{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_6881/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_6881","id":"gutenberg_6881","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6881","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Crime, Thrillers and Mystery","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Opium abuse -- England"],"text":"Produced by Anne Soulard, Charles Franks\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NOTE BOOK OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER.\n\nBY\nTHOMAS DE QUINCEY.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nTHREE MEMORABLE MURDERS\nTRUE RELATIONS OF THE BIBLE TO MERELY HUMAN SCIENCE\nLITERARY HISTORY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY\nTHE ANTIGONE OF SOPHOCLES\nTHE MARQUESS WELLESLEY\nMILTON _vs._ SOUTHEY AND LANDOR\nFALSIFICATION OF ENGLISH HISTORY\nA PERIPATETIC PHILOSOPHER\nON SUICIDE\nSUPERFICIAL KNOWLEDGE\nENGLISH DICTIONARIES\nDRYDEN'S HEXASTICH\nPOPE'S RETORT UPON ADDISON\n\n\n\n\nTHREE MEMORABLE MURDERS.\n\nA SEQUEL TO 'MURDER CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE FINE ARTS.' [1]\n\n[1854.]\n\n\nIt is impossible to conciliate readers of so saturnine and gloomy a class,\nthat they cannot enter with genial sympathy into any gaiety whatever, but,\nleast of all, when the gaiety trespasses a little into the province of the\nextravagant. In such a case, not to sympathize is not to understand; and\nthe playfulness, which is not relished, becomes flat and insipid, or\nabsolutely without meaning. Fortunately, after all such churls have\nwithdrawn from my audience in high displeasure, there remains a large\nmajority who are loud in acknowledging the amusement which they have\nderived from a former paper of mine, 'On Murder considered as one of the\nFine Arts;' at the same time proving the sincerity of their praise by one\nhesitating expression of censure. Repeatedly they have suggested to me,\nthat perhaps the extravagance, though clearly intentional, and forming one\nelement in the general gaiety of the conception, went too far. I am not\nmyself of that opinion; and I beg to remind these friendly censors, that\nit is amongst the direct purposes and efforts of this _bagatelle_ to\ngraze the brink of horror, and of all that would in actual realization be\nmost repulsive. The very excess of the extravagance, in fact, by\nsuggesting to the reader continually the mere aeriality of the entire\nspeculation, furnishes the surest means of disenchanting him from the\nhorror which might else gather upon his feelings. Let me remind such\nobjectors, once for all, of Dean Swift's proposal for turning to account\nthe supernumerary infants of the three kingdoms, which, in those days,\nboth at Dublin and at London, were provided for in foundling hospitals, by\ncooking and eating them. This was an extravaganza, though really bolder\nand more coarsely practical than mine, which did not provoke any\nreproaches even to a dignitary of the supreme Irish church; its own\nmonstrosity was its excuse; mere extravagance was felt to license and\naccredit the little _jeu d'esprit_, precisely as the blank impossibilities\nof Lilliput, of Laputa, of the Yahoos, &c., had licensed those. If,\ntherefore, any man thinks it worth his while to tilt against so mere a\nfoam-bubble of gaiety as this lecture on the aesthetics of murder, I\nshelter myself for the moment under the Telamonian shield of the Dean.\nBut, in reality, my own little paper may plead a privileged excuse for its\nextravagance, such as is altogether wanting to the Dean's. Nobody can\npretend, for a moment, on behalf of the Dean, that there is any ordinary\nand natural tendency in human thoughts, which could ever turn to infants\nas articles of diet; under any conceivable circumstances, this would be\nfelt as the most aggravated form of cannibalism--cannibalism applying\nitself to the most defenceless part of the species. But, on the other\nhand, the tendency to a critical or aesthetic valuation of fires and\nmurders is universal. If you are summoned to the spectacle of a great\nfire, undoubtedly the first impulse is--to assist in putting it out. But\nthat field of exertion is very limited, and is soon filled by regular\nprofessional people, trained and equipped for the service. In the case of\na fire which is operating upon _private_ property, pity for a neighbor's\ncalamity checks us at first in treating the affair as a scenic spectacle.\nBut perhaps the fire may be confined to public buildings. And in any case,\nafter we have paid our tribute of regret to the affair, considered as a\ncalamity, inevitably, and without restraint, we go on to consider it as a\nstage spectacle. Exclamations of--How grand! How magnificent! arise in a\nsort of rapture from the crowd. For instance, when Drury Lane was burned\ndown in the first decennium of this century, the falling in of the roof\nwas signalized by a mimic suicide of the protecting Apollo that surmounted\nand crested the centre of this roof. The god was stationary with his lyre,\nand seemed looking down upon the fiery ruins that were so rapidly\napproaching him. Suddenly the supporting timbers below him gave way; a\nconvulsive heave of the billowing flames seemed for a moment to raise the\nstatue; and then, as if on some impulse of despair, the presiding deity\nappeared not to fall, but to throw himself into the fiery deluge, for he\nwent down head foremost; and in all respects, the descent had the air of a\nvoluntary act. What followed? From every one of the bridges over the\nriver, and from other open areas which commanded the spectacle, there\narose a sustained uproar of admiration and sympathy. Some few years before\nthis event, a prodigious fire occurred at Liverpool; the _Goree_, a vast\npile of warehouses close to one of the docks, was burned to the ground.\nThe huge edifice, eight or nine stories high, and laden with most\ncombustible goods, many thousand bales of cotton, wheat and oats in\nthousands of quarters, tar, turpentine, rum, gunpowder, &c., continued\nthrough many hours of darkness to feed this tremendous fire. To\naggravate the calamity, it blew a regular gale of wind; luckily for the\nshipping, it blew inland, that is, to the east; and all the way down to\nWarrington, eighteen miles distant to the eastward, the whole air was\nilluminated by flakes of cotton, often saturated with rum, and by what\nseemed absolute worlds of blazing sparks, that lighted up all the upper\nchambers of the air. All the cattle lying abroad in the fields through a\nbreadth of eighteen miles, were thrown into terror and agitation. Men, of\ncourse, read in this hurrying overhead of scintillating and blazing\nvortices, the annunciation of some gigantic calamity going on in\nLiverpool; and the lamentation on that account was universal. But that\nmood of public sympathy did not at all interfere to suppress or even to\ncheck the momentary bursts of rapturous admiration, as this arrowy sleet\nof many-colored fire rode on the wings of hurricane, alternately through\nopen depths of air, or through dark clouds overhead.\n\nPrecisely the same treatment is applied to murders. After the first\ntribute of sorrow to those who have perished, but, at all events, after\nthe personal interests have been tranquillized by time, inevitably the\nscenical features (what aesthetically may be called the comparative\n_advantages_) of the several murders are reviewed and valued. One\nmurder is compared with another; and the circumstances of superiority, as,\nfor example, in the incidence and effects of surprise, of mystery, &c.,\nare collated and appraised. I, therefore, for _my_ extravagance, claim an\ninevitable and perpetual ground in the spontaneous tendencies of the human\nmind when left to itself. But no one will pretend that any corresponding\nplea can be advanced on behalf of Swift.\n\nIn this important distinction between myself and the Dean, lies one reason\nwhich prompted the present writing. A second purpose of this paper is, to\nmake the reader acquainted circumstantially with three memorable cases of\nmurder, which long ago the voice of amateurs has crowned with laurel, but\nespecially with the two earliest of the three, viz., the immortal\nWilliams' murders of 1812. The act and the actor are each separately in\nthe highest degree interesting; and, as forty-two years have elapsed since\n1812, it cannot be supposed that either is known circumstantially to the\nmen of the current generation.\n\nNever, throughout the annals of universal Christendom, has there indeed\nbeen any act of one solitary insulated individual, armed with power so\nappalling over the hearts of men, as that exterminating murder, by which,\nduring the winter of 1812, John Williams in one hour, smote two houses\nwith emptiness, exterminated all but two entire households, and asserted\nhis own supremacy above all the children of Cain. It would be absolutely\nimpossible adequately to describe the frenzy of feelings which, throughout\nthe next fortnight, mastered the popular heart; the mere delirium of\nindignant horror in some, the mere delirium of panic in others. For twelve\nsucceeding days, under some groundless notion that the unknown murderer\nhad quitted London, the panic which had convulsed the mighty metropolis\ndiffused itself all over the island. I was myself at that time nearly\nthree hundred miles from London; but there, and everywhere, the panic was\nindescribable. One lady, my next neighbor, whom personally I knew, living\nat the moment, during the absence of her husband, with a few servants in a\nvery solitary house, never rested until she had placed eighteen doors (so\nshe told me, and, indeed, satisfied me by ocular proof), each secured by\nponderous bolts, and bars, and chains, between her own bedroom and any\nintruder of human build. To reach her, even in her drawing-room, was like\ngoing, as a flag of truce, into a beleaguered fortress; at every sixth\nstep one was stopped by a sort of portcullis. The panic was not confined\nto the rich; women in the humblest ranks more than once died upon the\nspot, from the shock attending some suspicious attempts at intrusion upon\nthe part of vagrants, meditating probably nothing worse than a robbery,\nbut whom the poor women, misled by the London newspapers, had fancied to\nbe the dreadful London murderer. Meantime, this solitary artist, that\nrested in the centre of London, self-supported by his own conscious\ngrandeur, as a domestic Attila, or 'scourge of God;' this man, that walked\nin darkness, and relied upon murder (as afterwards transpired) for bread,\nfor clothes, for promotion in life, was silently preparing an effectual\nanswer to the public journals; and on the twelfth day after his inaugural\nmurder, he advertised his presence in London, and published to all men the\nabsurdity of ascribing to _him_ any ruralizing propensities, by striking a\nsecond blow, and accomplishing a second family extermination. Somewhat\nlightened was the _provincial_ panic by this proof that the murderer had\nnot condescended to sneak into the country, or to abandon for a moment,\nunder any motive of caution or fear, the great metropolitan _castra\nstativa_ of gigantic crime, seated for ever on the Thames. In fact, the\ngreat artist disdained a provincial reputation; and he must have felt, as\na case of ludicrous disproportion, the contrast between a country town or\nvillage, on the one hand, and, on the other, a work more lasting than\nbrass--a [Greek: _chtaema es aei_]--a murder such in quality as any murder\nthat _he_ would condescend to own for a work turned out from his own\n_studio_.\n\nColeridge, whom I saw some months after these terrific murders, told me,\nthat, for _his_ part, though at the time resident in London, he had\nnot shared in the prevailing panic; _him_ they effected only as a\nphilosopher, and threw him into a profound reverie upon the tremendous\npower which is laid open in a moment to any man who can reconcile himself\nto the abjuration of all conscientious restraints, if, at the same time,\nthoroughly without fear. Not sharing in the public panic, however,\nColeridge did not consider that panic at all unreasonable; for, as he said\nmost truly in that vast metropolis there are many thousands of households,\ncomposed exclusively of women and children; many other thousands there are\nwho necessarily confide their safety, in the long evenings, to the\ndiscretion of a young servant girl; and if she suffers herself to be\nbeguiled by the pretence of a message from her mother, sister, or\nsweetheart, into opening the door, there, in one second of time, goes to\nwreck the security of the house. However, at that time, and for many\nmonths afterwards, the practice of steadily putting the chain upon the\ndoor before it was opened prevailed generally, and for a long time served\nas a record of that deep impression left upon London by Mr. Williams.\nSouthey, I may add, entered deeply into the public feeling on this\noccasion, and said to me, within a week or two of the first murder, that\nit was a private event of that order which rose to the dignity of a\nnational event. [2] But now, having prepared the reader to appreciate on\nits true scale this dreadful tissue of murder (which as a record belonging\nto an era that is now left forty-two years behind us, not one person in\nfour of this generation can be expected to know correctly), let me pass to\nthe circumstantial details of the affair.\n\nYet, first of all, one word as to the local scene of the murders.\nRatcliffe Highway is a public thoroughfare in a most chaotic quarter of\neastern or nautical London; and at this time (viz., in 1812), when no\nadequate police existed except the _detective_ police of Bow Street,\nadmirable for its own peculiar purposes, but utterly incommensurate to the\ngeneral service of the capital, it was a most dangerous quarter. Every\nthird man at the least might be set down as a foreigner. Lascars, Chinese,\nMoors, Negroes, were met at every step. And apart from the manifold\nruffianism, shrouded impenetrably under the mixed hats and turbans of men\nwhose past was untraceable to any European eye, it is well known that the\nnavy (especially, in time of war, the commercial navy) of Christendom is\nthe sure receptacle of all the murderers and ruffians whose crimes have\ngiven them a motive for withdrawing themselves for a season from the\npublic eye. It is true, that few of this class are qualified to act as\n'able' seamen: but at all times, and especially during war, only a small\nproportion (or _nucleus_) of each ship's company consists of such men: the\nlarge majority being mere untutored landsmen. John Williams, however, who\nhad been occasionally rated as a seaman on board of various Indiamen, &c.,\nwas probably a very accomplished seaman. Pretty generally, in fact, he was\na ready and adroit man, fertile in resources under all sudden\ndifficulties, and most flexibly adapting himself to all varieties of\nsocial life. Williams was a man of middle stature (five feet seven and\na-half, to five feet eight inches high), slenderly built, rather thin, but\nwiry, tolerably muscular, and clear of all superfluous flesh. A lady, who\nsaw him under examination (I think at the Thames Police Office), assured\nme that his hair was of the most extraordinary and vivid color, viz.,\nbright yellow, something between an orange and lemon color. Williams had\nbeen in India; chiefly in Bengal and Madras: but he had also been upon the\nIndus. Now, it is notorious that, in the Punjaub, horses of a high caste\nare often painted--crimson, blue, green, purple; and it struck me that\nWilliams might, for some casual purpose of disguise, have taken a hint\nfrom this practice of Scinde and Lahore, so that the color might not have\nbeen natural. In other respects, his appearance was natural enough; and,\njudging by a plaster cast of him, which I purchased in London, I should\nsay mean, as regarded his facial structure. One fact, however, was\nstriking, and fell in with the impression of his natural tiger character,\nthat his face wore at all times a bloodless ghastly pallor. 'You might\nimagine,' said my informant, 'that in his veins circulated not red life-\nblood, such as could kindle into the blush of shame, of wrath, of pity--\nbut a green sap that welled from no human heart.' His eyes seemed frozen\nand glazed, as if their light were all converged upon some victim lurking\nin the far background. So far his appearance might have repelled; but, on\nthe other hand, the concurrent testimony of many witnesses, and also the\nsilent testimony of facts, showed that the oiliness and snaky insinuation\nof his demeanor counteracted the repulsiveness of his ghastly face, and\namongst inexperienced young women won for him a very favorable reception.\nIn particular, one gentle-mannered girl, whom Williams had undoubtedly\ndesigned to murder, gave in evidence--that once, when sitting alone with\nher, he had said, 'Now, Miss R., supposing that I should appear about\nmidnight at your bedside, armed with a carving knife, what would you say?'\nTo which the confiding girl had, replied, 'Oh, Mr. Williams, if it was\nanybody else, I should be frightened. But, as soon as I heard _your_\nvoice, I should be tranquil.' Poor girl! had this outline sketch of Mr.\nWilliams been filled in and realized, she would have seen something in the\ncorpse-like face, and heard something in the sinister voice, that would\nhave unsettled her tranquillity for ever. But nothing short of such\ndreadful experiences could avail to unmask Mr. John Williams.\n\nInto this perilous region it was that, on a Saturday night in December,\nMr. Williams, whom we suppose to have long since made his _coup d'essai_,\nforced his way through the crowded streets, bound on business. To say, was\nto do. And this night he had said to himself secretly, that he would\nexecute a design which he had already sketched, and which, when finished,\nwas destined on the following day to strike consternation into 'all that\nmighty heart' of London, from centre to circumference. It was afterwards\nremembered that he had quitted his lodgings on this dark errand about\neleven o'clock P. M.; not that he meant to begin so soon: but he needed to\nreconnoitre. He carried his tools closely buttoned up under his loose\nroomy coat. It was in harmony with the general subtlety of his character,\nand his polished hatred of brutality, that by universal agreement his\nmanners were distinguished for exquisite suavity: the tiger's heart was\nmasked by the most insinuating and snaky refinement. All his acquaintances\nafterwards described his dissimulation as so ready and so perfect, that\nif, in making his way through the streets, always so crowded on a Saturday\nnight in neighborhoods so poor, he had accidentally jostled any person, he\nwould (as they were all satisfied) have stopped to offer the most\ngentlemanly apologies: with his devilish heart brooding over the most\nhellish of purposes, he would yet have paused to express a benign hope\nthat the huge mallet, buttoned up under his elegant surtout, with a view\nto the little business that awaited him about ninety minutes further on,\nhad not inflicted any pain on the stranger with whom he had come into\ncollision. Titian, I believe, but certainly Rubens, and perhaps Vandyke,\nmade it a rule never to practise his art but in full dress--point ruffles,\nbag wig, and diamond-hilted sword; and Mr. Williams, there is reason to\nbelieve, when he went out for a grand compound massacre (in another sense,\none might have applied to it the Oxford phrase of _going out as Grand\nCompounder_), always assumed black silk stockings and pumps; nor would he\non any account have degraded his position as an artist by wearing a\nmorning gown. In his second great performance, it was particularly noticed\nand recorded by the one sole trembling man, who under killing agonies of\nfear was compelled (as the reader will find) from a secret stand to become\nthe solitary spectator of his atrocities, that Mr. Williams wore a long\nblue frock, of the very finest cloth, and richly lined with silk. Amongst\nthe anecdotes which circulated about him, it was also said at the time,\nthat Mr. Williams employed the first of dentists, and also the first of\nchiropodists. On no account would he patronize any second-rate skill. And\nbeyond a doubt, in that perilous little branch of business which was\npractised by himself, he might be regarded as the most aristocratic and\nfastidious of artists.\n\nBut who meantime was the victim, to whose abode he was hurrying? For\nsurely he never could be so indiscreet as to be sailing about on a roving\ncruise in search of some chance person to murder? Oh, no: he had suited\nhimself with a victim some time before, viz., an old and very intimate\nfriend. For he seems to have laid it down as a maxim--that the best person\nto murder was a friend; and, in default of a friend, which is an article\none cannot always command, an acquaintance: because, in either case, on\nfirst approaching his subject, suspicion would be disarmed: whereas a\nstranger might take alarm, and find in the very countenance of his\nmurderer elect a warning summons to place himself on guard. However, in\nthe present ease, his destined victim was supposed to unite both\ncharacters: originally he had been a friend; but subsequently, on good\ncause arising, he had become an enemy. Or more probably, as others said,\nthe feelings had long since languished which gave life to either relation\nof friendship or of enmity. Marr was the name of that unhappy man, who\n(whether in the character of friend or enemy) had been selected for the\nsubject of this present Saturday night's performance. And the story\ncurrent at that time about the connection between Williams and Marr,\nhaving (whether true or not true) never been contradicted upon authority,\nwas, that they sailed in the same Indiaman to Calcutta; that they had\nquarrelled when at sea; but another version of the story said--no: they\nhad quarrelled after returning from sea; and the subject of their quarrel\nwas Mrs. Marr, a very pretty young woman, for whose favor they had been\nrival candidates, and at one time with most bitter enmity towards each\nother. Some circumstances give a color of probability to this story.\nOtherwise it has sometimes happened, on occasion of a murder not\nsufficiently accounted for, that, from pure goodness of heart intolerant\nof a mere sordid motive for a striking murder, some person has forged, and\nthe public has accredited, a story representing the murderer as having\nmoved under some loftier excitement: and in this case the public, too much\nshocked at the idea of Williams having on the single motive of gain\nconsummated so complex a tragedy, welcomed the tale which represented him\nas governed by deadly malice, growing out of the more impassioned and\nnoble rivalry for the favor of a woman. The case remains in some degree\ndoubtful; but, certainly, the probability is, that Mrs. Marr had been the\ntrue cause, the _causa teterrima_, of the feud between the men. Meantime,\nthe minutes are numbered, the sands of the hour-glass are running out,\nthat measure the duration of this feud upon earth. This night it shall\ncease. To-morrow is the day which in England they call Sunday, which in\nScotland they call by the Judaic name of 'Sabbath.' To both nations, under\ndifferent names, the day has the same functions; to both it is a day of\nrest. For thee also, Marr, it shall be a day of rest; so is it written;\nthou, too, young Marr, shalt find rest--thou, and thy household, and the\nstranger that is within thy gates. But that rest must be in the world\nwhich lies beyond the grave. On this side the grave ye have all slept your\nfinal sleep.\n\nThe night was one of exceeding darkness; and in this humble quarter of\nLondon, whatever the night happened to be, light or dark, quiet or stormy,\nall shops were kept open on Saturday nights until twelve o'clock, at the\nleast, and many for half an hour longer. There was no rigorous and\npedantic Jewish superstition about the exact limits of Sunday. At the very\nworst, the Sunday stretched over from one o'clock, A. M. of one day, up to\neight o'clock A. M. of the next, making a clear circuit of thirty-one\nhours. This, surely, was long enough. Marr, on this particular Saturday\nnight, would be content if it were even shorter, provided it would come\nmore quickly, for he has been toiling through sixteen hours behind his\ncounter. Marr's position in life was this: he kept a little hosier's shop,\nand had invested in his stock and the fittings of his shop about 180\npounds. Like all men engaged in trade, he suffered some anxieties. He was\na new beginner; but, already, bad debts had alarmed him; and bills were\ncoming to maturity that were not likely to be met by commensurate sales.\nYet, constitutionally, he was a sanguine hoper. At this time he was a\nstout, fresh-colored young man of twenty-seven; in some slight degree\nuneasy from his commercial prospects, but still cheerful, and\nanticipating--(how vainly!)