrionic entertainments. 
 An extemporized theater was ready at the Delice 
 even before the mansion itself was completed. Many 
 rich families accepted his invitations with eagerness, 
 
Voltaire — Literary Power. 261 
 
 and " the poet," says Pastor Gaberel, " had nothing 
 more pressing on his hands than to get up some 
 comedies, by which he expected to subdue the 
 Genevan society." The young barbers and perru- 
 quiers of the city had already been preparing the 
 way for him, by acting in private Mahomet, Cinna, 
 Le Mort de Cdsar, etc. The " Consistorie " had 
 censured them, and exhorted them to " observe 
 better the orders of their superiors, and attend to 
 their business, without stopping for play or any 
 other excess." But these remonstrances had little 
 effect. The higher classes, men of wealth and 
 women of esprit, resorted to D^lice, and turned 
 actors and actresses for the nonce. The city coun- 
 cil and the pastors became alarmed, and warned 
 the intractable philosopher. He retreated a few 
 miles, and constructed another theater on his es- 
 tate at Tournay, on the Genevese frontier, where 
 he had fuller liberty, and where he presented on 
 the boards some artists from the Com^die Fran- 
 gaise, of Paris, whom his friend Lekain had brought 
 to the D^lice as guests. Lekain was the chief 
 actor, the Talma, of the times, and entered heart- 
 ily into the philosopher's design of subduing the 
 " pedantic city." The city councilors met, passed 
 admonitory resolutions, and invited " messieurs the 
 pastors to visit the persons to whom Monsieur 
 Voltaire had distributed rdles, and engage them to 
 abstain." The warning applied particularly to the 
 
262 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Delice ; but when the crafty innovator betook him- 
 self and his tempting gayeties to Tournay, the 
 council, at the instance of the alarmed pastors, re- 
 peated and enlarged its prohibition, expressly for- 
 bidding all subjects of the State to assist in the 
 representation of pieces, whether within its terri- 
 tory or its environs." 
 
 Voltaire resented these proceedings as a chal- 
 lenge. He resolved to return to the Delice, and re- 
 open there the contest in sight of the city. '' We 
 will play our comedies at the Delice," he wrote to 
 Paris ; ** we will play them in spite of these Gene- 
 van perruquesT He was determined now to make 
 a demonstration, and he sent again to Paris for 
 Lekain. ** I expect Lekain," he wrote to D'Argen- 
 tal ; '* he will declaim verses to the children of 
 Calvin. Their manners are much softened ; they 
 would no more burn Servetus." His humor be- 
 came audacious, for there was a fascination to him 
 in this encounter with the dignities and gravities 
 of the little commonwealth. Travelers of our day 
 know well " Calvin's chair " in the old cathedral, 
 the scene of his pulpit labors. On Sundays it is 
 still in the pulpit for the preacher; but on other 
 days it stands below for the reverent eyes of the 
 visitors, few of whom fail to gratify their self-com- 
 placence by sitting in it. Voltaire writes : " Apro- 
 pos of Calvin, I intend to play a joke which will 
 startle the Geiievese. I shall procure an old arm- 
 
Voi/IAIkl-: — LilKKAkN I'OWKK. 20J 
 
 chair which was used by their reformer; I will u?e 
 it on the boards in the conversation between Au- 
 gustus and Cinna. What a hubbub this will make 
 when the preachers hear of it ! " Some days later 
 he wrote : ''Eh bieUj I have triumphed ! I have 
 made all the council of Geneva weep. Lekain has 
 been sublime, and I corrupt the youth of this 
 pedantic city." He alludes to the charge of the 
 pastors and councilors against theaters — that they 
 corrupt the popular morals. He dictated to 
 D'Alembert, who was now with him, a part of the 
 article of the Encyclopedia on Geneva, which con- 
 tends that ** by right legal regulations the city 
 could have dramatic spectacles, and yet preserve 
 its morals. Theatrical representations would form 
 the taste of the citizens, would give them a finesse 
 of tact, a delicacy of sentiment, which it is difficult 
 to acquire without this aid." Rousseau heard, at 
 the distance of Paris, of the struggle going on be- 
 tween his native city and his great rival, and, 
 though himself a writer for the theater, he entered 
 the lists against it. He boasted on all his title- 
 pages that he was a " citizen of Geneva," for he 
 was proud of the republic. He sent forth his 
 famous treatise (of 2CX) pages) against the introduc- 
 tion of the drama among his Spartan fellow-citizens, 
 predicting that it would despoil them of their 
 democratic virtues. It is the most powerful argu- 
 ment ever written against the theater. It was not 
 
264 Character-Sketches. 
 
 difficult to convince the pastors and the savants 
 of the city; for though they knew that the Athenian 
 tragedies — the immortal remains of ^schylus, 
 Sophocles, and Euripides — are the most religious 
 documents which remain to us from the Greek 
 literature, they knew also that Aristophanes was 
 their more popular companion. Rousseau's essay 
 enraged Voltaire, but did not discourage him. 
 " The Consistoire," " says Pastor Gaberel, '' joined 
 itself to Rousseau, and promoted his remonstrance." 
 But Voltaire, always gleeful in fight, announced 
 with great noise the opening of a theater at the 
 Chatelaine, not far from the D^lice. The '' com- 
 pany of pastors " rose as one man against the 
 audacity of the philosopher, and ordered a general 
 pastoral visitation of all the parishes, in order to 
 " obtain pledges of abstinence from the citizens.'* 
 They obtained them so numerously that it was 
 believed the actors would have to play to empty 
 'benches. Voltaire brought Lekain again into the 
 field, and made diligent preparations for a triumph. 
 A good citizen, M. Mouchon, who could not resist 
 the temptation, wrote a letter to his brother, a 
 pasteur at Basle, describing Voltaire's victory. 
 **The day for the opening was fixed," he says; 
 " the true patriots, friends of religion and the 
 country, had promised not to place a foot within 
 the building ; they had given the actors over to 
 abandonment and mortification ; they stood stiffly 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 265 
 
 erect, and resolved to fight down the temptation : 
 but, alas! the day arrived, and toward evening all 
 the world was on the way to the Chatelaine. It 
 was as a procession. They went in a furor." They 
 could not resist Lekain. Three times a week he 
 played three pieces of Voltaire's, and fairly dazzled 
 the little community. Carriages were hired at 
 unheard-of prices. The city could not furnish 
 enough for the demand. Old hacks were brought 
 in from the neighboring towns of Chene and Ca- 
 rouge. *'As for myself," confesses the writer, '* I 
 was carried away with the general folly; I could 
 not resist it." The enthusiasm rose so rapidly 
 that at last he had to be in his seat by eleven 
 o'clock in the morning, and at that early hour he 
 found by his side an old magistrate as infatuated 
 as himself. " I saw things sublime," he says, '* in 
 the acting of Lekain ; but not the least part of the 
 spectacle was Voltaire himself, seated against the 
 ^rst coulissCy in view of all the spectators, applauding 
 as one possessed, striking the floor with his cane, 
 and shouting aloud his plaudits, or helping the 
 tragic effect with his handkerchief at his eyes." At 
 the end of one of the scenes the exultant poet ran 
 after Lekain on the stage, seized his hand, and 
 embraced him before the excited people. He re- 
 sembled an old man " de co7nMe,'* for he was 
 " clothed in the costume of the good old times, 
 and could sustain his trembling limbs only by the 
 
266 Character-Sketches. 
 
 aid of his cane ; his face wore all the traces of de- 
 cay; his cheeks were hollow and wrinkled, his nose 
 long, his eyes sunken, but full of fire." The scene, 
 as more fully described by Mouchon, was thorough- 
 ly Voltairian. The triumph of the old humorist 
 was complete. The Chatelaine theater was kept 
 open till 1766, when the performances were trans- 
 ferred within the walls of the city. " The theater," 
 wrote Voltaire, " is within the city. In vain has 
 Jean Jacques played the part of a fool in this 
 affair." Some two years later, however, the builds 
 ing was burned down. Many of the good people 
 arriving at the place with their buckets full of water 
 emptied them into the street, exclaiming '■'Eh bien! 
 it is only the theater. Let those who will extin- 
 guish the fire." Voltaire, indignant, cried out, 
 "Ah, this Geneva I when one believes he holds it, 
 all escapes him. Perruques and little wigs, it is all 
 one ! " He could not be defeated, however. He 
 re-opened the Chatelaine, and at last re-entered the 
 city, where the theater has ever since remained, 
 and is to-day one of the most conspicuous public 
 edifices. 
 
 He now sought new occasions for his humorous 
 warfare against " the devots fantastiques and clergy 
 at Geneva." He delighted to provoke and humble 
 the Consistoire, the tribunal by which the pastors 
 maintained their rigorous censorship. If he could 
 break its power, he would "modernize," "civilize," 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 267 
 
 as he thought, the whole commonwealth. One 
 Robert Covelle, a citizen of somewhat " violent 
 :haracter," was cited before this assembly, to be 
 /eproved for some bad example. Its president or- 
 dered him to kneel down and penitently receive the 
 reprimand. For two hundred years this humble 
 attitude had been customary before the venerable 
 ecclesiastical body. The most eminent sinners had 
 reverently conformed to it, happy to escape severer 
 humiliation ; but Covelle stoutly refused, and asked 
 two weeks for reflection on the demand. Mean- 
 while Voltaire wrote for him a m^moire of " re- 
 markable ability" against it. Covelle re-appearing 
 before the hitherto inexorable tribunal, obstinately 
 continued to decline its demand, and threatened 
 to publish " this essay against genuflection." '' Be- 
 hold how great a matter a little fire kindleth ! " 
 Covell's tmhnoire was published, and he soon had 
 the whole community by the ears. He became a 
 sort of religious hero protesting against a judicial 
 profanation. The affair took the proportions of a 
 public question. The '* fierce democracie " of Ge- 
 neva were ever ready for any such question. They 
 argued that, however long this humiliating formal- 
 ity had been inscribed in the municipal ordinances, 
 the times had changed, and the city should change 
 the "painful custom;" that it was a fag-end of 
 popery; that repentance is an affair between the 
 conscience and the divine Judge; thatmAsu^ 
 
 jfly-^^ THE «^ 
 
268 Character-Sketches, 
 
 kneel only before God, and Christ has taught that 
 this duty should be performed in profound secrecy, 
 without witnesses ; that no priest or other man 
 should intervene between the creature who repents 
 and the Creator who pardons. For some time the 
 astonished Consistoire, seldom or never before chal- 
 lenged since the day of Calvin, would not yield. 
 The question was not only discussed with ever-in- 
 creasing heat in thp streets, the wine-shops and the 
 homes of the people, but the press teemed with 
 pamphlets about it. These collected publications 
 make three great volumes, which, says the good 
 ancien pasteiir, Gaberel, "are.most indigestible read- 
 ing." Voltaire was in his glory amid this '' con- 
 fusion worse confounded " of popular and cleri- 
 cal dialectics. His ironical humor had never found 
 a better field. He published his famous poem, the 
 Guerre de Geneve, (War of Geneva.) He struck 
 with his satiric scourge right and left, front and 
 rear, against the traditional notions and customs 
 of the city. He rained pleasantries on the clergy, 
 some of which Pastor Gaberel admits ** are very 
 spirituelley He dealt freely and even grossly in 
 calumnies; he sacrificed Rousseau, and Paris re- 
 echoed back to Geneva his Olympian laughter. 
 The whole affair, so religiously grave at first, had 
 taken an aspect of ridicule, and suddenly subsided 
 after Voltaire's poem. The city council abolished 
 the custom of kneeling before the venerable Con- 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 269 
 
 sistoirc, the obstinate Covelle escaped his repri- 
 mand, and Voltaire was exultant. Covelle even 
 demanded to be admitted again to the eucharist, 
 then one of the highest conditions of citizenship in 
 Geneva. The Consistoire required him to show his 
 fitness for it by denying twelve letters, written and 
 published in his name by Voltaire, and by renounc- 
 ing a pension of 300 francs a year settled on him 
 by the philosopher. Covelle refused all their req- 
 uisitions. They gave up the useless struggle ; 
 " and," says Gaberel, naively, " the Consistoire de- 
 cided not to occupy itself any more with this in- 
 dividual, which was certainly the wisest course it 
 could take." This fracas about a matter of ancient 
 ceremony was really the beginning of that declen- 
 sion of the power and censorship of the Consistoire 
 which is to-day complete. No clergy is more re- 
 spected, no laity more free, than those of Geneva, 
 and we doubt whether either regrets the victory of 
 the unexemplary Covelle and the Democritan 
 "patriarch." 
 
 But we delay too long with Voltaire at the 
 Delice ; let us follow him to Ferney. It is less 
 than five miles from Geneva, at the foot of the 
 Jura, with the Alps towering in the background. 
 He could still overlook his favorite field of battle. 
 " When I shake my wig," he said, " its powder 
 dusts the whole republic." A beautiful refuge had 
 the old man prepared here for his declining years-; 
 
270 Character-Sketches. 
 
 and, in a letter to Madame Du Defifand, he declares 
 that he is at last thoroughly happy. The mansion 
 is invisible from the highway ; a long avenue shaded 
 by superb trees leads to it, passing, within a rod 
 from its front, the stone chapel built by the philos- 
 opher for the villagers, which still bears the notable 
 inscription, " Deo Erexit Voltaire," erected to God 
 by Voltaire. The theater, which stood on the op- 
 posite side of the avenue, has disappeared. The 
 mansion itself is simple, but not inelegant ; it looks 
 down cheerfully on its front flower garden, inclosed 
 by a lofty grille fence. Behind it extend terraced 
 walks, with arbors, a fountain, and umbrageous 
 colonnades of trees planted by the " patriarch," 
 under the shelter of which he composed many of 
 his works. It commands the best view of Mont 
 Blanc anywhere seen in Switzerland. All within the 
 chateau wears an aspect of snug comfort and simple 
 elegance. Certain rooms are kept as he left them ; 
 there is his sleeping-room, with its bed and prim 
 embroidered chairs intact : his little adjacent sit- 
 ting-room, with his marble cenotaph, designed by 
 the Marchioness de Villette to enshrine his heart. 
 The walls are covered with paintings — oil portraits 
 of his royal correspondents, Frederick the Great, 
 Catherine of Russia, Madame Du Chatelet, the 
 actor Lekain ; and numerous engravings of Wash- 
 ington, Franklin, Newton, d'Alembert, Helvetius, 
 Diderot, and other notabilities of his times. 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 271 
 
 Voltaire really founded Ferney ; when he went 
 there it consisted of a few huts; he left it finally 
 with more than 1,200 inhabitants and a flourishing 
 business. He was lavish with his money in aiding 
 the villagers, and they were gratefully attached tt 
 him. He was rich ; for, like most first-rate men of 
 intellect — Shakspeare, Goethe, Walter Scott, and 
 others — he never believed that pecuniary reckless- 
 ness or incapacity is an essential attribute of genius. 
 Though he gave away his copyrights, he managed 
 skillfully his early resources, and died with an an- 
 nual income of nearly two hundred thousand livres. 
 This was enormous wealth for a man whose whole 
 work was literary, and money in his time was worth 
 more than twice its present value. He was an adroit 
 dealer in the public stocks. Bungener says that at 
 one time he had two or three millions of capital in 
 " a prodigious chaos of small papers — letters of ex- 
 change, contracts, bills of every form and every 
 value " — in his portfolio. He loved to wander in 
 this forest of scraps and figures. There was not, 
 however, a particle of avarice in his nature. He 
 sought wealth that he might be independent of 
 patrons and of the public, and might speak out 
 his opinions more bravely in the face of kings and 
 people. " I was so mortified with the humiliations 
 that dishonor letters," he says, " that, to relieve 
 my disgust, I resolved to make what scamps call a 
 great fortune." Having got it, he took skillful care 
 
272 Character-Sketches. 
 
 of it, but gave liberally on all proper occasions. 
 He lived sumptuously, spending profusely on his 
 lands, driving into Geneva in his stately coach 
 drawn by six horses, keeping open doors and a 
 bountiful table. His house was often crowded with 
 guests — fifty at once — representatives of the liter- 
 ature, the beauty, the nobility, of the times. For 
 nearly a quarter of a century he was the aubergiste^ 
 as he said — the innkeeper in general — for Europe. 
 Ferney was one of the most powerful courts on 
 the continent ; and Grimm tells us that its domestic 
 affairs interested, more or less, every court of Eu- 
 rope. During the twenty years that Voltaire occu- 
 pied it he kept most of the continent, from St. 
 Petersburg to Berlin, from Berlin to Paris, from 
 Paris to Rome, in excited expectation, and the 
 ruling, and especially the ecclesiastical classes, in 
 anxious apprehension of what next should come 
 from his never-resting pen. Priests and kings 
 dreaded his sarcasms. When nearly two genera- 
 tions of authors, who had been his contemporaries, 
 had passed away, he was still controlling the public 
 mind — the latest and freshest writer, incessantly 
 sending forth something new, which commanded 
 attention by its ability, though it provoked anath- 
 emas by its heresy. " It seemed at last," wrote 
 Grimm, " that the old man, always sick, was never 
 to die." Unquestionably he and his correspondent, 
 Frederick the Great, were, as Morley represents 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 2^1 
 
 them, the two most powerful men then extant on 
 the continent. Both did immense evil, but also, 
 let us hope, great good. ** Voltaire and Frederick," 
 says Morley, *' were the two leaders of the two chief 
 movements then going on in the great work of 
 transforming the old Europe into the new." 
 
 But let us return to our incidents or anecdotes; 
 for these, after all, are the truest indices of a life or 
 an era ; a fact that biographers and historians do 
 not always sufficiently consider. Herodotus was the 
 greatest of story-tellers, and the Father of History. 
 
 The ancicn pasteur Gaberel speaks with his 
 usual candor and kindliness of Voltaire's good 
 deeds at Ferney. He has gathered not a few 
 local accounts of his charities, and might have 
 added many more from the books of the period. 
 Collini, his simple-hearted secretary, speaks espe- 
 cially of his " humane and compassionate heart." 
 Collini had to leave him, while they resided at 
 the D^lice, for reasons not creditable to the secre- 
 tary ; but he departed with deep emotion, and in 
 his old age, nearly a half century later, recalled the 
 D^lice as the scene of his best happiness. Voltaire 
 obtained for him a good resting-place for the re- 
 mainder of his life, as court librarian at Mannheim, 
 and before his departure conversed freely with him, 
 through an hour, in his study. " Have you money 
 enough?" asked the patriarch. *' Enough for my 
 journey and some time after it," replied Collini. 
 
 IS 
 
2/4 Character-Sketc.ies. 
 
 Without rejoining he went to his bureau, and, 
 drawing out a rouleau of louis, said, "Take this: 
 one knows not w^hat may happen." '' He embraced 
 me, and I quitted with tearful eyes the mansion of 
 the Delice." A poor laborer of Ferney was im- 
 prisoned for a debt of 7,5CX) francs. Voltaire or- 
 dered it all to be paid in his own name. His agent 
 replied that it would be lost, as the prisoner was 
 too poor ever to repay it. '' So much the better," 
 rejoined the philosopher; "one never loses in re- 
 storing a father to his family, a citizen to the State." 
 A widow of the neighborhood, with two children, 
 was oppressed by her creditors. Voltaire not only 
 advanced her money without interest, but aided her 
 to raise more by a mortgage on her little property. 
 Still later he helped her by purchasing the property 
 at a price much higher than its value. One of his 
 villagers, who owed him 600 livres, was reduced to 
 distress by the loss of his cattle; Voltaire sent him 
 two good cows and a quittance of his entire debt. 
 An agriculturist was ruined by having lost a case in 
 court ; Voltaire procured his papers and had them 
 examined by a lawyer of Geneva, who reported that 
 the poor man was condemned unjustly. Return- 
 ing him the papers, Voltaire handed him also 1,000 
 ecus, (crowns,) saying, " There, my friend, is enough 
 to repair the wrongs of the court. A new trial will 
 only torment you ; don't attempt it. If you wish 
 to establish yourself on my lands, I will take care 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 275 
 
 of your fate." The Jesuits at Ornex wished to en- 
 large their estate by acquiring, at a miserably depre- 
 ciated valuation, the property of some minors, which 
 was mortgaged for I5,cxx) francs, but worth four 
 times that amount. The ruin of the family seemed 
 inevitable, when Voltaire heard of the danger. 
 His humanity as well as his detestation of the 
 Jesuits led him to interpose. He furnished the 
 15,CXX) francs necessary for the release of the prop- 
 erty from the mortgage ; and its proprietors, the 
 family de Prez of Grassier, had so well improved 
 his aid that, at the subsequent expulsion of the 
 Jesuits from France, they were able to purchase all 
 the real estate of the Order at Ornex. 
 
 He especially sympathized with literary or edu- 
 cated sufferers. Arnaud de Baculard received large 
 sums from him while struggling in his dramatic 
 career. At his first success he wished to repay his 
 benefactor, but Voltaire would accept nothing. *'A 
 child," he said, " returns not the sugar-plums which 
 his father has given him." Thiriot, who had done 
 business for him as notary clerk, was reduced to deep 
 distress ; Voltaire sheltered him a year at Ferney, 
 procured him a profitable appointment as literary 
 correspondent of Frederick the Great, and, aiding 
 him to pack his trunk, concealed in it fifty louis* 
 His charitable interest for the niece of Corneille is 
 well known. He found her in wretched poverty, 
 gave her a home in his clidtcau, adopted and edu- 
 
276 Character-Sketches. 
 
 cated her, made known her condition to all Europe, 
 and issued a new and annotated edition of Cor- 
 neille's works for her dowry. The edition brought 
 90,000 francs, and the niece of the poet was happily- 
 married and settled in Ferney. Subsequently he 
 loaned the family 12,000 francs. At the birth of 
 their first child he called to congratulate the young 
 mother, and left on her table an elegant silver vase, 
 in which they found a quittance of the whole loan. 
 This certainly was handsomely done. And it is 
 only just to say that it was characteristic of the 
 Vieux de Ferney^ whatever diabolism characterized 
 him in other respects. 
 
 Meanwhile his irreverent humor could not be 
 repressed in the retirement of Ferney. He kept 
 Geneva astir with his publications. The pastors 
 and magistrates denounced them, and the book- 
 sellers were reprimanded and fined. His Candide 
 and Dictionnaire philosophique were publicly burned 
 by the executioner. But he hired, at a consider- 
 able cost, a troop of colporteurs, who insinuated the 
 obnoxious books into families, into the schools, and 
 even into the churches. The pastors had to organize 
 a counter system of colportage, and for some time 
 all Geneva was in fermentation. The octrois, or 
 custom-houses at the gates of the city, watched 
 particularly against the introduction of the pro- 
 scribed works; but the crafty " patriarch " and his 
 friends were a match for the perplexed magistrates. 
 
Voltaire — Literary I'ower. 277 
 
 He sent to the council word that he had been in- 
 formed that on a certain day some pernicious books, 
 maliciously attributed to him, would be smuggled 
 into the city through a particular gate — ''follies 
 which I despise," he said. *' I believe it my duty 
 to make this fact known to you, and you will do 
 well to repress such infractions of the public order 
 and peace." This was but a ruse. The attention 
 of the bewildered authorities being concentrated 
 at one of the gates, the books were successfully 
 brought in at another — '* a large cargo of them." 
 
