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CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 LITERATURE, 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY THE 
 
 (§tn\m of llBtingubJieh Mtn. 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE ITALIAN SKETCH-BOOK," "ISABEL, OR A PILGRIMAGE THROUGH SICILY," 
 "THOUGHTS ON TH^ POETS," " \RTIST-LIFE," ET9. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 LINDSAY AND BLAKISTON. 
 
 1849. 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, 
 
 By Lindsay and Blakiston, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 • • • • 
 
 • • • • 
 
 • • • 
 
 «* • • • * p rfi*L We*l p h I a : 
 
 C. SHERMAN, PRINTER, 
 
 19 St. James Street. 
 
Tai 
 
 l^refare. 
 
 The favorable reception of two previous attempts at a 
 series of analytical portraits — one devoted to celebrated poets, 
 and the other to some of our native painters — has induced 
 the publication of this volume. Its design is to indicate the 
 chief phases of the literary character. The subjects have 
 been selected from their adaptation to this general plan, and 
 with the hope that, at a time when the influence of Conti- 
 nental writers is so prevalent, a few illustrative criticisms 
 drawn from the rich field, of English literature, may prove 
 acceptable. 
 
 New York, May 1849. 
 
 
 ^^95735 
 
1^-^ 
 
 (tontB-nts. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 SIR THOMAS BROWNE , 13 
 
 THE DILETTANTE. 
 
 SHENSTONE 39 ( T 
 
 THE MORALIST. 
 
 CHANNING 56 I'-i ' 
 
 THE WIT. 
 
 SWIFT ..; 80 
 
 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 WILLIAM ROSCOE 105 iS 
 
 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB ■ 130 
 
 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 MACAULAY 171 i ^ 
 
 THE IDEALIST. 
 
 JOHN STERLING 193 ( (, 
 
 THE RHETORICIAN. 
 
 BURKE... 209 ' 
 
 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 MARK AKENSIDE , 228 - ^ 
 
 THE BIOGRAPHER. 
 
 FINAL MEMORIALS OF LAMB AND KEATS 256 ^ 
 
e ^tiiln50pSin. 
 
 SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 
 
 There is something winsome as well as venerable 
 in the character of the true philosopher. He, as well 
 as the poet, derives his charter from nature. The 
 term, in its best acceptation, not merely designates 
 the adherents of a school of wisdom whether Stoical, 
 Platonic, or Epicurean, but the man of liberal and 
 inquiring mind, who habitually reasons upon facts, 
 and to whom the pursuit of truth is an instinct, and 
 its appreciation a keen delight. Next to the great 
 bards, this race of men engage the affections ; after 
 the poetic, this phase of humanity is most noble. Ap- 
 proaches to the character are to be found in all good 
 diarists and self-biographers — for such writings are 
 but collections of personal incidents and thoughts 
 more or less rich in philosophy. Montaigne is the 
 prince of this species, and old Burton a fine example ; 
 but autobiographies, ingenuously composed, furnish 
 the same kind of aliment, and betoken a like idiosyn- 
 crasy. Thus Rousseau, Goldoni, Alfieri, Cellini, and^ v^^c^r 
 Boswell, have contributed invaluable materials towards .. 
 the science of life,'^ by disclosing, with honesty and i t J^^ 
 
 2 / ' 
 
••• • •*• 
 
 14 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 'acunfehj^p^clfological" historic One^of t'Be most in- 
 teresting specimens of"tlie genuine philosopher in the 
 annals of literature, is Sir Thomas Browne. His 
 candour, scope, and kindliness, united with bravery 
 of thought and originality of expression, make his 
 works attractive beyond any other of the old English 
 prose writers. The bulk of the writings of Sir Tho- 
 mas Browne are\curious rather than of practical value^ 
 but their indirect utility is greater than a casual view 
 of their ostensible design would suggest. A vast 
 amount of quaint knowledge, a vein of original spe- 
 culation, and a loftiness of conception as well as way- 
 wardness of fancy, fix the mind to the page whither 
 the quaint title attracts it. The "Enquiries into 
 Vulgar Errors" are the result of years of observation 
 and study ; " Christian Morals" forms an epitome of 
 religious maxims which would do credit to the best of 
 the old English Divines; "Urn Burial," suggested 
 by the discovery of some ancient urns at Norfolk, in 
 1658, is an essay as remarkable for its accurate learn- 
 ing as for the melancholy charm with which his de- 
 vout imagination invested the theme. " The Garden 
 of Cyrus" is like an antique horticultural poem; and 
 the very titles of the tracts and letters, breathe of 
 eccentric genius. The mention of one will suflGice : 
 " On the Fishes eaten by our Saviour and his disci- 
 ples, after his resurrection from the dead." His al- 
 leged belief in witchcraft has been derided, but this is 
 evidently one of those subjects upon which he indulges 
 his fancy rather than his reason, and to which he al- 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 15 
 
 ludes in the preface to his most famous work : " There 
 are many things delivered rhetorically, many expres- 
 sions therein merely tropical, as they best illustrate 
 my meaning, and therefore to be taken in a soft and 
 flexible sense, and not to be called unto the rigid test 
 of reason." The ''Letter to a Friend" is a noble ofl'er- 
 ing of personal sympathy and an eloquent illustration 
 of religious philosophy. But the work that has the 
 advantage of voluntary, in distinction to professional, 
 authorship, and that eman^ed most directly from 
 his consciousness, is the private compendium of indi- 
 vidual faith, which became renowned soon after being 
 published under the title of Religio Medici : it is the 
 most true and elaborate reflection of himself; and we 
 therefore adopt it as the basis of our remarks upon 
 the character of philosopher — his native claim to 
 which it amply sustains. 
 
 There is an order of minds that cannot take life 
 in a jovial or compromising spirit ; " nobler ever than 
 their mood," some faith, hope or principle is needful 
 to preserve their equanimity. They must see things 
 as they are, pluck out the heart of each mystery, and 
 come face to face with truth, though it be sad, con- 
 demnatory or hopeless. Poets escape outward evil 
 through their imaginations, philosophers by their 
 reason. The one arrays reality in the hues of fancy, 
 the other analyzes it in the crucible of thought ; and, 
 through combination or inference, attains comfort. 
 Perhaps the most characteristic resource of the latter 
 is a settled conviction that benign, universal, and in- 
 
16 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 evitable laws obtain not only in nature, but in the 
 vicissitudes of human life and the issues of human 
 destiny. As the astronomer serenely confides in the 
 starry evolutions and the mariner in the needle's in- 
 clination, the philosopher trusts to the wise and 
 kindly results both of events and action. He is com- 
 paratively patient at successful charlatanism because 
 his '^ faith is large in time and that which shapes it 
 to some perfect end." He observes society not for 
 its apparent and immegliate, but for its actual and 
 ultimate tendencies. His calm eye pierces to the in- 
 ward fact undimmed by the atmosphere of circum- 
 stances. He is a natural eclectic, drawing from each 
 system, character, and party its true and desirable 
 element, and uniting them into a harmonious whole. 
 In human intercourse, he feels assured that genuine 
 afiinity, in point of fact, regulates society ; in exter- 
 nal occurrences he looks beyond the seeming fortune 
 to the relation it bears to individual character ; and 
 for higher truth, strives by integrity and humble pa- 
 tience, to keep ever in a recipient state. 
 
 ^' There is no liberty," says our author, " for causes 
 to operate in a loose and straggling way, nor any 
 effect whatsoever but hath its warrant from some 
 universal or superior cause. It is we that are blind, 
 not fortune ; because our eye is too dim to discover 
 the mystery of her effects, we foolishly paint her 
 blind, and hoodwink the providence of the Almighty. 
 This cryptick and involved method of his providence 
 have I ever admired, nor can I relate the history of 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWJVE. 17 
 
 my life, the occurrences of my days, the escapes of 
 dangers and the hits of chance, with a Bezo las Manos 
 to fortune, or a bare gramercy to my good stars." 
 
 The habitude of observation, the recognition of 
 the world as a suggestive as well as a merely physical 
 sphere ; the consciousness of life as an experience full 
 of significance, is everywhere obvious in Browne. 
 ^'The world," he says, ''was made to be inhabited 
 by beasts, but studied and contemplated by man ; it 
 is the debt of our reason we owe unto God and the 
 homage we pay for not being beasts. The wisdom 
 of God receives small honour from those vulgar heads 
 tiat rudely stare about, and with a gross rusticity 
 admire his works ; those highly magnify him whose 
 judicious inquiry into Jiis acts and deliberate research 
 into his creatures, return the. duty of a devout and 
 learned admiration. To raise so beauteous a struc- 
 ture as the world and the creatures thereof, was but 
 his art, but their sundry and divided operations with 
 their predestined ends, are from the treasury of his 
 wisdom." 
 
 The philosopher's spirit of inquiry is as compre- 
 hensive as it is habitual, ranging from science to art, 
 from life to nature, from books to consciousness. His 
 pleasure is to generalize. When the principle of a 
 subject, the central point of a character, the absolute 
 significance of a number of circumstances is attained, 
 he experiences a profound satisfaction. Truth is to 
 the intellect what love is to the heart — its food, ob- 
 ject and inspiration ; and they who thus seek and 
 
 2# 
 
18 THE PHILOSOPHEil. 
 
 delight in her revelations are, by nature, philosophers. 
 The zest of life to them is to approximate to reality 
 through a wilderness of appearances, and in saying 
 that they best vindicate the integrity of the mind, we 
 mean that to them the mind is an instrument of use- 
 fulness, happiness and honour-— instead of a bewil- 
 dering gift, an aimless interrogation, or a mere 
 lumber-room of fragmentary ideas. A great charac- 
 teristic of the true philosopher is independence. He 
 is above prejudice ; and the habit of viewing every 
 question in its connexion with absolute truth, opens 
 his mind to conviction however opposed to former 
 opinion. Indeed, the ostensible creed in religion and 
 school of literature, or party in politics to which such 
 men are attached, serve rather as vantage-grounds 
 than limits — as the particular brigade in which the 
 true soldier is enrolled is a convenient arrangement 
 for eliciting his activity in the cause for which he 
 wages battle, rather than an exclusive coterie, beyond 
 which his sympathies or conceptions cannot wander. 
 A certain foothold of conservatism is absolutely neces- 
 sary even for the most speculative thinker. Whatever 
 be the goal of thought it must have a starting point, 
 and beyond what is positive and defined in a philoso- 
 pher's data of belief, he has a faith of his own rather 
 instinctive than specific — a vague, perhaps, yet actual 
 trust in certain grand and universal principles or ul- 
 timate results, which does not contradict but sustains 
 the particular formula to which he gives open alle- 
 giance. In truth it is this very union of reliance upon 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 19 
 
 broad principles and general views with the recogni- 
 tion of particular dogmas, which distinguishes the 
 disciple from the sectarian in religion, the statesman 
 from the partisan in politics, the liberal from the 
 prejudiced in society, and the truly philosophic from 
 the pedantic in mind. • ^ 
 
 The spirit of inquiry and good powers of reasoning 
 are not, however, the only essential qualiiScations of 
 the philosopher. These may serve him in material 
 acquisitions, but uninspired by high emotions, un- 
 quickened by imaginative perception, they cannot 
 bear the mind beyond the limits of the actual. Like 
 the dying Cleopatra, unless there be "immortal long- 
 ings," philosophy is bereft of its hope. Sir Thomas 
 Browne regarded his acquired knowledge as the basis 
 not the limit of research. His experiments foretold 
 a yet more satisfactory analysis. He found in cha- 
 racter chiefly promise, in events discipline, in nature 
 hints — all suggestive of more completeness and satis- 
 faction. The best fact of his own consciousness was 
 a supernal trust, a sense of glorious affinity. Hence 
 his self-respect, his disregard of the temporary, his 
 instinctive repose upon the bosom of nature. He 
 was an aspirant, and therefore not only saw the foot- 
 steps of truth in his path, but sometimes caught 
 glimpses of her wings through an opening cloud. He 
 confesses to so " abject a conceit of this common way 
 of existence, this retaining to the sun and the ele- 
 ments," that he " cannot think this to be a man or 
 to live according to the dignity of humanity." * * * 
 
20 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 And again : " Since I was of understanding to know 
 we know nothing, my reason has been more pliable 
 to the will of faith. * * * Where the soul hath the 
 full measure and complement of happiness; where 
 the boundless appetite of that spirit remains com- 
 pletely satisfied, that I can neither desire addition nor 
 alteration, that I think is truly heaven. * * * I would 
 not entertain a base design or an action that should 
 call me villain for the Indies ; and for this only do I 
 love and honour my own soul, and have, methinks, 
 two arms too few to embrace myself." * * * He was 
 conscious of an inlet of truth above reason, for he 
 observes, "it is but attending a little longer and we 
 shall enjoy that by instinct and infusion which we 
 endeavour at here by labour and inquisition." 
 
 Among the merely individual characteristics of Sir 
 Thomas Browne, was his love of music; of which he 
 says " there is something of divinity in it more than 
 the ear discovers ;" and his irreverence for antiquity 
 merely as such. There is much to confirm his fanci- 
 ful idea of a " revived self," or reappearance of forms 
 of character. Are we not often struck with the mar- 
 vellous similarity between intimate acquaintances and 
 historical personages ? Who has not known women 
 whose brilliant wit and turn for the ambitious intrigues 
 of social life, recalled the ladies of the Court of Louis 
 XIV ? Some constitutions are decidedly oriental in 
 their needs and aptitudes, though born in a northern 
 latitude. Tendencies for particular modes of life ex- 
 hibit themselves under circumstances which breathe 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 21 
 
 neither a memory or hope in the same direction. A 
 single member of a family will develope traits wholly 
 at variance with the manners and tone of feeling 
 around. These and similar instances seem to point 
 to an ancestral vein working itself obliquely forth, to . 
 an Arethusa-like reappearance of some quality of 
 blood or gift of soul, that has long wandered under 
 oblivious waters to incarnate itself at a time and place 
 the^ most unexpected. Therefore well says our phi- 
 losopher, ''Every man is not himself; there have 
 been many Diogenes, and as many Timons, though 
 but few of that name ; men are lived over again." 
 
 It is remarkable that the men whose relish for 
 books is the most keen — who read sympathetically, 
 not merely to store the memory and weave ties of 
 familiar and endearing association with beloved 
 authors — should invariably repudiate the idea of an 
 extensive library. One can name the volumes es- 
 sential to the comfort of such men as Hazlitt and 
 Shelley. Thinkers do not require books for the 
 information they convey so much as mental stimu- 
 lants and faithful companions. They can generate 
 ideas for themselves, and take up a volume as they 
 turn to a friend, for the refreshment of sympathy 
 or attrition of mind. Sir Thomas Browne fully 
 shared in this love of the cream of literature, and 
 was impatient at the multiplication of books. '' Of 
 those three great inventions in Germany, there are 
 two which are not without their incommodities, and 
 'tis disputable whether they exceed not their use 
 
22 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 and commodities. 'Tis not a melancholy utinam 
 of mine own, but the desires of better heads, that 
 there were a general synod ; not to unite the in- 
 compatible difference of religion, but for the benefit 
 of learning ; to reduce it as it lay at first in a few 
 and solid authors, and to condemn to the fire those 
 swarms and millions of rhapsodies begotten only to 
 distract and abuse the weaker judgments of scholars 
 and to maintain the trade and mystery of typo- 
 graphers.'' 
 
 Montaigne compares authorship with the act of 
 pouring water from one vessel to another ; and the 
 reproduction of old materials in new forms isHllus- 
 trated by all the brilliant achievement of modern 
 literature. We do not, however, so fully realize the 
 identity whenever evolved, of all true principles, and 
 the innate resemblance of all philosophic observers 
 of life and nature. It has been well said that the 
 Sermon on the Mount was an announcement, not a 
 creation of truth. The pure in heart did not become 
 blessed on account of the Saviour's benediction. It 
 was and is a great moral fact that they are so. 
 Harvey's theory of the circulation of the blood is 
 spoken of as a discovery ; but the law, though un- 
 recognised, existed from the moment that a pulse 
 quivered in the wrist of Adam. We have spoken of 
 Sir Thomas Browne as a type of the genuine philo- 
 sopher ; and adapting the ingenious transcript of his 
 mind, written for private satisfaction at the age of 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 23 
 
 thirty, first surreptitiously published in 1642,* as 
 his creed, confession or theory of life, it is curious 
 to note how many ideas which, within a few years, 
 have become prominently embodied as original — 
 were noted by him as familiar and personal concep- 
 tions. The most cherished of the Swedenborgian 
 doctrines brought comfort to his soul. We find a 
 hint of the law of correspondencies in this passage : 
 " The seven schools shall never laugh me out of the 
 philosophy of Hermes, that this visible world is but 
 a picture of the invisible, wherein as in a portrait, 
 things are not truly but in equivocal shapes, and as 
 they counterfeit some more real substance in that 
 invisible fabric." And that he recognised somewhat 
 the new church view of the spiritual world, is evident 
 from such observations as these : " I hold that the 
 devil doth really possess some men, the spirit of 
 melancholy others, the spirit of delusion others; that 
 as the devil is concealed and denied by some, so God 
 and good angels are pretended by others, whereof 
 the late detection of the maid of Germany hath left 
 a pregnant example. * * * I do think that 
 many mysteries ascribed to our own inventions have 
 been the courteous revelations of spirits, for those 
 noble essences in heaven bear a friendly regard to 
 their fellow-natures on earth. * >k * There- 
 fore, for spirits, I am so far from denying their 
 existence, that I could easily believe that not only 
 
 * The Religio Medici. 
 
24 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 •whole countries, but particular persons have their 
 tutelary or guardian angels." His idea of the 
 nature of these beings is equally significant. " I 
 believe they have an extemporary knowledge, and 
 upon the first motion of their reason do what we 
 cannot without study and deliberation; that they 
 know things by their forms, and define by special 
 difl'erence what we describe by accidents and proper- 
 ties ; and therefore probabilities to us may be demon- 
 strations to them.'' 
 
 Lavater and Spurzheim have identified their memo- 
 ries with a theory of expression or natural language. 
 A speculative germ of this science was obviously in 
 the brain of Sir Thomas Browne. " The finger of 
 Grod," he says, "hath left an inscription on all his 
 works, not graphical or composed of letters, but of 
 their several forms, constitution, parts, and opera- 
 tions, which aptly joined together do make one word 
 that doth express their natures. And truly I have 
 observed that those professed eleemosyntoes, though 
 in a crowd or multitude, do yet direct and place their 
 petitions on a few and selected persons ; there is 
 surely a physiognomy which those experienced and 
 master mendicants observe, whereby they instantly 
 discover a merciful aspect ; for there are mystically 
 in our faces certain characters which carry in them 
 the motto of our souls." One of the most popular 
 books of the day is '' Proverbial Philosophy," and 
 one of the most efiective of its chapters is that devo- 
 ted to compensation. In the Eeligio Medici we have 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 25 
 
 an eloquent suggestion in the identical vein. "'Tis, 
 I confess, the common fate of men of singular gifts 
 of mind, to be destitute of those of fortune, which 
 doth not in any way deject the spirit of wiser judg- 
 ments, who thoroughly understand the justice of this 
 proceeding, and being enriched with higher dona- 
 tives cast a more careless eye on those vulgar parts 
 of felicity. 'Tis not partiality but equity in God, 
 who deals with us but as our natural parents ; those 
 that are able of body and mind he leaves to their 
 deserts, to those of weaker merits he imparts a larger 
 portion, and pieces out the defect of one by the ex- 
 cess of another." Self-reliance has been the favour- 
 ite doctrine of recent writers. Carlyle, Ohanning, 
 Emerson and others urge it on every occasion with 
 ingenuity and eloquence. Sir Thomas Browne is 
 not a less determined, though more concise advocate. 
 ''We carry," he declares, " with us the wonders we 
 seek ; there is all Africa and her prodigies in us ; 
 w^e are that bold and adventurous piece of nature, 
 which he that studies wisely learns in a compendium 
 what others labour at in a divided piece and an 
 endless volume." 
 
 The cardinal points of faith to every sensitive 
 thinker are, that life is only realized through a com- 
 plete exercise of mind and heart, and that there is 
 an .enduring and progressive principle in the soul 
 which makes this just activity infinitely desirable. 
 This has been finely uttered by the author of the 
 Religio Medici. " There is surely a piece of divinity 
 
 3 
 
26 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 in us, something that was before the elements and 
 owes no homage unto the sun. Every man truly 
 lives so long as he acts his nature, or in some way 
 makes good the faculties of himself." 
 
 Long ago the Mantuan poet wrote " Felix qui 
 potuit rerum cognoscere causas" — a phrase which 
 lingers in the memory of every reader who has a 
 large organ of causality, although the rest of his 
 knowledge of Latin has evaporated. And why is he 
 happy who knows the causes of things? Because 
 the selfish instincts attribute a personal and direct 
 motive to conduct which is regulated by feelings of 
 far more intense and extensive scope ; because the 
 end often justifies the means ; and the breadth and 
 sincerity of a purpose may suggest temporary' expe- 
 dients, which, viewed by themselves, are wholly un- 
 satisfactory. " Circumstances alter cases," is an old 
 proverb. The philosopher differs from the vulgar in 
 the extent as well as the acuteness of his vision. "I 
 have," says Sir Thomas, " one common and authen- 
 tic philosophy I learned in the schools, whereby I 
 discourse and satisfy the reason of other men : 
 another more reserved, and drawn from experience, 
 whereby I content mine own." The most objection- 
 able of modern tyrannies is that of the press. In the 
 United States, boasting the greatest political free- 
 dom at present enjoyed, a man who can purchase a 
 few types may assail effectually the reputation of his 
 neighbour, who, were he to utter the same scandal, 
 would be amenable socially to the laws of honour ; 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 27 
 
 and jurisprudence has provided no sufficient remedy 
 for libel. In the preface to the very treatise we are 
 now considering, it is said : — '' Had not almost every 
 man suffered by the press, or were not the tyranny 
 therefore become universal, I had not wanted reason 
 for complaint ; but in times wherein I have lived to 
 behold the highest perversion of that excellent in- 
 vention, complaints may seem ridiculous in private 
 persons, and men of my condition may be as incapa- 
 ble of affronts as hopeless of their reparation." The 
 idea of progress has become so general and intense, 
 that it has degenerated into cant. How manfully it 
 is recognised in our author's introduction of his 
 work! "It" (the Religio) "was set down many 
 years past, and was the sense of my conceptions at 
 that time, not an immutable law unto my advancing 
 judgment at all times ; and therefore there might be 
 many things plausible unto my past apprehension 
 which are not agreeable unto my present self." 
 
 An axiom of late metaphysicians is the sufficiency 
 of the mind and conscience independent of outward 
 w^ell-being ; and to repose on our own conscious- 
 ness is defined by not a few as the test of harmo- 
 nious development. Sir Thomas Browne yielded 
 the "private station," not from any restless love of 
 fame, but through the presence of external induce- 
 ments. " Had not the duty I owe unto the importu- 
 nity of friends, and the allegiance I must ever 
 acknowledge unto truth, prevailed with me, the 
 inactivity of my disposition might have made these 
 
28 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 suiFerings continual; and time, that brings other 
 things to light, should have satisfied me in the 
 remedy of its oblivion." 
 
 In his personal history there is little either adven- 
 turous or peculiar. He was born in London, in St. 
 Michael's Parish, Cheapside, October 19th, 1605 ; 
 and educated at Winchester School and Oxford. In 
 his youth he travelled extensively, and the reminis- 
 cences of this period, which incidentally appear in 
 his treatises, evince the constant exercise of liberal 
 curiosity in regard to the arts and manners of difi'er- 
 ent localities. He remained for the longest intervals 
 at Montpelier and Padua — the two most celebrated 
 schools of medicine then existing in Europe. He 
 took a degree at Leyden ; and finally settled at Nor- 
 wich, where he died at the age o'f seventy-six. 
 
 Of minor facts relating to his career, there is the 
 usual paucity which attends the .life of a scholar. He 
 was knighted by Charles II., and during the political 
 commotions of the age^ lived apart, occupied with his 
 books, experiments and domestic enjoyments. It is 
 interesting to know that he was visited by Evelyn. 
 Of his family, little has been recorded. One of his 
 sons distinguished himself as a brave sailor in the 
 navy ; and another became celebrated as a physician, 
 and is mentioned as in attendance on the deathbed 
 of Rochester. Of the daughter's character, we may 
 form an idea by a single trait which is preserved of 
 her, — that '' she loved to be alone" — a disposition 
 indicative of the philosophical temperament of her 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 29 
 
 father, whose memory she appears to have deeply- 
 venerated'. 
 
 It is said that the wits of the day made themselves 
 quite merry on the occasion of our philosopher's mar- 
 riage, deeming the event altogether inconsistent with 
 his avowed preference of celibacy and his wish that 
 mankind might ^'procreate like trees.'' Their view 
 of the subject was exceedingly narrow. Sir Thomas 
 Browne acted, as well as wrote, upon honest convic- 
 tion. He never professed what he did not believe ; 
 and was above the vanity of claiming any sentiment, 
 however beautiful, or following any custom, however 
 approved, the sanction of which he had never expe- 
 rienced. When the Religio Medici was written, his in- 
 nate love had not been called forth, because he did not 
 encounter its appropriate object. He was singularly 
 true to himself, and never forced or perverted nature, 
 but listened reverently for her spontaneous oracles ; 
 when these revealed to him what Croly finely calls 
 ^^ passion made essential," he obeyed its impulse. 
 That it was on the principle of genuine sympathy 
 that he entered upon this relation, is evident from 
 the testimony of Whitefoot, who says : " In 1641, he 
 married a lady of such symmetrical proportions to 
 her worthy husband, that they seemed to come toge- 
 ther by a kind of natural magnetism." 
 
 There is a cynical tone in Dr. Johnson's Life of Sir 
 Thomas Browne, and its injustice is only countenanced 
 by the adverse spirit manifested in the extracts from 
 Whitefoot — his intimate friend, whose cordial enco- 
 
 3* 
 
30 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 miums are obviously as trutliful as they are affec- 
 tionate. The philosopher's character, as tKus deline- 
 ated, seems to accord perfectly with the kindliness 
 and serene wisdom of his writings. Among other 
 characteristics which they suggest, and which his 
 biographer confirms, are such a thorough modesty 
 that he never lost " an habitual blush,'' simplicity of 
 dress, household and social liberality, parsimonious 
 only of his time ; and a patience " founded upon a 
 Christian philosophy and sound faith in God." 
 
 -An unreasonable draft is often made upon the con- 
 versational powers of men of reflection. Their ac- 
 quaintances are impatient at their silence. They are 
 expected at all times to be entertaining ; and to hold 
 themselves in readiness to be called out for the diver- 
 sion of the company— as Chinese jugglers go through 
 their antics. Lighter minds do not seem to realize 
 that occasional silence is to such men as necessary as 
 sleep; and that the reason they talk well at all, is 
 because a certain amount of thinking precedes their 
 utterance. Sir Thomas Browne seems to have regu- 
 lated his intercourse upon rational principles. " He 
 was excellent company," we are told, "with more 
 light than heat in the temper of his brain ; sometimes 
 difiicult to be engaged in discourse, but always singu- 
 lar therein, never trite or vulgar." Strong passions 
 form an essential part of a vigorous character ; and 
 we question the system which deems virtue to consist 
 in their utter denial. The constitution of man indi- 
 cates their wise regulation — not their entire subver- 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 31 
 
 sion as the desirable process. This we suppose to be 
 the kind of self-control ascribed to our philosopher. 
 "He had no despotical power over his affections and 
 passions, but as large a political power over them as 
 any stoic." 
 
 There is an economy of animal spirits whereby the 
 buoyancy of the feelings may be indefinitely pro- 
 longed. The thoughtless usually suffer despondency 
 from the reaction instead of the absence of natural 
 gaiety. The reflective, on the contrary, know how 
 to prize the prolonged ripple of the stream above the 
 temporary gush of the fountain; and we are not, 
 therefore, surprised at the declaration of a contem- 
 porary, that the mood of Sir Thomas was ''cheerful 
 rather than merry." 
 
 The style of Sir Thomas Browne may be thought 
 to lack grace by those whose taste has been exclu- 
 sively formed upon the more polished models of a 
 later day. There is, however, a rare charm in its 
 grave and sincere flow. We feel that a manly soul 
 expresses itself by the very vigour of the phrases. 
 It is an honest style, unmarred by daintiness or af- 
 fectation. Some words are obsolete, some paragraphs 
 introverted ; but a majestic simplicity like that of 
 Milton, quaint and fanciful comparisons, such as be- 
 sprinkle the homilies of Jeremy Taylor, and a digni- 
 fied and conscious rectitude of tone — the robust man- 
 liness of the age of Elizabeth — give energy and 
 attractiveness to almost every page. One of his 
 editors aptly calls him ''a stately Montaigne." A 
 
32 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 selection of aphorisms would best illustrate Sir 
 Thomas Browne's style. 
 
 For philosophical writing we can imagine no more 
 appropriate diction. Take, for instance, a few of his 
 striking illustrations of the insufficiency of knowledge 
 — how clear, ingenious, yet effective is the language : 
 " For my own part beside the jargon and patois of 
 several provinces, I understand no less than six lan- 
 guages ; yet I protest I have no higher conceit of 
 myself than had our fathers before the construction 
 of Bahely when there was but one language in the 
 world, and none to boast himself either linguist or 
 critic. I have not only seen several countries, be- 
 held the nature of their climes, the chiography of 
 their provinces, topography of their cities, but under- 
 stood their several laws, customs, and policies ; yet 
 cannot all this persuade the dulness of my spirit unto 
 such an opinion of myself, as I behold in nimbler and 
 conceited heads that never looked a degree beyond 
 their nests. I know the names, and somewhat more, 
 of all the constellations of my horizon; yet I have 
 seen a prating mariner that could only name the 
 pointers and the north star, out-talk me, and conceit 
 himself a whole sphere above me, I know most of the 
 plants of my country, and of those about me ; yet 
 methinks I do not know so many as when I did but 
 know a hundred, and had scarcely ever simpled fur- 
 ther than OheapsideJ" 
 
 In more rhetorical passages, there is like absence 
 of all the tricks of fine writing, and a dignified ease 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 33 
 
 tliat rises to eloquence as it were unawares. What 
 can be more devout in feeling or earnest in profession 
 than the following ? "I am sure there is a common 
 spirit that plays within us, yet makes no part of us ; 
 and that is the Spirit of Godj the fire and scintilla- 
 tion of that noble and mighty essence, which is the 
 life and radical heat of spirits, and those essences 
 that know not the virtue of the sun ; a fire quite con- 
 trary to the fire of hell. This is that gentle heat 
 that brooded on the waters, and in six days hatched 
 the world ; this is that irradiation that dispels the 
 mists of hell, the clouds of horror, fear, sorrow, de- 
 spair ; and preserves the region of the mind in sere- 
 nity ; whosoever feels not the warm gale and gentle 
 ventilation of this spirit, (though I feel his pulse,) I 
 dare not say he lives ; for truly without this, to me 
 there is no heat under the tropic, nor any light, 
 though I dwelt in the body of the sun." 
 
 There is a class of independent thinkers who vin- 
 dicate the integrity of the human mind. Genius 
 works mysteriously ; her children often seem uncon- 
 scious agents rather than voluntary creators. There 
 is a feverish unrest, a spasmodic vitality in their 
 mental being, which leads the calm observer of life 
 to consider their destiny quite undesirable. A deep 
 melancholy broods over their highest triumphs ; their 
 course though glorious is erratic, and a sense of mis- 
 placed feeling, incomplete humanity — of a peculiarity 
 which isolates while it distinguishes — a gift that 
 dooms at the same time that it enriches — assures us 
 
r 
 
 34 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 that even great endowments have their attendant 
 shadows. Schiller with all his admiration of Goethe 
 was repelled by his systematic egotism. He could 
 not love him as he wished, because of that determined 
 self-concentration which, while it did not check bene- 
 volence, kept back ever the most precious of gifts-— 
 himself. And with all Schiller's own generosity — a 
 disturbing element so marred the serenity of his con- 
 sciousness, that he welcomed death, because as it 
 approached, he felt ^^ calmer and calmer." The prac- 
 tical insight of Macaulay recognised the inevitable 
 contingency, to which we allude, when he passes 
 from the men of action to the poets — declaring of the 
 latter, as Dr. Johnson did of the whole human race, 
 that they are never wholly sane. An overplus of the 
 imaginative faculty leads to an erroneous estimate of 
 actual things ; keen sensibilities barb the arrows of 
 life; and habits of constant reflection give a mor- 
 bid hue to the most ordinary experience; and yet 
 one or the other of those characteristics belongs by 
 nature, to the class we designate as men of genius. 
 So generally admitted is this fact that we instinct- 
 ively separate the products of such minds from the 
 individuals; we enjoy their works, but deem the 
 authors but partially reliable. It is as if what is 
 really true and healthy in them instead of appearing 
 in life — as is the law of human nature in general — 
 embodied itself in a form of art — leaving the man 
 somewhat deficient, perplexed or weakened in his re- 
 lations to the actual — as the pearl is bred at the 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNIE. 35 
 
 expense of vitality and the flame of combustion. 
 Perhaps the tender reverence in which noble souls 
 hold this species of men, springs, in a measure, from 
 pity, as chivalry towards women is occasioned by a 
 sense of their weakness as well as admiration of their 
 charms. Doubtless works of absolute genius are the 
 greatest evidences of the power and enduring destiny 
 of the human mind ; but in their very nature — they 
 spring from the excess of a special development — 
 from overflowing sensibility — profound reflection or 
 exuberant fancy. The true felicity of intellectual 
 life — the mind that is a kingdom in the sense of the 
 brave old English poet — in a word, sufiicient by its 
 integrity and genial resources — is not so well illus- 
 trated by men of remarkable genius, as by those of 
 more balanced powers and catholic tastes, who ob- 
 serve as much as they reflect, and are capable of 
 finding mental pabulum in the ordinary course of life 
 and the regular transitions of nature. 
 
 The freedom and insight of the true philosopher in- 
 duces nobility of soul ; and this is beautifully manifest 
 in the character of Sir Thomas Browne. His charity 
 is all-embracing, and a sense of the natural dignity of 
 man endeared to his heart the lowliest of the race. 
 Self, through the breadth of his calm wisdom, "passed 
 in music out of sight." Charles Lamb said of books, 
 that Shaftesbury was not too fine for him nor Tom 
 Jones too low. Thus Sir Thomas regarded men, dis- 
 cerning ever a redeeming feature or ground of interest. 
 He could scarce retain his prayers for a friend at the 
 
36 THE PHILOSOrHER. 
 
 ringing of a bell ; and declares himself of a '^ consti- 
 tution so general, that it consorts and sympathizes 
 ■with all things." It would be difficult to find in the 
 whole range of English literature a more humane 
 and generous utterance than that contained in the 
 opening of the second part of the Eeligio Medici. It 
 is. a quaint elaboration of the maxim of Terence, and 
 a prosaic expression of Burns', " a man's a man for 
 a' that." How noble his sentiments in regard to 
 mental acquirements, and in w^hat pitiful contrast 
 appears the miser-like economy of ideas which nar- 
 rows the converse of modern authors ! "I intend 
 no monopoly, but a community in learning ; I study 
 not for my own sake only, but for theirs who study 
 not for themselves. I envy no man who knows more 
 than myself, but pity them that know less. I instruct 
 no man as an exercise of my knowledge, or with an 
 intent rather to keep alive in mine own head than 
 beget and propagate it in his ; and in the midst of 
 all my endeavours there is but one thought that 
 dejects me, that my acquired parts must perish with 
 myself, nor can be legacied among my honoured 
 friends." These noble sympathies w^hich distinguish 
 the genuine philosophic character) are not at all 
 incompatible with discrimination of taste and indi- 
 viduality of feeling. Perhaps they throw the mind 
 more directly back upon primal resources and detach 
 conscious identity from outward relations more tho- 
 roughly than sympathies apparently less difixise. 
 This "general and indifferent temper" in Browne, 
 
SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 37 
 
 was allied to marked peculiarities both of disposition 
 and opinion. He was no radical believer in human 
 equality as the phrase is generally regarded. He 
 had gone too near the heart of nature not to have 
 faith in what he terms "a nobility without heraldry;" 
 and, like all thoughtful observers, was sceptical as to 
 the miracles attributed to education and circum- 
 stances in their influence on character. What de- 
 serves that name he thought inborn, original and 
 prevailing ; and hence deemed it a '' happiness to 
 grow up from the seeds of nature, rather than the 
 inoculation and enforced graft of education." 
 
 Sir Thomas Browne knew how to reconcile fidelity 
 in detail with expansive views. Opinion plumed in- 
 stead of clipping the wings of his thought. He felt 
 that in all the facts of humanity there was a germ at 
 least of truth, which sanctioned to his eye even her 
 incongruous aspects and superstitious errors. He 
 begins his confession of faith by announcing himself 
 a Christian, but adds that pity rather than hate fills 
 his heart towards Turks, Infidels, and Jews, — "ra- 
 ther contenting myself to enjoy that happy style, 
 than maligning those who refuse so glorious a title." 
 In accordance with this spirit he thought " a resolved 
 conscience could adore her Creator anywhere;" that 
 "it is the method of charity to suffer without re- 
 action," and that "there is yet, after all the decrees 
 of councils and the niceties of the schools, many 
 things untoucht, unimagined, wherein the liberty of 
 
 4 
 
38 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 an honest reason may play and expatiate with se- 
 curity." 
 
 The pursuit of truth, not the attainment of an 
 idealj the knowledge of the actual rather than the 
 enjoyment of the illusive, is the aim of such minds. 
 The ruling passion is liberal curiosity. They ques- 
 tion the facts of each day not to force them into the 
 support of a cherished theory, or to exaggerate and 
 embellish them by the light of their own imagina- 
 tion, but simply to assay them in the balance of 
 truth, to glean from them whatever genuine import 
 they afford, or arrange them among unexplained 
 problems for future combination and inference. The 
 mental position ordained by this very constitution is 
 that of inquiry. The truth attained is only one of a 
 series of progressive convictions which, like the difr 
 ferent elevations of a mountain range, open new and 
 successive vistas. The philosopher does not climb 
 the heights of knowledge to collect rare pebbles to 
 arrange into brilliant pictures for immediate effect, 
 as Sheridan gathered fragments of wit for his come- 
 dies and figures for his rhetoric; nor to pick wild 
 flowers for elegiac garlands, such as Gray wove to 
 cast on the sepulchre ; but to reach a more bracing 
 atmosphere, behold more vast prospects, and draw 
 nearer to the stars ! 
 
t MiUWmU. 
 
 SHENSTONE. 
 
 A FRIEND of mine recently purchased, at auction, 
 an old copy of Shenstone. It is illustrated with a 
 portrait and frontispiece representing some kind of 
 aquatic bird peering up from among the reeds, by the 
 side of a little waterfall. There is an eulogistic pre- 
 face by Dodsley, several pages of tributary verse, 
 and a map of the bard's rural paradise. The care 
 bestowed upon the work, indicates the estimation in 
 which Shenstone was held by his contemporaries; 
 and it is a singular evidence of the mutation of taste 
 to compare these effusions with the order of poetry 
 now in vogue. There is a class of readers who deem 
 the praises lavished upon the modern English poets 
 extravagant ; who are impatient at Talfourd's refined 
 analysis of Wordsworth, and Jefirey's laudation of 
 Campbell. If such cavillers would glance at the 
 volumes before us, and note how tamely the changes 
 are rung on Damons, Melissas, Philomels and Cyn- 
 thias,— how Phoebus is invoked and Delia dawdled 
 over; what rhymes elegiac wind along as if, like 
 Banquo's issue, they would stretch to -the crack of 
 doom, — and then turn to the spirited apostrophes of 
 Byron, or the exquisite sentiment of Tennyson, they 
 
 k 
 
40 THE DILETTANTE. 
 
 would feel, by the force of contrast, what a glorious 
 revolution has taken place in English poetry. No- 
 thing can appear more flat than many of Shenstone's 
 pathetic verses. They are written usually in that 
 sing-song, die-away measure, of which " Pity the sor- 
 rows of a poor old man" is the everlasting type. 
 Here and there a happy epithet or well-chosen image 
 relieves the insipidity of the strain ; but in general 
 a thorough Laura-Matildaish tone, so admirably sa- 
 tirised in "Eejected Addresses," palls upon the ear 
 with a dulcet but senseless monotone : 
 
 " Where is Cupid's crimson motion ? 
 
 Billowy ecstasy of wo! 
 Bear me straight, meandering ocean, 
 
 Where the stagnant torrents flow." 
 
 The best verses of the occasional poems, are such as 
 these ; 
 
 " O may that genius, which secures my rest, 
 
 Preserve this villa for a friend that's dear, 
 Ne'er may my vintage glad the sordid breast, 
 
 Ne'er tinge the lip that dares be insincere. 
 
 Thou knowest how transport thrills the tender breast. 
 Where love and fancy fix their opening reigli ; 
 
 How nature shines in holier colours drest. 
 To bless their un^on, and to grace their train. 
 
 Let Ceylon's envy'd plant perfume the seas, 
 'Till torn to season the Batavian bowl ; 
 
 Ours is the breast whose genuine ardours please. 
 Nor need a drug to meliorate the soul." 
 
SHENSTONE. 41 
 
 Such is the usual strain of Shenstone. Did space 
 allow, we would extract the Ballad of Nancy of the 
 Vale, to contrast it with "Poor Susan;" and the 
 "Dying Kid" with the "White Doe of Rylstone," 
 in order to illustrate what a .reaction from the ex- 
 treme of artificial pathos to the heart of nature, 
 modern poetical genius has undergone ; or we would 
 place the "Jemmy Dawson" of Shenstone beside 
 Hood's "Dream of Eugene Aram," to make pal- 
 pable to the dullest intellect, how the more sympa- 
 thetic and enlightened humanity of later bards, has 
 thrown a true moral sadness around crime. It is the 
 same in poems of the afi'ections. What fresh and 
 natural life renders Barry Cornwall's love songs 
 instinct with vital beauty, and how real appears the 
 earnestness of Mrs. Hemans, notwithstanding the 
 monotony of her strain ! Shenstone's memorable 
 production is "The Schoolmistress" — a sketch drawn 
 minutely from life, and in versification and style, 
 imitated closely from Spenser. It is one of those 
 characteristic and truthful pictures of real life, 
 which artistically, yet naturally executed, like Gold- 
 smith's "Deserted Village," and "Gray's Elegy," 
 has a permanent niche in the temple of the British 
 muses. It is curious, with the sweet fancifulness of 
 the Fairy Queen, the lofty idealism and elegiac pa- 
 thos of Shelley's Adonais, or the rhetorical energy 
 and intense picturesqueness of Childe Harold, present 
 in the mind, to turn to the simple imagery of the 
 
 same stanza in the "Schoolmistress." The whole 
 
 4* 
 
42 THE DILETTANTE. 
 
 description is said to have been taken, to the veriest 
 details, from the old dame who taught Shenstone in 
 infancy ; and we copy three of the first stanzas as 
 examples of humble description in Spenserian verse, 
 as well as to give a fair idea of the tenor of this 
 favourite household poem : 
 
 " And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, 
 Which leaning near her little dome did grow; 
 Whilom a twig of small regard to see, 
 Tho' now so wide its waving branches flow; 
 And work the simple vassals mickle wo ; 
 For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, 
 But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat low ; 
 And as they lookM they found their horror grew, 
 And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. 
 
 " One ancient h€n,she took delight to feed, 
 The plodding pattern of the busy dame; 
 Which, ever and anon, impelled by need. 
 Into her school, begirt with chickens came, 
 Such favour did her past deportment claim ; 
 And, if neglect had lavished on the ground 
 Fragments of bread, she would collect the same; 
 For well she knew, and quaintly could expound. 
 What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. 
 
 " Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak, 
 That in her garden sipped the silvery dew ; 
 Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak, . 
 But herbs for use, and physick, not a few 
 Of gray renown, within those borders grew : 
 The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme. 
 Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue ; 
 The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ; 
 And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme." 
 
SHENSTONE. 43 
 
 It is almost unprecedented for a poet to be re- 
 membered for his abode, and yet such is the case 
 ■with Shenstone. His writings are so intimately 
 associated with his residence^ that we seldom recur 
 to one without thinking of the other. In his day, 
 landscape gardening was a novelty ; and his adorn- 
 ment of his paternal inheritance gratified at once his 
 taste, his indolence, and his ambition. 
 
 Yet how far removed from the true principles 
 of rural art were his ideas, may be realized by 
 contrasting the petty artifices to which he resorted 
 with the truly noble results of landscape gardening 
 achieved by our own accomplished professor* of 
 this beautiful and useful science. There is a pretti- 
 ness but no scope in his poetry, as there was fancy 
 but no comprehensive plan in the decoration of 
 his grounds. In both he illustrated the artificiality 
 of ' his day. His once celebrated abode is now 
 only to be recognised by a lawn and a bridge 
 whiclv yet remain. All that is pleasing is the 
 general view. Quakers halt there for refreshment, 
 returning from Stonebridge meeting to Birmingham. 
 This is an amusing coincidence, for no reader except 
 one of the subdued taste of these ''calm brethren'' 
 would ever think, while journeying about Parnassus, 
 of halting to refresh themselves with the poems of 
 Shenstone. 
 
 To an American eye, the charm of European 
 
 * A. J. Downing. 
 
44 THE DILETTANTE. 
 
 gardens is rather owing to the novelty of their 
 natural productions than the style of their arrange- 
 ment. The grand scale of our scenery renders all 
 tricks paltry by comparison ; and the artificial sub- 
 stitutes for natural diversity give a scenic rather than 
 a picturesque efiect. The elegance of Versailles is 
 apparent and unrivalled; but this quality rather 
 offends than delights when applied to external 
 nature. At Kome, the clipped, dense evergreens, 
 weather-stained marbles, and humid alleys of the 
 Villa-Borghese, do not win the imagination like the 
 vast, uncultured Oampagna. A fine English park, 
 with smooth roads intersecting natural forests, is more 
 truly beautiful than a parterre surrounded with fan- 
 tastic patterns of box or studded with bowers and 
 temples, like the back scene of a play. The famous 
 villa of the eccentric nobleman near Palermo, assures 
 the traveller to what an extent a love of the grotesque 
 may be carried in converting a residence of fine 
 natural capabilities into an architectural and horti- 
 cultural museum. Indeed, all experiments in ihis 
 field of human ingenuity, simply prove that the judi- 
 cious adaptation of natural advantages to beautiful 
 and useful results, is all that can be wisely attempted. 
 A clearing here, a path there, filling up a hollow, 
 levelling a hill, letting in sunshine and shutting out 
 the view of deformity — in a word, modifying the pri- 
 mitive aspect and not substituting art for nature, is 
 the sign of a healthful taste. Such is the Anglo-Saxon 
 tendency as manifest in the noble appreciation of forest 
 
SHENSTONE. 45 
 
 trees by Evelyn, and in the absence of the finical in 
 most English and American rural homesteads. A dis- 
 position to ornament nature is altogether French ; and 
 its appearance on the other side of the Channel, has 
 always been coincident with periods of conventional 
 taste in society and letters. The formal elegance of 
 a French garden or villa differs from the picturesque 
 exuberance of an American woodland or an English 
 meadow, just as Shakspeare differs from Racine. The 
 one lays open nature for our cordial recognition ; the 
 other trims her after a classic or fanciful pattern ; 
 the one abounds in suggestions, the other in techni- 
 calities. 
 
 Shenstone represented this species of taste both 
 in his grounds and his poems. The feet of his 
 stanzas are ingeniously varied, and so were the walks 
 through his domain. The flights of his muse were 
 limited to the horizon of a small experience, and the 
 prospects obtainable on his estate were equally 
 bounded. Within the narrow compass of his sym- 
 pathies, he ingeniously contrived to make as varied 
 and melodious a little world as possible ; and within 
 the boundaries of Leasowes, he Was not less inventive 
 —here setting up a fantastic temple, and there a 
 dark grove ; now turning a rivulet into a cascade, 
 and now surprising his guest with a root-woven seat 
 in an arbour l)eside a crystal pool, or in view of a 
 pretty vista. He wrote elegies on his friends, and 
 erected funeral urns in their honour among his trees. 
 He tried to win admiration by the sweet monotony 
 
46 THE DILETTANTE. 
 
 of his verses and the graceful windings of his paths ; 
 and was not less fastidious in the turn of a stanza, 
 than in the pruning of an ilex. 
 