--that for this night, and the next night, at\nleast, he will rest his wearied head and his cares upon the faithful bosom\nof his sweet lovely young wife. The household of Marr, consisting of five\npersons, is as follows: First, there is himself, who, if he should happen\nto be ruined, in a limited commercial sense, has energy enough to jump up\nagain, like a pyramid of fire, and soar high above ruin many times\nrepeated. Yes, poor Marr, so it might be, if thou wert left to thy native\nenergies unmolested; but even now there stands on the other side of the\nstreet one born of hell, who puts his peremptory negative on all these\nflattering prospects. Second in the list of his household, stands his\npretty and amiable wife, who is happy after the fashion of youthful wives,\nfor she is only twenty-two, and anxious (if at all) only on account of her\ndarling infant. For, thirdly, there is in a cradle, not quite nine feet\nbelow the street, viz., in a warm, cosy kitchen, and rocked at intervals\nby the young mother, a baby eight months old. Nineteen months have Marr\nand herself been married; and this is their first-born child. Grieve not\nfor this child, that it must keep the deep rest of Sunday in some other\nworld; for wherefore should an orphan, steeped to the lips in poverty,\nwhen once bereaved of father and mother, linger upon an alien and\nmurderous earth? Fourthly, there is a stoutish boy, an apprentice, say\nthirteen years old; a Devonshire boy, with handsome features, such as most\nDevonshire youths have; [3] satisfied with his place; not overworked;\ntreated kindly, and aware that he was treated kindly, by his master and\nmistress. Fifthly, and lastly, bringing up the rear of this quiet\nhousehold, is a servant girl, a grown-up young woman; and she, being\nparticularly kind-hearted, occupied (as often happens in families of\nhumble pretensions as to rank) a sort of sisterly place in her relation to\nher mistress. A great democratic change is at this very time (1854), and\nhas been for twenty years, passing over British society. Multitudes of\npersons are becoming ashamed of saying, 'my master,' or 'my mistress:' the\nterm now in the slow process of superseding it is, 'my employer.' Now, in\nthe United States, such an expression of democratic hauteur, though\ndisagreeable as a needless proclamation of independence which nobody is\ndisputing, leaves, however, no lasting bad effect. For the domestic\n'helps' are pretty generally in a state of transition so sure and so rapid\nto the headship of domestic establishments belonging to themselves, that\nin effect they are but ignoring, for the present moment, a relation which\nwould at any rate dissolve itself in a year or two. But in England, where\nno such resources exist of everlasting surplus lands, the tendency of the\nchange is painful. It carries with it a sullen and a coarse expression of\nimmunity from a yoke which was in any case a light one, and often a benign\none. In some other place I will illustrate my meaning. Here, apparently,\nin Mrs. Marr's service, the principle concerned illustrated itself\npractically. Mary, the female servant, felt a sincere and unaffected\nrespect for a mistress whom she saw so steadily occupied with her domestic\nduties, and who, though so young, and invested with some slight authority,\nnever exerted it capriciously, or even showed it at all conspiciously.\nAccording to the testimony of all the neighbors, she treated her mistress\nwith a shade of unobtrusive respect on the one hand, and yet was eager to\nrelieve her, whenever that was possible, from the weight of her maternal\nduties, with the cheerful voluntary service of a sister.\n\nTo this young woman it was, that, suddenly, within three or four minutes\nof midnight, Marr called aloud from the head of the stairs--directing her\nto go out and purchase some oysters for the family supper. Upon what\nslender accidents hang oftentimes solemn lifelong results! Marr occupied\nin the concerns of his shop, Mrs. Marr occupied with some little ailment\nand restlessness of her baby, had both forgotten the affair of supper; the\ntime was now narrowing every moment, as regarded any variety of choice;\nand oysters were perhaps ordered as the likeliest article to be had at\nall, after twelve o'clock should have struck. And yet, upon this trivial\ncircumstance depended Mary's life. Had she been sent abroad for supper at\nthe ordinary time of ten or eleven o'clock, it is almost certain that she,\nthe solitary member of the household who escaped from the exterminating\ntragedy, would _not_ have escaped; too surely she would have shared\nthe general fate. It had now become necessary to be quick. Hastily,\ntherefore, receiving money from Marr with a basket in her hand, but\nunbonneted, Mary tripped out of the shop. It became afterwards, on\nrecollection, a heart-chilling remembrance to herself--that, precisely as\nshe emerged from the shop-door, she noticed, on the opposite side of the\nstreet, by the light of the lamps, a man's figure; stationary at the\ninstant, but in the next instant slowly moving. This was Williams; as a\nlittle incident, either just before or just after (at present it is\nimpossible to say which), sufficiently proved. Now, when one considers the\ninevitable hurry and trepidation of Mary under the circumstances stated,\ntime barely sufficing for any chance of executing her errand, it becomes\nevident that she must have connected some deep feeling of mysterious\nuneasiness with the movements of this unknown man; else, assuredly, she\nwould not have found her attention disposable for such a case. Thus far,\nshe herself threw some little light upon what it might be that, semi-\nconsciously, was then passing through her mind; she said, that,\nnotwithstanding the darkness, which would not permit her to trace the\nman's features, or to ascertain the exact direction of his eyes, it yet\nstruck her, that from his carriage when in motion, and from the apparent\ninclination of his person, he must be looking at No. 29.\n\nThe little incident which I have alluded to as confirming Mary's belief\nwas, that, at some period not very far from midnight, the watchman had\nspecially noticed this stranger; he had observed him continually peeping\ninto the window of Marr's shop; and had thought this act, connected with\nthe man's appearance, so suspicious, that he stepped into Marr's shop, and\ncommunicated what he had seen. This fact he afterwards stated before the\nmagistrates; and he added, that subsequently, viz., a few minutes after\ntwelve (eight or ten minutes, probably, after the departure of Mary), he\n(the watchman), when re-entering upon his ordinary half-hourly beat, was\nrequested by Marr to assist him in closing the shutters. Here they had a\nfinal communication with each other; and the watchman mentioned to Marr\nthat the mysterious stranger had now apparently taken himself off; for\nthat he had not been visible since the first communication made to Marr by\nthe watchman. There is little doubt that Williams had observed the\nwatchman's visit to Marr, and had thus had his attention seasonably drawn\nto the indiscretion of his own demeanor; so that the warning, given\nunavailingly to Marr, had been turned to account by Williams. There can be\nstill less doubt, that the bloodhound had commenced his work within one\nminute of the watchman's assisting Marr to put up his shutters. And on the\nfollowing consideration:--that which prevented Williams from commencing\neven earlier, was the exposure of the shop's whole interior to the gaze of\nstreet passengers. It was indispensable that the shutters should be\naccurately closed before Williams could safely get to work. But, as soon\nas ever this preliminary precaution had been completed, once having\nsecured that concealment from the public eye it then became of still\ngreater importance not to lose a moment by delay, than previously it had\nbeen not to hazard any thing by precipitance. For all depended upon going\nin before Marr should have locked the door. On any other mode of effecting\nan entrance (as, for instance, by waiting for the return of Mary, and\nmaking his entrance simultaneously with her), it will be seen that\nWilliams must have forfeited that particular advantage which mute facts,\nwhen read into their true construction, will soon show the reader that he\nmust have employed. Williams waited, of necessity, for the sound of the\nwatchman's retreating steps; waited, perhaps, for thirty seconds; but when\nthat danger was past, the next danger was, lest Marr should lock the door;\none turn of the key, and the murderer would have been locked out. In,\ntherefore, he bolted, and by a dexterous movement of his left hand, no\ndoubt, turned the key, without letting Marr perceive this fatal stratagem.\nIt is really wonderful and most interesting to pursue the successive steps\nof this monster, and to notice the absolute certainty with which the\nsilent hieroglyphics of the case betray to us the whole process and\nmovements of the bloody drama, not less surely and fully than if we had\nbeen ourselves hidden in Marr's shop, or had looked down from the heavens\nof mercy upon this hell-kite, that knew not what mercy meant. That he had\nconcealed from Marr his trick, secret and rapid, upon the lock, is\nevident; because else, Marr would instantly have taken the alarm,\nespecially after what the watchman had communicated. But it will soon be\nseen that Marr had _not_ been alarmed. In reality, towards the full\nsuccess of Williams, it was important, in the last degree, to intercept\nand forestall any yell or shout of agony from Marr. Such an outcry, and in\na situation so slenderly fenced off from the street, viz., by walls the\nvery thinnest, makes itself heard outside pretty nearly as well as if it\nwere uttered in the street. Such an outcry it was indispensable to stifle.\nIt _was_ stifled; and the reader will soon understand _how_. Meantime, at\nthis point, let us leave the murderer alone with his victims. For fifty\nminutes let him work his pleasure. The front-door, as we know, is now\nfastened against all help. Help there is none. Let us, therefore, in\nvision, attach ourselves to Mary; and, when all is over, let us come\nback with _her_, again raise the curtain, and read the dreadful\nrecord of all that has passed in her absence.\n\nThe poor girl, uneasy in her mind to an extent that she could but half\nunderstand, roamed up and down in search of an oyster shop; and finding\nnone that was still open, within any circuit that her ordinary experience\nhad made her acquainted with, she fancied it best to try the chances of\nsome remoter district. Lights she saw gleaming or twinkling at a distance,\nthat still tempted her onwards; and thus, amongst unknown streets poorly\nlighted, [4] and on a night of peculiar darkness, and in a region of\nLondon where ferocious tumults were continually turning her out of what\nseemed to be the direct course, naturally she got bewildered. The purpose\nwith which she started, had by this time become hopeless. Nothing remained\nfor her now but to retrace her steps. But this was difficult; for she was\nafraid to ask directions from chance passengers, whose appearance the\ndarkness prevented her from reconnoitring. At length by his lantern she\nrecognized a watchman; through him she was guided into the right road; and\nin ten minutes more, she found herself back at the door of No. 29, in\nRatcliffe Highway. But by this time she felt satisfied that she must have\nbeen absent for fifty or sixty minutes; indeed, she had heard, at a\ndistance, the cry of _past one o'clock_, which, commencing a few seconds\nafter one, lasted intermittingly for ten or thirteen minutes.\n\nIn the tumult of agonizing thoughts that very soon surprised her,\nnaturally it became hard for her to recall distinctly the whole succession\nof doubts, and jealousies, and shadowy misgivings that soon opened upon\nher. But, so far as could be collected, she had not in the first moment of\nreaching home noticed anything decisively alarming. In very many cities\nbells are the main instruments for communicating between the street and\nthe interior of houses: but in London knockers prevail. At Marr's there\nwas both a knocker and a bell. Mary rang, and at the same time very gently\nknocked. She had no fear of disturbing her master or mistress; _them_\nshe made sure of finding still up. Her anxiety was for the baby, who being\ndisturbed, might again rob her mistress of a night's rest. And she well\nknew that, with three people all anxiously awaiting her return, and by\nthis time, perhaps, seriously uneasy at her delay, the least audible\nwhisper from herself would in a moment bring one of them to the door. Yet\nhow is this? To her astonishment, but with the astonishment came creeping\nover her an icy horror, no stir nor murmur was heard ascending from the\nkitchen. At this moment came back upon her, with shuddering anguish, the\nindistinct image of the stranger in the loose dark coat, whom she had seen\nstealing along under the shadowy lamp-light, and too certainly watching\nher master's motions: keenly she now reproached herself that, under\nwhatever stress of hurry, she had not acquainted Mr. Marr with the\nsuspicious appearances. Poor girl! she did not then know that, if this\ncommunication could have availed to put Marr upon his guard, it had\nreached him from another quarter; so that her own omission, which had in\nreality arisen under her hurry to execute her master's commission, could\nnot be charged with any bad consequences. But all such reflections this\nway or that were swallowed up at this point in over-mastering panic. That\nher double summons _could_ have been unnoticed--this solitary fact in\none moment made a revelation of horror. One person might have fallen\nasleep, but two--but three--_that_ was a mere impossibility. And even\nsupposing all three together with the baby locked in sleep, still how\nunaccountable was this utter--utter silence! Most naturally at this moment\nsomething like hysterical horror overshadowed the poor girl, and now at\nlast she rang the bell with the violence that belongs to sickening terror.\nThis done, she paused: self-command enough she still retained, though fast\nand fast it was slipping away from her, to bethink herself--that, if any\noverwhelming accident _had_ compelled both Marr and his apprentice-boy to\nleave the house in order to summon surgical aid from opposite quarters--a\nthing barely supposable--still, even in that case Mrs. Marr and her infant\nwould be left; and some murmuring reply, under any extremity, would be\nelicited from the poor mother. To pause, therefore, to impose stern\nsilence upon herself, so as to leave room for the possible answer to this\nfinal appeal, became a duty of spasmodic effort. Listen, therefore, poor\ntrembling heart; listen, and for twenty seconds be still as death. Still\nas death she was: and during that dreadful stillness, when she hushed her\nbreath that she might listen, occurred an incident of killing fear, that\nto her dying day would never cease to renew its echoes in her ear. She,\nMary, the poor trembling girl, checking and overruling herself by a final\neffort, that she might leave full opening for her dear young mistress's\nanswer to her own last frantic appeal, heard at last and most distinctly a\nsound within the house. Yes, now beyond a doubt there is coming an answer\nto her summons. What was it? On the stairs, not the stairs that led\ndownwards to the kitchen, but the stairs that led upwards to the single\nstory of bed-chambers above, was heard a creaking sound. Next was heard\nmost distinctly a footfall: one, two, three, four, five stairs were slowly\nand distinctly descended. Then the dreadful footsteps were heard advancing\nalong the little narrow passage to the door. The steps--oh heavens!\n_whose_ steps?--have paused at the door. The very breathing can be heard\nof that dreadful being, who has silenced all breathing except his own in\nthe house. There is but a door between him and Mary. What is he doing on\nthe other side of the door? A cautious step, a stealthy step it was that\ncame down the stairs, then paced along the little narrow passage--narrow\nas a coffin--till at last the step pauses at the door. How hard the fellow\nbreathes! He, the solitary murderer, is on one side the door; Mary is on\nthe other side. Now, suppose that he should suddenly open the door, and\nthat incautiously in the dark Mary should rush in, and find herself in the\narms of the murderer. Thus far the case is a possible one--that to a\ncertainty, had this little trick been tried immediately upon Mary's\nreturn, it would have succeeded; had the door been opened suddenly upon\nher first tingle-tingle, headlong she would have tumbled in, and perished.\nBut now Mary is upon her guard. The unknown murderer and she have both\ntheir lips upon the door, listening, breathing hard; but luckily they are\non different sides of the door; and upon the least indication of unlocking\nor unlatching, she would have recoiled into the asylum of general\ndarkness.\n\nWhat was the murderer's meaning in coming along the passage to the front\ndoor? The meaning was this: separately, as an individual, Mary was worth\nnothing at all to him. But, considered as a member of a household, she had\nthis value, viz., that she, if caught and murdered, perfected and rounded\nthe desolation of the house. The case being reported, as reported it would\nbe all over Christendom, led the imagination captive. The whole covey of\nvictims was thus netted; the household ruin was thus full and orbicular;\nand in that proportion the tendency of men and women, flutter as they\nmight, would be helplessly and hopelessly to sink into the all-conquering\nhands of the mighty murderer. He had but to say--my testimonials are dated\nfrom No. 29 Ratcliffe Highway, and the poor vanquished imagination sank\npowerless before the fascinating rattlesnake eye of the murderer. There is\nnot a doubt that the motive of the murderer for standing on the inner side\nof Marr's front-door, whilst Mary stood on the outside, was--a hope that,\nif he quietly opened the door, whisperingly counterfeiting Marr's voice,\nand saying, What made you stay so long? possibly she might have been\ninveigled. He was wrong; the time was past for that; Mary was now\nmaniacally awake; she began now to ring the bell and to ply the knocker\nwith unintermitting violence. And the natural consequence was, that the\nnext door neighbor, who had recently gone to bed and instantly fallen\nasleep, was roused; and by the incessant violence of the ringing and the\nknocking, which now obeyed a delirious and uncontrollable impulse in Mary,\nhe became sensible that some very dreadful event must be at the root of so\nclamorous an uproar. To rise, to throw up the sash, to demand angrily the\ncause of this unseasonable tumult, was the work of a moment. The poor girl\nremained sufficiently mistress of herself rapidly to explain the\ncircumstance of her own absence for an hour; her belief that Mr. and Mrs.\nMarr's family had all been murdered in the interval; and that at this very\nmoment the murderer was in the house.\n\nThe person to whom she addressed this statement was a pawnbroker; and a\nthoroughly brave man he must have been; for it was a perilous undertaking,\nmerely as a trial of physical strength, singly to face a mysterious\nassassin, who had apparently signalized his prowess by a triumph so\ncomprehensive. But, again, for the imagination it required an effort of\nself-conquest to rush headlong into the presence of one invested with a\ncloud of mystery, whose nation, age, motives, were all alike unknown.\nRarely on any field of battle has a soldier been called upon to face so\ncomplex a danger. For if the entire family of his neighbor Marr had been\nexterminated, were this indeed true, such a scale of bloodshed would seem\nto argue that there must have been two persons as the perpetrators; or if\none singly had accomplished such a ruin, in that case how colossal must\nhave been his audacity! probably, also, his skill and animal power!\nMoreover, the unknown enemy (whether single or double) would, doubtless,\nbe elaborately armed. Yet, under all these disadvantages, did this\nfearless man rush at once to the field of butchery in his neighbor's\nhouse. Waiting only to draw on his trousers, and to arm himself with the\nkitchen poker, he went down into his own little back-yard. On this mode of\napproach, he would have a chance of intercepting the murderer; whereas\nfrom the front there would be no such chance; and there would also be\nconsiderable delay in the process of breaking open the door. A brick wall,\nnine or ten feet high, divided his own back premises from those of Marr.\nOver this he vaulted; and at the moment when he was recalling himself to\nthe necessity of going back for a candle, he suddenly perceived a feeble\nray of light already glimmering on some part of Marr's premises. Marr's\nback-door stood wide open. Probably the murderer had passed through it one\nhalf minute before. Rapidly the brave man passed onwards to the shop, and\nthere beheld the carnage of the night stretched out on the floor, and the\nnarrow premises so floated with gore, that it was hardly possible to\nescape the pollution of blood in picking out a path to the front-door. In\nthe lock of the door still remained the key which had given to the unknown\nmurderer so fatal an advantage over his victims. By this time, the heart-\nshaking news involved in the outcries of Mary (to whom it occurred that by\npossibility some one out of so many victims might still be within the\nreach of medical aid, but that all would depend upon speed) had availed,\neven at that late hour, to gather a small mob about the house. The\npawnbroker threw open the door. One or two watchmen headed the crowd; but\nthe soul-harrowing spectacle checked them, and impressed sudden silence\nupon their voices, previously so loud. The tragic drama read aloud its own\nhistory, and the succession of its several steps--few and summary. The\nmurderer was as yet altogether unknown; not even suspected. But there were\nreasons for thinking that he must have been a person familiarly known to\nMarr. He had entered the shop by opening the door after it had been closed\nby Marr. But it was justly argued--that, after the caution conveyed to\nMarr by the watchman, the appearance of any stranger in the shop at that\nhour, and in so dangerous a neighborhood, and entering by so irregular and\nsuspicious a course, (_i.e._, walking in after the door had been closed,\nand after the closing of the shutters had cut off all open communication\nwith the street), would naturally have roused Marr to an attitude of\nvigilance and self-defence. Any indication, therefore, that Marr had _not_\nbeen so roused, would argue to a certainty that _something_ had occurred\nto neutralize this alarm, and fatally to disarm the prudent jealousies of\nMarr. But this 'something' could only have lain in one simple fact, viz.,\nthat the person of the murderer was familiarly known to Marr as that of an\nordinary and unsuspected acquaintance. This being presupposed as the key\nto all the rest, the whole course and evolution of the subsequent drama\nbecomes clear as daylight. The murderer, it is evident, had opened gently,\nand again closed behind him with equal gentleness, the street-door. He had\nthen advanced to the little counter, all the while exchanging the ordinary\nsalutation of an old acquaintance with the unsuspecting Marr. Having\nreached the counter, he would then ask Marr for a pair of unbleached\ncotton socks. In a shop so small as Marr's, there could be no great\nlatitude of choice for disposing of the different commodities. The\narrangement of these had no doubt become familiar to the murderer; and he\nhad already ascertained that, in order to reach down the particular parcel\nwanted at present, Marr would find it requisite to face round to the rear,\nand, at the same moment, to raise his eyes and his hands to a level\neighteen inches above his own head. This movement placed him in the most\ndisadvantageous possible position with regard to the murderer, who now, at\nthe instant when Marr's hands and eyes were embarrassed, and the back of\nhis head fully exposed, suddenly from below his large surtout, had unslung\na heavy ship-carpenter's mallet, and, with one solitary blow, had so\nthoroughly stunned his victim, as to leave him incapable of resistance.