 He maintained the Roman Catholic worship for 
 his villagers in the chapel on his premises, and kept 
 in his chdteau two cur6s for the purpose ; one of 
 whom was his famous '* P^re Adam," who was for 
 years his almoner, his evening companion at chess, 
 and of whom he wrote to a friend : ** It is neces- 
 sary not to deceive yourself about him — he is 
 not the greatest man in the world." The neigh- 
 boring Savoyard^ clergy preached stoutly against 
 the philosopher as Antichrist, and their rustic pa- 
 rishioners dreaded his very shadow. They be- 
 lieved him to be Satan incarnated. Their terror 
 became a pleasantry to him. Seeing a number of 
 them together at work, he donned his theatri- 
 cal costume of his " Mahomet," and, plunging in 
 among them, launched at them the imprecations 
 of the Arabian conqueror. The *' poor Savoyards 
 vanished as fast as their legs would take them," 
 
2/8 Character-Sketches. 
 
 says Pastor Gaberel, '^ and the identity of Voltaire 
 and Satan was very solidly established on the left 
 bank of the Rhone." Nevertheless he wished, as 
 he said, to be ** exemplary " before his own imme- 
 diate and confiding people ; for Ferney was virtu- 
 ally a feudal seigniory, and he was their lord. He 
 therefore made his Easter confession to Father 
 Adam, and the next day marched in procession, 
 with his priests and household, followed by the 
 villagers with halberds, muskets, tambours, and 
 trumpets, to the little chapel, where he received the 
 communion. But a more surprising scene followed. 
 At the moment for the preaching, Voltaire, waving 
 aside his cur6, mounted the pulpit, and delivered a 
 fiery sermon against theft, for a peasant had re- 
 cently stolen one of his cows. He believed the 
 thief would be present on so remarkable an occa- 
 sion ; he denounced him and apostrophized him, 
 exhorting him to make forthwith confession to 
 Father Adam, and be thankful to Providence that 
 he escaped hanging. He waxed so warm in his 
 harangue that the cur6, alarmed at the irregularity 
 of the scene, and thinking of his bishop, rushed out 
 of the building ; the peasants precipitated them- 
 selves after him, and left the *' patriarch " to finish 
 his sermon and his ire at his leisure. The Bishop 
 of Annecy sent him a grave lemonstrance ; he re- 
 plied that " it is not sufficient to rescue one's vas- 
 sals from the horrors of poverty, and contribute as 
 
Voltaire— LiTERARV Power. 279 
 
 much as possible to their temporal happiness ; it is 
 necessary also to edify them ; and it would indeed 
 be extraordinary that a seigneur of a parish could 
 not do, in a church which he himself has built, what 
 all the pretended reformers do in theirs." 
 
 Whether from fear of him, or for other reasons, 
 high papal ecclesiastics seemed disposed to con- 
 ciliate him. Some of them were merry guests at 
 Ferney. The Pope accepted the dedication of his 
 Mahomet, and even deigned to correspond with him 
 and to send him a relic for his chapel. His seign- 
 iory was in the district of Gex ; the Capuchin order 
 of monks had a house there ; and Voltaire, to the 
 astonishment of all Europe, and the special amuse- 
 ment of the philosophers of Paris, actually ob- 
 tained by patent, from the general of the order at 
 Rome, the appointment of temporal head of the 
 brotherhood. *' Smile not," he wrote La Harpe ; 
 *' I am a Capuchin, father temporal of the convent 
 of Gex; I have the right to wear the costume, and 
 I have received the patent from our venerable 
 father, the General d'Allembella." To the Duchesse 
 de Choiseul he wrote : *' I receive the cord of St. 
 Francis, which I fear will hardly restore the vigor 
 of my youth ; meanwhile deign to receive the pa- 
 ternal respects and the prayers of Brother Franqois 
 unworthy Capuchin^ His letters, as preserved by 
 Grimm and Diderot, are ebullient with humor over 
 the dignities and prerogatives of his new office, with 
 
28o Character-Sketches. 
 
 his offers of benediction, of absolution, of indul- 
 gences, or threats of excommunication and perdi- 
 tion. " Capuchin as I am," he writes to D'Alem- 
 bert, *' I extend my mercy even over Geneva. I 
 am father temporal of the Capuchins of my little 
 country. I will give you my malediction if you 
 write me not, and if you send me not whatever you 
 know of the assembly of the clergy. Your brother 
 v., unworthy Capuchin." An Irish lord, on his 
 way to Rome, called at Ferney. " Have you no 
 commission for the Holy Father, monsieur ? " asked 
 the guest. " Yes, my lord," replied Voltaire ; and 
 writing hastily on a card, said, '' Hand him this." 
 The guileless Irishman, who knew not a word of 
 French, scrupulously acquitted himself of the com- 
 mission at his first audience. The card^read : "His 
 Holiness is entreated to send to the philosopher of 
 Ferney the ears of the Inquisitor-General in scented 
 paper." Clement XIV., a liberal-minded pontiff, 
 took no offense at the joke, but wrote on the re- 
 verse of the card : " His Holiness is very sorry that 
 he cannot execute your commission, but under the 
 present pontificate the Grand Inquisitor has neither 
 eyes nor ears." This complaisance was not, how- 
 ever, universal among Catholics. The Sorbonne 
 and the French ecclesiastics generally anathema- 
 tized the Capuchin patriarch. Nicolandot, an ultra- 
 montane writer, was indignant at the indulgence 
 shown him. *' Ferney," he says, *' has been for 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 281 
 
 twenty years the capital of intellect. All monarchs 
 have been eager to recognize this principality ; they 
 salute it as the center of civilization ; they send to 
 the king of civilization weekly couriers ; they give 
 orders to their embassadors to respect all his fanta- 
 sies. Parliaments have burned with desire to serve 
 against the court of Ferney, but the court of France 
 has let it alone ; the Bishop of Annecy has menaced 
 it with his thunders, but the city of the Vicar of 
 Jesus Christ has tolerated its continual insolence 
 and gross outrages. Floods of strangers flow with- 
 out ceasing to Ferney — dukes, marshals, acade- 
 micians, priests, journalists. All roads lead to 
 Ferney, as to Rome. It has been the aristocratic 
 capital of Esprit in an age when all the world has 
 piqued itself on having ^spritT 
 
 But some good things came out of Ferney ; splen- 
 did and beneficent -things, which, amid the jesting 
 humor that it spread over Europe, could not fail to 
 associate with them an ever-enduring sentiment of 
 veneration. We have alluded to the cases of Calas, 
 Sirven, La Barre, etc., in which Voltaire undertook 
 the bravest fight for toleration and religious liberty 
 which has occured in France since the armed strug- 
 gles of the Huguenots; and in which the pastors of 
 Geneva were proud to rally around him, notwith- 
 standing the vexations he had so long occasioned 
 them. They wended their way to Ferney in those 
 processions of pilgrims which flocked thither as dev- 
 
282 Character-Sketches. 
 
 otees on the highways to Rome ; they dined at the 
 " patriarch's " table and slept under his roof, that 
 they might discuss with him more fully the wrongs 
 of their Protestant brethren in France, and direct 
 his labors in their behalf; they acted as his agents 
 to procure documentary evidence, proceedings of 
 courts, etc., for they knew that the pen of no man 
 could tell these sad facts more effectively than his. 
 The frank-hearted ancien pasteur waxes eloquent 
 over the old man's services for humanity and tolera- 
 tion. " In Voltaire's time Frenchmen who rejected 
 the papal authority were still chained in the galleys 
 with thieves and assassins ; their wives were im- 
 prisoned in infected dungeons ; their children were 
 forced into the schools of the monks, and taught to 
 curse, before the cross, the religion of their fathers. 
 The mountains concealed yet in their fastnesses the 
 hunted Protestants, pursued like brigands by the 
 royal troops. The high dignitaries of the Church 
 blessed God when they received news of these 
 sanguinary persecutions. Some remonstrances were 
 published, but hitherto without effect. The ' phi- 
 losophers' themselves, bent on the overthrow of 
 Romanism, seemed careless of these individual suf- 
 ferings. Suddenly, in the face of this indifference 
 of the materialists ; of the judges who punished 
 the crime of Protestant worship with exile, the 
 galleys, or the scaffold ; of Parliaments which let 
 the policy of Rome have its way ; of ministers of 
 
VoLTAiRK— Literary Power. 283 
 
 state who bowed before the persecuting priestcraft, 
 and of the reckless Hbertine on the throne — arose 
 one man, philosopher, historian, poet, and satirist, 
 whose fame filled Europe, who corresponded with 
 most of its sovereigns, whom even the Pope toler- 
 ated, though he trampled under foot the papal 
 dogmas and power — a man whose writings all the 
 academies, all the journals, all the salons, all the 
 theaters, all the people discussed — this one man 
 advanced into the field for religious liberty, and by 
 his immense influence and activity compelled the 
 arrest of fanaticism by the same laws and the same 
 tribunals which had thus far sanctioned it." 
 
 The younger Coquerel has given us the story of 
 the Calas family — a story made familiar by Vol- 
 taire over all Europe. Calas was a devout Prot- 
 estant, and a respectable merchant at Toulouse. 
 One of his sons turned Roman Catholic ; another 
 was dissipated, a gambler, and a drunkard. The 
 latter had threatened to renounce his faith for 
 popery, but read books on suicide, and was at last 
 discovered hung over a gate-way of his home. 
 The father, broken by the infirmities of nearly 
 seventy years, and incapable of even lifting the 
 gigantic youth, who was more than six feet in 
 height, was immediately accused by the Catholics 
 of murdering his son to prevent his change of faith. 
 His aged wife and his daughters were also implir 
 cated in the charge. The priests harangued their 
 
284 Character-Sketches. 
 
 people from the pulpits against the family ; the 
 monks said masses for the soul of the dead young 
 man, and displayed a picture representing him as a 
 martyr with a palm branch in his hand. The whole 
 Catholic population of the city was excited to frenzy 
 by the ecclesiastics, and the Protestants generally 
 were accused of murdering their children when they 
 showed a disposition to join the Catholics. 
 
 A Catholic magistrate prosecuted the case with 
 relentless zeal, till the court condemned the old 
 man to the '' ordinary " and *' extraordinary " tor- 
 ture, and then to be broken on the wheel, and at 
 last consumed at the stake. Lacerated by the tor- 
 ture, the venerable man was driven in an open cart 
 through the streets of the city, shoeless and clothe- 
 less, except his shirt, and was made to kneel on the 
 pavement in front of the Catholic church. Thence 
 he was carted again through the city to the place 
 of execution. He met his frightful fate with meek 
 heroism. Stretched on a cross, his limbs were 
 broken in twelve places by an iron bar. At the 
 first blow a single exclamation escaped him ; the 
 remainder he bore in silence. A mangled, quiver- 
 ing wreck of humanity, he was extended on the 
 wheel, with his face upward, that he might, accord- 
 ing to the atrocious sentence, thus *' repent through 
 whatever hours of life it might please God yet to 
 give him." The stake meanwhile was ready by his 
 side. During two hours he still suffered, when the 
 
VoLTAiRt:— Literary Power. 285 
 
 executioner strangled him, and, casting his mangled 
 remains among the fagots, reduced them to ashes. 
 
 Such was the story with which Voltaire appalled 
 Europe. He sent for the family of the Protestant 
 martyr, and, protecting them under his own roof, 
 learned the facts from their own lips. ** He wept 
 hot tears," says Pastor Gaberel, "and his frame 
 trembled with emotion." He resolved to fight all 
 the priestcraft of France ; if need be, to obtain an 
 eclatante rehabilitation — " a splendid rehabilitation" 
 — of the heroic martyr. He corresponded with 
 many of the sovereigns of Europe about it inces- 
 santly; he roused all his philosophic friends at 
 Paris and elsewhere ; he kept the journals ringing 
 with it ; he had friends at the court of Versailles 
 who were not allowed to rest till they did their 
 utmost ; he reduced the evidence of the case to 
 brief and pungent " Memoirs," which could not fail 
 to be read with compassion and horror. Nearly 
 four years he spent thus battling for toleration and 
 liberty of conscience in the name of a private, a 
 dead man. 
 
 At last the king was compelled to act ; the court 
 at Versailles ordered a revision of the case at Tou- 
 louse, over the ashes of the martyr, so to speak. 
 The Church trembled for the result ; it had found 
 its match in a single man, whose pen in the right 
 was mightier than all its crosiers and priests in the 
 wrong. The judicial revision broke the sentence, 
 
2S6 Character-Sketches. 
 
 vindicated the innocence and honor of the father 
 and his family, and stamped with the guilt of mur- 
 der the fanaticism of the papists. The Catholic 
 magistrate who had been most active in the perse- 
 cution committed suicide. The king gave the 
 widow 36,000 livres, and " France," says Pastor 
 Gaberel, '* received the greatest lesson in toleration 
 that has ever struck the heart of a people." Vol- 
 taire afterward published an essay on religious lib- 
 erty which fortified his victory. 
 
 The case of Calas was not yet finished when the 
 pastors of Geneva brought to him another sufferer, 
 Sirven, from a small town of Languedoc. His 
 young daughter had been shut up in a nunnery by 
 the authority of an ofificial lettre de cachet^ under 
 pretense that she was inclined to be a Catholic. 
 The sisters found her to be an intractable catechu- 
 men. She escaped at night, and, making her way 
 homeward, fell into an unguarded well and was 
 drowned. The Catholics accused her parents of 
 murdering their child. The father and mother had 
 to flee, for the yet undetermined case of their fel- 
 low-Protestants at Toulouse warned them. They 
 made their way toward Geneva, but on the heights 
 of the Cevennes the broken-hearted mother per- 
 ished in the snows ; the father reached the city of 
 refuge. Voltaire " shuddered at the story of the 
 physical torture and moral suffering of this afflicted 
 man." As soon as the Calas case would allow him, 
 
VOLTAIRK— LiTF.RARV P')\vi:r. ^S/ 
 
 he undertook this new one with redoubled energy. 
 Again all Europe rang with his remonstrances 
 and denunciations. To the pastor, Moulton, who 
 was his most intimate co-laborer in this and the 
 Calas affair, he wrote : " I am sick, but I should die 
 content with the hope of seeing toleration estab- 
 lished ; intolerance dishonors human nature ; we 
 have too long been below the Jews and Hottentots. 
 I embrace you tenderly ; come and pass a night at 
 my house ; let us converse more." The battle was 
 again a long one, but Voltaire never wavered. At 
 last he received private word from the President of 
 the Parliament of Languedoc that the case was 
 about concluded, and he wrote to Moulton : ** It is 
 no more doubtful that this family will be re-estab- 
 lished in its honor and property, and that the in- 
 famous arrest which condemned it to death will be 
 broken, like that of Calas. It required but two 
 hours to condemn this virtuous family to death, 
 but it has cost us nine years to obtain justice for 
 them." 
 
 He next took in hand with equal vigor the case 
 of the Chevalier de la Barre. One of those cruci- 
 fixes which stud the highways of Catholic Europe 
 was found mutilated on the bridge at Abbeville. 
 A citizen, who was an enemy of the father of La 
 Barre, sought evidence among the lowest people by 
 which to accuse his son, who was but eighteen 
 years old. The Bishop stirred up the popular 
 
288 Character-Sketches. 
 
 fanaticism by processions to the insulted crucifix, 
 and at his instance La Barre and D'Etallonde, 
 his companion, about the same age, were sentenced 
 to have their tongues and right hands cut off, and 
 then be burned alive. The sentence was changed 
 by the Parliament of Paris to decapitation, which 
 was inflicted on La Barre, but D'Etallonde escaped^ 
 and found shelter with Voltaire, who provided for 
 his education, and induced Frederick of Prussia to 
 appoint him lieutenant of engineers in his army. 
 The evidence against these youths was altogether 
 unreliable and quite frivolous. Voltaire was ap- 
 pealed to by the father of La Barre to vindicate 
 the honor of his dead boy and of his family. *' The 
 letter," says Voltaire, " was such as to rend my 
 heart." He was old and sick, and after his other 
 contests needed rest, as he wrote to Moulton ; but 
 in the case of La Barre and his comrade " his 
 tenacity," says Morley, "was still more heroic, 
 more amazing, than in those of Galas and Sirven." 
 Through twelve years he struggled for the rehabili- 
 tation of La Barre, and if he did not obtain a re- 
 vision of the case from the court, he obtained it 
 from the greater tribunal of the public opinion of 
 all Europe. 
 
 These are not the only examples of his heroic 
 devotion to humanity and tolerance. During most 
 of the remainder of his life he was busy seeking 
 redress for similar wrongs. The last one ended 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 289 
 
 only with his death. It was that of General Lally, 
 who had lost the French dominion in India to En- 
 gland, and was executed at Paris — a sacrifice to 
 party policy, a parallel of the sacrifice of Byng in 
 England. Voltaire struggled down to his eighty- 
 fifth year, along with Lally's son, for a revision of 
 the trial and a reversion of the sentence. The 
 news of his success came to him when he was on 
 his death-bed. Five days before he expired he 
 wrote his last letter ; it was to Lally's son. '* Dy- 
 ing I revive," he said, " at this great news. I em- 
 brace you tenderly. I die content." Even Bun- 
 gener relents over this letter, though not without 
 an invidious reflection. ** One likes," he says, 
 " to allow himself to be moved at the death-bed 
 of Voltaire by these evidently sincere words. But 
 the affair was not the less commenced with an 
 indignation which he never felt." Lord Brougham 
 {Voltaire et Rousseau) is more generous. ''While 
 blaming his errors, so grave and so constant," says 
 Brougham, "we must admit, nevertheless, that it 
 would be thrusting injustice and ingratitude very 
 far to forget for a moment the immense services 
 rendered to the world by Voltaire; a lasting glory 
 is due to him for that war, so long and so per- 
 severing, which he sustained against tyranny of 
 the most odious form, against the persecution of 
 opinions and the violation of the sacred right 
 
 of human reason. To no writer since Luther does 
 19 
 
290 Character-Sketches. 
 
 the spirit of free inquiry owe equal gratitude ; none 
 has done more to deliver human intelligence from 
 ecclesiastical tyranny." 
 
 Morley claims special honor for him as the first 
 great modern writer who represented the '' Peace," 
 or rather the Anti-war, doctrine. He regarded 
 war as' consummate folly, a relic of barbarism ; 
 and bravely disdained the ridicule wherewith " prac- 
 tical " men, so called, treated the advocates of bet- 
 ter methods for settling international disputes. 
 It was he that ironically, but logically, proposed 
 that the States of Europe should import armies of 
 monkeys from Africa, and train these imitative 
 brutes to take the field, and decide the quarrels of 
 kings. This he deemed a more reasonable as well 
 as a more economical way of solving the polit- 
 ical and ethical problem usually involved in in- 
 ternational quarrels, than the barbarous custom 
 of blowing out the brains of hundreds of thou- 
 sands of rational beings — citizens, husbands, and 
 fathers. 
 
 In 1778, Voltaire, after an absence from Paris of 
 nearly thirty years, left Ferney for the brilliant me- 
 tropolis, which during all his exile he had kept 
 vividly excited by his writings, and where he was 
 to be received with ovations such as have hardly 
 had a parallel in literary history. He thus passes 
 from the purview of our essay, v/hich is limited to 
 his life on the Swiss frontier. 
 
Voltaire — Literary Power. 291 
 
 What can we, finally, say of such a man? Much 
 that is good, as our pages show, but more thatMS 
 bad. Hardly any literary character has been treated 
 with less impartiality. His friendly critics have too 
 much palliated his faults; Morley, one of the most 
 candid, is not altogether an exception. His hostile 
 critics have been generally perversely blind to what 
 was really commendable in his character and serv- 
 ices ; nearly every page of Bungener's elaborate 
 volumes is saturated with prejudice, worse, if possi- 
 ble, than the odium thcologicu7n. 
 
 Voltaire was a born humorist. His first view of 
 any subject was its ludicrous side, if it had any ; and 
 if it had none, its very gravity or solemnity seemed 
 to evoke his innate humor. 
 
 He appeared incapable of the sentiment of rever- 
 ence; all religions were to him but superstitions, 
 morbid excesses of the mind. Born a Roman Cath- 
 olic, educated by the Jesuits, and habitually in con- 
 tact with Popery, he always confounded Christianity 
 with it. The Genevan pastors found it impossible 
 to make him discriminate between Romanism and 
 their Protestantism. 
 
 He was thoroughly unscrupulous. Carlyle shows 
 that in his fracases at Berlin he could not only in- 
 dulge in downright falsehoods, but swear to them. 
 He was saved from heedless perjury only by the ex- 
 cessive politeness of a magistrate in foregoing the 
 oath. If craniology teaches that the conscience 
 
292 Character-Sketches. 
 
 has a local organ in the brain, the skull of Voltaire 
 must have shown a cavity rather than a boss over 
 the place of that faculty. He habitually played off 
 falsehoods on the Genevan magistrates and the 
 " venerable company of pastors." He constantly 
 disowned his most flagrant publications, and some- 
 times affected fiercely to denounce them. 
 
 Meanwhile he was not without generous quali- 
 ties, as we have seen. He had a, quick sympathy 
 for all human sufferings. He was liberal with his 
 money. He made gallant fight against superstition, 
 and did more than any other man of the eighteenth 
 century to break down intolerance in Europe. No 
 such judicial flagrancies as he grappled with have 
 been permitted in France since his day. He op- 
 posed Christianity, but as decidedly opposed the 
 atheism that prevailed among his philosophical 
 friends in Paris. 
 
 The leader, if not the originator, of the so-called 
 philosophy of the time, he had not a single attri- 
 bute of the philosophic character. He laughed at 
 its dignities or severities. He had no system of his 
 own, but was content with Newton in physics and 
 Locke in metaphysics. He familiarized these 
 great Englishmen on the Continent. His supreme 
 idea was the emancipation of the human race by 
 the advancement of its intelligence; the supreme 
 difficulty of the task, as he believed, lay in tra- 
 ditional religions. His method against these was 
 
Voltaire— Literary Power. 293 
 
 historical criticism and sarcastic humor. He de- 
 nounced the writings of D'Olbach, Helvetius, and 
 his other speculative atheistic friends at Paris; and 
 insisted that his fellow-encyclopedists should shun 
 metaphysics, and deal exclusively in positive facts 
 and humorous satire. Nothing but truth can stand 
 ridicule; Voltaire knew well the fact, however 
 egregiously he misapplied it. 
 