 He prided himself upon being anti-utilitarian. 
 When a child, he always expected his mother to bring 
 him a new book from market, and she, when ne- 
 glecting to do so, used to give him a piece of wood 
 covered to resemble a volume, with which he 
 went contentedly to bed — thus early deriving from 
 an indolent imagination the satisfaction which active 
 realities only yield to others. He is said to have 
 been indignant when asked if there were 'fishes in his 
 miniature lakes. This extreme devotion to eye-plea- 
 sure led him even to neglect personal comfort, and 
 he retired from his shrines and bowers to a mean aiid 
 broken-roofed cottage. It is highly probable that 
 the exposure he there suffered induced the fever of 
 which he died. The expensive indulgence of this 
 peculiar ambition soon brought him into pecuniary 
 troubles ; and bailiffs intruded where only guests of 
 taste were desired. 
 
 There was something analogous in the dispositions 
 of Thomson and Shenstone. The latter possessed 
 an amiable temper combined with the tendency to 
 extremes which appears to be inseparable from the 
 poetic idiosyncrasy, even when crudely developed. 
 "I never," said he, "will be a revengeful enemy; 
 but I cannot, it is not in my nature, to be half a 
 friend.'' He could have married, it is said, the lady 
 to whom are addressed the best of his amatory 
 
SHENSTONE. 47 
 
 effusions; but something of the same mystery in- 
 volves his celibacy, as is the case with the bard of 
 the Seasons. 
 
 " Agriculture/' says Keats, in one of his letters 
 recently published, ^' is the tamer of men, — the steam 
 from the earth is like drinking their mother's milk — 
 it enervates their natures. This appears a great 
 cause of the imbecility of the Chinese ; and if this 
 sort of atmosphere is a mitigation to the energies of 
 a strong man, how much more must it injure a weak 
 one, unoccupied, unexercised V It seems as if rural 
 pleasures should be occasional to be salutary. If 
 Shenstone's life had been exposed to the intellectual 
 and moral incitements of a metropolitan career, he 
 would have retired to Leasowes with enlarged ideas 
 and wider sympathies, and perhaps have risen from 
 the details of a virtuoso to the general effects achieved 
 by the thinker. 
 
 Some of his essays are pleasing, but devoted to 
 quiet moralising or some insignificant theme. His 
 letters scarcely touch upon anything but his WTitings 
 and his place. Around these his thoughts and sym- 
 pathies constantly revolved with an egotism which 
 gives one a melancholy impression of the narrow 
 resources and unmanly tone to which fanciful solitude 
 may reduce an educated mind. He continued his 
 name ten years at Oxford for the mere pleasure of 
 learning, took no degree, and put on the civilian's 
 gown without intending to engage in a profession. 
 He then gave a brief period to acquainting himself 
 
48 THE DILETTANTE. 
 
 with life by visits to the principal watering-places. 
 Thus provided with a modicum of learning and ex- 
 perience, he returned to his birthplace, and simulta- 
 neously practised verse-writing and landscape gar- 
 dening ; but the want of enlarged curiosity, exalted 
 aims, and broad views, caused his tenderness and 
 benevolence to evaporate in sentimental hospitality, 
 and his invention to expend itself on inadequate 
 materials. 
 
 "I have," says one of his letters, " an alcove, six 
 elegies, a seat, two epitaphs, (one upon myself,) four 
 songs, and a serpentine river, to show you when you 
 come." This passage gives us an insight, at once, 
 into the chief occupations of Shenstone. His " Essay 
 on Men and Manners" contains many sensible ob- 
 servations agreeably expressed ; but, like his poetry, 
 seldom rising above a^ tranquil gracefulness of diction 
 or pleasantry of thought. He belongs, however, to 
 the correct and icefined school of essayists, of which 
 Addison is the main exemplar. We quote a few 
 sentences, at random, as specimens of the manner 
 and ideas of a genuine dilettante : 
 
 " When fame is the principal object of our devo- 
 tion, it should be considered whether our character 
 is like to gain in point of wit, what it will probably 
 lose in point of modesty ; otherwise we shall be cen- 
 sured of vanity more than famed for genius; and 
 depress our character while we strive to raise it." 
 
 " The impromptu appears to me to have the nature 
 of that kind of salad, which certain eminent adepts 
 
SHENSTONE. 49 
 
 in chemistry have contrived to raise while a joint of 
 mutton is roasting. We do not allow ourselves to 
 blame its unusual flatness and insipidity, but extol 
 the little flavour it has, considering the time of its 
 vegetation." 
 
 " There would not be any absolute necessity for 
 reserve, if the world were honest ; yet, even then it 
 would prove expedient. For in order to attain any 
 degree of deference, it seems necessary that people 
 should imagine you have more accomplishments than 
 you discover.- It is on this depends one of the excel- 
 lencies of the judicious Virgil. He leaves you some- 
 thing ever to imagine : and such is the constitution 
 of the human mind, that we think so highly of 
 nothing, as that whereof we do not see the bounds." 
 
 " The delicacy of his taste increased his sensibility, 
 and his sensibility made him more a slave. The mind 
 of man, like the finer parts of matter, the more 
 delicate it is, naturally admits the more deep and. the 
 more visible impressions." 
 
 " Whence is it, my friend, that I feel it impossible 
 to envy you, although, hereafter, your qualifications 
 may make whole millions do so ? for, believe me when 
 I aflSirm, that I deem it much more superfluous to wish 
 you honours to gratify your ambition, than to wish 
 you ambition enough to make your honours satis- 
 factory." 
 
 " All trees have a character analogous to all men : 
 oaks are in all respects the perfect image of the 
 manly character. In former times I should have 
 
 5 
 
50 , THE DILETTANTE. 
 
 said, and in present times I think I am authorized to 
 say, the British one. As a brave man is not suddenly 
 either elated by prosperity or depressed by adversity, 
 so the oak displays not its verdure on the sun's first 
 approach, nor drops it on his first departure. . Add 
 to this its majestic appearance, the rough grandeur 
 of its bark and the wide protection of its branches." 
 
 " Indolence is a kind of centripetal force." 
 
 ^' I hate maritime expressions, similes, and allu- 
 sions ; my dislike, I suppose, proceeds from the 
 unnaturalness of shipping, and the great share which 
 art ever claims in that practice." 
 
 " I am thankful that my name is obnoxious to no 
 pun." 
 
 " It is a miserable thing to love where one hates ; 
 and yet it is not inconsistent." 
 
 " I cannot avoid comparing the ease and freedom 
 I enjoy to the ease of an old shoe ; where a certain 
 degree of shabbiness is joined with the convenience." 
 
 "Two words, 'no more,' have a singular pathos; 
 reminding us at once of past pleasure and the future 
 exclusion of it." 
 
 " The superior politeness of the French is in no- 
 thing more discernible than in the phrases used by 
 them and us to express an afiair being in agitation. 
 The former says ' sur la tapis ;' the latter 'upon the 
 anvil.' Does it not show also the sincerity and serious 
 face with which we enter upon business, and the 
 negligent and jaunty air with which they perform 
 even the most important?" 
 
SHENSTONE. 51: 
 
 " There are many persons acquire to the>nselves a 
 character of insincerity, from what is in ttuth mere 
 inconstancy. And there are persons of warm but 
 changeable passions, perhaps the sincerest of any in 
 the very instant they make profession, but the very 
 least to be depended on through the short duration 
 of all extremes/' 
 
 "Extreme volatile and sprightly tempers seem 
 inconsistent with any great enjoyment. There is too 
 much time wasted in mere transition from one ob- 
 ject to another ; no room for those deep impressions 
 which are made alone by the duration of an idea ; and 
 are quite requisite to any strong sensation, either of 
 pleasure or of pain. The bee to collect honey, or the 
 spider to gather poison, must abide some time upon 
 the weed or flower. They whose fluids are mere sal 
 volatile, seem rather cheerful than happy men. The 
 temper above described, is oftener the lot of wits, 
 than of persons of great abilities.'' 
 
 Compare these extracts with the colloquial wit of 
 Sydney Smith's articles, the heavy artillery of Carlyle, 
 or the rapier-like dexterity of Macaulay. Habituated 
 to the vigorous spirit and rich thought of later essay- 
 ists and poets, we can say of such writings as these, 
 as Selkirk said of the beasts in his lonely isle, 
 
 " Their tameness is shocking to me." 
 
 One of the most felicitous instances of Shenstone's 
 prose is a brief sketch entitled "A Character," and 
 said to be a portrait of himself. It was written with 
 
52 THE DILETTANTE. 
 
 ! 
 
 a |)encil, j:on the wall of his room at Oxford, in 1735. 
 Perhaps Me cannot better illustrate our view of this 
 amiable, tasteful and egotistic devotee of rural and 
 rhythmical enjoyment, than by quoting it : 
 
 " He was a youth so amply furnished with every 
 excellence of mind, that he seemed alike capable of 
 acquiring or disregarding the goods of fortune. He 
 had indeed all the learning and erudition that can be 
 derived from universities without the pedantry and 
 ill manners which are too often their attendants. 
 What few or none acquire by the most intense 
 assiduity, he possessed by nature ; I mean that ele- 
 gance of taste, which disposed him to admire beauty 
 under its great variety of appearances. It passed 
 not unobserved by him either in the cut of a sleeve, 
 or the integrity of a moral action. The proportion 
 of a statue, the convenience of an edifice, the move- 
 ment in a dance, and the complexion of a cheek or 
 flower, afforded him sensations of beauty ; that beauty 
 which inferior geniuses are taught coldly to distin- 
 guish, or to discern rather than feel. He could trace 
 the excellencies both of the courtier and the student; 
 who are mutually ridiculous in the eyes of each other. 
 He had nothing in his character which could obscure 
 so great accomplishments, beside the want, the total 
 want, of a desire to exhibit them. Through this it 
 came to pass, that what would have raised another to 
 the heights of reputation, was oftentimes in him 
 passed over unregarded. For, in respect to ordinary 
 observers, it is requisite to lay some stress yourself, 
 
SHENSTONE. 53 
 
 on what you intend should be remarked by others ; 
 and this never was his way. His knowledge of books 
 had in some degree diminished his knowledge of the 
 world ; or rather the external forms and manners of 
 it. His ordinary conversation was, perhaps, laden 
 rather too frequently with sentiment, the usual fault 
 of rigid students ; and this he would in some degree 
 have regulated better, did not the universality of his 
 genius, together with the method of his education, so 
 largely contribute to this amiable defect. This kind 
 of awkwardness, (since his modesty will allow it no 
 better name,) may be compared to the stiffness of a 
 fine piece of brocade, whose turgescency indeed con- 
 stitutes and is inseparable from its value. 
 • "He gave delight by a happy boldness in the ex- 
 tirpation of common prejudices ; which he could as 
 readily penetrate, as he could humorously ridicule. 
 And he had such entire possession of the hearts as 
 well as the understandings of his friends, that he 
 could soon make the most surprising paradoxes be- 
 lieved and well accepted. His image, like that of a 
 sovereign, could give an additional value to the most 
 precious one ; and we no sooner believed our eyes 
 that it was he who spake it, than we as readily be- 
 lieved whatever he had to say. In this he differed 
 
 from W r, that he had the talent of rendering 
 
 the greatest virtues unenvied: whereas the latter 
 shone more remarkably in making his very faults 
 agreeable ; I mean in regard to those few he had to 
 
 exercise his skill." 
 
 5# 
 
54 THE DILETTANTE. 
 
 When the creative power is deficient, minds of 
 ideal tendency seek gratification by means of taste. 
 What they cannot realize through inward efibrt, they 
 attempt to image in outward forms. The sense of 
 beauty and aspiration, uncotnbined with moral vigour 
 or great intellectual gifts, is thus developed externally 
 and, as it were, through a kind of compromise be- 
 tween ability and desire. This appears to be the 
 philosophy of dilettantiism. The active imagination 
 repudiates outward embellishment; the comprehen- 
 sive mind disdains graceful artifice, and the large and 
 earnest heart cannot pause to dally with inane senti- 
 mentalities. It is on this account that when taste is 
 a prevailing trait, it implies the absence of great 
 qualities, exactly as the epithet amiable, when exclu- 
 sive, suggests the idea of a common-place character. 
 Both are secondary qualities, desirable as adjuncts to 
 higher capacities, as modifications of richer gifts, 
 rather than as essential. They are only negative 
 excellencies. 
 
 In the history of literature we find that extreme 
 taste is the characteristic of decline. It was grossly 
 violated by the old English dramatists, and morbidly 
 esteemed by the writers of the Restoration. It is 
 related chiefly to details and hence, to a certain 
 extent, is unfavourable to broad, deep, and energetic 
 developments. The verbal controversies of the Italian 
 academies aptly indicated the degeneracy of the 
 national life compared with the robust yet unrefined 
 age of the "grim Tuscan;" and it is in times when 
 
SHENSTONE. 55 
 
 society is uninspired by an exalted sentiment and the 
 tone of life is material, that men of the virtuoso 
 class prevail. In more serious and enthusiastic eras, 
 they seem out of place. Leisure and freedom from 
 lofty ambition, are necessary to their enjoyment. 
 They live in a world of their own, but its sphere is 
 insignificant. By surrounding themselves with quaint, 
 beautiful, and curious memorials, they nurture the 
 feelings which men of deeper natures can only ac- 
 tualize by deeds; and seek to reflect instead of 
 embodying their finest instincts. 
 
 To the noblest order of minds, however, the em- 
 blems of beauty and truth aggravate instead of 
 soothing. The most skilful combinations of music 
 awaken longings for the unattained ; every tint of 
 perfection given by art or nature, stirs the wings of 
 the soul by kindling desires for the unity of being, 
 the harmony of spirit, of which they are visible types. 
 Yet the amateur has his place in the social economy. 
 The mass of people need to be refined, to acquire 
 more delicate standards of judgment and to educate 
 the perceptions. To this result the influence of these 
 ministers of taste .efiectually contributes. Thus the 
 airy, epistolary gossip of Walpole and his domestic 
 museum at Strawberry Hill, — the artistic comments 
 and rare trophies of Beckford, and the literary break- 
 fasts and pleasing mementoes of Rogers, are asso- 
 ciated with this agreeable kind of social utility. 
 
t mnnlul. 
 
 CHANNING.* 
 
 Half a century ago, there might have been seen 
 threading the streets of Richmond, a diminutive 
 figure, with a pale, attenuated face, eyes of spiritual 
 brightness, an expansive and calm brow, and move- 
 ments of nervous alacrity. An abstraction of manner 
 and intentness of expression denoted the scholar, 
 while the scrupulously neat, yet worn attire, aB 
 clearly evidenced restricted means and habits of self- 
 denial. The youth was one of those children of New 
 England braced by her discipline, and early sent 
 forth to earn a position in the world, by force of 
 character and activity of intellect. He was baptized 
 into the fraternity of Nature by the grandeur and 
 beauty of the sea as it breaks along the craggy shore 
 of Rhode Island ; the domestic influences of a Pu- 
 ritan household had initiated him into the moral 
 convictions ; and the teachings of Harvard yielded 
 him the requisite attainments to discharge the office 
 of private tutor in a wealthy Virginian family. Then 
 
 * Memoir of William Ellery Channing, with extracts from his 
 correspondence and manuscripts. In three volumes. Boston : Wil- 
 liam Crosby and H. P. Nichols. London : John Chapman. 1848. 
 
CHANNING. 57 
 
 and there, far from the companions of his studies and 
 the home of his childhood, through secret conflicts, 
 devoted application to books, and meditation, amid 
 privations, comparative isolation, and premature re- 
 sponsibility, he resolved to consecrate himself to the 
 Christian ministry. Illness had subdued his elasticity, 
 care shadowed his dreams, and retirement solemnized 
 his desires. Thence he went to Boston, and for 
 more than forty years pursued the consistent tenor 
 of his way as an eloquent divine and powerful writer, 
 achieving a wide renown, bequeathing a venerated 
 memory, and a series of discourses, reviews and es- 
 says, which, with remarkable perspicuity and earnest- 
 ness, vindicate the cause of freedom, the original 
 endowments and eternal destiny of human nature, 
 the sanctions of religion and "the ways of God to 
 man." Sectarian controversy, the duties of the pas- 
 toral, office, journeys abroad and at home, intercourse 
 with superior minds and the seclusion made necessary 
 by disease, — the quiet of home, the refining influence 
 of literary taste and the vocations of citizen, father 
 and philanthropist, occupied those intervening years. 
 He died, one beautiful October evening, at Benning- 
 ton, Vermont, while on a summer excursion, and was 
 buried at Mount Auburn. A monument commemo- 
 rates the gratitude of his parishioners and the exalted 
 estimation he had acquired in the world. A bio- 
 graphy prepared by his nephew, recounts the few 
 incidents of his career, and gracefully unfolds the 
 process of his growth and mental history. 
 
68 THE MORALIST. 
 
 ^ It is seldom that ethical writings interest the 
 multitude. The abstract nature of the topics they 
 I si^ \ ^^^^^^^? ^^^ *^^ formal style in which they are 
 \^^/| usually embodied, are equally destitute of that popu- 
 lar chg^rm that wins the common heart. A remarkable 
 L exception is presented in the literary remains of 
 Channing. The simple yet comprehensive ideas upon 
 which he dwells, the tranquil gravity of his utterance, 
 and the winning clearness of his style, render many 
 of his productions universally attractive as examples 
 of quiet and persuasive eloquence. And this result 
 is entirely independent of any sympathy with his 
 theological opinions, or experience of his pulpit ora- 
 tory. Indeed, the genuine interest of Dr. Channing's 
 writings is ethical. As the champion of a sect, his 
 labours have but a temporary value ; as the exponent 
 of a doctrinal system, he will not long be remembered 
 with gratitude, because ithe world is daily better 
 appreciating the religious sentiment as of infinitely 
 more value than any dogma ; but as a moral essayist, 
 some of the more finished writings of Channing will 
 have a permanent hold upon reflective and tasteful 
 minds. His nephew has compiled his biography with 
 singular judgment. He has followed the method of 
 Lockhart in the Life of Scott. As far as possible, the 
 narrative is woven from letters and diaries, — -the 
 subject speaks for himself, and only such interme- 
 diate observations of the editor are given as are 
 necessary to form a connected whole. Uneventful 
 as these memoirs are, they are interesting as reve- 
 
CHANNING. 69 
 
 lations of the process of culture, the means and 
 purposes of one whose words have winged their way, 
 bearing emphatic messages, over both hemispheres, 
 — who, for many years, successfully advocated im- 
 portant truths ; and whose memory is one of the most 
 honoured of New England's gifted divines. 
 
 To Dr. Channing's style is, in a great degree, 
 ascribable the popularity of his writings ; and we are 
 struck with its remarkable identity from the earliest 
 to the latest period of his career. A petition to 
 Congress, penned while a student at the University, 
 which appears in these volumes, has all its promi- 
 nent characteristics — its brief sentences, occasionally 
 lengthened where the idea requires it — its emphasis, 
 its simplicity, directness, and transparent diction. 
 This is a curious evidence of the purely meditative 
 existence he must have passed ; for it is by attrition 
 with other minds and subjection to varied influences, 
 that the style of writing as well as the tone of man- 
 ners undergoes those striking modifications which we 
 perceive in men less intent upon a few thoughts. 
 His character is, therefore, justly described as more 
 indebted to "the influences of solitary thought than 
 of companionship." Such is the process by which 
 all truth becomes clearly impressed and richly de- 
 veloped to consciousness ; on the same principle that, 
 according to Mary ^oUstonecraft, reflection is ne- 
 cessary to the realization even of a great passion. 
 "I derive my sentiments from the nature of man," 
 says one of Channing's letters. Perhaps it would 
 
60 THE MORALIST. 
 
 have been more strictly true if he had said one man ; 
 for an inference we long ago derived from his 
 writings, we find amply confirmed in these memoirs 
 — that he was a very inadequate observer. Some of 
 his attempts to portray character are as complete 
 fancy sketches as we ever perused. They show an 
 utter blindness to the real traits even of familiar 
 persons. Beautiful in themselves, it is usually from 
 the graceful drapery of his imagination that the 
 charm is derived. Indeed, Dr. Channing hardly 
 came near enough to see the features in their literal 
 significance. He drew almost exclusively from with- 
 in. His subjects were what the lay-figure is to the 
 artist— frames for his thoughts to deck with efibctive 
 costume. When he reasoned of a truth or an idea, 
 he was more at home ; for in the abstract he was at 
 liberty to expatiate, without keeping in view the ac- 
 tual relations of things — the stern facts and bare 
 realities of life and character. Indeed, nothing can 
 be more delightful to a refined and thoughtful mind, 
 than to follow Channing in his exposition of a striking 
 idea or truth — so clearly and dispassionately stated, 
 then gradually unfolded to its ultimate significance, 
 with, here and there, a striking illustration ; and then 
 wound up, like a fine strain of music, which seems to 
 raise us more and more into light and tranquillity on 
 invisible pinions ! 
 
 Physical causes had no inconsiderable efiect in 
 modifying the action and shaping the career of Dr. 
 Channing. His early letters exhibit a phase of 
 
CHANNING, 61 
 
 character, which almost totally disappears as he ad- 
 vanced in life. A romantic hue, a spirit of good- 
 fellowship, natural and beautiful in youth, and a 
 sympathy with national and political movements, 
 indicate that his original tendencies would have led 
 to statesmanship, literature, or a still more active 
 vocation. The solitude in which he lived at the 
 South, as a tutor in a private family, his early re- 
 sponsibility consequent on the death of his father, 
 his narrow pecuniary resources and an illness which 
 forever shattered his originally vigorous constitution, 
 — all combined to thrust him, as it were, back upon 
 himself; to bring him in contact with stern and opi- 
 pressive realities at an early age, and render pecu- - 
 liarly vivid the consciousness of wants, capacities, 
 and infirmities which only slowly and, as it were, in- 
 cidentally, are revealed to less sensitive and thought- 
 ful minds. Henc6 religion, both from his instinct 
 and his circumstances, became early a necessity ; and 
 truth the only sustaining aliment of his lonely and 
 aspiring heart. We are not surprised that a man so 
 constituted should find his experience opposed to 
 the fallacious notion that youth is necessarily the 
 happiest season of life. Lord Bacon says, that 
 natures liable to great perturbations, only attain the 
 self-command and aptitude requisite for action, at 
 maturity. To such, existence is too oppressive, at 
 first, to be pleasurable. There must intervene an 
 epoch of struggle and conflict. The sensibilities 
 cloud perception; doubt obscures truth; emotion 
 
 6 
 
62 THE MORALIST. 
 
 prohibits calmness. Through repeated experiments, 
 long reflection, vague excitement, and alternations of 
 fear and hope, the spirit gradually wins its advent 
 into clearness and trust. Harmony is induced after 
 repeated discords. A genuine relation to life and 
 nature is, by degrees only, made apparent, and con- 
 fidently seized upon. Chaos must come again, as it 
 came to the baffled warrior, ere peace succeeds dis- 
 appointment, and faith perplexity. In these memoirs, 
 this transition is distinctly marked, and was gratefully 
 realized. 
 
 To chasten and subdue feeling was, in his view, no 
 small part of a wise morality. Among the chief 
 attractions of a future state to him, was the recon- 
 ciliation which he believed would there occur between 
 the reason and the heart. It was this attempt to 
 suppress emotion which gave to his elocution its 
 persuasive charm. The depth of the under-current 
 was revealed by a prolonged intonation, almost tre- 
 mulous yet singularly firm- — suggesting a power re- 
 strained, a sensibility overawed by reverence — than 
 which no phase of oratory is more truly affecting. 
 And yet the man who could so impress an audience, 
 seldom called out, in personal intercourse, any of the 
 latent sentiment of others. He inspired respect 
 more than he won confidence. His thoughts in- 
 terested his friends more than himself. His name 
 was an exponent of certain principles associated with 
 human progress and moral truth, rather than an 
 endearing household spell. In conversation he ap- 
 
CHANNING. 63 
 
 peared mainly intent upon gleaning from his auditors 
 new facts to aid his own speculations. If they had 
 seen a new country, undergone a peculiar experience, 
 or reflected deeply on general truth, he sought, by 
 rigid inquiry, to elicit the result. Thus as a moralist, 
 he pursued the same course as Goethe in his literary / 
 vocation — seeking to make his fellow-creatures ob- 
 jective, recoiling from assimilation, and repelling all 
 sympathetic approach, in order to render them sub- 
 servient to a professional end. It is hardly extrava- 
 gant to say that men of this stamp, — that is, with 
 great self-esteem and at the same time metaphysical, 
 artistic, or philanthropic tastes, regard human nature 
 very much as geologists regard the earth — as a won- 
 derful cabinet on a grand scale, whence to draw gems 
 of truth, or specimens of character, for the advantage 
 of science. 
 
 Notwithstanding the apparent enthusiasm in regard 
 to military prowess, it is evident that moral courage 
 is better understood as civilization advances. The 
 conviction has dawned even upon the common mind, 
 ["that tranquilly and with firmness, to withstand public \ w [gfi 
 opinion, in a righteous cause, and be loyal to personal -' 
 convictions, demands a manliness of character as rare 
 as it is noble. No small part of the energy which 
 lends impressiveness to Dr. Channing's writings, 
 arises from the exercise of this valorous dispositio^. 
 To those who witnessed the scene, for instance, when 
 his election sermon was delivered in Boston, there 
 remains a deep sense of the power of truthful oratory. 
 
64 - THE MORALIST. 
 
 In this discourse, he elaborately defined his idea of 
 freedom. Every sentence commencing, " I call that 
 mind free," told upon the audience. As he described 
 the narrowing efiect of bigotry, some of the promi- 
 nent representatives of a tyrannical priestcraft, ac- 
 tually writhed in their seats ; and those who sympa- 
 thized in the largeness and elevation of his doctrine, 
 exhibited in their enkindled faces, the best response 
 to his earnest plea for the spontaneous and* untram- 
 melled action of individual thought. 
 
 We demur somewhat to one of Dr. Channing's 
 favourite opinions — the equality of human nature. 
 In his zeal for the dignity of man, he overlooks not 
 a few of the indisputable facts of nature ; and indeed 
 often manifests an unphilosophical dislike to recog- 
 nise what is opposed to his own views, however true. 
 Thus, in a letter to Combe, acknowledging a copy of 
 his work on Man, he says — " The phrenological part 
 I fear did me little good. I have a strong aversion 
 to theories which subject the mind to the body." 
 Such is by no means the case with phrenology justly 
 interpreted; — it being rather the science of connexion 
 between material and spiritual attributes — indicating 
 their mutual relation; but, were it otherwise, the 
 question for a great thinker to decide, is as to its 
 truth; he must reverently explore, not presuppose, 
 the laws of nature. In regard to human equality, 
 more impartial observation would have led Dr. Chan- 
 ning to realize permanent natural distinctions in his 
 fellow-creatures. There is, unquestionably, a nobility 
 
CHANNING. 
 
 65 
 
 based upon this diversity — an aristocracy which no 
 institutions can repudiate — it being a great natural 
 fact. That the capacity of progress exists almost 
 universally, we are not disposed to contradict ; but 
 history and experienee are continually demonstrating 
 the superiority of innate over acquired influences. 
 Character has been most aptly defined as an instinct. 
 Many of Dr. Channing's views were derived purely | ^ 
 from his own individual sense of a truth ; very few 
 of them from a wide and inductive observation. He 
 was a man of the closet, a looker-on in the world, — 
 thoughtful, conscientious and deeply interested in 
 many of the grand problems to be solved, — yet too 
 far removed from the scene to estimate all its agen- 
 cies, or perceive its entire consequences. Thus, in 
 his essay on Napoleon, he weighs him in the balance 
 of disinterested virtue, and finds the modern con- 
 queror infinitely wanting; but of the relation in 
 which his achievements stand to the past and future, 
 in a grand providential scheme of social regenera- 
 tion, he seems never to have dreamed. 
 
 The influence exerted and the reputation acquired 
 by Dr. Channing, is a striking instance of the triumph 
 of consistency. The absence of versatility in his 
 nature is remarkable. We scarcely know a parallel 
 case in regard to any writer so generally recognised 
 as eloquent. The traces of personal experience, ob- 
 servation of nature, or of intimacy with books, are 
 comparatively rare. Everywhere we discern the 
 evidences of a life apart from human interests as 
 
 6* 
 
B6 THE MORALIST. 
 
 they usually affect the individual. He reason^ like 
 one who h^^ no personal stake in the issue of the 
 question. A tone of superiority, a conscious exemp- 
 tion from the .ruling passion of the hour, make him 
 often appear like a judicious and benevolent arbitrator 
 between humanity and the world, rather than a par- 
 ticipant in the struggles, griefs, and pleasures of life. 
 This partly arises from the singleness of purpose 
 and unity of thought to which we have alluded. 
 He harps always on one string. His mind revolves 
 around a few great truths. He is like one who 
 looks upon a wide landscape through the single loop- 
 hole of an isolated and majestic tower. The music 
 of his soul is often grand, but it is, after all, a mono- 
 tone. His favourite theme was the essential dignity 
 of human nature, its capacity of progress and im- 
 mortal destiny. Upon these convictions he founded 
 his moral system; and his various essays and ad- 
 dresses are only varied illustrations of their claims. 
 The process of his mental development seems to have 
 been little more than frequent and continuous re- 
 flection upon these ideas ; and the power over other 
 minds' which he thus attained, is a proof of the 
 superior value of concentration over the diffusive 
 culture of the age. Dr. Channing appears to have 
 shrunk from great familiarity with other minds even 
 through their writings. We perceive no evidence of 
 that cordial sympathy with authors, which breaks out 
 so genially in the correspondence of other gifted men. 
 His criticism on Milton is rather an intellectual re- 
 
CHANNING. 67 
 
 cognition of his genius than an affectionate tribute. 
 In fact, in his studies as in his life, the predominant 
 aim seems to have been self-possession. As he was 
 accustomed to envelope his delicate frame with the 
 utmost care, to guard against the bleak atmosphere, 
 so he strove to throw a mantle of reserve around his 
 spirit; — shunning the gregarious, intimate, and fa- 
 miliar, and seeking to draw from others aliment to 
 his own mind, rather than buffet with them the waves 
 of controversy, or mingle with them the glow of emo- 
 tion or the stream of thought. 
 
 "This unsocial disposition is likewise, in no small 
 degree, referable to the reaction of an impressible 
 organization. His biographer judiciously defends it 
 by declaring that Dr. Channing was " keenly sensi- 
 tive to the morbid feelings by which untuned spirits 
 communicate their discord even to one who has at- 
 tained serenity." It is said of Bonapaxte that he 
 could, by an effort of will, discharge his face of all 
 expression ; and there are persons who, in a similar 
 manner, can ward off the ungenial, while in contact 
 with it, by inducing an abstracted or antagonistic 
 mood. Channing seems to have been so alive to 
 physical and moral influences, that his comfort was 
 only secured by an icy barrier which chilled in- 
 truders. It is singular, however, to observe, that 
 while he felt it to be his sacred, individual right thus 
 to keep others shivering in the vestibule of his soul's 
 temple, towards the race in general, the community 
 at large, the broad interests of society, he appears to 
 
68 THE MORALIST. 
 
 have been always conscious of a very near and re- 
 sponsible affinity. He writes of the elevation of the 
 labouring classes, the destinies of Europe and the 
 political aspects of his own country, as if they were 
 somewhat assigned to his keeping. He seems always 
 to feel, in regard to "human nature," as Hazlitt 
 declares Wordsworth does towards the outward uni- 
 verse, a personal interest. Sometimes it would almost 
 appear as if he were in a manner accountable, as an 
 individual, for the advancement of the race; as if 
 he were a prophet or a lawgiver, commissioned like 
 those who ruled and guided the chosen people of 
 God. He often speaks " as one having authority." 
 This tone, though to the practical observer it is some- 
 times amusing, was doubtless instinctive. Dr. Chan- 
 ning consciously felt that the legitimate scope for his 
 thought, and inspiration for his feelings, lay in pro- 
 gressive views of society and widely diflFused sympathy 
 for man. 
 
 The remark of one of the schoolfellows of Chan- 
 ning, when the latter was cited as an example-—" it 
 is easier for him to be good" — at once recognises a 
 peculiar moral idiosyncrasy. We need but to glance 
 over the records of biography to perceive that there 
 is a distinct class of men who represent the saintly, 
 as others do the heroic and poetical character. The 
 retirement in which such natures ripen, was sought of 
 old in the hermitage and convent ; and now, as in 
 the instance before us, in a kind of self-imposed mona- 
 chism. It is, however, a serious question whether, 
 
CHANNING. 69 
 
 after all, this is a healthful species of moral develop- 
 ment. Let any human being of strong will, live upon 
 a fixed system of meditative retirement, and his pas- 
 sions will grow calm, his interest in outward life 
 diminish, and, with the requisite temperament, he 
 easily becomes rapt in spiritual ecstasies. When a 
 man is endowed with remarkable conscientiousness 
 and veneration, as well as gifts of mind, he seems 
 ordained to promulgate truth and quicken in others 
 the sentiments so active in himself. Such was the 
 case with Dr. Channing. Yet to us his memory is 
 hallowed, because he was so " clear in his great 
 office," rather than from an unreserved admiration 
 of his personal example. As a moral rhetorician, 
 his labours have reflected honour on his name and 
 country; as a man — there were peculiarities arising 
 from education, physical constitution, and tendencies 
 of nature, which rendered him a very incomplete 
 representative of humanity. No one more eloquently 
 discoursed of philanthropy ; but his interest in man, 
 in the abstract, was no test of his ready sympathy 
 with the individual. Indeed, we have observed one 
 trait in modern philanthropists which has sometimes 
 reconciled us to the culture of humbler virtues. They 
 are, generally speaking, the last men to whom are 
 confided personal griefs, or whose exclusive amity is 
 sought. They generalize with the heart as well as 
 the mind; burn with indignation at the wrongs in- 
 flicted on the natives of Africa, while often pro- 
 foundly indifierent to the true welfare of one of their 
 
70 THE MORALIST. 
 
 own household. How often some desolate human 
 being, touched by their written appeals in behalf of 
 a distant class of sufferers, is inspired with confidence 
 to make them the recipients of secret troubles — to 
 seek from them counsel and encouragement in lone- 
 liness and doubt. A benevolent father of the Catholic 
 church, by the mere claim of his vocation — a warm- 
 hearted sailor by the very candid generosity of his 
 soul, or one of Nature's sisters of charity — encoun- 
 tered, as they are, in all the circles of life — were a 
 surer ark of refuge. The views of the professed lover 
 of his race are too expansive. . His benevolence is 
 purely speculative. His sympathy with man, is like 
 that which the mere botanist has for a flower, or the 
 surgeon for a human form. It is rather professional 
 than natural ; >nd he who has sought a conference 
 with such, in order to relieve his overcharged heart, 
 finds his utterance choked, his tears frozen, and every 
 hope of recognition die within him ! In these re- 
 marks, we design no indiscriminate application to the 
 revered subject of the memoir before us. He accom- 
 plished good enough in his own way — perhaps the 
 only one in which his efficiency was certain ; but we 
 desire to repudiate the common notion, that useful- 
 ness — in its highest sense — is confined to those broad 
 fields of philanthropic enterprise, which an influential 
 class among us seems to regard as the only legitimate 
 arena of benevolence. We remember, as if it were 
 but yesterday, at the close of a winter's day, soon 
 after Dr. Channing's return from Europe, when his 
 
CHANNING. 7i 
 
 slender form all at once appeared before a group of 
 mourners — one of the families of his parish, who 
 were bereaved, during his absence, of their dearest 
 earthly friend. As he stood among them in the twi- 
 light, and the flickering blaze revealed his high and 
 placid brow, — the eyes of one of those motherless 
 children — (in whose mind his image was associated 
 with the sweetest counsels of maternal tenderness, 
 and upon whom his priestly hand had been laid in 
 baptism) — instinctively sought his face with a pene- 
 trating glance, — a silent appeal for some word of 
 solace in that dark hour. At length he spoke — but 
 it was to exclaim, "What a mysterious Providence !'' 
 The scene had awakened a speculative reverie, and 
 not one tear of commiseration. His mind was busy 
 in the attempt to reconcile to itself a sad visitation; 
 but his heart swelled not at the sight of the young 
 band left alone to the perils of the world. And 
 when he rose to depart, and looked back upon them, 
 it was only to remark, " I am going to -my solitary 
 home." His own family had not yet returned from 
 their country residence. In a few days at least, their 
 presence would brighten his fireside, while those he 
 left, were destined for years to a home made solitary 
 by death ! This incident illustrates the truth we 
 design to suggest — that\the sympathetic and re- 
 flective character have distinct provinces of action, 
 and that any one who, from the perusal of these 
 interesting memoirs, should deem their subject a 
 model to be practically adopted, with a view to at- 
 
V2 THE MORALIST. 
 
 tain the same moral results, would commit an egre- 
 gious error. The truth is, the essence of Dr. Chan- 
 ning's life appears in his writings. There he emitted 
 the vital aura of his few days of health. There he 
 embodied the energy of feeling whi<3h other and less 
 distinguished men give to the offices of friendship and 
 love. He found, at an early age, that he must decide 
 between the free exercise of social habits and feelings, 
 and. a sphere of utility based essentially upon con- 
 templation. Had he possessed a greater mobility of 
 character, power of adaptation, and facility of inter- 
 course; especially had the aflFections of his nature 
 been as individual as his intellectual processes, he 
 would instinctively have cultivated the social duties 
 and sentiments, and recognised in them, no small 
 part of the grace and benignity of life. / But his ill- 
 health, the stern influences of his early years, the ha- 
 bit so remarkable in New England, of regarding cha- 
 racter at the two extremes of right and wrong ; and 
 suspecting all zest of life as intrinsically evil, led him 
 to cherish will beyond sentiment, to feel, Avith singular 
 force, the responsibility incident to the right of choice 
 in action ; and hence to lean towards stoicism and 
 penance. It is true, that as years advanced, the 
 overstrained chords were a little relaxed, and he be- 
 gan to realize how much innocent delight is attainable 
 through a receptive, truthful, genial spirit. He ob- 
 Berved to one of his most intimate companions, as 
 this softer experience dawned upon his mellow facul- 
 ties, — that perhaps he had made a grand mistake — 
 
CHANNING. 73 
 
 perhaps the most happy and satisfactory life was one 
 passed in the free and earnest exercise of the affec- 
 tions and sympathies. 
 
 Egotism was a striking trait in Dr. Channing. 
 He was jealous of the least encroachment upon his 
 own individuality. The first person singular con- 
 stantly appears on every page of his writings ; and 
 we learn from the letters now first published, that 
 his views of mental philosophy corresponded with his 
 egotistical instinct. There is a curious subject of 
 speculation and one which we believe has not yet 
 been satisfactorily discussed — the relation of egotism 
 to genius and virtue. A peculiar self-confidence, in 
 a certain sphere, uniformly characterizes great men 
 in every department. Indeed, an ingenious writer* 
 almost makes it appear, that decision of character is 
 the essence of all superiority — -and this is but the 
 result of personal conviction — or faith in the results 
 of one's own thoughts. Where this quality predo- 
 minates — if united with any real moral or intellec- 
 tual ability, it renders its possessor, in a measure, 
 oracular. His opinions are rather announced as truths 
 than suggested as possibilities. His calm trust in 
 himself communicates itself to his writings and acts, 
 a.nd hence the authority they exert over the multi- 
 tude. We deem this vivid sense of personality — 
 this disposition to view all subjects in the light of 
 conscious reflection, as the trait which gives nerve 
 
 * John Faster. 
 7 
 
74 THE MORAtlST. 
 
 and clearness to Dr. Channing's diction, and impres- 
 siveness to his style. He had the serious, collected 
 air of one who had enjoyed special revelations ; who 
 occupied a higher platform than his fellows, and like 
 the mystics of the East, — by a singular discipline 
 and seclusion, had attained clearer glimpses of the 
 unseen and the eternal. Egotism, if it does not 
 betray itself offensively, is a vast source of influence. 
 We forgive even its disagreeable manifestations, when 
 united with genius or character. As a man of action, 
 Napoleon was the greatest egotist that ever lived ; 
 and how much his success was enhanced and secured 
 by the unwavering confidence this quality inspires ! 
 The boorishness of Dr. Johnson was forgiven because 
 of the sense which underlaid his dogmatism. Dr. 
 Channing's egotism was that of a moralist. He 
 enunciated his views of man's nature and duties in 
 the same authoritative style that the bard of Rydal 
 interprets the revelations of nature, or Davy ex- 
 pounds a scientific discovery. 
 
 There is a fresh-water spring that gushes up 
 through the sea on the Genoese coast, and, by the 
 force of its jet, reaches the surface untinctured with 
 the brine around it. \Dr. Channing's ideal of virtue 
 was apparently to preserve an inward force whereby 
 his nature could penetrate and rise above adjacent 
 life without imbibing its qualities — intact, free and 
 sustained. His loyalty to this principle undoubtedly 
 is one cause of his clearness, force, and persuasive 
 rhetoric. ■ Perhaps it was the only course for such a 
 
CHANNXNG. 75 
 
 man to pursue ; and its results sufficiently prove its 
 efficiency. Yet it would be a great error to urge its 
 universal adoption. .As a/ moralist. Dr. Channing 
 chiefly erred by deriving nearly atl truth from .his 
 o^n Qonsciousness.. He was eminently fitted to 
 attain harmony through meditation. His genius 
 wa& essentially monastic. But the greater number 
 of human beings can only improve through a sympa- 
 thetic culture. They assimilate the means of growth 
 and inward felicity through love rather than will. 
 They advance in proportion as they forget them- 
 selves in ^^an idea dearer than self/' and instead of 
 purposing individual good as an ultimate end to be con- 
 sciously sought, they instinctively yield themselves up 
 to nature, truth, and affection, to work what results 
 they may. It has been thus with great men. It was 
 so with Shakspeare and Burns. It is so with the 
 adventurous, the poetical, and the heroic character. 
 To fall back upon consciousness, to isolate life, to 
 seek a superhuman alliance with truth, would be to 
 mar and enfeeble both their usefulness and virtue. 
 It is surely possible to fraternize without losing 
 identity, to accept the graceful, the wise and the 
 kindly agencies of life, without compromising any 
 private right. Yet, according to the school of which 
 Dr. Channing is the most eminent exponent, there is 
 something dangerous and fearful in the social order 
 instituted by God. Emerson thinks we should '"^ sit 
 like gods on separate peaks." In the spirit of this 
 philosophy there is a certain degree of truth. Poets 
 and sages have emphatically indicated the office of 
 
 /^ 
 
76 THE MORALIST. 
 
 solitude, as holy, mysterious, and desirable ; but 
 when the exclusive principle is suffered to overlay 
 elements equally important, we protest against it as 
 false, irrational, and inhuman. 
 
 One problem, therefore, irresistibly suggests itself 
 in the contemplation of such a life and its results — 
 the comparative worth of individualism and sympa- 
 thy. Dr. Channing embodied a principle that lies 
 at the foundation of modern philosophy and consti- 
 tutes the distinctive feature of German literature. 
 He esteemed intuition far above observation; he 
 looked chiefly within and seldom around for truth ; 
 iri^a jTQrd, he fortified his own moral nature and 
 dwelt therein, scarcely ever yielding himself to the 
 outward, the distant, or the familiar. This is the 
 tone of his writings and the spirit of his character ; 
 and to this we cannot but refer much that was pecu- 
 liar and enduring in his agency. In a general point 
 of view and in regard to the majority of human 
 beings, perhaps it is neither feasible nor desirable 
 that individualism should be so completely realized. 
 Yet it seems the characteristic which almost univer- 
 sally belongs to the functions of genius and con- 
 science; and in this age of multitudinous experiment, 
 and in this country of broad and varied external ac- 
 tivity, no lesson can be brought home with more 
 needful advantage. It is deeply interesting to trace 
 its gradual and concentrated influence, its distin- 
 guished fruits and limitless associations as unfolded 
 in these pages. 
 
 To produce an adequate impression either in lite- 
 
CHANNING. 77 
 
 rature or art, two conditions are indispensable — a 
 command of tHe materials and an effective subject. 
 Language is the medium of the rhetorician, ideas 
 his vantage-ground. Over the latter Channing ob- 
 tained a characteristic mastery. Without the subtle 
 tact of the poet, he possessed a grasp of expression, 
 whereby he effectually made words the vehicle of 
 truth, — rapid, direct and significant. In opposition to 
 the hopeless theories of life and destiny nourished by 
 the gloomy theology which prevailed originally in 
 his native region, he seized upon certain expansive 
 and encouraging thoughts based on the latent powers 
 of the soul ; and these he strenuously developed as 
 motives of action and pledges of growth. The exis- 
 tence of conscience, will, and moral sensibility in 
 man, few have the perverseness to deny ; and from 
 these he deduced high conceptions of the ability and 
 rights of our common nature. To aspiring, gentle 
 and lofty souls such appeals came as divine auguries. 
 Upon such, the influence of his discourses fell with a 
 cheering import. They awoke a faith in the recupe- 
 rative energy of the moral instincts. They sounded 
 like the summons of a clarion amid the desolate 
 gloom of remorseful meditation. They quickened 
 into new life the repressed elasticity of the mind ; 
 and by imparting a consciousness of power, called 
 into action hopes, aims, and sentiments, which, unen- 
 voked, might have long slumbered in impotent de- 
 spair. This was a high service. Let it be duly 
 
 honoured. We believe it to be the only process by 
 
 7# 
 
78 THE MORALIST. 
 
 ■which a class of men, among, the noblest of their 
 kind, can be eifectually roused and comforted ; and 
 in view of the sphere of utility thus realized, it is 
 scarcely grateful to criticise the example which these 
 memoirs reveal. Yet, there is a vast difference 
 between character and thought, opinion and life, 
 habit and genius. For the truths to which Channing 
 attached such inestimable value, we refer to his 
 writings ; for a portrait of the man, we are indebted 
 to his biographer, and that suggests many inferences 
 which serve to throw new light upon the actual rela- 
 tion between personality and faith. One great prin- 
 ciple we everywhere see displayed is that the genera- 
 tion of an inward force is the great end of all that 
 deserves the name of education. Not in scholarship, 
 readiness, tact, or discipline — but in the capacity to 
 think wisely, to feel truly, to act justly, lies the ab- 
 solute greatness of man. It is in vain to evade or 
 conceal this primal fact. In Channing's own words, 
 " to get a disposable strength of intellect," is after 
 all th« one thing needful in all genuine mental cul- 
 ture. Doubtless this is to be attained in various 
 ways, according to the tendencies and gifts of the 
 individual ; in his case it was by meditative rather 
 than external intentness that the boon was sought 
 and found. And to enforce this law, as the requisite 
 of similarly constituted beings, seems to us the essen- 
 tial truth to be gleaned from these volumes. It is 
 only partially recognised in our systems of education 
 and individual theories. Lamb says a man may lose 
 
CHANNING. 79 
 
 himself in another's ideas as easily as in a neigh- 
 bour's grounds. We may be so diverted from all 
 singleness of purpose and individuality of life, as to 
 defeat the very object sought abroad, even among 
 the richest -fields of experience. " To thine own self 
 be true," was a maxim of the sagacious and prudent 
 courtier ; more nobly interpreted, it is also the doc- 
 trine of moral insight, and one which Channing has 
 most admirably illustrated. 
 
it. 
 
 The obstacle which has interfered with a just 
 appreciation of Swift, by British writers, has been 
 political opinion. Hence the two extremes of lauda- 
 tion and censure manifested in Scott's partial bio- 
 graphy and Jeffrey's caustic review. It is, indeed, 
 to be regretted by all lovers of literature, in its 
 broad and artistic relations, when a great writer be- 
 comes a violent partisan. The interest of his works 
 is thus rendered temporary and their spirit narrowed. 
 Instead of comprehensive views fitted to charm the ' 
 thinker of a distant generation, they too often yield 
 but clever instances of special pleading, and are in- 
 tended for a day and not for all time. Although a 
 great part of Swift's writings belong to this class, the 
 fact that they have survived and are still read with 
 zest, is the best proof of his originality. What strikes 
 us, at once, in his literary career, is its remarkable 
 efficiency. It is common to regard the man of letters 
 and the man of action as wholly distinct ; but in 
 Swift we have an example of their identity. The 
 results of his pen were actual, tangible, and impres- 
 sive. He wrote seldom for display, occasionally for 
 amusement, but, in general, to produce a decided 
 
SWIFT. 81 
 
 end, in which he seldom failed. His life is a com- 
 plete refutation of the utilitarian sneer at the vanity 
 of authorship. Here we have a man of no estate 
 and obscure birth, by the mere force of his diction 
 and the energy of his thought, exercising an influence 
 upon those possessed of executive power to such a 
 degree as to control and direct it. We see him 
 espouse a cause in his study and are assured of its 
 triumph ; we hear his repartee at a political dinner 
 silence a concerted opposition ; we follow the para- 
 graph which he has indited for a journal, as it circu- 
 lates through a kingdom, and diverts into a new 
 channel the whole tide of public opinion. Pamphlets 
 were his ammunition. With these he carried on 
 argumentative and satirical war, and waged battles 
 for a party or a whim. A sarcasm, or an epigram 
 often enabled him to attain his social objects ; and he 
 inflamed the popular heart with appeals distributed 
 by the ballad-mongers. Thus his single will was con- 
 tinually achieving its ends, and his thought moulding 
 opinion. Like the renowned man-at-arms of the 
 middle ages, his services and allegiance were eagerly 
 sought by those in power, and his pen was to him 
 what the sword was to the brave and skilful of an 
 earlier day — the instrument at once of fortune, ven- 
 geance, and glory. 
 