\nThe whole position of Marr told its own tale. He had collapsed naturally\nbehind the counter, with his hands so occupied as to confirm the whole\noutline of the affair as I have here suggested it. Probable enough it is\nthat the very first blow, the first indication of treachery that reached\nMarr, would also be the last blow as regarded the abolition of\nconsciousness. The murderer's plan and _rationale_ of murder started\nsystematically from this infliction of apoplexy, or at least of a stunning\nsufficient to insure a long loss of consciousness. This opening step\nplaced the murderer at his ease. But still, as returning sense might\nconstantly have led to the fullest exposures, it was his settled practice,\nby way of consummation, to cut the throat. To one invariable type all the\nmurders on this occasion conformed: the skull was first shattered; this\nstep secured the murderer from instant retaliation; and then, by way of\nlocking up all into eternal silence, uniformly the throat was cut. The\nrest of the circumstances, as self-revealed, were these. The fall of Marr\nmight, probably enough, cause a dull, confused sound of a scuffle, and the\nmore so, as it could not now be confounded with any street uproar--the\nshop-door being shut. It is more probable, however, that the signal for\nthe alarm passing down to the kitchen, would arise when the murderer\nproceeded to cut Marr's throat. The very confined situation behind the\ncounter would render it impossible, under the critical hurry of the case,\nto expose the throat broadly; the horrid scene would proceed by partial\nand interrupted cuts; deep groans would arise; and then would come the\nrush up-stairs. Against this, as the only dangerous stage in the\ntransaction, the murderer would have specially prepared. Mrs. Marr and the\napprentice-boy, both young and active, would make, of course, for the\nstreet door; had Mary been at home, and three persons at once had combined\nto distract the purposes of the murderer, it is barely possible that one\nof them would have succeeded in reaching the street. But the dreadful\nswing of the heavy mallet intercepted both the boy and his mistress before\nthey could reach the door. Each of them lay stretched out on the centre of\nthe shop floor; and the very moment that this disabling was accomplished,\nthe accursed hound was down upon their throats with his razor. The fact\nis, that, in the mere blindness of pity for poor Marr, on hearing his\ngroans, Mrs. Marr had lost sight of her obvious policy; she and the boy\nought to have made for the back door; the alarm would thus have been given\nin the open air; which, of itself, was a great point; and several means of\ndistracting the murderer's attention offered upon that course, which the\nextreme limitation of the shop denied to them upon the other.\n\nVain would be all attempts to convey the horror which thrilled the\ngathering spectators of this piteous tragedy. It was known to the crowd\nthat one person had, by some accident, escaped the general massacre: but\nshe was now speechless, and probably delirious; so that, in compassion for\nher pitiable situation, one female neighbor had carried her away, and put\nher to bed. Hence it had happened, for a longer space of time than could\nelse have been possible, that no person present was sufficiently\nacquainted with the Marrs to be aware of the little infant; for the bold\npawnbroker had gone off to make a communication to the coroner; and\nanother neighbor to lodge some evidence which he thought urgent at a\nneighboring police-office. Suddenly some person appeared amongst the crowd\nwho was aware that the murdered parents had a young infant; this would be\nfound either below-stairs, or in one of the bedrooms above. Immediately a\nstream of people poured down into the kitchen, where at once they saw the\ncradle--but with the bedclothes in a state of indescribable confusion. On\ndisentangling these, pools of blood became visible; and the next ominous\nsign was, that the hood of the cradle had been smashed to pieces. It\nbecame evident that the wretch had found himself doubly embarrassed--\nfirst, by the arched hood at the head of the cradle, which, accordingly,\nhe had beat into a ruin with his mallet, and secondly, by the gathering of\nthe blankets and pillows about the baby's head. The free play of his blows\nhad thus been baffled. And he had therefore finished the scene by applying\nhis razor to the throat of the little innocent; after which, with no\napparent purpose, as though he had become confused by the spectacle of his\nown atrocities, he had busied himself in piling the clothes elaborately\nover the child's corpse. This incident undeniably gave the character of a\nvindictive proceeding to the whole affair, and so far confirmed the\ncurrent rumor that the quarrel between Williams and Marr had originated in\nrivalship. One writer, indeed, alleged that the murderer might have found\nit necessary for his own safety to extinguish the crying of the child; but\nit was justly replied, that a child only eight months old could not have\ncried under any sense of the tragedy proceeding, but simply in its\nordinary way for the absence of its mother; and such a cry, even if\naudible at all out of the house, must have been precisely what the\nneighbors were hearing constantly, so that it could have drawn no special\nattention, nor suggested any reasonable alarm to the murderer. No one\nincident, indeed, throughout the whole tissue of atrocities, so much\nenvenomed the popular fury against the unknown ruffian, as this useless\nbutchery of the infant.\n\nNaturally, on the Sunday morning that dawned four or five hours later, the\ncase was too full of horror not to diffuse itself in all directions; but I\nhave no reason to think that it crept into any one of the numerous Sunday\npapers. In the regular course, any ordinary occurrence, not occurring, or\nnot transpiring until fifteen minutes after 1 A. M. on a Sunday morning,\nwould first reach the public ear through the Monday editions of the Sunday\npapers, and the regular morning papers of the Monday. But, if such were\nthe course pursued on this occasion, never can there have been a more\nsignal oversight. For it is certain, that to have met the public demand\nfor details on the Sunday, which might so easily have been done by\ncancelling a couple of dull columns, and substituting a circumstantial\nnarrative, for which the pawnbroker and the watchman could have furnished\nthe materials, would have made a small fortune. By proper handbills\ndispersed through all quarters of the infinite metropolis, two hundred and\nfifty thousand extra copies might have been sold; that is, by any journal\nthat should have collected _exclusive_ materials, meeting the public\nexcitement, everywhere stirred to the centre by flying rumors, and\neverywhere burning for ampler information. On the Sunday se'ennight\n(Sunday the _octave_ from the event), took place the funeral of the\nMarrs; in the first coffin was placed Marr; in the second Mrs. Marr, and\nthe baby in her arms; in the third the apprentice boy. They were buried\nside by side; and thirty thousand laboring people followed the funeral\nprocession, with horror and grief written in their countenances.\n\nAs yet no whisper was astir that indicated, even conjecturally, the\nhideous author of these ruins--this patron of grave-diggers. Had as much\nbeen known on this Sunday of the funeral concerning that person as became\nknown universally six days later, the people would have gone right from\nthe churchyard to the murderer's lodgings, and (brooking no delay) would\nhave torn him limb from limb. As yet, however, in mere default of any\nobject on whom reasonable suspicion could settle, the public wrath was\ncompelled to suspend itself. Else, far indeed from showing any tendency to\nsubside, the public emotion strengthened every day conspicuously, as the\nreverberation of the shock began to travel back from the provinces to the\ncapital. On every great road in the kingdom, continual arrests were made\nof vagrants and 'trampers,' who could give no satisfactory account of\nthemselves, or whose appearance in any respect answered to the imperfect\ndescription of Williams furnished by the watchman.\n\nWith this mighty tide of pity and indignation pointing backwards to the\ndreadful past, there mingled also in the thoughts of reflecting persons an\nunder-current of fearful expectation for the immediate future. 'The\nearthquake,' to quote a fragment from a striking passage in Wordsworth--\n\n  'The earthquake is not satisfied at once.'\n\nAll perils, specially malignant, are recurrent. A murderer, who is such by\npassion and by a wolfish craving for bloodshed as a mode of unnatural\nluxury, cannot relapse into _inertia_. Such a man, even more than the\nAlpine chamois hunter, comes to crave the dangers and the hairbreadth\nescapes of his trade, as a condiment for seasoning the insipid monotonies\nof daily life. But, apart from the hellish instincts that might too surely\nbe relied on for renewed atrocities, it was clear that the murderer of the\nMarrs, wheresoever lurking, must be a needy man; and a needy man of that\nclass least likely to seek or to find resources in honorable modes of\nindustry; for which, equally by haughty disgust and by disuse of the\nappropriate habits, men of violence are specially disqualified. Were it,\ntherefore, merely for a livelihood, the murderer whom all hearts were\nyearning to decipher, might be expected to make his resurrection on some\nstage of horror, after a reasonable interval. Even in the Marr murder,\ngranting that it had been governed chiefly by cruel and vindictive\nimpulses, it was still clear that the desire of booty had co-operated with\nsuch feelings. Equally clear it was that this desire must have been\ndisappointed: excepting the trivial sum reserved by Marr for the week's\nexpenditure, the murderer found, doubtless, little or nothing that he\ncould turn to account. Two guineas, perhaps, would be the outside of what\nhe had obtained in the way of booty. A week or so would see the end of\nthat. The conviction, therefore, of all people was, that in a month or\ntwo, when the fever of excitement might a little have cooled down, or have\nbeen superseded by other topics of fresher interest, so that the newborn\nvigilance of household life would have had time to relax, some new murder,\nequally appalling, might be counted upon.\n\nSuch was the public expectation. Let the reader then figure to himself the\npure frenzy of horror when in this hush of expectation, looking, indeed,\nand waiting for the unknown arm to strike once more, but not believing\nthat any audacity could be equal to such an attempt as yet, whilst all\neyes were watching, suddenly, on the twelfth night from the Marr murder, a\nsecond case of the same mysterious nature, a murder on the same\nexterminating plan was perpetrated in the very same neighborhood. It was\non the Thursday next but one succeeding to the Marr murder that this\nsecond atrocity took place; and many people thought at the time, that in\nits dramatic features of thrilling interest, this second case even went\nbeyond the first. The family which suffered in this instance was that of a\nMr. Williamson; and the house was situated, if not absolutely _in_\nRatcliffe Highway, at any rate immediately round the corner of some\nsecondary street, running at right angles to this public thoroughfare, Mr.\nWilliamson was a well-known and respectable man, long settled in that\ndistrict; he was supposed to be rich; and more with a view to the\nemployment furnished by such a calling, than with much anxiety for further\naccumulations, he kept a sort of tavern; which, in this respect, might be\nconsidered on an old patriarchal footing--that, although people of\nconsiderable property resorted to the house in the evenings, no kind of\nanxious separation was maintained between them and the other visitors from\nthe class of artisans or common laborers. Anybody who conducted himself\nwith propriety was free to take a seat, and call for any liquor that he\nmight prefer. And thus the society was pretty miscellaneous; in part\nstationary, but in some proportion fluctuating. The household consisted of\nthe following five persons:--1. Mr. Williamson, its head, who was an old\nman above seventy, and was well fitted for his situation, being civil, and\nnot at all morose, but, at the same time, firm in maintaining order; 2.\nMrs. Williamson, his wife, about ten years younger than himself; 3. a\nlittle grand-daughter, about nine years old; 4. a housemaid, who was\nnearly forty years old; 5. a young journeyman, aged about twenty-six,\nbelonging to some manufacturing establishment (of what class I have\nforgotten); neither do I remember of what nation he was. It was the\nestablished rule at Mr. Williamson's, that, exactly as the clock struck\neleven, all the company, without favor or exception, moved off. That was\none of the customs by which, in so stormy a district, Mr. Williamson had\nfound it possible to keep his house free from brawls. On the present\nThursday night everything had gone on as usual, except for one slight\nshadow of suspicion, which had caught the attention of more persons than\none. Perhaps at a less agitating time it would hardly have been noticed;\nbut now, when the first question and the last in all social meetings\nturned upon the Marrs, and their unknown murderer, it was a circumstance\nnaturally fitted to cause some uneasiness, that a stranger, of sinister\nappearance, in a wide surtout, had flitted in and out of the room at\nintervals during the evening; had sometimes retired from the light into\nobscure corners; and, by more than one person, had been observed stealing\ninto the private passages of the house. It was presumed in general, that\nthe man must be known to Williamson. And in some slight degree, as an\noccasional customer of the house, it is not impossible that he _was_.\nBut afterwards, this repulsive stranger, with his cadaverous ghastliness,\nextraordinary hair, and glazed eyes, showing himself intermittingly\nthrough the hours from 8 to 11 P.M., revolved upon the memory of all who\nhad steadily observed him with something of the same freezing effect as\nbelongs to the two assassins in 'Macbeth,' who present themselves reeking\nfrom the murder of Banquo, and gleaming dimly, with dreadful faces, from\nthe misty background, athwart the pomps of the regal banquet.\n\nMeantime the clock struck eleven; the company broke up; the door of\nentrance was nearly closed; and at this moment of general dispersion the\nsituation of the five inmates left upon the premises was precisely this:\nthe three elders, viz., Williamson, his wife, and his female servant, were\nall occupied on the ground floor--Williamson himself was drawing ale,\nporter, &c., for those neighbors, in whose favor the house-door had been\nleft ajar, until the hour of twelve should strike; Mrs. Williamson and her\nservant were moving to and fro between the back-kitchen and a little\nparlor; the little grand-daughter, whose sleeping-room was on the\n_first_ floor (which term in London means always the floor raised by\none flight of stairs above the level of the street), had been fast asleep\nsince nine o'clock; lastly, the journeyman artisan had retired to rest for\nsome time. He was a regular lodger in the house; and his bedroom was on\nthe second floor. For some time he had been undressed, and had lain down\nin bed. Being, as a working man, bound to habits of early rising, he was\nnaturally anxious to fall asleep as soon as possible. But, on this\nparticular night, his uneasiness, arising from the recent murders at No.\n29, rose to a paroxysm of nervous excitement which kept him awake. It is\npossible, that from somebody he had heard of the suspicious-looking\nstranger, or might even personally observed him slinking about. But, were\nit otherwise, he was aware of several circumstances dangerously affecting\nthis house; for instance, the ruffianism of this whole neighborhood, and\nthe disagreeable fact that the Marrs had lived within a few doors of this\nvery house, which again argued that the murderer also lived at no great\ndistance. These were matters of _general_ alarm. But there were others\npeculiar to this house; in particular, the notoriety of Williamson's\nopulence; the belief, whether well or ill founded, that he accumulated, in\ndesks and drawers, the money continually flowing into his hands; and\nlastly, the danger so ostentatiously courted by that habit of leaving the\nhouse-door ajar through one entire hour--and that hour loaded with extra\ndanger, by the well-advertised assurance that no collision need be feared\nwith chance convivial visiters, since all such people were banished at\neleven. A regulation, which had hitherto operated beneficially for the\ncharacter and comfort of the house, now, on the contrary, under altered\ncircumstances, became a positive proclamation of exposure and\ndefencelessness, through one entire period of an hour. Williamson himself,\nit was said generally, being a large unwieldy man, past seventy, and\nsignally inactive, ought, in prudence, to make the locking of his door\ncoincident with the dismissal of his evening party.\n\nUpon these and other grounds of alarm (particularly this, that Mrs.\nWilliamson was reported to possess a considerable quantity of plate), the\njourneyman was musing painfully, and the time might be within twenty-eight\nor twenty-five minutes of twelve, when all at once, with a crash,\nproclaiming some hand of hideous violence, the house-door was suddenly\nshut and locked. Here, then, beyond all doubt, was the diabolic man,\nclothed in mystery, from No. 29 Ratcliffe Highway. Yes, that dreadful\nbeing, who for twelve days had employed all thoughts and all tongues, was\nnow, too certainly, in this defenceless house, and would, in a few\nminutes, be face to face with every one of its inmates. A question still\nlingered in the public mind--whether at Marr's there might not have been\n_two_ men at work. If so, there would be two at present; and one of\nthe two would be immediately disposable for the up-stairs work; since no\ndanger could obviously be more immediately fatal to such an attack than\nany alarm given from an upper window to the passengers in the street.\nThrough one half-minute the poor panic-stricken man sat up motionless in\nbed. But then he rose, his first movement being towards the door of his\nroom. Not for any purpose of securing it against intrusion--too well he\nknew that there was no fastening of any sort--neither lock, nor bolt; nor\nwas there any such moveable furniture in the room as might have availed to\nbarricade the door, even if time could be counted on for such an attempt.\nIt was no effect of prudence, merely the fascination of killing fear it\nwas, that drove him to open the door. One step brought him to the head of\nthe stairs: he lowered his head over the balustrade in order to listen;\nand at that moment ascended, from the little parlor, this agonizing cry\nfrom the woman-servant, 'Lord Jesus Christ! we shall all be murdered!'\nWhat a Medusa's head must have lurked in those dreadful bloodless\nfeatures, and those glazed rigid eyes, that seemed rightfully belonging to\na corpse, when one glance at them sufficed to proclaim a death-warrant.\n\nThree separate death-struggles were by this time over; and the poor\npetrified journeyman, quite unconscious of what he was doing, in blind,\npassive, self-surrender to panic, absolutely descended both flights of\nstairs. Infinite terror inspired him with the same impulse as might have\nbeen inspired by headlong courage. In his shirt, and upon old decaying\nstairs, that at times creaked under his feet, he continued to descend,\nuntil he had reached the lowest step but four. The situation was\ntremendous beyond any that is on record. A sneeze, a cough, almost a\nbreathing, and the young man would be a corpse, without a chance or a\nstruggle for his life. The murderer was at that time in the little parlor\n--the door of which parlor faced you in descending the stairs; and this\ndoor stood ajar; indeed, much more considerably open than what is\nunderstood by the term 'ajar.' Of that quadrant, or 90 degrees, which the\ndoor would describe in swinging so far open as to stand at right angles to\nthe lobby, or to itself, in a closed position, 55 degrees at the least\nwere exposed. Consequently, two out of three corpses were exposed to the\nyoung man's gaze. Where was the third? And the murderer--where was he? As\nto the murderer, he was walking rapidly backwards and forwards in the\nparlor, audible but not visible at first, being engaged with something or\nother in that part of the room which the door still concealed. What the\nsomething might be, the sound soon explained; he was applying keys\ntentatively to a cupboard, a closet, and a scrutoire, in the hidden part\nof the room. Very soon, however, he came into view; but, fortunately for\nthe young man, at this critical moment, the murderer's purpose too\nentirely absorbed him to allow of his throwing a glance to the staircase,\non which else the white figure of the journeyman, standing in motionless\nhorror, would have been detected in one instant, and seasoned for the\ngrave in the second. As to the third corpse, the missing corpse, viz., Mr.\nWilliamson's, _that_ is in the cellar; and how its local position can\nbe accounted for, remains a separate question much discussed at the time,\nbut never satisfactorily cleared up. Meantime, that Williamson was dead,\nbecame evident to the young man; since else he would have been heard\nstirring or groaning. Three friends, therefore, out of four, whom the\nyoung man had parted with forty minutes ago, were now extinguished;\nremained, therefore, 40 per cent. (a large per centage for Williams to\nleave); remained, in fact, himself and his pretty young friend, the little\ngrand-daughter, whose childish innocence was still slumbering without fear\nfor herself, or grief for her aged grand-parents. If _they_ are gone\nfor ever, happily one friend (for such he will prove himself, indeed, if\nfrom such a danger he can save this child) is pretty near to her. But\nalas! he is still nearer to a murderer. At this moment he is unnerved for\nany exertion whatever; he has changed into a pillar of ice; for the\nobjects before him, separated by just thirteen feet, are these:--The\nhousemaid had been caught by the murderer on her knees; she was kneeling\nbefore the fire-grate, which she had been polishing with black lead. That\npart of her task was finished; and she had passed on to another task,\nviz., the filling of the grate with wood and coals, not for kindling at\nthis moment, but so as to have it ready for kindling on the next day. The\nappearances all showed that she must have been engaged in this labor at\nthe very moment when the murderer entered; and perhaps the succession of\nthe incidents arranged itself as follows:--From the awful ejaculation and\nloud outcry to Christ, as overheard by the journeyman, it was clear that\nthen first she had been alarmed; yet this was at least one and a-half or\neven two minutes after the door-slamming. Consequently the alarm which had\nso fearfully and seasonably alarmed the young man, must, in some\nunaccountable way, have been misinterpreted by the two women. It was said,\nat the time, that Mrs. Williamson labored under some dulness of hearing;\nand it was conjectured that the servant, having her ears filled with the\nnoise of her own scrubbing, and her head half under the grate, might have\nconfounded it with the street noises, or else might have imputed this\nviolent closure to some mischievous boys. But, howsoever explained, the\nfact was evident, that, until the words of appeal to Christ, the servant\nhad noticed nothing suspicious, nothing which interrupted her labors. If\nso, it followed that neither had Mrs. Williamson noticed anything; for, in\nthat case, she would have communicated her own alarm to the servant, since\nboth were in the same small room. Apparently the course of things after\nthe murderer had entered the room was this:--Mrs. Williamson had probably\nnot seen him, from the accident of standing with her back to the door.\nHer, therefore, before he was himself observed at all, he had stunned and\nprostrated by a shattering blow on the back of her head; this blow,\ninflicted by a crow-bar, had smashed in the hinder part of the skull. She\nfell; and by the noise of her fall (for all was the work of a moment) had\nfirst roused the attention of the servant; who then uttered the cry which\nhad reached the young man; but before she could repeat it, the murderer\nhad descended with his uplifted instrument upon _her_ head, crushing\nthe skull inwards upon the brain. Both the women were irrecoverably\ndestroyed, so that further outrages were needless; and, moreover, the\nmurderer was conscious of the imminent danger from delay; and yet, in\nspite of his hurry, so fully did he appreciate the fatal consequences to\nhimself, if any of his victims should so far revive into consciousness as\nto make circumstantial depositions, that, by way of making this\nimpossible, he had proceeded instantly to cut the throats of each. All\nthis tallied with the appearances as now presenting themselves. Mrs.\nWilliamson had fallen backwards with her head to the door; the servant,\nfrom her kneeling posture, had been incapable of rising, and had presented\nher head passively to blows; after which, the miscreant had but to bend\nher head backwards so as to expose her throat, and the murder was\nfinished.