 To estimate adequately his character, the facts of 
 nearly two-thirds of his life, antecedent to the be- 
 ginning of our sketch, must be given, and many 
 of them could not decorously appear in a decent 
 publication. Even in this age of the rehabili- 
 tation of notable characters — of Mohammed, of 
 Cromwell, of Mary Queen of Scots, of Spinoza, 
 and of Lucrezia Borgia — it is inconceivable that 
 Voltaire can be effectively rehabilitated. His most 
 partial disciples must abandon that hope ; but 
 meanwhile they can claim for him many brilliant 
 and many salutary things. They can assert his 
 sympathy with suffering men, his pecuniary chari- 
 ty, his indomitable courage against the occupants 
 of the high places of Church and State, in the con- 
 flict for toleration and religious liberty. They can 
 claim for him high rank, almost sovereign rank, 
 take him all in all, as a litterateur ; they can assert 
 that no man ever made the pen a more effective 
 power ; that he was, as Morley says, the " very genius 
 of correctness, elegance, and grace " in style ; that 
 
294 Character-Sketches. 
 
 lie was the greatest satirist of his age, the founder 
 of the modern school of historical writing; that 
 he ranks next to Corneille and Racine in French 
 tragedy, though — odd fact for the greatest humorist 
 of his time— he failed in comedy ; that in his twenty- 
 eight tragedies are some of the best passages of 
 French literature, though his dozen or more com- 
 edies place him in no proximity whatever to Mo- 
 li^re. Above all these merits, infinitely above them, 
 they can claim that he introduced a new era — the 
 era of toleration — in France, which, with whatever 
 occasional oscillations, has continued to advance, 
 and by which the ecclesiastical oppressions and ju- 
 dicial atrocities of his own day have passed away, 
 where the creeds of Protestants and even of Jews are 
 now recognized, protected, and salaried as parts of 
 the national religion. They put forth still larger 
 claims for him, but with less concession from Chris- 
 tian critics — that he led the way in the emancipa- 
 tion of the intellectual classes of France, and indeed 
 of Europe generally, from Roman traditions and 
 bigotry — an emancipation which continues and 
 grows in spite of the sacrifice, by the priesthood, of 
 Bossuet's ** Gallic Liberties," and which, while, as 
 natural in such reactions, it has gone to the oppo- 
 site skeptical extreme, will, it is hoped, show in 
 time the equally natural reaction toward salutary 
 religious principles. And finally they may claim 
 that he was a chief agent in bringing on the first 
 
Voltaire — Literary Power. 295 
 
 French Revolution, a movement that, in spite of 
 its stupendous enormities, is now recognized by- 
 historical critics as the epoch of modern European 
 history, and is still developing beneficial, immeas- 
 urable results. His writings afforded not a single 
 sanction of the atrocities which attended that 
 great event. And, indeed, if the philosophers who 
 brought it on are negatively responsible for its 
 crimes by failing to provide the necessary moral 
 preventions, the ruling and ecclesiastical classes 
 were positively responsible for them by the be- 
 nighted, the demoralized, condition to which they 
 had reduced the people. But on these last two 
 claims of Voltaire's friendly critics we cannot en- 
 large ; they would require too much qualification. 
 We must here take leave of him, with no little 
 respect for his abilities and with as much regret 
 for his faults. 
 
 While he yet lived, a devoted Protestant, Madame 
 Necker — the daughter of a Protestant pastor, wife 
 of the first Protestant in the Royal Cabinet of 
 France, and mother of Madame de Stael — projected 
 a public subscription for a statue in commemora- 
 tion of his services to their cause, and thus gave to 
 Europe its best artistic representation of the vet- 
 eran author. A Protestant writer, reprobating his 
 errors while appreciating his services, may well share 
 her Christian charity and Protestant gratitude. 
 
296 Character-Sketches. 
 
 VII. 
 
 CHANNING — HERESY AND REFORM. 
 
 I AM sick of opinions ; I am weary to hear 
 them ; my soul loathes this frothy food. Give 
 me solid and substantial religion, give me a hum- 
 ble, gentle lover of God and man ; a man full of 
 mercy and good faith, without partiality and with- 
 out hypocrisy; a man laying himself out in the 
 work of faith, the patience of hope, the labor of 
 love. Let my soul be with these Christians, where- 
 soever they are, and whatsoever opinion they are 
 of." Let not the scrupulous reader be alarmed at 
 this liberalism ; these are not the words of the 
 heresiarch, William Ellery Channing. They were 
 written by one " John Wesley, late fellow of Lin- 
 coln College, Oxford." But we venture the opin- 
 ion, that, had John Wesley known personally Will- 
 iam Ellery Channing, he would have drawn his por- 
 trait with such lines as those we cite. Southey has 
 a paragraph on what he calls " Wesley's Perfect 
 Charity," in which the poet affirms that Wesley 
 ** judged kindly of the Romanists, and of heretics 
 of every description, wherever a Christian disposi- 
 tion and a virtuous life were found ;" and that " he 
 published the lives of several Catholics and one 
 
Cha'nning — Heresy and Reform. 297 
 
 Socinian, for the edification of his followers." This 
 Socinian was the ''good man" Thomas Firmin. 
 Wesley, in his prefatory remarks to the memoir, 
 says : " I was exceedingly struck at reading the fol- 
 lowing life, having long settled it in my mind that 
 the entertaining wrong notions concerning the Trin- 
 ity was inconsistent with real piety. But I cannot 
 argue against matter of fact. I dare not deny that 
 Mr. Firmin was a pious man, although his notions 
 of the Trinity were quite erroneous." 
 
 This '♦ pious man," Thomas Firmin, was, we 
 repeat, a Socinian ; William Ellery Channing was 
 what all orthodox believers will admit to be much 
 better : he was an Arian, a '* high Arian ; " but, 
 more than this, he was a man of purest sinceri- 
 ty, of profound humility, and universal charity. 
 Channing must be admitted, in fact, to have been 
 either a hypocrite or a saint, and the man who, 
 after a personal acquaintance with him, or the 
 reading of his works and biography, is disposed 
 to say he was a hypocrite, may be assured that 
 he is not unfitted to be one himself. We have 
 but little interest in Channing's " Theology ; " 
 we deeply regret that the reproach of heresy coun- 
 teracts, to a great extent, the due influence of 
 his noble writings — writings which, notwithstand- 
 ing his dogmatic opinions, exhibit powerfully the 
 real genius of Christianity, and. in their applica- 
 tion of its ethical principles to the social progress 
 
29S Character-Sketches. 
 
 of man, anticipate the better ages to come more, 
 perhaps, than any other Hterary productions of our 
 century. It is a delicate task, then, to which we 
 sit down — that of drawing honestly the portrait of 
 a great and good man, against whom the theolog- 
 ical opinions of most of our readers so strongly pre- 
 dispose them ; but we shall proceed in the attempt 
 with determined frankness. 
 
 The events needing chronological note in Chan- 
 ning's life are few, and it is not important to our 
 present design to narrate them fully. He was 
 born at Newport, Rhode Island, April 7, 1780; 
 entered Harvard University in his fourteenth year; 
 graduated at the age of eighteen ; spent a part of the 
 two ensuing years as a pn-ivate tutor in Richmond, 
 Virginia ; returned to Cambridge, as Regent — a 
 subordinate office — in 1801 ; was settled as pastor 
 of Federal-street Church, Boston, in June, 1803 ; 
 visited Europe in 1822; began his celebrated essays 
 on Milton, Napoleon, and F^nelon, which dis- 
 tinguish the commencement of his literary career 
 proper in 1826; visited the West Indies in 1830; 
 commenced his antislavery labors in 1835 ; and 
 died, October 2, 1842. 
 
 To the American public in general, Channing is 
 chiefly known as an Arian theologian ; while, on the 
 other side of the Atlantic, where his writings are 
 more current and better appreciated, his fame is 
 chiefly that of a literary man and a philanthropist. 
 
Channing — Heresy and Reform. 299 
 
 The common impression that he was the leader of 
 the Unitarian movement in this country is false. 
 By the publication of his celebrated sermon at the 
 ordination of Mr. Sparks, in Baltimore, in 18 19, the 
 doctrinal position of Unitarianism was more gen- 
 erally made known in the American community 
 than at any former date. By this accident, and 
 still more, perhaps, by the fact that his literary 
 reputation elevated him above all others engaged in 
 the movement, he became recognized as its head, 
 although it could boast of earlier advocates and 
 abler polemics. "The Baltimore discourse gave 
 its author," says a Unitarian organ, " the name of 
 leader and head of the Unitarian denomination in 
 this country, although we had far more accom- 
 plished theologians; and no individual was farther 
 from claiming any authority in matters of opinion. 
 He was never the apostle of a doctrine or a sect."* 
 
 At the crisis of the secession of Unitarianism 
 from Calvinistic Congregationalism, or rather the 
 secession of the latter from Unitarianism, he was 
 somewhat active in the controversy ; but not so 
 much in defense of liberal theology as of liberal 
 rights. The reader of his memoirs and his articles 
 in the ** Christian Disciple," the Unitarian organ of 
 those times, cannot fail to see th«t he exerted 
 himself, not so much to vindicate the new opin- 
 ions of the period, as the right of his brethren to 
 
 * "Christian Examiner," for September, 1848. 
 
300 Character-Sketches. 
 
 cuss them without ecclesiastical proscription ; a 
 right certainly unquestionable under the Congre- 
 gational rdgime of the New England Churches. He 
 says himself: " It was not so much for the pur- 
 pose of defending the opinions, as of encourag- 
 ing fellow-Christians to use their own minds, and 
 to examine freely the doctrines of religion, that I 
 entered the field of controversy. I felt then what 
 I now more deeply feel, that the human mind is to 
 make progress by freedom, by the deliberate, im- 
 partial, and independent exercise of its faculties." 
 
 It was, in fact, that regard for individual liberty 
 of thought which was the passion, the moral idio- 
 syncrasy, of the man — the source alike of its chief 
 •excellencies and its chief errors — that led him into 
 the polemical arena ; and when he had manfully 
 defended the liberty of the mind, he paused but 
 little to dabble in the subordinate questions, but 
 gave his energies to more spiritual and practical 
 interests. As late as 1841 he says: *' I do not 
 speak as a Unitarian, but as an independent Chris- 
 tian. I have little or no interest in Unitarians as a 
 sect. I have hardly any thing to do with them. I 
 can endure no sectarian bonds.** 
 
 What were Channing*s theological opinions? To 
 say he was a Unitarian, in the etymological sense 
 of the word, would be just, and so it would be, in a 
 measure, to say the same of John Calvin, or John 
 Wesley ; to say he was a Unitarian, in the denom- 
 
Chann I NG— Heresy and Reform. 301 
 
 inational use of the word at present in New En- 
 gland, would be very vague ; for what is more vague 
 than the existing theology of New England Unita- 
 rianism? He obtained an accidental prominence in 
 the Unitarian movement ; but we believe that the 
 impartial theological critic would classify him most 
 readily with Locke, Samuel Clarke, Watts, and simi- 
 lar thinkers, and extend to him the charity with which 
 the tenets of these great and good men have been 
 regarded. He expressly placed himself in the rank 
 of Dr. Watts, and disclaimed the views of Priestley, 
 Belsham, and Socinians generally. The later liberal- 
 ism of Unitarianism — invalidating the sacred canon, 
 denying the miracles, the superhuman character of 
 Christ, redemption by him, future retribution, etc., 
 he did not share ; and to his exemption from these 
 speculative negations we attribute the superior spir- 
 ituality, nay, we are compelled to say the holiness, 
 which was the very temper of his being, and will 
 render him, in the estimation of the more impar- 
 tial future, such an anomaly among Unitarians as 
 Fenelon was among Romanists. His biographer 
 declares : '* The fact undeniable was, that while he 
 formed the most free and generous estimate of hu- 
 man nature, he held opinions in regard to the 
 divine government, spiritual influences, a mediator, 
 and the kingdom of heaven, which, by most liberal 
 Christians, would be considered rather mystical 
 than rational." 
 
302 Character-Sketches. 
 
 His views of the character of Christ are indeter- 
 minate, but full of reverence and love : ** God has 
 given his own Son," he says, '* a being respecting 
 whose nature, perhaps, revelation communicates no 
 precise ideas, but whom we are yet taught to view as 
 sustaining a peculiar relation to the infinite Father, 
 and peculiarly beloved by him. Jesus Christ is the 
 Son of God in a peculiar sense ; the temple of the 
 Divinity; the brightest image of his glory. In 
 seeing him we see the Father. . . . We hear him 
 claiming the honors of the Son of God, of the 
 promised Messiah, of the Saviour of the world. 
 We not only hear him assenting to the question, 
 * Art thou the Christ ? ' but adding to his assent a 
 declaration of his glory, which he must have known 
 would have been peculiarly offensive to the Jews, 
 and applying to himself language which, under the 
 old dispensation, had been limited to God — thus 
 expressing his intimate union with the Father. 
 According to these Scriptures, Jesus Christ is not a 
 teacher whose agency was chiefly confined to the 
 time when he was on earth. He ever lives, and is 
 ever active for mankind. He sustains other offices 
 than those of teacher; he is Mediator, Intercessor, 
 Lord, and Saviour. He has a permanent and con- 
 stant connection with mankind, and a most intimate 
 union with his Church." 
 
 While he dissented from the precise definitions 
 of the atonement usually given by orthodox writers, 
 
Channing — Heresy and Reform. 303 
 
 and, as in his celebrated " New York Sermon," as- 
 sailed them w ith more rhetoric than logic, he never- 
 theless believed in redemption through Christ. He 
 gives the following statement of the opinions of 
 himself and some of his associates: "We agreed, 
 in our last conference, that a majority of our 
 brethren believe that Jesus Christ is more than a 
 man ; that he existed before the world ; that he 
 literally came from heaven to save our race ; that 
 he sustains other offices than those of a teacher and 
 witness to the truth ; and that he still acts for our 
 benefit, and is our intercessor with the Father. 
 This we agreed to be the prevalent sentiment of 
 our brethren. With respect to the Atonement, the 
 great body of liberal Christians seem to me to 
 accord precisely with the author of 'Bible News,* 
 [Noah Worcester,] or rather, both agree very much 
 with the profound Butler. Both agree that Jesus 
 Christ, by his sufferings and intercession, obtains 
 forgiveness for sinful men ; or that, on account, or 
 in consequence, of what Christ has done and suf- 
 fered, the punishment of sin is averted from the 
 penitent, and blessings, forfeited by sin, are be- 
 stowed. The doctrine of the Atonement, taken in 
 the broad sense which I have before stated, is not 
 rejected by Unitarians." 
 
 This statement is, however, qualified by an em- 
 phatic denial that " the ever-blessed God suffered 
 and died on the cross;" a denial which most theo- 
 
304 Character- Sketches. 
 
 logians would make with equal emphasis. On this 
 profoundest of all subjects, it must be admitted, in 
 the language of a foreign journal, " that, though 
 he believed, in some mysterious way which is not 
 explained, that Jesus came to save the world ; that 
 he himself, if saved at all, was to be so through the 
 mediation and intercession of the Redeemer ; " 
 yet his position here was " not so clear and defined 
 as that taken by him on questions of infinitely less 
 importance to himself and to others, on almost 
 every other question to which he had turned his 
 attention." * Still we believe he so far compre- 
 hended, and, above all, relied upon the mediatorial 
 office of our Lord, as to experience its efficacy in 
 his own soul. Christ was the ever-recurring theme 
 of his writings. Christ's teachings, his example, 
 his mediation — whatever mystery might encompass 
 it — were to him the only hope of the world, not 
 only of its purely religious interests, but of its so- 
 cial and political, its temporal and eternal destinies. 
 He never refers to the subject of Christ's character, 
 apart from sectarian disputation, without kindling 
 with ardor; and if to be imbued with the meek- 
 ness and love of Christ is the mark of true disciple- 
 ship, then assuredly this great man was a Christian. 
 Channing believed in regeneration, though, with 
 many theological writers, he held that it is usually a 
 gradual experience. His language is often quite as 
 
 ♦Tail's Edinburgh Magazine. 
 
CiiANNiNG— Heresy and Reform. 305 
 
 strong on this subject as the customary statements 
 of evangeHcal authors: "A religious character, 
 then, is an acquisition," he says, ** and implies a 
 change ; a change which requires labor and prayer ; 
 aid and strength from Heaven ;' a change so great 
 and important that it deserves to be called a 
 new birth. The Christian is a new man. By the 
 precepts, doctrines, motives, promises of Christian- 
 ity, and by the secret influences of God's spirit on 
 the heart, he has been raised to a faith, hope, and 
 love which may be called a new life. He has been 
 born again." 
 
 While at Richmond, surrounded by irreligion and 
 immorality, he believed himself the subject of this 
 inward change. He wrote to his uncle : *' I believe 
 that I never experienced that change of heart which 
 is necessary to constitute a Christian till within a 
 few months past. The worldling would laugh at 
 me he would call conversion a farce. But the man 
 who has felt the influences of the Holy Spirit can 
 oppose fact and experience to empty declamation 
 and contemptuous sneers. You remember the lan- 
 guage of the blind man whom Jesus healed : * This 
 I know, that whereas I was blind, now I see.' Such 
 is the language which the real Christian may truly 
 utter. Once, and not long ago, I was blind — blind 
 to my own condition, blind to the goodness of God, 
 and blind to the love of my Redeemer. Now I be- 
 hold, with shame and confusion, the depravity and 
 20 
 
3o6 Character-Sketches. 
 
 rottenness of my heart. Now I behold, with love 
 and admiration, the long-suffering and infinite be- 
 nevolence of Deity. All my sentiments and affec- 
 tions have lately changed. I once considered mere 
 moral attainments as the only object I had to 
 pursue. I have now solemnly given myself up to 
 God. I consider supreme love to Him as the first 
 of all duties, and morality seems but a branch from 
 the vigorous root of religion. I love mankind, be- 
 cause they are the children of God. I practice tem- 
 perance and strive for purity of heart, that I may 
 become a temple for his Holy Spirit to dwell in." 
 
 He was some time, however, advancing toward 
 this point of his spiritual progress. Years prior to 
 it, he had been awakened to an interest in religion 
 during a reHgious revival in New London, where he 
 was preparing for college in the family of his uncle ; 
 while at Cambridge he made some progress, and 
 determined to devote himself to the Christian min- 
 istry; but at Richmond he emerged into clearer 
 light; though, as he afterward insisted, his conver- 
 sion was a life-long process. When questioned by a 
 good Calvinist whether he had not been converted at 
 some time, he replied, " I would say not, unless the 
 vv'hole of my life may be called, as it truly has been, 
 a process of conversion." To which his orthodox 
 friend unhesitatingly answered, " Then, friend Chan- 
 ning, you were born regenerated ; for you certainly 
 are now a child of God." 
 
Channing — Heresy and Reform. 307 
 
 His later references to his experiences at Rich- 
 mond are very touching. The death of his father 
 had reduced the resources of his family, and com- 
 pelled him to accept the office of a private tutor in 
 that city. Infidelity and iniquity prevailed around 
 him : " I lived alone, too poor to buy books, spend- 
 ing my days and nights in an out-building, with no 
 one beneath my roof except during the hours of 
 school-keeping. There I toiled as I have never 
 toiled since ; for gradually my constitution' sank 
 under the unremitting exertion. With not a hu- 
 man being to whom I could communicate my 
 deepest thoughts and feeling, and shrinking from 
 common society, I passed through intellectual and 
 moral conflicts, through excitements of heart and 
 mind, so absorbing as often to banish sleep and to 
 destroy almost wholly the power of digestion. I 
 was worn well-nigh to a skeleton. Yet I look back 
 on those days and nights of loneliness and frequent 
 gloom with thankfulness. If I ever struggled with 
 my whole soul for purity, truth, and goodness, it 
 was there. There, amid sore trials, the great ques- 
 tion, I trust, was settled within me, whether I would 
 obey the higher or lower principles of my nature — 
 whether I would be the victim of passion, the 
 world, or the free child and servant of God. ... In 
 a licentious, intemperate city, one spirit, at least, 
 was preparing, in silence and loneliness, to toil, not 
 wholly in vain, for truth and holiness." 
 
3oS Character-Sketches. 
 
 Were it not for his studied avoidance of the 
 usual theological technics, and the peculiarity of 
 his modes of thought, the descriptions of spiritual 
 life which are scattered through Channing's writ- 
 ings befit the pages of Jeremy Taylor or of Will- 
 iam Law ; the latter was indeed his favorite practi- 
 cal writer, as he had been Wesley's during his early 
 life. Supreme love of God was to him the central 
 element of religion ; he dweltf upon it with the 
 fervor and absolute emphasis of Fenelon ; and 
 verged upon, if he did not actually adopt, the doc- 
 trine of Disinterestedness, as taught by Hopkins. 
 whose ministry he occasionally attended in Newport. 
 The cold and lifeless didactics, usual to Socinian- 
 ism, never entered into his ministrations ; if he did 
 not distinguish morality from religion, it was not 
 because he reduced the latter to the former, but 
 because he exalted the former to the latter — basing 
 morals on piety. There is, indeed, throughout his 
 writings that meek but fervid spirituality which 
 has always been the common trait of sanctified 
 minds ; whether of Fenelon among Romanists, 
 Edwards among Calvlnists, or Fletcher of Madeley 
 among Arminians — a mark of essential identity in 
 spirit, notwithstanding their variance in matters of 
 opinion and form. 
 
 It was this evangelical temper, together with his 
 abstinence from polemical strife, that produced, in 
 the latter part of his life, the report that he had 
 
Channing — Heresy and Reform. 309 
 
 essentially modified, if not abandoned, his earlier 
 opinions. His biographer takes special care to 
 guard his reputation against this suspicion ; we are 
 convinced that he died, as he had lived, a high 
 Arian ; but believe, at the same time, that he per- 
 ceived, in his maturer years, the indefiniteness of 
 most of his theological opinions, and lost, propor- 
 tionately, his tenacity for them. In these later 
 years he never obtftided them. There was a rich 
 ripening of his religious character as he approached 
 the end of his life ; but on many of the topics of 
 former and ardent controversy he spoke with cau- 
 tious misgivings ; he had become convinced of 
 their difficulty, and waived them ; had become anx- 
 ious to settle down into spiritual repose, perform- 
 ing the evident duties and cherishing the consol- 
 ing affections and hopes of the Gospel. We 
 mention this fact not so much as a detraction from 
 his opinions, as a beautiful aspect of his later his- 
 tory ; one not uncommon to good men in the ripe- 
 ness of their years and piety, whatever may have 
 been the earlier severities of their prejudices. In 
 1841, about a year before his death, he wrote: "I 
 am more detached from a denomination, and strive 
 to feel more my connection with the universal 
 Church, with all good and holy men. I am little 
 of a Unitarian, have little sympathy with the sys- 
 tem of Priestley and Belsham, and stand aloof 
 from all but those who strive and pray for clearer 
 
3IC Character-Sketches. 
 
 light, who look for a purer and more effectual man- 
 ifestation of Christian truth." 
 
 Of Unitarianism, as a system or movement, he 
 unquestionably did not feel satisfied in his later 
 years. In 1837 he wrote: "I feel that among lib- 
 eral Christians the preaching has been too vague, 
 has wanted unity, has scattered attention too much." 
 In 1839 ^^^ ^^^*^s expresses himself: ** I would that 
 I could look to Unitarianism with more hope. But 
 this system was, at its recent revival, a protest of 
 the understanding against absurd dogmas, rather 
 than the work of deep religious principle; it was 
 early paralyzed by the mixture of a material phi- 
 losophy, and fell too much into the hands of schol- 
 ars and political reformers ; the consequence is, a 
 want of vitality and force, which gives us but little 
 hope of its accomplishing much under its present 
 auspices, or in its present form." 
 
 Channing was remarkable, as a theologian, for 
 the amenity of his spirit. There was but one class 
 of opinions which he ever assailed with much 
 severity. His hostility to Calvinism was absolute; 
 he turned away with instinctive horror from its 
 doctrines. He declared that he could not hear 
 them " without shuddering," and they appeared to 
 him "more dishonorable to the universal Father 
 than any error born in the darkness of Popery." 
 
 Channing's peculiarities — his excellences and his 
 faults as a theologian — are mostly referable to two 
 
Channing — Heresy and Reform. 311 
 
 causes, namely, his extreme opinion of the individ- 
 ual right of free thought, and that general and 
 moral sort of logic, if we may so call it, which was 
 the characteristic habit of his mind. 
 