 Hence his success is to be estimated by the number 
 of his immediate triumphs, rather than by the dura- 
 tion of his fame. He wrote always for a special pur- 
 pose, and this accomplished, gave himself no farther 
 
82 
 
 THE WIT. 
 
 trouble. His mind was essentially practical, his 
 aims invariably definite. Few English writers have 
 laboured to such good purpose, if we deem the reali- 
 zation of individual desire — the impinging of one's 
 way of. thinking upon others, as the test of ability. 
 Whether to gratify a caprice, to punish an enemy, to 
 convert an antagonist, or to change the face of pub- 
 lic affairs. Swift wrote with a taet, a force, and a 
 clearness, that almost insured a satisfactory issue. 
 He selected the best weapon and used it with rare 
 judgment. He did not seem to consider writing as 
 an ideal, but a practical art. It was his unfailing 
 resource. If we would appreciate his efficiency as an 
 author, — without reckoning the influence of his pen 
 when in the service of the English ministry, at which 
 time it is acknowledged that he long controlled the 
 political views of the nation, — let us remember the 
 fact, that one of his pamphlets caused the erection of 
 fifty new churches in London ; that the " Predictions 
 of Isaac BickerstaflF," besides exciting the activity of 
 the Inquisition of Portugal, gave the primary impulse 
 to periodical literature and originated the British 
 essayists ; that the pretended confession of EUiston 
 actually checked street-robbery for years ; that he 
 made the fortune of Barber the printer, afterwards 
 Lord Mayor, and that the Drapier's Letters were the 
 first and may yet be recorded as the most effectual 
 blow ever struck for Ireland. With such fruits the 
 pen-craft of Swift abounded. His life is a wonderful 
 contrast to that of the meditative of the lettered race. 
 
SWIFT. 83 
 
 Conflict apparently was his delight. Authorship was 
 a single-handed fight. He was a kind of intellectual 
 gladiator, and only in the excitement of a war of 
 opinion, or a skirmish of wit, appears to have been 
 able to render himself oblivious of a morbid physique 
 and corroding passions. He long enjoyed a wide 
 mental dictatorship, such as Boswell's idol aspired 
 to, but only attained in a particular circle. His 
 enterprise of mind has been rarely equalled. He 
 was a bold, opinionative adventurer ; formidable in 
 grave discussions and ingenious in trifling. No 
 curious speculations, no aspiring visions, no exqui- 
 sitely elaborated fancies adorn his page ; but pungent 
 sense, keen wit, adroit argument, and vigorous judg- 
 ment often lead us to respect where we can neither 
 admire nor love. Swift's power lay in his grasp of 
 the actual. He had a clear, but not an exalted 
 vision. He looked more frequently to the strata 
 beneath than the stars above him; and was more 
 anxious for a good foothold on the material present 
 than a clear glimpse into the eternal future. He 
 dealt mainly with the positive, the attainable — the 
 facts and interests of life and man-— and the motives 
 and tendencies of the hour. He was a kind of in- 
 spired Cobbeti, and wrote very much on the prin- 
 ciples upon which Stuart painted. Refinement, deli- 
 cacy — all that we intend by the term ideal — seemed 
 alien to his nature. He possessed eminently the 
 genius of common sense. His insight was that of 
 afi*airs. Of the able men of his day, he was best 
 
84 THE WIT. 
 
 armed and equipped for the useful in literature. He 
 threw the light of genuine intelligence on many of 
 the questions of the time, and addressed the univer- 
 sal mind in a way readily understood. Hence both 
 his^usefulness and popularity. To a like cause we 
 attribute that indifference to his literary reputation 
 which has been noticed as a peculiarity. He had 
 not the imagination to cherish the highest view of 
 the art he cultivated. Its value to him was compa- 
 ratively material. The objects he sought rendered 
 the means employed secondary. He exercised au- 
 thorship as an attorney pleads — with learning, logic, 
 ingenuity and eloquence, but when the case w^s 
 gained, the plea was forgotten. The principles 
 which endear literature, as such, are truth and taste, 
 the former recognising the substance, the latter the 
 form. Swift was so much occupied with the advo- 
 cacy of particular ideas and the achievement of tem- 
 porary projects, that he scarcely dreamed of embody- 
 ing his talents in a production of well-considered 
 elegance and lasting grace. Carelessness is stamped 
 on all his works. Their harmony is incomplete. If 
 he verges on sentiment, it is soon profaned by levity ; 
 the brightness of his intelligence is obscured by vul- 
 garity ; and the subtlety of his judgment blunted by 
 the coarseness of his expressions. 
 
 To great mental activity Swift united a singular 
 force of purpose. He was both acute and relentless, 
 and hence admirably fitted to excel as a partisan 
 writer. Much has been said of his inconsistency in 
 
SWIFT. 85 
 
 "this vocation, but when all the circumstances are 
 weighed, it does not appear so glaring. He was 
 confessedly a moderate Whig, and carried the same 
 temper to the other standard. Macaulay, in his 
 recent history — after tracing the real origin of the 
 two great English parties to the Long Parliament, 
 justly declares that .the country could spare neither, 
 and that their mutual action gave birth to and con- 
 firmed the happily balanced principles of constitu- 
 tional government. He also recognises a similar dis- 
 tinction in the very nature of society — with reference 
 to art, literature, and manners, as well as in politics. 
 Such is the opinion of all liberal and enlightened 
 men. Doubtless Swift embarked in the career of a 
 political essayist, in part, from motives of self-inte- 
 rest; but his early initiation into comprehensive 
 speculations while secretary to Sir William Temple, 
 his knowledge of ^ the world, and his keen perception 
 of merits and defects, both in character and in theo- 
 ries, justify the inference that he belonged to the 
 clear-sighted and right-feeling class indicated by the 
 fluent historian, who occupy the frontier ground, and, 
 therefore, are not to be condemned as insincere for 
 alternate skirmishes on both sides. Candour will not 
 fail often to discern essential principles in the views 
 he advocated, however contradictory ; and Jeffrey's 
 inference that in the Drapier's Letters, his object 
 was " not to do good to Ireland, but to vex the 
 English ministry," is quite gratuitous. Li this, as in 
 most cases, he doubtless acted from blended motives; 
 
 8 
 
86 THE WIT. 
 
 for throughout his life he seems to have taken a 
 peculiar delight in exercising benevolence morosely, 
 and giving way to malevolence urbanely, — enjoying 
 the zest of retaliation and the consciousness of doing 
 good at the same time. Thus we believe his sym- 
 pathy with Lord Oxford was as real as his pleasure 
 at the success of his new allies, and therefore it was 
 not inconsistent to prefer to cheer the sad journey of 
 vthe one to uniting in the triumph of the other. It is 
 not unusual to find bitternesss and charity in the 
 same heart. Generous people are not infrequently 
 vindictive — especially through offended pride. Swift 
 was brutal in his satirical persecution of Tighe, Bet- 
 tesworth, and others who were so unfortunate as to 
 cross his path ; yet, on this account, we should not, 
 in the least, question the genuine kindness which led 
 him to write stories to increase the half-pay of a 
 worthy old captain, give the copyright of a popular 
 ballad to a deserving widow, yield so cordially his 
 first benefice to a poor clergyman, loan money stated- 
 ly to the indigent, and found, by will, a lunatic asy- 
 lum in Dublin, which yet bears witness to his philan- 
 thropy. In fact, to nomenclate character as we do 
 plants and minerals, is absurd, and especially in a 
 case like Swift, who exhibited unusual contradictions. 
 He who uttered a withering sarcasm with the cruelty 
 of an inquisitor, used to pray with meek devotion ; 
 the misanthrope who read his coming fate in the 
 withered top of a lofty elm, went through the elabo- 
 rate joke of waiting on his own servants at supper; 
 
SWIFT. 87 
 
 and the greatest of libellers was made unhappy, for 
 days, by a cold look from Temple. He was disgraced 
 at college for frolics which he long afterwards de- 
 clared, instead of originating in exuberant youthful 
 spirits, were entered into purely from the reckless- 
 ness of thwarted desires. In his dogmatism and 
 morbid irritability Swift resembled Dr. Johnson ; in 
 his rough kindliness, Abernethy. His economy 
 appears to have originated in a keen sense of early 
 privation and a somewhat uncommon appreciation, 
 for a man of letters, of pecuniary responsibility. 
 His melancholy and fits of temper grew out of 
 disease and baffled hopes. Patronage galled his 
 proud and sensitive nature, and yet it was his life- 
 long doom, — first from relatives, then from govern- 
 ment. The prejudice excited in Queen Anne's mind 
 by the Archbishop of York, on account of the alleged 
 infidelity in the " Tak of. a Tub," is supposed to be 
 the reason of the "long delays" he endured, and the 
 final inadequate appointment of Dean of St. Patrick 
 — a title which, however undesirable in his own esti- 
 mation, soon become famous enough to satisfy ordi- 
 nary ambition. This "honourable exile," as he calls 
 it, was attended by an unprecedented local conside- 
 ration after Swift proved. himself a successful cham- 
 pion of Ireland ; and the oblation of her people, at 
 his death, after three years of insanity had sepa- 
 rated him from the associations of life, has never 
 been surpassed for regretful sentiment and zealous 
 honours. . 
 
88 THE WIT. 
 
 Swift's most celebrated papers are of an allegori- 
 cal kind, and though interspersed with judicious re- 
 marks and clever hits, to a reader whose taste has 
 Ibeen formed on later models, cannot fail to be 
 tedious. Thus " The Tale of a Tub" is an elaborate 
 satire upon popery, ingenious and often correct, yet 
 quite unintelligible without the notes, and spun out 
 to a wearisome degree ; the same may be said of the 
 "Battle of the Books'' and the "Essay on Polite 
 Conversation." The Dialogues of the latter are an 
 exaggerated take-oflf of the strained wit that prevailed 
 in the author's day, and parts of them are quite aS 
 amusing as a good comedy. We have many speci- 
 mens of this allegorical and indirect way of enforcing 
 a truth, or illustrating a moral, to which Swift re- 
 sorted, such as Telemachus, Rasselas, and Sartor 
 Resartus, which unite invention with far more earn- 
 estness and beauty. Indeed the vulgarity of Swift 
 is sometimes unendurable. He seems to delight in 
 low metaphors and gross allusions, ^is coarseness 
 is gratuitous and his smut deliberate. He repudiates 
 Pope's axiom, that "want of decency is want of 
 sense," for the two are constantly mingled in his 
 writings. Irony and paradox he developes with a 
 prolonged relish. A very characteristic instance of 
 both is afforded in his defence of madness, founded 
 on the idea that — " he that can with Epicurus, con- 
 tent his ideas with the films and images that fly upon 
 his senses from the superficies of things ; such a man, 
 truly wise, creams off nature,, leaving the sour and 
 
SWiFT. 89 
 
 the dregs for philosophy and reason to lap up. This 
 is the sublime and refined point of felicity, called the 
 possession of being well deceived ; the serene, peace- 
 ful state of being a fool among knaves." The acute- 
 ness exhibited in this chapter is afiecting when we 
 remember that the mind that dallied so boldly with 
 the most awful visitation to which humanity is sub- 
 ject, was destined to become its prey. The meta- 
 phors of Swift remind us occasionally of Crabbe. 
 They are of the humblest kind ; yet often significant, 
 for instance, "Wisdom is a hen, whose cackling we 
 must value and consider, because it is attended with 
 an egg ; but then, lastly, it is a nut, which, unless 
 you choose with judgment, may cost you a tooth, and 
 pay you with nothing but a worm.'' 
 
 Satire has its oflSce in literature and in the afiairs 
 of the world, but it is one so liable to abuse and so 
 infrequently in alliance with perfect justice, that its 
 exercise is seldom desirable. Where appeals to the 
 reason and feelings prove insufficient, ridicule is 
 sometimes the only available means left. No one 
 doubts that the keen edge of criticism has lopped 
 away excrescences and caused the sap in the tree of 
 knowledge to evolve in fruits and blossoms. Gol- 
 doni's comedies visibly reformed Venetian practices. 
 Again and again, in France, the social tone has been 
 modified by polished satirical attacks. In England, 
 the first essayists gracefully laughed away many in- 
 digenous follies ; and the brilliant reviewers of a later 
 day have shamed into deserved obscurity the preten- 
 se 
 
90 THE WIT. 
 
 sions of lettered mediocrity. In poetry, in fashion, 
 in art, and even in personal character, we see the 
 most wonderful improvements brought about by a dis- 
 criminating use of this weapon. It is a reformer that 
 penetrates where gentler ministrants find no admit- 
 tance ; and even in social intercourse, its delicate and 
 kindly introduction has a wholesome effect — restrain- 
 ing presumption, exciting the apathetic, and giving 
 point and spirit to conversation. Let this be conceded 
 to satire divorced from malignity; but in the hands of 
 the selfish or arbitrary, there is no more dangerous 
 facility or remorseful gift. Not for a moment can 
 we hesitate in choosing between the gentleness which 
 is power and the power whose only attribute is 
 cruelty. Hazlitt has admirably defined wit as the 
 "eloquence of indifiference." There is a certain 
 want of heart in those who possess it as a prevailing 
 trait. It is not surprising that Swift endorsed the 
 maxims of Rochefoucault. The process by which the 
 satirist vanquishes even error, is an indurating one. 
 He must often, as a preparatory step, hush the 
 pleadings of humanity. He wounds it may, be to 
 cure, but how seldom is it done " more in sorrow 
 than in anger;" and how constantly does it breed 
 animosity ! We cannot lose sight of the great fact 
 that writing is a deliberate act. The cutting word 
 spoken in an ebullition of temper and the fatal blow 
 struck on the instant of provocation, are far more 
 defensible than the carefully penned lampoon or the 
 stab of the assassin's dagger. We envy not the mid- 
 
SWIFT. 91 
 
 night reveries of the man whose pen is habitually 
 employed as an instrument of intellectual revenge ; 
 and the meanest threat we ever imagined, was that 
 of an unprincipled man of genius, in his quarrel with 
 an honest farmer, — that he would "write him down." 
 The dark side of Swift's career, as a writer, is its 
 malign aspect. We speak not of the keenness of his 
 onsets in honest controversy, when he manfully bat- 
 tled for his party, for the Church of England, or for 
 suffering Ireland; sarcasms may be heaped upon 
 theories, acts of public assemblies and projects of 
 government, without involving the peace of any 
 human being; but the personal satire of Swift is 
 often not only merciless, but wholly unjustifiable. 
 His persecution of Steele, who had once been his 
 friend, is an instance. The truth is, there are points 
 of honour taken for granted by chivalric natures, in 
 all conflicts, — and one is that it is unfair to attack 
 an open enemy with a weapon he cannot sway, and 
 of which his antagonist is master. Swift repeatedly 
 made satirical war upon men utterly incapable of any 
 retaliation except that of the duello, from which the 
 Dean's sacred ofiice protected him. 
 
 His hardihood, in this respect, is evinced by his 
 cherished resentments. He detested Trinity College 
 all his life, because it was the scene of his youthful 
 punishment ; he continued to hate those of his kin- 
 dred who had displeased him as a boy ; and he never 
 forgave Queen Caroline for not sending the medals 
 she had promised him while princess. He could use 
 
92 THE WIT. 
 
 facts, the knowledge of which he gained in friend- 
 ship, to the injury of his adversary after a change of 
 feeling occurred. It is no wonder that one of his 
 victims attempted to cut off his ears. In the inten- 
 sity of his scorn he reminds the American reader of 
 John Randolph. Literature he seemed to regard as 
 an arena rather than a resource. It was his vantage- 
 ground, whereon he made himself amends for the 
 churlishness of fortune. It was. to him an armory, 
 not a bower ; he sought its thorns to head arrows of 
 revenge, not its roses to weave garlands for the ban- 
 quet ; its asperities rather than its amenities were 
 his delight. In a word. Swift carried the passions 
 which men of action develope in deeds, into his intel- 
 lectual life. Tasso used his pen to celebrate a holy 
 crusade or the charms of his love, and met his ene- 
 mies, like a brave gentleman, with his sword ; Swift 
 too often desecrated the sacred office of the one to 
 the butchery of the other. 
 
 Evon when thwarted by the indifference or inca- 
 pacity of woman, his annoyance vented itself in 
 satire. It is curious that while few intellectual men 
 ever took more pains to develope the sex, no one 
 more affected to despise them. He takes infinite 
 pains to repel the idea of love as a weakness, extols 
 the lasting happiness of genuine friendship, and de- 
 scribes his intercourse with the youngest of his vic- 
 tims as merely paternal. 
 
 ^ His conduct might have made him styled 
 
 A fatlier and the nymph his child, 
 
swift: 93 
 
 Such innocent delight he took 
 To see the virgin mind — her book. 
 
 One would suppose, however, from the annexed 
 passage, that he would have grown sooner weary 'of 
 this charming study. 
 
 In a dull stream which moving slow, 
 
 You hardly see the current flow ; 
 
 If a small breeze obstruct the course, 
 
 It whirls about for want of force. 
 
 And in its narrow circle gatl;iers 
 
 Nothing but chaff, and straw, and feathers. 
 
 The current of a female mind 
 
 Stops thus and turns with every wind ; 
 
 Thus whirling round together draws 
 
 Fools, fops and rakes for chaff and straws. 
 
 Hence we conclude no woman's parts 
 
 Are won by virtue, wit, and parts 
 
 Nor are the men of sense to blame 
 
 For breasts incapable of flame. 
 
 There is something very beautiful in the relation 
 of intellectual men to gifted women — a process of 
 mutual development — ^the history of which, in many 
 instances, it is delightful to trace ; but the order of 
 nature seems to have been reversed in the case 
 before us. The desire to be loved existed chiefly on 
 the part of those to whom he seems to have given 
 his society, while his expressed feelings towards 
 them were objective and independent. It is true, in 
 allusion to the death of Stella, he speaks of her as 
 ''that person for whose sake only life was worth 
 preserving ;" and yet he never recognised, while en- 
 
94 THE WIT. 
 
 joying the amplest opportunity, the sympathies he 
 constantly evoked. It is true that Vanessa inge- 
 nuously avows how much her nature is indebted for 
 its growth and expansion to his influence, but he 
 never inspired her with that confidence which alone 
 renders the affections a source of true happiness. 
 
 Still listening to his tuneful tongue 
 
 The truths which angels might have sung, 
 
 Divine imprest their gentle sway, 
 
 And sweetly stole my soul away, 
 
 My guide, instructor, lover, friend, 
 
 Dear names, in one idea blend. 
 
 Perhaps a latent conviction of the unenviable 
 reputation of a satirist, induced him to disavow 
 malevolence, and defend the kind of writing to 
 which he was addicted. " There is very little 
 satire,'' he says, "which has not something in it 
 untouched before, but the materials of panegyric 
 being very few in number, have long since been ex- 
 hausted.'' Originality, indeed, appears to have been 
 a cardinal point with Swift ; and to this quality 
 almost exclusively he owes the continuance of his 
 fame. He boasts that he was never known to steal 
 a hint. The party questions he discussed, are com- 
 paratively without interest ; as an essayist, he has 
 been superseded by more graceful and versatile 
 pens ; as a rhymester, the higher level of taste con- 
 demns him to neglect ; but as the author of Gulli- 
 ver's Travels his renown is firmly based. Though 
 intended as a local satire, the novelty of the concep- 
 
SWIFT. 95 
 
 tion and the verisimilitude of the execution, mark 
 this work as one of true genius, whose standard 
 value is only diminished by the occasional blemishes 
 of a low and perverted taste. It exhibits the same 
 circumstantial felicity in description which Caleb 
 Williams does in events. Besides this capo d' opera 
 of satirical writing, Swift vindicated himself more 
 explicitly elsewhere ; facts, however, do not warrant 
 the complacency of his statement. 
 
 He spared a hump or crooked nose 
 
 Whose owners set not up for beaux, 
 
 True genuine dulness moved his pity 
 
 Unless it offered to be witty. 
 
 Those who their ignorance confessed 
 
 He ne'er offended with a jest, 
 
 But laughed to hear an idiot quote 
 
 A verse from Horace learned by rote. \ 
 
 It is conceded that the most satisfactory part of 
 Swift's life, at least in his own estimation, were his 
 busy years in London, spent in the service of party 
 leaders of this epoch, of which we have a full account 
 in the "Journal to Stella" — a record which confirms 
 our preconceived notion of his character. It shows 
 his devotion to the actual by his brief chronicle of 
 the events of each day, with few comments or fancies 
 to enliven the summary; his egotism by the im- 
 portance he attaches to the least thing that concerns 
 himself; his want of refinement by the coarseness of 
 the epithets ; his arbitrary tendency by its tone, and 
 his deficient ideality by the absence of beautiful sen- 
 
96 THE WIT. 
 
 timent or graceful expression. His relation to Stella 
 is only to be inferred from the familiarity and confi- 
 dence of its revelations ; it implies intimacy rather 
 than tenderness. To know how a man passes his 
 time is, however, no slight assistance to the interpre- 
 tation of his life and genius. According to this 
 journal. Swift was in a constant whirl of political 
 and social excitement, and a rainy or an ill day he, 
 therefore, found quite "apathetic.'' He dined with 
 ministers, envoys, lords and duchesses, — visited Con- 
 greve in his blindness, called for his letters at Steele's 
 office, chatted with Rowe and Prior at one coffee- 
 house, and joined Harley in anathematizing the oppo- 
 sition at another ; supped often with Addison, wrote 
 an occasional paper for the Tatler, and daily jotted 
 down for Stella's enlightenment, the state of his health 
 and the weather, the names of new acquaintances and 
 the conduct of old, the dishes he had eaten, the geo- 
 graphy of his lodgings, the nick-nacks he had pur- 
 chased to bring to Ireland, and the stage of his 
 progress in a political despatch, in the advocacy of 
 a petition, or the composition of a lampoon. He 
 expresses violent anger towards all whose treatment 
 dissatisfies him, and frankly talks of going to bed 
 "rolling resentments in his mind." This diary ex- 
 hibits the greatest activity of mind and consciousness 
 of ability, and an extraordinary mixture of satirical, 
 inquiring, ambitious, and convivial temper, with so 
 little of the enthusiasm of the poet, the tenderness of 
 the lover, or the spirituality of the divine, that we can 
 
SWIFT. 97 
 
 seldom realize that its author ever had any legitimate 
 claim to either title. ^ 
 
 Dry den's prediction that Swift would never be a 
 poet seems to us to have been verified; and this 
 opinion we infer not only from his versified but his 
 prose compositions. His facility in the use of lan- 
 guage, his " knack of rhyming/' and the various odes 
 and other metrical pieces which are found in his 
 collected works, do not invalidate our position. The 
 term poet has now more than a technical meaning. 
 It is used to designate a certain species of character 
 and tone of mind, and is often applied to those who 
 have not written verse, and, perhaps, never written at 
 all. A deep sense of the beautiful, and intimate 
 relations with the human, the natural and the divine, 
 arising from earnestness of feeling and spirituality 
 of perception, are qualities now regarded as essential 
 to the name of poet. In these Swift was singularly 
 deficient. All that gave point to, or yet redeem his 
 verses, are their cleverness of diction and their wit. 
 No poet could habitually write such prose. It is 
 utterly destitute of glow; there are no kindling ex- 
 pressions ; the flow of words never accidentally be- 
 comes rhythmical from the loftiness of the sentiment, , 
 as in Burke, or its pathetic sweetness, as in Dickens. 
 And yet, of its kind. Swift's style is unsurpassed. 
 For perspicuity, directness, and freedom from invo- 
 lution or bombast, it is a model. It is exactly such 
 a style as is desirable for the man of affairs, whose 
 object is to address the common sense of mankind, 
 
 9 
 
98 THE WIT. 
 
 and to be equally understood by tbe cultivated and 
 the vulgar. Without ornament, and just raised above 
 the colloquial by the arrangement of words, only the 
 worth or the salient points of the thought, lend it the 
 least attraction. To this very absence of elegance 
 and fervour in style, may be ascribed Swift's popu- 
 larity. Queen Anne's reign has been called the age 
 of the wits. Prior circumstances rendered that period 
 the reverse of an earnest one. Sentiment was at a 
 discount and sense at a premium. Social follies pre- 
 vailed; party feeling ran high. Fanaticism and 
 debauchery had each been carried to extremes ; and 
 the reaction caused strength of mind and clearness 
 of thought to be admired. Hence Swift, with his 
 vigour of statement, his universally intelligible lan- 
 guage, and, especially, his caustic irony and stinging 
 repartee, was the very writer to aflfect a public, weary 
 of lackadaisical versewrights and croaking bigots, and 
 alike distrustful of enervating taste and morbid en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 Unfortunately Swift was not content with intel- 
 lectual empire. He sought and keenly enjoyed a 
 sway over hearts; and to this desire, unnaturally 
 aggravated by causes already suggested, we ascribe 
 his conduct toward Stella and Vanessa. There is 
 not a trace of genuine amatory feeling in his poems. 
 Compare his love-verses with those of Petrarch, Barry 
 Cornwall, Mrs. Norton,, or any other sincere votary 
 of the tender passion, and this fact will be apparent. 
 Every circumstance related of his intercourse with 
 
SWIFT. 99 
 
 the unhappy women whose affections he won, his own 
 allusions to them in verse and prose, and their actions 
 and expressions with reference to him, indicate that 
 the love of power and not the delights of mutual love 
 actuated him. He sought to wind himself, as it were, 
 into their souls, to become a moral necessity, to call 
 out all the recognition of which they were capable, 
 to be the motive and the arbiter of their inward life, 
 and the consciousness of having attained this appears 
 to have satisfied him ; while they, more soulful and 
 human, pined, in vain, for the endearments, the entire 
 confidence, and the realized sympathies of love. It 
 is said that Richter sought intimate association with 
 interesting women for the express purpose of dis- 
 covering materials for romantic art. Swift did the 
 same apparently for the mere gratification of self- 
 love. As far as he was capable of passion it was 
 intellectual, spent itself in words, and a kind of phi- 
 losophical dalliance with sentiment, only torturing to 
 its objects. Doubtless he liked the companionship 
 of both Stella and Vanessa, and from his own pecu- 
 liar nature could but feebly understand the agonizing 
 uncertainties and wearisome suspense to which his 
 equivocal behaviour subjected them ; but these con- 
 siderations are quite insufiicient to excuse the positive 
 inhumanity of his course. That his view of love 
 was rather metaphysical than natural — a thing more 
 of the will than the heart, and inspired by reflection 
 instead of sentiment, is manifest not only by his con- 
 
100 THE WIT. 
 
 duct but in his writings. Thus in his apostrophe to 
 Love he says^ 
 
 In all I wish, how happy I should be, 
 Thou grand Delader, were it not for thee ! 
 So weak Ihou art that fools thy power despise, 
 And yet so strong thou triumph'st o'er the wise I 
 Thy nets are laid with such peculiar art, 
 They catch the cautious, let the rash depart ; 
 Most nets are filled for want of thought and care, 
 But too much thinking brings us to thy snare. 
 
 HoWj by his wit and wisdom, he built up a mental 
 supremacy and thus attached to himself these fresh 
 and devoted hearts, is evident in the case of Stella, 
 by the fact that he was tl\e preceptor of her child- 
 hood, and the exclusive counsellor of her mature 
 years ; while Vanessa says of him — 
 
 When men began to call me fair, 
 
 You interposed your timely care ; 
 
 You early taught me to despise 
 
 The ogling of a coxcomb's eyes, 
 
 Showed where my judgment was misplaced,. 
 
 Refined my fancy and my taste. 
 
 It will not do to gloss over the inevitable conse- 
 quences of obligations like these, voluntarily con- 
 ferred upon a susceptible and candid girl. He must 
 have instinctively anticipated her confession. 
 
 Your lessons found the weakest part, 
 Aimed at the head and reached the heart. 
 
SWIFT. 101 
 
 It is true, in the celebrated verses descriptive of 
 this unhappy love, he says, that at the discovery, he 
 
 felt within him rise 
 
 Shame, disappointment, grief, surprise. 
 
 Yet, with heartless egotism, he goes on, year after 
 year, fostering a hopeless attachment, concealing 
 from one his relation with the other, until forced into 
 a nominal marriage with Stella, and the bitter truth 
 flashed upon the wretched Vanessa, whom he leaves 
 to wrestle alone with her misery, until death gives 
 her a welcome release ! The most exacting sentiment 
 which ever inspired a man, could require no more 
 complete self-dedication than these fair beings gave 
 the object of their love. Stella existed only for 
 him ; and an humble neighbour of Vanessa describes 
 her as passing all her time in walking in the garden, 
 reading and writing, and never seeming happy except 
 during the visits of Swift. Byron in one of his 
 letters says, with an evident and characteristic ap- 
 preciation of this waste of feeling : " Swift, when 
 neither young, nor handsome, nor rich, nor even 
 amiable, inspired the two most extraordinary pas- 
 sions upon record, Vanessa's and Stella's. 
 
 Vanessa, aged scarce a score, 
 Sighs for a gown of forty. four. 
 
 He requited them bitterly ; for he seems to have 
 broken the heart of the one and worn out that of the 
 
 9* 
 
102 THE WIT. 
 
 other ; and he had his reward, for he died a solitary 
 idiot in the hands of servants. 
 
 The source both of Swift's errors and triumphs 
 was a love of power. We are convinced that this is 
 the key to the puzzle which, at first, seems to baffle 
 inquiry in regard to his anomalous conduct. There 
 is always a vindicatory principle at work in life and 
 nature. Where any element is thwarted in one di- 
 rection it will assert itself elsewhere ; the root which 
 nieets a rock, gnarls itself upward in fibrous convolu- 
 tions ; the stream impeded in its onward flow, either 
 gushes into a fountain or expands into a lake ; the 
 disappointed bard transforms himself into a ferocious 
 critic, and the unsuccessful belle turns devotee. Now, 
 the traits of humanity were incomplete in Swif^. He 
 possessed acuteness and vigour of intellect, strong will, 
 remarkable wit and faculty of application, but he 
 seems to have been destitute of passion. It was 
 rarely, therefore, that a genial, homogeneous excite- 
 ment wg^rmed and fused his nature. Its capabilities 
 acted separately. He wanted the susceptibility and 
 the gentleness that come from an organization alive 
 to harmonious sensations. His body and his soul did* 
 not thrill with the same conscious existence. Life 
 was consequently objective to a great degree, and he 
 sought to conquer its visible obstacles rather than 
 enrich and attune its elements within. He lived in 
 a sense of intellectual action inadequately combined 
 with sentient enjoyment. What nature denied him 
 he sought through mental expedients ; and his relish 
 
SWIFT. 103 
 
 of existence seems to have consisted in operating 
 upon others — a process comparatively indifferent to 
 those who are vividly sensible of enjoyable resources. 
 This exclusive love of power is often the heritage of 
 disappointment,— the alternative for sympathy — the 
 chief resort of those cut off by asceticism, disease, 
 or circumstances from any source of natural pleasure. 
 We see it in women unfavourably constituted or un- 
 genially married, in the deformed, and in the gifted 
 but low-born. They seem to desire to realize every- 
 thing through will. Their great demand from others 
 is subserviency, and they manifest the greatest im- 
 patience at the least nonconformity with their ca- 
 prices. Indeed coalition with them in thought and 
 action is the only test of friendship or love, for the 
 obvious reason, that they are incapable of fully expe- 
 riencing the delights of those sentiments which, to 
 such as are more naturally constituted or situated, 
 are their own- exceeding reward. That Swift be- 
 longed to this order of character, is evident from 
 every page of his biography and not a few of his 
 writings. He was never satisfied in his political re- 
 lations until he gained a personal influence with his 
 distinguished allies. He desired to be necessary to 
 them as a companion as well as useful to their cause 
 as a writer. He managed his financial interests with 
 precision and economy from a very clear sense of 
 the value of money as an agent of power. He sent 
 forth his tracts, epigrams, and satirical tales anony- 
 mously, not heeding reputation, but enjoying keenly 
 
104 THE WIT. 
 
 the secret pleasure of impressing himself on other 
 minds and leading public opinion by his will. He 
 had a fondness for patronage on the same principle, 
 and boasted that thirty men of note owed their ad- 
 vancement to his personal influence; among whom 
 were Parnell, Berkeley, Congreve, Rowe, and Steele. 
 The same disposition is apparent in his training of 
 servants, in his dictation in regard to the household 
 arrangements of families he visited, in the oracular 
 terms with which he pronounced upon literature and 
 character, in the overbearing conditions he proposed 
 with his first ofier of marriage, in the ceaseless exac- 
 tions of his social Kfe, and in the authoritative tone 
 of his conversation and writings. To be admired, 
 loved or feared, he demanded from all but dolts; 
 and he did this without any consideration as to his 
 ability to reciprocate the more sacred feeling. Those 
 whom he failed to bully or lure into one of these 
 sentiments, were thoroughly obnoxious to him. In all 
 this we see the arrogance of a passionless intellectu- 
 ality, the unhesitating claim of pride, the domination 
 of a will unchecked and unsoftened by any of those 
 noble emotions or lapses of tender feeling and earnest 
 desire, that cause a glad surrender of opinion to truth, 
 of individuality to assimilation, of self to a thought 
 or being more dear, — yielding a joy never realized by 
 the love of power, even when its most detested foes 
 or sweetest victims are completely in its repaorseless 
 grasp. 
 
€^t ^^ilantlitopiigi 
 
 WILLIAM ROSCOE. 
 
 The most instructive chapter in the comprehen- 
 sive records of philosophy, is example. There its 
 principles are illustrated in action; its spirit typified 
 in. life. By this agency has the divine Being most 
 perfectly revealed himself; and by it, in the moral 
 economy of his universe, are the virtuous energies of 
 humanity continually renewed. The happiest inspi- 
 '<3^ ration of which society is the source, is the influence 
 diffused through it, in various attractive forms, by 
 i*^^its most distinguished members. ^-^ Coleridge has 
 ^,j? beautifully, and, with his accustomed significance, 
 M remarked, that "it is only by celestial observations 
 that even terrestial charts can be constructed scien- 
 i tifically."}>i To gaze steadfastly at the intellectual 
 and moral lights of the world, is at once the crite- 
 rion and pledge of our own advancement; and in 
 that constellation there are for all of us, some bright, 
 particular stars, which, on account of their proximity 
 to the region of our peculiar circumstances and sym- 
 pathies, should be most earnestly and studiously re- 
 garded. ^ The life of Roscoe is peculiarly interesting 
 in this country, as it furnishes the example of one 
 
106 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 who lived and died the active denizen of a commer- 
 cial community like our own ; of one whose native 
 endowments were by no means brilliant, and whose 
 circumstances, as far as they were prosperous, were 
 created by himself ; of one who, thus situated, nobly 
 won and modestly wore the wreath of literary honour, 
 the credit of self-denying probity, the name of a phi- 
 lanthropist ; and who accomplished this by the sim- 
 ple but sublime energy of his character. 
 
 If any extrinsic circumstances could augment the 
 satisfaction with which we shall review the life and 
 comment upon the character before us, they may be 
 found in the fact that we are indebted for our sources 
 of information to the son of him we contemplate : his 
 memoir is an offering of filial respect and gratitude. 
 And notwithstanding the delicacy of the duty, it has 
 been most happily performed. 
 
 William lloscoe was born about the middle of the 
 last century (1753), at Mount Pleasant, in, or near 
 the town of Liverpool. His parentage was humble, 
 and in his early years, blessed with maternal fidelity, 
 but unmarked by any indications of intellectual pre- 
 cocity, and not favoured by influences superior to his 
 condition. His own memory could suggest but one 
 or two characteristics of his infant days, and the 
 most prominent of these were a deep and instinctive 
 dislike to restraint, and a fondness for solitary ram- 
 bling along the river, of his native town. At the age 
 of twelve years, the discipline of a common school 
 education was exchanged for a course of life involv- 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. 107 
 
 ing a degree of physical effort, and an opportunity 
 for communion with nature, the genial effects of 
 which, upon so susceptible a being, were such as cir- 
 cumstances of more apparent advantage might have 
 failed in producing. Young Roscoe was called to 
 assist his father in the business of agriculture, and 
 the sale of its products ; the intervals of leisure 
 which occurred during these employments, were de- 
 voted to reading. Doubtless, the three years passed 
 in this manner, at an age when both body and mind 
 are so liable to receive permanent impressions from 
 slight causes, were very influential in giving solidity 
 to his constitution, and in fitting his intellect and 
 feelings for that maturity of action which so happily 
 followed. "This mode of life," says he in a letter 
 to a friend, " gave health and vigour to my body, 
 and amusement and instruction to my mind ; and to 
 this day, I well remember the delicious sleep which 
 succeeded my labours, and from which I was again 
 called at an early hour. If I were now asked whom 
 I considered to be the happiest of the human race, I 
 should answer, those who cultivate the earth by 
 their own hands." 
 
 At fifteen, when called upon to adopt a profession, 
 that of a bookseller was at first chosen, and even en- 
 tered upon ; but in a very brief period, attendance 
 upon the shop proved wearisome, and in the end he 
 was articled for six years to an attorney. The duties 
 of his clerkship were frequently arduous, or at least . 
 engrossing, and they possessed continually incre^^sing 
 
108 . THE PHILANTHROTIST. 
 
 claims in his view, as upon the future success in the 
 pursuit he had chosen, his family mainly depended 
 for support. Yet from these labours he would ever 
 and anon turn to those less practical, but more at- 
 tractive subjects of attention, which cheered the 
 sterile and often irksome walks of duty, and turned 
 the springs of thought to finer issues. Shenstone 
 became successively his beloved companion and ad- 
 mired model, till the author of the Deserted Village 
 shared the empire of his young but fervent literary 
 love. A few but choice intimacies were formed ; 
 these gradually ripened into friendships which seem 
 to have been singularly productive of mutual good. 
 Under their -benign incitement and cheering com- 
 panionship, Roscoe studied the ancient languages, 
 and was induced by the counsel and aid of one pecu- 
 liarly gifted and proportionally beloved, to devote 
 that attention to the Italian language and literature 
 which, in after life, was the foundation of his literary 
 success. At this time commenced his habitual culti- 
 vation of poetry, in which he acquired a facility and 
 taste that neutralised the eflfect of severer studies, 
 and imparted a cheerful and elevated excitement to 
 his whole subsequent existence. Yet with all these 
 expanding and improving tastes, the direct business 
 of his youthful years received his first and most 
 faithful care. "It is true,'' he remarks, "the 
 amusements of poetry, and the incense of praise, 
 constitute of themselves some degree of happiness, 
 andy it may be said, happiness should never be 
 
WILLIAM ROSGOE. 109 
 
 slighted. But, alas, I am a traveller, and before I 
 intend to indulge myself, I prc/pose to get to the end 
 of my journey. If every beautiful prospect and 
 every shepherd's pipe must allure me out of my road, 
 what probability is there that I shall ever find my- 
 self at rest?" 
 
 His poetical compositions, written before the age 
 of manhood, indicate the benevolent enterprises to- 
 ward which the ardent energies of opening life tended, 
 and to which so fair a portion of its noon and even- 
 ing were devoted, — the abolition of the African slave 
 trade, and the intellectual elevation of his countrymen. 
 The first he promoted in common with many spirits 
 of inferior philanthropy, but in relation to the second, 
 he evinced, even in the morning of life, a deep and 
 discerning benevolence. Then, as ever after, he 
 recognised the necessity of an element that should 
 modify the influences of the commercial world, and 
 cherish the latent sentiment of human nature among 
 the bustling members of a mercantile community. 
 That he was well aware of the requisiteness of an 
 agent more effectud;l than mere taste in the process 
 of improving society, that he owed his moral growth 
 and the power and purity of his mental efibrts to a 
 deeper principle, is not alone evidenced by the gene- 
 ral tone of his life and recorded views. At this time, 
 he was the author of an able and forcible tract upon 
 religious duty, the sentiments of which were directly 
 deduced from the teachings of Christianity. 
 
 During the year 1774, Mr. Roscoe commenced 
 10 
 
*l-0 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 practice, being admitted to the king's bench. His 
 assiduity and conscientious spirit in the early, and 
 therefore, most anxious stage of his professional 
 course, is most interestingly evinced in his corre- 
 spondence with Miss Jane Griffies, whose destiny it 
 was to become the companion, and minister to the 
 happiness of a life, which derived its deepest and 
 most constant satisfaction from domestic influences. 
 These letters (which, it may be observed, passed 
 between the parties while residing in the same town, 
 with the few exceptions, occasioned by the tempo- 
 rary absence of the latter,) breathe a most confiding 
 affection ; but it is an affection dignified with a reli- 
 gious and intellectual sentiment^ that deepened, 
 while it embalmed it ; it was a love evidenced chiefly 
 by an earnest interest in the legitimate good of its 
 object — ^^a love based on similarity of taste and sym- 
 pathy of purpose ; a love which inspired only to im- 
 prove. "I cannot help pleasing myself," says Mr. 
 R. in one of the first of his epistles, " with the reflec- 
 tion, what an infinite variety of subjects this inter- 
 course will give rise to. Convinced of the perfect 
 confidence that exists between us, how freely might 
 our thoughts expand themselves ! The desire of 
 pleasing might cause some little attention to the 
 mode of expression, whilst the certainty of mutual 
 indulgence would prevent us from being apprehensive 
 about trivial inaccuracies." 
 
 The first incident which broke in upon the quiet 
 routine of his life, after his marriage, was a profes- 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. Ill 
 
 sional visit to London. On this occasion, he expe- 
 rienced, in no small degree, a trial which seems the 
 nearest conceivable approach to the situation of Tan- 
 talus — that of being surrounded with the luxuries of 
 literature and art, with the quiet impulse of taste 
 whetted into a keen appetite by their alluring pre- 
 sence, while the want of means condemns it to re- 
 main unsatisfied. The additions to his library and 
 collection of prints, were made, therefore, very gra- 
 dually, and the extreme conscientiousness with which 
 he indulged so innocent a taste, must have greatly 
 enhanced their value. 
 
 The introduction of some original sketches into 
 the exhibitiou of a Society of Art in Liverpool, in 
 1T84, indicates his increasing interest in its practice; 
 but this is still more strongly manifested by the 
 sedulous application of his literary powers to its pro- 
 motion. During the next year he delivered a course 
 of lectures on the subject, and by means of a poem 
 on the Origin of Engraving, and several valuable 
 contributions of a more fugitive character, laboured 
 to propagate correct notions of the principles of art, 
 and excite an interest in its elevating pursuits. But, 
 perhaps, his feelings and efibrts in regard to these 
 objects, are most happily associated with that ready 
 appreciation of the works of art, in all their variety, 
 and that earnest sympathy with, and friendship for 
 professed artists, which is so beautiful a feature of 
 his life and character. 
 
 Three years after, however, his philanthropic spirit 
 
1 12 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 was engaged in an enterprise involving results of a 
 more momentous nature, and* demanding no small 
 measure of perseverance and moral courage. Its 
 success involved the utter annihiUtion of one of the 
 most lucrative branches of the commerce of Liver- 
 pool ; and those pledged to its advancement, were 
 forced, to a greater or less extent, to come forth from 
 the retirement of private life, become identified with 
 a party, and engage in a contest calculated to excite 
 strong feelings of personal and political animosity. 
 These circumstances were so diametrically opposed 
 to the temper and taste of Mr. Roscoe, that had it 
 been a cause of less moral importance, he might have 
 been excused for transferring the responsibility of its 
 defence to others. But intimately allied as was the 
 issue with the cause of humanity, the triumph of 
 Christianity, and the character of his native land, it 
 appealed to the highest principles of his nature ; and 
 with him such an appeal was never in vain. In the 
 course of this year, therefore, appeared a poem, en- 
 titled the Wrongs of Africa — a pamphlet demonstrat- 
 ing the injustice and impolicy of a traffic in her 
 children ; and, soon after, a most masterly reply to a 
 specious attempt to prove its lawfulness on the au- 
 thority of Scripture. By these and similar writings, 
 by personal intercourse and correspondence with Wil- 
 berforce, and other enlightened friends of this great 
 cause^ and especially by creating a just public senti- 
 ment in one of the strongholds of the trade, Mr. 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. 113 
 
 Roscoe contributed largely to the happy result with 
 which the enterprise was eventually crowned. 
 
 It cannot be supposed that the progress of an event 
 which riveted the attention and divided the opinions 
 of the civilized world, failed to attract the anxious 
 attention, and elicit the thoughts and feelings of Ros- 
 coe. Accordingly, we find him, at the opening of the 
 French Revolution, acting under the influence of that 
 love of man, and that faith in the ultimate supremacy 
 of his higher nature, whence only springs an enlight- 
 ened attachment to the principles of freedom. Of all 
 the occasional products of his muse, none have been 
 more popular or excellent in their kind, than those 
 induced by the first brilliant stage of this event. Of 
 his intelligent sympathy and conduct, at this period, 
 his correspondence and public course furnish the 
 most honourable testimony. In his case, as in that 
 of many others, it was the primary means of drawing 
 into political life and effort, talents and sympathies, 
 which, but for so exciting an occasion, would have 
 been devoted exclusively to the more retired interests 
 of literature. But it was not his case, like that of 
 many of his contemporaries, when the dark era of 
 the revolution came on, to lose his faith in the. 
 blessedness of genuine political freedom. He discri- 
 minated between the effects of a long-sustained state 
 of moral degradation upon the people, and the legiti- 
 mate spirit of genuine political independence. Both 
 he believed subject to the eternal laws of truth, and 
 therefore deemed it as unphilosophical as sinful, to 
 
 10* 
 
114 THE PHILANTHROEIST. 
 
 refer the recklessness and atrocity of a debased popu- 
 lace, to the pure and generous impulse of true liberty. 
 
 Attention to the language of Italy, to which Mr. 
 Roscoe's mind was, as before stated, early directed, 
 soon introduced him to an acquaintance with her 
 standard authors. The study of these, during the 
 whole period we have cursorily reviewed, formed one ' 
 of the principal sources of his literary recreation. In 
 perusing the historians, particularly Machiavelli and 
 Ammirato, who wrote the Florentine annals, his 
 primitive interest in the character of Lorenzo de 
 Medici was strengthened, and his long, though silent- 
 ly cherished purpose of writing his life, confirmed. 
 The utility of such a work, if successfully executed, 
 none could better understand than himself ; yet, 
 even he did not apparently anticipate the numerous 
 indirect benefits of which it was productive. The 
 numerous historical events and interesting circum- 
 stances, collateral with the main subject, the attract- 
 ive form in w^hich the literature and associations of 
 Italy were brought into view, in the course of the 
 work, and the important epoch in the world's history 
 embraced in the period to which it referred, all tend- 
 ed to enhance its practical worth, and the gratifica- 
 tion to be derived from its perusal. 
 
 The chief difficulty in the way of his design, was 
 the want of adequate materials. Happily, this was 
 removed, by the aid of a friend in Italy, who under- 
 took to forward him the necessary transcripts from 
 original documents, and such works as were not at- 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. 115 
 
 tainable in England, while the sale of two extensive 
 libraries furnished him with yet other resources. 
 Thus furnished, and with the sympathy of many indi- 
 viduals of high literary character, as well as that of 
 his numerous personal friends enlisted in the enter- 
 prise, he commenced and assiduously prosecuted it at 
 intervals of leisure. 
 