\n\nIt is remarkable that the young artisan, paralyzed as he had been by fear,\nand evidently fascinated for a time so as to walk right towards the lion's\nmouth, yet found himself able to notice everything important. The reader\nmust suppose him at this point watching the murderer whilst hanging over\nthe body of Mrs. Williamson, and whilst renewing his search for certain\nimportant keys. Doubtless it was an anxious situation for the murderer;\nfor, unless he speedily found the keys wanted, all this hideous tragedy\nwould end in nothing but a prodigious increase of the public horror, in\ntenfold precautions therefore, and redoubled obstacles interposed between\nhimself and his future game. Nay, there was even a nearer interest at\nstake; his own immediate safety might, by a probable accident, be\ncompromised. Most of those who came to the house for liquor were giddy\ngirls or children, who, on finding this house closed, would go off\ncarelessly to some other; but, let any thoughtful woman or man come to the\ndoor now, a full quarter of an hour before the established time of\nclosing, in that case suspicion would arise too powerful to be checked.\nThere would be a sudden alarm given; after which, mere luck would decide\nthe event. For it is a remarkable fact, and one that illustrates the\nsingular inconsistency of this villain, who, being often so superfluously\nsubtle, was in other directions so reckless and improvident, that at this\nvery moment, standing amongst corpses that had deluged the little parlor\nwith blood, Williams must have been in considerable doubt whether he had\nany sure means of egress. There were windows, he knew, to the back; but\nupon what ground they opened, he seems to have had no certain information;\nand in a neighborhood so dangerous, the windows of the lower story would\nnot improbably be nailed down; those in the upper might be free, but then\ncame the necessity of a leap too formidable. From all this, however, the\nsole practical inference was to hurry forward with the trial of further\nkeys, and to detect the hidden treasure. This it was, this intense\nabsorption in one overmastering pursuit, that dulled the murderer's\nperceptions as to all around him; otherwise, he must have heard the\nbreathing of the young man, which to himself at times became fearfully\naudible. As the murderer stood once more over the body of Mrs. Williamson,\nand searched her pockets more narrowly, he pulled out various clusters of\nkeys, one of which dropping, gave a harsh gingling sound upon the floor.\nAt this time it was that the secret witness, from his secret stand,\nnoticed the fact of Williams's surtout being lined with silk of the finest\nquality. One other fact he noticed, which eventually became more\nimmediately important than many stronger circumstances of incrimination;\nthis was, that the shoes of the murderer, apparently new, and bought,\nprobably, with poor Marr's money, creaked as he walked, harshly and\nfrequently. With the new clusters of keys, the murderer walked off to the\nhidden section of the parlor. And here, at last, was suggested to the\njourneyman the sudden opening for an escape. Some minutes would be lost to\na certainty trying all these keys; and subsequently in searching the\ndrawers, supposing that the keys answered--or in violently forcing them,\nsupposing that they did _not_. He might thus count upon a brief interval\nof leisure, whilst the rattling of the keys might obscure to the murderer\nthe creaking of the stairs under the re-ascending journeyman. His plan\nwas now formed: on regaining his bedroom, he placed the bed against\nthe door by way of a transient retardation to the enemy, that might give\nhim a short warning, and in the worst extremity, might give him a chance\nfor life by means of a desperate leap. This change made as quietly as\npossible, he tore the sheets, pillow-cases, and blankets into broad\nribbons; and after plaiting them into ropes, spliced the different lengths\ntogether. But at the very first he descries this ugly addition to his\nlabors. Where shall he look for any staple, hook, bar, or other fixture,\nfrom which his rope, when twisted, may safely depend? Measured from the\nwindow-_sill_--_i.e._, the lowest part of the window architrave--there\ncount but twenty-two or twenty-three feet to the ground. Of this length\nten or twelve feet may be looked upon as cancelled, because to that\nextent he might drop without danger. So much being deducted, there would\nremain, say, a dozen feet of rope to prepare. But, unhappily, there is no\nstout iron fixture anywhere about his window. The nearest, indeed the sole\nfixture of that sort, is not near to the window at all; it is a spike\nfixed (for no reason at all that is apparent) in the bed-tester; now, the\nbed being shifted, the spike is shifted; and its distance from the window,\nhaving been always four feet, is now seven. Seven entire feet, therefore,\nmust be added to that which would have sufficed if measured from the\nwindow. But courage! God, by the proverb of all nations in Christendom,\nhelps those that help themselves. This our young man thankfully\nacknowledges; he reads already, in the very fact of any spike at all being\nfound where hitherto it has been useless, an earnest of providential aid.\nWere it only for himself that he worked, he could not feel himself\nmeritoriously employed; but this is not so; in deep sincerity, he is now\nagitated for the poor child, whom he knows and loves; every minute, he\nfeels, brings ruin nearer to _her_; and, as he passed her door, his\nfirst thought had been to take her out of bed in his arms, and to carry\nher where she might share his chances. But, on consideration, he felt that\nthis sudden awaking of her, and the impossibility of even whispering any\nexplanation, would cause her to cry audibly; and the inevitable\nindiscretion of one would be fatal to the two. As the Alpine avalanches,\nwhen suspended above the traveller's head, oftentimes (we are told) come\ndown through the stirring of the air by a simple whisper, precisely on\nsuch a tenure of a whisper was now suspended the murderous malice of the\nman below. No; there is but one way to save the child; towards _her_\ndeliverance, the first step is through his own. And he has made an\nexcellent beginning; for the spike, which too fearfully he had expected to\nsee torn away by any strain upon the half-carious wood, stands firmly when\ntried against the pressure of his own weight. He has rapidly fastened on\nto it three lengths of his new rope, measuring eleven feet. He plaits it\nroughly; so that only three feet have been lost in the intertwisting; he\nhas spliced on a second length equal to the first; so that, already,\nsixteen feet are ready to throw out of the window; and thus, let the worst\ncome to the worst, it will not be absolute ruin to swarm down the rope so\nfar as it will reach, and then to drop boldly. All this has been\naccomplished in about six minutes; and the hot contest between above and\nbelow is steadily but fervently proceeding. Murderer is working hard in\nthe parlor; journeyman is working hard in the bedroom. Miscreant is\ngetting on famously down-stairs; one batch of bank-notes he has already\nbagged; and is hard upon the scent of a second. He has also sprung a covey\nof golden coins. Sovereigns as yet were not; but guineas at this period\nfetched thirty shillings a-piece; and he has worked his way into a little\nquarry of these. Murderer is almost joyous; and if any creature is still\nliving in this house, as shrewdly he suspects, and very soon means to\nknow, with that creature he would be happy, before cutting the creature's\nthroat, to drink a glass of something. Instead of the glass, might he not\nmake a present to the poor creature of its throat? Oh no! impossible!\nThroats are a sort of thing that he never makes presents of; business--\nbusiness must be attended to. Really the two men, considered simply as men\nof business, are both meritorious. Like chorus and semi-chorus, strophe\nand antistrophe, they work each against the other. Pull journeyman, pull\nmurderer! Pull baker, pull devil! As regards the journeyman, he is now\nsafe. To his sixteen feet, of which seven are neutralized by the distance\nof the bed, he has at last added six feet more, which will be short of\nreaching the ground by perhaps ten feet--a trifle which man or boy may\ndrop without injury. All is safe, therefore, for him: which is more than\none can be sure of for miscreant in the parlor. Miscreant, however, takes\nit coolly enough: the reason being, that, with all his cleverness, for\nonce in his life miscreant has been over-reached. The reader and I know,\nbut miscreant does not in the least suspect, a little fact of some\nimportance, viz., that just now through a space of full three minutes he\nhas been overlooked and studied by one, who (though reading in a dreadful\nbook, and suffering under mortal panic) took accurate notes of so much as\nhis limited opportunities allowed him to see, and will assuredly report\nthe creaking shoes and the silk-mounted surtout in quarters where such\nlittle facts will tell very little to his advantage. But, although it is\ntrue that Mr. Williams, unaware of the journeyman's having 'assisted' at\nthe examination of Mrs. Williamson's pockets, could not connect any\nanxiety with that person's subsequent proceedings', nor specially,\ntherefore, with his having embarked in the rope-weaving line, assuredly he\nknew of reasons enough for not loitering. And yet he _did_ loiter.\nReading his acts by the light of such mute traces as he left behind him,\nthe police became aware that latterly he must have loitered. And the\nreason which governed him is striking; because at once it records--that\nmurder was not pursued by him simply as a means to an end, but also as an\nend for itself. Mr. Williams had now been upon the premises for perhaps\nfifteen or twenty minutes; and in that space of time he had dispatched, in\na style satisfactory to himself, a considerable amount of business. He had\ndone, in commercial language, 'a good stroke of business.' Upon two\nfloors, viz., the cellar-floor and the ground-floor, he has 'accounted\nfor' all the population. But there remained at least two floors more; and\nit now occurred to Mr. Williams that, although the landlord's somewhat\nchilling manner had shut him out from any familiar knowledge of the\nhousehold arrangements, too probably on one or other of those floors there\nmust be some throats. As to plunder, he has already bagged the whole. And\nit was next to impossible that any arrear the most trivial should still\nremain for a gleaner. But the throats--the throats--there it was that\narrears and gleanings might perhaps be counted on. And thus it appeared\nthat, in his wolfish thirst for blood, Mr. Williams put to hazard the\nwhole fruits of his night's work, and his life into the bargain. At this\nmoment, if the murderer knew all, could he see the open window above\nstairs ready for the descent of the journeyman, could he witness the life-\nand-death rapidity with which that journeyman is working, could he guess\nat the almighty uproar which within ninety seconds will be maddening the\npopulation of this populous district--no picture of a maniac in flight of\npanic or in pursuit of vengeance would adequately represent the agony of\nhaste with which he would himself be hurrying to the street-door for final\nevasion. That mode of escape was still free. Even at this moment, there\nyet remained time sufficient for a successful flight, and, therefore, for\nthe following revolution in the romance of his own abominable life. He had\nin his pockets above a hundred pounds of booty; means, therefore, for a\nfull disguise. This very night, if he will shave off his yellow hair, and\nblacken his eyebrows, buying, when morning light returns, a dark-colored\nwig, and clothes such as may co-operate in personating the character of a\ngrave professional man, he may elude all suspicions of impertinent\npolicemen; may sail by any one of a hundred vessels bound for any port\nalong the huge line of sea-board (stretching through twenty-four hundred\nmiles) of the American United States; may enjoy fifty years for leisurely\nrepentance; and may even die in the odor of sanctity. On the other hand,\nif he prefer active life, it is not impossible that, with _his_ subtlety,\nhardihood, and unscrupulousness, in a land where the simple process of\nnaturalization converts the alien at once into a child of the family, he\nmight rise to the president's chair; might have a statue at his death; and\nafterwards a life in three volumes quarto, with no hint glancing towards\nNo. 29 Ratcliffe Highway. But all depends on the next ninety seconds.\nWithin that time there is a sharp turn to be taken; there is a wrong turn,\nand a right turn. Should his better angel guide him to the right one, all\nmay yet go well as regards this world's prosperity. But behold! in two\nminutes from this point we shall see him take the wrong one: and then\nNemesis will be at his heels with ruin perfect and sudden.\n\nMeantime, if the murderer allows himself to loiter, the ropemaker overhead\ndoes _not_. Well he knows that the poor child's fate is on the edge\nof a razor: for all turns upon the alarm being raised before the murderer\nreaches her bedside. And at this very moment, whilst desperate agitation\nis nearly paralyzing his fingers, he hears the sullen stealthy step of the\nmurderer creeping up through the darkness. It had been the expectation of\nthe journeyman (founded on the clamorous uproar with which the street-door\nwas slammed) that Williams, when disposable for his up-stairs work, would\ncome racing at a long jubilant gallop, and with a tiger roar; and perhaps,\non his natural instincts, he would have done so. But this mode of\napproach, which was of dreadful effect when applied to a case of surprise,\nbecame dangerous in the case of people who might by this time have been\nplaced fully upon their guard. The step which he had heard was on the\nstaircase--but upon which stair? He fancied upon the lowest: and in a\nmovement so slow and cautious, even this might make all the difference;\nyet might it not have been the tenth, twelfth, or fourteenth stair? Never,\nperhaps, in this world did any man feel his own responsibility so cruelly\nloaded and strained, as at this moment did the poor journeyman on behalf\nof the slumbering child. Lose but two seconds, through awkwardness or\nthrough the self-counteractions of panic, and for _her_ the total\ndifference arose between life and death. Still there is a hope: and\nnothing can so frightfully expound the hellish nature of him whose baleful\nshadow, to speak astrologically, at this moment darkens the house of life,\nthan the simple expression of the ground on which this hope rested. The\njourneyman felt sure that the murderer would not be satisfied to kill the\npoor child whilst unconscious. This would be to defeat his whole purpose\nin murdering her at all. To an epicure in murder such as Williams, it\nwould be taking away the very sting of the enjoyment, if the poor child\nshould be suffered to drink off the bitter cup of death without fully\napprehending the misery of the situation. But this luckily would require\ntime: the double confusion of mind, first, from being roused up at so\nunusual an hour, and, secondly, from the horror of the occasion when\nexplained to her, would at first produce fainting, or some mode of\ninsensibility or distraction, such as must occupy a considerable time. The\nlogic of the case, in short, all rested upon the _ultra_ fiendishness\nof Williams. Were he likely to be content with the mere fact of the\nchild's death, apart from the process and leisurely expansion of its\nmental agony--in that case there would be no hope. But, because our\npresent murderer is fastidiously finical in his exactions--a sort of\nmartinet in the scenical grouping and draping of the circumstances in his\nmurders--therefore it is that hope becomes reasonable, since all such\nrefinements of preparation demand time. Murders of mere necessity Williams\nwas obliged to hurry; but, in a murder of pure voluptuousness, entirely\ndisinterested, where no hostile witness was to be removed, no extra booty\nto be gained, and no revenge to be gratified, it is clear that to hurry\nwould be altogether to ruin. If this child, therefore, is to be saved, it\nwill be on pure aesthetical considerations. [5]\n\nBut all considerations whatever are at this moment suddenly cut short. A\nsecond step is heard on the stairs, but still stealthy and cautious; a\nthird--and then the child's doom seems fixed. But just at that. moment all\nis ready. The window is wide open; the rope is swinging free; the\njourneyman has launched himself; and already he is in the first stage of\nhis descent. Simply by the weight of his person he descended, and by the\nresistance of his hands he retarded the descent. The danger was, that the\nrope should run too smoothly through his hands, and that by too rapid an\nacceleration of pace he should come violently to the ground. Happily he\nwas able to resist the descending impetus: the knots of the splicings\nfurnished a succession of retardations. But the rope proved shorter by\nfour or five feet than he had calculated: ten or eleven feet from the\nground he hung suspended in the air; speechless for the present, through\nlong-continued agitation; and not daring to drop boldly on the rough\ncarriage pavement, lest he should fracture his legs. But the night was not\ndark, as it had been on occasion of the Marr murders. And yet, for\npurposes of criminal police, it was by accident worse than the darkest\nnight that ever hid a murder or baffled a pursuit. London, from east to\nwest, was covered with a deep pall (rising from the river) of universal\nfog. Hence it happened, that for twenty or thirty seconds the young man\nhanging in the air was not observed. His white shirt at length attracted\nnotice. Three or four people ran up, and received him in their arms, all\nanticipating some dreadful annunciation. To what house did he belong? Even\n_that_ was not instantly apparent; but he pointed with his finger to\nWilliamson's door, and said in a half-choking whisper--'_Marr's murderer,\nnow at work!_'\n\nAll explained itself in a moment: the silent language of the fact made its\nown eloquent revelation. The mysterious exterminator of No. 29 Ratcliffe\nHighway had visited another house; and, behold! one man only had escaped\nthrough the air, and in his night-dress, to tell the tale.\nSuperstitiously, there was something to check the pursuit of this\nunintelligible criminal. Morally, and in the interests of vindictive\njustice, there was everything to rouse, quicken, and sustain it.\n\nYes, Marr's murderer--the man of mystery--was again at work; at this\nmoment perhaps extinguishing some lamp of life, and not at any remote\nplace, but here--in the very house which the listeners to this dreadful\nannouncement were actually touching. The chaos and blind uproar of the\nscene which followed, measured by the crowded reports in the journals of\nmany subsequent days, and in one feature of that case, has never to my\nknowledge had its parallel; or, if a parallel, only in one case--what\nfollowed, I mean, on the acquittal of the seven bishops at Westminster in\n1688. At present there was more than passionate enthusiasm. The frenzied\nmovement of mixed horror and exultation--the ululation of vengeance which\nascended instantaneously from the individual street, and then by a sublime\nsort of magnetic contagion from all the adjacent streets, can be\nadequately expressed only by a rapturous passage in Shelley:--\n\n  'The transport of a fierce and monstrous gladness\n      Spread through the multitudinous streets, fast flying\n  Upon the wings of fear:--From his dull madness\n      The starveling waked, and died in joy: the dying,\n  Among the corpses in stark agony lying,\n      Just heard the happy tidings, and in hope\n  Closed their faint eyes: from house to house replying\n      With loud acclaim the living shook heaven's cope,\n  And fill'd the startled earth with echoes.' [6]\n\nThere was something, indeed, half inexplicable in the instantaneous\ninterpretation of the gathering shout according to its true meaning. In\nfact, the deadly roar of vengeance, and its sublime unity, _could_\npoint in this district only to the one demon whose idea had brooded and\ntyrannized, for twelve days, over the general heart: every door, every\nwindow in the neighborhood, flew open as if at a word of command;\nmultitudes, without waiting for the regular means of egress, leaped down\nat once from the windows on the lower story; sick men rose from their\nbeds; in one instance, as if expressly to verify the image of Shelley (in\nv. 4, 5, 6, 7), a man whose death had been looked for through some days,\nand who actually _did_ die on the following day, rose, armed himself\nwith a sword, and descended in his shirt into the street. The chance was a\ngood one, and the mob were made aware of it, for catching the wolfish dog\nin the high noon and carnival of his bloody revels--in the very centre of\nhis own shambles. For a moment the mob was self-baffled by its own numbers\nand its own fury. But even that fury felt the call for self-control. It\nwas evident that the massy street-door must be driven in, since there was\nno longer any living person to co-operate with their efforts from within,\nexcepting only a female child. Crowbars dexterously applied in one minute\nthrew the door out of hangings, and the people entered like a torrent. It\nmay be guessed with what fret and irritation to their consuming fury, a\nsignal of pause and absolute silence was made by a person of local\nimportance. In the hope of receiving some useful communication, the mob\nbecame silent. 'Now listen,' said the man of authority, 'and we shall\nlearn whether he is above-stairs or below.' Immediately a noise was heard\nas if of some one forcing windows, and clearly the sound came from a\nbedroom above. Yes, the fact was apparent that the murderer was even yet\nin the house: he had been caught in a trap. Not having made himself\nfamiliar with the details of Williamson's house, to all appearance he had\nsuddenly become a prisoner in one of the upper rooms. Towards this the\ncrowd now rushed impetuously. The door, however, was found to be slightly\nfastened; and, at the moment when this was forced, a loud crash of the\nwindow, both glass and frame, announced that the wretch had made his\nescape. He had leaped down; and several persons in the crowd, who burned\nwith the general fury, leaped after him. These persons had not troubled\nthemselves about the nature of the ground; but now, on making an\nexamination of it with torches, they reported it to be an inclined plane,\nor embankment of clay, very wet and adhesive. The prints of the man's\nfootsteps were deeply impressed upon the clay, and therefore easily traced\nup to the summit of the embankment; but it was perceived at once that\npursuit would be useless, from the density of the mist. Two feet ahead of\nyou, a man was entirely withdrawn from your power of identification; and,\non overtaking him, you could not venture to challenge him as the same whom\nyou had lost sight of. Never, through the course of a whole century, could\nthere be a night expected more propitious to an escaping criminal: means\nof disguise Williams now had in excess; and the dens were innumerable in\nthe neighborhood of the river that could have sheltered him for years from\ntroublesome inquiries. But favors are thrown away upon the reckless and\nthe thankless. That night, when the turning-point offered itself for his\nwhole future career, Williams took the wrong turn; for, out of mere\nindolence, he took the turn to his old lodgings--that place which, in all\nEngland, he had just now the most reason to shun.\n\nMeantime the crowd had thoroughly searched the premises of Williamson. The\nfirst inquiry was for the young grand-daughter. Williams, it was evident,\nhad gone into her room: but in this room apparently it was that the sudden\nuproar in the streets had surprised him; after which his undivided\nattention had been directed to the windows, since through these only any\nretreat had been left open to him. Even this retreat he owed only to the\nfog and to the hurry of the moment, and to the difficulty of approaching\nthe premises by the rear. The little girl was naturally agitated by the\ninflux of strangers at that hour; but otherwise, through the humane\nprecautions of the neighbors, she was preserved from all knowledge of the\ndreadful events that had occurred whilst she herself was sleeping. Her\npoor old grandfather was still missing, until the crowd descended into the\ncellar; he was then found lying prostrate on the cellar floor: apparently\nhe had been thrown down from the top of the cellar stairs, and with so\nmuch violence, that one leg was broken. After he had been thus disabled,\nWilliams had gone down to him, and cut his throat. There was much\ndiscussion at the time, in some of the public journals, upon the\npossibility of reconciling these incidents with other circumstantialities\nof the case, supposing that only one man had been concerned in the affair.