 Liberty of thought, especially in matters of re- 
 ligion, was to him the most sacred right of human- 
 ity ; he seldom refers to it in his writings without 
 catching from the subject a higher inspiration and 
 a nobler style. It was the passion of the man, 
 born in him, and glowing with unabated ardor, 
 through all his struggles and misgivings of opinion, 
 through the retrospections of his advanced years — 
 so often chillingly corrective of the sentiments of 
 men of genius — and through the last labors of his 
 life. It was the chief motive which induced him, 
 as we have seen, to take an active part in the Uni- 
 tarian controversy ; it was the strongest reason of 
 his invincible abhorrence of slavery ; it led him 
 several times to defend publicly the press, when he 
 admitted that its liberty was perniciously used ; it 
 caused him to place his name the first on a petition 
 for the liberation of Kneeland, when imprisoned 
 for 'public blasphemies. From the time, indeed, 
 that he entered the pulpit, a youth of twenty-three 
 years, till he descended into the grave, he uttered 
 an uncompromising remonstrance against all re- 
 strictions on the liberty of the human soul. Honor 
 to his memory for it, notwithstanding his heresies 
 in this, as in other respects ! Differing from him. 
 
312 Character-Sketches. ( 
 
 as we do, in theology, we cannot but admit his 
 admirable and almost singular peculiarity in this 
 respect. Theologians and sectarians have been en- 
 thusiastic enough for liberty of conscience when 
 deprived of it, but have generally deemed it more 
 orthodox to arrogate it to themselves than to ex- 
 tend it to their competitors. Channing demanded 
 it for all men, and gave it as Hberally as he 
 claimed it. 
 
 He did not err in asserting this right, but in de- 
 fining it. It is undoubtedly a deHcate question 
 how far a man should doubt received opinions till 
 he can prove their truth. There are two consider- 
 ations, however, which show that a habit of faith 
 in received opinions is more legitimate than a habit 
 of doubt. One is, the unquestionable inability of 
 the mass of mankind, from the want of time or of 
 intelligence, to ascertain the evidence of most opin- 
 ions. The other is the fact that, as an adaptation to 
 this condition, we are placed in circumstances dur- 
 ing childhood and youth which inevitably educate 
 us to such a reliance on received doctrines. The 
 Philosophers may be Pyrrhonists — the people can- 
 not be ; it would be contrary to nature for them to 
 be skeptical. The millions are compelled by a 
 necessity as absolute as fate to adopt most of their 
 opinions on the higher questions of truth from tra- 
 dition or from testimony. We are not sure, indeed, 
 that there is not, above the necessity and the train- 
 
Channing— Heresy and Reform. 313 
 
 ing referred to, a natural law or instinct for the same 
 end. Let us not, then, speak too harshly of the 
 "prejudices of education," the servility of the pop- 
 ular mind ; much of the orderly beauty of social 
 life, of the reverence and loyalty which protect the 
 sacredness of public institutions, and of the re- 
 straining influence of religious sentiments on indi- 
 vidual conduct, is due to that generous confidence 
 in the testimony of the past and in the testimony 
 of our fellows which it is the too-prevalent custom 
 of these times to decry. Let us have liberty ; in 
 God's name let the millions have it ; but they are 
 the enemies of men, as of God, who teach that the 
 moderation which is essential to true wisdom, and 
 the faith that God has wrought into our nature, are 
 to be defiantly put away in the struggle for human 
 emancipation. 
 
 Channing would never so teach; but there was 
 an habitual tendency in him to such an extreme, 
 and it is manifest throughout his writings. In his 
 youth he would not read theological writers till he 
 had made up his own opinions, lest he might be 
 wrongly prepossessed — a rule which, however plau- 
 sible, requires much qualification ; for it is certainly 
 no small stretch of presumption in a young man to 
 suppose his immature powers, biased, too, as they 
 inevitably must be, by the prejudices of early edu- 
 cation, can ascertain religious truth, whether from 
 revelation or reason, better than the mature facul- 
 
314 Character-Sketches. 
 
 ties of the Butlers, Watsons, or Chalmerses, who 
 stand ready to help him. Channing condemned 
 the opinions of Parker, of Boston ; and yet ap- 
 plauded the freedom with which they were uttered 
 — as if there were no prudential restrictions to be 
 self-imposed on the popular publication of one's 
 opinions when they are confessedly of a recondite 
 character, are but in the process of their discovery, 
 and, if they should happen to be false, must be dis- 
 astrous to the best sentiments of the people. Is it 
 really the wisdom of a high philosophy to proclaim, 
 as from the house-tops, opinions which would 
 break down the most venerated traditions and in- 
 stitutions of society, and to do so while, from their 
 immaturity, such new opinions are yet subject to 
 constant revision and modification by their authors ? 
 Is, indeed, that peremptory rashness, falsely called 
 courage, with which new doctrines are announced 
 in these days, preferable to the modesty which gave 
 to the Socratic method the interrogative form, and 
 the want of which, in the Sophists, called forth the 
 remonstrance of Plato and his great master ? 
 
 This love of individual freedom induced Chan- 
 ning to eschew almost entirely the combinations 
 of good men, for good purposes, by which so much 
 has been achieved in these latter days. He would 
 preach eloquently on temperance ; and, with his 
 distinguished classmate, Judge Story, adopted total 
 abstinence while yet in college ; but he would not 
 
Chakmx* Heresy and Reform. 315 
 
 sign the pledge. He preached against War, and 
 the Peace Society published his sermon ; but he 
 refused to join their organization. He wrote 
 against slavery, and the Antislavery Society issued 
 his books ; but he never united with them. Indi- 
 vidualism was his hobby ; but suppose all the 
 strong men who conduct our philanthropic soci- 
 eties should ride the same hobby, what would be- 
 come of our best schemes of reform ? 
 
 Channing, to say the least, was vague on this 
 subject, as he was on most others. With his fine 
 genius, and finer morale, the extreme freedom of 
 opinion which he asserted was somewhat guarded 
 against its natural results ; but in many of his 
 compeers it proved disastrous. It led Parker to 
 utter Rationalism ; Emerson to ideal Pantheism ; 
 Brownson, through we know not how many the- 
 ological somersets, till he came at last, head down- 
 ward, into the mire of Popery ; and J. Blanco 
 White, Channing's correspondent and ideal of a 
 self-emancipated mind, it conducted into inextri- 
 cable mazes of doubt and despondence. 
 
 We have mentioned, as a second characteristic 
 of Channing, " a general or moral sort of logic,'* 
 which, we think, was the master-power of his 
 mind, the chief source at once of the excellencies 
 and defects of his opinions. Probable reasoning, 
 as well as mathematical, proceeds upon certain 
 original, or, as they are more commonly called, 
 
3 1 6 Character-Sketches. 
 
 ultimate truths, which are incapable of proof, and 
 need no proof, because the very constitution of the 
 mind compels their recognition. The axioms of 
 mathematics are of no more practical authority 
 than are the original conditions of moral belief, 
 when the latter have fair play ; but the differ- 
 ence which exists between the respective processes 
 of mathematical and probable reasoning extends 
 also to the original conditions of the two kinds 
 of proof. Every man admits, instantly, that the 
 sum of all the parts is equal to the whole ; every 
 man admits, too, the conclusions of probable rea- 
 soning at a certain point of evidence, and would 
 stake his all upon them, as fearlessly as upon a con- 
 clusion deduced from mathematical axioms. But 
 the difference is, that different men require differ- 
 ent degrees of moral evidence to bring them to 
 the same conclusion ; and this arises from a differ- 
 ence in the strength of the original principles of 
 moral reasoning in different minds. Some men — 
 and not unfrequently men of superior faculties — 
 seem constitutionally inclined to skepticism ; oth- 
 ers, without rare astuteness, have, nevertheless, a 
 happy and healthful appreciation of moral evidence 
 — a sound faith in all things good and true — 
 without fanaticism. 
 
 This difference, respecting probable reasoning in 
 general, becomes still more strongly marked when 
 the subjects of such reasoning are of a purely 
 
Channing— Heresy and Reform. 317 
 
 speculative character. In fine, the original grounds 
 of probable reasoning, though as constitutional in 
 the mind as those of mathematical proof, are, un- 
 like the latter, dependent for their force and vivid- 
 ness upon the moral idiosyncrasies of the man. 
 And we mean something special by this phrase : 
 we do not mean any superinduced moral state — 
 though this doubtless has great effect — but an 
 original aptitude for right moral conclusions. 
 Men of devout minds have sometimes approved 
 barbarous evils, while others, of no special piety 
 and no better external lights, have seen their true 
 character and denounced them. The Demon of 
 Socrates was his fine moral discernment. 
 
 What we mean, then, by Channing's peculiarity 
 in this respect is, that he possessed this aptitude 
 in a degree which we are disposed to pronounce 
 anomalous. Our supposition of what a man would 
 have been under other circumstances must, of 
 course, be quite conjectural ; but we cannot place 
 Channing down on the moral level of any age in 
 which we may suppose him to have lived. If he 
 had lived in a period of barbarous heathenism, his 
 warm sensibility could not have led him into its 
 fanaticism, for the philosophic element was too 
 strong in him for that. If he had lived in an age 
 of brilliant pagan civilization, like that of Athens, he 
 could not have been a Pyrrhonist, for his fine per- 
 ceptions would not have admitted it. It is a strong 
 
3i8 Character-Sketches. 
 
 statement, but we should not hesitate to make it 
 to one who had studied him, either personally or 
 in his writings, that, if he had lived under the lat- 
 ter circumstances, he would, most probably, have 
 been the friend of Socrates and Plato, and have 
 combined the ethical wisdom of the one with the 
 pure idealism of the other. Such a man as 
 Channing must have stood majestically in advance 
 of his age, whenever and wherever he lived. He 
 lived, according to the sense of the present gener- 
 ation at least, in the best age of the world, and yet 
 was far in front of it ; if it reaches his elevated po- 
 sition in two centuries the signs of the times are 
 certainly quite illusive. 
 
 This fine faculty for moral discrimination seemed 
 almost an instinct in Channing ; he appeared to 
 feel the right or wrong of a subject at once. On 
 all great moral and social questions — the inherent 
 rights of man, freedom of the press, war, popular 
 ameliorations, education, penal jurisprudence, the 
 ethical and spiritual principles of religion, and, 
 above all, the moral traits of personal character — 
 he had an intuitive insight. Error, however sanc- 
 tioned by great names or great age, shrank instan- 
 taneously beneath his scrutiny. Seldom, if ever, 
 did a man rise more sublimely above the influence 
 of tradition, or that factitious deference for what 
 is fashionable, customary, though wrong, which 
 so much sways the world. Though a meek, calm 
 
Channing— Heresy and Reform. 319 
 
 man, fit for the goodly company of Izaak Walton's 
 mild-tempered worthies, yet there was in his moral 
 convictions a keenness and sternness truly terrible to 
 evil and to evil-doers. The long-drawn reasonings 
 with which ordinary minds would arraign prevail- 
 ing wrongs were beneath him ; he saw such wrongs 
 so distinctly, and pointed at them so directly, that 
 the hearer, however previously beguiled by them, 
 could not but see them standing out, staring and 
 indefensible. His very tones, though habitually 
 gentle, had a sort of moral thrill in them when at- 
 tacking error, that gave a new sense and an over- 
 whelming power to common-place sentences. His 
 biographer relates a fact in point, but which can- 
 not be fully comprehended by any reader who 
 never heard Channing. A discussion arose, in con- 
 versation, on the barbarous modes of punishment 
 in the Navy, Army, and Prisons. One of the 
 company was going through the usual arguments 
 in favor of the lash, when Channing dashed the 
 whole, and silenced all further defence by a single 
 exclamation. "What," said he, '''strike a man!" 
 To such an exclamation his peculiar manner gave a 
 volume of meaning ; the barbarity of the custom, 
 the petty and vulgar character of the reasoning for 
 it, stood out in debasing contrast with the moral 
 dignity of man. 
 
 Now it was in precisely this noble faculty for the 
 discernment of general ethical truth that we think 
 
320 Character-Sketches. 
 
 his theological errors originated. He was so ad- 
 dicted to moral reasoning, to practical views of 
 every thing, that he was measurably disqualified 
 for the more abstract or speculative questions of 
 theology ; and, therefore, whenever he approached 
 them he became perplexed, doubtful, indefinite. 
 Minds strongly given to moral reasoning are said 
 to be unapt in mathematics, and vice versa; the 
 higher truths of revelation, not within the scope 
 of direct moral reasoning — as the doctrine of the 
 Trinity, for instance — are dependent almost entire- 
 ly on exegetical proof; and in this respect are 
 nearly as much out of the habitual course of a 
 mind like Channing's as mathematical questions 
 themselves. Channing never could be a profound 
 mathematician ; and he never was a good exeget^ 
 ical critic. He applied his general logic directly to 
 these high revealed truths, on which it was scarcely 
 possible for it to find a foothold ; whereas he should 
 have applied it to the evidence of the Revelation it- 
 self, and, when satisfied there, he should have relied 
 for the truths which the Revelation announced, on 
 the just principles of interpretation, chiefly, if not 
 exclusively. The reader of his sermons cannot fail 
 to observe how seldom he discusses the Scripture 
 argument on any doubtful subject ; his noted New 
 York Sermon is strictly a "moral argument" on 
 the Trinity, etc., as exclusively such as his well- 
 known " Moral Argument against Calvinism." 
 
Channing— Heresy and Reform. 321 
 
 Here was the capital mistake of his theological 
 inquiries — the wrong application of reason to mat- 
 ters of Revelation ; if we can prove the Scriptures 
 to be the word of God, what folly for us to demand 
 that the mystery of their revelations respecting the 
 Divine essence, or other incomprehensible facts, 
 shall give way before our logic ! 
 
 We have dwelt thus largely on Channing's char- 
 acter as a theologian for two reasons : first, because 
 we are honestly solicitous to allay any undue preju- 
 dice which may exist against him in other religious 
 communions than his own ; and, secondly, because, 
 religion being the study and business of his life, the 
 contemplation of him in this character ought to 
 afford us the best means of estimating him. 
 
 As a preacher, Channing was pre-eminent, 
 
 though he had very few really oratorical qualities. 
 
 His presence in the pulpit was not commanding ; 
 
 he was small in stature, exceedingly emaciated. 
 
 and enveloped in a superabundance of clothing ; his 
 
 cheeks were sunken ; his eye hollow, and his voice 
 
 feeble, though remarkably flexible. The deeply 
 
 indented lines of his face, especially about the 
 
 mouth, gave him a peculiar expression, which 
 
 could not fail to enlist the sympathy of the hearer ; 
 
 you could read in them the story of his long 
 
 physical prostration, and the agony of those early 
 
 intellectual struggles which had occasioned it. 
 
 This trace of the struggle of the past was, how- 
 21 
 
322 Character-Sketches. 
 
 ever, so blended with an expression of present 
 and profound repose as to be, to our eye at least, 
 the most impressive and affecting indication of 
 his countenance. His forehead, always marked by 
 a single fallen lock, was not large, but appeared 
 so by contrast with the diminished proportions of 
 his thin and pallid face. He had few gestures, and 
 adhered closely to his manuscript, except in the 
 rural chapel, near his summer residence on Rhode 
 Island, where he usually extemporized, and, it is 
 said, with much facility. We have heard him 
 speak extemporaneously in a popular meeting 
 with the same rich thought and diction that char- 
 acterized his pulpit prelections. 
 
 But whatever were his personal disadvantages in 
 the pulpit, they were not only countervailed by, 
 but seemed to assist, the impression of his dis- 
 course. His feeble utterance — a little prolonged, 
 but not drawling — became richly varied in its mod- 
 ulation, and seemed congenial with the refined 
 excellence of his thoughts. In the reading of the 
 hymns and the Scripture lessons it at once arrested 
 attention by its exact and eloquent emphasis. As 
 he advanced in his discourse, his deep gray eye 
 beamed with a calm radiance, and, before he sunk 
 exhausted on his seat, a blended intellectual and 
 moral beauty glowed over all his features. 
 
 He was seldom passionate, never declamatory, 
 yet always deeply earnest. His utter sincerity 
 
Channing— Heresy and Reform. 323 
 
 would not admit of an attempt at mere rhetorical 
 effect. " On no account," he once said to a young 
 brother preacher, ** on no account, in your public 
 services, try to exhibit, by look or tone, any emo- 
 tion which you do not feel. If you feel coldly, ap- 
 pear so. The sermon may be lost, but your own 
 truthfulness will be preserved." This sincerity was 
 manifest not only in the deHvery, but also in the 
 preparation, of his sermons; beauty, both of thought 
 and style, was natural to him ; he could not write 
 without it ; but he aimed at effect only by the 
 moral force of his thoughts — truth, in its own es- 
 sential beauty and inherent power, was his whole 
 dependence in the pulpit. Had he used a brilliant 
 sentence, or a beautiful figure, evidently because 
 of its rhetorical finish, it would have startled his 
 audience as an inadmissible incongruity — a sort of 
 degradation from the lofty dignity of his earnest 
 spirit. Figures are abundant in his writings, but 
 they come spontaneously and are used only so far 
 as they are relevant for the illustration of his sub- 
 ject : they appear mostly as allusions ; and he ha- 
 bitually declines to elaborate or detail them merely 
 to bring out their rhetorical beauty. We doubt 
 whether half a dozen exceptions to this remark can 
 be found in all his writings. He possessed deep 
 sensibility, and you felt often under his discourses 
 that you were wholly in his power ; that it was only 
 with him to will to overwhelm you, and he could 
 
324 CHARACTER-SKEXaiES. 
 
 do it ; but he appeared to hold his feelings under 
 determined yet difficult restraint ; his ever-varying 
 voice would often tremble with emotion, and sud- 
 denly seize another tone. We doubt whether he 
 ever wept in the pulpit ; but his hearers have often 
 found it impossible to imitate his self-restraint, and 
 have wept under his most tranquil accents. Dr. 
 Dewey says : '' I shall never forget the effect upon 
 me of the first sermon I ever heard from him. 
 Shall I confess, too, that, holding then a faith some- 
 what different from his, I listened to him with a 
 certain degree of distrust and prejudice ? These 
 barriers, however, soon gave way; and such was 
 the effect of the simple and heart-touching truths 
 and tones which fell from his lips, that it would 
 have been a relief to me to have bowed my head, 
 and to have wept without restraint through the 
 whole service. And yet I did not weep ; for there 
 was something in that impression too solemn and 
 deep for tears." 
 
 Channing was, throughout his long ministry, the 
 most popular preacher in Boston. He began in 
 youth with crowded congregations, and his latest 
 sermons, when it was publicly known that he was 
 to preach, commanded the same interest. Two 
 qualities particularly marked his discourses, and 
 were, we think, the constituents of his pulpit power. 
 The first was that elevated tone of not only his 
 moral emotions, but of his moral conceptions, 
 
Channing— Heresy and Reform. 325 
 
 whereto we have alluded. You heard from him 
 discussions of old familiar truths ; but they became 
 new in his hands, not so much by far-fetched or 
 novel opinions upon them, as by a new life which 
 he infused into admitted opinions. Your old 
 thoughts rise up within you in radiant resurrec- 
 tion. You wonder that you never saw them in 
 such a strong and self-evident light before. You 
 are first surprised at the transcendent yet simple 
 and benign insight — the intuition of the preacher ; 
 soon this merely personal sentiment is gone, and 
 you are absorbed exclusively in the deepening in- 
 terest of the subject ; you assume an attitude of 
 solicitous attention ; you hold your breath till he 
 reaches his periods ; if he pauses to think or renew 
 his strength, at the chief divisions of his discourse, 
 you observe a general movement in the assembly, a 
 momentary relaxation of the mental tension. But 
 again the spell prevails : you wonder that he does 
 not pour forth his evident power overwhelmingly ; 
 you wonder that yourself and all men have felt the 
 truth so little heretofore ; you resolve to go forth 
 from your seat a better man ; you weep, and if you 
 look about you, you perceive the tear trembling in 
 the eye of the gray-headed hearer near you ; the 
 little child is wrapped in interest ; the thoughtless 
 man- of the world rouses himself from his listless 
 posture, and is awe-struck. At last the emaciated 
 speaker dechnes, exhausted, into his seat; and, as^ 
 
3-^ Character-Sketches. 
 
 you go from the temple, you feel that it has been 
 no ordinary day in your history ; you feel that an 
 effort ought to be made to have that sermon re- 
 peated. You long to speak to some one about the 
 remarkable thoughts you have heard ; but if you 
 attempt to do so to one who has not heard the 
 sermon he will probably discover nothing but what 
 he knew before — knew, but never felt, as you now 
 feel. The other marked trait of his preaching was 
 the fact that his whole consciousness seemed to be 
 absorbed, if we may so express it, into his sub- 
 ject. Preachers oftener, we think, than any other 
 class of public speakers, deliver their discourses with 
 accuracy, and even with labored emphasis, when it 
 is manifest that their own attention is away from 
 the subject, busied either with some absent attrac- 
 tion, or in an attempt to gauge the interest of the 
 audience. We know not how, but most assuredly 
 this fact, by some subtle process, is perceived by 
 the hearer ; and the dullest hearer is more or less 
 conscious of it. Such a discourse cannot have 
 effect ; it may instruct, for it may have been well 
 prepared ; but its power is gone — it lacks direct- 
 ness and edge. The prime secret of eloquence 
 consists, we think, in this ability to identify one's 
 soul with his subject ; it gives the right tone and 
 emphasis, even to a speaker unacquainted with the 
 art of elocution ; it often produces the happiest 
 gesticulation, even in men of naturally ungraceful 
 
CiiANNiNG -Heresy and Reform. 32; 
 
 action. If this self-committal is secured, thought, 
 utterance, and manner come spontaneously, and 
 generally come spontaneously right. Channing was 
 invariably, it would appear, an example of this 
 excellence ; he seemed to gaze intently at, into, 
 through, his subject. It possessed his whole atten- 
 tion ; and this manifest fact affected his hearers as 
 by a mesmeric influence ; they became absorbed in 
 it with him. It is said that, when his discourse 
 on the immortality of the soul was first preached, 
 ** the whole audience were heard to take breath" at 
 the close of certain passages; and when, years later, 
 the same sermon was preached in New York, a 
 similar effect was produced. 
 
 His range of topics was exceedingly varied. He 
 considered the pulpit the appropriate place for the 
 discussion of all moral subjects that affect the 
 social or political interests of man, as well as those 
 that relate more directly to his spiritual hopes. 
 The Gospel, he believed, had to do with every 
 great interest of the race ; and few important pub- 
 lic events or questions escaped his notice in the 
 pulpit. Was the nation agitated by a presidential 
 canvass? he preached on the evils of party spirit. 
 Was there danger of war? he preached on its moral 
 and social horrors ; yet asserted the duty of the 
 citizen to his country. Had a mob interrupted 
 public order? he discussed the importance of sub- 
 ordination to law and the means of popular virtue. 
 
328 Character-Sketches. 
 
 Education, Pauperism, Temperance, Slavery, and 
 all similar questions, were his frequent themes, 
 while the importance of personal morals and piety 
 was never forgotten. 
 