 Upon the publication of the work, in 1796, its 
 success, in every respect, was complete. For the 
 full evidence of this, we must again refer to the cor- 
 respondence of the author, introduced so largely into 
 the history of his life. Seldom do labours of this 
 nature meet with such a degree of contemporary 
 appreciation, or elicit more sincere and universal 
 testimony to their worth. If ever an author had 
 reason to feel satisfied with the result of his efforts, 
 as regards their immediate reception by the literary 
 public, that one was Roscoe. If he did not altogether 
 escape the critical acumen of the times, he lived to 
 improve by its just strictures, and to lose the memory 
 of its unjust severity, in the various and noble tributes 
 of praise and gratitude which were poured in upon 
 him. He lived to see his own portrait of his favour- 
 ite translated into several of the modern languages of 
 Europe, to amend and pass it through the press to ar 
 perfect edition, and to behold it, like a radiant mes- 
 sage, bearing his name through many lands, and 
 awakening attention to those sources of intellectual 
 pleasure, of which he had drank so deeply, and 
 whose renovating waters he would fain see a common 
 
116 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 well-spring on the dusty highway of life. From the 
 individual encomiums passed upon Mr. Roscoe, on 
 this occasion, it is difficult to select one, all being, 
 either from their origin or character, peculiarly 
 pleasing. We cannot but notice, however, the allu- 
 sion to the subject by the author of the Pursuits of 
 Literature, as being from a political opponent, and, 
 consequently, induced solely by a sense of the intrin- 
 sic excellence of the work. 
 
 " But hark ! what solemn strains from Arno's vales 
 Breathe rapture, wafted on the Tuscan gales ! 
 Lorenzo rears again his awful head, 
 And feels his ancient glories round him spread ; 
 The Muses, starting from their trance, revive, 
 And at their Roscoe's bidding, wake and live." 
 
 From what has now been said, it is evident that 
 the mere business of his profession had for Mr. Ros- 
 coe few attractions. He was engaged, too, in com- 
 pany with another gentleman, in a project which, 
 soon after the publication of his work, began to 
 assume a promising aspect ; this was the draining and 
 cultivating an extensive tract of peat-moss in the 
 neighbourhood of Manchester. Looking, in a good 
 measure, to this source of income for support, and 
 with a view of gradually bringing his aflFairs to a 
 close, and retiring to the more complete enjoyment 
 of his taste, in the course of the year 1796, he relin- 
 quished his profession. How singly and sincerely he 
 regarded professional occupation as a means subordi- 
 nate to a great end, may be inferred from his reply 
 
 I 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. 117 
 
 to a friend wlio rallied him upon his withdrawing 
 from its responsibilities. There is something pecu- 
 liarly like a home-thrust in its applicability to our- 
 selves. " Surely man is the most foolish of all ani- 
 mals, and civilized man the most foolish of all men. 
 Anticipation is his curse ; and to prevent the contin- 
 gency of evil, he makes life one continual evil. 
 Health, wisdom, peace of mind, conscience, all are 
 sacrificed to the absurd purpose of helping up for the 
 use of life more than life can employ, under the 
 flimsy pretext of providing for his children, till prac- 
 tice becomes habit, and we labour on till we are 
 obliged to take our departure, as tired of this world 
 as we are unprepared for the rational happiness of 
 the next." 
 
 He now resumed his Italian reading, and this, 
 with the study of Botany, his favourite science, a 
 translation of the Balia, of Luigi Tansillo, his agency 
 in instituting the admirable Athenseum of Liverpool, 
 and the issuing of a new edition of Lorenzo, with 
 other labours of a desultory nature, occupied his 
 time and attention, until the spring of 1799. And 
 then it was, in pursuance of that design of retire- 
 ment so congenial to his nature, and so promising of 
 intellectual fruits, that he became the possessor of 
 Allerton Hall, in the vicinity of Liverpool. There 
 he at once renewed his literary labours, in the field 
 where his recent laurels were won. In preparing the 
 history of Leo X., he but still further developed, 
 
118 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 under additional advantages, the subject so happily 
 begun in the life of Lorenzo. 
 
 Scarcely a year had elapsed, when the claims of 
 friendship called him from his elegant retreat into a 
 scene of action more truly business-like in its nature, 
 than the one whence he had lately retired. The 
 family of that friend whose exertions abroad had so 
 signally aided Mr. Roscoe in obtaining interesting 
 and necessary historical documents, asked his coun- 
 sel and personal us&istance in rearranging the aflfairs 
 of their extensive banking establishment. Circum- 
 stances and his own sense of duty, in the end, de- 
 volved the conduct of this concern chiefly upon 
 himself, and, in a great measure, identified his pecu- 
 niary interests with its success. 
 
 The next social and benevolent enterprise in which 
 he seems to have engaged, was the establishment of 
 a botanical garden near town. And his pen at this 
 time was extensively devoted to the advancement of 
 this science, in testimony of which several interesting 
 instances occur in his letters and communications to 
 botanical societies. 
 
 The influence of Mr. Roscoe in the private circles, 
 and, indeed, through the whole range of society 
 around him, frequently afforded him opportunities of 
 most happily directing the public mind, and render- 
 ed his political opinions well known. This was a 
 prominent cause of his activity during the excitement 
 in relation to the movements on the other side of the 
 Channel, to which we have briefly alluded, and con- 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. 119 
 
 tributed, at the approacli of an important political 
 crisis in his own country, to direct towards him the 
 expectant regards of his townsmen. In 1806, he was 
 returned, by the freemen of Liverpool, as a represen- 
 tative in Parliament ; and, in accordance with the 
 sense of public duty which characterized his life, he 
 obeyed the call, and carried into the halls of legisla- 
 tion the highmindedness, perseverance, and loyalty 
 to principle, which had secured him the suffrages of 
 his constituents. Here he enjoyed the high satisfac- 
 tion of urging, with all the power that argument, 
 appeal, and personal influence afforded, the passage 
 of the bill for Catholic Emancipation, and the Aboli- 
 tion of the Slave Trade. The plan of a Reform in 
 Parliament, the principles of which he subsequently 
 most ably defended, was a measure, the happy fulfil- 
 ment of which he lived to witness. During the next 
 two years, though not officially engaged, he was much 
 occupied in political writing, particularly in recom- 
 mending peace with France. 
 
 Soon after his retirement from public life, he ap- 
 pears, from additions and improvements made upon 
 his estate for the better accommodation of his library 
 and collections, as well as from the literary projects 
 he then conceived, to have meditated a yet more 
 complete devotion to intellectual labour. The most 
 important of his plans were a life of Erasmus, and 
 several translations from the Italian, of high interest. 
 Subsequent circumstances induced him to relinquish 
 these designs. He, however, derived much pleasure, 
 
120 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 at this time, from collating and arranging several 
 additional illustrations of his biographies, and espe- 
 cially from a visit at Holkham, devoted to researches 
 among a highly valuable collection of manuscripts 
 and rare works, belonging to his friend, Mr. Coke, 
 who assigned to him the pleasing task of rescuing 
 them from the disorder into which they were plunged, 
 and reproducing their distinctive characters. 
 
 But that universal principle, vicissitude, was about 
 to bring upon Mr. Roscoe a series of discipline where- 
 by his moral strength was destined to be severely 
 tested. The banking concern with which he was so 
 intimately connected, owing to the demands of the 
 times and the scarcity of specie, produced by the 
 opening of the American trade, was forced to suspend 
 payment. Mr. Roscoe's honourable feelings obliged 
 him to assume the entire care of the interest of his 
 creditors. By a well-devised plan and temporary 
 compromise, he was confident of being able to dis- 
 charge all the debts in the space of six years, and 
 still sustain the establishment. 
 
 Many untoward circumstances, particularly an 
 unfortunate investment of a large part of their 
 funds, rendered the prospect, at the termination of 
 this long and anxious season of uncongenial toil, in- 
 creasingly gloomy. In view of such a state of 
 things, he determined upon a sacrifice that can be 
 duly estimated only by him who understands that 
 fellow-feeling for the master minds of our race, and 
 the forms in which they have become familiar, which 
 
 I 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. 121 
 
 springs up and grows strong in the bosom where it 
 is habitually cherished; by him who knows, in its 
 full measure, the happiness of collecting about him 
 the gems of literature and art, connecting them with 
 associations of feeling and circumstance, gazing upon 
 them as upon the faces of friends, and into them as 
 into the oracles of truth; by him, in a word, the 
 idea of whose usefulness, honour, and daily enjoy- 
 ment is associated indissolubly, in his own mind, 
 with books and products of art, not in their general 
 aspect, but as they have been gathered by the slow 
 accumulation of careful expenditure, and become en- 
 deared by years of blessed and ministering com- 
 panionship, in his own cheerful study. Who will 
 deny to Mr. Roscoe, in the sacriiBce of his library 
 and collections, the credit of exercising a degree 
 of lofty principle worthy of human nature ? The 
 general character of that library may be inferred 
 from his pursuits ; and its value from the catalogue, 
 prepared, with minute exactness, by his own hand, 
 indicating its numerous varieties and its treasures. 
 It is worthy of remark, that no volume or print was 
 reserved, but such as were the sacred tokens of 
 friendship ; and although a few of his friends bought 
 at the sale, what they conceived he chiefly wished to 
 retain, he would derive from this considerate act no 
 other advantage than the liberty of repurchasing, 
 and when this was actually done, his conscientious- 
 ness led him to dispose of them to Mr. Rathbone, by 
 whom they were presented to the Athenaeum, where 
 
 11 
 
122 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 they still occupy a separate position. We cannot 
 forbear quoting the sonnet suggested by this event. 
 Familiar as it may have become, it is and will ever 
 be, a beautiful evidence of the not undignified regret 
 of the literary enthusiast relieved by the manly 
 cheerfulness of the intellectual Christian. 
 
 " As one who destined from his friends to part, 
 Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile 
 To share their converse and enjoy their smile, 
 
 And tempers as he may affliction's dart, — 
 
 Thus, loved associates ! chiefs of elder art ! 
 Teachers of wisdom ! who could once beguile 
 My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 
 
 I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart, — 
 For, pass a few short years, or days, or hours. 
 
 And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
 
 'And all your sacred fellowship restore ; 
 When freed from earth, unlimited its powers. 
 Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
 
 And kindred spirits meet to part no more." 
 
 When, therefore, the dreaded bankruptcy did oc- 
 cur, the only consolation of which such a case 
 admits, was happily ever present to alleviate the 
 sufferings of his delicate mind,^a deep sense of con- 
 scientious integrity. 
 
 Perhaps the most general principle involved in the 
 leading interests of the age, is the principle of in- 
 tegrity. It is this which lends an aspect of high 
 moral dignity to the pursuits in which the multitude 
 of our day are engaged. In England and this country, 
 commercial enterprise being the predominant object 
 of pursuit, uncompromising integrity is the virtue, 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. 123 
 
 for the exercise of which there is especial and often 
 grand occasion. And while public opinion has been 
 on the advance respecting the legal course proper to 
 be pursued in relation to bankruptcy, the want of a 
 high moral tone in regard to this subject is lamenta- 
 bly obvious. Were it not so, failures, which have 
 bereft hundreds of half their just dues, and left the 
 author of their suffering independent, would not be 
 regarded, as they now are, with any degree of com- 
 placency; nor would an individual of this sadly 
 numerous species, be allowed daily to parade himself 
 or the tokens of his pecuniary superiority before the 
 eyes of his abused and remediless creditor. In view 
 of such considerations, enforced as they must be by 
 the experience and reflection of every individual, it 
 is refreshing to mark and appreciate the simple inte- 
 grity of William Roscoe. 
 
 And now the cares of active life were wellnigh 
 ended ; the partner of his days had gone before to 
 her rest, and his feet were treading the declivity of 
 life. He had put the finishing touch to an edition 
 of Pope's works, and the Holkham catalogue was 
 completed ; what remained, then, for one who had 
 so well sustained the burden and heat of the day, 
 but that he should dedicate its close to recreative 
 employment and repose ? With his diminished re- 
 sources, increased by the grateful contributions of 
 friendship, he accordingly released himself from all 
 bustling or laborious employments, and passed inta 
 retirement. Here he prepared for the press a final 
 
Iil4 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 edition of Lorenzo, and a work of long standing, 
 upon Monandrian plants — efforts which equal the 
 most vigorous of an earlier period. And although 
 with these his literary labours may be said to have 
 closed, his intellectual and moral activity was beau- 
 tifully exerted until another world became the scene 
 of its ceaseless exercise. The lovely flowers with 
 which he had bestrewn the pathway of his being, 
 were bright and fragrant to the last. Literally may 
 it be said of them, as has been significantly said in 
 another connexion — that they smiled up to him as 
 children to the face of a father. The perception of 
 physical beauty, the intelligent love of nature, the 
 philanthropic spirit, the literary taste, which were 
 the day-stars of his youth, continued their ministry 
 in age ; and the holier presence of domestic sympa- 
 thies, of well-founded friendships, of blessed remem- 
 brances, was blending its cheerful influence with the 
 deeper and more inspiring spirit of religion. How 
 applicable to a life so happily passed, and so peace- 
 fully closed, are the well-remembered lines of our 
 favourite poet : 
 
 " That life was happy : every day he gave 
 Thanks for the fair existence that was his ; 
 
 For a sick fancy made him not her slave, 
 To mock him with her phantom miseries. 
 
 No chronic tortures rack'd his aged limb, 
 
 For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. 
 
 " And I am glad that he has lived thus long ; 
 And glad that he has gone to his reward ; 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. 125 
 
 Nor deem that kindly nature did him wrong, 
 
 Softly to disengage the vital chord ; 
 When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye 
 Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die." 
 
 We have spoken of the character of William Ros- 
 coe as a highly valuable example, and we have seen 
 how little it is indebted to extraordinary occasions 
 for its manifestation ; it is as interesting to observe 
 that it owes as little to any singular endowment or 
 unnatural endeavour for its intrinsic worth. To the 
 legitimate culture and exercise of the natural emo- 
 tions and best impulses of the soul, we cannot but 
 ascribe all that is good or beautiful in its aspect. 
 That process of induration, so proverbially general, 
 never bronzed the sensibilities of Roscoe ; the dew 
 of nature was not suffered wholly to evaporate in the 
 heated atmosphere of worldly strife, nor to congeal 
 in the frigid air of an artificial existence. That 
 quality, so deep and morally auspicious — susceptibi- 
 lity-^ the sharpness, of the mental appetites, the 
 yearning of vigorous energies for free play and 
 felicitous exercise, the fervid heat of the coals upon 
 the soul's altar, which a little musing sufficeth to 
 kindle — susceptibility — this he ever possessed, or 
 rather never lost, or the richly freighted influences 
 of improvement would have passed by him as the 
 idle wind. 
 
 We confess ourselves disposed to attribute no in- 
 considerable importance to this view of our subject. 
 If improving agencies are dispensed as liberally 
 
 11* 
 
126 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 through the intellectual and moral universe, as the 
 elements of physical nature, and are designed to 
 minister to something beyond themselves, to develope 
 mind, they constitute the common birthright of hu- 
 manity. Like the air and light, thev freely and 
 equally occupy space, ranging the wide expanse on 
 the broad wings of universal love, and restrained in 
 their holy mission by nought but human perversity. 
 And is not the essential condition by which alone 
 their rich benefits can be experienced, susceptibility ? 
 The piercing beams of the sun bear no images of 
 beauty to the closed eye, and the evening breeze 
 wafts no refreshment to the brow unbared to its 
 breath. What wonder, then, if nature and Provi- 
 dence sometimes fail to awaken the spirit steeled by 
 indifierence or shrouded in self? In the life and 
 character of Roscoe, we see nurtured, with a beautiful 
 and holy care, — 
 
 " Those first affections, 
 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us, — cherish, — and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Silence; truths that wake 
 
 To perish never; 
 Which neither listlessness nor mad endeavour. 
 
 Nor man nor boy. 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy."* 
 
 * The noble ode of Wordsworth, from which these lines are 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. 127 
 
 The most remarkable peculiarity in the character 
 of Roscoe, is its rare combination of active with quiet 
 virtues; of reflective with practical excellence; of 
 refined sentiment and thought, with perfect simplicity 
 of manner and effort. Its distinguishing good, as an 
 example, is the lesson of just self-development which 
 it so pleasingly unfolds. Throughout that long life 
 of more than eighty years, in its early struggles, 
 amid its honourable fame, and during the various 
 periods of literary, political, or professional activity, 
 by which that character was tried and formed, we 
 behold the native supremacy of the moral nature un- 
 invaded. And it is impossible not to recognise in 
 this the true secret of Roscoe's success, the source of 
 those intellectual and social results which have hal- 
 lowed his memory, the means and the method by the 
 aid of which, in comparatively ordinary circumstances, 
 and with comparatively common capacities, he iden- 
 tified himself with all the leading benevolent enter- 
 prises of the day, rendered valuable contributions to 
 the literature of his native country, and drew, in 
 broad relief, even from the calm tenor and narrow 
 scene of his life, the deathless lineaments of an har- 
 moniously beautiful character. 
 
 And, be it remembered, that this active and equable 
 spirit, this happy balance of the several faculties and 
 
 taken, was recited by the late S. T. Coleridge, to Baron Von Hum- 
 boldt, who learned, with much surprise, that it was the work of a 
 living English poet, declaring he should have attributed it to the age 
 of Elizabeth. 
 
128 THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 sentiments, was ever calmly and prevailingly opera- 
 tive. We feel that the stripling, who mourned over 
 the dying agonies of the bird his own hand had 
 destroyed on the banks of the Mersey, and the aged 
 man who years afterwards stood beside a bed of 
 lilies in his little garden, and compared their frailty 
 with his own, is one and the same being. In oppo- 
 sition to a very popular prejudice, he succeeded in 
 uniting literature and business, and general philan- 
 thropy with domestic duty, without detriment to 
 either. He was an amateur and a literary man ; but 
 benevolent sentiment was intimately associated with 
 the enjoyments of both. While carrying on a corre- 
 spondence which connected him with the master 
 spirits of the age, he could yet be sedulously attentive 
 to the interests of an unfriended artist ; sympathizing 
 in the magnanimous character of a cultivated Elo- 
 rentine nobleman, and deeming it unappreciated, he 
 wrote his history. How constant, too, was his fidelity 
 to nature, and how bountifully did she reward that 
 allegiance ! It was in her invigorating embrace that 
 his young spirit waxed strong, and, freed from the 
 baneful excitements of modern education, it knew no 
 precocious development, no premature decay. The 
 cares of business could not supersede an habitual 
 communion with her influences, nor studious zeal 
 allure him from obedience to her laws. He possessed 
 a delightful inheritance in the kingdom of letters,^ 
 and ever and anon retired thither ; but the field of 
 efibrt assigned him by the Creator, was the world ; 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. 129 
 
 he mingled in its strife, and shed abroad the blessed- 
 ness of an improving activity. Yet beneath the 
 agitated or listless tide of his- common existence, 
 swelled and deepened an under current of meditative 
 being. He imbibed the nutritive elements of spiritual 
 life, as they came forth with the solemnity and efful- 
 gence of the starry host, from the deep teachings of 
 experience, — burst in gladness, as tributary streams, 
 from the converse of intellectual humanity ; or rose, 
 like the sunlit mists of the ocean, from the wide 
 domain of nature, — sitting meekly, the while, at the 
 feet of Jesus of Nazareth. 
 
 Such is, indeed, one of those beings whom no 
 nation can appropriate ; universality characterized 
 his philanthropy, and now that the " natural canoni- 
 zation" of death has hallowed his example, it is, and 
 should be regarded as a common blessing. His 
 countrymen have felt most nearly its holy influence, 
 and among them will for ever be the local memorials 
 of his glory. Italy, though her classic ground was 
 never pressed by his pilgrim feet, recognises in his 
 works the beautiful evidences of a deep, philosophical 
 interest in her literature, admiration for her great 
 men, and sympathy in her woes. And to us there is 
 a new scene of meditative enjoyment in our father- 
 land. Before we reach the sacred precincts of West- 
 minster, or stroll along the green banks of the Avon, 
 we shall linger with respectful and moving interest 
 beside the monument to the memory of William 
 Roscoe, in the churchyard of Liverpool. 
 
:.\ri/^t^' 
 
 ) 
 
 t Bumntijgi 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 In adding our tribute to the memory of Lamb, we 
 are conscious of personal associations of peculiar and 
 touching interest. We recall the many listless 
 hours he has beguiled ; and the very remembrance of 
 happy moments induced by his quiet humour, and 
 pleasing reveries inspired by his quaint descriptions 
 and inimitable pathos, is refreshing to our minds. It 
 is difficult to realize that these feelings have reference 
 to an individual whose countenance we never beheld, 
 and the tones of whose voice never fell upon our ear. 
 Frequent and noted instances there are, in the annals 
 of literature, of attempts, on the part of authors, to 
 introduce themselves to the intimate acquaintance 
 of their readers. In portraying their own charac- 
 ters in those of their heroes, in imparting the his- 
 tory of their lives in the form of an epic poem, a 
 popular novel, or through the more direct medium of 
 a professed autobiography, writers have aimed at a 
 striking presentation of themselves. The success of 
 such attempts is, in general, very limited. Like 
 letters of introduction, they, indeed, prove passports 
 
CHARLES LAMB. . 131 
 
 to the acquaintance, but not necessarily to the friend- 
 ship of those to whom they are addressed. At best, 
 they ordinarily afford us an insight into the mind of 
 the author^ but seldom render us familiar and at 
 home with the man. Charles Lamb, on the con- 
 trary, — if our own experience does not deceive us — 
 has brought himself singularly near those who have 
 once heartily entered into the spirit of his lucubra- 
 tions. We seem to know his history, as if it were that 
 of our brother, or earliest friend. The sadness of his 
 " objectless holidays," — the beautiful fidelity of his 
 first love, the monotony of his long clerkship, and the 
 strange feeling of leisure succeeding its renunciation, 
 the excitement of his "first play," the zest of h'is 
 reading, the musings of his daily walk, and the 
 quietude of his fireside, appear like visions of actual 
 memory. His image, now bent over a huge legerj in 
 a dusky counting-house, and now threading the 
 thoroughfares of London, with an air of abstraction, 
 from which nothing recalls him but the outstretched 
 hand of a little sweep, an inviting row of worm-eaten 
 volumes upon an old book-stall, or the gaunt figure 
 of a venerable beggar ; and the same form saunter- 
 ing through the groves about Oxford in the vacation 
 solitude, or seated in a little back study, intent upon 
 an antiquated folio, appear like actual reminiscences 
 rather than pictures of the fancy. The face of his old 
 schoolmaster is as some familiar physiognomy ; and 
 we seem to have known Bridget Elia from infancy, 
 and to have loved her, too, notwithstanding her one 
 
132 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 "ugly habit of reading in company." Indeed we 
 can compare our associations of Charles Lamb only 
 to those which would naturally attach to an intimate 
 neighbour with whom we had, for years, cultivated 
 habits of delightful intercourse, — stepping over his 
 threshold, to hold sweet commune, whenever weari- 
 ness was upon our spirits and we desired cheering or 
 amiable companionship. And when death* actually 
 justified the title affixed to our friend's most recent 
 papers — which we had fondly regarded merely as an 
 additional evidence of his unique method of dealing 
 with his fellow-beings, — when they really proved the 
 last essays of Elia, we could unaffectedly apply to 
 him the touching language with which an admired 
 poet has hallowed the memory of a brother bard : — 
 
 " Green be the turf above thee, 
 Friend of ray better days, 
 None knew thee, but to love thee, 
 Nor named thee, but to praise." 
 
 And were it only for the peculiar species of fame 
 which Lamb's contributions to the light literature of 
 his country have obtained him, — were it only for the 
 valuable lesson involved in this tributary heritage, — 
 in the method by which it was won, — in the example 
 with which it is associated, there would remain ample 
 cause for congratulation among the real friends of 
 human improvement ; there would be sufficient reason 
 to remember, gratefully and long, the gifted and 
 amiable essayist. Instead of the feverish passion 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 138 
 
 for reputation, which renders the existence of the 
 majority of professed litterateurs of the present day, 
 a wearing and anxious trial, better becoming the dust 
 and heat of the arena than the peaceful shades of 
 the academy|lt calm and self-reposing spirit pervades"^ 
 and characterizes the writings of Lamb. They are 
 obviously the offspring of thoughtful leisure; they 
 are redolent of the otiiim ; and in this consists their 
 peculiar charm. We are disposed to value this cha- 
 racteristic highly, at a time which abounds, as does 
 our age, with a profusion of forced and elaborate 
 writings. It is truly delightful to encounter a work, 
 however limited in design and unpretending in execu- 
 tion, which revives the legitimate idea of literature, 
 — ^which makes us feel that it is as essentially sponta- f^ 
 neous as the process of vegetation, and is only true 
 to its source and its object, when instinct with fresh-; 
 ness and freedom. No mind restlessly urged by a 
 morbid appetite for literary fame, or disciplined to a 
 mechanical development of thought, could have origi- 
 nated the attractive essays we are considering. They 
 indicate quite a different parentage. A lovely spirit 
 of contentment, a steadfast determination towards a 
 generous culture of the soul, breathes through these 
 mental emanations. Imaginative enjoyment, — the 
 boon with which the Creator has permitted man to 
 meliorate the trying circumstances of his lot, is evi- 
 dently the great recreation of the author, and to this 
 he would introduce his readers. It is interesting to 
 feel, that among the many accomplished men, whom 
 
 12 
 
134 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 necessity or ambition incline to the pursuit of litera- 
 turCj there are those who find the time and possess 
 the will to do something like justice to their own 
 minds. Literary biography is little else than a his- 
 tory of martyrdoms. We often rise from the perusal 
 of a great man's life, whose sphere was the field of 
 letters, with diminished faith in the good he success- 
 fully pursued. The story of disappointed hopes, 
 ruined health, a life in no small degree isolated from 
 social pleasure and the incitements which nature 
 afi'ords, can scarcely be relieved of its melancholy 
 aspect by the simple record of literary success. Ear- 
 nestly as we honour the principle of self-devotion, 
 our sympathy with beings of a strong intellectual 
 and imaginative bias is too great not to awaken, 
 above every other .consideration, a desire for the self- 
 possession and native exhibition of such a heaven- 
 implanted tendency. We cannot but wish that na- 
 tures thus endowed should be true to themselves. 
 We feel that, in this way, they will eventually prove 
 most useful to the world. And yet one of the rarest 
 results which such men arrive at, is self-satisfaction 
 in the course they pursue — we do not mean as re- 
 gards the success, but the direction of their labours. 
 Sir James Mackintosh continually lamented, in his 
 diary, the failure of his splendid intentions, — consoled 
 himself with the idea of additional enterprises, and 
 finally died without completing his history. Cole- 
 ridge has left only, in a fragmentary and scattered 
 form, the philosophical system he proposed to deve- 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 135 
 
 lope. Both these remarkable men passed intellectual 
 lives, and evolved, in conversation and fugitive pro- 
 ductions, fruits which are worthy of a perennial 
 existence ; yet they fell so far short of their aims, 
 they realized so little of what they conceived, that 
 an impression the most painful remains upon the 
 mind that, with due susceptibility, contemplates their 
 career. We find, therefore, an especial gratification^ 
 in turning from such instances, to a far humbler one 
 indeed, — but still to a man of genius, who richly 
 enjoyed his pleasant and sequestered inheritance in 
 the kingdom of letters, and whose comparatively few 
 productions bear indubitable testimony to a mind at 
 ease, — a felicitous expansion of feeling, — an imagina- 
 tive and yet contented life. It is as illustrative of; 
 this, that the essays of Elia are mainly valuable. 
 
 In our view, the form of these writings is a great 
 recommendation. We confess a partiality for the ■ 
 essay. In the literature of our vernacular tongue, it j 
 shines conspicuous, and is environed with the most ■ 
 pleasing associations. To the early English essayists 
 is due the honour of the first and most successful 
 endeavours to refine the language and manners of 
 their country. The essays of Dr. Johnson, Gold- 
 smith, Addison, and Steele, while they answered a 
 most important immediate purpose, still serve as 
 instructive disquisitions and excellent illustrations of 
 style. The essay is to prose literature what the 
 sonnet is to poetry ; and as the narrow limits of the 
 latter have enclosed some of the most beautiful poetic 
 
 y 
 
136 THE HUMORIST. , 
 
 imageryj and finished expressions of sentiment within 
 the compass of versified writing, so many of the most 
 chaste specimens of elegant periods, and of animated 
 and embellished writing, exist in the form of essays. 
 The lively pen of Montaigne, the splendid rhetoric of 
 Burke, and the vigorous argument of John Foster, 
 have found equal scope in essay- writing : and among 
 the various species of composition at present in vogue, 
 how few can compare with this in general adaptation. 
 Descriptive sketches and personal traits, speculative 
 suggestions and logical deductions, the force of direct 
 appeal, the various power of illustration, allusion and 
 comment, are equally available to the essayist. His 
 essay may be a lay-sermon or a satire, a criticism or 
 a reverie. " Of the words of men,'' says Lord Bacon, 
 'Hhere is nothing more sound and excellent than are 
 letters; for they. are more natural than orations and 
 more advised than sudden conferences." Essays 
 combine the qualities here ascribed to epistolary com- 
 position; indeed, they may justly be regarded as 
 letters addressed to the public ; embodying — in the 
 delightful style which characterizes the private cor- 
 respondence of cultivated friends — -views and details 
 of universal interest. 
 
 There is more reason to regret the decline of essay- 
 writing, from the fact, that the forms of composition 
 now in vogue, are so inferior to it both in intrinsic 
 excellence and as vehicles of thought. There is, 
 indeed, a class of writers whose object is, professedly 
 and solely to amuse ; or if a higher purpose enter 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 137 
 
 into their design, it does not extend beyond the con- 
 veyance of particular historical information. But 
 the majority of prominent authors cherish, as their 
 great end, the inculcation of certain principles of 
 action, theories of life, or views of humanity. We 
 may trace, in the works of the most justly admired 
 writers of our own day, a favourite sentiment or the- 
 ory pervading, more or less, the structure of their 
 several volumes, and constantly presenting itself 
 under various aspects, and in points of startling con- 
 trast or thrilling impression. We honour the delibe- 
 rate and faithful presentation of a theory, on the 
 part of literary men, when they deem it essential to 
 the welfare of their race. Loyalty to such an object 
 bespeaks them worthy of their high vocation ; and 
 we doubt if an author can be permanently useful to 
 his fellow-beings and true to himself, without such a 
 light to guide, and such an aim to inspire. Dogma- 
 tical attachment to mere opinion is doubtless opposed 
 to true progression in thought ; but fidelity in the 
 development and vivid portraiture of a sentiment 
 knit into the well-being of man, and coincident with 
 his destiny, is among the most obvious of literary 
 obligations. Something of chivalric interest is at- 
 tached to " Sidney's Defence of Poesy;'' the anxiety 
 for the reform of conventional customs and modes of 
 thinking in society, so constantly evinced in the 
 pages of the Spectator, commands our sympathy and 
 respect ; and we think the candid objector to Words- 
 worth's view of his divine art, cannot but honour the 
 
 12* 
 
 i 
 
 f 
 
138 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 steadiness with which he has adhered to, and unfolded 
 it. Admitting, then, the dignity of such literary 
 ends, — the manner in which they can be most effec- 
 tually accomplished, must often be a subject of 
 serious consideration. 
 
 It is generally taken for granted, that the public 
 will give ear to no teacher who cannot adroitly prac- 
 tise the expedient so beautifully illustrated by Tasso, 
 in the simile of the chalice of medicine with a honeyed 
 rim. True as it is, that in an age surfeited with 
 books of every description, there exists a kind of 
 necessity for setting decoys afloat upon the stream of 
 literature— is not the faith in literary lures altogether 
 too perfect? Does the mental ofi'spring we have 
 cherished, obtain the kind of attention we desire, 
 when ushered into the world arrayed in the garb of 
 fiction ? The experim.ent, we acknowledge, succeeds 
 in one respect. The inviting dress will attract the 
 eyes of the multitude ; but how few will penetrate to 
 the theory, appreciate the moral, or enter into the 
 thoughts to which the fanciful costume is only the 
 drapery and framework ? The truth is, the very 
 object of writers who would present a philosophical 
 problem through, the medium of a novel, is barely 
 recognised. Corinne is still regarded as a romance 
 sui generis. Several efibrts of the kind, on the part 
 of living British writers of acknowledged power, seem 
 to have utterly failed of their purpose, as far as the 
 mass of readers, whom they were especially intended 
 to affect, are concerned. The plan in such instances. 
 

 ^ |T y CHARLES LAMB. 139 
 
 is Strictly psychological. Public attention, however, 
 is at once riveted on the plot and details ; and some 
 Strong delineation of human passion, some trivial 
 error in the external sketching, some over intense or 
 ^too minute personation of feeling, suffices to condemn 
 the work in the view— we do not say how justly — 
 even of the discriminating. Now we are confident, 
 that should the writers in question choose the essay 
 as a vehicle of communication, their success in many 
 cases would be more complete. Their ideas of life, 
 of a foreign land, of modern society, or of human 
 destiny, presented in this shape, with the graces of 
 style, the attraction of anecdote, and the vivacity of 
 wit and feeling, could not but find their way to the 
 only class of readers who will ever estimate such 
 labours — -those who read to excite thought, as well as 
 beguile time ; to gratify an intellectual taste as well 
 as amuse an ardent fancy. The novel, too, is in its 
 very nature ephemeral. The very origin of the word 
 associates such productions with the gazettes and 
 magazines — the temporary caskets of literature. And 
 with the exception of Scott's, and a few admirable 
 historical romances, novels seem among the most 
 frail of literary tabernacles. Now, in reference to 
 the class of authors to whom we have alluded, those 
 who have a definite and important point in view, who 
 are enthusiastic in behalf of a particular moral or 
 mental enterprise, the evanescent nature of the popu- 
 lar vehicle is an important consideration. We would 
 behold a more permanent personification of their sys- 
 tems, a more lasting testimony of their interest in 
 
140 * THE HUMORIST. 
 
 humanity. And such we consider the essay. When 
 presented, condensed, and embellished in this more 
 primitive form, a fair opportunity will be afforded for 
 the C9-ndid examination of their sentiments ; and we 
 are persuaded that these very ideas, thus arranged 
 and disseminated, will possess a weight and an inte- 
 rest which they pan never exhibit when displayed in 
 the elaborate and desultory manner incident to popu- 
 lar fiction. An interesting illustration of these re- 
 marks may be found in the circumstance that many 
 intelligent men, who are quite inimical to Bulwer, as 
 a novelist, have become interested in his mind by the 
 perusal of "England and the English,'' and "The 
 Student"— works which are essentially specimens of 
 e^say-writing. The dramatic form of composition 
 has recently been adopted in England, to subserve 
 the theoretical purposes of authors. This, it must 
 be confessed, is a decided improvement upon the 
 more fashionable method ; and the favour with which 
 it has been received, is sufficiently indicative of the 
 readiness of the public to become familiar with nobler 
 models of literature. 
 
 We are under no slight obligations to Charles 
 Lamb, for so pleasantly reviving a favourite form of 
 English composition. We welcome Elia as the 
 Si^ecidiiov-redwivus. It is interesting to be amused 
 and instructed after the manner of that delectable 
 coterie of lay-preachers, humorists, and critics, of 
 which Sir Roger de Coverley was so distinguished a 
 member. It is peculiarly agreeable to be talked to in 
 a book, as if the writer addressed himself to us par- 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 141 
 
 ticularly. Next to a long epistle from an entertain- 
 ing friend, we love, of all things in the world, a 
 
 j charming essay ; — a concise array of ideas •— aT 
 
 ' unique sketch, which furnishes subjects for an hour's 
 reflection, or gives rise to a succession of soothing^/ 
 day-dreams. Few books are more truly useful than 
 such as can be relished in the brief intervals of 
 active or social life, which permit immediate appre- 
 ciation, and, taken up when and where they may be, 
 present topics upon which the attention can at once 
 fix itself, and trains of speculation into which the 
 mind easily glides. To such a work we suppose a^ 
 celebrated writer alludes, in the phrase " parlour 
 window-seat book." Collections of essays are essen- 
 tially of this order. We would not be understood, 
 however, as intimating that this kind of literature is 
 especially unworthy of studious regard;- — Bacon's 
 Essays alone would refute such an idea ; but from 
 its conciseness and singleness of aim, the essay may 
 be enjoyed in a brief period, and when the mind is 
 
 ..unable to attach itself to more elaborate reading. 
 J^"" fQV volume of essays subserves the purpose of a set of 
 
 ' cabinet pictures, or a portfolio of miniature draw- 
 ings ; they are the multum in parvo of literature ; 
 and, perused, as they generally are, in moments of 
 respite from ordinary occupation, turned to on the 
 spur of mental appetite, they not unfrequently prove 
 more eflScient than belles-lettres allurements of 
 greater pretension. It is seldom that any desira- 
 ble additions are made in this important department 
 
 J 
 
142 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 1 of writing ; and among the contributions of tHe pre- 
 \ sent age, the essays of Elia will deservedly hold an 
 L elevated rank. 
 
 Much of the interest awakened by these papers, 
 has been ascribed to the peculiar phraseology in 
 which they are couched. Doubtless, this characteristic 
 has had its influence ; but we think an undue impor- 
 tance has been given it, and we feel ihat the true 
 zest of Elia's manner is as spontaneous as his ideas, 
 and the shape in which they naturally present them- 
 selves. If we analyze his mode of expression, we 
 shall find its charm consists not a little in the expert 
 \ variation rather than in a constant maintenance of 
 style. He understood the proper time and place to 
 introduce an illustration ; he knew when to serve up 
 ^ \; o^ie of his unequalled strokes of humour, and when 
 y^ \ to change the speculative for the descriptive mood. 
 He had a happy way of blending anecdote and por- 
 traiture ; he makes you see the place, person, or 
 thing, upon which he is dwelling ; and, at the mo- 
 ment your interest is excited, presents an incident, 
 and then, while you are all attention, imparts a 
 moral, or lures you into a theorizing vein. He per- 
 sonifies his subject, too, at the appropriate moment ; 
 nor idealizes, after the manner of many essayists, 
 before the reader sympathizes at all with the real 
 picture. Lamb's diction breathes the spirit of his 
 favourite school. He need not have told us of his 
 partiality for the old English writers. Every page of 
 Elia bears witness to his frequent and fond commu- 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 143 
 
 nion with the rich ancient models of British litera- 
 ture. Yet the coincidence is, in no degree, that 
 which obtains between an original and a copyist. 
 The tinge which Lamb's language has caught from 
 intimacy with the quaint folios he so sincerely ad- 
 mired, is a reflected hue, like that which suffuses the 
 arch of clouds far above the setting sun ; denoting 
 only the delightful influence radiated upon the mind 
 which loves to dwell devotedly upon what is disap- 
 pearing, and turns with a kind of religious interest, 
 from the new-born luminaries which the multitude 
 worship, to hover gratefully round the shrine of the 
 past. If any modern lover of letters deserved a 
 heritage in the sacred garden of old English litera- 
 ture, that one was Charles Lamb. Not only did he 
 possess the right which faithful husbandry yields, 
 but his disposition and taste rendered him a com- 
 panion meet for the noble spirits that have immor- 
 talized the age of Elizabeth. In truth, he may be 
 said to have been on more familiar terms with 
 Shakspeare, than with the most intimate of his co- 
 temporaries ; and it may be questioned whether the 
 Religio Medici, that truly individual creed, had a 
 more devout admirer in its originator, than was Elia. 
 He assures us that he was " shy of facing the pro- 
 spective," and no antiquarian cherished a deeper 
 reverence for old china, or the black letter. Most 
 honestly, therefore, came our author by that charm- 
 ing relish of olden time, which sometimes induces in 
 our minds, as we read his lucubrations, a lurking 
 
144 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 doubt whether, by some mischancOj we have not 
 fallen upon an old author in a modern dress. 
 
 There is another feature in the style of these 
 essays, to which we are disposed to assign no incon- 
 siderable influence. We allude to a certain confes- 
 sional tone, that is peculiarly attractive. There is 
 something exceedingly gratifying to the generality 
 of readers in personalities. On the same principle 
 that we are well pleased to become the confidant of 
 a friend, and open our breasts to receive the secret 
 of his inmost experience, we readily become inte- 
 rested in a writer who tells us, in a candid, naive 
 manner, the story not merely of his life, in the com- 
 mon acceptation of the term, but of his private 
 opinions, humours, eccentric tastes, and personal 
 antipathies. A tone of this kind, is remarkably 
 characteristic of Lamb. And yet there is in it 
 nothing egotistical; for we may say of him as has 
 been said of his illustrious schoolfellow, whom he so 
 significantly, and, as it were, prophetically called, 
 "the inspired charity boy ;" — that, "in him the in- 
 dividual is always merged in the abstract and gene- 
 ral." Writers have not been slow to avail them- 
 selves of the advantage of thus occasionally and inci- 
 dentally presenting glimpses of their private notions 
 and sentiments ; indeed, this has been called the age 
 of confessions ; but with Elia, they are so delicately 
 and yet so familiarly imparted, that they become a 
 secret charm inwrought through the whole tissue of 
 what he denominates his " weaved up follies." There 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 145 
 
 are passages scattered through, this volume, which 
 exemplify the very perfection of our language. 
 There are successive periods, so adroitly adapted to 
 the sentiment they embody, so easy and expressive, 
 and, at the same time, so unembellished, that they 
 suggest a new idea of the capabilities of our verna- 
 cular. There are words, too, at which we should 
 pause, if they were indited by another, to institute a 
 grave inquiry into their legitimacy, or, perchance,, 
 prefer against their author the charge of senseless 
 ajBfectation. But with what we know of Elia, in 
 catching ourselves at such a process, we could not 
 but waive the ceremony, and say of it as he has said 
 of parting with a genial dainty, — "it argues an 
 insensibility.'' 
 
 Another striking trait of the Essays of Elia, is the 
 familiarity of their style. In this respect they fre- 
 quently combine the freedom of oral with the more 
 deliberative spirit of epistolary expression. We have 
 already alluded to one effect of this method of ad- 
 dress; it annihilates the distance between the reader 
 and author, and, so to speak, brings them face to 
 face. Facility in this kind of writing, is one of the 
 principal elements in what is called magazine talent. 
 It consists in maintaining a conversational tone while 
 discussing a. topic of great interest in a humorous 
 way, or making a light one the nucleus for spirited, 
 amusing, or instructive ideas. The dearth of this 
 popular tact in this country, and its fertility in Eng- 
 land, are well known. We think the discrepance, 
 
 13 
 
146 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 can be accounted for by reference to the essential 
 difference in the social habits of the two countries. 
 The literary clubs are the nurseries of this attractive 
 talent in Great Britain. The custom of convening 
 for intellectual recreation, favours the growth of a 
 ready expression of thought, and of a direct and 
 inviting flow of language. Writers are habituated 
 to an attractive style, by being trained in a school 
 of conversation. Intimate connexion with the best 
 minds, not only informs and kindles, but induces 
 vivacity of delivery both in Speech and writing. We 
 can conceive, for instance, of no inspiration even to 
 the colloquial powers of an intelligent man, like direct 
 communion with such an individual as Mackintosh ; 
 and we can find no cause for wonder, that one blessed 
 with the companionship of the literati of London and 
 Edinburgh, should acquire the powef of talking on 
 paper in a delightful and finished manner. Such 
 society afibrds, if we may be allowed the expression, 
 a kind of intellectual gymnasium, where the art of 
 interesting with the pen may be, and naturally is, 
 acquired by such as are endowed with native wit, and 
 reflective or graphic ability. With us the case is so 
 widely difierent, the opportunities for general and 
 exciting association so rare, that it is no matter of 
 surprise that magazine talent, as it is termed, should 
 be of slow growth. How far Charles Lamb was in- 
 debted to his sociar privileges for his style, we are 
 not prepared to say. Yet there are numerous indi- 
 cations of the happy influence of which we speak. 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 147 
 
 interspersed through his commentaries on men and 
 things. We refer, of course, altogether to the style ; 
 for as to the ideas, they are entirely his own, bear- 
 ing the genuine stamp of originality. It seems essen- 
 tial to an efficient literature, that those interested in 
 its culture should be brought into frequent contact 
 with each other, and with general society. A poet 
 who would evolve representations of humanity in 
 abstract forms, who would present models beyond 
 and above his age, may indeed find, in the shades of 
 retirement, greater scope, and a less disturbed scene 
 wherein to rear his imaginary fabric ; and the philo- 
 sopher whose aim is the application of truth to history, 
 or the delineation of some important principle in 
 science or art, doubtless requires comparative soli- 
 tude. The position of both is contemplative. The 
 fancy of the one would plume itself for flight, and 
 the eyry of the noblest birds is always among unin- 
 vaded haunts ; the reflection of the other would grap- 
 ple with the abstract, and the most intense elemental 
 strife of nature is ever amid her lofty cloud-retreats, 
 or solitary depths. But the writer who would be- 
 guile, amuse, or teach his cotemporaries by some 
 winning literary device, who would accomplish all 
 these objects at once, and " do it quickly," must mix 
 with his fellow-creatures, and make a study of the 
 passers-by. He must hold familiar intercourse wdth 
 the ruling school ; not to adopt their principles, but 
 to become disciplined by their conversation ; and he 
 should note the multitude warily, in order to discover 
 
148 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 both the way and the means of affecting them. The 
 legitimate essayist has need of a rich vocabulary, and 
 a flexible manner ; a quick perception, and a candid 
 address. And these equipments, if not obtainable, 
 are at least improvable, by social aids. Conver- 
 sation, were it not utterly misunderstood and per- 
 verted, might prove a mighty agent in the culture of 
 the noblest of human powers, and the sweetest of 
 human graces. There was a beautiful fidelity to 
 nature in the habits of the philosophers of the Garden. 
 There are few pictures so delightful in ancient history, 
 as the noble figure of a Grecian sage moving through 
 a rural resort, or beneath a spacious portico, imparting 
 to his youthful companion lessons 6i wisdom, or 
 curbing his own advanced mind to pioneer that of his 
 less mature auditor through the early mazes of mental 
 experience. The teeming presence of nature and art 
 in all their variety and eloquence, the appeal to 
 sympathy, lurking in the very tones of wisdom, the 
 mere inspiration of human presence, combine to create 
 an impression infinitely more vivid than lonely glean- 
 ings among written lore could awaken. We are slow 
 to comprehend the capabilities of conversation, or we 
 should cultivate it sedulously, and with a deeper faith. 
 The single effect which we have noticed in relation 
 to English literature, is of itself no inconsiderable 
 argument. If to social culture we may in a great 
 degree ascribe the exuberance of talent for periodical 
 literature on the other side of the water, there is 
 surely no small inducement to elevate and quicken 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 149 
 
 the conversational spirit of our country ; for -what- 
 ever rank be assigned to this form of writing, its 
 history sufficiently attests the great influence it is 
 capable of exerting, and the important purposes it 
 may subserve. Elia, we think, gives very satisfactory 
 indications of his origin. Without the local allusions 
 and constant references to native authors, there is 
 something about him which smacks of London. In- 
 dividual as Lamb is, he is not devoid of national 
 characteristics ; and a reader, well aware of the com- 
 posite influences operative upon men of letters who 
 hail from the British metropolis, will readily discover, 
 though not informed of the fact, that Elia was blessed 
 with a score of honourable friends, who have con- 
 tributed to the literary fame of Great Britain. 
 
 Lamb is not singular in his attachment to minutiae ; 
 it is characteristic of the literature of the day. In 
 former times, writers dealt in the general ; now they 
 are devoted to the particular. In almost every book 
 of travels and work of fiction, we are entertained, or 
 rather the attempt is made to entertain us, with 
 exceedingly detailed descriptions of the features of a 
 landscape, the grouping in a picture, or the several 
 parts of a fashionable dress. By such wearisome 
 nomenclature, it is expected that an adequate concep- 
 tion will be imparted, when, in many cases, a single 
 phrase, revealing the impression made by these ob- 
 jects, would convey more than a hundred such inven- 
 tories. Lamb, by virtue of his nice perception, ren- 
 ders details more efiective than we should imagine 
 
 13* 
 
150 , THE HUMORIST. 
 
 was practicable. In a single line, we have the pecu- 
 liarities of a person presented ; and by a brief men- 
 tion of the gait, demeanour, or perhaps a single 
 habit, the ceremony of introduction is over ; we not 
 only stand and look in the direction we are desired, 
 but we see the object, be it an old bencher, or a 
 grinning chimney-sweep, an ancient courtyard, or a 
 Quaker meeting, a roast pig, or an old actor, Cap- 
 .tain Jackson, or a poor wretch in the pillory, con- 
 soling himself by fanciful soliloquies. We have com- 
 pared essays, in their general uses, to a set of cabinet 
 pictures. Elia's are peculiarly susceptible of the 
 illustration. They are the more valuable, inasmuch 
 as something of the mellow hue of old paintings 
 broods over them ; here and there a touch of beauti- 
 ful sadness, that reminds us of Raphael ; now a line 
 of penciling overflowing with nature, which brings 
 some favourite Flemish scene to mind ; and again, a 
 certain softness and delicate finish that whisper of 
 Claude Lorraine. 
 