\nThat there _was_ only one man concerned, seems to be certain. One\nonly was seen or heard at Marr's: one only, and beyond all doubt the same\nman, was seen by the young journeyman in Mrs. Williamson's parlor; and one\nonly was traced by his footmarks on the clay embankment. Apparently the\ncourse which he had pursued was this: he had introduced himself to\nWilliamson by ordering some beer. This order would oblige the old man to\ngo down into the cellar; Williams would wait until he had reached it, and\nwould then 'slam' and lock the street-door in the violent way described.\nWilliamson would come up in agitation upon hearing this violence. The\nmurderer, aware that he would do so, met him, no doubt, at the head of the\ncellar stairs, and threw him down; after which he would go down to\nconsummate the murder in his ordinary way. All this would occupy a minute,\nor a minute and a half; and in that way the interval would be accounted\nfor that elapsed between the alarming sound of the street-door as heard by\nthe journeyman, and the lamentable outcry of the female servant. It is\nevident also, that the reason why no cry whatsoever had been heard from\nthe lips of Mrs. Williamson, is due to the positions of the parties as I\nhave sketched them. Coming behind Mrs. Williamson, unseen therefore, and\nfrom her deafness unheard, the murderer would inflict entire abolition of\nconsciousness while she was yet unaware of his presence. But with the\nservant, who had unavoidably witnessed the attack upon her mistress, the\nmurderer could not obtain the same fulness of advantage; and _she_\ntherefore had time for making an agonizing ejaculation.\n\nIt has been mentioned, that the murderer of the Marrs was not for nearly a\nfortnight so much as suspected; meaning that, previously to the Williamson\nmurder, no vestige of any ground for suspicion in any direction whatever\nhad occurred either to the general public or to the police. But there were\ntwo very limited exceptions to this state of absolute ignorance. Some of\nthe magistrates had in their possession something which, when closely\nexamined, offered a very probable means for tracing the criminal. But as\nyet they had _not_ traced him. Until the Friday morning next after\nthe destruction of the Williamsons, they had not published the important\nfact, that upon the ship-carpenter's mallet (with which, as regarded the\nstunning or disabling process, the murders had been achieved) were\ninscribed the letters 'J. P.' This mallet had, by a strange oversight on\nthe part of the murderer, been left behind in Marr's shop; and it is an\ninteresting fact, therefore, that, had the villain been intercepted by the\nbrave pawnbroker, he would have been met virtually disarmed. This public\nnotification was made officially on the Friday, viz., on the thirteenth\nday after the first murder. And it was instantly followed (as will be\nseen) by a most important result. Meantime, within the secrecy of one\nsingle bedroom in all London, it is a fact that Williams had been\nwhisperingly the object of very deep suspicion from the very first--that\nis, within that same hour which witnessed the Marr tragedy. And singular\nit is, that the suspicion was due entirely to his own folly. Williams\nlodged, in company with other men of various nations, at a public-house.\nIn a large dormitory there were arranged five or six beds; these were\noccupied by artisans, generally of respectable character. One or two\nEnglishmen there were, one or two Scotchmen, three or four Germans, and\nWilliams, whose birth-place was not certainly known. On the fatal Saturday\nnight, about half-past one o'clock, when Williams returned from his\ndreadful labors, he found the English and Scotch party asleep, but the\nGermans awake: one of them was sitting up with a lighted candle in his\nhands, and reading aloud to the other two. Upon this, Williams said, in an\nangry and very peremptory tone, 'Oh, put that candle out; put it out\ndirectly; we shall all be burned in our beds.' Had the British party in\nthe room been awake, Mr. Williams would have roused a mutinous protest\nagainst this arrogant mandate. But Germans are generally mild and facile\nin their tempers; so the light was complaisantly extinguished. Yet, as\nthere were no curtains, it struck the Germans that the danger was really\nnone at all; for bed-clothes, massed upon each other, will no more burn\nthan the leaves of a closed book. Privately, therefore, the Germans drew\nan inference, that Mr. Williams must have had some urgent motive for\nwithdrawing his own person and dress from observation. What this motive\nmight be, the next day's news diffused all over London, and of course at\nthis house, not two furlongs from Marr's shop, made awfully evident; and,\nas may well be supposed, the suspicion was communicated to the other\nmembers of the dormitory. All of them, however, were aware of the legal\ndanger attaching, under English law, to insinuations against a man, even\nif true, which might not admit of proof. In reality, had Williams used the\nmost obvious precautions, had he simply walked down to the Thames (not a\nstone's-throw distant), and flung two of his implements into the river, no\nconclusive proof could have been adduced against him. And he might have\nrealized the scheme of Courvoisier (the murderer of Lord William Russell)\n--viz., have sought each separate month's support in a separate well-\nconcerted murder. The party in the dormitory, meantime, were satisfied\nthemselves, but waited for evidences that might satisfy others. No sooner,\ntherefore, had the official notice been published as to the initials J. P.\non the mallet, than every man in the house recognized at once the well-\nknown initials of an honest Norwegian ship-carpenter, John Petersen, who\nhad worked in the English dockyards until the present year; but, having\noccasion to revisit his native land, had left his box of tools in the\ngarrets of this inn. These garrets were now searched. Petersen's tool-\nchest was found, but wanting the mallet; and, on further examination,\nanother overwhelming discovery was made. The surgeon, who examined the\ncorpses at Williamson's, had given it as his opinion that the throats were\nnot cut by means of a razor, but of some implement differently shaped. It\nwas now remembered that Williams had recently borrowed a large French\nknife of peculiar construction; and accordingly, from a heap of old lumber\nand rags, there was soon extricated a waistcoat, which the whole house\ncould swear to as recently worn by Williams. In this waistcoat, and glued\nby gore to the lining of its pockets, was found the French knife. Next, it\nwas matter of notoriety to everybody in the inn, that Williams ordinarily\nwore at present a pair of creaking shoes, and a brown surtout lined with\nsilk. Many other presumptions seemed scarcely called for. Williams was\nimmediately apprehended, and briefly examined. This was on the Friday. On\nthe Saturday morning (viz., fourteen days from the Marr murders) he was\nagain brought up. The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming; Williams\nwatched its course, but said very little. At the close, he was fully\ncommitted for trial at the next sessions; and it is needless to say, that,\non his road to prison, he was pursued by mobs so fierce, that, under\nordinary circumstances, there would have been small hope of escaping\nsummary vengeance. But upon this occasion a powerful escort had been\nprovided; so that he was safely lodged in jail. In this particular jail at\nthis time, the regulation was, that at five o'clock, P. M. all the\nprisoners on the criminal side should be finally locked up for the night,\nand without candles. For fourteen hours (that is, until seven o'clock on\nthe next morning) they were left unvisited, and in total darkness. Time,\ntherefore, Williams had for committing suicide. The means in other\nrespects were small. One iron bar there was, meant (if I remember) for the\nsuspension of a lamp; upon this he had hanged himself by his braces. At\nwhat hour was uncertain: some people fancied at midnight. And in that\ncase, precisely at the hour when, fourteen days before, he had been\nspreading horror and desolation through the quiet family of poor Marr, now\nwas he forced into drinking of the same cup, presented to his lips by the\nsame accursed hands.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe case of the M'Keans, which has been specially alluded to, merits also\na slight rehearsal for the dreadful picturesqueness of some two or three\namongst its circumstances. The scene of this murder was at a rustic inn,\nsome few miles (I think) from Manchester; and the advantageous situation\nof this inn it was, out of which arose the two fold temptations of the\ncase. Generally speaking, an inn argues, of course, a close cincture of\nneighbors--as the original motive for opening such an establishment. But,\nin this case, the house individually was solitary, so that no interruption\nwas to be looked for from any persons living within reach of screams; and\nyet, on the other hand, the circumjacent vicinity was eminently populous;\nas one consequence of which, a benefit club had established its weekly\nrendezvous in this inn, and left the peculiar accumulations in their club-\nroom, under the custody of the landlord. This fund arose often to a\nconsiderable amount, fifty or seventy pounds, before it was transferred to\nthe hands of a banker. Here, therefore, was a treasure worth some little\nrisk, and a situation that promised next to none. These attractive\ncircumstances had, by accident, become accurately known to one or both of\nthe two M'Keans; and, unfortunately, at a moment of overwhelming\nmisfortune to themselves. They were hawkers; and, until lately, had borne\nmost respectable characters: but some mercantile crash had overtaken them\nwith utter ruin, in which their joint capital had been swallowed up to the\nlast shilling. This sudden prostration had made them desperate: their own\nlittle property had been swallowed up in a large _social_ catastrophe, and\nsociety at large they looked upon as accountable to them for a robbery. In\npreying, therefore, upon society, they considered themselves as pursuing a\nwild natural justice of retaliation. The money aimed at did certainly\nassume the character of public money, being the product of many separate\nsubscriptions. They forgot, however, that in the murderous acts, which too\ncertainly they meditated as preliminaries to the robbery, they could plead\nno such imaginary social precedent. In dealing with a family that seemed\nalmost helpless, if all went smoothly, they relied entirely upon their own\nbodily strength. They were stout young men, twenty-eight to thirty-two\nyears old; somewhat undersized as to height; but squarely built, deep-\nchested, broad-shouldered, and so beautifully formed, as regarded the\nsymmetry of their limbs and their articulations, that, after their\nexecution, the bodies were privately exhibited by the surgeons of the\nManchester Infirmary, as objects of statuesque interest. On the other\nhand, the household which they proposed to attack consisted of the\nfollowing four persons:--1. the landlord, a stoutish farmer--but _him_ they\nintended to disable by a trick then newly introduced amongst robbers, and\ntermed _hocussing_, _i.e._, clandestinely drugging the liquor of the\nvictim with laudanum; 2. the landlord's wife; 3. a young servant woman; 4.\na boy, twelve or fourteen years old. The danger was, that out of four\npersons, scattered by possibility over a house which had two separate\nexits, one at least might escape, and by better acquaintance with the\nadjacent paths, might succeed in giving an alarm to some of the houses a\nfurlong distant. Their final resolution was, to be guided by circumstances\nas to the mode of conducting the affair; and yet, as it seemed essential\nto success that they should assume the air of strangers to each other, it\nwas necessary that they should preconcert some general outline of their\nplan; since it would on this scheme be impossible, without awaking violent\nsuspicions, to make any communications under the eyes of the family. This\noutline included, at the least, one murder: so much was settled; but,\notherwise, their subsequent proceedings make it evident that they wished\nto have as little bloodshed as was consistent with their final object. On\nthe appointed day, they presented themselves separately at the rustic inn,\nand at different hours. One came as early as four o'clock in the\nafternoon; the other not until half-past seven. They saluted each other\ndistantly and shyly; and, though occasionally exchanging a few words in\nthe character of strangers, did not seem disposed to any familiar\nintercourse. With the landlord, however, on his return about eight o'clock\nfrom Manchester, one of the brothers entered into a lively conversation;\ninvited him to take a tumbler of punch; and, at a moment when the\nlandlord's absence from the room allowed it, poured into the punch a\nspoonful of laudanum. Some time after this, the clock struck ten; upon\nwhich the elder M'Kean, professing to be weary, asked to be shown up to\nhis bedroom: for each brother, immediately on arriving, had engaged a bed.\nOn this, the poor servant girl had presented herself with a bed-candle to\nlight him upstairs. At this critical moment the family were distributed\nthus:--the landlord, stupefied with the horrid narcotic which he had\ndrunk, had retired to a private room adjoining the public room, for the\npurpose of reclining upon a sofa: and he, luckily for his own safety, was\nlooked upon as entirely incapacitated for action. The landlady was\noccupied with her husband. And thus the younger M'Kean was left alone in\nthe public room. He rose, therefore, softly, and placed himself at the\nfoot of the stairs which his brother had just ascended, so as to be sure\nof intercepting any fugitive from the bedroom above. Into that room the\nelder M'Kean was ushered by the servant, who pointed to two beds--one of\nwhich was already half occupied by the boy, and the other empty: in these,\nshe intimated that the two strangers must dispose of themselves for the\nnight, according to any arrangement that they might agree upon. Saying\nthis, she presented him with the candle, which he in a moment placed upon\nthe table; and, intercepting her retreat from the room threw his arm round\nher neck with a gesture as though he meant to kiss her. This was evidently\nwhat she herself anticipated, and endeavored to prevent. Her horror may be\nimagined, when she felt the perfidious hand that clasped her neck armed\nwith a razor, and violently cutting her throat. She was hardly able to\nutter one scream, before she sank powerless upon the floor. This dreadful\nspectacle was witnessed by the boy, who was not asleep, but had presence\nof mind enough instantly to close his eyes. The murderer advanced hastily\nto the bed, and anxiously examined the expression of the boy's features:\nsatisfied he was not, and he then placed his hand upon the boy's heart, in\norder to judge by its beatings whether he were agitated or not. This was a\ndreadful trial: and no doubt the counterfeit sleep would immediately have\nbeen detected, when suddenly a dreadful spectacle drew off the attention\nof the murderer. Solemnly, and in ghostly silence, uprose in her dying\ndelirium the murdered girl; she stood upright, she walked steadily for a\nmoment or two, she bent her steps towards the door. The murderer turned\naway to pursue her; and at that moment the boy, feeling that his one\nsolitary chance was to fly while this scene was in progress, bounded out\nof bed. On the landing at the head of the stairs was one murderer, at the\nfoot of the stairs was the other: who could believe that the boy had the\nshadow of a chance for escaping? And yet, in the most natural way, he\nsurmounted all hindrances. In the boy's horror, he laid his left hand on\nthe balustrade, and took a flying leap over it, which landed him at the\nbottom of the stairs, without having touched a single stair. He had thus\neffectually passed one of the murderers: the other, it is true, was still\nto be passed; and this would have been impossible but for a sudden\naccident. The landlady had been alarmed by the faint scream of the young\nwoman; had hurried from her private room to the girl's assistance; but at\nthe foot of the stairs had been intercepted by the younger brother, and\nwas at this moment struggling with _him_. The confusion of this life-and-\ndeath conflict had allowed the boy to whirl past them. Luckily he took a\nturn into a kitchen, out of which was a back-door, fastened by a single\nbolt, that ran freely at a touch; and through this door he rushed into the\nopen fields. But at this moment the elder brother was set free for pursuit\nby the death of the poor girl. There is no doubt, that in her delirium the\nimage moving through her thoughts was that of the club, which met once a-\nweek. She fancied it no doubt sitting; and to this room, for help and for\nsafety she staggered along; she entered it, and within the doorway once\nmore she dropped down, and instantly expired. Her murderer, who had\nfollowed her closely, now saw himself set at liberty for the pursuit of\nthe boy. At this critical moment, all was at stake; unless the boy were\ncaught, the enterprise was ruined. He passed his brother, therefore, and\nthe landlady without pausing, and rushed through the open door into the\nfields. By a single second, perhaps, he was too late. The boy was keenly\naware, that if he continued in sight, he would have no chance of escaping\nfrom a powerful young man. He made, therefore, at once for a ditch, into\nwhich he tumbled headlong. Had the murderer ventured to make a leisurely\nexamination of the nearest ditch, he would easily have found the boy--made\nso conspicuous by his white shirt. But he lost all heart, upon failing at\nonce to arrest the boy's flight. And every succeeding second made his\ndespair the greater. If the boy had really effected his escape to the\nneighboring farm-house, a party of men might be gathered within five\nminutes; and already it might have become difficult for himself and his\nbrother, unacquainted with the field paths, to evade being intercepted.\nNothing remained, therefore, but to summon his brother away. Thus it\nhappened that the landlady, though mangled, escaped with life, and\neventually recovered. The landlord owed his safety to the stupefying\npotion. And the baffled murderers had the misery of knowing that their\ndreadful crime had been altogether profitless. The road, indeed, was now\nopen to the club-room; and, probably, forty seconds would have sufficed to\ncarry off the box of treasure, which afterwards might have been burst open\nand pillaged at leisure. But the fear of intercepting enemies was too\nstrongly upon them; and they fled rapidly by a road which carried them\nactually within six feet of the lurking boy. That night they passed\nthrough Manchester. When daylight returned, they slept in a thicket twenty\nmiles distant from the scene of their guilty attempt. On the second and\nthird nights, they pursued their march on foot, resting again during the\nday. About sunrise on the fourth morning, they were entering some village\nnear Kirby Lonsdale, in Westmoreland. They must have designedly quitted\nthe direct line of route; for their object was Ayrshire, of which county\nthey were natives; and the regular road would have led them through Shap,\nPenrith, Carlisle. Probably they were seeking to elude the persecution of\nthe stage-coaches, which, for the last thirty hours, had been scattering\nat all the inns and road-side _cabarets_ hand-bills describing their\npersons and dress. It happened (perhaps through design) that on this\nfourth morning they had separated, so as to enter the village ten minutes\napart from each other. They were exhausted and footsore. In this condition\nit was easy to stop them. A blacksmith had silently reconnoitred them, and\ncompared their appearance with the description of the hand-bills. They\nwere then easily overtaken, and separately arrested. Their trial and\ncondemnation speedily followed at Lancaster; and in those days it\nfollowed, of course, that they were executed. Otherwise their case fell so\nfar within the sheltering limits of what would _now_ be regarded as\nextenuating circumstances--that, whilst a murder more or less was not to\nrepel them from their object, very evidently they were anxious to\neconomize the bloodshed as much as possible. Immeasurable, therefore, was\nthe interval which divided them from the monster Williams. They perished\non the scaffold: Williams, as I have said, by his own hand; and, in\nobedience to the law as it then stood, he was buried in the centre of a\n_quadrivium_, or conflux of four roads (in this case four streets),\nwith a stake driven through his heart. And over him drives for ever the\nuproar of unresting London!\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n[1] See 'Miscellaneous Essays,' p. 17.\n\n[2] I am not sure whether Southey held at this time his appointment to the\neditorship of the 'Edinburgh Annual Register.' If he did, no doubt in the\ndomestic section of that chronicle will be found an excellent account of\nthe whole.\n\n[3] An artist told me in this year, 1812, that having accidentally seen a\nnative Devonshire regiment (either volunteers or militia), nine hundred\nstrong, marching past a station at which he had posted himself, he did not\nobserve a dozen men that would not have been described in common parlance\nas 'good looking.'\n\n[4] I do not remember, chronologically, the history of gas-lights. But in\nLondon, long after Mr. Winsor had shown the value of gas-lighting, and its\napplicability to street purposes, various districts were prevented, for\nmany years, from resorting to the new system, in consequence of old\ncontracts with oil-dealers, subsisting through long terms of years.\n\n[5] Let the reader, who is disposed to regard as exaggerated or romantic\nthe pure fiendishness imputed to Williams, recollect that, except for the\nluxurious purpose of basking and revelling in the anguish of dying\ndespair, he had no motive at all, small or great, for attempting the\nmurder of this young girl. She had seen nothing, heard nothing--was fast\nasleep, and her door was closed; so that, as a witness against him, he\nknew that she was as useless as any one of the three corpses. And yet he\n_was_ making preparations for her murder, when the alarm in the street\ninterrupted him.\n\n[6] 'Revolt of Islam,' canto xii.\n\n[7] See his bitter letters to Lady Suffolk.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRUE RELATIONS OF THE BIBLE TO MERELY HUMAN SCIENCE.