 It would be an inadmissible omission to pass over 
 without remark his character as a philanthropist. 
 We refer, not merely to those habitual services of 
 benevolence which are inseparable from the pas- 
 toral office — in these he was unusually faithful, as 
 we shall see; but if he had not been a Christian 
 pastor, nor known in literature, he would still have 
 had a public reputation as a philanthropist. The 
 moral discrimination, to which we have alluded as 
 his chief distinction in theology, had also much to 
 do with his philanthropy. To use his own words, 
 he **saWy he fe/t, the great evils of ouf present so- 
 cial state;" and from his youth to the last years 
 of his life he was struggling to solve the great prob- 
 lems of man's social renovation, and exerting him- 
 self, meanwhile, in most of the practical schemes 
 of philanthropy that were within his reach. As 
 early as his fifteenth year, the reading of the writ- 
 ings of Ferguson and Hutcheson, while at college, 
 produced a profound impression upon his mind. 
 *'In his Junior year he had already become a moral 
 and social reformer." 
 
 A restless anxiety to do good, to lay hold on 
 and tear up the very roots of great social evils, took 
 possession of his soul at this time ; and subse- 
 
Channing— Heresy and Reform. 329 
 
 quently, during " those days and nights of loneli- 
 ness and frequent gloom " spent at Richmond, 
 visions of vast change — of " a perfect society " — 
 cheered his melancholy reveries. He had actually 
 conceived the main ideas of modern Communism, 
 and, '* it is probable, thought of joining himself, 
 as minister, to a settlement of Scotch emigrants 
 whose fundamental principle was common prop- 
 erty." The prudence of later life corrected his san- 
 guine confidence in such impracticable schemes, 
 as it corrected the fanciful republican projects of 
 Southey and Coleridge. Yet it does not appear 
 that he ever totally abandoned the hope of some 
 similar revolution of social life. 
 
 His more extensive intercourse with men, as a 
 Christian pastor, gave a more practical direction to 
 his philanthropic sympathies. His journals con- 
 tain long lists of plans " for public works, benevo- 
 lent operations, special reforms." These plans in- 
 clude: Associations among Mechanics; a Work (to 
 be written) on Ardent Spirits; Fire Clubs; Poor 
 Houses; Female Employment Societies; Provis- 
 ions of Wood on a Large Scale ; Bake-houses 
 for the Poor; Associations for the Relief of the 
 Sick, the Old, and Debtors ; Societies for the Ad- 
 vice of Emigrants, for the Reformation of Prosti- 
 tutes, the Improvement of Africans, etc. His lib- 
 erality was not absorbed in merely devising plans 
 of good ; but his personal charities were great. An 
 
3 30 C 1 1 AR ACTER-SKETCH ES. 
 
 elder brother suggested that he '* should have a 
 guardian ; he spends every dollar as soon as he gets 
 it." " With a good salary he was yet always poor." 
 One of his sister's writes : " He must have had 
 $i,ooo to lay out, per annum, of which he scarcely 
 spent any thing on himself, except in case of sick- 
 ness, or when he had to take a journey." She 
 estimates that he gave away nearly $800 a year. 
 He lived with almost ascetic severity, and dressed 
 so poorly that the dignity of his manners alone 
 saved him from an appearance of meanness. 
 
 He was one of the first co-laborers of the vener- 
 able Noah Worcester in the Peace movement ; he 
 sympathized and counseled with him also respect- 
 ing the abolition of capital punishment. He did 
 more than any other man toward the establishment 
 of the Boston '* ministry at large," the noble field 
 of the noble Tuckerman. He took an active inter- 
 est in the improvement of Prison Discipline. He 
 exerted his best eloquence in the cause of temper- 
 ance. He helped to originate the Massachusetts 
 Bible Society; delivered its first anniversary ad- 
 dress ; and for eight years was chairman of its 
 Executive Committee. He was deeply interested 
 in foreign missions, and at one time was disposed 
 to sunder all his local ties and throw himself into 
 the foreign field ; but his health interfered. He was 
 the first to second the efforts of the eloquent Fa- 
 ther Taylor in the Bethel Cause. Popular edu- 
 
CuANNiNG— Heresy and Reform. 331 
 
 cation he esteemed the glory and security of the 
 State. When Horace Mann turned from his brill- 
 iant political prospects to take charge of the com- 
 mon schools of Massachusetts, amid the smiles 
 and scoffs of demagogues, Channing wrote him a 
 congratulatory letter, and began immediately to 
 co-operate with him in pubHc and private. His 
 memoirs and writings abound with invaluable opin- 
 ions on these great themes — opinions maturer than 
 can be found, perhaps, in any other writer. His 
 discourses on self-culture and the education of the 
 laboring classes have done great good, especially in 
 England ; they are considered the best exponents 
 of his principles and aims. 
 
 The latest and maturest strength of Channing 
 was devoted to the discussion of American slavery. 
 No writer has treated the subject with more candor 
 or more impressive eloquence. The amenity, trans- 
 parent purity of style, argumentative conclusive- 
 ness, and lofty moral tone of his writings on this 
 subject, gave to them a force which the impartial 
 reader felt to be irresistible ; he closes the book 
 almost believing that if it were scattered broadcast 
 over the land it must work a national revolution 
 on the subject, and seal forever the doom of slavery. 
 Channing had seen slavery among his own kindred 
 at Newport ; he had lived in its midst at Rich- 
 mond ; he had seen it in the West Indies, while seek- 
 ing health there. The usual recapitulation *bout 
 
332 Character-Sketches. 
 
 whips, hard toil, poor food, etc., so elaborately 
 made by ordinary lecturers, were not the views of 
 this evil which most impressed him. He saw that 
 slavery prevented pauperism ; that its mere phys- 
 ical condition, like that of our domestic cattle, was 
 really better than the physical condition of the 
 lowest class of European laborers ; but a man who 
 should have alleged this fact as an apology for 
 slavery — as a reason why the humanity of millions, 
 made in the image of God, should be extin- 
 guished, or degraded — would have shrunk abashed 
 under his indignant rebuke. It was the deep 
 and terrible intellectual and moral ruin, which 
 slavery entails, that covered the enormity with 
 darkness and horror to his mind. It is no marvel 
 that such a man should have called out, in solemn 
 arraignment, before the reflecting world, an institu- 
 'tion like this. Those who knew American slavery 
 know that its evils can scarcely be exaggerated. It 
 was replete with physical, moral, social, political, 
 and all other evil. It held three millions of human 
 beings in a state of chattelship. It sold them, like 
 cattle, at the auctioneer's stand, and drove them to 
 and fro in the land by a stupendous trade. It at- 
 tempted to extinguish their intellects by laws pro- 
 hibiting them to learn to read. It violated their ten- 
 derest relations, separating, at its caprice and forever, 
 husbands and wives, parents and children. It vio- 
 lated the protections of woman's virtue, and spread 
 
Channing — Heresy and Reform. 333 
 
 licentiousness over its whole territory.* It con- 
 verted States, proverbial for ** chivalry," into mere 
 breeding estates to supply the market. It blighted 
 the soil of the former garden-spots of the land. It 
 corrupted the youth of the South by indolent and 
 imperious habits ; leading them to false sentiments 
 of honor, the habitual carrying of deadly weapons, 
 and a contempt for the dignity of labor. It blast- 
 ed the spirit of enterprise, so that, while one sec- 
 tion of the union was outstripping all precedents of 
 history in industrial prosperity, the other was sink- 
 ing with premature decrepitude. It prevented com- 
 mon school education — the stamina of States — by 
 the extent of plantations, and the wide separation 
 of the people. It was ever and anon involving the 
 free labor of the North in losses and bankruptcy, by 
 the failure of its supporters to meet their obliga- 
 tions. It created an odious predominance of power, 
 based on property in human bones and sinews. It 
 
 * The report of the Synod of Georgia, December, 1833, says : 
 *• Such is the universality and greatness of the vice of lewdness, 
 that, to those who are acquainted with slave countries, not a word 
 need be said. On a subject like this we suffer not ourselves to 
 i^eak. All the consequences of the vice are to be seen." In the 
 circular of the Kentucky Union for the moral and religious improve- 
 ment of the colored race " — a society formed by some of the most 
 distinguished gentlemen, both of the clergy and laity, at Lexington, 
 Ky. — addressed to the ministers of the Gospel in the State, they say : 
 " To the female character, among the black population, we cannot 
 allude but with feelings of the bitterest shame. A similar condition 
 of moral pollution is to be found only without t/u pale of ChriS' 
 tendom^^ 
 
334 Character-Sketches. 
 
 violated the Constitution by refusing a hearing to 
 the petitions of northern citizens in their own legis- 
 lative halls at Washington. It defied the laws and 
 powers of the general Government by a surveillance 
 over the post-office, opening letters, and dictating 
 to the agents of the Government what should and 
 what should not be carried by them. It usurped 
 nearly all the offices of our navy, army, and diplo- 
 macy. It seized men, recognized among us as our 
 fellow-citizens, and peacefully occupied on board 
 our ships in its harbors, and imprisoned them in 
 its dungeons, against the express provision of 
 the Constitution, and the decisions of its own 
 courts in former cases ; men, clogged with fetters, 
 were sweeping the streets of its cities under mob 
 menaces ; men sent as messengers to appeal peace- 
 fully to the laws in behalf of such citizens — men 
 honorable by long public standing, and clothed 
 with official authority for their mission. It cor- 
 rupted the Church to its infamous principles, and 
 severed some of the strongest religious bodies of the 
 land. Strong only in iniquity and braggardism, it 
 nevertheless made the once strong spirit of the 
 North bow, for years, with mean obsequiousness 
 before it, and our Senators and Representatives 
 cower at its arrogant threats, till a few brave spirits, 
 branded as fanatics, and some of them at last made 
 such by their terrible trials, arose, and recalled us 
 to our primitive honor. It destroyed our national 
 
Channing — Heresy and Reform. 335 
 
 self-respect, made us blush for our pretensions to 
 liberty, rendered us a " hissing and a by-word " 
 among the nations, and at last shattered the Re- 
 public by civil war, and spread desolation and 
 mourning through its homes. We deliberately say 
 there was no iniquity parallel to it among the civil- 
 ized or semi-civilized communities of the earth. 
 
 The fine integrity and discernment of Chan- 
 ning s mind could not be perverted by that na- 
 tional familiarity with this appalling evil which 
 produced among us one of the strangest solecisms 
 in the history of civilization : a people the most 
 enlightened in religion and law on the earth — whose 
 sentiment of liberty had become a national passion 
 — yet, under the maturest forms of liberal institu- 
 tions, and the full blaze of the Christian revelation, 
 dooming millions to a condition which was never 
 dreamed of by oppressors during the midnight of the 
 feudal ages! Channing saw it as he would have 
 seen it in a foreign land. If it were to be ascer- 
 tained that the government of China held from love 
 of tyranny, or from interest, one of its great prov- 
 inces, with a population of three millions, in pre- 
 cisely the condition of our slaves — violating their 
 domestic relations, disposing of them as chattels, 
 depriving them of the gains of their toil, prohibiting 
 all intellectual development, and converting them 
 and their children, by inexorable processes, into a 
 hopeless exception to all the laws of development 
 
336 Character-Sketches. 
 
 and progress which God has ordained for the des- 
 tinies of the human race — the discovery of such an 
 anomaly would astound the world. Almost any 
 effort from any quarter to break it up would be con- 
 sidered right; the sentiments of mankind would 
 compel their governments to interfere with it in 
 their negotiations ; theologians would point to it as 
 a proof of the necessity of divine revelation ; Chris- 
 tians would attempt to invade it with missionaries 
 and Bibles ; the friends of liberty would furnish it 
 with arms, as they furnished Greece and Poland, for 
 a revolution ; to help men to escape from it would 
 be considered a holy service, and the shout of insur- 
 rection coming from it would be responded to by 
 the voice of the civilized world — for, alas ! the world 
 has not yet learned the better efficacy of better 
 means. Channing felt that he was not to look to 
 China for it — there was none such there ; it was 
 under the banner and amid the temples of his own 
 land. 
 
 His letters to his friends from Richmond show 
 that his opinions on slavery had been determined 
 at that early date, (1798.) During his residence at 
 St. Croix, West Indies, (1830-31,) he " began to 
 draft the plan and write the first sheets of his 
 work on slavery." When he returned, the storm 
 of abolition agitation was sweeping over the land. 
 He did not approve the measures of the abolition- 
 ists, though " with the central principles ** of the 
 
CiiANNiNG — Heresy and Reform. 337 
 
 movement '* his whole heart was in unison." He 
 cliose to await a more propitious opportunity for 
 his appeal to his countrymen. Meanwhile, he 
 looked with deep solicitude on the courage- 
 ous laborers in the cause ; when that noble- 
 minded woman, Lydia Maria Child, published the 
 *' first book in the United States " on the subject 
 he called upon her in person with brotherly en- 
 couragements. He denounced the anti-abolition 
 mobs from his pulpit, declaring that ** the civilized 
 world will heap just reproach on a free nation in 
 which mobs pour forth their fury on the opposers 
 of slavery'' 
 
 During his rural seclusion for health on Rhode 
 Island, in 1835, he exhausted his strength writing 
 his book on the subject. It appeared opportunely 
 at the height of the public excitement on the ques- 
 tion, when for a man in his position to take a 
 stand with the persecuted agitators was an act of 
 heroism which could not fail to have effect. *' I 
 never acted,'* he wrote to a friend, " under a 
 stronger conviction of duty than in publishing this 
 book. My spirit preyed on itself till I had spoken 
 the truth." Blessed be God for such a man at 
 such a time! His example gives hope of the 
 world ; good men feel as they behold him, that 
 the servility of millions shall not make them 
 despair while one such mind predominates in brave 
 
 ascendency. 
 22 
 
338 Character-Sketches. 
 
 In 1836, when the press of James G. Birney was 
 destroyed by a mob, he again appealed to the 
 American pubHc. In 1837 ^^ wrote his celebrated 
 letter to Mr. Clay on the Annexation of Texas, a 
 publication that for the time averted the threat- 
 ened wrong. In 1837 Lovejoy fell a martyr while 
 defending his press at Alton, Illinois. Channing, 
 with other citizens, demanded Faneuil Hall, Bos- 
 ton, for a public meeting in defense of the violated 
 liberty of the press. It was refused by the city 
 authorities, from fear of the mob ; he wrote an 
 appeal to the citizens through the newspapers, so 
 indignantly eloquent that the authorities had to 
 yield, and the ancient echoes of liberty were again 
 awakened within those revered and consecrated 
 walls. He continued his interest in this great 
 movement till the last ; his last public effort was 
 made against slavery. 
 
 Authorship with Channing was quite fortuitous. 
 He was singularly indifferent to literary fame, and 
 perhaps no man ever felt less anxiety about the se- 
 verities of criticism. He had, in fact, a high moral 
 purpose in all he wrote ; a purpose that rendered him 
 superior to the usual motives of literary ambition. 
 He never read the eulogistic review of his works in 
 the Westminster Quarterly, though it was several 
 times in his hands ; and the severe, if not malicious, 
 criticisms of Hazlitt and Lord Brougham in the 
 Edinburgh were equally neglected. This was not 
 
Channing— Heresy and Reform. 339 
 
 an affected indifference; no one knew the fact till 
 he mentioned it to Dr. Dewey, as " a piece of se- 
 cret history known to no other person, and which he 
 wished not to be known." " I have felt," he said, 
 " that the less I read about myself the better." 
 The publication of his occasional sermons was 
 owing to the solicitations of his hearers. His ar- 
 ticles on Milton, Napoleon, and F^nelon, that first 
 brought him prominently before the literary world, 
 were written with no expectation of their extraor- 
 dinary success, but for the purpose of giving a more 
 varied and elevated tone to the " Christian Exam- 
 iner," which he had been mainly instrumental in 
 starting, as an organ of the new Unitarian move- 
 ment. His subsequent publications were sermons, 
 addresses, and lectures on practical questions, essays 
 on slavery and on other philanthropic subjects. He 
 projected an elaborate work on " Man," but had 
 only prepared four or five chapters when death 
 closed his labors. 
 
 Having done the best he could in these writings 
 for the practical purpose before him, he not only 
 disregarded all mere criticism upon them, but sel- 
 dom recurred to them in his thoughts. He had, 
 indeed, an almost morbid repugnance to review his 
 own productions. ** I have," he says, *' something 
 of the nature of the inferior animals in regard to 
 my literary offspring. When once they have taken 
 flight, I cast them off, and have no need of further 
 
340 Character-Sketches. * 
 
 acquaintance." A charitable desire to aid a friend 
 was the motive which induced him to pubHsh his 
 first volume of Miscellanies in 1830; a similar mo- 
 tive led to the publication of a second volume ; and 
 at last the complete edition of his works in six 
 volumes was prepared for the benevolent purpose 
 of furthering the business of a brother. But, 
 though not designedly an author, his literary rep- 
 utation, especially in Europe, is scarcely paralleled 
 by that of any other American writer of his day. 
 He possessed the best elements of a successful 
 writer — poetic temperament combined with the 
 philosophic genius, and a style of remarkable trans- 
 parency and power. His critique on Milton is a 
 splendid estimate of the great Puritan bard, and 
 has been placed by an English writer above that of 
 Macaulay ; his article on Napoleon is one of the 
 most sternly just dissections of the moral man ever 
 made ; the terrible criminality of the despot is 
 brought out in such contrast with his vast powers 
 as to appqjlj^ the reader. The false glare of mar- 
 tial and imperial splendor is extinguished ; and the 
 Great Captain stands forth before the world solely 
 in his moral responsibility. The paper on Fenelon 
 is an admirable one, and in it Channing uncon- 
 sciously painted his own exalted character. 
 
 His style has rare excellencies, but has faults 
 also. He repeats and expands too much, and an 
 attenuation of his thoughts is often the result. 
 
Channing— Heresy and Reform. 341 
 
 Still he seldom becomes tame; his sentences al- 
 ways retain their silvery brightness, even when 
 drawn out to great tenuity. His style may be 
 compared to a tissue of silver wire, woven most 
 uniformly, but ever and anon incrusted with gold 
 or studded with gems. The pure moral element 
 of his character, of which we have repeatedly 
 spoken, is, above all, the luminous characteristic 
 of his writings. Large moral views, renovating 
 thoughts, meet you at almost every page ; they 
 penetrate and palpitate in the soul of the reader. 
 This was Channing's power, and this is the highest 
 power; this, when accompanied, as it was in him, 
 with poetic beauty and rare felicity of diction, forms 
 the highest example of genius. 
 
 We have thus far contemplated Channing chiefly 
 in his relations to public life — as theologian, 
 preacher, philanthropist, and author. His more 
 private or personal character was one of exceeding 
 beauty. His childhood was blooming and buoy- 
 ant, and marked by many generous traits. The 
 following quotation speaks significantly for his 
 boyhood : " Thanks to my stars, I can say I never 
 killed a bird. I would not crush the meanest in- 
 sect that crawls upon the ground. They have the 
 same right to life that I have — they receive from 
 the same Father, and I will not mar the works of God 
 by wanton cruelty." While at college, the moral 
 strength of his character was shown in his entire 
 
342 Character-Sketches. 
 
 preservation from the immoralities then prevalent 
 around him. His fellow-collegian, Judge White, 
 says : *' His wisdom, goodness, and sanctity, as well 
 as his genius and intellectual powers, were strongly 
 developed ; and I began to feel in his company, 
 what only increased upon me afterward, a mingled 
 affection and respect, approaching to awe, which 
 the presence of no other man ever inspired in the 
 same degree." This feeling of awe was not uncom- 
 mon among his friends, notwithstanding his child- 
 like simplicity and Christian meekness. Dewey 
 compares it to the reverence entertained for Wash- 
 ington, which kept his most intimate camp associ- 
 ates from laying the hand upon his shoulder, or 
 using with him any similar familiarity. It was, in 
 Channing's case, the effect of a certain moral dig- 
 nity, nay, sanctity, that attracted while it awed ; 
 you felt, notwithstanding his kindly ease, that you 
 were in the presence of a rare man, whose mental 
 and moral superiority humbled you with a humil- 
 ity most salutary and cordial. 
 
 There was little or no humor in his otherwise 
 genial temperament ; but he appreciated it in oth- 
 ers, especially if it were not sarcastic. No man in 
 Boston better appreciated Edward T. Taylor — that 
 remarkable character who was so long one of the 
 celebrities of the city ; whom Emerson pronounced 
 the greatest natural poet yet produced by the New 
 World ; who was as much an orator as a poet ; 
 
Channing — Heresy and Reform. 343 
 
 who could hardly speak, in public or private, with- 
 out dropping from his lips precious pearls — singu- 
 larly beautiful tropes, brilliant epigrams, happy 
 phrases — often as rich in wisdom as in beauty. 
 Taylor had exquisite politeness, manners which 
 would have graced a court ; yet he was the most 
 pungent of colloquial satirists ; but he seldom or 
 never ventured a sarcasm in the presence of Chan- 
 ning. He was not restrained by fear, for, like John 
 Knox, ** he never feared the face of man ; " but his 
 sensitive heart loved Channing with a woman's 
 idolatry, and he caught his sweet spirit whenever 
 he approached him. There were two men that 
 Taylor felt sure of meeting in heaven, should he 
 get there himself; they were his old Methodist 
 Bishop Hedding, and his venerated " heretic '* 
 friend Channing — the ** angelic heretic," as he 
 called him. Taylor was, perhaps, the greatest hu- 
 morist of his day in New England, and we doubt 
 whether Channing enjoyed more the conversation 
 of any other man. 
 
 When settled as pastor, in Boston, Channing was. 
 still unmarried ; he moved into the parsonage, and, 
 by the pretext of needing his mother's care, con- 
 trived to bring her and most of her family under 
 his protection. During her long life his relations to 
 her formed one of the most beautiful pictures of 
 filial affection on record. He married his cousin, a 
 lady of wealth, in his thirty-fourth year, and thence- 
 
344 Character-Sketches. 
 
 forward enjoyed life with constantly increasing de- 
 light. His mother-in-law's country residence on 
 Rhode Island became his home during most of 
 each summer — a home suppHed with every thing 
 that could contribute to the gratification of culti- 
 vated taste, and surrounded by some of the finest 
 scenery and the blandest summer atmosphere of 
 New England. It was here that he composed his 
 most important works, meditating them under the 
 tranquilizing influence of woodland walks and 
 serene landscapes. It was his delight to gather 
 around him, in the rural homestead, happy groups 
 of children ; he loved their confiding innocence and 
 joy, and they never felt in his presence the awe 
 with which his elevation inspired older persons : 
 " A little child during one of these visits threw her- 
 self into the arms of an elder friend, and, smiling 
 through her tears, exclaimed, ' O, this is heaven ! ' 
 so affected was she by the atmosphere of love 
 which he diffused. And a young girl wrote, ' He 
 welcomed me with a kindness that took away all 
 fear— a kindness that I felt I might trust forever ; 
 for it was like that which must belong to spirits in 
 eternity. His daily life is illuminated by a holiness 
 that makes his actions as impulsive and as peace- 
 ful as a child's ; it is a happiness to be in his 
 presence.* '* 
 
 He entertained a most delicate and exalted ap- 
 preciation of woman ; her influence he considered 
 
Channing— Heresy and Reform. 345 
 
 the chief conservative element of modern civili- 
 zation. Ladies distinguished in literature were 
 among his correspondents; and his letters to Lydia 
 Maria Child, Felicia Hemans, Joanna Baillie, Har- 
 riet Martineau, etc., are among the best indications 
 of his character. He believed that society should 
 secure more fully the rights of the sex, and he 
 practically carried out the opinion that married 
 women should have absolute control of the prop- 
 erty they possessed before marriage. 
 