 There are two points in which Charles Lamb was 
 eminent, where tolerable success is rare : these are 
 pathos and humour. He understood how to deal with 
 the sense of the humorous and pathetic. He seems to 
 have been intuitively learned in the secret and delicate 
 nature of these attributes of the mind ; or rather, it 
 would appear that his own nature, in these respects, 
 furnished a happy criterion by which to address the 
 same feelings in others. We cannot analyze, how- 
 ever casually, the humour and pathos of Elia, without 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 151 
 
 perceiving that they are based on a discerning, and, 
 if the expression may be allowed, a sentimental fellow- 
 feeling for his kind. So ready and true was this 
 feeling, that we find him entering, with the greatest 
 facility, into the experience of human beings whom 
 the mass of society scarcely recognise as such. He 
 talks about a little chimney-sweep, an aged mendi- 
 cant, or an old actor, as if he had, in his own person, 
 given proof of the doctrine to which his ancient 
 friend. Sir Thomas Browne, inclined, and actually, 
 by a kind of metempsychosis, experienced these seve- 
 ral conditions of life. His pathos and humour are, 
 for the most part, descriptive ; he appeals to us, in 
 an artist-like and dramatic way, by pictures ; we are 
 not wearied with any preparatory and worked-up 
 process ; we are not led to anticipate the efiect; but 
 our associations are skilfully awakened; an impression 
 is unostentatiously conveyed, and a smile or tear first 
 leads us to inquire into the nature of the spell. • It 
 is as though, in riding along a sequestered road, we 
 should suddenly pass a beautiful avenue, and catch a 
 glimpse of a garden, a statue, an old castle, or some 
 object far down its green vista, so interesting that a 
 reminiscence, an anticipation, or, perchance, a specu- 
 lative reverie, is thereby at once awakened. Endea- 
 vours to touch the feelings or excite quiet mirth fail, 
 generally, because the design is too obvious, or a 
 strain of exaggeration is indulged in, fatal to the end 
 in view. Frequently, too, the call upon our mirthful 
 or compassionate propensities is too direct and strong. 
 
152 TliE HUMORIST. 
 
 These feelings are not seldom appealed to, as if they 
 were passions, and to be excited by passionate means. 
 Indignation, enthusiasm, and all powerful impulses, 
 are doubtless to be roused by fervent appeals ; but 
 readers are best allured into a laugh, and it is by 
 gentle encroachments upon its empire, that the heart 
 is best moved to sympathy. In drawing his pictures, 
 Lamb indulged not in caricature. It is his truth, not 
 less than his quaintness and minute touches, that 
 entertains and aflfects us. He avoids, too, the vulgar 
 modes of illustration. Not by descriptions of phy- 
 siognomy or costume, does he excite our risible ten- 
 dencies, nor thinks he to win our pity by over-drawn 
 statements of the insignia and privations of poverty. 
 Elia is no poor metaphysician. He comprehends the 
 delicacy of touch required in the limner who would 
 impressively delineate, even in a quaint style, any 
 element or form of humanity. By what would almost 
 seem a casual suggestion, we often have a conception 
 imparted worth scores of wire-drawn exemplifications. 
 Well aAvare was our essayist that a single leaf whirled 
 by the breeze of accident upon the soul's clear foun- 
 tain, would awaken successive undulations of thought; 
 he was versed in the philosophy of association ; he 
 possessed the susceptibility of an affectionate nature, 
 and that fine sense of the appropriate which is one 
 of the most valuable of our insights, and accordingly, 
 he caused his inimitable shades of humour and pathos 
 <' to faintly mingle, yet distinctly rise." He wishes 
 us to realize the sufferings of poor children, and, by 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 153 
 
 briefly indicating the mere tenor of their street-talk, 
 causes our hearts to melt at the piteous accents of 
 care^ from lips so young. He would vindicate thq^t 
 excellent precept in the counsel of old Polonius, — 
 "Neither a borrower nor a lender be ;" and draws 
 such a full-length portrait of the former character, 
 that when one of the species has once inspected it, he 
 can never again lay the flattering unction of self- 
 ignorance to his heart. He reprimands book-stealers 
 by describing his own impoverished shelves, and 
 points out the blessings of existence, by quaintly dis- 
 cussing the deprivations attendant on its loss. The 
 anniversaries of time pass not by without their seve- 
 rar merits being canvassed by his pen ; and although 
 he tells us little that is absolutely new, he holds the 
 light of his pleasant humour up to the faces of these 
 annual visitants, and thenceforth their features pos- 
 sess greater reality and are more easily recognised. 
 Not a little of Lamb's humour is shadowed forth in 
 the subjects of his essays. Had we fallen upon such 
 titles in the index of any other anonymous author, 
 we should have set him down as one who, in strain- 
 ing after the novel, evidenced a morbid taste ; but 
 there is nothing more characteristic of Elia, than the 
 topics he selects. • They are as legitimate as an un- 
 doubted signature. Should this be questioned, let 
 the treatment bestowed upon these uninvestigated 
 themes be examined. They will prove as well adapted 
 to their author's genius as the Scottish peasant's life 
 was to the muse of Burns, or the praise of Laura 
 
151 THE HUMORIST, 
 
 to Petrarch. Who should have written the history 
 of England, among the many who have tried their 
 skill in that illustrious task, may be a matter of 
 doubt; and to what American Scott we are to look 
 for a series of romances illustrative of our history, is 
 yet a subject of speculation ; but no man, of ordinary 
 perception, we presume, can for a moment question 
 that " The Melancholy of Tailors,^'— " The Charac^ . 
 ter of an Undertaker," — " The Praise of Chimney- 
 sweepers," — the "Inconveniences of being Hanged," 
 and sundry kindred subjects were reserved for the 
 pen of Elia. 
 
 That writer is wise who avails himself of a some- 
 what familiar idea, in presenting his mental creations 
 to the public. There is need of as much considera- 
 tion in bestowing a name upon an essay or a poem, 
 which we wish should be read, as in naming a child 
 whom we would dedicate to fame. The same reasons 
 for circumspection obtain in both cases. The more 
 original the appellation, provided it is not utterly- 
 foreign to all general associations, the better. But 
 it is essential that there should be something which 
 will create an interest at a glance. Our essayist has 
 been happy in his choice of subjects ; his wit failed 
 him not here. Though no one has previously written 
 the ''Praise of Chimney-sweepers," yet ^very one 
 sees the dusky urchins daily, and would fain know 
 wh^-t can be said in their behalf. Most people have 
 noticed the " Melancholy of Tailors," and are glad to 
 find that some one has undertaken philosophically to 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 155 
 
 explain it. The headings of all Elia's papers are 
 exactly such as would beguile us into reading when 
 we desire to enter the region of quiet thought, and 
 forget our cares in some literary paiStime. There is 
 one elemeixt of genius, the influence of which we have 
 never seen acknowledged, that ever impresses our 
 minds in reflecting on the themes to which gifted 
 men apply themselves. We allude to a certain 
 daring which induces them to grapple with topics, 
 and give expression to thoughts, which many have 
 mused upon without thinking of giving them utter- 
 ance. There is much of Byron's poetry which seems 
 almost like a literal transcript of our past or occa- 
 sional emotions ; the more powerful and acknowledged 
 a genius, the niore fervently do we declare the coin- 
 cidence of our feelings with his delineations. Many 
 odd speculations have occurred to us in reference to 
 the strange subjects to which Lamb is partial ; we 
 respond to most of his portraitures, and sympathize 
 in the feelings he avows. His humour and pathos, 
 therefore, are true, singularly, beautifully true, to 
 human nature ; in this consists their superiority. 
 Many have aimed at the same results in a similar 
 way ; but the genius- of Lamb, in this department, 
 has achieved no ordinary triumph. 
 
 The drama was a rich source of pleasure and re- 
 flection to Lamb. During a life passed almost 
 wholly in the metropolis, the theatre afibrded him 
 constant recreation, and the species of excitement 
 his peculiar genius required. It was to him an im- 
 
156 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 portant element in the imaginative being he cherished. 
 By means of it, he continually renewed and bright- 
 ened the rich vein of sentiment inherent in his nature. 
 To him it addressed language rife with the meaning 
 which characterized its ancient voice, — full of sugges- 
 tive and impressive eloquence. Deeply versed in the 
 whole range of dramatic literature, master of the phi- 
 losophy of Shakspeare, and overflowing with a highly 
 cultivated taste for the dramatic art, the drama was 
 ranked by Elia among the redeeming things of life. 
 He did not coldly recognise, but deeply, felt, its im- 
 portance to modern society. Surrounded by the 
 bustle, the worldliness and the material agencies of a 
 populous capital, he daily saw man struggling on 
 beneath the indurating pressure of necessity, or pre- 
 senting only artificial aspects, — and to the strong 
 and true representation of human nature, on the 
 stage and in the works of the dramatist, he looked as 
 a noble means of renovation. It gratified his humane 
 spirit, that the poor mechanic should lose, for an 
 hour, the memory of his toilsome lot, in sympathy 
 with some vivid personation of that love which once 
 sent a glow to his now hollow temples ; that the 
 creature of fashion and pride should, occasionally, be 
 led back to the primal fountains of existence by the 
 hand of Thespis ; that an unwonted tear should some- 
 times be drawn, like a pearl from the deep, to the 
 eye of some fair worldling, at the mighty appeal of 
 nature, in the voice of an affecting portrayer of her 
 truth. Elia had faith in the legitimate drama, as the 
 
CHARLES LAMR. 157 
 
 native offspring of the human mind, significant of its 
 successive eras, and as fitted to supply one of its 
 truest and deepest wants ; and well he might have 
 had, — for its history was as familiar to him as a 
 household tale ; he had explored its chronicles with 
 the assiduity of an enthusiast, and the acumen of a vir- 
 tuoso ; he had garnered up its gems as the true jewels 
 of his country's literature ; he honoured its worthy 
 votaries as ministrants at the altar of huttianity ; 
 and, above all, in his own experience, he had learned 
 what human taste, judgment, and feeling may derive 
 from the wise appropriation of dramatic influences. 
 He knew, as well as his readers, how much he was 
 indebted to an intelligent devotion to them, for the 
 vividness of his pencillings, the fertility of his associa- 
 tions, and the beauty of his ir^agery. Not in vain 
 did he seek, in Hamlet's musings, "grounds more 
 relative" than popular reading could afford, or turn 
 from the inconsistencies of modern gallantry, which 
 he so admirably delineated, to bestow his fond atten- 
 tion upon the "bright angel" of Verona, and "the 
 gentle lady wedded to the Moor." 
 
 Lamb's interest in the drama was too well founded 
 to be periodical, as is generally the case. He shared, 
 indeed, the common destiny, in beholding his youth- 
 ful visions of theatrical glory fade ; the time came to 
 him, as it comes to all, when the mysterious curtain 
 was reduced to its actual quality, and became bona 
 fide green bais^e, and wh~fen the dazzling pilasters lost 
 their likeness to " glorified sugar candy ;" but the his- 
 
 14 
 
158 
 
 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 trionic art retained its interest, and tHe literature 
 of the drama yielded a continued pastime. From 
 the rainy afternoon which the "child Elia'' spent in 
 such hope and fear, lest the wayward (elements should 
 deprive him of his "first play," to the night when 
 the sleep of the man Elia was disturbed with visions 
 of Old Munden, he sought and found, in the drama, 
 food for his reflective humour and pleasurable occu- 
 pancy in his weary moods — if such e'er came to him 
 — which may be doubted, since he has not so informed 
 us. Notwithstanding his partiality for theatrical re- 
 presentations, few play-goers entertained a more just 
 idea of their frequent and necessary inadequateness. 
 He recognised the limits of the dramatic art. He 
 realized, beyond the generality of Shakspeare's ad- 
 mirers, the impossibility of realizing, by the most 
 successful performance, our deepest conception of his 
 characters. He knew that the wand of that en- 
 chanter dealt with things too deep, not only for 
 speech, but for expression. He was impatient at 
 the common interpretation of Shakspeare's mind. In 
 the stillness of his retired study, the creations of the 
 bard appeared to him, as in an exalted dream. In the 
 attentive perusal of his plays, the delicate touches, 
 the finer shades and the under current of philosophy, 
 were revealed to the mind of Lamb with an im- 
 pressiveness, of which personification is unsuscepti- 
 ble ; and few of his essays are more worthy of his 
 genius than that which embodies his view^ on this 
 subject. It should be attentively read by all who 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 159 
 
 habitually honour 'the minstrel of Avon, without being 
 perfectly aware why the honour is due. It will lead 
 such to new investigations into the mysteries of that 
 wonderful tragic lore, upon which the most gifted 
 men have been proud to offer one useful comment, or 
 advance a single illustrative hint. To the acted and 
 written drama, Lamb assigned an appropriate office; 
 he believed each had its purpose, and that he who 
 would derive the greatest benefit from either, should 
 study them relatively and in conjunction. Such was 
 his own method, and to the steadiness and success 
 with which he pursued it, his writings bear the most 
 interesting testimony. The zest with which he 
 dwells upon his dramatic reminiscences, the delight 
 he takes in living over scenes of this kind, — in recall- 
 ing, after an interval of years, the enjoyment of a 
 single evening of Listen's or Bensley's acting, indi- 
 cate the intelligence and warmth of his love of thea- 
 trical performances; while his successful efforts in 
 reviving the nearly, forgotten dramatic literature of 
 the English stage, and his admirable essays, directly 
 ^ or indirectly devoted to the general subject, evince 
 his application and attachment to it. His talents as 
 a dramatic critic are everywhere visible. There is 
 one feature of our author's devotion to the drama, 
 which is too ch^acteristic of the man, and too in- 
 trinsically pleasing, to be unnoticed. He never for- 
 got those who had contributed to his pleasure in this 
 manner. They were not to him the indifferent, un- 
 estimated beings they are to the majority of those 
 
1-60 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 who are amused and instructed by their labours. 
 Charles Lamb respected the genius of a splendid 
 tragedian on the same ground that that of a fine 
 sculptor Avon his admiration. He believed one as 
 heaven-bestowed as the other. He recognised his 
 intellectual or moral obligations to an afibcting actor 
 as readily as to a favourite author. He sincerely 
 respected the ideality of the profession, sympathized 
 in the life of toil and comparative isolation it imposes, 
 and felt for the deserving and ambitious who had, by 
 assiduous culture and native energy, risen to its 
 summit only to look forward from that long-sought 
 elevation, to a brief continuance of success, followed 
 by an unhonoured decline, an age of neglect, and 
 the world's oblivion. 
 
 One of Lamb's most winning traits is his sincerity. 
 The attractiveness of this beautiful virtue, even in 
 literature, is worthy of observation. It seems to be 
 an ordination of the intellectual world and a blessed 
 one it is to those who cherish faith in a spiritual phi- 
 losophy — that truth of expression shall alonfe prove 
 powerfully and permanently efi*ective. It is happy 
 that we are so constituted as to be moved chiefly, 
 if not solely, by voices attuned and awakened by 
 genuine emotion ; it is well when foreign aids and the 
 most insinuating of conventional appliances fail to 
 deceive us into admiration of an artificial literary 
 aspirant ; it is a glorious distinction of our coftimon 
 nature, that soul-prompted language is the only uni- 
 versally acknowledged eloquence. The mission of 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 161 
 
 individual genius is to exhibit itself. The advocacy 
 of popular opinions, the illustration of prevailing 
 theories — the literary party-work of the day, may be 
 undertaken by such as are unconscious of any more 
 special and personal calling. But let there be a self- 
 preaching priesthood in the field of letters and of 
 art, to teach the great lesson of human individuality. 
 Let some gifted votaries of literature and philosophy 
 breathe original symphonies, instead of merging their 
 rich tones in the general chorus. Unfortunate is the 
 era when such men are not ; and thrice illustrious 
 that in which they abound. The history of the 
 world proves this ; and in proportion as an author is 
 sincere, in whatever age, he deserves our respect. 
 We spontaneously honour minds of this order, in 
 whatever form they are encountered. The compla- 
 cent smile with which douce Davie Deans, in Scott's 
 most beautiful tale, hears himself denominated a 
 Deanite^ recommends him to our esteem. And when 
 a poet or an essayist is as habitually and earnestly 
 candid as is Elia, we feel and acknowledge his worth, 
 whatever may be the calibre of his genius. 
 
 Many and singular are the advantages attendant 
 upon this characteristic. The most obvious is that 
 it brings out the true power — the proprium ingenium 
 of the individual. liook at the history of Milton 
 and Dante. They surveyed their immediate social 
 circumstances for a reflection of themselves in vain ; 
 and then, in calm confidence, they turned to the mir- 
 ror-fountain within themselves, and thence evolved 
 
 14* 
 
162 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 thoughts — unappreciated, indeed, by their cotempo- 
 raries — yet in the view of posterity none the less 
 oracular. And such intellectual labourers — however 
 confined and comparatively unimportant the sphere 
 of effort — being absolved from any undue allegiance 
 to. merely temporary influences, their productions 
 possess a free and personal stamp. Truth is to litera- 
 ture, what, in the view of the alchymists, the philo- 
 sopher's stone was to the base metals ; it converts all 
 it touches into gold. And, although our author had 
 to do mainly with topics which a superficial reasoner 
 would term trifling, yet his lovely sincerity gives 
 them a character, and sheds upon them a warm and 
 soothing light, more pleasing than weightier themes, 
 less ingenuously treated, can often boast. Being 
 sincere, of course Lamb wrote only from the inspira- 
 tion of his overflowing spirit; he seems to have 
 penned every line, to have thrown off every essay, 
 eon amove. He did not require the expedient of the 
 Greek painter, whoj covered the face of one of hi& 
 great figures with a mantle, not daring to attempt a 
 portraiture of the intense grief which he represented 
 him as suffering. Lamb endeavoured not to express 
 what he did not feel ; he wrote not from necessity of 
 policy,' but from enthusiasm, from his own gentle, 
 sweet, yet deep enthusiasm.- He had a feeling for 
 the art of writing, and therefore he would not make 
 it the hackneyed, conventional agent it too oftefi is ; 
 but ever regarded it as a crystalline mould wherein 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 163 
 
 he could faithfully present the form, hues, and very 
 spirit of his sentiments and speculations. 
 
 A striking and delightful consequence of this lite- 
 rary sincerity is, that it preserves and developes the 
 proper humanity of the author. Literati of this 
 class are utterly devoid of pedantry. In society, 
 and the common business of life, they are as other 
 men, except that a finer sensibility, and more elevat- 
 ed general taste, distinguishes them. In becoming 
 writers, they cease not to be men. Literature is 
 then, indeed, what the English poet would have it, — 
 " an honourable augmentation'' to our arms; it is not 
 exclusively pursued as if it were life's only good, and 
 a human being's sole aim ; but it is applied to as a 
 beautiful accomplishment — a poetical recreation amid 
 less humanizing influences. Thus, instead of serving 
 merely as an arena for the display of selfish ambi- 
 tion, or a cell wherein unsocial and barren devotion 
 may find scope, it is valued chiefly as a means of 
 embodying the unforced impressions of our own 
 natures, for the happiness and improvement of our 
 fellow-creatures. We say that such a view must be 
 taken, by sincere authors, of their vocation, because 
 they cannot but feel that, from the very constitution 
 of their natures, literature is only a part of the great 
 whole of the soul's being — a single form of its deve- 
 lopment, and one among the thousand oifices to 
 which the versatile mind is called. 
 
 It is needless to prove^^ in detail, Lamb's sincerity. 
 It is, perhaps, his most prominent characteristic; 
 
164 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 but in tracing out and dwelling upon its influence, 
 we are newly impressed with the truth of Shaftes- 
 bury's declaration, that " wisdom is more from the 
 heart than from the head." We have ever remarked 
 that the most delightful and truly sincere writers are 
 the most susceptible, afiectionate, and unafi'ected 
 men. We have felt, that however intellectually en^ 
 dowed, the feelings of such individuals are the true 
 sources of their power. Sympathy we consider one 
 of the primal principles of efficient genius. It is 
 this truth of feeling which enabled Shakspeare to 
 depict so strongly the various stages of passion, and 
 the depth, growth, and gradations of sentiment. In 
 whom does this primitive readiness to sympathize — 
 to enter into all the moods of the soul— continue be- 
 yond early life, so often as in men devoted to imagi- 
 native objects ? How frequently are we struck with 
 the childlike character of artists and poets ! It 
 sometimes seems as if, along with childhood's ready 
 sympathy, many of the other characteristics of that 
 epoch were projected into the more mature stages of 
 being. " There is often," says Madame de Stael, 
 " in. true genius a sort of awkwardness, similar, in 
 some respects, to the credulity of sincere and noble, 
 souls." 
 
 This readiness to catch impressions — this delicacy 
 and warmth of sympathy which belongs to the sin- 
 cere school of writers, is inestimable. It is said 
 that a musical amateur traversed the whole of Ire- 
 land, and gathered from the peasants the delightful 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 165 
 
 airs to which Moore's beautiful Irish melodies were 
 afterwards adapted. How much of the charm of 
 those sweet songs is owing to their associations with 
 the native and simple music thus gleaned from voices 
 to which it had traditionally descended ? And it is 
 by their sympathy — their sincere and universal inte- 
 rest in humanity, that the sweetest poets, the most 
 renowned dramatists, and such humble gleaners in 
 the field of letters as our quaint essayist, are ena- 
 bled to write in a manner corresponding with the 
 heaven-attuned, unwritten music of the human heart. 
 Sincerity gives them the means of interpreting for 
 their fellow-beings — not only the lofty subjects 
 which filled the soul of the " blind bard of Paradise/' 
 and the broad range of life upon which the observant 
 mind of the poet of human nature was intent, but 
 those lesser and more unique themes which Elia 
 loved to speculate about and humorously illustrate. 
 
 There is a unity of design in the essays of Lamb. 
 Disconnected and fugitive as we should deem them 
 at first sight, an attentive perusal reveals, if not a 
 complete theory, yet a definite and pervading spirit 
 which is not devoid of philosophy. After being 
 amused by his humour, interested by his quaint- 
 ness, and fascinated by his style, there yet remains 
 a more deep impression upon our minds. We feel 
 that he had a specific object as a humorist; or, at 
 least, that the ideas he suggests tend to a particular 
 result. What then was his aim ? As an author, 
 what mission does he fulfil ? We think Charles 
 
166 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 - m 
 Lamb is to life, what Wordsworth is to nature. The 
 latter pointa out the field flowers, and the meadow 
 rill, the soul's most primal and simple movements, 
 the mind*s most single and unsophisticated tenden- 
 cies ; the former indicates the lesser and scarcely 
 •noticed sources of pleasure and annoyance, mirth 
 and reflection, which occur in the beaten track of 
 ordinary life. It was remarked, by an able critic, 
 of the author of the Lyrical Ballads, that, "he may 
 be said to take a personal interest in the universe ;" . 
 with equal truth Elia may be regarded as taking a 
 personal interest in life. He delighted in designa- 
 ting its every-day, universal, and for that very reason 
 — disregarded experiences. Leaving the delineation 
 of martyrdoms, and the deeper joys of the heart, to 
 more ambitious writers, he preferred to dwell upon 
 the misery of children when left awake in their soli- 
 tary beds in the dark; to shadow forth the peace- 
 destroying phantom of a "poor relation;" to draw 
 up eloquent bacheloric complaints of the " behaviour 
 of married people;" to describe, in touching terms, 
 the agony of one condemned to hear music "without 
 an ear;" and to lament pathetically the unsocial 
 aspect of a metropolitan Sabbath, and the disturbing, 
 heartless conduct of those who remove old landmarks. 
 He did not sorrow only over minor miseries, But 
 gloried in minor pleasures. To him "Elysian ex- 
 emptions" from ordinary toil — a sweet morning's nap 
 — a "sympathetic solitude" — an incidental act or 
 emotion of benevolence, and, especially, those dear 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 167 
 
 " treasures cased in leathern covers," for "which he 
 was so thankful that he assures us he could say 
 grace before reading them ; these, and such as these, 
 were to Charles Lamb absolute and recognised bless- 
 ings. He seems to have broke away from the 
 bondage of custom and to have seen all things new. 
 One would think, to note the freshness of his percep- 
 tions in regard to the most familiar objects of Lon- 
 don, that in manhood he was for the first time ini- 
 tiated into city life — that he was a new comer into the 
 world at an advanced age. Hogarth found no more 
 delight in his street-pencillings, than Lamb in his 
 by-way speculations. In the voyage of life he 
 seemed to be an ordained cicerone^ directing atten- 
 tion to that lesser world of experience to which the 
 mass of men are insensible,— drawing their attention 
 from far-off visions of good, and oppressive reminis- 
 cences of grief, to the lowly green herbage, spring- 
 ing up in their way, and the soft gentle voices 
 breathing at their firesides, and around their daily 
 3teps. And there is truth in Elia's philosophy, for, — 
 
 "If rightly trained and bred, 
 Humanity is humble, — finds no spot 
 Her heaven-guided feet refuse to tread." 
 
 We never rise from one of his essays without a 
 feeling of contentment. He leads our thoughts to 
 the actual, available springs of enjoyment. He re- 
 conciles us to ourselves ; causing home-pleasures, and 
 the charms of the wayside, and the mere comforts of 
 
168 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 existence, to emerge from the shadow into which our 
 indifference has cast them, into the light of fond 
 recognition. The flat dull surface of common life, 
 he causes to rise into beautiful basso-relievo. In 
 truth, there are few better teachers of gratitude than 
 Lamb. He rejuvenates our worn and weary feelings, 
 revives the dim flame of our enthusiasm, opens our 
 eyes to actual and present good, and with his humorous 
 accents, and unpretending manner, reads us a homily 
 on the folly of desponding, and the wisdom of appre- 
 ciating the cluster of minor joys which surround and 
 may be made continually to cheer our being. 
 
 We have endeavoured to designate the most pro- 
 minent of Charles Lamb's traits *as an essayist. 
 There is, however, one point to which all that we 
 know of the man converges. His literary and per- 
 sonal example tends to one striking lesson, which 
 should not be thoughtlessly received. We allude to 
 his singular and constant devotion to the ideal. In- 
 deed, he is one of those beings who make us deeply 
 and newly feel how much there is within a human 
 spirit, — how independent it may become of extrinsic 
 aids, — how richly it may live to itself. Here is an 
 individual whose existence was, for the most part, 
 spent within the smoky precincts of London ; firsf a 
 schoolboy at a popular institution, then a laborious 
 clerk, and at length a "lean annuitant." Public 
 life,, with its various mental incitements, — foreign 
 travel, with its thousand fertilizing associations, — 
 fortune, with the unnumbered objects of taste she 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 169 
 
 affords, — ministered not to him. Yet with what ad- 
 mirable constancy did he follow out that sense of the 
 beautiful, and the perfect, which he regarded as most 
 essentially himself ! How ardently did he cherish an 
 ideal life ! When outward influences and domestic re- 
 strictions encroached upon this, his great end,- — the 
 drama, his favourite authors, a work of art, or a 
 musing hour, were proved restoratives. He did not 
 gratify his fondness for antiquity among the ruins of 
 the ancient world ; but the Temple cloisters, or an 
 old folio, were more eloquent to him of the past^ than 
 the Coloseum is to the mass of travellers. He knew 
 not the happiness of conjugal affection ; but his at- 
 tachment to a departed object was to him a spring 
 of as deep joy, as the unimaginative often find in an 
 actual passion. . No little prattlers came about him 
 at eventide ; but dream-children, as lovely as cherubs, 
 solaced his lonely hours. The taste, the love, the 
 very being of Charles Lamb, was ideal. The strug- 
 gles for power and gain went on around him ; but 
 the tumult disturbed not his repose. The votaries of 
 pleasure swept by him with all the insignia of gaiety 
 and fashion ; but the dazzle and laugh of the careless 
 throng lured him not aside. He felt it was a blessed 
 privilege to stand beneath the broad heavens, to 
 saunter through the fields, to muse upon the ancient 
 and forgotten, to look into the faces of men, to rove 
 on the wings of fancy, to give scope to the benevolent 
 affections, and especially to evolve from his own 
 breast a light " touching all things with hues of hea- 
 
 15 
 
170 THE HUMORIST. 
 
 ven ;" in a word, to be himself. And is there not a 
 delight in contemplating such a life beyond that which 
 the annals of noisier and more heartless men inspire ? 
 In an age of restless activity, associated eflfort, and a 
 devotion to temporary ends, is there not an un- 
 speakable charm in the character of a consistent 
 humorist ? When we can recall so many instances of 
 the perversion of the poetical temperament in gifted 
 natures, through passion and error, is there not con- 
 solation in the serene and continuous gratification 
 with which it blessed Lamb ? He has now left, for 
 ever, the haunts accustomed to his presence. No 
 more shall Elia indite quaint reminiscences and hu- 
 morous descriptions for our pleasure ; no more shall 
 his criticism enlighten, his pathos affect, or his 
 aphorisms delight us. But his sweet and generous 
 sympathies, his refined taste for the excellent in 
 letters, his grateful perception of the true good of 
 being, his ideal spirit, dwells latently in every bosom. 
 And all may brighten and radiate jit, till life's cold 
 pathway is bright with the sunshine of the soul. 
 
t $\B\mm. 
 
 MACAULAY. 
 
 There is no department of literature whicl^has 
 undergone such changes, in modern times, as history. 
 The term once implied a mere collection of facts, 
 narrated with more or less detail and consistency, to 
 which recourse could be had for precedents and illus- 
 trations. Few readers associated history, in its ori- 
 ginal form, with intellectual enjoyment. Its brilliant 
 episodes and interesting characters were chiefly 
 known through the labours of the poet. Thus, 
 Henry VIII. is what Shakspeare made him ; Philip 
 of Spain exists in the intense portraiture of Alfieri ; 
 and the misfortunes and beauty of Mary Stuart, 
 were revived with new and lasting attractiveness 
 by the tragedy of Schiller. The more we reflect 
 upon the sources of our permanent historical ideas, 
 the clearer will it appear that fiction and poetry 
 have winnowed the silver wheat from the dusty chaff 
 of the annalist ; and that epochs af e remembered, on 
 account of some dramatic incident or heroic person- 
 age, which, incarnated by genius, has been stamped 
 with reality to the heart. Accordingly, historic lite- 
 rature, in the absolute meaning of the phrase, has 
 
172 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 been rather a storehouse of the past, which the 
 dramatist explored for a plot, the orator for an argu- 
 ment, and the antiquarian for the pleasure of re- 
 search. It has seldom, and only in fragments, 
 proved a living record with near relations to the pre- 
 sent and future. A gradual modification has been 
 long evident. As the sympathies of mankind have 
 been awakened by the facilities of intercourse, history 
 has Jipcome more of a common ground and suggested 
 unimagined attractions. Her archives have been 
 laid open to throw light upon the philosophy of life, 
 — to elucidate the progressive tendency of society, 
 and to trace the laws of providence. A fresh rule of 
 perspective has been applied, whereby the distant is 
 brought near ; and the glow of Christian sentiment 
 has revealed, in more vivid tints, the light and shade 
 once indistinctly mingled. Champollion found a key 
 to the monumental history of Egypt ; Niebuhr to the 
 antiquities of Rome ; and Cousin delivered lectures 
 that kindled crowds of listening youth, in order to 
 trace • a high and vast design in the vicissitudes of 
 nations. But this acute and comprehensive study of 
 the past, while it indicates the advanced humanity 
 j and superior intelligence of the age, is not the t)nly 
 cause of the improvement in historical writing. The 
 principle of a division of labour, so efi*ective in politi- 
 cal and social economy, has been operative in more 
 abstract vocations. It has tended to classify and 
 subdivide literature and science, and thus render 
 their phases more distinct. We perceive its in- 
 
MACAULAY. 173 - 
 
 fluence upon history in the fact that, instead of coun- 
 tries, events and individuals are made the subjects of 
 separate description. By this means, instead of a 
 confused jumble of wars, councils, and successions, 
 we have many central points, around which secondary 
 things are made to revolve; and the principle at 
 work — the question in abeyance — the spirit of the 
 times — are brought out with a relief and proportion, 
 that greatly assists our insight and harmonizes our 
 conclusions. With this view Sismondi wrote his 
 Italian Republics, Ranke his History of the Popes, 
 and D'Aubigne, that of the Reformation. Each of 
 these subjects is interwoven with the destiny of the 
 race ; each includes essential relations with the pro- 
 gress of civilization and liberty — both political and 
 religious — but separately considered, and thus de- 
 tached from the mass of circumstances in which the 
 old chronicles involved them — incalculable facility is 
 afforded the inquirer. The advantage is similar to 
 that obtained by the man of science through nomen- 
 clatures and cabinets. An intelligent method, in all 
 vocations, promotes success ; but its application to 
 history is comparatively recent, and is yet immature. 
 Yet another element has contributed to the expan- 
 sion of the historic art, — and that is the eclectic phi- 
 losophy of the age, which constantly asserts itself 
 not only directly, but with an instinctive and latent 
 agency. It has fused together not only abstract 
 systems, but national manners, schools of art, and 
 principles of taste; even political antipathies are 
 
 15* 
 
174 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 reconciled by its alchemy; legitimists and republicans 
 fraternize for some idea more precious to each than 
 their respective opinions on government ; and secta- 
 rians do not hesitate to evince loyalty to the creed of 
 one denomination, while they worship according to 
 the fol-m of another. The composer attempts to 
 unite the melody of the Italian with the harmony of 
 the German music; the sculptor adopts a subject 
 from the Pagan mythology, and imbues it with the 
 sentiment of the Christian religion; and French 
 styles of dress are grafted on Puritan manners. The 
 influence of this eclectic spirit is discernible in modern 
 history, by its appropriation of other forms of litera- 
 ture to its uses. It imitates every successful attempt 
 to reproduce the past; but there are two experi- 
 ments, of which it has signally availed itself — very 
 different and yet each effective. If we were called 
 upon to designate the most striking representations, 
 of times and persons long departed, which modern 
 literature affords, prominent among them would be 
 the French memoirs and the Scotch novels — the first 
 as authentic daguerreotypes of personal mariners, the 
 second as picturesque delineations of scenes and cha- 
 racter. A peculiar charm of Macaulay's history is 
 the judicious transfer of these vital elements to his 
 narrative. The account of Monmouth, for instance, 
 taken together, is as relishing a piece of biography as 
 was ever penned, distinct in outline and magnetic in 
 atmosphere — and yet it is interspersed with the 
 annals of two reigns. The same is true of the brief 
 
MACAULAY. 175 
 
 but vivid sketch of Argyle. Both these characters 
 have been drawn by Scott ; and yet, without the 
 accessories of romance, they stand before us in as 
 touching and more clear a light on the emphatic page 
 of the historian. Dumas has written an exciting \^ 
 novel, in which Charles I. is an actor ; but the extra- 
 ordinary events of that monarch's reign, and espe- 
 cially their relation to his fate, is set before the 
 reader by Macaulay in so lucid a manner, that a 
 pleasure is afforded equal to that inspired by the 
 most thrilling details. There is, indeed, no doubt 
 that truth is more wonderful than fiction, if only 
 conveyed with verisimilitude ; but it is comparatively 
 easy to weave imaginative drapery in which to array 
 sterile facts, while to make those facts vital by a pro- 
 cess of sympathetic reflection that almost identifies 
 the writer with them, is another and more difiicult 
 task. It is the same with the description of Charles 
 II. We have been surfeited with anecdotes of the 
 "merry monarch;" but precisely how he fascinated 
 ,a people so exacting and grave as the English, into 
 such, patient toleration of his levity, was never quite 
 so evident as it is made by the present chronicler, 
 whose account of his playing with his spaniels at 
 early morning in the park, and his chit-chat levees 
 while at his toilet, explain more than volumes of less 
 significant comment. Indeed, Macaulay indicates, 
 with singular impressiveness, how the perfidy of the 
 father was his ruin, and the urbanity of the son his 
 redemption with the people — and, by confining him- 
 
176 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 self to those traits which affect the mutual relation of 
 I the prince and the nation, elucidates events by cha- 
 'racter, and character by events — a process which is 
 ^ at once artistic and philosophical. 
 
 It will doubtless be objected to his history, that it 
 is not profound. We confess, that in our view, this 
 is one of its decided charms. It is the office of the 
 philosopher to follow truth to its last analysis, and 
 deduce great principles from successive facts. The 
 prime duty of the historian is to narrate. We claim' 
 from him authenticity, clearness, and that sympa- 
 thetic interest in his work that renders it vital. 
 These conditions we deem felicitously realized in the 
 present instance. Yet, without an occasional com- 
 ment, and some reflective suggestion, a chronicler 
 hardly seems in earnest ; and, accordingly, remarks 
 that spontaneously occur are expressed at the appro- 
 priate time. They are, however, never forced, but 
 naturally spring from the occasion; and are, with 
 scarce an exception, just, discriminating, and in good 
 taste. Thus, after describing the attempts of Charles 
 and Laud to force the English liturgy on the Scots, 
 it is added— "to this step our country owes her free- 
 dom ;" and, speaking of the affectation of scientific 
 tastes, at the time of the revival of Baconian philo- 
 sophy, the writer observes — " It is the universal law, 
 that whatever pursuit, whatever doctrine becomes 
 fashionable, shall lose a portion of that dignity which 
 it had possessed while it was confined to a small, but 
 earnest minority, and was loved for its own sake 
 
MACAULAY. 177 
 
 alone.'' In another instance, after enunciating some 
 of the inhumanities of the age of Charles, we are 
 assured that — " the more we examine the history of 
 the past, the more reason we shall find to dissent 
 from those who imagine that our age has been fruitful 
 of new social evils. The truth is, that the evils are, 
 with scarcely an exception, old. That which is new 
 is the intelligence which discerns, and the humanity 
 which remedies them." Elsewhere he speaks of " the 
 implacable hatred of an apostate" — of "the fortitude 
 which is derived from reflection and self-respect;" 
 and expresses the opinion, that " in every age the 
 vilest specimens of humanity are to be found among 
 demagogues." By such natural and sensible ob- 
 servations, scattered here and there, the narrative 
 style is varied, and it appears to us that more elabo- 
 rate or acute comments would be out of place in a 
 professed historian. It is taken for granted that the 
 reader will philosophize for himself on the facts 
 presented. Vigour of statement — the material for 
 analogy and deduction — is what we mainly ask. 
 After all, the great inferences from history are in- 
 directly suggested. If we follow events closely, they 
 solve every question at last. Hence Macaulay has 
 shed much philosophical light on the period described, 
 without seeming to do so. No writer has more 
 plainly traced the events which gave rise to the two 
 great political parties, or so ably indicated the man- 
 ner in which their conflicts, triumphs, coalitions and 
 modifications, worked out into an enduring system, 
 
178 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 the principles of constitutional government. It is 
 seldom that the same hand can so justly depict two 
 such antagonistic characters as the Puritan and the 
 Cavalier, and demonstrate the utility and desirable- 
 ness of the elements they respectively contributed to 
 •the English state and society. The way, too, in 
 which French supremacy was so long maintained, 
 and the insinuation of her politics and literary tastes 
 — so utterly alien to Saxon manliness — is developed 
 with rare skill ; while the comparative natural energy 
 of a government founded on popular recognition, and 
 one sustained by diplomatic intrigue, is . finely illus- 
 trated by the description of England universally 
 respected under Oliver, and under the Stuarts — " a 
 blank in the map of Europe." In a word, to the 
 philosophic mind, there is ample food in this history, 
 though it may not be served up with the emphasis of 
 Hallam or Guizot. 
 
 The great problem to be solved by the English 
 historian is the rationale of her civic and religious 
 liberty, and her extraordinary material prosperity; 
 the one having survived the action of causes, many 
 of which operated equally upon Europe, where royal 
 despotism was successfully established, and the other 
 having constantly increased to its present unequalled 
 grandeur, in spite of comparatively limited natural 
 resources. Now, to those who object to Macaulay's 
 history, that it is not sufficiently philosophical, we 
 reply, that he has arranged the facts, and related the 
 story, in so lucid and emphatic a manner, that the 
 
l^ACAULAY. 179 
 
 latent and general truths evolve themselves to a 
 reflective mind more impressively than if set forth in 
 an argumentative shape. It is a crowning merit of 
 this work that it is eminently and distincrtly sug- 
 gestive. We cannot fail to see that the consistent 
 and wise opposition of the Commons to a standing 
 army, and their firm grasp of the purse, rendered the 
 kingly prerogatives inadequate for all purposes of 
 selfish aggrandizement and supreme control, such as 
 reduced the continental nations to vassalage. In 
 regard to religious freedom, the long struggle between 
 the Church of Rome and Protestantism, developed 
 under such circumstances in England as to enlighten, 
 in a very experimental and summary way, the whole 
 people, as to the value of the right of private judg- 
 ment in matters of faith. The war of opinion kindled, 
 indeed, the fires of persecution, but their flames illu- 
 mined as well as consumed. The whole history of 
 the Test Act, as here unfolded, shows how certain is 
 the reaction of spiritual tyranny. To the obstinacy 
 of James, in attempting to force his creed upon the 
 state, all the religious liberty which England boasted 
 owes its vehement assertion; for the people were 
 strong in the conviction, that, *^' however fair the 
 general character of a papist might be, there was no 
 excess of fraud or cruelty of which he was not capable 
 when the safety and honour of his church were at 
 stake." To this feeling Macaulay attributes the 
 popular dread of Catholicism ; and shows that such 
 men as Locke and Tillotson were justified in their 
 
180 * THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 intolerance, on the same ground; and that to the 
 policy oT James, in direct opposition to the general 
 sentiment — ^Hhe English Roman Catholics owed three 
 years of lawless and insolent triumph, and a hundred 
 and forty years of subjection and degradation/' 
 
 In the description of this monarch's reign, Macau- 
 lay follows Fox and Mackintosh in all essential mate- 
 rials ; but they are vivified and newly fused in the 
 alembic of his earnest mind. Few readers will 
 hesitate to adopt his estimate of James, of the two 
 Hydes, of Rochester and Tyrconnell ; and what is a 
 greater tribute to his ability — in few memories will 
 his masterly portraits of these distinguished charac- 
 ters fail to remain — bold in lineament, haunting in 
 expression, and as fresh in colour as if just depicted 
 from the living originals. The same may be said of 
 the more elaborate and carefully laboured portrait of 
 William, Prince of Orange. Indeed, among the most 
 attractive features of the work, are the glimpses af- 
 forded of Holland — her local aspect, policy and 
 patriotism. These incidentally appear in the first 
 volume. In the second, the career of William is dis- 
 played in a new and interesting light. Nor can we 
 ' sufficiently admire the felicity of method adopted by 
 \ the historian, in preserving instructive details with- 
 ( out interrupting the continuity of eventful narrative, 
 I and filling up, in a separate analysis, the outline of 
 ! characters only half revealed by action. Such was 
 the case with the Prince William, whose master-pas- 
 
MACAULAY. 181 
 
 sion, often concealed beneath a natural reserve, is 
 lucidly set forth. 
 
 An important and hitherto neglected branch of / > 
 history is character-writing. It has been the custom \ V^ 
 of the annalist to recount the deeds of heroes, and 
 leave their traits to be thence inferred by the reader ; 
 but the strict analysis, and the metaphysical tests 
 ■which modern criticism has applied to human genius 
 and action, now give special meaning to history. In- 
 deed, one of its most diflScult and interesting phases 
 is the relation of individuals to events, the influence 
 of persons upon circumstances. In the work before 
 us there are several carefully drawn and elaborate por- 
 traits; and what is remarkable, they are drawn with- 
 out any of the extravagance which occasionally dimi- 
 nishes the authenticity, while it heightens the efiect of 
 sketches of this kind, that have appeared from the same 
 pen in the reviews. Take, for instance, three totally 
 dissimilar, yet greatly influential characters — each 
 familiar enough by name, and yet in regard to whom 
 a more distinct and just impression is induced by the 
 facts cited and the dispositions unfolded — Halifax, 
 Jefireys, and William Penn. The former is so admi- 
 rably characterized as to serve for a beautiful type 
 of enlightened moderation ; the wanton cruelty and 
 ferocious passions of the second are detailed with 
 reference to the vindictive spirit of James and the 
 reaction of a persecuted faction, so as to account for 
 the scope allowed them ; while the Quaker philanthro- 
 pist is exhibited in a light that will be new, and, per- 
 
 16 
 
183 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 haps heretical, to his prescriptive admirers. That 
 extraordinary chapter in th6 annals of fanaticism — • 
 the career of Titus Gates— is also placed in its just 
 connexion with the political animosities and fierce 
 bigotry of the age ; we see his brutal visage amid the 
 crowd that glowered on him around the bar ; and this 
 and similar vivid pictures of extreme moral degrada- 
 tion are the more striking, from the contrast they 
 present to those of elegant selfishness and "the 
 smooth barbarity of courts," in the luxury of Claren- 
 don and the fate of Strafi'ord. 
 
 There is something essentially dramatic in mate- 
 rials like these ; but it is a nice art to use them 
 judiciously. Carlyle's French Revolution is a kind 
 of tragic poem. He sacrifices details and continuity 
 to grand eiffects. He gives us the horrible realities 
 of the period as if fresh from the dreadful fascination 
 of the spectacle. To combine graphic description 
 with careful statistics, to intersperse impressive deli- 
 neations of men with the precise ixarration of public 
 occurrences, is, however, undoubtedly the best man- 
 ner to write history for the multitude ; and this is a 
 distinguishing merit of the present work. But it is 
 in the limning of classes as well as individuals that 
 Macaulay excels. No one can rise from the perusal 
 of this history without a far less vague and more 
 satisfactory idea of the courtier, the soldier, the 
 clergy, and the country gentleman of the day. Their 
 habits, manners, and opinions, are so clearly exhibit- 
 ed, that, instead of being solely occupied with the 
 renowned actors in the drama, as is usually the case, 
 
MACAULAY. 183 
 
 we see also the florid countenances of her rustic aris- 
 tocracy, the torn cassock of the country priest, and 
 the rich establishment of the city merchant ; thus, as 
 we are hurried along the stream of events, our sym- 
 pathies fairly enlisted and impatient of the issue, it 
 is not only with the consciousness of a few noble per- 
 sonages, whose fate is at stake — -but the shouts and 
 the tramp of a multitude assure us that the people 
 are everywhere around; and the vast problem of their 
 destiny is pressed upon our hearts, with an earnest- 
 ness that renders the doings of kings and ministers 
 but secondary and incidental. In thus keeping in 
 view the interests and tendencies of all classes, and 
 making obvious their mutual action, Macaulay gives 
 a significance to his record at once explicit and com- 
 plete. 
 
 Another peculiarity is the sagacious use he has 
 made of the testimony of ambassadors. In many in- 
 stances, he gives us the impression of foreign attaches 
 to the court, both in regard to public measures and 
 characters, and this greatly aids us in coming to a 
 truthful result. He often quotes, with brevity, but 
 judgment, the reports of the two French ministers of 
 Louis, so that we are enabled to form an opinion 
 from the evidence of lookers-on, as well as that of 
 partakers in the game. A striking example occurs, 
 illustrative of the solemn effect, even in a period of 
 noted perjury and corruption, of the administration 
 of justice in England. On the occasion of the ac- 
 quittal of Delamere, charged with participation in 
 
1 84 THE HISTOJRIAN. 
 
 Monmouth's rebellion, which is described as closing 
 another period of proscription, a letter of Adda, a 
 Papal envoy accustomed to the magnificent pomp of 
 Koman ceremonies, is referred to, as stating that the 
 trial was " una funzione plena di gravita, di ordine, 
 e di gran speciosita." It requires the sagacity in- 
 spired by genuine historical taste, thus to converge 
 the light from various and scattered materials — diplo- 
 matic, statistical, and literary, — in order to reveal, 
 to the best advantage, the time-obscured, yet noble 
 countenance of truth. 
 