\n\n\nIt is sometimes said, that a religious messenger from God does not come\namongst men for the sake of teaching truths in science, or of correcting\nerrors in science. Most justly is this said: but often in terms far too\nfeeble. For generally these terms are such as to imply, that, although no\ndirect and imperative function of his mission, it was yet open to him, as\na permissible function--that, although not pressing with the force of an\nobligation upon the missionary, it was yet at his discretion--if not to\ncorrect other men's errors, yet at least in his own person to speak with\nscientific precision. I contend that it was _not_. I contend, that to\nhave uttered the truths of astronomy, of geology, &c., at the era of new-\nborn Christianity, was not only _below_ and _beside_ the purposes of a\nreligion, but would have been _against_ them. Even upon errors of a far\nmore important class than errors in science can ever be--superstitions,\nfor instance, that degraded the very idea of God; prejudices and false\nusages, that laid waste human happiness (such as slavery, and many\nhundreds of other abuses that might be mentioned), the rule evidently\nacted upon by the Founder of Christianity was this--Given the purification\nof the well-head, once assumed that the fountains of truth are cleansed,\nall these derivative currents of evil will cleanse themselves. As a\ngeneral rule, the branches of error were disregarded, and the roots only\nattacked. If, then, so lofty a station was taken with regard even to such\nerrors as really _had_ moral and spiritual relations, how much more with\nregard to the comparative trifles (as in the ultimate relations of human\nnature they are) of merely human science! But, for my part, I go further,\nand assert, that upon three reasons it was impossible for any messenger\nfrom God (or offering himself in that character) to have descended into\nthe communication of truth merely scientific, or economic, or worldly. And\nthe three reasons are these:--_First_, Because such a descent would have\ndegraded his mission, by lowering it to the base level of a collusion with\nhuman curiosity, or (in the most favorable case) of a collusion with petty\nand transitory interests. _Secondly_, Because it would have ruined his\nmission, by disturbing its free agency, and misdirecting its energies, in\ntwo separate modes: first, by destroying the spiritual _auctoritas_ (the\nprestige and consideration) of the missionary; secondly, by vitiating the\nspiritual atmosphere of his audience--that is, corrupting and misdirecting\nthe character of their thoughts and expectations. He that in the early\ndays of Christianity should have proclaimed the true theory of the solar\nsystem, or that by any chance word or allusion should then, in a condition\nof man so little prepared to receive such truths, have asserted or assumed\nthe daily motion of the earth on its own axis, or its annual motion round\nthe sun, would have found himself entangled at once and irretrievably in\nthe following unmanageable consequences:--First of all, and\ninstantaneously, he would have been roused to the alarming fact, that, by\nthis dreadful indiscretion he himself, the professed deliverer of a new\nand spiritual religion, had in a moment untuned the spirituality of his\naudience. He would find that he had awakened within them the passion of\ncuriosity--the most unspiritual of passions, and of curiosity in a fierce\npolemic shape. The very safest step in so deplorable a situation would be,\ninstantly to recant. Already by this one may estimate the evil, when such\nwould be its readiest palliation. For in what condition would the\nreputation of the teacher be left for discretion and wisdom as an\nintellectual guide, when his first act must be to recant--and to recant\nwhat to the whole body of his hearers would wear the character of a\nlunatic proposition. Such considerations might possibly induce him _not_\nto recant. But in that case the consequences are far worse. Having once\nallowed himself to sanction what his hearers regard as the most monstrous\nof paradoxes, he has no liberty of retreat open to him. He must stand to\nthe promises of his own acts. Uttering the first truth of a science, he is\npledged to the second; taking the main step, he is committed to all which\nfollow. He is thrown at once upon the endless controversies which science\nin every stage provokes, and in none more than in the earliest. Starting,\nbesides, from the authority of a divine mission, he could not (as others\nmight) have the privilege of selecting arbitrarily or partially. If upon\none science, then upon all; if upon science, then upon art; if upon art\nand science, then upon _every_ branch of social economy his reformations\nand advances are equally due--due as to all, if due as to any. To move in\none direction, is constructively to undertake for all. Without power to\nretreat, he has thus thrown the intellectual interests of his followers\ninto a channel utterly alien to the purposes of a spiritual mission.\n\nThe spiritual mission, therefore, the purpose for which only the religious\nteacher was sent, has now perished altogether--overlaid and confounded by\nthe merely scientific wranglings to which his own inconsiderate\nprecipitance has opened the door. But suppose at this point that the\nteacher, aware at length of the mischief which he has caused, and seeing\nthat the fatal error of uttering one solitary novel truth upon a matter of\nmere science is by inevitable consequence to throw him upon a road leading\naltogether away from the proper field of his mission, takes the laudable\ncourse of confessing his error, and of attempting a return into his proper\nspiritual province. This may be his best course; yet, after all, it will\nnot retrieve his lost ground. He returns with a character confessedly\ndamaged. His very excuse rests upon the blindness and shortsightedness\nwhich forbade his anticipating the true and natural consequences. Neither\nwill his own account of the case be generally accepted. He will not be\nsupposed to retreat from further controversy, as inconsistent with\nspiritual purposes, but because he finds himself unequal to the dispute.\nAnd, in the very best case, he is, by his own acknowledgment, tainted with\nhuman infirmity. He has been ruined for a servant of inspiration; and how?\nBy a process, let it be remembered, of which all the steps are inevitable\nunder the same agency: that is, in the case of any primitive Christian\nteacher having attempted to speak the language of scientific truth in\ndealing with the phenomena of astronomy, geology, or of any merely human\nknowledge.\n\nNow, thirdly and lastly, in order to try the question in an extreme form,\nlet it be supposed that, aided by powers of working miracles, some early\napostle of Christianity should actually have succeeded in carrying through\nthe Copernican system of astronomy, as an article of blind belief, sixteen\ncenturies before the progress of man's intellect had qualified him for\nnaturally developing that system. What, in such a case, would be the true\nestimate and valuation of the achievement? Simply this, that he had thus\nsucceeded in cancelling and counteracting a determinate scheme of divine\ndiscipline and training for man. Wherefore did God give to man the powers\nfor contending with scientific difficulties? Wherefore did he lay a secret\ntrain of continual occasions, that should rise, by relays, through scores\nof generations, for provoking and developing those activities in man's\nintellect, if, after all, he is to send a messenger of his own, more than\nhuman, to intercept and strangle all these great purposes? This is to\nmistake the very meaning and purposes of a revelation. A revelation is not\nmade for the purpose of showing to indolent men that which, by faculties\nalready given to them, they may show to themselves; no: but for the\npurpose of showing _that_ which the moral darkness of man will not,\nwithout supernatural light, allow him to perceive. With disdain,\ntherefore, must every thoughtful person regard the notion, that God could\nwilfully interfere with his own plans, by accrediting ambassadors to\nreveal astronomy, or any other science, which he has commanded men, by\nqualifying men, to reveal for themselves.\n\nEven as regards astronomy--a science so nearly allying itself to religion\nby the loftiness and by the purity of its contemplations--Scripture is\nnowhere the _parent_ of any doctrine, nor so much as the silent\nsanctioner of any doctrine. It is made impossible for Scripture to teach\nfalsely, by the simple fact that Scripture, on such subjects, will not\ncondescend to teach at all. The Bible adopts the erroneous language of men\n(which at any rate it must do, in order to make itself understood), not by\nway of sanctioning a theory, but by way of using a fact. The Bible, for\ninstance, _uses_ (postulates) the phenomena of day and night, of\nsummer and winter; and, in relation to their causes, speaks by the same\npopular and inaccurate language which is current for ordinary purposes,\neven amongst the most scientific of astronomers. For the man of science,\nequally with the populace, talks of the sun as rising and setting, as\nhaving finished half his day's journey, &c., and, without pedantry, could\nnot in many cases talk otherwise. But the results, which are all that\nconcern Scripture, are equally true, whether accounted for by one\nhypothesis which is philosophically just, or by another which is popular\nand erring.\n\nNow, on the other hand, in geology and cosmology, the case is stronger.\n_Here_ there is no opening for a compliance even with a _language_ that is\nerroneous; for no language at all is current upon subjects that have never\nengaged the popular attention. _Here_, where there is no such stream of\napparent phenomena running counter (as in astronomy there is) to the real\nphenomena, neither is there any popular language opposed to the\nscientific. The whole are abtruse speculations, even as regards their\nobjects, nor dreamed of as possibilities, either in their true aspects or\ntheir false aspects, till modern times. The Scriptures, therefore, nowhere\nallude to such sciences, either as taking the shape of histories, applied\nto processes current and in movement, or as taking the shape of theories\napplied to processes past and accomplished. The Mosaic cosmogony, indeed,\ngives the succession of natural births; and probably the general outline\nof such a succession will be more and more confirmed as geology advances.\nBut as to the time, the duration, of this successive evolution, it is the\nidlest of notions that the Scriptures either have, or could have,\ncondescended to human curiosity upon so awful a prologue to the drama of\nthis world. Genesis would no more have indulged so mean a passion with\nrespect to the mysterious inauguration of the world, than the Apocalypse\nwith respect to its mysterious close. 'Yet the six _days_ of Moses!' Days!\nBut is it possible that human folly should go the length of understanding\nby the Mosaical _day_, the mysterious _day_ of that awful agency which\nmoulded the heavens and the heavenly host, no more than the ordinary\n_nychthemeron_ or cycle of twenty-four hours? The period implied in a\n_day_, when used in relation to the inaugural manifestation of\ncreative power in that vast drama which introduces God to man in the\ncharacter of a demiurgus or creator of the world, indicated one stage\namongst six; involving probably many millions of years. The silliest of\nnurses, in her nursery babble, could hardly suppose that the mighty\nprocess began on a Monday morning, and ended on Saturday night. If we are\nseriously to study the value and scriptural acceptation of scriptural\nwords and phrases, I presume that our first business will be to collate\nthe use of these words in one part of Scripture, with their use in other\nparts, holding the same spiritual relations. The creation, for instance,\ndoes not belong to the earthly or merely historical records, but to the\nspiritual records of the Bible; to the same category, therefore, as the\nprophetic sections of the Bible. Now, in those, and in the Psalms, how do\nwe understand the word _day_? Is any man so little versed in biblical\nlanguage as not to know, that (except in the merely historical parts of\nthe Jewish records) every section of time has a secret and separate\nacceptation in the Scriptures? Does an aeon, though a Grecian word, bear\nscripturally (either in Daniel or in St. John) any sense known to Grecian\nears? Do the seventy _weeks_ of the prophet mean weeks in the sense\nof human calendars? Already the Psalms (xc.), already St. Peter (2d\nEpist.), warn us of a peculiar sense attached to the word _day_ in\ndivine ears. And who of the innumerable interpreters understands the\ntwelve hundred and sixty days in Daniel, or his two thousand and odd days,\nto mean, by possibility, periods of twenty-four hours? Surely the theme of\nMoses was as mystical, and as much entitled to the benefit of mystical\nlanguage, as that of the prophets.\n\nThe sum of this matter is this:--God, by a Hebrew prophet, is sublimely\ndescribed as _the Revealer_; and, in variation of his own expression,\nthe same prophet describes him as the Being 'that knoweth the darkness.'\nUnder no idea can the relations of God to man be more grandly expressed.\nBut of what is he the revealer? Not surely of those things which he has\nenabled man to reveal for himself, but of those things which, were it not\nthrough special light from heaven, must eternally remain sealed up in\ninaccessible darkness. On this principle we should all laugh at a revealed\ncookery. But essentially the same ridicule, not more, and not less,\napplies to a revealed astronomy, or a revealed geology. As a fact, there\n_is_ no such astronomy or geology: as a possibility, by the _a priori_\nargument which I have used (viz., that a revelation on such fields would\ncounteract _other_ machineries of providence), there _can_ be no such\nastronomy or geology in the Bible. Consequently there _is_ none.\nConsequently there can be no schism or feud upon _these_ subjects between\nthe Bible and the philosophies outside.\n\n\n\n\nSCHLOSSER'S LITERARY HISTORY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.\n\n\nIn the person of this Mr. Schlosser is exemplified a common abuse, not\nconfined to literature. An artist from the Italian opera of London and\nParis, making a professional excursion to our provinces, is received\naccording to the tariff of the metropolis; no one being bold enough to\ndispute decisions coming down from the courts above. In that particular\ncase there is seldom any reason to complain--since really out of Germany\nand Italy there is no city, if you except Paris and London, possessing\n_materials_, in that field of art, for the composition of an audience\nlarge enough to act as a court of revision. It would be presumption in the\nprovincial audience, so slightly trained to good music and dancing, if it\nshould affect to reverse a judgment ratified in the supreme capital. The\nresult, therefore, is practically just, if the original verdict was just;\nwhat was right from the first cannot be made wrong by iteration. Yet, even\nin such a case, there is something not satisfactory to a delicate sense of\nequity; for the artist returns from the tour as if from some new and\nindependent triumph, whereas, all is but the reverberation of an old one;\nit seems a new access of sunlight, whereas it is but a reflex illumination\nfrom satellites.\n\nIn literature the corresponding case is worse. An author, passing by means\nof translation before a foreign people, ought _de jure_ to find himself\nbefore a new tribunal; but _de facto_, he does not. Like the opera artist,\nbut not with the same propriety, he comes before a court that never\ninterferes to disturb a judgment, but only to re-affirm it. And he returns\nto his native country, quartering in his armorial bearings these new\ntrophies, as though won by new trials, when, in fact, they are due to\nservile ratifications of old ones. When Sue, or Balzac, Hugo, or George\nSand, comes before an English audience--the opportunity is invariably lost\nfor estimating them at a new angle of sight. All who dislike them lay them\naside--whilst those only apply themselves seriously to their study, who\nare predisposed to the particular key of feeling, through which originally\nthese authors had prospered. And thus a new set of judges, that might\nusefully have modified the narrow views of the old ones, fall by mere\n_inertia_ into the humble character of echoes and sounding-boards to swell\nthe uproar of the original mob.\n\nIn this way is thrown away the opportunity, not only of applying\ncorrections to false national tastes, but oftentimes even to the unfair\naccidents of _luck_ that befall books. For it is well known to all\nwho watch literature with vigilance, that books and authors have their\nfortunes, which travel upon a far different scale of proportions from\nthose that measure their merits. Not even the caprice or the folly of the\nreading public is required to account for this. Very often, indeed, the\nwhole difference between an extensive circulation for one book, and none\nat all for another of about equal merit, belongs to no particular\nblindness in men, but to the simple fact, that the one _has_, whilst\nthe other has _not_, been brought effectually under the eyes of the\npublic. By far the greater part of books are lost, not because they are\nrejected, but because they are never introduced. In any proper sense of\nthe word, very few books are published. Technically they are published;\nwhich means, that for six or ten times they are _advertised_, but they are\nnot made known to _attentive_ ears, or to ears _prepared_ for attention.\nAnd amongst the causes which account for this difference in the fortune of\nbooks, although there are many, we may reckon, as foremost, _personal_\naccidents of position in the authors. For instance, with us in England it\nwill do a bad book no _ultimate_ service, that it is written by a lord, or\na bishop, or a privy counsellor, or a member of Parliament--though,\nundoubtedly, it will do an _instant_ service--it will sell an edition or\nso. This being the case, it being certain that no rank will reprieve a bad\nwriter from _final_ condemnation, the sycophantic glorifier of the public\nfancies his idol justified; but not so. A bad book, it is true, will not\nbe saved by advantages of position in the author; but a book moderately\ngood will be extravagantly aided by such advantages. Lectures on\n_Christianity_, that happened to be respectably written and delivered, had\nprodigious success in my young days, because, also, they happened to be\nlectures of a prelate; three times the ability would not have procured\nthem any attention had they been the lectures of an obscure curate. Yet on\nthe other hand, it is but justice to say, that, if written with three\ntimes _less_ ability, lawn-sleeves would not have given them buoyancy,\nbut, on the contrary, they would have sunk the bishop irrecoverably;\nwhilst the curate, favored by obscurity, would have survived for another\nchance. So again, and indeed, more than so, as to poetry. Lord Carlisle,\nof the last generation, wrote tolerable verses. They were better than Lord\nRoscommon's, which, for one hundred and fifty years, the judicious public\nhas allowed the booksellers to incorporate, along with other refuse of the\nseventeenth and eighteenth century, into the costly collections of the\n'British Poets.' And really, if you _will_ insist on odious comparisons,\nthey were not so very much below the verses of an amiable prime minister\nknown to us all. Yet, because they wanted vital _stamina_, not only they\nfell, but, in falling, they caused the earl to reel much more than any\ncommoner would have done. Now, on the other hand, a kinsman of Lord\nCarlisle, viz., Lord Byron, because he brought real genius and power to\nthe effort, found a vast auxiliary advantage in a peerage and a very\nancient descent. On these double wings he soared into a region of public\ninterest, far higher than ever he _would_ have reached by poetic power\nalone. Not only all his rubbish--which in quantity is great--passed for\njewels, but also what _are_ incontestably jewels have been, and will be,\nvalued at a far higher rate than if they had been raised from less\naristocratic mines. So fatal for mediocrity, so gracious for real power,\nis any adventitious distinction from birth, station, or circumstances of\nbrilliant notoriety. In reality, the public, our never-sufficiently-to-be-\nrespected mother, is the most unutterable sycophant that ever the clouds\ndropped their rheum upon. She is always ready for jacobinical scoffs at a\nman for being a lord, if he happens to fail; she is always ready for\ntoadying a lord, if he happens to make a hit. Ah, dear sycophantic old\nlady, I kiss your sycophantic hands, and wish heartily that I were a duke\nfor your sake!\n\nIt would be a mistake to fancy that this tendency to confound real merit\nand its accidents of position is at all peculiar to us or to our age. Dr.\nSacheverell, by embarking his small capital of talent on the springtide of\na furious political collision, brought back an ampler return for his\nlittle investment than ever did Wickliffe or Luther. Such was his\npopularity in the heart of love and the heart of hatred, that he would\nhave been assassinated by the Whigs, on his triumphal progresses through\nEngland, had he not been canonized by the Tories. He was a dead man if he\nhad not been suddenly gilt and lacquered as an idol. Neither is the case\npeculiar at all to England. Ronge, the _ci-devant_ Romish priest (whose\nname pronounce as you would the English word _wrong_, supposing that it\nhad for a second syllable the final _a_ of 'sopha,' _i.e._, _Wronguh_),\nhas been found a wrong-headed man by _all_ parties, and in a venial degree\nis, perhaps, a stupid man; but he moves about with more _eclat_ by far\nthan the ablest man in Germany. And, in days of old, the man that burned\ndown a miracle of beauty, viz., the temple of Ephesus, protesting, with\ntears in his eyes, that he had no other way of getting himself a name,\n_has_ got it in spite of us all. He's booked for a ride down all history,\nwhether you and I like it or not. Every pocket dictionary knows that\nErostratus was that scamp. So of Martin, the man that parboiled, or par-\nroasted York Minster some ten or twelve years back; that fellow will float\ndown to posterity with the annals of the glorious cathedral: he will\n\n  'Pursue the triumph and partake the gale,'\n\nwhilst the founders and benefactors of the Minster are practically\nforgotten.\n\nThese incendiaries, in short, are as well known as Ephesus or York; but\nnot one of us can tell, without humming and hawing, who it was that\nrebuilt the Ephesian wonder of the world, or that repaired the time-\nhonored Minster. Equally in literature, not the weight of service done, or\nthe power exerted, is sometimes considered chiefly--either of these must\nbe very conspicuous before it will be considered at all--but the splendor,\nor the notoriety, or the absurdity, or even the scandalousness of the\ncircumstances [1] surrounding the author.\n\nSchlosser must have benefitted in some such adventitious way before he\never _could_ have risen to his German celebrity. What was it that\nraised him to his momentary distinction? Was it something very wicked that\nhe did, or something very brilliant that he said? I should rather\nconjecture that it must have been something inconceivably absurd which he\nproposed. Any one of the three achievements stands good in Germany for a\nreputation. But, however it were that Mr. Schlosser first gained his\nreputation, mark what now follows. On the wings of this equivocal\nreputation he flies abroad to Paris and London. There he thrives, not by\nany approving experience or knowledge of his works, but through blind\nfaith in his original German public. And back he flies afterwards to\nGermany, as if carrying with him new and independent testimonies to his\nmerit, and from two nations that are directly concerned in his violent\njudgments; whereas (which is the simple truth) he carries back a careless\nreverberation of his first German character, from those who have far too\nmuch to read for declining aid from vicarious criticism when it will spare\nthat effort to themselves. Thus it is that German critics become audacious\nand libellous. Kohl, Von Raumer, Dr. Carus, physician to the King of\nSaxony, by means of introductory letters floating them into circles far\nabove any they had seen in homely Germany, are qualified by our own\nnegligence and indulgence for mounting a European tribunal, from which\nthey pronounce malicious edicts against ourselves. Sentinels present arms\nto Von Raumer at Windsor, because he rides in a carriage of Queen\nAdelaide's; and Von Raumer immediately conceives himself the Chancellor of\nall Christendom, keeper of the conscience to universal Europe, upon all\nquestions of art, manners, politics, or any conceivable intellectual\nrelations of England. Schlosser meditates the same career.\n\nBut have I any right to quote Schlosser's words from an English\ntranslation? I do so only because this happens to be at hand, and the\nGerman not. German books are still rare in this country, though more (by\none thousand to one) than they were thirty years ago. But I have a full\nright to rely on the English of Mr. Davison. 'I hold in my hand,' as\ngentlemen so often say at public meetings, 'a certificate from Herr\nSchlosser, that to quote Mr. Davison is to quote _him_.' The English\ntranslation is one which Mr. Schlosser '_durchgelesen hat, und fur deren\ngenauigkeit und richtigkeit er burgt_ [has read through, and for the\naccuracy and propriety of which he pledges himself]. Mr. Schossler was so\nanxious for the spiritual welfare of us poor islanders, that he not only\nread it through, but he has even _aufmerksam durchgelesen_ it [read\nit through wide awake] _und gepruft_ [and carefully examined it]; nay, he\nhas done all this in company with the translator. 'Oh ye Athenians! how\nhard do I labor to earn your applause!' And, as the result of such\nherculean labors, a second time he makes himself surety for its precision;\n'_er burgt also dafur wie fur seine eigne arbeit_' [he guarantees it\naccordingly as he would his own workmanship]. Were it not for this\nunlimited certificate, I should have sent for the book to Germany. As it\nis, I need not wait; and all complaints on this score I defy, above all\nfrom Herr Schlosser. [2]\n\nIn dealing with an author so desultory as Mr. Schlosser, the critic has a\nright to an _extra_ allowance of desultoriness for his own share; so\nexcuse me, reader, for rushing at once _in medias res_.\n\nOf Swift, Mr. Schlosser selects for notice three works--the 'Drapier's\nLetters,' 'Gulliver's Travels,' and the 'Tale of a Tub.' With respect to\nthe first, as it is a necessity of Mr. S. to be forever wrong in his\nsubstratum of facts, he adopts the old erroneous account of Wood's\ncontract as to the copper coinage, and of the imaginary wrong which it\ninflicted on Ireland. Of all Swift's villainies for the sake of\npopularity, and still more for the sake of wielding this popularity\nvindictively, none is so scandalous as this. In any new life of Swift the\ncase must be stated _de novo_. Even Sir Walter Scott is not impartial; and\nfor the same reason as now forces me to blink it, viz., the difficulty of\npresenting the details in a readable shape. 