 With his fine sensibility was contrasted a daunt- 
 less moral courage. We can hardly conceive that 
 it were possible for him to be intimidated in the 
 performance of any known duty. He appeared in 
 the antislavery contest when he was at the height 
 of his reputation ; when the intelligence and fashion 
 of Boston united in paying him homage; and when 
 his fellow-citizens, especially among the higher 
 classes, were prepared to see in this step only an 
 astounding absurdity, a public self-degradation. 
 Many old friends stood aloof from him after that 
 best appeal which he could make to their respect. 
 But he murmured not ; he held on his course, grow- 
 ing more serene and strong in spirit as his years 
 advanced, till at last the reaction of public opinion 
 on the subject of slavery began to turn all generous 
 hearts admiringly toward him. Good men, under 
 their new and indignant convictions of this heinous 
 national wrong, would weep in the public assembly 
 
34^ Character-Sketches. 
 
 at an allusion to his sublime self-sacrifice. The 
 ingenuous youth of Boston, including many of her 
 old historic names — her Phillipses, Quinceys, Sum- 
 ners, Adamses, Bowditches, Sewels, etc. — caught 
 the inspiration of his courage, and followed in his 
 footsteps ; for he had molded their moral charac- 
 ters by his preaching and writings. 
 
 The time of Channing's public life in Boston was 
 one of the most remarkable periods in its history. 
 The social, political, and intellectual fermentation 
 ,that prevailed there, especially during the second 
 quarter of the century, reminds us of Athens under 
 Pericles. The greatest men of the New England 
 Athens were then extant, and in their fullest en- 
 ergy. The people, well trained in the common 
 schools, enthusiastically crowded Faneuil Hall, the 
 Odeon, Tremont Temple, to hear John Quincy 
 Adams, Judge Story, Webster, Everett, Winthrop, 
 and Choate. The pulpit was powerful ; the elder 
 Beecher, a very Hercules in polemics, thundered 
 his orthodoxy in one quarter ; Channing announced 
 new opinions and attracted, by high discourse, 
 throngs of dite minds, young and old, in another; 
 young Parker startled all the city and its vicinity 
 by his daring speculations. Meanwhile Father 
 Taylor was, perhaps, the most popular of its pul- 
 pit orators ; his chapel was thronged, not only 
 by his sailors, but by people of culture who could 
 not resist the fascination of his natural eloquence, 
 
Channing— Heresy and Reform. 347 
 
 but wept under his pathos, and wondered at his 
 wit and wisdom. The humble pulpit of the old 
 mariner was a very throne of power, and his cor- 
 rugated face, weather-beaten on the seas, glowed 
 with a marvelous beauty and majesty as he swayed 
 the subdued multitudes at his will. Noted for- 
 eigners, sojourning in the city, must all go to hear 
 him ; and some of them, like Harriet Martineau, 
 Dickens, etc., must describe him in their books, as 
 its intellectual phenomenon. Not far off, young 
 Emerson propounds his theological difficulties, 
 abdicates his pulpit, and takes to the lecture desk 
 to initiate a philosophy which sets the whole com- 
 munity astir with wonder and debate; Alcott and 
 Margaret Fuller join him, and the Dial with its 
 Orphic Sayings appears. The famous Roxbury 
 experiment in Socialism is made, and fails. The 
 Lowell Institute begins its lecture courses; the 
 Lyceum, or Lecture System, is started, and soon 
 extends over all the Northern States. Lowell 
 Mason, with his friend, Webb, introduces a new 
 epoch in musical taste, especially in sacred music, 
 which extends over New England, and at last 
 over the nation ; the Handel and Haydn Society 
 springs into enthusiastic life, and familiarizes the 
 people with the best masters of the art. AUston 
 returns from Europe, crowned with artistic fame, 
 to charm, by his urbanity and fine culture, the 
 social circles of Cambridge and themfiUjijjnljs. and 
 
348 Character-Sketches. 
 
 to kindle the artistic ambition of their youth. The 
 elder Dana still remains, a social and a literary 
 power ; the younger Dana makes his famous voyage 
 before the mast and prepares for his literar>' and 
 antislavery career. Meanwhile a host of young 
 authors, reformers, and statesmen begin to appear 
 on the scene. Young Hawthorne writes his tenta- 
 tive but brilliant stories at Salem, and soon be- 
 comes a Bostonian; young Thoreau begins his 
 strange dreams; young Lowell, young Whittier, 
 young Holmes, young Longfellow — alas, that we 
 can no longer call them young! — begin to sing. 
 Prescott and Motley are preparing for their suc- 
 cessful careers as historians. Garrison publishes 
 his " Liberator; " Sumner, Phillips, Charles Francis 
 Adams, Dana, Quincy, Wilson, Banks, Horace Mann 
 — most of therri still in the freshness of youth — 
 plunge into the antislavery, the ** irrepressible con- 
 flict," which soon revolutionizes the politics of the 
 State, and at last regenerates the nation, though it 
 be by the baptism of fire and of blood. 
 
 Most of these young men began their remarkable 
 careers in Channing's day ; a few of them soon after 
 his death ; all of them were formed by the influ- 
 ences of that period. A wonderful time was it for 
 the New England metropolis ; Boston has never 
 seen a greater day. Channing moved, amid its 
 stirring events, a calm but potent actor in the best 
 of them. He was not to see the completion of the 
 
Channing — Heresy and Reform. 349 
 
 new era ; he saw its glory dawning all around him. 
 He was to be taken away from it to a higher re- 
 ward ; yet one more effort must be made for 
 liberty. On the first of August, 1842, he delivered 
 at Lenox his last public address ; it was in com- 
 memoration of West Indian emancipation ; he was 
 too feeble to utter the whole of it, but threw his 
 last strength into its splendid peroration. Mrs. 
 Sedgwick, who heard him, says that ** his counte- 
 nance was full of spiritual beauty; and when he 
 uttered that beautiful invocation toward the close 
 of his address — which would not have been more 
 characteristic or fitting had he known that he 
 should never again speak in public — he looked like 
 one inspired." The effort exhausted him ; it was 
 his final and fitting service to his country and his 
 age ; and thus descended this great light : " On 
 Sunday, October 2, as he heard the bells ring, he 
 said to us, * Now go to church.' * It is a part of 
 our religion, dear sir, to nurse the sick and aid our 
 friends.* 'True,* he replied, 'you may stay.' He 
 asked us to read to him from the New Testament. 
 'From what part?' 'From the Sermon on the 
 Mount.* As we closed the Lord's Prayer, he looked 
 up, with a most expressive smile, and said, ' That 
 will do now ; I find that I am too much fatigued to 
 hear more. I take comfort, (9, the greatest comfort, 
 from these words. They are full of the divine spirit 
 of our religion.* In the afternoon he spoke very 
 
350 Character-Sketches. 
 
 earnestly, but in a hollow whisper. I bent forward ; 
 but the only words I could distinctly hear were, * I 
 have received many messages from the Spirit.' As 
 the day decHned his countenance fell, and he grew 
 fainter and fainter. With our aid he turned him- 
 self toward the window, which looked, over valleys 
 and wooded summits, to the east. We drew back 
 the curtains, and the light fell upon his face. The 
 sun had just set ; the clouds and sky were bright 
 with gold and crimson. He breathed more and 
 more gently, and, without a struggle or a sigh, the 
 body fell asleep. We knew not when the spirit 
 passed. Amid the glory of autumn, at an hour 
 hallowed by his devout associations, on the day 
 consecrated to the memory of the risen Christ, and 
 looking eastward, as if in the setting sun's reflected 
 light he saw promises of a brighter morning, he was 
 taken home." 
 
 His remains were brought to Boston, and com- 
 mitted to the grave amid the mourning of all 
 classes and parties. As the procession moved from 
 the church, the bell of the Catholic cathedral 
 tolled his knell — a fact never perhaps paralleled 
 before in the history of Romanism. 
 
 And so departed one of the great men of the 
 Republic — one who, amid its servility to mammon 
 and to slavery, ceased not to recall it to the sense 
 of honor and duty — a man whose memory hia 
 countrymen will not willingly let die. As the 
 
Channing — Heresy and Reform. 351 
 
 visitor wanders among the shaded aisles of the 
 western part of Mount Auburn, he sees a massive 
 monument of marble designed by Allston, the 
 poet-painter. Generous and brave men, from what- 
 ever clime, resort to it, and go from it more gen- 
 erous and brave, for there reposes the great and the 
 good man whom we have commemorated. The 
 early beams, intercepted by neighboring heights, 
 fall not upon the spot ; but the light of high noon, 
 and the later and benigner rays of the day, play 
 through the foliage in dazzling gleams upon the 
 marble — a fitting emblem of his fame : for when 
 the later and better light which is yet to bless our 
 desolate race shall come, it will fall with bright 
 illustration on the character of this rare man, and 
 on the exalted aims of his life. 
 
352 Character-Sketches. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 WESLEY — APOSTLESHIP. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTH EY wrote our most enter- 
 taining, if not our most satisfactory, life of 
 John Wesley. We are inclined to pronounce it the 
 best of all his prose works, notwithstanding the 
 classic rank usually awarded to his life of Nelson. 
 Coleridge read it many times with ever-increasing 
 interest, and annotated it, affirming that when, 
 through illness or ennui, he could read nothing else, 
 its romantic pages never failed to delight him. South- 
 ey's theory of the Great Methodistic Movement 
 was fallacious, as he subsequently acknowledged ; 
 Wesley's followers have never liked his book ; but 
 no scholar among them, ,who is familiar with their 
 history and literature, can fail to be astonished at 
 the almost absolute thoroughness of his research, 
 and the equal accuracy of his data. In a private 
 letter to Wilberforce, Southey wrote : " I consider 
 Wesley as the most influential mind of the last 
 century — the man who will have produced the 
 greatest effects centuries, or perhaps millenniums, 
 hence, if the present race of men should continue 
 so long" — and that was the century in which 
 lived Frederick the Great, Washington, Napoleon, 
 
Wesley— Apostleship. 353 
 
 Newton, Goethe, Voltaire, and not a few other his- 
 torical men. 
 
 On February 23, 1 79 1, Wesley preached his last 
 sermon ; and it has been remarked that " on that 
 day fell from his dying grasp a trumpet of the truth 
 which had sounded the everlasting Gospel oftener 
 and more effectually than that of any other man 
 for sixteen hundred years." The Reformers of 
 Germany, Switzerland, France, and England wrought 
 their great work more by the pen than by the 
 voice. It has been admitted that Whitefield 
 preached more eloquently, with few exce|)tion^ to 
 larger assemblies, and traveled more*^xtensively 
 (though not more miles) than Wesley, within the 
 same limits of time ; but Wesley survived him more 
 than twenty years, and his power has been more pro- 
 ductive and more permanent. Whitefield preached 
 eighteen thousand sermons — more than ten a week 
 for his thirty-four years of ministerial life. Wesley 
 preached forty-two thousand four hundred after 
 his return from Georgia — more than fifteen a week. 
 His public life, ending on February 23, 1791, stands 
 out in the history of the world unquestionably pre- 
 eminent in religious labors above that of any other 
 man since the apostolic age. 
 
 In reading the history of such a man we linger 
 
 over the record with eager questions — What is the 
 
 explanation of this anomalous life? How did he 
 
 achieve his incomparable labors? What were the 
 28 
 
354 Character-Sketches. 
 
 distinctive attributes of his character? Whence 
 was his power ? 
 
 Contemplated in almost any one of its phases, 
 the life of Wesley appears unusual, if not great ; but 
 considered as a whole, its symmetrical complete- 
 ness is almost a pecuHarity in the history of dis- 
 tinguished men ; for how seldom do we find, in the 
 biographies of such men, that any great life-plan 
 has been conclusively achieved — achieved in such 
 manner as to complete their own anticipations, and 
 not to leave to the precarious agency of their suc- 
 cessors the task of fulfilling their designs, or of 
 repairing their failures? Wesley not only saw 
 the initiation of the Methodistic movement, but 
 conducted it through the successive and critical 
 gradations of its development, and lived to see it 
 at last an organic, a settled and permanent system, 
 in the Old World and in the New, with a thoroughly 
 organized ministry, a well-defined and well-defended 
 theology, the richest psalmody then known to En- 
 glish Protestantism, a considerable literature, not 
 of the highest order, but therefore the better 
 adapted to his numerous people, and a scheme of 
 ecclesiastical discipline which time has proved to 
 be the most effective known beyond the limits of 
 the papal Church. By his episcopal organization 
 of his American societies, and the legal settlement 
 of his English Conference, he saw his great plan in 
 a sense completed ; it could be committed to the 
 
Wesley— Apostleship. 355 
 
 contingencies of the future, to work out its ap- 
 pointed functions ; and, after those two great events, 
 he was permitted to Hve long enough to control 
 any incidental disturbances that might attend their 
 first operations, and to pass through a healthful, 
 serene conclusion of his long life — a life which the 
 philosopher must pronounce singularly successful 
 and fortunate, the Christian singularly providential. 
 He not only outlived all the various uncertainties 
 of his great work; he outlived the prolonged and 
 fierce hostilities which had assailed it ; the sus- 
 picions and slanders which had been rife against 
 himself personally; and died at last universally ven- 
 erated, without pain, without disease, in his bed at 
 his own home, at the head-quarters of his success- 
 ful cause, and with the prayers and benedictions of 
 the second and third generations of his people. 
 
 And this life, so fortunate in its rare complete- 
 ness, was still more remarkable for its manifold as- 
 pects. Wesley seemed to be conducting at once 
 the usual lives of three or four men, if indeed 
 the word usual can be applied to any one depart- 
 ment of his life. In either his literary labors or his 
 travels, his functions as an ecclesiastical legislator 
 and administrator, or his labors as an evangelist or 
 preacher, he has seldom been surpassed ; and a his- 
 torian of Methodism hardly makes a questionable 
 assertion, when he affirms that a man of more ex- 
 traordinary character probably never lived upon this 
 
356 Character-Sketches. 
 
 earth ; that his travels, his studies, or his ministerial 
 labors were each more than sufficient for any ordi- 
 nary man ; that few men could have endured to 
 travel so much as he did, without either reading, 
 writing, or preaching; that few could have endured 
 to preach as often as he did, supposing they had 
 neither traveled nor written books; and that very 
 few men could have written and published so many 
 books as he did, though they had always avoided 
 both preaching and traveling. 
 
 He possessed in an eminent degree one trait of a 
 master mind — the power of comprehending and 
 managing at once the outlines and the details of 
 plans. It is this power that forms the philosoph- 
 ical genius in science ; it is essential to the success- 
 ful commander and the great statesman. It is 
 illustrated in the whole economical system of 
 Methodism — a system which, while it fixes itself to 
 the smallest locality with the utmost tenacity, is 
 sufficiently general in its provisions to reach the 
 ends of the world, and still maintain its unity of 
 spirit and discipline. 
 
 No man knew better than Wesley the import- 
 ance of small things. His whole financial system 
 was based on weekly penny collections ; and it was 
 a rule of himself and his preachers never to omit a 
 single preaching appointment, except from invinci- 
 ble necessity. He was the first to apply extensive- 
 ly the plan of tract distribution. He wrote, printed, 
 
Wesley— Apostleship. 357 
 
 and scattered over the kingdom, pamphlets and 
 placards on almost every topic of morals and relig- 
 ion. In addition to the usual services of the 
 Church, he introduced the band-meeting, the class- 
 meeting, the prayer-meeting, the love-feast, the 
 watch-night, the quarterly meeting, and the annual 
 conference. Not content with his itinerant labor- 
 ers, he called into use the less available powers of 
 his people by establishing the departments of local 
 preachers, exhorters, and leaders. It was, in fine, 
 by gathering together fragments, by combining 
 minutiae, that he formed that powerful system of 
 spiritual means which is transcending all others in 
 the evangelization of the world. 
 
 Equally minute was he in his personal habits. 
 Moore, his biographer and companion at City 
 Road, says that the utmost neatness and simplicity 
 were manifest in every circumstance of his life ; 
 that in his chamber and study, during his winter 
 months of residence in London, not a book was 
 misplaced, or even a scrap of paper left unheeded ; 
 that he could enjoy every convenience of life and 
 yet acted in the smallest thing like a man who was 
 not to continue an hour in one place; that he ap- 
 peared at home in every place, settled, satisfied, 
 and happy ; and yet was ready any hour to take a 
 journey of a thousand miles. 
 
 It was not only in the theoretical construction of 
 plans that Wesley excelled, if indeed he paused at 
 
35vS Character-Sketches. 
 
 all to theorize about plans; but he was pre-emi- 
 nently distinguished by the practical energy with 
 which he prosecuted the great variety of his labors. 
 Their history would be absolutely incredible with 
 less authentic evidence than that which attests it. 
 He was perpetually traveling and preaching, study- 
 ing and writing, translating and abridging, superin- 
 tending his societies, and applying his great con- 
 ceptions. He traveled usually four thousand five 
 hundred miles a year, and this itineracy, at the 
 rate of more than the circumference of the globe 
 every six years, was pursued on horseback down 
 to nearly his seventieth year — preaching two, three, 
 and sometimes four sermons a day, commencing at 
 five o'clock in the morning ; and in all this inces- 
 sant traveling and preaching he carried with him 
 the studious and meditative habits of the philoso- 
 pher. Scarcely a department of literature or scien- 
 tific inquiry escaped his attention. 
 
 Like Luther, he knew the importance of the 
 press ; he kept it teeming with his publications, 
 and his itinerant preachers were good agents for 
 their circulation. His works, including abridg- 
 ments and translations, amounted to about two 
 hundred volumes. They comprise treatises on 
 almost every subject of divinity, on poetry, music, 
 history; natural, moral, metaphysical, and polit- 
 ical philosophy. He wrote, as he preached, ad 
 populum ; and he was not only the original leader, 
 
Wlslev — ArosTLEsiiiP. 359 
 
 but the author, of those plans which have become 
 ■J. feature of our times for the popular diffusion of 
 knowledge. 
 
 Unlike most men who are given to various exer- 
 tions and many plans, he was accurate and profound. 
 He was an adept in classical literature and the use 
 of the classical tongues ; his writings are adorned 
 with their finest passages. He was familiar with 
 a number of modern languages; his own style is 
 one of the best examples of strength and perspicuity 
 among English writers. He seems to have been 
 ready on almost every subject of learning and gen- 
 eral literature ; as a logician, he was remarkably 
 acute and decisive, famous in his college at Oxford 
 for technical logic. 
 
 He was but little addicted to those vicissitudes 
 of temper which characterize imaginative minds. 
 His temperament was warm, but not fiery. His in- 
 tellect never appears inflamed, but always glowing 
 — a serene radiance. His immense labors were 
 accomplished, not by the impulses of restless en- 
 thusiasm, but by the cool calculation of his plans, 
 and the steady self-possession with which he pur- 
 sued them. I He habitually exemplified his favor- 
 ite maxim : "Always in haste, but never in a 
 hurry." "I have not time," he said, *' to be in a 
 hurry." He was as economical of his time as a 
 miser could be of his gold ; rising at four o'clock 
 in the morning, and allotting to every hour its 
 
360 Character-Sketches. 
 
 appropriate work. " Leisure and I," he wrote, 
 " have taken leave of each other." Fletcher of 
 Madeley said of him : '' Though oppressed with the 
 weight of near seventy years, and the care of near 
 thirty thousand souls, he shames still, by his un- 
 abated zeal and immense labors, all the young min- 
 isters of England, perhaps of Christendom. He has 
 generally blown the gospel trump, and rode twenty 
 miles, before most of the professors who despise his 
 labors have left their downy pillows. As he begins 
 the day, the week, the year, so he concludes them, 
 still intent upon extensive services for the glory of 
 the Redeemer and the good of souls." Such, how- 
 ever, was the happy distribution of his time, that, 
 amid a multiplicity of engagements that would 
 distract an ordinary man, he declares there were 
 few persons who spent so many hours in studious 
 solitude as himself. And it has justly been re- 
 marked, that one wonder of his character was the 
 self-control by which he preserved himself calm, 
 while he kept all in excitement around him. 
 
 Like most remarkable men who have reached 
 old age, Wesley was careful in his physical habits. 
 Though of feeble constitution, his regularity, sus- 
 tained through such great exertions and vicissitudes, 
 produced a vigor and equanimity which are seldom 
 the accompaniments of a laborious mind or of a 
 distracted life. And often did he declare that he 
 had not felt lowness of spirits one quarter of an 
 
Wesley— Apostleship. 361 
 
 hour since he was born ; that ten thousand cares 
 were no more weight to his mind than ten thou- 
 sand hairs to his head ; and that he never lost a 
 night's sleep in his life before his seventieth 
 year. 
 
 One of the noblest spectacles in human life is the 
 sight of an old man sustaining his career of action 
 or of endurance, to the last, with an unwavering 
 spirit. Such was Wesley. He sought no repose 
 till death. Activity was the normal condition of 
 happiness to him, as it must be to all healthful 
 minds. After the eightieth year of his age he 
 visited Holland twice. At the end of his eighty- 
 second he wrote, " I am never tired with writing, 
 preaching, or traveling." The scene of his preach- 
 ing under trees which he had planted himself at 
 Kingswood, and when most of his old disciples 
 there were dead, their children's children sur- 
 rounded him, has perhaps no parallel in history. 
 He outlived most of his first preachers, and stood 
 up, mighty in intellect and labors, amid the second 
 and third generations of his people ; and it is 
 affecting to trace him through his latter years, 
 when persecution had subsided, and he was every- 
 where received as a patriarch, sometimes exciting, 
 by his arrival in towns and cities, an interest such 
 as the king himself would produce. He attracted 
 the largest assemblies which have been congregated 
 for religious instruction in modern ages, being esti- 
 
^f2 Character-Sketches. 
 
 mated sometimes at more than thirty thousand. 
 Great physically, intellectually, and morally, when 
 at length he died, in the eighty-eighth year of his 
 age and sixty-fourth of his ministry, he was be- 
 yond question one of the most extraordinary men 
 of history. 
 
 He lived to see Methodism spread through 
 Great Britain, America, and the West India Isl- 
 ands. Hundreds of traveling, thousands of local 
 preachers, and tens of thousands of followers, were 
 connected with him at his death. And how 
 have they multiplied since! In our day they re- 
 port about five million of communicants, twenty 
 million of adherents. The epitaph of Sir Christo- 
 pher Wren, in St. Paul's Cathedral, the work of his 
 own genius, is applicable to Wesley's memory in 
 almost all the Protestant world : " Do you ask for 
 his monument ? Look around you.*' 
 
 Such was the life of Wesley in its outlines; a 
 minute examination of his traits can only confirm 
 these more striking characteristics. 
 