 Leaving Macaulay's orthography to the lexicogra- 
 phers, we come to his style, which is constantly re- 
 ferred to, as if it were so individual and prominent a 
 characteristic as wholly to account for his popularity. 
 It is singular, however, that no English writer of our 
 day appears to be more free of artificial rules in the 
 construction of his sentences, less studied in phrase- 
 ology, and, in a word, more thoroughly spontaneous. 
 His thoughts clothe themselves, as it were, instinctive- 
 ly with the appropriate words. His paragraphs are 
 concise or diffuse according to the subject discussed, 
 and the feelings with Avhich it is treated. The result 
 of a series of events is given with eloquent terseness; 
 a descriptive passage is expanded into successive un- 
 dulations — each carrying on the idea to a broader 
 development, " till the ninth billow breaks along the 
 shore," in a kind of Spenserian crisis. In statistical 
 announcement, no expression can be more directly 
 to the point than this writer's ; in analyzing charac- 
 
MACAULAY. 185 
 
 ter, his use of adjectives and his definition of qualities 
 are remarkable for being as explicit as words can 
 make them ; but where scope is allowable, he gives 
 utterance to an opinion with the utmost vigour, and 
 breathes a sentiment with rare truth and delicacy. 
 Yet there is no conscious artifice in this. It would 
 be absurd to talk of studying Macaulay's style as 
 it was the fashion to do in regard to Addison and 
 Burke. The truth is, it is a perfectly natural, and,' 
 therefore, a variable style, above technicality, void of 
 pretence, adapting itself to the theme, occasion or 
 emotion that demands expression, by a kind of genius 
 equally the result of common sense and of inspira- 
 tion, of a perception of the appropriate, and a per- > 
 ceptibn of the beautiful. An Edinburgh professor, 
 who had long experience in teaching the art of com- 
 position, declares that " the secret of using language T^ 
 well is to use it from a full mind." Such, it appears 1 V> 
 to us, is the explanation of Macaulay's rich and per- 
 suasive diction. His mind overflows instead of being 
 drained. The affluence of his information swells the 
 current of his style, the clearness of his ideas renders 
 it transparent, and the energy of his thought gives it 
 impulse. Thus it is what style should ever be, the 
 medium, not the artistic limit of mind — the exponent, 
 not the fancy costume of ideas. His felicitous union 
 of the colloquial and the didactic, the familiar and 
 the dignified in expression, results from the just and 
 delicate adaptation we have noticed. Another mark- 
 ed excellence is great force of statement. There is 
 
 16* 
 
186 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 never the slightest vagueness either in the terms of 
 a proposition or the summing up of evidence, how- 
 ever general may be the intermediate language. This 
 fixes attention and vividly impresses the memory. 
 He has likewise an aphoristic manner of uttering an 
 important conclusion, that the reader warmed by his 
 rhetoric, seizes upon with avidity. It appears, there- 
 fore, that the true merits of his style — spontaneity 
 and adaptation,, are quite inimitable; they must 
 spring from within and cannot be grafted without ; 
 like courage, honour, generosity, or any other fine 
 moral instinct, they are innate. As to the fascina- 
 tion so generally acknowledged to belong to Macau- 
 lay's style, it obviously arises from his fluency, his 
 clearness, and especially his spirit. The latter 
 quality, the same which distinguishes the verse of 
 Campbell from that of Wordsworth, is a universal 
 charm. There is such a thing as writing and talking 
 very sensibly, and yet in a soporific monotone. Ma- 
 caulay, no matter how far back into the past he may 
 be delving, how arid the details or formal the scenes 
 upon which he may be engaged, is ever awake. 
 There is no languid movement, but a kind of infec- 
 tious animation that palpitates in every sentences- 
 It is like the conversation of a friend who has an in- 
 exhaustible fund of animal spirits. It is emphatically 
 the style of a cultivated Englishman of the nineteenth 
 century — self-possessed, healthy, with reason on the 
 alert, and comfort all around. Strength, equanimity, 
 glibness, and cheery toil are indicated by such a 
 
MACAULAY. 187 
 
 style. It savours of a well-fortified stomach, well- 
 braced nerves, a determined heart and a clear head. 
 In all this, we mean chiefly to say that Maeaulay 
 writes like a man; and that is the reason why 
 men of sense and women of spirit are attracted by 
 his style. There is nothing effeminate, cockneyish, 
 dainty, or far-fetched in it ; but an essential and per- 
 vading manliness, in striking contrast with much of 
 the literature of the day, which is emasculated by 
 indefiniteness, extravagance, or morbid refinement. 
 We may realize this distinction by the fact, that it 
 not only gratifies our love of knowledge and taste for 
 eflScient expression, to read Maeaulay, but it does all 
 this without infringing upon self-respect, like the 
 social delights we partake with a noble companion. 
 
 It is difficult to select a single passage from a 
 voluminous history to illustrate these characteristics 
 of style. Yet we venture to adopt one at random. 
 Few orders of the Church are better known than the 
 Jesuits ; a common adjective of our vernacular is 
 derived from their appellation. In describing the 
 political relations of England and France, it becomes 
 necessary for the author to allude to the coalition 
 between these renowned sectaries and Louis, occa- 
 sioned by the Port Koyal controversy. To place the 
 subject in a clear light, the historian refers to the 
 Jesuits — their merits and crime.s, their triumphs and 
 their wrongs. The subject is trite, and yet no 
 reader can feel a moment's impatience, so felicitous 
 is the sketch and so effective its application. 
 
188 
 
 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 When guided by truth we revert to first principles. 
 It is so in character when, freed from the shackles of 
 worldly pride, we act upon the divine precept, and 
 "become as little children ;" it is so in taste, when 
 the casual enchantment of an intense or gf-otesque 
 style of art is dispelled, and we earnestly resume 
 simplicity and nature as the genuine rule of excel- 
 lence : it is so in history. The first historians were 
 poets; and the poetical spirit now falls upon the 
 later. A survey of this field of literature, indeed, 
 displays a constant tendency to the artificial, until 
 that wonderful change in thought and expression, 
 ushered in by the volcanic agitations during the last 
 quarter of the last century. The almost inextricable 
 mingling of fact and fable iji ancient history, dimi- 
 nishes its authentic value ; while the introduction 
 of individual prejudices and the doctrines of faction 
 in modern, frequently causes it to be equally unreli- 
 able. It is acknowledged that Gibbon wrote with a 
 preconceived, speculative object. Cold design over- 
 lays every page. His work is rather an elegant ora- 
 tion, pronounced with sustained diction, than a liv- 
 ing picture of the past. The order into which he 
 reduced an immense quantity of chaotic material- is, 
 perhaps, its most striking charm. It has been said 
 of Hume that he first brought philosophy to the 
 elucidation of English history; but, as before inti- 
 mated, these standard models have been in a great 
 degree superseded by the more natural graces and just 
 insight which the progress and the humanity of the age, 
 
MACAULAY. 189 
 
 have engendered. It is pre-eminently the distinction 
 of modern genius to have rendered man, as such, the 
 great object of sympathy and interest. Accordingly, 
 details once thought insignificant, phases of life here- 
 tofore neglected, and social influences deemed by 
 earlier writers too familiar for the dignity of the his- 
 torian's pen, are now combined with the record of 
 grave counsels, national wars, and political vicissi- 
 tudes. 
 
 The wisdom of this course is evident from the 
 fact, that we do not actually derive our clearest im- 
 pression of kingdoms or epochs from history. Plu- 
 tarch has filled the imagination of the moderns with 
 Roman traits and modes of thought more than Livy. 
 The intellectual character of Germany — its actual 
 moral life — was revealed with far more impressive- 
 ness by Madame de Stael's treatise, than by all the 
 annals compiled by the laborious and accurate re- 
 search of her historical scholars. Old Froissart has 
 continued to attract from the obvious genuineness of 
 his descriptions — the soldier-like directness and pic- 
 turesque fidelity of his narrative. • Who doubts that 
 our most lively ideas of Spain, are gleaned from her 
 dramas, Gil Bias and Don Quixote? These and 
 similar considerations warrant the belief that much 
 of truth and utility, as well as delight, has been sacri- 
 ficed to what is called the dignity of history, This 
 quality often produces the same results in literature 
 as in manners. It maintains pride at the expense of 
 enjoyment, and surrenders all the advantages of in- 
 
190 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 timacy for the sake of grandeur. Hence the spirit of 
 enlightened inquiry is baffled, and the ardour of sym- 
 pathetic emotion chilled. Our communion with the 
 past becomes quite unsatisfactory, until it is sought 
 through the dramatist, or the letter-writer, who give 
 us veritable glimpses of our race, admit us to their 
 daily experience, and enable us to share their pas- 
 times and their wrongs. Among other great merits 
 of Michelet, is the occasional introduction, in his his- 
 tory of France, of fresh local descriptions, such as 
 might be taken from the note-book of a genial tra- 
 veller. This is, at least, a living grace, which gives 
 vivacity to the formal account of battles fought cen- 
 turies ago. We consider Prescott the most unobjec- 
 tionable representative of that school of history, the 
 ideal of which is correct and tasteful narrative. In 
 other respects, he seems to us vastly overrated. We 
 look in vain for that earnestness of purpose, that 
 high and uncompromising tone of sentiment, that 
 genuine love of humanity, which should distinguish 
 the historian of the nineteenth century. Prescott is 
 a kind of elegant trimmer in literature, such as 
 Macaulay describes in the volume before us, in poli- 
 tics. His popularity is chiefly owing to the fact that 
 he offends no one's taste or prejudices. One of his 
 critics ingeniously defends this secondary renown on 
 the principle of a balance of qualities which, it is de- 
 clared, is both rare and most desirable in a historian. 
 But readers are no longer satisfied with merely 
 negative merits. The heart and mind of the age de- 
 
MACAULAY. 191 
 
 mand, and will have, the positive. Form is no 
 longer allowed to atone for spirit, nor taste for 
 truth, nor courtesy for love. At all events, if the 
 light of new principles cannot be given to a narra- 
 tive, tameness will not be endured. Life has been 
 too often imparted to the musty chronicle by poetry, 
 to allow of its being rewritten without a vital glow. 
 Hence the familiar spirit, the minute details, the 
 graphic portraiture, and the comparison of the past 
 with the present, that gives the air of an animated 
 discussion, the descriptive hue of romance, and the 
 living grace of a tale told by an eye-witness, which 
 characterize the best historical works of the day. 
 In that of Macaulay we have an admirable specimen 
 of this kind. Whatever may be its comparative 
 value, it is conceived with a keen and constant view 
 to the principles we have indicated. It is graphic, 
 methodical, clear, and unites scenic touches, sketches 
 of manners and society, and individual portraits, 
 into one consistent and elaborate picture of the era 
 it chronicles. 
 
 How sedulously the author has sought incidental 
 and collateral information, in order to render this 
 picture complete, is evident from the various and 
 recondite sources of knowledge he has so wisely ex- 
 plored. No means to the great end in view seems 
 to have been too humble, no pains-taking too weari- 
 some. He has consulted, besides historical and bio- 
 graphical works, and official documents, the news- 
 papers and the parish-registers of the day. An old 
 sermon yields him one suggestion, an obsolete novel 
 
192 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 another. Here a time-stained ballad, and there the 
 confession of a martyr ; now a passage from a long- 
 forgotten play, and, again, a couplet from one of 
 Dryden's satires, aflfords the needful hint. On the 
 same principle no really national feature, although 
 quite apart from political history, is suffered to pass 
 "without its explanation. Thus the proverbial excel- 
 lence of English inns is accounted for by the circum- 
 stance that, in early times, they afforded the only 
 resting-place for the traveller, between populous and 
 active districts, and were, therefore, a certain source 
 of profit, and a great social necessity. The distinct- 
 ness of classes — especially that between rural squires 
 and the city burghers, is explained, on the ground 
 that the locomotive facilities were so limited as effec- 
 tually to bar frequent intercourse. The origin of the 
 celebrated breed of English horses, and the influ- 
 ences of coffee-houses upon London society, are re- 
 garded as worthy of mention, as being part of the 
 history of the country, equally with the execution of 
 Charles I., the fall of Danby, or the court influence 
 of the Duchess of Portsmouth. Female education, 
 the amount of iron manufactured, the state of the 
 roads, the wages of day labourers, the housewifery, 
 amusements, costume, equipages, and municipal regu- 
 lations — all, in short, characteristic of the period 
 described, is brought clearly before the mind, either 
 in careful statistics or animated sketches, so that we 
 not only have a panoramic, but a picturesque, econo- 
 mical, and dramatic view of the age and people. 
 
ibtaltst* 
 
 JOHN STERLING * 
 
 There is an affecting charm in the incomplete, 
 whether in destiny or character, especially when their 
 elements have been active and intense. As a lyrical 
 effusion will sometimes give us a deeper glimpse into 
 the poet's heart than a finished epic, so the desultory 
 and casual overflowings of a mind striving for har- 
 mony, the suggestive eloquence which gives the idea 
 of a latent world of unexpressed emotion, awakens 
 both imagination and sympathy far more than utter- 
 ances comparatively full and satisfactory. 
 
 To possess at once keen insight and imperative 
 sympathies, is to be liable to extreme mental suf- 
 fering, for which we can imagine no consolation but 
 a high and serene faith. The ability to discern things 
 in their actual relations, to pierce the rind of the 
 conventional and draw near the heart of nature, may 
 be enjoyed merely as a scientific pastime ; but when 
 
 * 1. Essays and Tales by John Sterling', collected and edited, with 
 a memoir of his life. By Charles Julius Hare, M. A. London. J. 
 W.Parker. 1848. 
 
 2. The Poetical Works of John Sterling. First American edition. 
 Philadelphia : Herman Hooker. 1842. 
 
 17 
 
194 THE IDEALIST. 
 
 "the strong necessity of loving'* is united to such 
 clear perceptions, the mind and the heart are exposed 
 to severe and incessant conflict; and to reconcile 
 them is the grand problem of life. This appears to 
 have been the case with Sterling. He had the 
 intense desire for truth which belongs to the philoso- 
 pher, and the enthusiasm and sense of beauty which 
 characterize the poet. To gratify these dominant 
 impulses, and at the same time, be loyal to the duties 
 of his position and true to himself, was what he 
 constantly sought to do, in the face of physical 
 weakness and pain, and ever-recurring monitions of 
 death. The free thought, the patient will and the lov- 
 ing heart, wrought not always together, but sometimes 
 adversely ; and, only at intervals, came the balm of 
 content and the blessedness of tranquillity. Hence 
 in broken tones and by lapses he obtained utterance. 
 No shapely and complete temple rose beneath the 
 hand whose nerves disease had unstrung ; and hints 
 instead of revelations are bequeathed by a mind 
 seldom allowed to work continuously. It is precisely 
 in such a result, however, that we see the effect of 
 the severance between thought and action, which is so 
 impressive a sign of the times. The warrior's thought, 
 in earlier days, orily heralded his attack; the scholar's 
 meditation armed him for controversy which influenced 
 the fate of nations ; and the minstrel, equally adroit 
 with sword and pen, struck his harp in the intervals 
 between embassies. There are now countless emi- 
 nent thinkers, who must be content to cast a waif 
 
 j 
 
JOHN STERLmG. 195 
 
 upon the rushing stream of opinion and see it carried 
 down the tide of oblivion ; exhaust their energy both 
 of purpose and sentiment, in vain longings and specu- 
 lative reverie; and live, like Sterling — "not arrived 
 at clear satisfaction, yet stirred by the prompting 
 consciousness that there is a higher aim of being 
 than the outward world, or our sense and passion can 
 furnish." 
 
 It is chiefly as a type of this class of men, singu- 
 larly prevalent in this age, that Sterling deserves 
 attention. The record of his views, aims, and senti- 
 ments, his acquisitions and aspirations, contained in 
 verse, essay, tale and letter, admit the thoughtful 
 reader to a consciousness of his life — and that life, 
 in its fragmentary issues, its alternations of labour 
 and despondency, its moods of criticism and enthu- 
 siasm, hope and apathy, has in it a blended glory and 
 wo, promise and failure, sadness and brilliancy, which 
 although analogous to human life in general, involves, 
 as it seems to us, a phase characteristic of the times, 
 and one which has attracted but slightly the con- 
 sideration it deserves. 
 
 We allude to the fact that while greater scope^than 
 ever before is now afforded talent, and unequalled 
 opportunities for knowledge exist, earnestness of 
 purpose seems to find no heritage or goal. In by- 
 gone days, there was ever a cause dear enough to 
 absorb all the energies of grave and ardent natures, 
 a line of policy for the statesman leading to mag- 
 nificent results ; a special truth for the divine, the 
 
1*96 THE IDEALIST. 
 
 maintenance of which happily penetrated and over- 
 flowed his being; — a crusade for the soldier holy 
 enough to sanction and consecrate his adventurous 
 will and elicit his unswerving courage. Energy of 
 thought or feeling, instead of being diffused and 
 "perplexed in the extreme/' as now, — found instant, 
 tangible, and efficient vent. Life was direct, indi- 
 vidual, absolute. Its daily tasks involved a great 
 desire. Priests, warriors, and poets, did not enact 
 their vocations by mechanical routine, but with faith 
 and zeal — as those to whom they imported much. 
 Instead of speculating about life, they lived ; instead 
 of criticising, they created; instead of "letting I dare 
 not wait upon I would" — they either, realized desire 
 through action, or turned from it with the self-sacri- 
 fice of faith. They dallied, questioned, theorized, 
 dissected not ; but found some reality either of belief 
 or enterprise to embrace, cling to and pursue — thus 
 giving unity and meaning to existence. 
 
 Cut off by physical feebleness from extensive re- 
 search, Sterling sought truth by the process suggest- 
 ed by Swedenborg — the maintenance of a recipient 
 state through self-oblivion. He calmly accepted the 
 idea so eloquently urged by Coleridge, that "faith 
 is the highest reason;" and in his literary studies, 
 was indebted to him for the invaluable conviction 
 that all criticism is blind which discerns not the " or- 
 ganic unity of an object." A "mood of tranquil 
 sympathy," was his ideal of happiness. "His mind," 
 
JOHN STERLING. 197 
 
 says his biographer, " was reflective and speculative 
 rather than intuitive and productive." 
 
 Mr. Hare evidently struggles between his affection 
 for his friend and his conscientiousness as a priest, 
 in recording the change in Sterling's views. To us, 
 however, it is evident that the conservative discipline 
 and spiritual inertness of the established church, 
 were quite inimical to the progressive and earnest 
 spirit of Sterling. Early associations, a sense of 
 duty and a natural love of the consistent and the 
 habitual, rather than absolute conviction, seems to 
 have allied him to its doctrine and forms. The truth 
 is, his nature was of that description which a creed 
 oppresses. He belonged to the order of men of whom 
 Wordsworth speaks in his ode to Duty, who " do 
 God's will and knows it not." The more he read 
 metaphysics and theology, the less, it seems to us, 
 did he realize the equanimity he sought. The more 
 he argued the less was he convinced. But when, 
 with the childlike truthfulness of the poet, he yielded 
 himself to the influences of nature ; when under the 
 unchecked influence of sentiment — whether love or 
 veneration — a holy calm seems to have brooded over 
 his soul. Only then did he write genially. There 
 is a painful overlaying of unconscious and sweet im- 
 pulse, in his verse, by will, reasoning and a definite 
 moral system. Hence a certain stifihess which is re- 
 pulsive. Yet as the formality of a Puritan often 
 covered ardent heroism — one can ever see a cordial 
 gleam from the eye of Sterling, the man, through 
 
 17* 
 
198 THE IDEALIST. 
 
 the spectacles of his scholarship, and hear a human 
 heart beat under the frosty surplice of the priest. It 
 was this quality of earnestness which attracted Ster- 
 ling to German literature, and rendered its study an 
 epoch in his life. Although in his admirable paper 
 on the subject, he attributes its peculiar excellencies 
 to the " seats of free thought,'' as he calls the Ger- 
 man universities, it is because there, in his opinion, 
 may be found "the greater part of earnest medita- 
 tion extant on earth." 
 
 Sterling never won the palm of English scholar- 
 ship. His ill health prevented the incessant appli- 
 cation requisite for great classical acquirements ; but 
 independent of this, he was like Montaigne, more in- 
 clined to " forge his mind than to furnish it." No 
 error is more common than to estimate mental power 
 by the extent and retentiveness of the memory. It 
 is one of those popular fallacies which the self-inte- 
 rest of mediocre intellects ever inculcates, on the 
 same principle that characters of narrow moral re- 
 sources exaggerate the utility of mere belief, and 
 give precedence to the letter over the spirit of the 
 law. Erudition, however, can never take the place 
 of talent, or any amount of formal ideas yield the 
 vitality which results only from native intuitions. 
 Sterling's early teacher acknowledges that he caught 
 the spirit of a classical author with singular quick- 
 ness and truth, and often reproduced in his own lan- 
 guage, the essence of the myth or character, whose 
 philological details alone his classmates laboriously 
 
JOHN STERLING. 199 
 
 unfolded. At school, also, his love of fine rhetoric 
 evinced itself in great sensibility to effective combi- 
 nations of language and a fondness for "sonorous 
 words." 
 
 Sterling's paternal ancestry were Irish — which 
 d;CCOunts for the ardent element of his nature. He 
 was born at Kames Castle, Isle of Bute, July 20th, 
 1806 ; and four years after, was removed to Glamor- 
 ganshire, to the romantic scenery of which county 
 he ascribed some of the most lasting impressions of 
 his childhood. His early tuition was strictly private, 
 on account of his delicate health. In 1833 he pub- 
 lished a novel; and during the following year, having 
 completed his theological studies, he was ordained 
 deacon, at Chichester, by his former teacher, con- 
 stant friend, and subsequent biographer. In a few 
 months, however, repeated attacks of pulmonary dis- 
 ease, obliged him to withdraw from professional duty, 
 in which he had been singularly faithful. Thence- 
 forth his life seems to have been divided between 
 books and journeys; — experiments to ward off ill- 
 ness, and unremitting efforts to do good, enlarge the 
 scope of his mental vision and achieve new discove- 
 ries in the realm of truth. Athough thus baffled by 
 circumstances, he deemed himself only a "looker on" 
 in the struggle of life, — there.were inklings of adven- 
 ture and occasions for philanthropic enterprise even 
 for the studious invalid. His courageous and self- 
 sacrificing activity at a college fire, early marked 
 him for a man of benevolent impulse ; he was a cor- 
 
200 THE IDEALIST. 
 
 dial ally of the Spanish refugees, and crossed the 
 Channel in a fishing-boat, with General Torrijos, 
 afterwards executed at Malaga. In the West Indies, 
 his house was blown down by a hurricane. He there 
 interested himself in the education of the slaves ; and 
 subsequently visited the south of France and Italy ; 
 developing, wherever he sojourned, the same keen 
 sense of the evils of society, the same spirit of 
 knowledge — the same clearness of understanding 
 and earnestness of feeling. He died in 1843, having 
 survived his wife but a few months ; and the close of 
 his own life was tranquil. He passed away with 
 mental energies unimpaired, gentle affections vivid, 
 and a calm faith in the benignity of his Creator. 
 
 His writings reflect a nature subject to the com- 
 plex and antagonistic influences to which we have 
 alluded. The ultimate impression they leave is a 
 melancholy one; for even the tragic consummation 
 of a great hope, or the tardy realization of a prevail- 
 ing idea, leaves a certain feeling of satisfaction. 
 The sad phase of the richest natures in our day is 
 their fragmentary and indeterminate destiny. As 
 we muse of their career, our sympathies are painfully 
 excited by the ^'strife of duties" — that forbids the 
 concentration of their impulses and acts, and breaks 
 up emotion, thought, and energy, into inadequate 
 results. But the imperfections of a career are in 
 such cases, best atoned for by social triumphs and 
 felicity. In direct contact with other minds, in glad 
 fellowship with kindred spirits, in the mental attri- 
 
JOHN STERLING. 201 
 
 tion of liberal society, a crude destiny may be in a 
 great measure retrieved. Thus was it with Sterling. 
 He numbered among his intimate friends the choicest 
 men of his country. By those admitted to his confi- 
 dence he was deeply loved. His companionship 
 quickened, solaced, and cheered; and he had the 
 " faculty of eliciting dormant powers in those with 
 whom he was brought in contact." Although his pen 
 traced no immortal inscriptions, he held, while living, 
 the divining rod which indicated unerringly the mines 
 of intellectual wealth in others, and brought the ore 
 of genius and the hidden springs of character brightly 
 to the surface. This efi'ective social ministry — both 
 in regard to utility and enjoyment, amply compen- 
 sated for the limited influence he exerted through 
 the press. He fulfilled the high vocation of a friend 
 in the best significance of the term ; and nature's 
 holy gifts consecrated him to a wider service than 
 the church. 
 
 His mind was appreciating rather than productive. 
 He excelled in mental portraiture; and identified 
 himself through sympathy with literary and heroic 
 characters, so as to designate their traits with preci- 
 sion and fulness. This is evident in the series of 
 papers entitled "Shades of the Dead;" there are 
 fine and thoughtful touches especially in the sketches 
 of Alexander, Columbus, and Jean d'Arc ; while the 
 power of more elaborate characterization is well de- 
 veloped in the essays on Montaigne and Carlyle^ — 
 writers as diverse in spirit and aim as can readily 
 
202 THE IDEALIST. 
 
 be conceived, and yet brought home with equal 
 facility, if not to the sympathies, at least to the per- 
 ception of Sterling. 
 
 His diction is concise and rhetorical and is marked 
 by philosophical definiteness, so that we are some- 
 times let into the essential point of a subject by a 
 single felicitous phrase. Thus he says of Montaigne, 
 that he " delighted in all kinds of distinct human 
 realities ;" of Carlyle, that he "loves the ideal 
 realized in things and persons,, not expounded in 
 systematic thought;" and aptly describes his style, 
 "not so much a figured as an embossed one." Dr. 
 Johnson he declares "something between the parish 
 schoolmaster and the Great Mogul;" and admirably 
 describes Jean Paul's genius as shrinking "with 
 fastidious and self-complacent vivacity from all the 
 forms, blazonries, and authorities of social existence, 
 when these happen to be insufficiently supported by 
 the worth of the men whom nature's habitual irony 
 has thus dignified." 
 
 In metaphor he often evinces the poetical instinct. 
 Thus speaking of relative excellence, he says — "the 
 iris in the dew-drop is just as true and perfect an 
 iris, as the bow that measures the heavens, and be- 
 tokens the safety of a world from deluge :" elsewhere 
 speaks of "the artificial parasol of self-conceit" as 
 substituted for- the infinite concave of heaven ; and 
 compares a poor child's funeral in a gay street in 
 London, to " a wounded raven fluttering through the 
 chamber of a king." 
 
JOHN STERLING. 203 
 
 In accordance with these characteristics, the poetry 
 of Sterling has more grave philosophy than lyric 
 fire. His muse is aphoristic rather than melodious. 
 The calm wisdom of Wordsworth, and the metaphy- 
 sical intelligence of Coleridge reappear in his verse. 
 It contains, however, striking rhetorical beauties. In 
 expression, he often blends precision of idea with 
 force of language, so as to produce rare verbal feli- 
 city. Thus in the longest of his poems, " The Sex- 
 ton's Daughter," though many of the stanzas are 
 commonplace, the effect of the whole is singularly 
 pathetic, and it leaves a sweetly melancholy impres- 
 sion on the reader's mind, like a strain of elegiac 
 music. His description of the three principal cha- 
 racters, afford a fair example both of the manner and 
 significance of the composition : - 
 
 THE SEXTON. 
 
 Sad seemed the strong", gray-headed man, 
 Of lagging thought and careful heed ; 
 
 He shaped his life by rule and span, 
 And hoarded all beyond his need. 
 
 Thus from within and from without, 
 She grew, a flower of mind and eye ; 
 
 'Twas love that circled her about, 
 And love in her made quick reply. 
 
 Church, too, and churchyard were to Jane 
 A realm of dream, and sight, and lore ; 
 
 And, but for one green field or twain, 
 All else a sea without a shore. 
 
204 THE IDEALIST. 
 
 Of this her isle the central rock 
 Stood up in that old tower sublime, 
 
 Which uttered from its wondrous clock 
 The only tJiought she had of time. 
 
 Withdrawn was she frpm passing eyes 
 By more than Fortune's outward law, 
 
 By bashful thoughts and silent sighs. 
 By Feeling's lone retiring awe. 
 
 For far unlike was Henry's mind 
 To aught that Jane had seen before ; 
 
 Though poor and lowly, yet refined 
 With much of noblest lore. 
 
 A gentle widow's only child 
 He grew beneath a loving rule ; 
 
 A man with spirit undefiled. 
 He taught the village school. 
 
 And many books had Henry read, 
 And other tongues than ours he knew. 
 
 His heart with many fancies fed, 
 Which ofl from hidden wells he drew. 
 
 What souls heroic dared and bore 
 In ancient days for love and duty, 
 
 What sages could by thought explore, 
 What poets sang of beauty. 
 
 With these he dwelt, because within, 
 His breast was full of silent fire. 
 
 No praise of men he cared to win. 
 More high was his desire. 
 
 Thus Henry lived in meek repose. 
 Though suffering oft the body's pain. 
 
JOHN STEULING. 205 
 
 Though sometimes aimless thoughts and woes 
 Like wrestling giants racked the brain. 
 
 Her looks like summer lightning spread, 
 And filled the boundless heavenly deep ; 
 
 Devoutest peace around she shed, 
 The calm withput the trance of sleep. 
 
 And so she fi-eshened all his life, 
 
 As does a sparkling mountain rill. 
 That plays with scarce a show of strife 
 
 Around its green, aspiring hill. 
 
 We lack space to designate the many beautiful 
 touches which give effect to this simple rhythmical 
 tale. Sterling has thrown around it the charm of a 
 pensive imagination, unexaggerated and natural. He. 
 sincerely recognised the principle of his favourite 
 Carlyle, that — " Reverence is the condition of in- 
 sight." His ideal of love is elevated — uniting the 
 human- and religious : 
 
 And man will ask below the skies 
 
 That breast may lean to beating breast. 
 
 That mingling hands and answering eyes 
 May halve the toil and glad the rest. 
 
 Yet could he temper love and meekness 
 
 With all the sacred might of law. 
 Dissevering gentleness from weakness, 
 , And hallowing tenderness by awe, 
 
 "Aphrodite" exhales a classical spirit and has 
 many fine images. As a poem it offers a rich con- 
 trast to the "Sexton's Daughter" — and is radiant 
 with the atmosphere of the goddess, by whom 
 
 18 
 
206 THE IDEALIST. 
 
 . As tale and history tell, 
 
 And sculptured marble gray, 
 And oracle and festal rite 
 
 Surviving man's decay ; 
 By whom all things are beautiful, 
 
 And peaceable and strong", 
 And joy from every throe is born, 
 
 And mercy conquers wrong. 
 
 c 'f. 
 
 /' The "Hymns of a Hermit" are pervaded by a 
 truly devout spirit, a confidence in truth, and a sub- 
 lime hope. The language is concise and appro- 
 priate, and some memorable lines occur. " Otho 
 III.," "Louis XV.," and "Alfred the Harper," are 
 highly suggestive historical anecdotes, reproduced in 
 eloquent and picturesque verse. But perhaps the 
 most striking and characteristic of Sterling's minor 
 poems, is that entitled " Abelard to Heloise." Al- 
 though ostensibly the embodiment of another's feel- 
 ing, it has an earnest clearness — a deep undertone 
 and terse beauty which mark it as the offspring of 
 individual emotion. It is a genuine sibylline leaf 
 torn warm from the heart of an impassioned, yet 
 noble and just being, which appeals to the fondest 
 records of experience. 
 
 Such life-dramas, as that of Sterling, have an im- 
 mortal type in Hamlet. We recognise in the souls 
 whose developments we thus trace — as in the cha- 
 racter of the musing prince — reflective powers, both 
 acute and profound, a world of sensibility, impas- 
 sioned affections, delicate moral feeling — all the 
 noblest elements of huma,nity, yet so balanced and 
 
JOHN STERLING. 207 
 
 opposed as to find no healthful and complete external 
 manifestation. Hence the internal conflictj the as- 
 pirations and doubts, the magnificent conceptions 
 and ardent longings which find vague utterance per- 
 haps, but "lose the name of action.'* An existence 
 like this, is more common to this than any preceding 
 age; and its record is, as before suggested, like a 
 problem but half solved. In a word, the restlessness 
 which accompanies the unattained^ robs it of perfect 
 harmony. The want of a nucleus only seems to 
 prevent a splendid crystallization. Struggle is the 
 most obvious law, and regret the most evident fruit 
 of powers which needed but definite scope, aim, and 
 motive to leave enduring and valuable fruits. With 
 variety of knowledge, there are no grand and satis- 
 factory principles ; with intense thought there comes 
 forth no sustaining belief; with quick and ardent 
 affection, there is no lasting, adequate and recipro- 
 cated love. Social claims and personal individuality, 
 taste and necessity, duty and love, by perpetual con- 
 flict, restrain the efficiency of the man. He is a 
 looker-on, where he would fain be an a.ctor; he 
 dreams, hopes and reasons in a perpetual circle ; re- 
 veals himself by glimpses, and, haunted by a sense 
 of lofty purposes, — with a mind craving new and 
 vast truth, and a heart parched with an infinite thirst 
 for sympathy — instead of adventure, pilgrimage, 
 warfare, or original intellectual creation — those 
 moulds in which the glowing spirits of past ages cast 
 the lava of enthusiasm — a morbid self-inspection, a 
 
208 THE IDEALIST. 
 
 melancholy prying into consciousness — an oppressive 
 sense of the responsibility and the mysteries of life, 
 make the gifted of this century too often but modi- 
 fied reproductions of Childe Harold — which, not- 
 withstanding the repudiation of critics, is most em- 
 phatically the illustrative epic of the age. Sterling 
 was, indeed, guiltless of ungrateful misanthropy; 
 and his pious sentiments were a bar to reckless de- 
 spair ; but when we trace the evidences in these 
 volumes of intense mental activity, a fearless spirit 
 of inquiry, a singularly candid and affectionate dis- 
 position, and the comparatively meagre result — we 
 cannot but feel that this self-dissatisfaction was in- 
 evitable. 
 
 Want of scope is, indeed, the complaint of the 
 most gifted of the present day. They leave me- 
 morials of what they were capable of, instead of 
 eternal deeds and writings. Achievement seems to 
 have become visionary, conquest a speculative event, 
 and martyrdom a domestic process. Shelley in his 
 IV ^t Letters from an Italian hermitage, and Lamartine in 
 his Palestine Journal, breathe the same consciousness 
 of baffled will and perplexed endeavour. Indeed, how 
 few men, like Schiller, unite genius and character^ 
 power regulated by wisdom, and writings moulded 
 from the soul's life, yet shaped into forms of endur- 
 ing beauty, by patience, taste and rectitude ! 
 
 J % 
 
t %^t\nnm\i 
 
 BURKE. 
 
 To the cotemporaries of a great statesman it is of 
 vital moment to decide whether his opinions agree 
 with each other and if his course is loyal. But to 
 the reader of a future day, his writings are chiefly 
 attractive for the truth they contain and the re- 
 sources of thought and style they exhibit. No pub- 
 lic character escapes animadversion, for if there is 
 nothing in actions which party hatred can exe- 
 crate, there is always room enough for base sur- 
 mise in regard to motives. Happily the graces of 
 composition, the pleadings of humanity, the serene 
 e9*ulgence of wisdom, survive such transient and 
 local warfare. True eloquence, like poetry, is hal- 
 lowed by enduring admiration ; and as we attach an 
 inestimable value to a portrait by Titian, although 
 the very name of the original has perished, so the 
 warm and exquisite hues of noble fancy and the 
 effective light and shade of ardent thought, continue 
 sacred long after the questions upon which they 
 were expended have been forgotten, and the tempo- 
 rary ends they subserved have ceased to obtain. 
 Depth and clearness of reflection and beauty of style 
 
 18* 
 
210 THE RHETORICIAN. 
 
 • 
 
 are the grand preservatives of the rhetorician's 
 labours. They even render classic the subject to 
 which they are devoted. In the Forum at RomCj we 
 think of Cicero's invectives against Catiline ; in the 
 American Senate Chamber, of Webster's defence of 
 the Union ; and in Westminster Hall, of Sheridan's 
 speech at the trial of Hastings. To illustrate the 
 sources of rhetorical power, there is no more felici- 
 tous example than Edmund Burke. His life was 
 remarkably transparent, unobscured by mystery and 
 unembarrassed by violent contradictions. We clearly 
 descry his image and easily trace his career. The 
 means and appliances that promoted his development 
 were in no degree extraordinary; they are within 
 the reach of thousands. His habits were simple, his 
 purposes undisguised, and the nature and extent of 
 his cultivation amply revealed in his writings. His 
 outward experience was comparatively uneventful. 
 Of Irish descent, his youth is associated with a resi- 
 dence near the ruins of Spenser's dwelling — where 
 much of the Fairy Queen was written, — with the 
 salutary discipline of a Quaker school and the usual 
 college instruction. Like most boys of intellectual 
 tendency, his health was not robust and he dallied 
 with the muses. By the former contingency he was 
 rendered more impressible to the influences of nature, 
 and by the latter experiment his taste for beautiful 
 expression was revealed. 
 
 When his academical education was completed, 
 like most young men of active intelligence, he vacil- 
 
BURKE. 211 
 
 lated awhile between several projects. He applied 
 for a Scotch professorship and meditated emigration 
 to America. Meantime pursuing his law-studies in 
 London, he increased his father's yearly allowance 
 of two hundred pounds, by contributing to the periodi- 
 cals of the day — a habit which gave him variety of 
 practice in the art of expression. Occasional jour- 
 neys for needful recreation, miscellaneous and unre- 
 mitting reading, professional study, attentive visits 
 to the House of Commons and the theatre, and 
 social enjoyment of the best kind, quickened his 
 powers and informed his mind. He contracted a 
 happy marriage with the daughter of his benign 
 physician, and thenceforth domestic life was the 
 balm of his spirit. His philosophical taste and love 
 of beauty found scope in the "Enquiry into the 
 Sublime and Beautiful;" and the historical article 
 which he regularly furnished the Annual Regis- 
 ter, afforded the most desirable initiation pos- 
 sible into national affairs and political questions. 
 Assimilating these various influences, practical and 
 contemplative, he was unconsciously trained for the 
 career of the rhetorician. From nature, books, the 
 courts. Parliament, the drama and society, he con- 
 stantly gleaned ideas ; the amenities of a united 
 family softened the intensity of reflection, and the 
 habitual use of the pen on comprehensive topics as 
 well as oral discussions with the superior men of the 
 day, gave new facility to that power of language 
 with which he was endowed by nature. That he re- 
 
212 THE RHETORICIAN. 
 
 cognised this general and accurate knowledge of men 
 and things, and an acquired felicity of utterance as 
 the requisites of his vocation, may be inferred from 
 the opinion he gives Barry, the painter, in regard to 
 the old masters, — which is equally applicable to 
 verbal expression. "If I were to indulge in a con- 
 jecture, I should attribute all that we call greatness 
 of style and manner of drawing, to the exact know- 
 ledge of anatomy and perspective. For by knowing - 
 exactly and habitually, without the labour of parti- 
 cular and occasional thinking, what was to be done 
 in every figure they designed, they naturally attained 
 a freedom and spirit of outline, because they could 
 be daring without being absurd : whereas ignorance, 
 if it be cautious, is poor and timid ; and if bold, it is 
 only blindly presumptuous." 
 
 It is essential to a great rhetorician that he should 
 be endowed not only with quickness and discernment, 
 and capacity to retain and assimilate facts and prin- 
 ciples, but that a basis of strong natural sense should 
 underlie both his acquisitions and facilities. Other- 
 wise he degenerates into a mere special pleader ; his 
 arguments are ingenious rather than profound, and 
 his view of any subject liable to be more acute and 
 visionary, than true and comprehensive. It is this 
 justness of perception, this original clearness of in- 
 sight which the word judgment best though vaguely 
 indicates, that leads to an habitual reference to first 
 principles, to confidence in primary truth, and to a 
 calm and earnest reliance on inductive wisdom. It 
 
BURKE. 213 
 
 was to a remarkable degree the characteristic of 
 Burke. He seems to have been a conservative in 
 the best signification of the term — without bigotry 
 or fanaticism, yet with singular tranquillity of con- 
 viction and liberality of feeling. He joined, indeed, 
 the dignity of the conservative to the generous spirit 
 of the reformer. He was a zealous advocate for 
 progress, but for progress in a certain direction and 
 under established influences. In the spirit of our 
 great revolutionary orator, he seemed ever ready to 
 exclaim, '' I have but one lamp by which my feet 
 are guided, and that is the lamp of experience ; I 
 know of no way of judging of the future but by the 
 past:" thus Patrick Henry opened the celebrated 
 speech in which he so eloquently advocated resis- 
 tance to Great Britain, boldly suggesting the great- 
 est of national innovations by an appeal to the un- 
 satisfactory result of patient endurance. It was not 
 a familiar precedent, however, but a great principle 
 that justified his cause. Thus Burke in his writings 
 on France and America manifests the liveliest at- 
 tachment to existent institutions and a faith in them 
 as the result of ages of human conflict and thought, 
 but it is on the fundamental principles involved in 
 them and on the natural instincts whence they spring, 
 that he relies. It appears to us that thie great ele- 
 ments of Burke's rhetoric may all be traced to this 
 philosophic habitude. He never lost sight of the facts 
 of human nature and human life — of the everlasting 
 laws by which they are regulated. The phenomena, 
 
814 THE RHETORICTIAN. 
 
 however imposing or winsome, never drew him from 
 the law, the form from the substance, the transient 
 phase from the original element. Hence his deep 
 aversion to the substitution of theoretical for practi- 
 cal intelligence, his recoil from all attempts to regu- 
 late actual society by metaphysical opinions, to let a 
 doctrine take the place of a sentiment, or a vision- 
 ary speculation of a long-tried expedient. It was 
 this view that led him to perceive so distinctly the 
 error of American taxation and the inapplicability 
 of French philosophy to human well-being. It ren- 
 dered him sagacious, because it carried him below the 
 surface of things to the mind and heart of man, as 
 developed within to his consciousness, around to his 
 observation, and in history to his reflection. Hence, 
 also, his remarkable prescience. He was a good 
 prophet in national afiairs, on the very same ground 
 that Shakspeare is the most effective of dramatists — 
 a constant recurrence to the natural, and therefore 
 the inevitable, springs of human action. Thus he 
 asks, in his " Keflections on the Revolution in 
 France," "Why do I feel so differently from, the 
 Rev. Dr. Price, and . those of his lay flock, who will 
 choose to adopt the sentiments of his discourse? 
 For this plain reason — because it is natural I 
 should; because we are so made as to be affected,'' 
 &c. The same idea in another guise, reappears in 
 all the arguments and expressions of this celebrated 
 essay ; for instance, " We shall never be such fools 
 as to call in an enemy to the substance of any sys- 
 
BURKE. 215 
 
 tern to remove its corruptions, to supply its defects, 
 or to perfect its construction." One of his brief 
 phrases strikingly exhibits how completely he identi- 
 fied reasonable obedience to the instincts and senti- 
 ments of human nature, with civilization, and how 
 destructive he deemed all experiments not based 
 upon their primitive teaching. "Nor as yet," he 
 says, in allusion to the philosophical atrocities then 
 enacting in Paris — " have we subtilized ourselves into 
 savages.'' His first published work of celebrity — 
 the Treatise on the Sublime and Beautiful, is the 
 best evidence of the reverence and curiosity with 
 which he looked into nature for essential truth. In 
 this composition he did so as a mental philosopher ; 
 in his after public career, he adopted the same 
 method as the only legitimate test of justice and 
 utility. 
 
 He wished to " move with the order of the uni- 
 verse." "I have endeavoured," he says, "through 
 my whole life, to make myself acquainted with 
 human nature ; otherwise I should be unfit to take 
 even my humble part in the service of mankind." 
 And again, " wise men will apply their remedies to 
 vices not to names ; to the causes of evil which are 
 permanent, not to the occasional organs by which 
 they act, and the transitory modes in which they 
 appear." But it is needless to multiply instances. 
 In dwelling upon this invariable deference to the 
 first principles of our common nature — to the great 
 and unalterable facts of humanity, as the philosophic 
 
216 THE RHETORICIAN. 
 
 element of Burke's character, we desire to suggest 
 the process of his efficiency, to show that no vague 
 and chancer aptitude, to which under the name of 
 genius the indiscriminate refer all mental results, is 
 necessary to account for his power. He proceeded 
 in discussing a public question exactly as in a scien- 
 tific analysis ; he brought the same recognition of 
 facts, the same lucid arrangement and rigid induc- 
 tion to his commentary on the French Revolution as 
 to the problem of the Sublime and Beautiful. In 
 both cases it was what God had written on the mind 
 and implanted in the heart of man that he strove to 
 descry, and according to which he argued and in- 
 ferred. We do not say that therefore his conclusions 
 were infallible, but to this comprehensive yet search- 
 ing method, we confidently ascribe the wisdom that 
 men of all parties find in the writings of Burke. We 
 believe it is thus only that any perennial light is shed 
 on momentous themes. The view thus eliminated 
 may be incomplete, it may be partial, but as far as it 
 goes, it is a genuine and distinct revelation and an 
 infinite help towards universal truth. It gives a cer- 
 tain grandeur to statesmen, historians, and poets, to 
 apply essential principles to immediate occurrences, 
 try the elenffents of the hour in the crucible of the 
 past, and, undisturbed by the noise and smoke of the 
 conflict around, calmly guide their steps by patient 
 and trusting observation of the eternal stars. This 
 lofty habitude cramped Burke, except in great ques- 
 tions, as a parliamentary orator. He was obliged 
 
BURKE. 217 
 
 sometimes to begin with a coaxing appeal or startling 
 expression to win the requisite attention. His style 
 of thinking was eminently adapted to contemplative 
 minds. The superficial were impatient at its depth. 
 Burke excelled in furnishing reasons, so clearly ex- 
 pressed and so justly deduced as to fascinate by their 
 bright and orderly array, if they did not overwhelm 
 by their intrinsic power. 
 
 There is a permanency attached to views thus 
 based upon long experience and drawn from the 
 primal facts of man and nature, that prolongs their 
 interest and value. However inadequate they may 
 be as representing all the ideas involved in political 
 and social science, no reflective mind can fail to per- 
 ceive that they have essential meaning ; and will, 
 therefore, be continually reproduced. Two revolu- 
 tions have occurred in France since Burke's cele- 
 brated Reflections appeared. The last publication 
 of note relative to the duty and prospects of that 
 country, is a pamphlet by Guizot.* We are struck 
 with the coincidences of thought, the identity of 
 argument of these two treatises — written at such 
 intervals of time and at such difl'erent stages of 
 human progress. "I confess to you, sir," says 
 Burke, " I never liked this continual talk of resist- 
 ance and revolution, or the practice of making the 
 extreme medicine of the constitution its daily bread." 
 ^'A society may be tortured, perhaps destroyed," 
 
 * Democracy in France. 
 19 
 
218 THE RHETORICIAN. 
 
 says Guizot; "but you cannot make it assume a 
 form or mode of existence foreign to its nature, either 
 by disregarding the essential elements of which it is 
 constituted, or by doing violence to them.'' " Had 
 fate reserved him to our times," says Burke, alluding 
 to the tyranny of Henry VIII., " four technical 
 terms would have done his business and saved him 
 all this trouble, — he needed nothing more than one 
 short form of incantation — Philosophy, Light, Liber- 
 ty, the Rights of Man." "Nothing," says Guizot, 
 " has a more certain tendency to ruin a people than 
 a habit of accepting words and appearances as reali- 
 ties. While the shouts of unity and fraternity re- 
 sound among us, they are responded to by social 
 war," &c. A train of reasoning in favour of distinct 
 orders and an established church runs through the 
 two works, and a kindred appeal to innate human 
 affections and moral responsibility. It is probable 
 that the terms of science and the imagery of litera- 
 ture will perpetually vary with new discoveries and 
 the advance of social refinement ; but there is an 
 identity in human nature, in its laws, wants, endow- 
 ments, and tendencies that renders just inferences 
 from them, especially when made with perspicuity 
 and elegance of style, interesting to the thinker of 
 every age. Hence the renown of Burke as a philo- 
 sophical essayist on government and society. 
 