'Gulliver's Travels' Schlosser\nstrangely considers 'spun out to an intolerable extent.' Many evil things\nmight be said of Gulliver; but not this. The captain is anything but\ntedious. And, indeed, it becomes a question of mere mensuration, that can\nbe settled in a moment. A year or two since I had in my hands a pocket\nedition, comprehending all the four parts of the worthy skipper's\nadventures within a single volume of 420 pages. Some part of the space was\nalso wasted on notes, often very idle. Now the 1st part contains _two_\nseparate voyages (Lilliput and Blefuscu), the 2d, _one_, the 3d, _five_,\nand the 4th, _one_; so that, in all, this active navigator, who has\nenriched geography, I hope, with something of a higher quality than your\nold muffs that thought much of doubling Cape Horn, here gives us _nine_\ngreat discoveries, far more surprising than the pretended discoveries of\nSinbad (which are known to be fabulous), averaging _quam proxime_, forty-\nseven small 16mo pages each. Oh you unconscionable German, built round in\nyour own country with circumvallations of impregnable 4tos, oftentimes\ndark and dull as Avernus--that you will have the face to describe dear\nexcellent Captain Lemuel Gulliver of Redriff, and subsequently of Newark,\nthat 'darling of children and men,' as tedious. It is exactly because he\nis _not_ tedious, because he does not shoot into German foliosity, that\nSchlosser finds him '_intolerable_.' I have justly transferred to\nGulliver's use the words originally applied by the poet to the robin-\nredbreast, for it is remarkable that _Gulliver_ and the _Arabian Nights_\nare amongst the few books where children and men find themselves meeting\nand jostling each other. This was the case from its first publication,\njust one hundred and twenty years since. 'It was received,' says Dr.\nJohnson, 'with such avidity, that the price of the first edition was\nraised before the second could be made--it was read by the high and the\nlow, the learned and the illiterate. Criticism was lost in wonder. Now, on\nthe contrary, Schlosser wonders not at all, but simply criticises; which\nwe could bear, if the criticism were even ingenious. Whereas, he utterly\nmisunderstands Swift, and is a malicious calumniator of the captain who,\nluckily, roaming in Sherwood, and thinking, often with a sigh, of his\nlittle nurse, [3] Glumdalclitch, would trouble himself slightly about what\nHeidelberg might say in the next century. There is but one example on our\nearth of a novel received with such indiscriminate applause as 'Gulliver;'\nand _that_ was 'Don Quixote.' Many have been welcomed joyfully by a class\n--these two by a people. Now, could that have happened had it been\ncharacterized by dulness? Of all faults, it could least have had _that_.\nAs to the 'Tale of a Tub,' Schlosser is in such Cimmerian vapors that no\nsystem of bellows could blow open a shaft or tube through which he might\ngain a glimpse of the English truth and daylight. It is useless talking to\nsuch a man on such a subject. I consign him to the attentions of some\npatriotic Irishman.\n\nSchlosser, however, is right in a graver reflection which he makes upon\nthe prevailing philosophy of Swift, viz., that 'all his views were\ndirected towards what was _immediately_ beneficial, which is the\ncharacteristic of savages.' This is undeniable. The meanness of Swift's\nnature, and his rigid incapacity for dealing with the grandeurs of the\nhuman spirit, with religion, with poetry, or even with science, when it\nrose above the mercenary practical, is absolutely appalling. His own\n_yahoo_ is not a more abominable one-sided degradation of humanity,\nthan is he himself under this aspect. And, perhaps, it places this\nincapacity of his in its strongest light, when we recur to the fact of his\n_astonishment_ at a religious princess refusing to confer a bishoprick\nupon one that had treated the Trinity, and all the profoundest mysteries\nof Christianity, not with mere scepticism, or casual sneer, but with set\npompous merriment and farcical buffoonery. This dignitary of the church,\nDean of the most conspicuous cathedral in Ireland, had, in full\ncanonicals, made himself into a regular mountebank, for the sake of giving\nfuller effect, by the force of contrast, to the silliest of jests directed\nagainst all that was most inalienable from Christianity. Ridiculing such\nthings, could he, in any just sense, be thought a Christian? But, as\nSchlosser justly remarks, even ridiculing the peculiarities of Luther and\nCalvin as he _did_ ridicule them, Swift could not be thought other\nthan constitutionally incapable of religion. Even a Pagan philosopher, if\nmade to understand the case, would be incapable of scoffing at any\n_form_, natural or casual, simple or distorted, which might be\nassumed by the most solemn of problems--problems that rest with the weight\nof worlds upon the human spirit--\n\n  'Fix'd fate, free-will, fore-knowledge absolute.'\n\nthe destiny of man, or the relations of man to God. Anger, therefore,\nSwift _might_ feel, and he felt it [7] to the end of his most wretched\nlife; but what reasonable ground had a man of sense for _astonishment_--\nthat a princess, who (according to her knowledge) was sincerely pious,\nshould decline to place such a man upon an Episcopal throne? This argues,\nbeyond a doubt, that Swift was in that state of constitutional irreligion,\nirreligion from a vulgar temperament, which imputes to everybody else its\nown plebeian feelings. People differed, he fancied, not by more and less\nreligion, but by more and less dissimulations. And, therefore, it seemed\nto him scandalous that a princess, who must, of course, in her heart\nregard (in common with himself) all mysteries as solemn masques and\nmummeries, should pretend in a case of downright serious business, to pump\nup, out of dry conventional hoaxes, any solid objection to a man of his\nshining merit. '_The Trinity_,' for instance, _that_ he viewed as the\npassword, which the knowing ones gave in answer to the challenge of the\nsentinel; but, as soon as it had obtained admission for the party within\nthe gates of the camp, it was rightly dismissed to oblivion or to\nlaughter. No case so much illustrates Swift's essential irreligion; since,\nif he had shared in ordinary human feelings on such subjects, not only he\ncould not have been surprised at his own exclusion from the bench of\nbishops, _after_ such ribaldries, but originally he would have abstained\nfrom them as inevitable bars to clerical promotion, even upon principles\nof public decorum.\n\nAs to the _style_ of Swift, Mr. Schlosser shows himself without\nsensibility in his objections, as the often hackneyed English reader shows\nhimself without philosophic knowledge of style in his applause. Schlosser\nthinks the style of Gulliver 'somewhat dull.' This shows Schlosser's\npresumption in speaking upon a point where he wanted, 1st, original\ndelicacy of tact; and, 2dly, familiar knowledge of English. Gulliver's\nstyle is _purposely_ touched slightly with that dulness of\ncircumstantiality which besets the excellent, but 'somewhat dull' race of\nmen--old sea captains. Yet it wears only an aerial tint of dulness; the\nfelicity of this coloring in Swift's management is, that it never goes the\nlength of wearying, but only of giving a comic air of downright Wapping\nand Rotherhithe verisimilitude. All men grow dull, and ought to be dull,\nthat live under a solemn sense of eternal danger, one inch only of plank\n(often worm-eaten) between themselves and the grave; and, also, that see\nfor ever one wilderness of waters--sublime, but (like the wilderness on\nshore) monotonous. All sublime people, being monotonous, have a tendency\nto be dull, and sublime things also. Milton and Aeschylus, the sublimest\nof men, are crossed at times by a shade of dulness. It is their weak side.\nBut as to a sea captain, a regular nor'-nor'-wester, and sou'-sou'-easter,\nhe ought to be kicked out of the room if he is _not_ dull. It is not\n'ship-shape,' or barely tolerable, that he should be otherwise. Yet, after\nall, considering what I have stated about Captain Gulliver's nine voyages\ncrowding into one pocket volume, he cannot really have much abused his\nprofessional license for being dull. Indeed, one has to look out an excuse\nfor his being so little dull; which excuse is found in the fact that he\nhad studied three years at a learned university. Captain Gulliver, though\na sailor, I would have you to know, was a gownsman of Cambridge: so says\nSwift, who knew more about the Captain than anybody now-a-days. Cantabs\nare all horsemen, _ergo_, Gulliver was fit for any thing, from the\n_wooden shoon_ of Cambridge up to the Horse Marines.\n\nNow, on the other hand, you, common-place reader, that (as an old\ntradition) believe Swift's style to be a model of excellence, hereafter I\nshall say a word to you, drawn from deeper principles. At present I\ncontent myself with these three propositions, which overthrow if you\ncan;--\n\n1. That the merit, which justly you ascribe to Swift, is\n_vernacularity_; he never forgets his mother-tongue in exotic forms,\nunless we may call Irish exotic; for Hibernicisms he certainly has. This\nmerit, however, is exhibited--not, as _you_ fancy, in a graceful\nartlessness, but in a coarse inartificiality. To be artless, and to be\ninartificial, are very different things; as different as being natural and\nbeing gross; as different as being simple and being homely.\n\n2. That whatever, meantime, be the particular sort of excellence, or the\nvalue of the excellence, in the style of Swift, he had it in common with\nmultitudes beside of that age. De Foe wrote a style for all the world the\nsame as to kind and degree of excellence, only pure from Hibernicisms. So\ndid every honest skipper [Dampier was something more] who had occasion to\nrecord his voyages in this world of storms. So did many a hundred of\nreligious writers. And what wonder should there be in this, when the main\nqualification for such a style was plain good sense, natural feeling,\nunpretendingness, some little scholarly practice in putting together the\nclockwork of sentences, so as to avoid mechanical awkwardness of\nconstruction, but above all the advantage of a _subject_, such in its\nnature as instinctively to reject ornament, lest it should draw off\nattention from itself? Such subjects are common; but grand impassioned\nsubjects insist upon a different treatment; and _there_ it is that\nthe true difficulties of style commence.\n\n3. [Which partly is suggested by the last remark.] That nearly all the\nblockheads with whom I have at any time had the pleasure of conversing\nupon the subject of style (and pardon me for saying that men of the most\nsense are apt, upon two subjects, viz., poetry and style, to talk\n_most_ like blockheads), have invariably regarded Swift's style not\nas if _relatively_ good [_i.e. given_ a proper subject], but as if\n_absolutely_ good--good unconditionally, no matter what the subject. Now,\nmy friend, suppose the case, that the Dean had been required to write a\npendant for Sir Walter Raleigh's immortal apostrophe to Death, or to many\npassages that I will select in Sir Thomas Brown's 'Religio Medici,' and\nhis 'Urn-burial,' or to Jeremy Taylor's inaugural sections of his 'Holy\nLiving and Dying,' do you know what would have happened? Are you aware\nwhat sort of ridiculous figure your poor bald Jonathan would have cut?\nAbout the same that would be cut by a forlorn scullion or waiter from\na greasy eating-house at Rotterdam, if suddenly called away in vision to\nact as seneschal to the festival of Belshazzar the king, before a thousand\nof his lords.\n\nSchlosser, after saying any thing right and true (and he really did say\nthe true thing about Swift's _essential_ irreligion), usually becomes\nexhausted, like a boa-constrictor after eating his half-yearly dinner. The\nboa gathers himself up, it is to be hoped for a long fit of dyspepsy, in\nwhich the horns and hoofs that he has swallowed may chance to avenge the\npoor goat that owned them. Schlosser, on the other hand, retires into a\ncorner, for the purpose of obstinately talking nonsense, until the gong\nsounds again for a slight refection of sense. Accordingly he likens Swift,\nbefore he has done with him, to whom? I might safely allow the reader\nthree years for guessing, if the greatest of wagers were depending between\nus. He likens him to Kotzebue, in the first place. How faithful the\nresemblance! How exactly Swift reminds you of Count Benyowski in Siberia,\nand of Mrs. Haller moping her eyes in the 'Stranger!' One really is\npuzzled to say, according to the negro's logic, whether Mrs. Haller is\nmore like the Dean of St. Patrick's, or the Dean more like Mrs. Haller.\nAnyhow, the likeness is prodigious, if it is not quite reciprocal. The\nother _terminus_ of the comparison is Wieland. Now there _is_ some shadow\nof a resemblance there. For Wieland had a touch of the comico-cynical in\nhis nature; and it is notorious that he was often called the German\nVoltaire, which argues some tiger-monkey grin that traversed his features\nat intervals. Wieland's malice, however, was far more playful and genial\nthan Swift's; something of this is shown in his romance of 'Idris,' and\noftentimes in his prose. But what the world knows Wieland by is his\n'Oberon.' Now in this gay, musical romance of Sir Huon and his enchanted\nhorn, with its gleams of voluptuousness, is there a possibility that any\nsuggestion of a scowling face like Swift's should cross the festal scenes?\n\nFrom Swift the scene changes to Addison and Steele. Steele is of less\nimportance; for, though a man of greater intellectual activity [4] than\nAddison, he had far less of genius. So I turn him out, as one would turn\nout upon a heath a ram that had missed his way into one's tulip preserve;\nrequesting him to fight for himself against Schlosser, or others that may\nmolest him. But, so far as concerns Addison, I am happy to support the\ncharacter of Schlosser for consistency, by assuring the reader that, of\nall the monstrosities uttered by any man upon Addison, and of all the\nmonstrosities uttered by Schlosser upon any man, a thing which he says\nabout Addison is the worst. But this I reserve for a climax at the end.\nSchlosser really puts his best leg foremost at starting, and one thinks\nhe's going to mend; for he catches a truth, viz., the following--that all\nthe brilliances of the Queen Anne period (which so many inconsiderate\npeople have called the Augustan age of our literature) 'point to this--\nthat the reading public wished to be entertained, not roused to think; to\nbe gently moved, not deeply excited.' Undoubtedly what strikes a man in\nAddison, or _will_ strike him when indicated, is the coyness and\ntimidity, almost the girlish shame, which he betrays in the presence of\nall the elementary majesties belonging to impassioned or idealized nature.\nLike one bred in crowded cities, when first left alone in forests or\namongst mountains, he is frightened at their silence, their solitude,\ntheir magnitude of form, or their frowning glooms. It has been remarked by\nothers that Addison and his companions never rise to the idea of\naddressing the 'nation' or the 'people;' it is always the 'town.' Even\ntheir audience was conceived of by _them_ under a limited form. Yet\nfor this they had some excuse in the state of facts. A man would like at\nthis moment to assume that Europe and Asia were listening to him; and as\nsome few copies of his book do really go to Paris and Naples, some to\nCalcutta, there is a sort of legal fiction that such an assumption is\nsteadily taking root. Yet, unhappily, that ugly barrier of languages\ninterferes. Schamyl, the Circassian chief, though much of a savage, is not\nso wanting in taste and discernment as to be backward in reading any book\nof yours or mine. Doubtless he yearns to read it. But then, you see, that\ninfernal _Tchirkass_ language steps between our book, the darling,\nand _him_, the discerning reader. Now, just such a barrier existed\nfor the Spectator in the travelling arrangements of England. The very few\nold heavies that had begun to creep along three or four main roads,\ndepended so much on wind and weather, their chances of foundering were so\nuncalculated, their periods of revolution were so cometary and uncertain,\nthat no body of scientific observations had yet been collected to warrant\na prudent man in risking a heavy bale of goods; and, on the whole, even\nfor York, Norwich, or Winchester, a consignment of '_Specs_' was not\nquite a safe spec. Still, I could have told the Spectator who was anxious\nto make money, where he might have been sure of a distant sale, though\nreturns would have been slow, viz., at Oxford and Cambridge. We know from\nMilton that old Hobson delivered his parcels pretty regularly eighty years\nbefore 1710. And, one generation before _that_, it is plain, by the\ninteresting (though somewhat Jacobinical) letters [5] of Joseph Mede, the\ncommenter on the Apocalypse, that news and politics of one kind or other\n(and scandal of _every_ kind) found out for themselves a sort of\ncontraband lungs to breathe through between London and Cambridge; not\nquite so regular in their _systole_ and _diastole_ as the tides of ebb and\nflood, but better than nothing. If you consigned a packet into the proper\nhands on the 1st of May, 'as sure as death' to speak _Scottice_, it would\nbe delivered within sixty miles of the capital before mid-summer. Still\nthere were delays; and these forced a man into carving his world out of\nLondon. That excuses the word _town_.\n\nInexcusable, however, were many other forms of expression in those days,\nwhich argued cowardly feelings. One would like to see a searching\ninvestigation into the state of society in Anne's days--its extreme\nartificiality, its sheepish reserve upon all the impassioned grandeurs,\nits shameless outrages upon all the decencies of human nature. Certain it\nis, that Addison (because everybody) was in that meanest of conditions\nwhich blushes at any expression of sympathy with the lovely, the noble, or\nthe impassioned. The wretches were ashamed of their own nature, and\nperhaps with reason; for in their own denaturalized hearts they read only\na degraded nature. Addison, in particular, shrank from every bold and\nevery profound expression as from an offence against good taste. He durst\nnot for his life have used the word 'passion' except in the vulgar sense\nof an angry paroxysm. He durst as soon have danced a hornpipe on the top\nof the 'monument' as have talked of a 'rapturous emotion.' What _would_ he\nhave said? Why, 'sentiments that were of a nature to prove agreeable after\nan unusual rate.' In their odious verses, the creatures of that age talk\nof love as something that 'burns' them. You suppose at first that they are\ndiscoursing of tallow candles, though you cannot imagine by what\nimpertinence they address _you_, that are no tallow-chandler, upon such\npainful subjects. And, when they apostrophize the woman of their heart\n(for you are to understand that they pretend to such an organ), they\nbeseech her to 'ease their pain.' Can human meanness descend lower? As if\nthe man, being ill from pleurisy, therefore had a right to take a lady for\none of the dressers in an hospital, whose duty it would be to fix a\nburgundy-pitch plaster between his shoulders. Ah, the monsters! Then to\nread of their Phillises and Strephons, and Chloes, and Corydons--names\nthat, by their very non-reality amongst names of flesh and blood, proclaim\nthe fantasticalness of the life with which they are poetically connected--\nit throws me into such convulsions of rage, that I move to the window, and\n(without thinking what I am about) throwing it up, calling, '_Police!\npolice!_' What's _that_ for? What can the police do in the business? Why,\ncertainly nothing. What I meant in my dream was, perhaps [but one forgets\n_what_ one meant upon recovering one's temper], that the police should\ntake Strephon and Corydon into custody, whom I fancied at the other end of\nthe room. And really the justifiable fury, that arises upon recalling such\nabominable attempts at bucolic sentiments in such abominable language,\nsometimes transports me into a luxurious vision sinking back through one\nhundred and thirty years, in which I see Addison, Phillips, both John and\nAmbrose, Tickell, Fickell, Budgell, and Cudgell, with many others beside,\nall cudgelled in a round robin, none claiming precedency of another, none\nable to shrink from his own dividend, until a voice seems to recall me to\nmilder thoughts by saying, 'But surely, my friend, you never could wish to\nsee Addison cudgelled? Let Strephon and Corydon be cudgelled without end,\nif the police can show any warrant for doing it But Addison was a man of\ngreat genius.' True, he was so. I recollect it suddenly, and will back out\nof any angry things that I have been misled into saying by Schlosser, who,\nby-the-bye, was right, after all, for a wonder.\n\nBut now I will turn my whole fury in vengeance upon Schlosser. And,\nlooking round for a stone to throw at him, I observe this. Addison could\nnot be so entirely careless of exciting the public to think and feel, as\nSchlosser pretends, when he took so much pains to inoculate that public\nwith a sense of the Miltonic grandeur. The 'Paradise Lost' had then been\npublished barely forty years, which was nothing in an age without reviews;\nthe editions were still scanty; and though no Addison could eventually\npromote, for the instant he quickened, the circulation. If I recollect,\nTonson's accurate revision of the text followed immediately upon Addison's\npapers. And it is certain that Addison [6] must have diffused the\nknowledge of Milton upon the continent, from signs that soon followed. But\ndoes not this prove that I myself have been in the wrong as well as\nSchlosser? No: that's impossible. Schlosser's always in the wrong; but\nit's the next thing to an impossibility that I should be detected in an\nerror: philosophically speaking, it is supposed to involve a\ncontradiction. 'But surely I said the very same thing as Schlosser by\nassenting to what he said.' Maybe I did: but then I have time to make a\ndistinction, because my article is not yet finished; we are only at page\nsix or seven; whereas Schlosser can't make any distinction now, because\nhis book's printed; and his list of _errata_ (which is shocking though he\ndoes not confess to the thousandth part), is actually published. My\ndistinction is--that, though Addison generally hated the impassioned,\nand shrank from it as from a fearful thing, yet this was when it combined\nwith forms of life and fleshy realities (as in dramatic works), but not\nwhen it combined with elder forms of eternal abstractions. Hence, he did\nnot read, and did not like Shakspeare; the music was here too rapid and\nlife-like: but he sympathized profoundly with the solemn cathedral\nchanting of Milton. An appeal to his sympathies which exacted quick\nchanges in those sympathies he could not meet, but a more stationary\n_key_ of solemnity he _could_. Indeed, this difference is illustrated\ndaily. A long list can be cited of passages in Shakspeare, which have been\nsolemnly denounced by many eminent men (all blockheads) as ridiculous: and\nif a man _does_ find a passage in a tragedy that displeases him, it is\nsure to seem ludicrous: witness the indecent exposures of themselves made\nby Voltaire, La Harpe, and many billions beside of bilious people.\nWhereas, of all the shameful people (equally billions and not less\nbilious) that have presumed to quarrel with Milton, not one has thought\nhim ludicrous, but only dull and somnolent. In 'Lear' and in 'Hamlet,' as\nin a human face agitated by passion, are many things that tremble on the\nbrink of the ludicrous to an observer endowed with small range of sympathy\nor intellect. But no man ever found the starry heavens ludicrous, though\nmany find them dull, and prefer a near view of a brandy flask. So in the\nsolemn wheelings of the Miltonic movement, Addison could find a sincere\ndelight. But the sublimities of earthly misery and of human frenzy were\nfor him a book sealed. Beside all which, Milton, renewed the types of\nGrecian beauty as to _form_, whilst Shakspeare, without designing at all\nto contradict these types, did so, in effect, by his fidelity to a new\nnature, radiating from a Gothic centre.