 As a preacher he remains a problem to us. It is 
 well nigh impossible to explain, at this remote day, 
 the secret of his great power in the pulpit, apart 
 from the divine influence that is pledged to all 
 faithful ministers. Whitefield may be considered 
 the chief model, if not the founder, of that popular 
 and powerful hortatory preaching that, since his 
 day, has been characteristic of Methodism, and 
 
Wesley— Apostleship. 363 
 
 which ^as still in our day thundered along its great 
 American circuits, and shaken the vast multitudes 
 of its assemblies in the wilderness and in its camp- 
 meetings. Charles Wesley, Fletcher, and many 
 others of the early Methodist preachers, were good 
 examples of it — men of emotion, of passion, of tears, 
 and of native eloquence. Wesley, perspicuous, log- 
 ical, peculiarly self-possessed and calm, was never- 
 theless more powerful than any of them in the 
 influence of his discourses on both the sensibilities 
 and the understandings of his hearers. The marvel- 
 ous physical effects which attended the first Meth- 
 odist preaching began earlier, and were more fre- 
 quent, under his discourses than under Whitefield's. 
 They continued, more or less, till the end of his 
 career. There must have been some peculiar power 
 in his address which the records of the times have 
 failed to describe ; something more than what we 
 can infer from the descriptions of those who heard 
 him, and who tell us that his attitude in the pulpit 
 was graceful and easy; his action calm and natural, 
 yet pleasing and expressive ; his voice not loud, 
 but clear, agreeable, and masculine ; his style cor- 
 rect and perspicuous. 
 
 The obviously great character of the man, and 
 the prestige of his singular career, doubtless gave 
 authority to his word, so that his hearers felt as 
 did Beattie, who heard him at Aberdeen, and who 
 remarked, after one of his ordinary discourses, that 
 
364 Character-Sketches. 
 
 "it was not a masterly sermon, yet none but a mas- 
 ter could have preached it ; " but before he had any 
 such prestige, his calm power in the pulpit was as 
 extraordinary as at any later period. The stoutest 
 hearts quailed before him ; the most hardened men 
 sank to the earth overwhelmed ; infuriated mobs 
 retreated, or oftener yielded, acknowledging the 
 magic of his word ; and their leaders, shouting in 
 his defense above the din of the tumult, conducted 
 him safely and in triumph to his lodgings. There 
 was a trait of military coolness and command in his 
 manner at times, which reminds us of his name- 
 sake,"^ the greatest captain of his country. It is 
 doubtful whether, like Whitefield or Charles Wes- 
 ley, he wept much in preaching ; he exhorted and 
 entreated, but he mostly spoke as '' one having 
 authority " from God. Hence the effectiveness of 
 his rebukes, as often recorded in his Journals. " Be 
 silent or be gone," he cried once to a party of 
 papists in Ireland, who interrupted his services, 
 " and their noise ceased." "A few gentry " dis- 
 turbed one of his assemblies ; he ** rebuked them 
 openly, and they stood corrected." " I rebuked 
 him sharply," he writes of a certain character, *' and 
 he was ashamed." In a brilliant congregation, 
 among whom were honorable and right honorable 
 persons," he says, " I felt they were given into my 
 
 * Wellington was of the same ancestry, and their names were 
 criminally the same. 
 
Wesley— Apostleship. 365 
 
 hands, for God was in the midst of us." At times, 
 however, there was mixed with this authoritative 
 power an overwhelming pathos. In the midst of a 
 mob ** I called," he writes, " for a chair ; the winds 
 were hushed, and all was calm ; my heart was filled 
 with love, my eyes with tears, my mouth with ar- 
 guments. They were amazed, they were ashamed, 
 they were melted down, they devoured every word," 
 That must have been genuine eloquence. 
 
 His Journals continually afford examples of his 
 power over his opponents. On entering one of his 
 congregations he meets a man who refuses to return 
 his bow, or to kneel during the prayer, or to stand 
 during the singing ; but under the sermon his coun- 
 tenance changes ; soon he turns his face abashed to 
 the wall ; he stands at the second hymn, kneels at 
 the second prayer, and as Wesley goes out catches 
 him by the hand, and takes leave of him ''with a 
 hearty blessing." As he approaches an out-door 
 assembly, in another place, " a huge man " runs 
 fully against him ; he repeats the insult with oaths, 
 and, pressing furiously through the crowd, plants 
 himself close by the preacher. Before the close 
 of the sermon his countenance changes; soon he 
 takes off his hat, and when Wesley concludes, 
 seizes his hand, ** presses it earnestly, and goes 
 away quiet as a lamb." He was once accosted 
 in Moorfields by a drunkard who could hardly 
 stand. Wesley conversed with him and gave him 
 
366 Character-Sketches. 
 
 his tract called, ** A Word to a Drunkard." '' Sir, 
 sir," he stammered, " I am wrong ; I know I am 
 wrong." He held Wesley by the hand for a full 
 half hour. '' I believe," says the latter, '' he got 
 drunk no more." In his prayers, as well as his ex- 
 hortations, was this singular power manifest. " As 
 we were concluding," he writes at Newcastle, " an 
 eminent backslider came into my mind, and I broke 
 out abruptly, " Lord, is Saul also among the proph- 
 ets? Is James Watson here? If he be, show thy 
 power!' Down dropped James Watson like a 
 stone, and began crying aloud." 
 
 The calm ministerial authority which so much 
 characterized him was not assumed ; it was the 
 spontaneous effect of a true and a natural courage. 
 Military men instinctively recognized it whenever 
 they came into his presence ; and soldiers were 
 among his most respectful hearers and enthusi- 
 astic admirers. Had he been a military leader 
 he would have been the cool, intrepid man in the 
 field that he was in the mob. It was not only 
 his maxim always " to face the mob," but he in- 
 variably kept his ground till he conquered it. 
 He was sometimes pelted, pushed, dragged by 
 clamorous thousands from village to village, in the 
 night, while the rain descended in a storm, and yet 
 as self-possessed " as if he were in his study ; " and 
 his calm voice, ringing in prayer above the noise, 
 silenced with awe the excited multitude, and con- 
 
Wesley— Apostlesiiip. 367 
 
 verted their leaders into defenders who safely de- 
 livered him. Such a man on a field of battle would 
 have courageously done whatever was to be done, 
 whether it were to lead a forlorn hope, to head a 
 charge, or, more difficult still, to conduct a perilous 
 retreat. It is doubtful whether John Wesley ever 
 felt, or could readily feel, the emotion of terror. 
 Such a susceptibility would seem to have been in- 
 compatible with his temperament. Not only in 
 mobs, when his life was at stake, but in sudden 
 and perilous accidents, he never lost his self-posses- 
 sion. As he was hastening through a narrow street 
 a cart swiftly turned into it ; he checked his horse, 
 but was *' shot over its head as an arrow from a 
 bow,** and lay with his arms and legs stretched 
 in a line close to the wall. The wheel grazed along 
 his side, soiling his clothes. " I found no flutter 
 of spirit," he says, " but the same composure as if 
 I had been sitting in my study." Trifles, so called, 
 often reveal the characters of great men better than 
 their most conspicuous deeds. The bending forest 
 shows the course of the storm, but straws show it 
 as well and more readily. 
 
 A fine humor pervaded the natureof Wesley, and 
 often gave striking readiness and pertinency to his 
 words. Thomas Walsh, one of his most learned 
 and most saintly preachers, was morbidly scrupu- 
 lous, and complained in a letter to him, that among 
 the "three or four persons that tempted" him to 
 
368 Character-Sketches. 
 
 kvity, ''you, sir, are one, by your witty proverbs." 
 Wesley's humor, however, enhanced the blandness 
 of his piety, and enabled him sometimes to convey 
 reproof in a manner that could hardly be resented 
 with ill temper. '* Michael Fenwick," he says, **was 
 often hindered from settling in business, because 
 God had other work for him to do. He is just 
 made to travel with me, being an excellent groom, 
 valet de chambre, nurse, and, upon occasion, a tol- 
 erable preacher." This good man one day was vain 
 enough to complain to him that, though constantly 
 traveling with him, his own name was never inserted 
 in Wesley's published Journals. In the next num- 
 ber of the Journals he found his egotism effectually 
 rebuked. " I left Epworth," wrote Wesley, " with 
 great satisfaction, and, about one, preached at 
 Clayworth. I think none were unmoved but Michael 
 Fenwick, who fell fast asleep under an adjoining 
 hay-rick." 
 
 He could be noble in his reproofs as in all things 
 else. Joseph Bradford was for many years his trav- 
 eling companion, and considered no assistance to 
 him too servile, but was subject to changes of tem- 
 per. Wesley directed him to carry a package of 
 letters to the post ; Bradford wished to hear his 
 sermon first. Wesley was urgent and insisted; 
 Bradford refused. "■ Then," said Wesley, " you and 
 I must part." " Very good, sir," replied Bradford. 
 They slept over it. On rising the next morning 
 
Wesley — Apostleship. 369 
 
 Wesley accosted his old friend and asked if he had 
 considered what he had said, that '' they must part ? '* 
 *' Yes, sir," replied Bradford. " And must we 
 part ? " inquired Wesley. ** Please yourself, sir," 
 was the reply. " Will you ask my pardon ? " rejoined 
 Wesley. "No, sir." ''You wont?" "No, sir." 
 *' Then I will ask yours ! " replied the great man. 
 Bradford melted under the example, and wept like 
 a child. 
 
 The aptness of Wesley's replies sometimes took 
 the form of severe repartee, but only when it was 
 deserved. "Sir," said a blustering, low-lived man, 
 w^ho attempted to push against him and throw him 
 down ; " sir, I never make way for a fool." " I 
 always do," replied Wesley, stepping aside and 
 calmly passing on. 
 
 In befitting circumstances, however, no man 
 could show more Christian meekness in the treat- 
 ment of offenses. At Dewsbury a person, full of 
 rage, pressed through the throng, and struck him 
 violently on the face with the palm of his hand. 
 Wesley, with tears in his eyes, recollecting the pre- 
 cept of Christ, turned to him the other cheek. His 
 assailant was awed by his example and slunk back 
 into the crowd ; he became a friend to the Method- 
 ists, and afterward imperiled his life to save one of 
 their chapels from being destroyed by fire. 
 
 No fact could better refute the imputation of 
 
 fanaticism to Wesley than the catholic spirit which 
 24 
 
3/0 Character-Sketches. 
 
 he so much enjoined and exempHfied ; for fanati- 
 cism is never charitable. His Journals show that 
 he early broke away from his High-Church exclu- 
 siveness ; that he looked back upon it with regretful 
 wonder, and that the progress of his self-develop- 
 ment in all charitable sentiments was steady and 
 benignant. In 1765 he wrote to his Calvinistic 
 friend Venn : " I desire to have a league, offensive 
 and defensive, with every soldier of Christ. We 
 have not only one faith, one hope, one Lord, but 
 are directly engaged in one warfare. We are car- 
 rying the war into the devil's own quarters, who, 
 therefore, summons all his hosts of war. Come, 
 then, ye that love God, to the help of the Lord, to 
 the help of the Lord against the mighty! I am 
 now well-nigh miles emeritus senex, sexagenarius ; 
 [an old soldier who has served out his time and is en- 
 titled to his discharge — a sexagenarian ;] yet I trust 
 to fight a little longer. Come and strengthen the 
 hands, till you supply the place, of your weak but 
 affectionate brother." 
 
 He rejoiced with justifiable pride in the liberal 
 terms of communion in his societies. " One cir- 
 cumstance more," he says, " is quite peculiar to 
 the people called Methodists ; that is, the terms 
 upon which any persons may be admitted into 
 their society. They do not impose, in order to 
 their admission, any opinions whatever. Let them 
 hold particular or general redemption, absolute or 
 
Wesley— Apostleship. 37 1 
 
 conditional decrees. . . . They think, and let others 
 tliink. One condition, and one only, is required — 
 a real desire to save their souls. Where this is, it 
 is enough: they desire no- more: they lay stress 
 upon nothing else : they ask only, ' Is thy heart 
 herein as my heart? if it be, give me thine hand.* 
 Is there," he adds, *' any other society in Great 
 Britain or Ireland that is so remote from bigotry? 
 that is so truly of a catholic spirit? so ready to 
 admit all serious persons without distinction ? 
 Where is there such another society in Europe? 
 in the habitable world? I know none. Let any 
 man show it me that can. Till then let no one 
 talk of the bigotry of the Methodists." 
 
 This he wrote no less than three years before his 
 death. In these latter years of his life he was 
 continually inculcating such sentiments among his 
 people ; he often took occasion in his public assem- 
 blies to expound formally this liberality of his 
 cause. When in his eighty-fifth year, preaching in 
 Glasgow, he says : " I subjoined a short account of 
 Methodism, particularly insisting on the circum- 
 stance — there is no other religious society under 
 heaven which requires nothing of men, in order to 
 their admission into it, but a desire to save their 
 souls. Look all around you, you cannot be ad- 
 mitted into the Church or society of the Presby- 
 terians, Anabaptists, Quakers, or any others, unless 
 you hold the same opinions with them, and adhere 
 
372 Character-Sketches. 
 
 to the same mode of worship. The Methodists 
 alone do not insist on your holding this or that 
 opinion. . . . Now, I do not know any other re- 
 ligious society, either ancient or modern, wherein 
 such liberty of conscience is now allowed, or has 
 been allowed, since the age of the apostles. Here 
 is our glorying, and a glorying peculiar to us. 
 What society shares it with us ? " 
 
 When eighty-six years old he still repeats the 
 noble boast. *' I returned to Redruth," he says, 
 and applied to the great congregation, ' God was 
 in Christ, reconciling the world unto himself.' I 
 then met the society, and explained at large the 
 rise and nature of Methodism ; and still aver I have 
 never read or heard of, either in ancient or modern 
 history, any other Church which builds on so broad 
 a foundation as the Methodists do ; which requires 
 of its members no conformity either in opinions or 
 modes of worship, but barely this one thing ; to fear 
 God and work righteousness." 
 
 His only restriction on opinions in his societies, 
 was that they should not be obtruded for discus- 
 sion or wrangling in their devotional meetings ; 
 not the creed of a man, but his moral conduct re- 
 specting it, was a question of discipline with primi- 
 tive Methodism. The possible results of such 
 liberality were once discussed in the Conference. 
 Wesley conclusively determined the debate by re- 
 marking : " I have no more right to object to a 
 
Wesley—Apostlesiup. 373 
 
 man for holding a different opinion from me, than 
 I have to differ with a man because he wears a wi<r 
 and I wear my own hair; but if he takes his wig 
 off", and begins to shake the powder about my eyes, 
 I shall consider it my duty to get quit of him as 
 soon as possible." 
 
 *' Is a man," he writes, " a believer in Jesus 
 Christ, and is his life suitable to his profession? are 
 not only the main, but the sole inquiries 1 make in 
 order to his admission into our society." He ab- 
 horred controversy, and seldom engaged in it when 
 it was not necessary in self-defense. *' How gladly," 
 he wrote to a friend, alluding to four simultaneous 
 publications against him, ** how gladly would I leave 
 all these to themselves and let them say just what 
 they please ! as my day is far spent, and my taste 
 for controversy is utterly lost and gone;" and at 
 another time he laments that he " had to spend 
 near ten minutes in controversy" in one of his 
 public assemblies ; more than " he had done in 
 public for many months, perhaps years, before." 
 
 Wesley was not only in advance of his own age 
 in this as in many other respects ; he was in advance 
 of ours. Many of his own people would now fear the 
 consequences of such unusual liberality; he com- 
 mitted himself to it in ways that might subject any 
 one of his preachers, in this day, to serious suspi- 
 cion, if not to greater inconvenience. He abridged 
 and published in his Arminian Magazine, as an ex- 
 
374 Character-Sketches. 
 
 ample for his people, the Life of Thomas Firmin, a 
 Unitarian, and declared in his preface, that though 
 he had ** long settled in his mind that the enter- 
 taining of wrong notions concerning the Trinity 
 was inconsistent with real piety," yet, " as he could 
 not argue against matter-of-fact," " he dare not 
 deny that Mr. Firmin was a pious man, although 
 his notions of the Trinity were quite erroneous." 
 He never hesitated to recognize the moral worth of 
 any man, however branded in history, and however 
 he differed from himself in opinion. He *' doubted 
 whether that arch-heretic, Montanus, was not one of 
 the holiest men of the second century." "Yea," he 
 adds, '* I would not affirm that the arch-heretic of 
 the fifth century, (Pelagius,) as plentifully as he has 
 been bespattered for many ages, was not one of the 
 holiest men of that age." He admired the piety of 
 the best writers of the Latin Church, and made some 
 of their works household books for Methodist fam- 
 ilies. At a time when the name of Arminius was a 
 synonym of heresy, he not only openly acknowl- 
 ^ edged his evangelical orthodoxy, but boldly placed 
 the branded name of the great misrepresented the- 
 ologian on the periodical which he published as the 
 organ of Methodism. It was his extraordinary lib- 
 erality that made him a problem, if not a heretic, 
 in the estimation of many of his pious contempora- 
 ries. His sermon on the " Catholic Spirit " would 
 excite a sensation of surprise, if not of alarm, in 
 
.\\b..^LhV — Al'U.sl I.KSIIII'. 375 
 
 many a modern orthodox congregation. Yet what 
 modern theologian has held more tenaciously, or 
 defined more accurately, the doctrines of spiritual 
 Christianity ? 
 
 Such a mind could be neither weak nor wick- 
 ed ; and it may be doubted whether the deeds 
 or the sentiments of John Wesley show most the 
 genuine supremacy of the man. His double 
 excellence proves his double superiority over his 
 age. 
 
 It has sometimes been asked whether he is enti- 
 tled to rank in the highest class of illustrious men ? 
 The question is vague, and hardly admits of an 
 unqualified answer. Of the two highest classes 
 of great men — the speculative, or philosophical 
 thinkers, on the one hand ; and the practical, com- 
 prising great legislators, captains, and inventors, on 
 the other— it may be doubted which is entitled to 
 the supremacy. The former, if we do not include 
 in it the poetic, the artistic genius, has afforded 
 comparatively little advantage to mankind, beyond 
 an exhibition of the greatness of the human facul- 
 ties. Speculative inquiry has seldom given to the 
 world an important, demonstrated truth. It is 
 doubtful that it has yet afforded a single unques- 
 tionable result in the highest field of its research 
 — that exalted sphere of abstract truth which is 
 usually called speculative philosophy; and its in- 
 vestigations of the constitution of the human mind 
 
3/6 Character-Sketches. 
 
 are yet far from settling, with scientific certainty, 
 any theory of psychology. 
 
 On the other hand, a single remarkable practical 
 life, sometimes a single act of such a Hfe, has ad- 
 vanced appreciably the whole civilized world. A 
 mighty captain has broken the chains of a nation. A 
 sagacious legislator has set free the energies of mill- 
 ions of men for progress in all useful enterprises. 
 A single philanthropist has initiated improvements 
 in the administration of justice that have alleviated 
 the anguish of tens of thousands, have reformed 
 the prison discipline and penal jurisprudence of his 
 country, and promise yet to turn prisons into schools, 
 and to render the gallows a barbarity, abhorrent as 
 well to the justice, as to the mercy of mankind. A dif- 
 fident, poor, and drudging artisan, by the invention 
 of the steam-engine, has given to his own country 
 an aggregate of steam-power equal to the labor of 
 more than four hundred millions of men ; more than 
 equal to twice the number of males capable of labor 
 on our planet — an invention which has already, in 
 its combined power throughout the globe, a capac- 
 ity for work equal to the male capacity for manual 
 toil of five or six planets like ours. Such a man 
 may be said to create new worlds on the surface of 
 our own. 
 
 Even the most illustrious mind which has influ- 
 enced modern scientific inquiry, while teaching the 
 world how to think, never discovered a new scien- 
 
Wesley— ArosTLEsuiP. 377 
 
 tific fact. Bacon gave not a single original inven- 
 tion to the practical arts; though his mighty intel- 
 lect, expounding and systematizing a thought that 
 was scientifically as old as Aristotle, and practically 
 as old as human reason, has directed all subsequent 
 practical studies. 
 
 The classification of extraordinary men must 
 inevitably be difficult and ambiguous ; but the 
 genius which most influences the sentiments, if 
 not the intellect of men, the genius of illustrious 
 painters, sculptors, architects, and poets, may 
 perhaps be more relevantly included in the class 
 of great practical, than in that of great specula- 
 tive minds. The speculations of Plato, Descartes, 
 Leibnitz, and Kant, considered apart from the 
 beneficial example of superior intellectual power 
 that they present, have added little or nothing to 
 the advancement of the race ; and the few exam- 
 ples of practical utility that can be cited from the 
 history of philosophic thinkers might be claimed as 
 exceptional to their usual classification. Even the 
 mathematicians rank doubtfully, at least, between 
 the two classes : the discoveries of Newton apper- 
 tain to the physical world ; and the greatest of his 
 successors has legitimately placed the proudest 
 monument of astronomical knowledge in the class 
 of scientific mechanics. But amid the ambiguities 
 besetting this question — a question more curious, 
 perhaps, than important — there can be no hesitancy 
 
378 Character-Sketches. 
 
 in placing John Wesley in the first rank of those 
 historical men whose prominence in the legislature, 
 the cabinet, the field, philanthropy, or in any sphere 
 of active life, is attributable to their practical sagac- 
 ity, energy, and success. In these three respects 
 what man in history transcends him? If it can be 
 affirmed that he was far from being an original, a 
 profound thinker ; that, as some of his critics have 
 pronounced, his mind was more *' logical," or " in- 
 tuitional," * than philosophic, yet who can deny 
 him the tribute of the historian of his country, that 
 he conducted *' a most remarkable moral revolution ; 
 was a man whose eloquence and logical acuteness 
 mieht have rendered him eminent in literature; 
 whose genius for government was not inferior to 
 that of Richelieu, and who, whatever his errors may 
 have been, devoted all his powers, in defiance of 
 obloquy and derision, to what he sincerely consid- 
 ered the highest good of his species. Such was 
 Macaulay's opinion; Buckle pronounces him '' the 
 first of theological statesmen." The somewhat 
 vague affirmation that his mind was more intuitional 
 than philosophical, if it has any meaning at all, 
 must signify that his sagacity was so rapid and ac- 
 curate that the processes of reasoning and judg- 
 ment, usual in other men, were not absent, but 
 scarcely perceptible in his clear and prompt intel- 
 lect. The results, or the practical facts with which 
 
 * The first is Coleridge's, the second, Isaac Taylor's opinion. 
 
Weslev—Apostlesiiip. 379 
 
 Wesley had to deal, like all the practical affairs of 
 men, must always be contingent, and there can be 
 no intuition of contingent results. Their right an- 
 ticipation must be the effect of calculations and 
 combinations of the intellect. 
 