 The next source of his rhetorical gifts was various 
 and precise knowledge. In early life his reading 
 was desultory but incessant. He seems to have in- 
 
BURKE. 219 
 
 tuitively known the applicability of all truth to 
 human culture ; for while he perused, with zest, his- 
 tory as the storehouse of the past, he equally culti- 
 vated poetry as quickening to the sympathies and 
 suggestive of the beautiful. His observation had 
 the same range. He noted a mill not less than a 
 minster — the one taught him a principle in me- 
 chanics and the other in architectural beauty. He 
 recorded the statistics and delighted in the practice 
 of agriculture, while, with kindred intelligence, he 
 made a taste for the fine arts a careful study. It 
 w^as the same, too, in conversation. No one he en- 
 countered failed to contribute to his stock of ideas. 
 He could discuss a portrait with Sir Joshua, a ques- 
 tion in philology with Johnson, an elocutionary point 
 with Garrick, manures with a farmer, and costume 
 with a lady. Thus despising no source of informa- 
 tion, continually storing his mind with every kind of 
 facts, natural, historical, and social, when he medi- 
 tated upon a topic, illustrations rushed from his 
 memory, and were readily marshalled to sustain an 
 argument, or combined by his glowing fancy into 
 brilliant and striking metaphors. It was from this 
 exuberance and variety of knowledge, that his fluency 
 as an orator, in part, arose, as well as the sponta- 
 neous richness of his conversation ; and that imme- 
 diate recognition of his superiority which led «lhe 
 surly lexicographer to say that, encountered under a 
 shed in the rain, he would be known at once as an 
 extraordinary man. The quickness, indeed, with 
 
220 THE RHETORICIAN. 
 
 which he appropriated facts is evinced in his speeches 
 and writings on France, America, and India. One 
 who had dwelt long in those countries could scarcely 
 speak of them with a more graceful familiarity. He 
 explored not only the data but the associations of 
 every subject ; and his acquisitions came forth with a 
 fulness and alacrity that rendered them doubly im- 
 pressive. He had an emphatic manner of intro- 
 ducing incidental pictures which vivified all the facts 
 previously cited — as in the memorable allusion to the 
 unfortunate Queen of France, the description of Miss 
 M'Crea's murder, and of the New England whale 
 fishery. 
 
 Comparison is one of the most effective rhetorical 
 weapons, though rarely encountered in perfection. 
 A striking metaphor arrests the uncultivated mind, 
 while a beautiful one gratifies the refined taste. 
 Burke excelled in both. His images indicate some- 
 times peculiar ingenuity and sometimes a poetical 
 imagination. They are invariably effective, and 
 add greatly to the living charm of his oratory* 
 Open at any page, and we meet them. Let us 
 quote at random. ''After all," he says in a letter, 
 " a man will make more by the figures of arith- 
 metic than the figures of rhetoric, unless he can get 
 into the trade-winds, and then he may sail secure 
 ov^i' Pactolean sands." In a speech, referring to 
 the apathetic condition of the Spanish monarchy, 
 "What can we expect of her?" he asks, "mighty, 
 indeed, but unwieldy, vast in bulk but inert in spirit 
 
BURKE. 221 
 
 — a whale stranded upon the sea-shore of Europe." 
 His description of Chatham's administration is feli- 
 citous in another vein : "A cabinet so variously inlaid, 
 such a piece of diversified mosaic, such a tessellated 
 pavement without cement — here a bit of black stone 
 and there a bit of white — patriots and courtiers, 
 kings, friends, and republicans, whigs and tories,'' 
 &c. In relation to the English clubs of French 
 sympathizers, he says : " Do not imagine that our 
 contemptuous neglect of their abilities is a general 
 mark of acquiescence in their opinions. No such 
 thing, I assure you. Because half-a-dozen grass- 
 hoppers, under a fern, make the field ring with their 
 importunate clink, while thousands of great cattle, 
 reposing beneath the shadow of the British oak, chew 
 the cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that 
 those who make the noise are the only inhabitants of 
 the field, that, of course, they are many in number,- 
 or that, after all, they are other than the little, 
 shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and trou- 
 blesome insects of the hour." The withering sar- 
 casm of this figure is only equalled by that of Sydney 
 Smith, who said, speaking of an insignificant but 
 mischievous person, that — '^ in a country intersected 
 by dikes a rat may inundate a province." But the 
 significance and brilliancy of a metaphor is diminished 
 by gleaning it from the context ; and this is especially 
 true in regard to those of Burke. The mind is 
 warmed for their reception by previous argument or 
 appeal ; and they often rise in majestic beauty from 
 
 19* 
 
222 THE RHETORICIAN. 
 
 the tide of his glowing rhetoric, like Aphrodite from 
 the sea. 
 
 We have spoken of the mental and verbal charac- 
 teristics of Burke, but to form an adequate idea of 
 the man or even of his rhetoric, it is indispensable to 
 consider his physical temperament and his moral 
 nature. The former was of that sanguine, nervous 
 kind, both active and susceptible, which gives force 
 and vivacity to expression. Indeed, we ascribe 
 Burke's pre-eminence, in no small degree, to the 
 happy blending in his constitution of English and 
 Irish traits — the one imparting vigour of thought 
 and the other tenderness and enthusiasm. He has 
 been called "a terrific accuser;" but combativeness 
 is essential to an eflFective rhetorician. Its excite- 
 ment, when the case justifies, is absolutely necessary 
 in the attack and defence of opinion, in the arraign- 
 ment of the guilty and the vindication of the injured ; 
 but not less desirable is its latent influence— giving 
 a certain firmness, precision, and energy both to ideas 
 and style. We see its bracing effect in all Burke's 
 elaborate efibrts. There is an aim in each, of which 
 he never loses sight and toward which every flight of 
 fancy, and ebullition of satire, and pathos of appeal 
 is ardently directed. Yet the tenor of his writings 
 evinces a generosity of feeling, warm afiection, 
 loyalty, and a certain nobleness, especially capti- 
 vating when contrasted with the pettiness and chi- 
 canery that usually deform political aspirants. The 
 permanency of his early attachments, his liberal and 
 
BURKE. 223 
 
 unostentatious kindness to indigent genius — as exhi- 
 bited in the instances of Barry and Crabbe, his 
 "desperate fidelity" to Hamilton, and his intense 
 parental anguish, indicate how sincere was the sensi- 
 bility and devotedness that breathe in his works. 
 Even Johnson's arbitrary will was soothed to courte- 
 ous abeyance by Burke. Few passages in the latter's 
 writings are more characteristic than his defence of 
 nobility. His veneration for the time-hallowed, the 
 renowned, the sublime in nature and association, 
 is revealed by his reflections, as a youth, on first 
 entering Westminster Abbey; and by the solemn 
 beauty of his pleadings for the sacred and the vene- 
 rable. It was not a trick of rhetoric for such a man 
 to lament the decline of chivalry. Noble sentiments 
 were his birthright, and he knew from experience 
 the mortification of realizing that the age in which 
 he lived denied them scope, and that the people with 
 whom he mingled often exhibited a hopeless incapa- 
 city of recognition in their behalf. He intuitively 
 discerned, also, the cold selfishness of a mere theorist 
 — "Nothing can be conceived," he writes, "more 
 hard than the heart of a thorough metaphysician." 
 
 But the excellence of Burke's heart is most ad- 
 mirably evinced in his eloquent advocacy of sentiment 
 — in its highest significance, as essential to the dig- 
 nity and progress of man. This is one of those 
 peculiarities that distinguish the universal from the 
 partisan writer, and justify the declaration of Mack- 
 intosh, that Burke was the most philosophical of 
 
8^4 THE RHETORICIAN. 
 
 statesmen. It also explains why the most satisfactory 
 revelation of his genius was colloquial. There was 
 too much nature in him for acquirement to overlay, 
 or for diplomacy to pervert, and the less artificial the 
 medium the greater the exuberance of his mind. He 
 recognised the normal not less than the temporary in 
 humanity ; and felt that the beautiful and endearing 
 in social existence was not less a vital interest of his 
 race than the principles of government. Hence he 
 reproaches the French innovators in terms of the 
 most attractive yet lofty wisdom : " All the pleasing 
 illusions which made power gentle and obedience 
 liberal, which harmonized the different shades of life, 
 and which, by a bland assimilation, incorporated into 
 politics, the sentiments which beautify and soften 
 private society, are to be dissolved by this new, con- 
 quering empire of light and reason. All the decent 
 drapery of life is to be rudely torn off; all the super- 
 added ideas, furnished from the wardrobe of a moral 
 imagination, which the heart owns and the under- 
 standing ratifies as necessary to cover the defects of 
 our naked, shivering nature, and to raise it to dignity 
 in our own estimation, are to be exploded as a ridicu- 
 lous, absurd, and antiquated fashion.'' 
 
 It is generally admitted that the most successful 
 oratory disappoints in the reading, not only from the 
 absence of elocutionary charms, but on account of the 
 somewhat exaggerated terms, which, though orally 
 impressive, will not bear the calm eye of meditation. 
 One of the greatest proofs of Burke's originality as 
 
 I 
 
BURKE. 225 
 
 a rhetorician, is that his speeches are so effective on 
 perusal. There is substantial thought enough to 
 sustain whatever ornament he chooses to display ; 
 and the direct manner which the habit of public 
 address induces, only gives vitality to his writings, 
 without, in the slightest degree, lessening their dig- 
 nity as deliberate compositions. The philosopher 
 and the poet are co-evident in his most felicitous 
 eflforts ; the reason and the sentiment of the question 
 alternate ; and we often enjoy while communing with 
 him the delightful consciousness of having our judg- 
 ment convinced and our sympathies won, at the same 
 time. This union of delicacy and power is almost 
 unprecedented. To be vivid and profound is seldom 
 the distinction of the same writer. We instinctively 
 separate in literature the two characteristics, and turn 
 to one class of authors for emotion and to another for 
 thought, as if to invent and to argue equally well, 
 were scarcely to be expected from the same indi- 
 vidual. From Burke, however, may be gleaned the 
 most dry and perspicuous collocation of facts, the 
 strongest array of reasons, the most imaginative con- 
 ceptions, and the most touching pictures. His most 
 universal charm is a style so copious as to enrich the 
 student's vocabulary by the aptitude and flow of 
 words, to gratify the taste by its elegance, and the 
 ear by its musical periods. Withal it is a manly 
 style. Burke is not fastidious in his . choice of epi- 
 thets or illustrations to the extent of weakening his 
 force of statement. He can use the most homely as 
 
226 THE RHETORICIAN. 
 
 well as the most classic phrases and figures. He 
 does not sacrifice truth to beauty, but aims to render 
 them mutually illustrative. Few English writers 
 boast passages that exhibit so clearly the dignity of 
 the language, its facility of application, and its per- 
 suasive grace. It is on this account that meagre 
 extracts do him little justice. Thus read, he might 
 be sometimes thought bombastic, sometimes verbose, 
 and occasionally too colloquial or too stilted; but 
 perused consecutively, the language and manner keep 
 pace so deftly with the course of the argument and 
 the successive phases of the question, that the en- 
 tire efiect is singularly harmonious and satisfactory ; 
 and the mind is animated and tempered as by a 
 lofty strain of melody, uttered by a deep, yet sweet 
 voice, ^' when on the singer's lip expires the finished 
 song." To this union of consummate ability with 
 earnest and just feeling, is referable the extraordinary 
 balance of fancy and sense, the practical and the 
 poetical in Burke. His mind was essentially specu- 
 lative, he delighted in curious observation, his range 
 of inquiry was broad and refined ; yet to public affairs 
 he brought a calm, practical judgment, a sobriety of 
 mood, a perception of the actual relations of things, 
 and the absolute claims of an exigency, as if he had 
 been wont to deal only in matters of fact, and had 
 drawn every lesson from stern experience. This is 
 the more remarkable in one who could, at pleasure, 
 indulge in such excursions of imagination and senti- 
 ment. An able critic has declared that in the latter 
 regard he was " unapproached by any orator;" and 
 
BURKE. 227 
 
 the wonder is that the reasoning acumen and pro- 
 fundity co-existed with this capacity, in equal power. 
 To this uncommon alliance of gifts we ascribe his 
 moderation. When the views of Fox and Pitt were 
 quoted in opposition to his own, he said — " I prefer 
 the collective wisdom of ages to the abilities of any 
 two men living.'' He would go all lengths with no 
 party, nor yield implicit faith .to any mortal. He 
 was too comprehensive to please a faction ; and the 
 more general his subject and the less connected with 
 temporary objects, the more triumphant his discussion 
 of it. There was, therefore, no little truth in the 
 famous line in which Goldsmith summed up the 
 career of his illustrious friend: — "he gave up to 
 party what was meant for mankind;" for the reader 
 of the present day, to whom many of the questions 
 to which he was devoted are comparatively indifferent, 
 cannot but lament that historical, ethical, or philoso- 
 phical themes of vast and lasting interest, had not 
 exclusively employed his pen. The essay on the 
 " Sublime and Beautiful," and the work on the French 
 Revolution, by their immediate reference to natural 
 and social truths, elicited his finest powers ; and elo- 
 quently suggest how admirably such discussions were 
 adapted both to his abilities and his taste. Here and 
 there, indeed, throughout his speeches, opportunities 
 arise for expatiating on a universal truth or an im- 
 portant principle, which he always seizes with the 
 avidity of a mind to which isolated details and tran- 
 sient causes are a hindrance, and the perspective of 
 great ideas a necessary inspiration. 
 
t Irlinlnr. 
 
 MARK AKENSIDE. 
 
 There is a fine engraved likeness of Akenside, 
 after a portrait by Pond, in the illustrated Memoirs 
 of eminent British Physicians, which we can readily 
 believe authentic from its severe and chaste linea- 
 ments. They are stamped with intelligence, pride, 
 and refinement ; — but, with something of the delicate 
 outline of Raphael's face, they are destitute of that 
 tender expression which makes his features almost 
 angelic. It is a countenance very indicative of in- 
 tellectual nobility, — breathing of self-subsistence and 
 an aspiring mood. Its beauty is that of mind and 
 rectitude rather than of sensibility and enthusiasm. 
 f Akenside belongs to the classical species of men — 
 those who regard order as essential and strive to har- 
 monize, by a nice standard, the products of thought. 
 It is a class almost obsolete. So many conflicting 
 agencies act upon the mind in this age of social ex- 
 citement, that one must isolate himself, if he would 
 conform to a strict discipline either of moral feeling 
 or intellectual taste. In fact, it is observable that 
 characters that instinctively seek the smooth and 
 trimmed pathway of refined and scholarly culture, 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 229 
 
 are usually considered proud, reserved, and imprac- 
 ticable. They seem to constitute a kind of mental 
 aristocracy, and are truly genial only with their 
 peers. This results from the very nature of the case.' 
 It is quite impossible for one who is sensitive and as- 
 piring to mingle with the crowd, unless he ^'quenches 
 the familiar smile with an austere regard of control." 
 The refinement of perception and elevated ideal of 
 sentiment, which we admire in the writings and con- 
 verse of such men, is, in no small degree, owing to 
 the fact that they have kept apart from the herd and 
 never long been in intimate contact with inferior 
 minds. The entrenchments of self-respect so for- 
 bidding to the uninitiated, often conceal rare social 
 graces. The chill barrier of reserve — like the Al- 
 pine snows — not unfrequently hides the most lovely 
 flow^ers ; and the sympathies that are repressed, in 
 one direction — like the stream prisoned in a buried 
 aqueduct — only gush more loftily at the chosen out- 
 let. Hence it is somewhat unreasonable to complain 
 of the fastidious tastes and stiff manners of those 
 whose works are chiefly attractive from their dainty 
 or grand qualities. These exist by virtue of the dis- 
 crimination of their authors ; and we scarcely expect 
 the same individual to be a delicate limner or a 
 sublime bard, and a jovial companion to strangers, 
 or a felicitous conformist to ordinary circumstances. 
 There must always be extremes both of appreciation 
 and prejudice in regard to men of a classical turn, 
 according as they are judged by those who fraternize 
 
 20 
 
230 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 with them, or such as only approach the battlements 
 of pride. 
 
 Mark Akenside was the subject of this diversity of 
 judgment ; for while our biographer — with whom he 
 had only professional intercourse — dwells on his so- 
 lemn air, his stiffly-curled wig, precise attire, and 
 petulant requisitions ; — the friend to whom he can- 
 didly revealed himself, speaks of his table-talk, on a 
 summer-day, as overflowing with the noblest senti- 
 ments, in language worthy of Plato. One of his 
 acquaintance says he looked as if he could never be 
 undressed ; while another seems oblivious of his per- 
 sonal traits in noting the eloquence of his conversation. 
 We have a key, however, to his social character in 
 the single trait ascribed to him by Bucke — that " he 
 hated to be all things to all men." \ This feeling in- 
 volves a moral principle as well as a law of taste, j It 
 is doubtless true that coarse, ignorant and petty 
 minds are repulsive to such a man as Akenside, 
 merely because they incessantly offend taste ; but he 
 possessed also a quality which often accompanies deli- 
 cacy of feeling, — and that is integrity. His nature 
 rebelled against hypocrisy. He knew, by experience, 
 the whole significance of true friendship ; and he could 
 not profane her sacred name. To conform for the 
 mere sake of popularity, appeared to him unmanly 
 and dishonest. His nature would not overflow in the 
 presence of strangers, because pride was far more 
 active within him than vanity. He was emphatically 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 231 
 
 one of that order of men whose happiness is less 
 promoted by display than self-respect. 
 
 Accordingly, his foibles were those of pride. He^ 
 would never have been liked by the philanthropic ] 
 literati of our day.-" They would have thought him 
 sadly deficient in humanity. And yet, although he \ 
 could not go near the heart of poverty like Crabbe, 
 or touch the inner springs of human emotion like 
 Burns, or identify himself with the common and 
 minute in nature like Wordsworth — he is declared 
 by those who best knew him, to have been singularly i 
 benevolent and just. His cast of mind was elegant,! 
 his tone of feeling refined, and hence it was im*^ 
 possible for his sympathies to be universal, or his 
 associations indiscriminate. These characteristics, 
 however, served a poetical office. They enabled him 
 to lose himself in high contemplations, to live in a 
 comprehensive sphere of ideas, to enter into affinity 
 with the choicest spirits of the past, to minister to 
 the improvement of the aspiring, and habitually to 
 rise above degrading and limited views. Even demo- 
 crats and humanitarians must have patience with this 
 species of aristocracy on account of its intellectual 
 bequests. Elegance is not merely conventional; 
 taste is not wholly selfish; nor does exclusiveness 
 necessarily imply contempt for others ; they are some- 
 times associated with the same degree, though a dif- 
 ferent kind of nobility of soul, which we honour in 
 rustic bards and peasant-heroes ; and by such would 
 be recognised, though in the guise of the scholar and 
 
222 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 the gentleman. There is a physiological as well as 
 a metaphysical truth in Akenside's description of 
 persons, " Avhose souls but half inform their bodies ;" 
 and a justifiable reason for his impatience in their 
 society. Expression, as a human attribute, depends 
 upon the activity of the soul as manifest in organiza- 
 tion ; and personal sympathy is nothing more than 
 that relation between individuals through which they 
 mutually quicken and call forth one another's thoughts 
 and emotions. There are those whose material frames 
 seem but partially vital with moral life, who do not 
 assimilate the nutritive elements yielded by nature 
 and society ; and hence, are in a crude, inharmonious 
 state. Such people make the most uncomfortable 
 drafts upon more sensitive and complete beings. It 
 really appears as if there was an unconscious attempt 
 to make up their deficient consciousness- — or, to recur 
 to Akenside's figure, inform the other half of their 
 bodies with the spiritual force of their companion. 
 According to the magnetisers, this is an unfair pro- 
 cess. Such individuals weigh, like an incubus, upon 
 the animal spirits of those more finely organized ; or 
 drain, even to inanition, their ''mens divinior;" and 
 it is to this that the poet alludes. 
 
 The classicism, if we may so call it, of Akenside, 
 betrayed itself in his fastidious habits, his chiro- 
 graphy, and his elegant quotations ; and is pleasant- 
 ly evinced in such terms of expression as " Tully's 
 curule chair." He acknowledges with zeal, his am- 
 bition to 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 233 
 
 Tune to Attic themes the British lyre, 
 
 and exclaims, with the zest of a scholar. 
 
 From the bower 
 Where wisdom sat with her Athenian sons, 
 Could but my happy hand entwine a wreath 
 Of Plato's olive with the Mantuan bay ! 
 
 Yet occasionally the recondite gives way to the 
 natural ; and a fine image reveals the true poetic im- 
 pulse. Thus, in analyzing beauty, he has this ex- 
 quisite figure, 
 
 The third ascent 
 To symmetry adds colour ; thus the pearl 
 ' Shines in the concave of its purple bed, 
 
 And painted shells along" some winding shore 
 Catch, with indented folds, the glancing sun. 
 
 But more frequently his metaphors are drawn 
 from the past. There is a fine instance of this in 
 the description of the variety of human tastes and 
 avocations : 
 
 For as old Memnon's image long renowned 
 Through fabling Egypt, at the genial touch 
 Of morning, from its inmost frame sent forth 
 Spontaneous music, so doth nature's hand 
 To certain attributes which matter claims, 
 Adapt the finer organs of the mind. 
 
 That the peculiar social theory we have designated, 
 was native to Akenside, his poem vividly suggests; 
 and it is equally apparent that he justified exclusive- 
 
 20* 
 
234 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 ness and reserve on the principle of self-improvement 
 and love of the true and beautiful : 
 
 Nor be my thoughts 
 Presumptuous counted, if amid the calm 
 Which Hespcr sheds along the vernal heaven, 
 If I, from vulgar superstition's walk 
 Impatient steal, and from the unseemly rites 
 Of splendid adulation, to attend 
 With hymns thy presence in the sylvan shade, 
 By their nialignant presence unprofaned. 
 
 Raise me above the vulgar's breath, 
 Pursuit of fortune, fear of death, 
 
 And all in life thaVs mean ; 
 Still true to reason be my plan, 
 Still let my actions speak the man. 
 
 Through every various scene. 
 
 His literary preferences point in the same direc- 
 tion. He was a lover of Plato and Cicero among 
 the ancients, — of Shaftesbury in modern literature, 
 and of Timoleon as an epic character. It is equally 
 manifest in his sense of the desirableness of '' com- 
 posure and stillness;" and in the fact, which has 
 been truly cited, that, in his writings, '' his allusions 
 to himself are always in the best style of egotism." 
 Indirectly, too, we find the same indications in his 
 sensitiveness in regard to his humble birth. He was 
 mortified, like Byron, at the hitch in his gait — not 
 for itself as a personal deformity, but on account of 
 its having been caused, when a child, by the fall of 
 one of his father's cleavers — and thus becoming a 
 memorial of the paternal craft — that of a butcher. 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 235 
 
 In this species of character there is, indeed, an in- 
 evitable deficiency of popular qualities. It implies a 
 want of general adaptation, and is equally opposed 
 to the facility of address which belongs to the 
 courtier, and the fruitfulness in expedients so requi- 
 site for the diplomatist. As a consequence of such 
 a nature, the self-love of those whom the individual 
 approaches, is often wounded. His mood sometimes 
 exercises an indomitable supremacy ; or rather he is 
 possessed by his idiosyncrasy. Instead of observing 
 the peculiarities of others with a view of disarming 
 and conciliating them, he is absorbed, concentrated, 
 individual. Unless there exists a point of sympathy 
 or a capacity of recognition between him and a com- 
 panion, they part as much strangers as they came 
 together. There must be a vivid perception of the 
 latent and the estimable in character, a wisdom or a 
 generosity of soul in the one, to avoid a harsh or 
 narrow judgment of the other. In a word, society 
 should be composed of heroes or philosophers to 
 aJGFord any vantage-ground for these seemingly im- 
 practicable men: whereas it is confessedly an arena 
 where the first law is to set aside personality and 
 yield implicit obedience to Bentham's doctrine — ^Hhe 
 greatest good to the greatest number." It is quite 
 impossible to advocate the claims of this class on 
 general social grounds : the only way to defend 
 them from severe reprobation is by showing that the 
 want of aptitude for popularity, does not, as a thing 
 of course, include the absence of noble and loveable 
 
236 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 characteristics — a truth which the thoughtless inva- 
 riably overlook. So far from this being the case, 
 there actually exists an order of gifted men who 
 have sedulously acted on the principle, that a kind 
 of voluntary monachism is essential to the integrity 
 of being. It is this very course which has occa- 
 sioned the discussion in regard to Goethe's goodness 
 of heart. A certain unapproachableness beyond the 
 outworks of self — a warding off of extreme confi- 
 dence — a kind of abeyance of the sympathies — was 
 ever observable in him, and has been remarked of 
 many gifted persons. It is a significant anecdote 
 which records a bet once proposed and accepted at a 
 party of Washington's friends — that one should ap- 
 proach him, in company, with a friendly slap on the 
 shoulder. The thing, it is true, was done, but so 
 awkwardly, and followed by such entire discomfiture 
 from the General's look of quiet surprise — that in- 
 stant repentance followed. We do not quarrel with 
 the moral dignity indicated by this circumstance — 
 so appropriate to the high aims and exalted position 
 of the matchless chief, and yet, by a curious perver- 
 sity, make no allowance for the shrinking tempera- 
 ment, isolated consciousness, and refined instincts of 
 those whose intellectual endowments and physical 
 organization make retirement of manner and indivi- 
 duality of life absolutely necessary. That there is 
 much of utility sacrificed by the process is undenia- 
 ble ; that an apparently culpable want of considera- 
 tion for the feelings and enjoyments of others is 
 
 I 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 28? 
 
 suggested, we cannot but admit. But, when the 
 inadequacy is meekly confessed — when we remember 
 how, in the early ages of Christianity, it was so uni- 
 versally deemed right for such social tyros to adopt 
 a conventual life ; when we reflect that no human 
 beings have won such devoted love from the few, and 
 left such priceless legacies to the world ; — it seems 
 both inconsiderate and ungrateful to utter reproaches, 
 or weigh their merits in the same balance with those 
 who never discovered in themselves any obstacle to 
 being "all things to all men." 
 
 There is a famous repartee of a friend of Aken- 
 side, while discussing with him the claims of medi- 
 cine, that " the ancients endeavoured to make a 
 science of it and failed ; and the moderns to make it 
 a trade and succeeded." The poet, however, enter- 
 tained a high idea of the dignity of his art. He 
 regarded it in the broad light of philosophy — as 
 based upon the laws of nature and susceptible of in- 
 finite advancement. His manners doubtless unfitted 
 him for practical success in a pursuit demanding the 
 utmost felicity of address and tact in intercourse ; 
 but there is no question that his inquiring and well- 
 stored mind, and his habits of intense reflection, 
 eminently fitted him to discover, while his literary 
 skill enabled him to promulgate the truths of science. 
 
 It is said that his poetical reputation diminished 
 his medical authority. The world appears extremely 
 disinclined to accord any practical success to those 
 endowed with superior imaginations. The injustice 
 
838 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 of this prejudice has been often refuted in the case 
 of accountants, clergymen, and lawyers, who have 
 been favourites of the muse ; but there is, perhaps, no 
 instance to which it applies with so little force as 
 that of a physician. His daily business opens a vast 
 and peculiar field of observation, both in regard to 
 nature and man. He sees the mysteries of the heart 
 laid bare by the encroachments of pain and the ap- 
 proach of death. He has to do with his race under 
 the least artificial conditions ; and it is his vocation 
 to study the varied influences which operate on the 
 mind. He is near the mother ''when she feels, for 
 the first time, her first-born's breath.'* He witnesses 
 the last fitful flashes of reawakened memory, when 
 departing age lives over, at life's close, the scenes 
 enacted at its dawn. The benign and gifted physi- 
 cian is a priest at the altar of humanity, and it is, 
 therefore, only strange that her oracles do not more 
 frequently inspire poetical, as they continually do 
 scientific revelations. There are, too, some charm- 
 ing literary associations connected with the pro- 
 fession. The names of Garth and Arbuthnot are 
 intimately blended with those of Pope and Swift; 
 and Akenside and Armstrong and Darwin have left 
 poems which do as much credit to their discernment 
 as liberal followers of the healing art, as to their 
 powers of imagination. It is, indeed, true, that in 
 extensive practice in a career which exacts so much 
 both from intellect and heart, as well as physical 
 strength, as that of medicine, it is next to impossible 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 286 
 
 to prosecute ably any great literary undertaking; 
 but where time permits, the studies and relations 
 incident to the profession, are, in no degree, incom- 
 patible with but rather favourable to poetry. Hence 
 Apollo was equally the god of song and physic. 
 Notwithstanding the prejudice to which we have 
 alluded as entertained by Akenside's biographers, he 
 seems to have maintained no common rank with his 
 cotemporaries. We infer this from the fact that he 
 filled several public medical offices, and contributed 
 numerous important papers to the medical literature, 
 of the day. His long poem was chiefly written 
 during the first years of his professional life — when 
 comparative leisure and seclusion left him free to 
 expatiate in the realm of fancy. After he settled in 
 Bloomsbury Square and engaged in the severe 
 labours of a London practitioner, it was by an occa- 
 sional ode alone, that he kept fresh his poetical 
 vein. 
 
 There is no doubt that the poet was eminent in 
 his profession, although he never became what is 
 termed "a fashionable doctor.'' His treatises are 
 yet consulted. The systematic habits, thoroughly 
 respectable position, and undeviating rectitude of 
 Akenside form a refreshing contrast to the vaga- 
 bondism of some of his country's poets. We have 
 no melancholy retrospect of servility — no maudlin 
 rhymes of the inebriate, — no supercilious patron or 
 infected jail to mar the brightness of his image ; and 
 we confess the imputation of coldness, formality, and 
 
240 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 an irritable mood, seem to us a far less painful offset 
 to poetical glory than the sullen bigotry of Young, 
 the recklessness of Savage, the morbid despair of 
 Coleridge, or the foolish excesses of Byron. 
 
 The external history of Akenside is singularly 
 devoid of incident. His birthplace was Newcastle- 
 upon-Tyne ; he was destined for the church by his 
 parents, who were rigid Presbyterians ; but the plan 
 was soon relinquished. He was born on the 9th of 
 November, 1721, wrote and published verses at the 
 age of sixteen, two years after became a student of me- 
 dicine at Edinburgh, visited Leyden, and resided first 
 at Northampton, but removed to Hampstead. The 
 Pleasures of Imagination appeared in 1744, when 
 the author was in his twenty-third year. It at once 
 established his fame as a poet, was translated into 
 French by Baron d'Holbach, and into Italian by 
 Mazza. In London, he frequented both clubs and 
 assemblies ; and, while in the enjoyment of a high 
 reputation, a desirable practice, a moderate compe- 
 tency, choice friends and rare intellectual resources, 
 he died at the age of forty-nine. — But the real cha- 
 racter of a genuine poet needs not the illustration of 
 circumstances, if any deliberate effusion of his genius 
 remains. In the "Pleasures of Imagination" we at 
 once discover the spirit, tastes, convictions, and 
 abilities of Akenside. The elevation of mind cha- 
 racteristic of high natures everywhere reveals itself. 
 He was an aspirant in the best sense of the word. 
 He realized not less from consciousness than obser- 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 241 
 
 vation, the capacity of progress and virtue innate in 
 man. . The sentiment of veneration was fervent in 
 his heart. His instincts pointed upward. He pos- 
 sessed the most invaluable of the poetic tendencies 
 — that of exalted faith in the attributes and destiny 
 of humanity : 
 
 For, from the birth 
 Of human kind, the Sovereign Maker said 
 That not in humble, nor in brief delights, 
 Not in the fleeting echoes of renown. 
 Power's purple robes, nor pleasure's flowery lap, 
 The soul shall find contentment, but from thence 
 Turning disdainful to an equal good, 
 Through Nature's opening walks enlarge her aims 
 Till every bound at length shall disappear. 
 And infinite perfection fill the scene. 
 
 The moral heroism which emanates from such views, 
 also inspired Akenside. He strove 
 
 Against the torrent and the stubborn hill. 
 To urge free virtue's steps, and to her side 
 Summon that strong divinity of soul 
 Which conquers chance and fate. 
 
 He experienced the usual extremes of critical 
 estimation.. Pope advised Dodsley, who submitted 
 to him the manuscript of his poem, to offer "no 
 niggardly price, as this was no every-day writer.'' 
 Boucke declares the ode to Lord Huntingdon the 
 finest in the language, — an opinion in amusing con- 
 trast with the characteristic dialogue between John- 
 son and Boswell, which appears to us one of the 
 
 21 
 
242 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 most striking instances recorded of the prejudice of 
 the one and the presumption of the other : 
 
 J". I see they have published a splendid edition 
 of Akenside's works. One bad ode may be suffered, 
 but a number of them makes one sick. 
 
 B. Akenside's distinguished poem is on the Ima- 
 gination, but for my part, I could never admire it so 
 much as most people do. 
 
 J. Sir, I could not read it through. 
 
 B. I have read it through, but could observe no 
 great power in it. 
 
 This poem is a favourite with that class of readers 
 who delight in beholding the muse arrayed in the 
 dignity of learning, who have an intense desire for 
 ideas in distinction from fancies, and love to encoun- 
 ter the great facts of nature and history in the midst 
 of graceful and impressive numbers. Akenside 
 pleases the learned and philosophic more than 
 Wordsworth or Campbell. He abounds in classical 
 allusions and expatiates most freely in the sphere of 
 metaphysical speculation. Take, for instance, his 
 view of the utility of beauty. 
 
 The general mother conscious how infirm 
 Her offspring- tread the paths of good and ill, 
 Thus, to the choice of credulous desire, 
 Doth objects the completest of their tribe 
 Distinguish and commend. 
 
 ***** 
 
 In the following passage we find the eclecticism of 
 the genuine artist finely indicated : 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 243 
 
 Whose proud desires from Nature's homely toil 
 
 Oft turn away fastidious ; asking still 
 His mind's high aid to purify the form 
 From gross communion ; to secure for ever 
 From the meddling hund of chance 
 Or rude decay, her features ; and to add 
 Whatever ornaments may suit her mien, 
 Where'er he finds them scattered through the paths 
 Of nature or of fortune. 
 
 There is a want of simplicity in Akenside, a need- 
 less introversion of phrases, and a display of erudi- 
 tion, which though often effective and rhetorical, is 
 in remarkable contrast to the more artless imagery 
 of later English poets. Indeed, he was at first dis- 
 tinguished as an orator. It is related that Robert- 
 son, the historian, regularly attended the debates of 
 a medical club, in order to hear Akenside speak. 
 
 We can find no adequate cause for the inference 
 that Akenside was a celibate from indifference. On 
 the contrary, the evidence is decisive that he was a 
 man of unaffected and deep sentiment. In one edi- 
 tion of his poems, there is prefixed a frontispiece 
 representing a richly attired cavalier stretched upon 
 a couch, and waving off a descending Cupid ; beneath 
 it is inscribed the quotation, — 
 
 Away, away, 
 Tempt me no more, insidious Love I 
 
 But if we turn to Akenside's writings, we discover 
 that it was not scorn but disappointment which in- 
 duced this renunciation. He twice fixed his affec- 
 
244 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 tions, and in both instances, the objects were sum- 
 moned to an early tomb. Such passages as the 
 following evince great natural tenderness and devo- 
 tion : 
 
 Who that bears 
 A human bosom, hath not often felt 
 How dear are all those ties which bind our race 
 In gentleness together, and how sweet 
 Their force, let fortune's wayward hand the while 
 J Be kind or cruel ? 
 
 Ask the faithful youth 
 Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved, 
 So often fills his arms ; so often draws 
 His lonely footsteps silent and unseen. 
 To pay the mournful tribute of his tears ? 
 Oh ! he will tell thee that the wealth of worlds 
 Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego 
 Those sacred hours, when stealing from the noise 
 Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes, 
 With virtue's kindest looks, his aching breast, 
 And turns his tears to rapture. 
 
 In his apostrophe to the Beautiful, after describing 
 her course through the vegetable and animal world, 
 he declares, 
 
 At length her favourite mansion and her throne 
 She fixed in woman's form. 
 
 He elsewhere calls her " chief of terrestrial creatures." 
 Still more personal allusions occur in the minor 
 pieces : — 
 
 Too much my heart of beauty's power has known, 
 Too long to love hath reason left her throne ; 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 245 
 
 Too long my genius mourned his myrtle chain, 
 And three rich years of youth consumed in vain. 
 
 Let the busy or the wise 
 
 View him with contemptuous eyes, 
 
 Love is native to the heart ; 
 Guide its wishes as you will, 
 Without love you'll find it still 
 
 Void in one essential part. 
 
 Me, though no peculiar fair 
 Touches with a lover's care, 
 
 Though the pride of my desire 
 Asks immortal Friendship's name. 
 Asks the palm of honest fame ; 
 
 And the old heroic lyre ; 
 
 Though the day hath smoothly gone, 
 Or to lettered leisure known, 
 
 Or in social duty spent. 
 Yet, at eve, my lonely breast 
 Seeks in vain for perfect rest. 
 
 Languishes for true content. 
 
 But if he was not permitted to enjoy domestic 
 happiness, he was favoured, beyond the common lot, 
 in having a rich and satisfactory experience of friend- 
 ship. The Invocation to the Pleasures of Imagina- 
 tion gives us no overdrawn picture of the manly 
 confidence, the permanent esteem, and unvarying 
 affection, which united Akenside and Dyson. Proud 
 as the former confessedly was, he felt no scruple in 
 allowing the latter, in his prosperity, to act towards 
 him the part of a benefactor ; and intimate as was 
 their relation for many years, Dyson never would 
 
 21* 
 
246 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 give to the public a feature of his friend's character 
 or an incident of his private life. These two facts 
 prove that entire trustfulness and instinctive delicacy 
 — at once so rare and so essential to thorough amity, 
 actually existed in this case. 
 
 While the poet lived he enjoyed an annuity from 
 his friend sufficient to release him from pecuniary 
 anxiety ; and when he died that friend was his ex- 
 clusive legatee. It is a beautiful picture — rivalling 
 those of antiquity so near to the sympathies of the 
 poet — and reproving the scepticism which a sordid 
 age has engendered in regard to human friendship. 
 Mutual respect, confidence, admiration, and love, 
 brightened the intercourse of these noble men, until 
 it was interrupted by death, to be enshrined for 
 ever, without a doubt or blemish, on the page of a 
 standard poem. 
 
 Now the Fates 
 Have other tasks imposed. To thee, my friend ! 
 The ministry of Freedom, and the faith 
 Of popular decrees in early youth, 
 Not vainly they committed. Me they sent 
 To wait on pain, and silent arts to urge 
 Inglorious, not ignoble if my cares, 
 To such as languish on a grievous bed. 
 Ease, and the sweet forgetfulness of ill 
 Conciliate ; nor delightless, if the Muse 
 Her shades to visit, and to taste her springs, — 
 If some distinguished hours the bounteous Muse 
 Impart, and grant (what she and she alone 
 Can grant to mortals) that my hand those wreaths 
 Of fame, and honest favour, which the blessed 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 247 
 
 Wear in Elysium, and which never felt 
 The breath of envy or malignant tongues, 
 That these my hand /or thee and for myself 
 May gather. 
 
 P. J.,i. 68. 
 
 O, my faithful friend ! 
 O early chosen, ever found the same. 
 And trusted and beloved ! once more, the verse 
 Long destined, always obvious to thine ear, 
 Attend indulgent: so, in latest years, 
 When time thy head with honours shall have clothed, 
 Sacred to even virtue, may thy mind. 
 Amid the calm review of seasons past, 
 Fair offices of friendship, or kind peace, 
 Or public zeal : — may then thy mind, well pleased. 
 Recall these happy studies of our prime. 
 
 Well may a man who could thus appreciate, from 
 experience, the beauty of the sentiment, inquire — 
 
 Is aught so fair 
 In all the dewy landscapes of the spring. 
 The summer's noontide groves, the purple eve, 
 At harvest horpe, or in the frosty moon 
 Glittering on some smooth sea, is aught so fair 
 As virtuous friendship ? 
 
 He had th^ good sense to devote himself to an 
 honourable and useful profession, knowing that sys- 
 tematic employment was essential to content and 
 respectability; but no poet ever entertained more 
 sincere reverence for the art, or better appreciated 
 its ennobling influence on individual character and 
 the progress of society, as a few allusions will 
 prove : 
 
248 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 Nor shall ever 
 The graver tasks of manhood, or the advice 
 Of vulgar wisdom, move me to disclaim 
 Those studies which possessed me in the dawn 
 Of life, and fixed the colour of my mind 
 For every future year : whence even now 
 From sleep I rescue the clear hours of morn, 
 And, while the world around lies overwhelm'd 
 In idle darkness, am alive to thoughts 
 Of honourable fame, of truth divine 
 Or moral, and of minds to virtue won 
 By the sweet magic of harmonious verse. 
 
 The bard, nor length, nor depth, 
 Nor place, nor form controls. Him the hours, 
 The seasons him obey : and changeful time 
 Sees him at will keep measure with his flight, 
 At will outstrip it. His prevailing hand 
 Gives to corporeal essence life's sense 
 And every stately function of the soul. 
 The soul itself to him obsequious lies, 
 Like matter's passive heap; and as he wills, 
 To reason and affection he assigns 
 Their just alliances ; their just degrees : 
 Hence his peculiar honours ; hence the race 
 Of men who people his delightful world. 
 Men genuine and according to themselves. 
 Transcend as far the uncertain sons of earth. 
 As earth itself to his delightful world 
 The palm of spotless beauty doth resign. 
 
 Who trained by laws the future age. 
 Who rescued nations from the rage 
 
 Of partial, factious power. 
 My heart with distant homage views ; 
 Content if thou, celestial muse, 
 
 Didst rule my natal hour ! 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 249 
 
 The fluctuations of taste in poetry, have brought 
 into vogue highly-finished and concentrated lyric 
 effusions. Didactic verse, especially that involving 
 a long, continuous argument, attracts but few. 
 Pope, Cowper, and Wordsworth have each, in diffe- 
 rent ways, succeeded in obtaining a permanent niche 
 in the temple of Fame by such efforts; and the 
 claims of Akenside are equally original, though not, 
 perhaps, so widely acknowledged. One reason for 
 this is the abstract nature of his theme, which is 
 essentially mental and moral philosophy. Such dis- 
 cussions naturally give a certain dryness and involu- 
 tion to the metre. It requires implicit attention and 
 some familiarity with or interest in both ethics and 
 metaphysics, to be fully appreciated by the reader. 
 The length of his chief poem almost entailed occa- 
 sional dulness. Yet there are scattered through it 
 numerous examples of graceful and effective lan- 
 guage. He calls science, 
 
 The substitute 
 Of God's own wisdom in this toilsome world, 
 The providence of man. 
 
 And describes the envious, as 
 
 The owl-eyed race 
 Whom virtue's lustre blinds. 
 
 He calls the flush of the banquet 
 
 Roses taught by wine to bloom. 
 
250 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 And quaintly declares that whenever the lethargic 
 mind of Holland awakens, 
 
 She breathes maternal fogs to damp its restless flame. 
 
 Artificial, as he must be acknowledged, in the ode, 
 the blank verse of Akenside has rare and character- 
 istic merits unsurpassed in English poetry. There 
 is sometimes a felicity of diction^ a vigour and rich- 
 ness of phrase, which reminds us of the choicest 
 passages in the old dramatists. The thought is ex- 
 pressed with eloquent intensity, — a terse, yet flow- 
 ing collocation of words — that strikes at once imagi- 
 nation and reason, and leaves an harmonious impres- 
 sion on the memory. The following extracts are 
 random examples : 
 
 Hence Ambition climbs 
 With sliding feet and hands impure to grasp 
 Those solemn toys which glitter in his view 
 On fortune'' s rugged steep ; hence pale Revenge 
 Unsheaths his murderous dagger : Rapine hence 
 And envious Lust, by venal fraud upborne, 
 Surmount the reverend barrier of the laws, 
 Which kept them from their prey. 
 
 But worse than these 
 I deem, far worse, than other race of ills 
 Which humankind rear up among themselves, — 
 That horrid offspring which misgoverned will 
 Bears to fantastic error. 
 
 Therefore was his breast 
 Fenced round with passions quick to be alarmed, 
 Or stubborn to oppose ; with fear more swift 
 Than beacons catching Jlame from hill to hilly 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 251 
 
 When armies land ; with anger uncontrolled 
 As the young lion bounding on his prey, 
 With sorrow that locks up the struggling heart ; 
 And shame, that overcasts the drooping eye 
 As with a cloud of lightning. 
 
 When the Muses haunt 
 
 The marble porch where Wisdom wont to talk 
 With Socrates or Tully, hears no more 
 Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monJcs, 
 Or female superstition's midnight prayer ; 
 When ruthless Havoc from the hand of Time 
 Tears the destroying scythe^ with surer stroke 
 To mow the monuments of glory down ; 
 Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street 
 Expands her raven wings, and from the gate 
 Where senates once the weal of nations planned^ 
 Hisseth the gliding snake through hoary weeds 
 That clasp the mouldering column. 
 
 From whose lips 
 
 Flowed eloquence, which, like the vows of love^ 
 Could steal away suspicion from the hearts 
 Of all who listened. 
 
 Still the warbling flute 
 Presided o'er the combat, breathing strains 
 Grave, solemn, soft ; and changing headlong spite 
 To thoughtful resolution cool and clear. 
 
 How I fared 
 
 Or whither turned, I know not ; nor recall 
 
 Aught of those moments other than the sense 
 
 Of one who struggles in oppressive sleep, 
 
 And from the toils of some distressful dream 
 
 To break away with palpitating heart, 
 
 Weak limbs, and temples bathed in deathlike dew, 
 
 Makes many a painful effort. 
 
252 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 Akenside's mind was of a comprehensive order. 
 He preferred generalities to details. It is admitted 
 that, notwithstanding the hauteur of his manner at 
 the bedside of hospital patients, he prescribed with 
 consummate ability: and the marked aversion he 
 expressed for virtuosos, indicates how completely 
 broad and elevated tastes were identified in his view 
 with a manly intellect. He aimed to survey 
 
 All the many tracts 
 Of passion and opinion, 
 
 rather than to describe Nature minutely, or give ut- 
 terance to playful fancies. Indeed, his sense of 
 humour was deficient, and it was quite accordant 
 with his cast of mind to deem a jest unbecoming a 
 gentleman. 
 
 Yet he attached an important office to ridicule, 
 and there was a vein of satire in his nature, which 
 occasionally appears in his writings. In his opinion, 
 this weapon enacts no small part in vanquishing 
 error ; and the history of literature justifies the idea. 
 
 Ask we for what fair end the Almighty sire 
 In mortal bosoms stirs this gay contempt, 
 These grateful pangs of laughter ; from disgust 
 Educing pleasure ? Wherefore but to aid 
 The tardy steps of reason, and at once 
 By this prompt impulse urge us to depress 
 Wild folly's aims ? For though the sober light 
 Of truth flow dawning on the watchful mind. 
 At length unfolds, through many a subtle tie, 
 How these uncouth disorders end at last 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 253 
 
 In public evil ; yet benignant heaven, 
 Conscious how dim the dawn of truth appears 
 To thousands, conscious what a scanty pause 
 From labour and from care the wider lot 
 or humble life affords for studious thought 
 To scan the maze of nature, therefore stamped 
 These glaring scenes with characters of scorn. 
 As broad and obvious to the passing clown 
 As to the lettered sage's curious eye. 
 
 His genius, however, was more allied to the sub- 
 lime than the vivacious. He had a deep love for na- 
 ture ; but it was for her laws, her general effects and 
 grand combinations rather than her special beauties. 
 Hence his descriptions, although often winsome, are 
 vague, and partake more of thoughtful reverie than 
 minute observation. He delighted to trace mental 
 phenomena more than to paint elaborate landscapes. 
 The metaphysician and naturalist are coevident with 
 the scholar and aspirant in his verse. 
 
 It has, however, been objected to his poem that it 
 does not clearly recognise Christianity, and has no 
 definite allusion to immortality. The author, it is 
 said, was a deist. We can readily believe that the 
 form in which religion was presented to the poet in 
 childhood, was anything but engaging either to his 
 reason or affections ; and the independence of his 
 mind and uprightness of his character would natu- 
 rally lead him to reject bigoted allegiance to any 
 narrow theological creed. Yet there are few poets 
 who have been more thoroughly imbued with the 
 religious sentiment. If there is no direct appeal to 
 
 22 
 
864 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 doctrines J in the "Pleasures of Imagination/' there 
 iSj what seems to us far more appropriate, a pervading 
 spirit of veneration and earnest love of truth. In- 
 deed, the very scope of the poem is " to vindicate the 
 ways of God to man," by unfolding the benign and 
 wise principles which regulate the universe and de- 
 velope the human soul. We are called upon to bow 
 in meek intelligence to "the discipline of laws 
 divine;" and the Deity is apostrophized as the 
 
 Exhaustless fount of intellectual day, 
 Centre of souls. ^ 
 
 Immortality is everywhere suggested by the lofty 
 attributes and progressive virtue — so eloquently 
 described as the legitimate growth of our nature ; 
 and the abrupt termination of the poem, induces the 
 belief that Akenside reserved the most spiritual argu- 
 ments for the last. 
 
 For to the brutes 
 Perception and the transient boons of sense 
 Hath fate imparted : but to man alone 
 Of sublunary beings, was it given 
 Each fleeting impulse on the sensual powers 
 At leisure to review ; with equal eye 
 To scan the passion of the stricken nerve 
 On the vague object striking ; to conduct 
 From sense, the portal turbulent and loud^ 
 Into the mind*s wide palace^ one by one 
 The frequent, pressing, fluctuating forms, 
 And question and compare them. 
 