 If Wesley was deficient in what constitutes the 
 highest speculative or philosophic mind, this de- 
 ficiency itself may have been a necessary qualifica- 
 tion for the more utilitarian greatness to which 
 he was appointed. It was necessary that he should 
 be a great legislator in order to render se- 
 cure his achievements in so many other respects. 
 Speculative philosophers have seldom been good 
 legislators ; the history of great men affords not one 
 example of the two characters combined. The Re- 
 public of Plato is still an ideal system of beautiful 
 impossibilities to statesmen : the Politics of Aris- 
 totle have seldom had a legislative copyist ; the 
 Utopia of Sir Thomas More is still a Utopia, the 
 source of proverbial expression to our language, 
 but of no laws to our commonwealths; the new 
 Atlantis of Bacon is yet a dream, notwithstanding 
 its utilitarian suggestions ; Locke's Fundamental 
 Constitutions of Carolina were found impractica- 
 ble ; and Rousseau's Contrat Social ranks only as an 
 example of political rhetoric. But John Wesley 
 founded an ecclesiastical system that has only be- 
 come more efficient by the lapse of a hundred years, 
 and that is acknowledged to be more effective, 
 
38o Character-Sketches. 
 
 whether for good or evil, than any other in the 
 Protestant world. More than has been usual with 
 the founders of systems of policy, whether in Church 
 or State, it was his own work. His most invid- 
 ious though most entertaining biographer, Rob- 
 ert Southey, has acknowledged his ability as a legis- 
 lator, and conceded that " whatever power was dis- 
 played in the formation of the economy of Method- 
 ism was his own." He began his great work not 
 only without prestige, but in entirely adverse cir- 
 cumstances. The moral condition of the nation 
 which required his extraordinary plans, was the 
 most formidable difficulty to their prosecution. He 
 threw himself out upon the general demoralization 
 without reputation, without influential friends, with- 
 out money, with no other resource than the power 
 within him and the God above him. Before he had 
 fairly begun his extraordinary career, he was re- 
 duced even below the ordinary advantages of com- 
 mon English clergymen; he had become already 
 the object of derision ; he had no church, and was 
 turned out of the pulpits of his brethren. Except- 
 ing some insignificant societies, like that of Fetter 
 Lane, the highway or the field, and the reckless mob, 
 were all that remained to him. But he began his 
 work: he united his rude converts into " Bands," 
 formed " Classes," built Chapels, appointed Trust- 
 ees, Stewards, Leaders, Exhorters ; organized a 
 Lay Ministry, and rallied into it men of extraordi- 
 
Weslkv— Apostlesiiip. 3S1 
 
 nary characters and talents ; founded the Confer- 
 ence ; gave his societies a discipline and a consti- 
 tution, a literature, a psalmody and a liturgy ; saw 
 his cause established in the United States with an 
 episcopal organization, planted in the British North 
 American Provinces, and in the West Indies, and 
 died at last with his system apparently complet- 
 ed, universally effective and prosperous, sustained 
 by five hundred and fifty itinerant, thousands of 
 local preachers, more than a hundred and forty 
 thousand members, and so energetic that many 
 men who had been his co-laborers lived to see it 
 the predominant body of Dissenters in the United 
 Kingdom and the British Colonies, the most nu- 
 merous Church of the United States of America, 
 and successfully planted on most of the outlines of 
 the missionary world. 
 
 The success of such a career depends, of course, 
 much upon "circumstances;" but circumstances 
 may develop great men, they cannot create them. 
 He is great who can turn favorable circumstances 
 to great account ; he is greater who can create his 
 own favorable circumstances, as well as turn them 
 to account. Wesley did both. The success which 
 depends on external conditions is often impaired or 
 defeated by the lack of the comprehensive vigilance 
 and skill that can control the whole series of circum- 
 stances essential to success ; often the critical one 
 in the scries may be obscure ; the key to the whole 
 
382* Character-Sketches. 
 
 may, therefore, be lost in an unguarded emergency, 
 and many a career brilliantly begun has thus come 
 to an impotent conclusion. It was next to impossi- 
 ble for Wesley to have failed in this manner. Not 
 only his clear discernment saw, but his unintermit- 
 ted and steady energy seized and appropriated, all 
 facilities, small and great. If it should be said that 
 he had superfluous labors, it certainly cannot be 
 said that he had deficient diligence ; and if he 
 sometimes availed himself of unnecessary circum- 
 stances, it was hardly possible that he could lose a 
 necessary one. 
 
 Few men have shown more than Wesley that 
 self-possession or repose characteristic of the most 
 elevated minds, and which art has instinctively 
 impressed upon the classic works of antiquity. 
 It was, doubtless, one of the causes as well as 
 one of the indications of his power. He could 
 hardly be disconcerted, or thrown from the right 
 attitude of his strength. He moved, year after 
 year, through varied and intolerable opposition — 
 attacks from the press, the pulpit, and the mob ; 
 but he always appears the same calm, powerful 
 man. It was not his temperament alone, but his 
 faith, as much or more, which thus sustained him. 
 He believed that he was right, and, therefore, 
 trusted consequences to God ; and wrongs from 
 which the noblest natures would most revolt could 
 not arrest or dismay him. During the Calvinistic 
 
Wesley— Apostleship. 383 
 
 controversy some of his opponents had the confi- 
 dence of his intractable wife, who had not only 
 deserted him, but had carried with her his papers 
 and correspondence, and refused to return them. 
 The correspondence is known to have been interpo- 
 lated in such a way as to appear to justify her 
 monomaniacal jealousy. It was about to be pub- 
 lished in the ** Morning Post" by his antagonists ; 
 but one of their own party, out of regard to the 
 honor of reHgion, hastened to Charles Wesley, and 
 entreated him to communicate the fact to his 
 brother, that, if possible, the scandal might be 
 averted. The letters were to be published on the 
 morrow, but Wesley had an engagement to preach 
 that day at Canterbury, and had promised to 
 take with him the daughter of his brother, to 
 gratify her with a view of the ancient .cathedral. 
 Charles, alarmed at the prospect, hastened to 
 Foundry Chapel. " Never," writes his daughter, 
 "shall I forget the manner in which my father 
 accosted my mother on his return home. ' My 
 brother,' said he, * is indeed an extraordinary man. 
 I placed before him the importance of the character 
 of a minister ; the evil consequences which might 
 result from his indifference to it ; the cause of 
 religion ; stumbling-blocks cast in the way of the 
 weak ; and urged him by every relative and public 
 motive to answer for himself, and stop the publica- 
 tion. His reply was, 'Brother, when I devoted to 
 
384 Character-Sketches. 
 
 God my ease, my time, my life, did I except my 
 reputation ? No. Tell Sally I will take her to 
 Canterbury to-morrow.' I ought to add, that the 
 letters in question were satisfactorily proved to be 
 mutilated, and no scandal resulted from his trust 
 in God." 
 
 A fact like this, with a man like Wesley, speaks 
 to all hearts ; but its noblest significance can be 
 known only to the noblest minds. 
 
 But was he faultless ? If he had been, he would 
 have been less admirable to us, for the truest hu- 
 man greatness is in the combat with evil ; he would 
 have been less suited for his great work, for to 
 men, rather than to angels, has the Gospel been 
 committed. 
 
 Besides the minute imperfections which belong 
 to most men, Wesley has been charged with ambi- 
 tion and credulity. 
 
 The writer who has dwelt most upon the latter 
 weakness has, nevertheless, however inconsistently, 
 deemed it a sort of fitness for Wesley's peculiar 
 mission, and, with a noticeable credulity himself, 
 has supposed that even the mysterious noises at 
 the Epworth rectory were preternatural, or at least 
 extramundane ; that they were a means of laying 
 open his faculty of belief, and of creating a right 
 of way for the supernatural through his mind. 
 When it is remembered that Wesley's age was one 
 of general skepticism among thinkers, we cannot 
 
Wesley— Apostleship. 385 
 
 be surprised if he revolted, in his great work, to 
 the opposite extreme ; and the error was certainly 
 on the better side. Credulity might have injured 
 his work, but skepticism would have rendered it 
 impossible. 
 
 If his followers cannot deny the charge ; if they 
 must admit that in a certain form this defect is 
 pervasive in his Journals and fragmentary writings, 
 yet should they make the admission with well- 
 guarded qualifications. They should remind them- 
 selves that he seldom gives a direct opinion of the 
 supposed preternatural facts which he so often 
 records ; that they are presented with circumstan- 
 tial particularity as the data for an opinion on the 
 part of others ; that, singularly enough, and a note- 
 worthy proof of his good sense, they seldom or 
 never appear in his standard theological writings, 
 hardly tinge the works which he left for the prac- 
 tical guidance of his people, but are almost invaria- 
 bly given as matters of curiosity and inquiry in his 
 miscellaneous and fugitive writings ; and that no 
 one doctrine or usage of Methodism was permitted 
 by him to bear the slightest impression of them to 
 posterity. 
 
 The severity with which this weakness of Wesley 
 has been treated by his critics is an exception to the 
 usual treatment of historical characters ; for what 
 distinguished man has not had some marked eccen- 
 tricity of opinion or of conduct ? And what was this 
 25 
 
386 Character-Sketches. 
 
 defect of Wesley but an eccentricity of opinion ? 
 If it was characteristic of his opinions, it was not 
 characteristic of the man ; for what man was more 
 rigorously practical in piety, or more liberal about 
 opinions? what man ever combined the noble, self- 
 possessed enthusiasm essential to the heroic char- 
 acter, with so little of the passion or uncharitable- 
 ness that is an essential of fanaticism? His critics 
 would impair his authority as a thinker by con- 
 temning his credulity ; but they deem it no wonder, 
 or at least no detraction, if indeed not an amia- 
 ble illustration of the heart, apart from the intellect, 
 of his friend, the most influential writer as well as 
 the most prominent moralist of his age, who shared 
 so largely this very weakness of Wesley. Men who 
 sneer at Wesley are but amused when, in reading 
 the pages of Boswell, they find Johnson dissenting 
 from a ghost story of Wesley's, only because the 
 latter did not, in his opinion, investigate the case 
 sufficiently, affirming that " this is a question which, 
 after five thousand years, is yet undecided ; a ques^ 
 tion, whether in theology or philosophy, one of the 
 most important that can come before the human 
 understanding." Plato, as Johnson called Wesley, 
 might well linger when all the rest of the audience 
 had slunk away, if Johnson still stood in the lectur- 
 er's desk. The Cock Lane ghost story has never 
 impaired Johnson's rank as an author; but had 
 Wesley shown the superstitious weakness of the 
 
Wesley — Apostleship. 387 
 
 literary giant in many well-known and ludicrous 
 instances, he could scarcely have been treated with 
 more scorn than he has incurred by his record of 
 supposed preternatural facts, of a class, too, which 
 have not yet ceased to be believed by the most of 
 mankind. He recorded these facts, it should be 
 borne in mind, in an age in which Christian Scotland 
 executed at the stake a supposed witch, and in the 
 next century after that in which the good Sir 
 Matthew Hale had condemned to the gibbet two 
 women for witchcraft ; when the great Bacon had 
 avowed his belief in astrology, and sat in a Parlia- 
 ment in which an enactment was passed against 
 witchcraft — a statute not repealed till Wesley him- 
 self was thirty-three years old. 
 
 The treatment that Wesley has received on ac- 
 count of this one weakness, so different from the 
 usual charity of writers toward great men, is per- 
 haps a real though undesigned compliment. It 
 would seem to arise from the fact that little else 
 can be found for sarcasm in his pure life and noble 
 character, and that this therefore must be made 
 as available as possible. 
 
 It has not, however, sufficed to save him from 
 the imputation of ambition. This charge affords, 
 in fine, the chief explanation of his extraordinary 
 life to his best known biographer. According to 
 that writer, " no conqueror or poet was ever more 
 ambitious," and " the love of power was the ruling 
 
388 Character-Sketches. 
 
 passion of his mind." It is due to Southey, how- 
 ever, to say that he acknowledged the error of this 
 charge. An admirable defense of Wesley by a 
 Churchman, who personally knew him during many 
 years, convinced his biographer of his error. ** I 
 had formed a wrong estimate of Wesley's charac- 
 ter,*' he says, " in supposing him to have been 
 actuated by ambition." A letter is also extant in 
 which he again confesses that he " is convinced that 
 he was mistaken in supposing ambition entered 
 largely into Mr. Wesley's acting impulses," and 
 promises *' to make such alterations in the book as 
 are required in consequence." 
 
 That Wesley loved power would be no very seri- 
 ous charge. Power, as a means of success and use- 
 fulness, may be as desirable as any other talent, as 
 genius itself; the vice is not in the passion, but in 
 its motive ; to indulge it for selfish ends would be 
 pernicious and criminal, as the pursuit of money or 
 of any other means of success would be ; but as a 
 means for the accomplishment of good ends, it may 
 be as virtuous as the diligent pursuit of resources 
 by the philanthropist, or of intelligence by the stu- 
 dent. Wesley's whole life was a demonstration 
 that he sought not power for himself. What man 
 ever more thoroughly sacrificed the usual selfish 
 motives of ambition? What human life was ever 
 more consecrated to the welfare of others ? That 
 he had a conscious pleasure in the useful exercise 
 
Wesley—Apostleship. 389 
 
 • 
 
 of his great but unsought power need not be de- 
 nied ; it was the right of his power, as his power 
 was the right of his talents and position. He 
 would have been an exception to the usual and 
 beneficent law of nature herself, in this respect, had 
 he not known that exalted pleasure. Nature ac- 
 companies her endowments with instinctive dispo- 
 sitions for their use. The man who is constituted 
 or capacitated for the exercise of power would not 
 be in harmony with himself if he had not the in- 
 stinctive enjoyment of his appointed task ; and the 
 highest moral law of his position requires, not that 
 he should be unconscious of this enjoyment, but 
 that he should consecrate it by benevolent motives, 
 and regulate it by that "temperance in all things" 
 which, if it is a self-denial to the vices, is still more 
 an enhancement of the virtues. 
 
 Many of the foregoing remarks apply to Wesley's 
 personal religious character, and on that subject 
 scarcely an additional word is needed. '* By their 
 fruits ye shall know them ;" and the whole narrative 
 of his life is an illustration of his piety. One ob- 
 servation, however, is worthy of emphatic record : 
 that while few, if any, modern public teachers have 
 treated more of the principles of the spiritual life, 
 or held up a higher standard of them — of Justifica- 
 tion, Regeneration, Sanctification, and the evidences 
 and tests which apply to them — few, if any, have 
 been more exempt from the taint of Mysticism, 
 
390 Character-Sketches. 
 
 He threw to the winds the mystic doctrines while 
 returning, on the ocean, from Georgia ; and it is a 
 noteworthy fact, that except the early and compar- 
 atively brief period of his spiritual awakening, and 
 of his intercourse with the Moravian brethren, the 
 minute record of his life, presented in his Journals, 
 contains hardly an instance of that introspective 
 and hypochondriacal anxiety which weakens most 
 religious biographies. We meet in this wonder- 
 ful autobiography with occasional and brief ejac- 
 ulations of prayer and praise, but with no self- 
 anatomization. It is vigorous with the cheerful 
 moral health of his own mind throughout, how- 
 ever marred by the narration of disease in other 
 minds. 
 
 Methodism spread so rapidly, and was so much 
 in contrast with the religious teachings of the 
 times, that it was natural enough it should come 
 in contact with morbid consciences almost every- 
 where ; some of the characters prominent in early 
 Methodism were doubtless subjects of mental as 
 well as of moral disease ; but Methodism was not 
 responsible for the fact. It found such sufferers scat- 
 tered throughout its course ; if in some instances 
 they sought in it excitement which could only ex- 
 asperate their malady, it nevertheless, in most in- 
 stances, brought them the relief which they could 
 not find in the heartless religious formalities of the 
 age. And, above all, the practical character of 
 
Wesley— Apostleship. 391 
 
 Wesley's own c^enius was so impressed upon his 
 discipline, that religious melancholy was usually 
 sooner or later dispelled by the energetic and 
 beneficent practical habits to which his followers 
 were trained. Without designing it, he established 
 a religious system which, while it could not fail to 
 attract diseased minds, was singularly adapted to 
 cure them, in both its hopeful theology and its act- 
 ive discipline ; and its history records not a few 
 affecting cases of chronic mental disease, in which 
 life was rendered not only tolerable, but useful and 
 holy, and death itself joyful, by the moral support 
 of the Gospel as taught in its doctrines and em- 
 bodied in its regimen. 
 
 To our more common human sympathies the 
 character of Wesley presents attractions rarely to 
 be found in the records of the lives of great men. 
 Such records usually ignore the more personal or 
 intimate traits of public characters. It would seem, 
 indeed, to be assumed in them that exhibitions of 
 the common affections of our nature would dero- 
 gate from their subjects, as reducing them too 
 much to the common level of humanity; whereas 
 it is precisely in these respects that the common 
 mind most readily recognizes them, and the revela- 
 tions of the heart in the life show the real man more 
 infallibly than the manifestations of mental power. 
 It is doubtless true, also, that public men, absorbed 
 in plans of ambition, or even of usefulness, often 
 
392 Character-Sketches. 
 
 lose to some extent those sensibilities that make 
 the whole race akin, and the loss of which can be 
 compensated by no other virtues. Perhaps the 
 truest proof of the highest style of character is 
 presented in the co-existence of an unimpaired 
 heart with the highest development of the mental 
 forces, or the greatest energy of life. 
 
 To the mass of mankind, including the best of 
 them, the character of Luther would lose much of 
 its interest and worth, were his passion for music 
 and for nature, his sympathy for his friends, his 
 fondness for his children, and his love of the virtuous 
 and beautiful Catharine von Bora, unrecorded. Not 
 only to the common heart, but to the discernment 
 of the highest minds, the pure and mighty reformer 
 did a scarcely less noble deed in rescuing the nun 
 of Nimptschen, and in restoring her to her appro- 
 priate sphere as a woman, by placing her in his 
 home and heart, than he did by wresting from the 
 grasp of the Pope the scepter of universal relig- 
 ious domination. Wesley's greatness as a public 
 man is hardly more distinctly recorded than his 
 amiability and tenderness as a private man. We 
 have continually occasion, in reading his four vol- 
 umes and letters, to admire his personal, apart from 
 his public character. Where can we find, in the 
 records of historical men, a more genial, unimpaired 
 nature amid the labors and hostiHties of a long pub- 
 lic career? His friendships were strong, even to an 
 
Wesley — Apostlesiiip. 393 
 
 excess of sentiment. His love of nature retained 
 the freshness of youth in the decay of age ; it was 
 not so much a sentiment of taste, as an instinct of 
 his being, a loving fellowship with the universal 
 nature. His temper, sometimes, yet only momen- 
 tarily, ruffled, had not merely the serenity of hcalih, 
 but was radiant with religious joyfulness, and play- 
 ful in extreme age with the blandest humor. While 
 moving the realm by his activity and moral power, 
 he was the welcome guest of humble households, 
 the delight of dinner-tables, the familiar companion 
 of children. 
 
 While hundreds of stalwart itinerants responded 
 to his commands, as veterans to the orders of a lead- 
 er on the field, and mobs recoiled before his calm 
 but mighty word, while rude armies of ten, twenty, 
 thirty thousands listened, wept or prayed, under 
 his discourses, on the mountain sides or in the 
 market-places, his sympathetic presence brought 
 light and consolation to the hearths of desolate 
 homes, to the despair of deathbeds, to the guilt and 
 anguish of prisons, to the frenzy even of the mad- 
 house. But did this man — so illustrious, and yet so 
 simple that the simplicity of his anomalous life 
 seems the most inexplicable fact of its distinction — 
 in his stern, inflexible career, extending through 
 most of a century, in his life apparently never 
 knowing privacy, did he himself know the affec- 
 tions and tenderness which he so generally excited. 
 
394 Character-Sketches. 
 
 the sorrow which he so often touched and turned 
 into joy — did his "heart know its own bitterness?" 
 Was this never-resting Hfe — these wanderings to 
 and fro while more than two generations of men 
 were passing away — the effect of a passion for pub- 
 lic life that had extinguished the usual instincts 
 of the heart for wife, children, and home, for the 
 privacy in which the heart best lives, for quiet and 
 rest, and the affections? How often, reading his 
 Journals, do we see him, in scenes of rural repose, 
 or of domestic virtue, longing for relief from the 
 restless duties of his career ; for a home, however 
 humble, where, with books and meditative tran- 
 quillity, he might live more unto himself, or for the 
 few that might be dearer to him than himself! 
 But one sublime and mysterious word always broke 
 the spell of these seductive wishes — Eternity ! '' I 
 believe there is an eternity, and must arise and go 
 hence ! " 
 
 Poetry and music were natural endowments with 
 him, as with most of his remarkable family. His 
 correspondence with his unhappy wife, it is said, 
 reveals the tenderest sensibility — a heart that 
 proves him capable of having been the most affec- 
 tionate of husbands. His numerous published let- 
 ters to women correspondents are the most charac- 
 teristic of his writings ; they are fervid with pure 
 and delicate sentiment. This man who worked so 
 mightily could also love intensely. He never deemed 
 
Wesley— ArosTLESHiP. 395 
 
 it necessary to record an apology for his affection 
 for Grace Murray. All accounts of her show that 
 she was worthy of him ; that she possessed not 
 only rare attractions of person and manners, but 
 an elevated soul. She combined an indefinable 
 charm of character with extraordinary talents ; she 
 formed and regulated many of his female classes in 
 the north of England ; she traveled with him in 
 Ireland, and with womanly grace and modesty, as 
 well as skillful ability, promoted among the women 
 of Methodism the great work in which he was en- 
 gaged. She reciprocated his affection for her, 
 though with shrinking diffidence. His hopes were 
 defeated by the management of his brother and 
 Whitefield, who probably apprehended that domes- 
 tic life would interfere with his public labors, and 
 hastily secured her marriage to one of his preach- 
 ers. He bitterly felt his loss ; and the relief which 
 he sought in unslackened devotion to his great 
 work is proof of his genuine greatness rather than 
 of his want of sensibility. He kept the painful 
 recollection locked in his own heart, never obtrud- 
 ing it in any of his subsequent published letters, 
 except in one instance, when he ministered relief to 
 a Christian friend, in a similar sorrow, by referring 
 to his own, the keenness of which he describes as 
 extreme. He " saw his friend that was, and him 
 to whom she was sacrificed," immediately after the 
 sacrifice, but never again records an allusion to her 
 
396 Character-Sketches. 
 
 except in the single instance mentioned, and in a po- 
 etical account of her history and of his affection for 
 her, that he kept sacredly during his life, but that 
 was discovered and published by one of his biogra- 
 phers — a long, sad, heart-touching narrative, in which 
 he dwells with minutest interest on every recollec- 
 tion of the case. It is as fine an example of his po- 
 etical power as of his capacity for loving. The preach- 
 er whom Grace Murray married left Wesley's Con- 
 nection. He died in ten years after his marriage ; 
 the lady survived till 1803. She rejoined the Meth- 
 odists, was many years a class-leader among them, 
 and lived and died esteemed and beloved by them. 
 Wesley pursued his career without once turning 
 aside to re-open the wound in either heart by an 
 interview. When eighty-five years old he allowed 
 himself, however, the pleasure of a single conversa- 
 tion with her. She was in London, and expressed 
 a wish to see him. Accompanied by Henry Moore, 
 he called upon her. Though he " preserved more 
 than his usual self-possession," the meeting, says 
 Moore, was affecting. It did not continue long, 
 and Moore never heard him mention her name 
 afterward. 
 
 Such was the character of John Wesley; a char- 
 acter which no candid historian, after a thorough 
 study of his life and works, can deny to him, 
 however desirable it might seem to be able to 
 attribute to him greater faults for the sake of an 
 
Wesley— Apostleship. 397 
 
 apparently more impartial estimate. The candid 
 student of history will be able to find in all its 
 records but few men who had fewer faults, how- 
 ever many he may suppose he finds, who had more 
 signal abilities or rarer virtues. For ourselves we 
 confess we know not where to look for his peer, 
 since the days of the chief of the apostles. Gener- 
 ation after generation arises to revere his name, to 
 call him blessed, and to follow him as he followed 
 his Lord. That good gray head looks down from 
 the wall of many a humble parlor: in unnumbered 
 hearts his memory is enshrined as the noblest of 
 the later saints, the "father and brother " greatly 
 beloved by the Church of the first-born on the earth 
 and in the heavens. 
 
 vvivehsity] 
 
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