 * « » « 
 
 A nobler dower 
 
 Her sire at death decreed her ; purer gifts 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 255 
 
 From his own treasure ; forms which never deigned 
 In eyes or ears to dwell, within the sense 
 Of earthly organs; but sublime were placed 
 In his essential reason, leading there 
 That vast ideal host which all his works 
 Through endless ages never will reveal. 
 
€^t ^Jiograpljer. 
 
 FINAL MEMORIALS OF LAMB AND KEATS.'*'^ 
 
 There are aspects of literature which almost 
 justify a noble mind in recoiling from its attractions. 
 As the genuine record of individual experience, from 
 the objective scenes of adventure to the most refined 
 inward emotions, — as a legitimate contribution of 
 ideas, on subjects of universal interest and immediate 
 utility, and even as one of the fine arts, — giving scope 
 to taste and invention in the combinations of imagery 
 and the moulding of language, — there is an essential 
 dignity in literature. But when we glance at its 
 daily emanations, and perceive the crude, extravagant, 
 and venal productions which bear its name, we can- 
 not but impatiently turn to a green field, a leafless 
 tree, or a distant cloud, — to any object or thought 
 which, by its reality and truth to its own relations, 
 freshens our spirits by manifesting the contrast be- 
 tween to be and to seem. The most important phase 
 
 * 1. Literary Sketches and Letters: being the Final Memorials 
 of Charles Lamb, never before published. By Thomas Noon Tal- 
 fourd, one of his executors. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 1848. 
 
 2. Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats. Edited by 
 Richard iMonckton Milnes. New York. George P. Putnam. 1848. 
 
FINAL MEMORIALS OF LAMB AND KEATS. 257 
 
 of literature is psychological. The letter, po^m, or 
 biography which opens to us the soul's arcana, with- 
 out disguise or illusion, is one of those repositories 
 through which we make sure advances toward primal 
 truth. The secret and enduring charm of poetry is 
 founded upon the idea that it is a deeper and more 
 significant utterance than any other form of litera- 
 ture ; that it is, by a kind of necessity, sincere — and 
 breathes the most unalloyed spirit of beauty and 
 truth. It is like a torch passed from hand to hand 
 with fraternal care, because its flame was kindled at 
 a divine altar ; and should be preserved to enlighten 
 and warm the universal heart. In proportion as the 
 records of the mind are drawn from its inner recesses, 
 and the revelations of the pen are individual, spon- 
 taneous, and genuine, they excite sympathy and 
 deserve regard. The highest forms of literature, as 
 an art, are shaped upon this principle — the drama 
 being the intimate, and history the picturesque re- 
 flection of life. Hence Shakspeare has furnished a 
 vocabulary for the passions and woes of men ; in the 
 pulpit, at the bar, and the fireside, in conviviality and 
 bereavement — the utterances of his characters in- 
 stinctively fly to the lips. One reason for the de- 
 cline of the drama is that, in modern times, genius 
 has so often written its own tragedy and comedy, in 
 its actual development. We have been admitted so 
 frankly into the life of beings, endowed with the 
 keenest sensibilities and the richest intellects, that a 
 drama, however imposing or brilliant, especially when 
 
 22* 
 
258 THE BIOGRAPHER. 
 
 acted, seems comparatively inadequate and cold as a 
 representation of human existence. What tragedy, 
 for instance; ever Avritten, can equal the pathos in- 
 volved in these last memorials of Lamb and Keats ? 
 What chapter of mental philosophy more strikingly 
 unfolds the mysterious laws of the moral nature than 
 the glimpses here unfolded of inward struggles, in- 
 tense consciousness, and life-long conflict with evils 
 too sacred to be discussed until the sufferers had 
 passed away ? How tame and insignificant appear 
 the outward obstacles, over which coarser natures 
 triumph, compared to the secret misery which these 
 gentle yet heroic men so long endured ! The essence 
 of Lear and Hamlet is here incarnated; and we 
 realize perfectly how in beings so delicate and as- 
 piring, in the grasp of a destiny so strange and 
 mournful, suicidal reveries may alternate with comic 
 talk. 
 
 It is also remarkable that " final memorials" should 
 have appeared almost simultaneously, of two indi- 
 viduals peculiarly endeared to the lovers of originality 
 of mind and grace of character : and the coincidence 
 extends to many particulars. Each has been mis- 
 interpreted — the one as deficient in veneration, the 
 other in courage ; and in both instances the idea is 
 triumphantly refuted — Lamb having guided himself 
 by a severe line of duty based on reverence, and 
 Keats given an uncommon example of fortitude. In 
 each, too, pain was magnified and cheated of illusion 
 by acute consciousness, in the one case of the latent 
 
FINAL MEMORIALS OF LAMB AND KEATS. 259 
 
 signs of metital aberratioiij and in the other, we are 
 told, " his knowledge of anatomy made every change 
 tenfold worse/' The man who indited sportive com- 
 ments on death, felt that he "must be religious;" 
 and he who indulged in moods of sentimental lan- 
 guishment, with his dying gasp, reassured the sinking 
 courage of his friend ! 
 
 The philosophy of human suffering is, as yet, un- 
 written. Theological literature and poetry afford but 
 glimpses whereby we may vaguely estimate its scope 
 and subtlety; but the materials from which it is 
 educed are chiefly to be discovered in volumes like 
 these. The writings which these men chose to give 
 to the world, form part of their artistic, deliberate, 
 and expressed development ; and as such have been 
 analyzed and estimated by refined critics and loving 
 readers. The facts of their career, and the unstudied, 
 confidential letters of friendship, yield the necessary 
 collateral light which brings into relief the native 
 impulses of character, and furnishes the interpretation 
 that the emanations of genius but partially, though 
 exquisitely, revealed. Both have been fortunate in 
 their biographers. Talfourd and Milnes, fitted by 
 their kindred gifts to realize the intrinsic worth of 
 their subjects, have -brought together these scattered 
 mementos and given them an intelligible shape, with 
 the reverence, affection, and delicacy required for 
 such a task. They come forth at an auspicious mo- 
 ment, when death has canonized the names, and time 
 sealed the reputation of the essayist and poet ; when 
 
260 THE BIOGRAPHER. 
 
 a growing taste for the higher qualities of mind has 
 somewhat modified superficial and indiscriminate views 
 of literature ; and when the spirit of the age readily 
 prepares the way for the reception of whatever vindi- 
 cates and hallows the memory of those whom renown 
 has made familiar. The facts of consciousness are, 
 to the student of man and life, what the phenomena 
 of nature are to the scientific observer. Lamb and 
 Keats, both from idiosyncrasy and circumstances, 
 realized and dwelt upon their inward experiences. 
 Their outward lot bafiled action only to intensify 
 thought and emotion. "I love my sonnets," says 
 the former, " because they are the reflected images 
 of my feelings at different times." For the same 
 reason his letters are interesting to us. We knew of 
 his irksome clerkship, his economical lodgings, his 
 delightful literary circle, his fraternal love, — and 
 that it was his wont to "gather himself up into the 
 old things." But we knew not of his unostentatious 
 charities, nor of the darkest thread in the web of his 
 destiny — -the allusions to which, in this correspond- 
 ence, shed a new and almost supernatural light upon 
 the peculiarities of his genius. 
 
 These revelations are, indeed, eminently Shak- 
 spearean, especially in unfolding that mystical rela- 
 tion between humour and pathos, wherein the great 
 dramatist approaches nearer than any other writer 
 to the very heart of nature. Lamb's essays are 
 remarkable for genial humour. H^ seems peculiarly 
 to enjoy the quaint, ridiculous, and, if we may so call 
 
FINAL MEMORIALS OF LAMB AND KEATS. 261 
 
 it, relishing side of life. And yet his personal, do- 
 mestic, familiar existence contained an element of 
 profound wo. He relinquished in early youth his 
 dream of love for ever, to watch over a sister afflicted 
 with periodical fits of insanity, in one of which she 
 had killed their mother. A situation more harrowing 
 to a mind of rare susceptibility, is scarcely to be 
 imagined ; and it was from the appalling scenes of 
 this tragic destiny that, by the instinct of self-pre- 
 servation, the voluntary martyr fled, on the wings of 
 fancy, into a realm of curious observation and playful 
 wit. " I hope," he writes, " (for Mary I can answer) 
 that I shall, through life, never have less recollection, 
 nor a fainter impression of what has happened than 
 I have now. It is not a light thing, nor meant by 
 the Almighty to be received lightly. I must be 
 serious, circumspect, and religious through life, and 
 by such means may both of us escape madness in 
 future, if it so please the Almighty !" A few signifi- 
 cant passages give us a vivid idea of the extent and 
 influence of his calamity. '^ Being by ourselves is 
 bad, and going out is bad. I get so irritable and 
 wretched with fear, that I constantly hasten on the 
 disorder. You cannot conceive the misery of such a 
 foresight." We know of no incident in the whole 
 range of literary biography so startling and painful, 
 as that here recorded of Lamb, associated as it is 
 with the geniality and wit of Elia, — that, on one oc- 
 casion, Lloyd met him and his sister — '' slowly pacing 
 together a little footpath in Hoxton fields, both weep- 
 
262 THE BIOGRAPHER. 
 
 ing bitterly, and found, on joining them, tliat they 
 were taking their solemn way to the accustomed 
 asylum !'V 
 
 It is seldom that Ave thus clearly see the reciprocal 
 interchange of humour and pathos — the one reacting 
 on the other and thus maintaining the equilibrium of 
 reason. Lamb's idolatry of Shakspeare and his 
 metaphysical insight as regards the true principle of 
 his creations, is thus explained. Few men ever 
 realized, in their consciousness, such a testimony 
 to the essential genuineness of the bard's conceptions. 
 Others may interpret the moods of Hamlet, the mur- 
 derous reveries of Macbeth, or the agony of Lear, 
 through observation of human nature in general, or 
 according to a code of philosophical criticism ; but 
 Lamb did so by his individual sympathies. Love, 
 duty, and madness had pressed upon his earliest youth 
 and wrestled in his manly and sensitive heart, robing 
 life in a "sceptred pall," driving him to minor com- 
 forts, isolating his being, and, with a kind of dramatic 
 facility, causing the day's oppressive responsibility 
 to vibrate to the evening's airy mirth, as a huge 
 and frowning mountain echoes the cheering notes of 
 a horn. 
 
 The same characteristic is made known by the 
 new memoir of Keats. His domestic bereavements, 
 critical persecution, hopeless love, and physical suf- 
 fering, combined with a temperament that quivered 
 to every impression — afford a gloomy background to 
 the picture of his life; and yet this is constantly 
 
FINAL MEMORIALS OF LAMB AND KEATS. 2G3 
 
 irradiated by his exquisite sense of beauty and 
 flashes of humour. Nearly all that his letters sug- 
 gest of the actual circumstances which environ him, 
 is painful ; while the very record is often so lively 
 wdth hints of vast imaginative pleasure and sparkles 
 of gay conceit, that the same relief is given to the 
 sympathies which arises from the self-possessed 
 energy of a well-delineated character in tragedy : 
 pity is elevated into admiration ; the struggle with 
 fate appears grand ; the resources of the victim lend 
 a dignity to his misfortunes ; and we have a latent 
 feeling that it is " nobler in the mind to suffer" thus, 
 than to stagnate in an ignoble prosperity. 
 
 The familiar epistles, like the conversation of the 
 author,^ — '' a delightful combination of earnestness 
 and pleasantry," — are quite satisfactory in exhibit- 
 ing the thorough manliness of the poet's character. 
 He possessed, indeed, all the traits which we asso- 
 ciate with his vocation. His sentiments were candid, 
 generous, free, and humane. All that the critics 
 have said in regard to the carelessness and promise 
 of his verse is included in his own just self-estima- 
 tion, indicating at once a deep sense both of power 
 and imperfection. " The faint conceptions," he says, 
 " of poems to come, bring the blood frequently into 
 my forehead;" and again, "I have written indepen- 
 dently without judgment. I will write independently 
 and with judgment hereafter." Yet he had his own 
 theory of the art — founded upon the nature of his 
 own gifts, from which no indiscriminate reproach 
 
264 THE BIOGRAPHER. 
 
 could drive him. ^^ Poetry," he declares, "should 
 surprise by 2ifine excess and not by singularity." 
 
 He evidently possessed the magnanimity of genius. 
 "Is there no human dust-hole," he asked, in refe- 
 rence to some mean conduct, — "into which we can 
 sweep such fellows?" And although he felt that 
 " a man must have the fine point of his soul taken 
 off to be fit for this world," it was not in the spirit of 
 misanthropy that he looked upon his race. " I find 
 there is no worthy pursuit," he writes, "but the 
 idea of doing some good in the world." He alludes 
 earnestly to the " ultimate glory of dying for a great 
 human enterprise" as a prevailing desire, and elo- 
 quently observes, " Scenery is fine, but human 
 nature is finer ; the sward is richer for the tread of a 
 real, nervous English foot ; the eagle's nest is finer 
 for the mountaineer having looked into it." In one 
 letter he refers to his "delight in sensation" as an 
 inferior state to his friend's "hunger after truth." 
 But these elements — both essential to the poetic 
 nature, were more happily blended in him than he 
 seems to have considered. Time had not yet 
 chastened the one, or made him vividly conscious of 
 the other. With all his urbanity and ingenuousness, 
 he confesses to that instinct of seclusion whereby, 
 like the snail's shell, a protection is afi*orded such 
 beings, in social intercourse, from what might other- 
 wise wound or harden. " Think of my pleasure in 
 solitude in comparison with my commerce with the 
 world : there I am a child, there they do not know me, 
 
FINAL MEMORIALS OF LAMB AND KEATS. 265 
 
 not even my most intimate acquaintance ; I give into 
 their feelings as though I were refraining from imi- 
 tating a little child. Some think me middling, others 
 silly, others foolish ; every one thinks he sees my 
 weak side against my will, when in truth, it is with 
 my will, I am content to be thought all this, 
 because I have in my own breast so great a resource." 
 He seems inclined in one letter to deny the indivi- 
 duality of genius, and, if we separate the quality or 
 attributes so designated, from character, the position 
 is tenable. It is, however, not unusual to confound 
 the two. Keats recognised, probably from circum- 
 stances, the truth that intellectually as well as 
 spiritually, the attitude of human being towards life 
 and nature should be receptive. These psychological 
 facts — the universal assimilating nature of genius 
 and the recipient capacity of mind, are hinted 
 with striking beauty, in the following passage : ^'Men 
 of genius are great as certain ethereal chemicals^ 
 operating on the mass of neutral intellect — but they 
 have not any individuality, any determined charac- 
 ter. Now it is more noble to sit like Jove than fly 
 like Mercury : — let us not therefore go hurrying 
 about and collecting honey, bee-like, buzzing here 
 and there for a knowledge of what is to be arrived 
 at ; but let us open our leaves like a flower, and be 
 passive and receptive, budding patiently under the 
 eye of Apollo, and taking hints from every noble 
 insect that favours us with a visit. Sap will be 
 given us for meat and dew for drink." 
 
 28 
 
266 THE BIOGRAPHER. 
 
 "These pages," says Mr. Milnes, 
 whose whole story may be summed up in the compo- 
 sition of three small volumes of verse, some earnest 
 friendships, one passion, and a premature death." 
 But to the reader of thought and feeling, how much 
 is involved in the brief chronicle ! The verse is 
 chiefly dedicated to mythological fables ; and yet the 
 poet was ignorant of Greek, but adopting the heathen 
 divinities, because around them he could freely 
 throw the drapery of his imagination, he gives each 
 a life more fresh and lovely than that afforded by the 
 literature which embodies them ; beings of a " creed 
 outworn," he breathed into them the vitality of his 
 own sensations, and thus placed the cold and brilliant 
 gems of a Pagan theocracy, on the warm bosom of 
 Christianized humanity. The distinction between 
 genius and scholarship was never more eloquently 
 revealed. The finish of the complete bard, is only 
 occasionally manifest, — in the Eve of St. Agnes, for 
 instance, and some of the sonnets; but the rich 
 fancy, novel metaphor, and kindling aspiration gleam 
 and glow on every page in wild luxuriance. We 
 have elsewhere* discussed the claims of Keats as a 
 poet, and the volume before us irresistibly attracts us 
 to him as a man. The "earnest friendships" to 
 which his biographer alludes, seem, from the letters 
 to have been the great consolation of his life ; and 
 their ingenuous and manly exposition is a new evi- 
 
 * Thoughts on the Poets. '"' 
 
FINAL MEMORIALS OF LAMB AND KEATS. 267 
 
 dence of that power, wHich seems the compensatory 
 award of heaven for the inevitable sufferings of 
 genius, to attach "others to its possessors with singu- 
 lar tenacity and exclusiveness. The "one passion'' 
 of Keats confirms our belief in the individuality of 
 affection of the poetical character. Its kindliness, 
 admiration, and sympathies are, indeed, universal; 
 and their exhibition is often mistaken for that of 
 another sentiment. But the very characteristic of a 
 poetic mind is concentration. It is the exercise of 
 this faculty in which consists its power ; and fearful 
 is its intensity, when instead of being directed 
 towards abstract theories or philanthropic aims, it 
 , becomes identified with a human object. Nothing 
 more clearly indicates the absorbing nature of this 
 experience in Keats, than his obvious avoidance of 
 the subject, except when necessity compelled an 
 allusion. It was the controlling thought of his mind, 
 the haunting dream of his fancy, and the almost 
 exclusive sentiment of his heart. The few hints 
 which drop from his letters are enough to suggest a 
 world of passionate emotion. That excessive sensi- 
 bility to associations which is so characteristic of this 
 feeling, makes us aware how alive he w^as to every- 
 thing even remotely bearing on this subject. In one 
 of his first letters from Italy, he says: "I can bear 
 to die — ^^I cannot bear to leave her. Oh, God ! God! 
 God ! Everything I have in my trunks that reminds 
 me of her goes through me like a spear. The silk 
 lining she put in my travelling cap scalds my head. 
 
2Q8 THE BIOGRAPHER. 
 
 There is nothing in the Avorld of sufficient interest to 
 divert me from her a moment. that I could be 
 buried near where she lives ! It surprises me that 
 the human heart is capable of containing and bear- 
 ing so much misery as this." Mr. Milnes, with 
 becoming delicacy, is silent in regard to the object of 
 this " one passion," except to give the assurance that . 
 the consciousness of having inspired it, " has been a 
 source of grave delight and earnest thankfulness 
 through the changes and chances of her earthly pil- 
 grimage." We allude to it chiefly to note what 
 strikes us as a most touching instance of that want 
 of recognition which seems to attend human beings 
 in life, in proportion as they are ardent and genuine, 
 — that, at the very time Keats w^as half-scorned as 
 the victim of wounded self-love, his death w^as accele- 
 rated by the fervour of his devotion to another ; and 
 the thought of fame had no power to wdn his desires 
 from the grave. 
 
 Of his ''premature death," we have a more elabo- 
 rate and authentic record than ever before. His 
 sufi*erings were prolonged and severe ; but, for an 
 exile, he enjoyed the benefit of extraordinary medi- 
 cal skill and affectionate nurture. The celebrated 
 Dr. Clarke was his constant attendant, — a generous 
 artist, the friend of years, scarcely left his bedside ; 
 the sky of Rome canopies his grave, and Shelley 
 wrote for him an immortal elegy. It is with the 
 sensation of an intolerable pressure lifted from the 
 heart, that we close the story. After tracing that 
 
FINAL MEMORIALS OF LAMB AND KEATS. 2G9 
 
 feverish life — its keen appreciation of the pleasurable 
 in sensation, its ravishing sense of the beautiful in 
 thought and nature, its noble impulses and con- 
 strained environment, — the eagerness of the soul and 
 the fragility of the body — we see no happy goal for 
 it on earth, scarcely a chance for harmonious tran- 
 quillity ; and it is soothing to know that the ceaseless 
 pleadings of that weary heart are stilled forever^ 
 beneath the daisy-grown turf ! 
 
 We agree with his biographer in regarding the 
 want of correspondence between the world of thought 
 and that of action, as a benign law incident to human 
 life and for a benign end. The gifts of Lamb and 
 Keats redeemed their outward destiny ; and in this 
 great fact so impressively demonstrated in the volumes 
 before us, we find a new and persuasive evidence of 
 the innate worth of genius. To what realms of 
 fancy and awe, to the sweet conviction of how many 
 sublime truths, into amity with what rich and loving 
 spirits, did the endowments of these men bring them ! 
 The shafts of misfortune were blunted against the 
 panoply of serene thought, or foiled aside by eleva- 
 tion of sentiment or blitheness of fancy. There is a 
 nobleness in their lives which all they endured from 
 pain and calumny, only more clearly developed. 
 That they " dwelt apart," like stars, was no infelicity ; 
 for the radiant glow that still comes to us from those 
 glorious heights, is our best assurance that they did 
 not suffer in vain. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 PORTRAIT OF MRS. OSGOOD. 
 
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 EXTRACTS FROM THE PREFACE. 
 One of the most striking characteristics of the present age 
 is the number of female writers, especially in the department 
 of belles-lettres. This is even more true of the United 
 States, than of the old world ; and poetry, which is the lan- 
 guage of the affections, has been freely employed among us 
 to express the emotions of woman's heart. 
 
 As the rare exotic, costly because of the distance from 
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 and fragrance with the abundant wild flowers of our mea- 
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 BY 
 
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 The Literary contents of this work contain copious selections from 
 
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 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 In the department of English poetry, we have loni? looked for a spirit cast in nature's finest, yet 
 most elevated mould, possessed of the most dehcute and exquisite taste, the keenest perception 
 of the innate true and beautiful in poetry, as oppfised to their opposites, who could e;ive to us n 
 pure collection of the British Female Poets ; many of them among the choicest spirits that ever 
 graced and adorned humanity. The object of our search, in this distinct and important mission, 
 IS before us ; and we acknowledge at once in Dr. Bethune. the pified poet, the eh>quent divine, ' 
 and the humble Christian, one who combines, in an eminent degrree, all the charaderistics above 
 alluded to. It raises the mind loftier, and makes it purified with the soul, to float in an atmosphere 
 of spiritual purity, to peruse the elegant volume before us, chaste, rich, and beautiful, without and 
 witliin.— T/j« Spectator. 
 
 We do not remember to have seen any previous attempt to form a poetical bouquet exclusively 
 ft-om gardens planted by female hands, and made fragrant and beautiful by woman's gentle culture. 
 We know few men equally qualified with the gifted Editor of this volume for the tasteful and 
 judicious selection and adjustment of the various flowers that are to delight with their sweetness, 
 Boothe with their softness, and impart profit with their sentiment. The volume is enriched with 
 Biographical Sketches of some sixty poetesses, each sketch being followed with specimens charac- 
 teristic of her style and powers of verse. In beauty of typography, and general getting up, this 
 volume is quite equal to the best issues of its tasteful and euterprising publishers.— £pi5coi;flZ Recorder. 
 
 It is handsomely embellished, and may be described as a casket of gems. Dr. Bethune, who is 
 himself a poet of no mean genius, has in this volume exhibited the most refined taste. The work 
 may be regarded as a treasury of nearly all the best pieces of British Female Poets.— Inquirer. 
 
 This volume, which is fer more suited for a holyday gift than many which are prepared expressly 
 for the purpose, contains extracts from all the most distinguished English Female Poets, selected 
 with the taste and judgment which we have a right to expect from the eminent divine and highly 
 gifted poet whose name adorns the title page. It is a rare collection of the richest gems. — Balti- 
 more American. 
 
 Dr. Bethune has selected his materials with exquisite taste, culling the fairest and sweetest 
 flowers from the extensive field cultivated by the British Female Poets. The brief Biographical 
 Notices add much interest to the volume, and vastly increase its value. It is pleasant to find hard- 
 working and close-thinking divines thus recreating themselves, and contributing bv their recrea- 
 tions to the refinement of the age. Dr. Bethune has brought to his task poetic enthusiasm, and a 
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 Rev. G. W. Bethujte, Rev. Clement M. Butler, Mrs. Sioourwet, Mrs 
 
 Osgood, Mrs. Hale, Mrs. Ellet, J. T. Headlet, Rev. M, A. D« 
 
 Wolfe Howe, Miss Sedgwick, Rev. Wm. B. Sprague, Rev. 
 
 H. Hastings Weld, Miss Caroline E. Roberts, Bushrod 
 
 Bartlett, Esa., Alice G. Lee, Hope Hesseltine, 
 
 , AND OTHER FAVOURITE AUTHORS OF OUR OWN COUNTRY. 
 
 EDITED BY MRS. L. C. TUTHILL, 
 
 And richly bound in various styles* 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 i 
 
 TTiis is an elegant volume ; with an excellent design, combining all that is attract!' 
 In typographical execution, with beautiful engravings, it illustrates the progress < 
 human life in a series of mezzotints of the most finished style. These handsome pic»' 
 turcs present boyhood and girlhood, the lover and the loved, the bride and the mother, 
 the widow and old age, with many other scenes that will leave a pleasing and salutary 
 impression. The literary department is executed by a variety of able and entertaining 
 writers, forming altogether a beautiful gift-book, appropriate to all seasons.— JV*. Y. Ob- 
 server 
 
 A most beautiful gem of a book, and a superb specimen of artistical skill, as well as 
 a "Mirror of Life." As a brilliant and tasteful ornament for the centre-table, or a 
 memento of affection and good wishes, to be presented in the form of a Birthday, 
 Christmas, or New Year's gift, to a friend, it is riclily entitled to the consideration and 
 patronage of the public— Christian Observer. 
 
 The idea is a happy one, and the work is every way worthy of its subject. Without 
 being too costly, it is in every respect a very handsome volume; the sentiments it con- 
 tains are not only unobjectionable, but salutary; and we cannot conceive a gift of the 
 kind which, between iatelligent friends, would be more acceptable to the receiver ox 
 honourable to the giver.— A*. Y. Commercial, 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 A BOOK FOR EVERY CHRISTIAN, 
 
 THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 MEMOIR OF MISS MARGARET MERCER. 
 
 BY CASPAR MORRIS, M.D. 
 
 A neat ISmo. volumej with a beautiful Engraved 
 PORTRAIT OF MISS MERCER. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 Miss Mercer was a daughter of the late Governor Mercer, of Maryland. Her father, 
 who was a Virginian, and the descendant of a distinguished family, removed to Straw- 
 •>erry Hill, near Annapolis, Md., soon after his marriage. In the memoir of the daughter, 
 tve have the moral portraiture of a character of great moral worth. Miss Mercer was 
 a Christian, who earnestly sought to promote the glory of the Saviour, in persevering 
 efforts to be useful in every position, and especially as a teacher of the young. Her 
 energy of mind and elevated principles, united with humility and gentleness, and devoted 
 piety, illustrated in her useful life, rendered her example worthy of a lasting memorial. 
 The work is accompanied by numerous extracts from her correspondence. — Christian, 
 Observer, 
 
 The perusal of this Memoir will do good ; it shows how much can be accomplished by 
 superior talents, under the control of a heart imbued with love to the Saviour. The 
 contemplation of the character of Miss Mercer may lead others to put forth similar 
 efforts, arnd reap a like reward.— CAnsiian Chronicle. 
 
 It is impossible to read this Memoir without the conviction that Miss Mercer was a 
 Very superior woman, both in her attainments and her entire self-consecration. In 
 laying down the book, We feel alike admiration for the biographer and the subject of the 
 Memoir. — Presbyterian. 
 
 WATSON'S NEW DICTIONARY OF POEllCAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 A neat 12mo* Volume in plain and extra bindings* 
 
 A NEW DICTIONARY OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 CONSISTING OF ELEGANT EXTRACTS ON EVERY SUBJECT, 
 
 Compiled from various Authors, and arranged under appropriate heads, 
 
 BY JOHXr T. -WATSOlStj IMC.D. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 We may safely recommend this book as a collection of some of the most beautiful 
 conceptions, elegantly expressed, to be found in the range of English and American 
 poetry. — Saturday Courier. 
 
 We regard this as the best book of a similar character yet published. — QerTnantmon 
 
 Telegraph. 
 
 In this Dictionary of Quotations every subject is touched upon ; and, while the selec- 
 tion has been carefully made, it has the merit of containing the best thoughts of the 
 Poets of our own day, which no other collection has.— 17. S. Gazette. 
 
 The selections in this book are made with taste from all poets of note, and are classed 
 under a great variety of suhiects.— Presbyterian. 
 
 The Quotations appear to have been selected with great judgment and taste, by one 
 well acquainted with whatever is nost elegant and beautiful in the whole range of 
 literature.— 'CArisfian Observer. 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 
 
 HAVE JUST PUBLISHED 
 
 THE WOMEN OF THE SCRIPTURES, 
 
 ED ITED BY THE 
 
 KEV. H. HASTINGS WEJLD; 
 
 WITH 
 
 ORIGINAL LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS, 
 
 BY 
 
 DISTINGUISHED AMERICAN WRITERS: 
 
 BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 TWELVE SUPERB ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL, 
 BY J. SARTAIN. PHILADELPHIA, 
 
 rHOM OHIGIWAL DESIGNS, EXPEESSLY FOR THE WORK, 
 
 BY T. P. ROSSITER. NEW YORK! 
 
 Miriam, 
 Eve, 
 Sarah, 
 Rachel, 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 Hannah, 
 
 Ruth, 
 
 Queen of Sheba, 
 
 Shunatnite, 
 
 Esther, 
 
 Tlie Syropheniciaa 
 
 Martha, 
 
 The Marys. 
 
 Elegantly Bound in White Calf, Turkey Morocco, and Cloth 
 Extra, with Gilt Edges. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The subject of this book entitles it to a high place among illustrated 
 volumes. The execution, literary and artistic, will, we are confident, be 
 found worthy of the theme ; since we have received the assistance of 
 authors best known in the sacred literature of our country, in presenting, 
 in their various important attitudes and relations, the Womex of the 
 Scriptures. The contents of the volume were prepared expressly for it, 
 with the exception of the pages from the pen of Mrs. Balfour ; and for the 
 republication of her articles, no one who reads them will require an apology. 
 The designs for the engravings are original; and the Publishers trust that 
 in the present volume they have made their best acknowledgment for the 
 favour with which its predecessors have been received. The whole, they 
 believe, will be found no inapt memento of those to whom St. Peter refers 
 the sex for an ensample : *' the holy women, in the old time." 
 
 I 
 
WOMEN OF THE SCRIPTURES 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " The artistical merits of this work are of a very high order. The plates ar« 
 all meritorious, and some of them are eminently beautiful. The engraving of 
 
 * Miriam' rejoicing over the destruction of Pharaoh and his host is the frontis- 
 piece, and would adorn Heath's Book of Beauty. *Eve,' as the vignette title, 
 is the most exquisite engraving we ever saw. It is spirited, life-like and beauti- 
 ful. * Sarah' does not please our judgment, but its defects are amply atoned 
 for in the engraving of ' Rachel.' There are portions of the engraving of 
 
 * Hannah' that are very fine, but Hannah's face is rather childish for a mother. 
 
 * Ruth' is a beautiful piece of art. The ' Queen of Sheba' is beautiful enough 
 to have made Solomon forget some of his wisdom. The * Shunamite,' * Esther,' 
 
 The Syrophenician Woman,' * Martha,' and the * Mary's' are all engravings of 
 touch merit, and several of them are very beautiful. 
 
 *' We cordially commend this book to gentlemen who wish to pay a real com- 
 pliment to a lady of taste and good judgment. It is no idle rattle for the amuse- 
 ment of an hour, but is a substantial work of merit." — Louisville Courier, 
 
 ** This beautiful octavo volume is adorned with twelve illustrations, engraved 
 on steel by Sartain, from original designs by Rossiter. We need only say that 
 they are of the highest order, and render unnecessary the encouragement of 
 foreign artists, while we have in our midst the skill which can furnish such life- 
 like forms of female loveliness as this volume contains. The paper, type, bind- 
 ing and decoration ef the work are in entire accordance with its pictorial embel- 
 lishments, and thus far, we can pronounce it one of the handsomest volumes that 
 has ever issued from the American press." — Episcopal Recorder. 
 
 **This is an avant courier of those beautiful productions of the press which 
 herald the approach of Christmas holidays, when kindly feehngs display them- 
 selves in the presentation of souvenirs. Mr. Weld has already made himself 
 favourably known as the editor of several beautiful volumes of this class. In all 
 its appliances, this is a rich and sumptuous volume, most specially attractive to 
 the eye by its clear typography, and its elegant mezzotint engravings. The lite- 
 rary contributions are written with a view to instruct, as well as to please. They 
 are almost entirely original, and have emanated from skilful pens. We com- 
 mend the book to those who have any pretension to taste in this department of 
 literature." — Freshyterian, 
 
 ** The pages of this work are also enriched with original contributions from 
 some of the ablest and most popular writers, illustrating the sacred themes pre- 
 sented in its embellishments. 
 
 " As a book for the holidays and for all seasons — as a book for pure minds and 
 an ornament for the centre-table, it is eminently attractive. 
 
 ** This rich and splendid and truly valuable book, has been issued in anticipa- 
 tion of the season when many are accustomed to give, or receive tokens of esteem 
 and affection. Its workmanship is superlatively elegant and tasteful in every 
 respect. It is very beautifully embellished with twelve highly finished engrav- 
 ings, portraying the characters of those 'holy women' of old, whose names have 
 been written among the stars, by the pen of inspiration." — Christian Observer. 
 
 "It is seldom that we meet with a volume which, like this, blends at once so 
 high artistic and literary merit. Among the issues with which the press teems, 
 it is a pearl of richness and beauty that relieves the sight. Such additions to the 
 fir»e arts and to our elegant literature, we heartily welcome. The conception of 
 the work is admirable, aiming, as it does, at clothing with fresh interest, the 
 more prominent female characters whose history is given us in the Bible. In the 
 performance of this object, the pens of a number of well known writers have 
 been engaged, who throw these characters upon a canvass of life. To do this 
 effectually, the power of imagination is made, in prose and in verse, to lend its 
 charms, while the art of the engraver, and the skill of the binder have each been 
 laid under special c:»iitributioil." — Christian Reflcctcr. 
 
CHESTERFIELDIAN POCKET MANUALS 
 OF ETIQUETTE, &c. 
 
 LINDSAY AND BLAKISTON have just issued new editions of this popular 
 
 series of Manuals, some of which have met with so much favour 
 
 as to have passed through more than Twenty 
 
 Editions. The series includes — 
 
 THE YOUNG HUSBAND, 
 
 A. MANUAL OF THE DUTIES, MORAL, RELIGIOUS, AND DOMESTIC, 
 
 IMPOSED BY THE RELATION OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 THS YOUNG W^ZFE, 
 
 A MANUAL OF MORAL, RELIGIOUS, AND DOMESTIC DUTIES, 
 
 BEING A COMPANION TO •♦THE YOUNG HUSBAND." 
 
 ETIQUETTE FOR OENTZiEMEN, 
 
 OR, SHORT RULES AND REFLECTIONS FOR CONDUCT IN SOCIETY. 
 
 ETIQUETTE FOR I.ADIES, 
 
 WITH HINTS ON THE PRESERVATION, IMPROVEMENT, ETC., OF FEMALE BEAUTY. 
 
 THE HAND BOOK FOR THE MAN OF FASHION, 
 
 OR CANONS OF GOOD BREEDING. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "ETiaUETTE FOR GENTLEMEN." 
 
 Each volume contains an illuminatod title-page, and is neatly bound in 
 
 embossed cloth, with plain or gilt edges, and gilt sides, 
 
 suitable for the centre-table. 
 
 THE YOUNG LADIES' HOME, 
 
 BY MRS. L. O. TUTHILL, 
 AUTHOR OF " I WILL BE A LADY," " I WILL BE A GENTLEMAN," &c.. &c. 
 
 "A Traveller betwixt life and death; 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength and skill. 
 To warn, to comfort and command; 
 And yet a spirit still and bright. 
 With something of an angel light." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 A neat 12mo volume, in embossed cloth, with plain or gilt edges. 
 The object which the intelligent author of this volume has in view, is to awake 
 the attention of young ladies to fhe important duties of life which devolve upo 
 them, after they have ceased their scholastic exercises. In doing so, she endea 
 vours to teach them something of the formation of character, and offers ther 
 various useful hints for their improvement, mentally and physically ; explains t 
 them the station they are to occupy in society, and sets before them in its tru 
 light the responsibility they incur by a neglect of their proper duties, in their to 
 eager pursuit of the follies of the day. Such a book cannot fail to be useful, an 
 we hope it may be read extensively. — 'Baltimore American, 
 
BETHUNE'S POEMS. 
 
 B 
 
 LINDSAY & BLAKISTON PUBLISH, 
 
 LAYS OF LOVE AND FAITH, 
 
 WITH OTHER 
 
 FUGITIVE POEMS. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 REV. G. W. BETHUNE, D.D. 
 
 This is an elegant Volume, beautifully printed on the finest and whitest 
 paper, and richly bound in various styles. 
 
 As one arranges in a simple vase 
 
 A little store of unpretending flowers. 
 
 So gathered I some records of past hours. 
 And trust them, gentle reader, to thy grace. 
 Nor hope that in my pages thou wilt trace 
 
 The brilliant proof of high poetic powers; 
 But dear memorials of happy days, 
 
 When heaven shed blessings on my heart like showers, 
 Clothing with beauty e'en the desert place; 
 Till I, with thankful gladness in my looks. 
 
 Turned me to God, sweet nature, loving friends, 
 Christ's little children, well-worn ancient books. 
 
 The charm of Art, the rapture music sends ; 
 And sang away the grief that on man's lot attends. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 We beg leave to express our thanks to the diligent author of these Poems, for this 
 additional and highly valuable contribution to the treasures of American literature. 
 The prose writings of Dr. Bethune, by their remarkably pure and chaste language, 
 their depth and clearness of thought, their force and beauty of illustration, and by their 
 intelligent and elevated piety, have justly secured to him a place with the very best 
 authors of our land, whose works are destined to exert a wide-spread and most salutary 
 influence on the forming character and expanding mind of our growing republic. This 
 volume of his collected poetry, though it be, as the author observes in his beautiful 
 introductory sonnet, but the "gathered records of past hours," or the fruit of moments 
 of industrious relaxation from more severe labours, may without fear take its place by 
 the side of our best poetic productions ; and there are many pieces in it, which, for 
 accuracy of rhythm, for refined sentiment, energy of thought, flowing and lucid ex- 
 pression, and subduing pathos, are unsurpassed by any writer. 
 
 Exteriorly, and in the matters of paper and typography, this is an elegant volume, 
 and so far is a fitting casket for the gems it contains— for gems these beautiful poems 
 are, of "purest ray serene" — lustrous jewels — ornaments of purest virgin gold. 
 
 Many hallowed breathings will be found among the poems here collected — all distin- 
 guished by correct taste and refined feeling, rarely dazzling by gorgeous imagery, but 
 always charming by their purity and truthfulness to nature. — .AT. Y. Commercial. 
 
 The author of this volume has a gifted mind, improved by extensive education; a 
 •-hoerfnl temper, chastened by religion ; a sound taste, refined and improved by extensive 
 observation and much reading, and the gift of poetry. — J^orth .American. 
 
 The Volume before us contains much that is truly beautiful ; many gems that sparkle 
 with genius and feeling. They are imbued with the true spirit of poesy, and may bf 
 read again and again with pleasure. — Inquirer, 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON PUBLISH, 
 
 SCENES IN THE LIVES OF THE PATRIARCHS 
 AND PROPHETS ; 
 
 ACOMPANIONTOTHE 
 
 SCENES IN THE LIFE OF THE SAVIOUR AND THE APOSTLEa 
 
 EDITED BY THE REV. II. HASTINGS WELD. 
 
 BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 EIGHT ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL, BY SARTAIN. 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 Saul presenting his Daughter to David Painted by Woodforde. 
 
 A View of Hebron, Vignette Title-page. . .. « Bracebridge. 
 
 God's Covenant w^ith Noah " Rothermel. 
 
 Abraham Offering up Isaac ** WestalL 
 
 The Arrival of Rebekah « Schopin. 
 
 Jacob at the House of Laban •* Schopin. 
 
 Moses Smiting tlie Rock •* Murillo. 
 
 > Elijah Fed by Ravens «« Corbould. 
 
 With a choice Selection of Matter from the Writings of 
 
 Milton, Hemans, Wordsv^^orth, Crolt, Willis, Young, Sigournuy 
 
 Whittier, Howitt, Scott, Heber, Montgomert, Milman, 
 
 Hannah More, Watts, Dale, Tappan, and other 
 
 Eminent Writers of this and other Countries. 
 
 Handsomely bound in cloth gillf Turkey Morocco, or in while calf. 
 
 OPINIONS OP THE PRESS. 
 
 The character of the scenes represented, the pure and eloquent sacred poetry which 
 the work contains, render it a book peculiarly befitting presentation at that season when 
 the world is celebrating the birth of its Saviour. We hope this joint effort of the fH»ncil 
 and pen to render familiar the sacred scenes of the Old Testament, will meet the support 
 which it deserves from all lovers of the sacred volume.— CAnsfian Advocate and Journal. 
 
 We do but simple justice when we declare, that it has seldom fallen to our lot to 
 notice a book which possesses so many and such varied attractions. Mr. Weld has 
 gathered from the best writers the most beautiful of their works, in illustration of his 
 theme, and prepared for the reader a rich repast. We are assured that the volume before 
 us will, like those which preceded it, come acceptably before the public, and be a favourite 
 offering during the approacliing holiday season. — Graham's Magazine. 
 
 It is a handsome octavo, beautifully illustrated with engravings on steel, in Sartain'c 
 best manner. It is published in uniform style with "The Scenes in the Life of the - 
 Saviour," and is every way worthy to continue this fine series of scriptural works. 
 The literary portion of the volume is admirably chosen, embracing many of the most 
 distinguished names in America. As a work of art, it is a credit to the book-making 
 of our cowniry.— Boston Atlas. 
 
 f This is pre-eminently a book of beauty— printed in the best style, on the finest and 
 fkirest paper, and embellished with the richest specimens of the engraver's art. Its 
 contents comprise a choice selection from the writings of celebrated poets, illustrative 
 of the character, the countries, and of the times of the Patriarchs and Prophets. The 
 elevated spirit and character of the sacred poetry in this volume, as well as its surpass- 
 ing beauty, will render it peculiarly valuable as a present or an ornament for the parloul 
 table. — christian Observer. 
 
SCENES IN THE LIVES OF THE APOSTLES ; 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 CELEBRATED POETS AND PAINTERS. 
 
 EDITED DY 
 
 H. HASTINGS WELD. 
 Eight Illustrations, beautifully Engraved on Steel, by Sartaiu* 
 
 Christ's charge to Peter, bv Raphael ; 
 Peter and Jolm heahng the Lame Man at th9 
 Beautiful Gate of the Temple, b> Rapiiael; 
 Paul before Agrippa, by Sartain ; 
 Jolm on the Isle of Patmos, by Deoaine. 
 
 The Redeemer, painted by Decaine — Frontis- 
 piece ; 
 
 Antioch in Syria, by Harding— Vignette title ; 
 
 John reproving Herod, by Le Bruu ; 
 
 Christ, with his Disciples, weeping over Jerusa- 
 lem, by Begas ; 
 
 THE LITERARY CONTENTS CONSIST OP UPWARDS OF SEVENTY POEMS, BY 
 
 Bishop Fleber, Lowell, Keble, Hannah F. Gould, Clark, Mrs. 
 llemans, Mrs* Sigourney, Barton, Bryant, Miss Landon, Tap- 
 pan, Pierpont, Longfellow, Miss Davidson, Dale, Cros- 
 well, Percival, Bowring, and other celebrated Poets. 
 
 Beautifully bound, iri various styles, to match " Scenes in the Life 
 of the Saviour.^' 
 
 We do not know where we could find a more elegant and appropriate 
 present for a Christian friend. It will always have value. It is not one of 
 those ephemeral works which are read, looked at, and forgotten. Ii tells of 
 scenes dear to the hearts of Christians, which must ever find there an abiding 
 place. — Baniier of the Cross. 
 
 Here is truly a beautiful volume, admirable in design, and perfect in its 
 execution. I'he editor, with a refined taste, and a loving appreciation of 
 Scripture history, has selected some of the best writings of ancient and modern 
 authors in illustration of various scenes in the Lives of the Apostles, whilst 
 his own facile pen has given us in prose a series of excellent contributions. 
 The lyre of Ileber seems to vibrate again as we turn over its pages ; and 
 Keble, Jenner, Cowper, Herrick, Bernard, Barton, and a brilliiint host of 
 glowing writers, shine again by the light of Christian truth, and the beaming 
 effulgence of a pure religion. It is an elegant and appropriate volume for a 
 Christmas gift. — Transcript. 
 
 The exterior is novel and beautiful ; the typography is in the highest style 
 of the art; and the engravings, nine in number, are among the best eflxjrta 
 of Mr. Sartain. The prose articles contributed by the editor are well written ; 
 and the poetical selections are made with judgment. The volume is a worthy 
 companion of " Scenes in the Life of the Saviour," and both are much more 
 worthy of Christian patronage than the great mass of annuals. — Presbyterian. 
 
 The above volumes are among the most elegant specimens from the 
 American press. In neatness and chasteness of execution, they are perhaps 
 unsurpassed. The engravings are of the highest order; and illustrate most 
 strikingly, and with great beauty, some of the most sublime and the most 
 touching Scripture scenes. They also contain some of the richest specimens 
 of Sacred Poetry, whose subject and style are such as deeply to interest the 
 imagination, and at the same time to make the heart better. We hope the 
 Christian's table, at least, may be adorned with the volumes above mentioned, 
 and such as these. — New England Puritan. 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 
 
 HAVE RECENTLY PUBLISHED, 
 
 SCENES IN THE LIFE OF THE SAVIOURj 
 
 BY THE 
 
 POETS AND PAINTERS: 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 MAxrir OHMS of art axtd aszrius, 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE OP 
 
 THE SAVIOUR'S LIFE AND PASSION. 
 
 EDITED BY THE 
 
 REV. RUFUS GRISWOLD. 
 
 THE ILLUSTRATIONS, WHICH ARE EXQUISITELY ENGRAVED ON STEEL, 
 BY JOHN SARTAIN, ARE : 
 
 The Holy Family, painted by N. Poussin ; 
 The S:tviour, bv Paul Hebiroche ; 
 Christ by the Well of Sychar, by Emeli© Signol ; 
 I'he Daughter uf Jariuii, by Deloime ; 
 
 Walking on the Sea. by Henry Richter | 
 The Ten Lepers, by A. Vamlyke : 
 Tlie Last Sui»per, by Benjmiiiii Vvest ; 
 The Woiueu at the Sepulchre, by Philip Viet. 
 
 THE LITERARY CONTENTS, COMPRISING SIXTY-FOUR POEMS, ARE BY 
 
 Uliltony Heinans^ Montgomery) Keble^ Mrg* Sigonrney, 9Ilss Ijan* 
 
 don. Dale, Willis, Bulftnch, Bethune, Longfellow, Wliittier, 
 
 Croly, Klopstock, Mrs* Osgood, Pierpont, Crosiswell, and 
 
 other celebrated Poets of tliis and other Countries* 
 
 The volume is richly and beautifully bound in Turkey Morocco, gilt, white 
 calf extra, or embossed cloth, gilt edges, sides and back. 
 
 We commend this volume to the attention of those who would place a 
 Souvenir in the hands of their friends, to invite them in the purest strains ot 
 poetry, and by the eloquence of art, to study the Life of the Saviour. — Christ. Obs, 
 
 The contents are so arranged as to constitute a Poetical and Pictorial Life 
 of the Saviour, and we can think of no more appropriate gift- book. In typo- 
 graphy, embellishments, and binding, we have recently seen nothing more 
 tasteful and rich. — North American. 
 
 We like this book, as well for its beauty as for its elevated character. It 
 is just such an one as is suited, either for a library, or a parlour centre-table ; 
 and no one can arise from its perusal without feeling strongly the subhmiiy 
 Hud enduring character of the Christian religion. — Harrishurg Telegraph. 
 
 This is truly a splendid volume in all its externals, while its contents are 
 richly worthy of the magnificent style in which they are presented. As illus- 
 trations of the Life and Passion of the Saviour of mankind, it will form an 
 appropriate Souvenir for the season in which we commemorate his coming 
 upon earth. — Neal's Gazette, 
 
 1 
 
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