\n\nIn the midst, however, of much just feeling, which one could only wish a\nlittle deeper, in the Addisonian papers on 'Paradise Lost,' there are some\ngross blunders of criticism, as there are in Dr. Johnson, and from the\nself-same cause--an understanding suddenly palsied from defective passion,\nA feeble capacity of passion must, upon a question of passion, constitute\na feeble range of intellect. But, after all, the worst thing uttered by\nAddison in these papers is, not _against_ Milton, but meant to be\ncomplimentary. Towards enhancing the splendor of the great poem, he tells\nus that it is a Grecian palace as to amplitude, symmetry, and\narchitectural skill: but being in the English language, it is to be\nregarded as if built in brick; whereas, had it been so happy as to be\nwritten in Greek, then it would have been a palace built in Parian marble.\nIndeed! that's smart--'that's handsome, I calculate.' Yet, before a man\nundertakes to sell his mother-tongue, as old pewter trucked against gold,\nhe should be quite sure of his own metallurgic skill; because else, the\ngold may happen to be copper, and the pewter to be silver. Are you quite\nsure, my Addison, that you have understood the powers of this language\nwhich you toss away so lightly, as an old tea-kettle? Is it a ruled case\nthat you have exhausted its resources? Nobody doubts your grace in a\ncertain line of composition, but it is only one line among many, and it is\nfar from being amongst the highest. It is dangerous, without examination,\nto sell even old kettles; misers conceal old stockings filled with guineas\nin old tea-kettles; and we all know that Aladdin's servant, by exchanging\nan old lamp for a new one, caused an Iliad of calamities: his master's\npalace jumped from Bagdad to some place on the road to Ashantee; Mrs.\nAladdin and the piccaninies were carried off as inside passengers; and\nAladdin himself only escaped being lagged, for a rogue and a conjuror, by\na flying jump after his palace. Now, mark the folly of man. Most of the\npeople I am going to mention subscribed, generally, to the supreme\nexcellence of Milton; but each wished for a little change to be made--\nwhich, and which only was wanted to perfection. Dr. Johnson, though he\npretended to be satisfied with the 'Paradise Lost,' even in what he\nregarded as the undress of blank verse, still secretly wished it in rhyme.\nThat's No. 1. Addison, though quite content with it in English, still\ncould have wished it in Greek. That's No. 2. Bentley, though admiring the\nblind old poet in the highest degree, still observed, smilingly, that\nafter all he _was_ blind; he, therefore, slashing Dick, could have\nwished that the great man had always been surrounded by honest people;\nbut, as that was not to be, he could have wished that his amanuensis has\nbeen hanged; but, as that also had become impossible, he could wish to do\nexecution upon him in effigy, by sinking, burning, and destroying his\nhandywork--upon which basis of posthumous justice, he proceeded to\namputate all the finest passages in the poem. Slashing Dick was No. 3.\nPayne Knight was a severer man even than slashing Dick; he professed to\nlook upon the first book of 'Paradise Lost' as the finest thing that earth\nhad to show; but, for that very reason, he could have wished, by your\nleave, to see the other eleven books sawed off, and sent overboard;\nbecause, though tolerable perhaps in another situation, they really were a\nnational disgrace, when standing behind that unrivalled portico of book 1.\nThere goes No. 4. Then came a fellow, whose name was either not on his\ntitle page, or I have forgotten it, that pronounced the poem to be\nlaudable, and full of good materials; but still he could have wished that\nthe materials had been put together in a more workmanlike manner; which\nkind office he set about himself. He made a general clearance of all\nlumber: the expression of every thought he entirely re-cast: and he fitted\nup the metre with beautiful patent rhymes; not, I believe, out of any\nconsideration for Dr. Johnson's comfort, but on principles of mere\nabstract decency: as it was, the poem seemed naked, and yet was not\nashamed. There went No. 5. _Him_ succeeded a droller fellow than any\nof the rest. A French book-seller had caused a prose French translation to\nbe made of the 'Paradise Lost,' without particularly noticing its English\norigin, or at least not in the title page. Our friend, No. 6, getting hold\nof this as an original French romance, translated it back into English\nprose, as a satisfactory novel for the season. His little mistake was at\nlength discovered, and communicated to him with shouts of laughter; on\nwhich, after considerable kicking and plunging (for a man cannot but turn\nrestive when he finds that he has not only got the wrong sow by the ear,\nbut actually sold the sow to a bookseller), the poor translator was tamed\ninto sulkiness; in which state ho observed that he could have wished his\nown work, being evidently so much superior to the earliest form of the\nromance, might be admitted by the courtesy of England to take the\nprecedency as the original 'Paradise Lost,' and to supersede the very rude\nperformance of 'Milton, Mr. John.' [7]\n\nSchlosser makes the astounding assertion, that a compliment of Boileau to\nAddison, and a pure compliment of ceremony upon Addison's early Latin\nverses, was (_credite posteri!_) the making of Addison in England.\nUnderstand, Schlosser, that Addison's Latin verses were never heard of by\nEngland, until long after his English prose had fixed the public attention\nupon him; his Latin reputation was a slight reaction from his English\nreputation: and, secondly, understand that Boileau had at no time any such\nauthority in England as to _make_ anybody's reputation; he had first\nof all to make his own. A sure proof of this is, that Boileau's name was\nfirst published to London, by Prior's burlesque of what the Frenchman had\ncalled an ode. This gasconading ode celebrated the passage of the Rhine in\n1672, and the capture of that famous fortress called _Skink_ ('le fameux\nfort de'), by Louis XIV., known to London at the time of Prior's parody by\nthe name of 'Louis Baboon.' [8] _That_ was not likely to recommend Master\nBoileau to any of the allies against the said Baboon, had it ever been\nheard of out of France. Nor was it likely to make him popular in England,\nthat his name was first mentioned amongst shouts of laughter and mockery.\nIt is another argument of the slight notoriety possessed by Boileau in\nEngland--that no attempt was ever made to translate even his satires,\nepistles, or 'Lutrin,' except by booksellers' hacks; and that no such\nversion ever took the slightest root amongst ourselves, from Addison's day\nto this very summer of 1847. Boileau was essentially, and in two senses,\nviz., both as to mind and as to influence, _un homme borne_.\n\nAddison's 'Blenheim' is poor enough; one might think it a translation from\nsome German original of those times. Gottsched's aunt, or Bodmer's wet-\nnurse, might have written it; but still no fibs even as to 'Blenheim.' His\n'enemies' did not say this thing against 'Blenheim' 'aloud,' nor his\nfriends that thing against it 'softly.' And why? Because at that time\n(1704-5) he had made no particular enemies, nor any particular friends;\nunless by friends you mean his Whig patrons, and by enemies his tailor and\nco.\n\nAs to 'Cato,' Schlosser, as usual, wanders in the shadow of ancient night.\nThe English 'people,' it seems, so 'extravagantly applauded' this wretched\ndrama, that you might suppose them to have 'altogether changed their\nnature,' and to have forgotten Shakspeare. That man must have forgotten\nShakspeare, indeed, and from _ramollissement_ of the brain, who could\nadmire 'Cato.' 'But,' says Schlosser, 'it was only a 'fashion;' and the\nEnglish soon repented.' The English could not repent of a crime which they\nhad never committed. Cato was not popular for a moment, nor tolerated for\na moment, upon any literary ground, or as a work of art. It was an apple\nof temptation and strife thrown by the goddess of faction between two\ninfuriated parties. 'Cato,' coming from a man without Parliamentary\nconnections, would have dropped lifeless to the ground. The Whigs have\nalways affected a special love and favor for popular counsels: they have\nnever ceased to give themselves the best of characters as regards public\nfreedom. The Tories, as contradistinguished to the Jacobites, knowing that\nwithout _their_ aid, the Revolution could not have been carried, most\njustly contended that the national liberties had been at least as much\nindebted to themselves. When, therefore, the Whigs put forth _their_\nman Cato to mouth speeches about liberty, as exclusively _their_ pet,\nand about patriotism and all that sort of thing, saying insultingly to the\nTories, 'How do you like _that_? Does _that_ sting?' 'Sting, indeed!'\nreplied the Tories; 'not at all; it's quite refreshing to us, that the\nWhigs have not utterly disowned such sentiments, which, by their public\nacts, we really thought they _had_.' And, accordingly, as the popular\nanecdote tells us, a Tory leader, Lord Bolingbroke, sent for Booth\nwho performed Cato, and presented him (_populo spectante_) with fifty\nguineas 'for defending so well the cause of the people against a perpetual\ndictator.' In which words, observe, Lord Bolingbroke at once asserted the\ncause of his own party, and launched a sarcasm against a great individual\nopponent, viz., Marlborough. Now, Mr. Schlosser, I have mended your\nharness: all right ahead; so drive on once more.\n\nBut, oh Castor and Pollux, whither--in what direction is it, that the man\nis driving us? Positively, Schlosser, you must stop and let _me_ get\nout. I'll go no further with such a drunken coachman. Many another absurd\nthing I was going to have noticed, such as his utter perversion of what\nMandeville said about Addison (viz., by suppressing one word, and\nmisapprehending all the rest). Such, again, as his point-blank\nmisstatement of Addison's infirmity in his official character, which was\n_not_ that 'he could not prepare despatches in a good style,' but\ndiametrically the opposite case--that he insisted too much on style, to\nthe serious retardation of public business. But all these things are as\nnothing to what Schlosser says elsewhere. He actually describes Addison,\non the whole, as a 'dull prosaist,' and the patron of pedantry! Addison,\nthe man of all that ever lived most hostile even to what was good in\npedantry, to its tendencies towards the profound in erudition and the non-\npopular; Addison, the champion of all that is easy, natural, superficial,\na pedant and a master of pedantry! Get down, Schlosser, this moment; or\nlet _me_ get out.\n\nPope, by far the most important writer, English or Continental, of his own\nage, is treated with more extensive ignorance by Mr. Schlosser than any\nother, and (excepting Addison) with more ambitious injustice. A false\nabstract is given, or a false impression, of any one amongst his brilliant\nworks, that is noticed at all; and a false sneer, a sneer irrelevant to\nthe case, at any work dismissed by name as unworthy of notice. The three\nworks, selected as the gems of Pope's collection, are the 'Essay on\nCriticism,' the 'Rape of the Lock,' and the 'Essay on Man.' On the first,\nwhich (with Dr. Johnson's leave) is the feeblest and least interesting of\nPope's writings, being substantially a mere versification, like a metrical\nmultiplication-table, of common-places the most mouldy with which\ncriticism has baited its rat-traps; since nothing is said worth answering,\nit is sufficient to answer nothing. The 'Rape of the Lock' is treated with\nthe same delicate sensibility that we might have looked for in Brennus, if\nconsulted on the picturesque, or in Attila the Hun, if adjured to decide\naesthetically, between two rival cameos. Attila is said (though no doubt\nfalsely) to have described himself as not properly a man so much as the\nDivine wrath incarnate. This would be fine in a melodrama, with Bengal\nlights burning on the stage. But, if ever he said such a naughty thing, he\nforgot to tell us what it was that had made him angry; by what\n_title_ did _he_ come into alliance with the Divine wrath, which\nwas not likely to consult a savage? And why did his wrath hurry, by forced\nmarches, to the Adriatic? Now so much do people differ in opinion, that,\nto us, who look at him through a telescope from an eminence, fourteen\ncenturies distant, he takes the shape rather of a Mahratta trooper,\npainfully gathering _chout_, or a cateran levying black-mail, or a\ndecent tax-gatherer with an inkhorn at his button-hole, and supported by a\nselect party of constabulary friends. The very natural instinct which\nAttila always showed for following the trail of the wealthiest footsteps,\nseems to argue a most commercial coolness in the dispensation of his\nwrath. Mr. Schlosser burns with the wrath of Attila against all\naristocracies, and especially that of England. He governs his fury, also,\nwith an Attila discretion in many cases; but not here. Imagine this Hun\ncoming down, sword in hand, upon Pope and his Rosicrucian light troops,\nlevying _chout_ upon Sir Plume, and fluttering the dove-cot of the\nSylphs. Pope's 'duty it was,' says this demoniac, to 'scourge the follies\nof good society,' and also 'to break with the aristocracy.' No, surely?\nsomething short of a total rupture would have satisfied the claims of\nduty? Possibly; but it would not have satisfied Schlosser. And Pope's\nguilt consists in having made his poem an idol or succession of pictures\nrepresenting the gayer aspects of society as it really was, and supported\nby a comic interest of the mock-heroic derived from a playful machinery,\ninstead of converting it into a bloody satire. Pope, however, did not\nshrink from such assaults on the aristocracy, if these made any part of\nhis duties. Such assaults he made twice at least too often for his own\npeace, and perhaps for his credit at this day. It is useless, however, to\ntalk of the poem as a work of art, with one who sees none of its exquisite\ngraces, and can imagine his countryman Zacharia equal to a competition\nwith Pope. But this it may be right to add, that the 'Rape of the Lock'\nwas not borrowed from the 'Lutrin' of Boileau. That was impossible.\nNeither was it suggested by the 'Lutrin.' The story in Herodotus of the\nwars between cranes and pigmies, or the _Batrachomyomachia_ (so absurdly\nascribed to Homer) might have suggested the idea more naturally. Both\nthese, there is proof that Pope had read: there is none that he had\nread the 'Lutrin,' nor did he read French with ease to himself. The\n'Lutrin,' meantime, is as much below the 'Rape of the Lock' in brilliancy\nof treatment, as it is dissimilar in plan or the quality of its pictures.\n\nThe 'Essay on Man' is a more thorny subject. When a man finds himself\nattacked and defended from all quarters, and on all varieties of\nprinciple, he is bewildered. Friends are as dangerous as enemies. He must\nnot defy a bristling enemy, if he cares for repose; he must not disown a\nzealous defender, though making concessions on his own behalf not\nagreeable to himself; he must not explain away ugly phrases in one\ndirection, or perhaps he is recanting the very words of his 'guide,\nphilosopher, and friend,' who cannot safely be taxed with having first led\nhim into temptation; he must not explain them away in another direction,\nor he runs full tilt into the wrath of mother Church--who will soon bring\nhim to his senses by penance. Long lents, and no lampreys allowed, would\nsoon cauterize the proud flesh of heretical ethics. Pope did wisely,\nsituated as he was, in a decorous nation, and closely connected, upon\nprinciples of fidelity under political suffering, with the Roman\nCatholics, to say little in his own defence. That defence, and any\nreversionary cudgelling which it might entail upon the Quixote undertaker,\nhe left--meekly but also slyly, humbly but cunningly--to those whom he\nprofessed to regard as greater philosophers than himself. All parties\nfound their account in the affair. Pope slept in peace; several pugnacious\ngentlemen up and down Europe expectorated much fiery wrath in dusting each\nother's jackets; and Warburton, the attorney, finally earned his\nbishoprick in the service of whitewashing a writer, who was aghast at\nfinding himself first trampled on as a deist, and then exalted as a\ndefender of the faith. Meantime, Mr. Schlosser mistakes Pope's courtesy,\nwhen he supposes his acknowledgments to Lord Bolingbroke sincere in their\nwhole extent.\n\nOf Pope's 'Homer' Schlosser think fit to say, amongst other evil things,\nwhich it really _does_ deserve (though hardly in comparison with the\nGerman 'Homer' of the ear-splitting Voss), 'that Pope pocketed the\nsubscription of the \"Odyssey,\" and left the work to be done by his\nunderstrappers.' Don't tell fibs, Schlosser. Never do _that_ any more.\nTrue it is, and disgraceful enough, that Pope (like modern contractors for\na railway or a loan) let off to sub-contractors several portions of the\nundertaking. He was perhaps not illiberal in the terms of his contracts.\nAt least I know of people now-a-days (much better artists) that would\nexecute such contracts, and enter into any penalties for keeping time at\nthirty per cent. less. But _navies_ and billbrokers, that are in excess\nnow, then were scarce. Still the affair, though not mercenary, was\nilliberal in a higher sense of art; and no anecdote shows more pointedly\nPope's sense of the mechanic fashion, in which his own previous share of\nthe Homeric labor had been executed. It was disgraceful enough, and needs\nno exaggeration. Let it, therefore, be reported truly: Pope personally\ntranslated one-half of the 'Odyssey'--a dozen books he turned out of his\nown oven: and, if you add the _Batrachomyomachia_, his dozen was a baker's\ndozen. The journeyman did the other twelve; were regularly paid; regularly\nturned off when the job was out of hand; and never once had to 'strike for\nwages.' How much beer was allowed, I cannot say. This is the truth of the\nmatter. So no more fibbing, Schlosser, if you please.\n\nBut there remains behind all these labors of Pope, the 'Dunciad,' which is\nby far his greatest. I shall not, within the narrow bounds assigned to me,\nenter upon a theme so exacting; for, in this instance, I should have to\nfight not against Schlosser only, but against Dr. Johnson, who has\nthoroughly misrepresented the nature of the 'Dunciad,' and, consequently,\ncould not measure its merits. Neither he, nor Schlosser, in fact, ever\nread more than a few passages of this admirable poem. But the villany is\ntoo great for a brief exposure. One thing only I will notice of\nSchlosser's misrepresentations. He asserts (not when directly speaking of\nPope, but afterwards, under the head of Voltaire) that the French author's\ntrivial and random _Temple de Gout_ 'shows the superiority in this\nspecies of poetry to have been greatly on the side of the Frenchman.'\nLet's hear a reason, though but a Schlosser reason, for this opinion:\nknow, then, all men whom it concerns, that 'the Englishman's satire only\nhit such people as would never have been known without his mention of\nthem, whilst Voltaire selected those who were still called great, and\ntheir respective schools.' Pope's men, it seems, never _had_ been\nfamous--Voltaire's might cease to be so, but as yet they had _not_\nceased; as yet they commanded interest. Now mark how I will put three\nbullets into that plank, riddle it so that the leak shall not be stopped\nby all the old hats in Heidelberg, and Schlosser will have to swim for his\nlife. First, he is forgetting that, by his own previous confession,\nVoltaire, not less than Pope, had 'immortalized a great many\n_insignificant_ persons;' consequently, had it been any fault to do\nso, each alike was caught in that fault; and insignificant as the people\nmight be, if they _could_ be 'immortalized,' then we have Schlosser\nhimself confessing to the possibility that poetic splendor should create a\nsecondary interest where originally there had been none. Secondly, the\nquestion of merit does not arise from the object of the archer, but from\nthe style of his archery. Not the choice of victims, but the execution\ndone is what counts. Even for continued failures it would plead\nadvantageously, much more for continued and brilliant successes, that Pope\nfired at an object offering no sufficient breadth of mark. Thirdly, it is\nthe grossest of blunders to say that Pope's objects of satire were obscure\nby comparison with Voltaire's. True, the Frenchman's example of a scholar,\nviz., the French Salmasius, was most accomplished. But so was the\nEnglishman's scholar, viz., the English Bentley. Each was absolutely\nwithout a rival in his own day. But the day of Bentley was the very day of\nPope. Pope's man had not even faded; whereas the day of Salmasius, as\nrespected Voltaire had gone by for more than half a century. As to Dacier,\n'_which_ Dacier, Bezonian?' The husband was a passable scholar--but\nmadame was a poor sneaking fellow, fit only for the usher of a boarding-\nschool. All this, however, argues Schlosser's two-fold ignorance--first,\nof English authors; second, of the 'Dunciad;'--else he would have known\nthat even Dennis, mad John Dennis, was a much cleverer man than most of\nthose alluded to by Voltaire. Cibber, though slightly a coxcomb, was born\na brilliant man. Aaron Hill was so lustrous, that even Pope's venom fell\noff spontaneously, like rain from the plumage of a pheasant, leaving him\nto 'mount far upwards with the swans of Thanes'--and, finally, let it not\nbe forgotten, that Samuel Clarke Burnet, of the Charterhouse, and Sir\nIsaac Newton, did not wholly escape tasting the knout; if _that_ rather\nimpeaches the equity, and sometimes the judgment of Pope, at least it\ncontributes to show the groundlessness of Schlosser's objection--that the\npopulation of the Dunciad, the characters that filled its stage, were\ninconsiderable.\n\n\nFOX AND BURKE.\n\nIt is, or it _would_ be, if Mr. Schlosser were himself more interesting,\nluxurious to pursue his ignorance as to facts, and the craziness of his\njudgment as to the valuation of minds, throughout his comparison of Burke\nwith Fox. The force of antithesis brings out into a feeble life of\nmeaning, what, in its own insulation, had been languishing mortally into\nnonsense. The darkness of his 'Burke' becomes _visible_ darkness under the\nglimmering that steals upon it from the desperate commonplaces of this\n'Fox.' Fox is painted exactly as he _would_ have been painted fifty years\nago by any pet subaltern of the Whig club, enjoying free pasture in\nDevonshire House. The practised reader knows well what is coming. Fox is\n'formed after the model of the ancients'--Fox is 'simple'--Fox is\n'natural'--Fox is 'chaste'--Fox is 'forcible;' why yes, in a sense, Fox is\neven 'forcible:' but then, to feel that he was so, you must have _heard_\nhim; whereas, for forty years he has been silent. We of 1847, that can\nonly _read_ him, hearing Fox described as _forcible_, are disposed to\nrecollect Shakspeare's Mr. Feeble amongst Falstaff's recruits, who also is\ndescribed as _forcible_, viz., as the 'most forcible Feeble.' And,\nperhaps, a better description could not be devised for Fox himself--so\nfeeble was he in matter, so forcible in manner; so powerful for instant\neffect, so impotent for posterity. In the Pythian fury of his gestures--in\nhis screaming voice--in his directness of purpose, Fox would now remind\nyou of some demon steam-engine on a railroad, some Fire-king or Salmoneus,\nthat had counterfeited, because he could not steal, Jove's thunderbolts;\nhissing, bubbling, snorting, fuming; demoniac gas, you think--gas from\nAcheron must feed that dreadful system of convulsions. But pump out the\nimaginary gas, and, behold! it is ditch-water. Fox, as Mr. Schlosser\nrightly thinks, was all of a piece--simple in his manners, simple in his\nstyle, simple in his thoughts. No waters in _him_ turbid with new\ncrystalizations; everywhere the eye can see to the bottom. No music in\n_him_ dark with Cassandra meanings. Fox, indeed, disturb decent gentlemen\nby 'allusions to all the sciences, from the integral calculus and\nmetaphysics to navigation!' Fox would have seen you hanged first. Burke,\non the other hand, did all that, and other wickedness besides, which fills\nan 8vo page in Schlosser; and Schlosser crowns his enormities by charging\nhim, the said Burke (p. 99), with '_wearisome tediousness_.' Among my own\nacquaintances are several old women, who think on this point precisely as\nSchlosser thinks; and they go further, for they even charge Burke with\n'tedious wearisomeness.' Oh, sorrowful woe, and also woeful sorrow, when\nan Edmund Burke arises, like a _cheeta_ or hunting leopard coupled in a\ntiger-chase with a German poodle. To think, in a merciful spirit, of the\njungle--barely to contemplate, in a temper of humanity, the\nincomprehensible cane-thickets, dark and bristly, into which that bloody\n_cheeta_ will drag that unoffending poodle!\n\nBut surely the least philosophic of readers, who hates philosophy 'as toad\nor asp,' must yet be aware, that, where new growths are not germinating,\nit is no sort of praise to be free from the throes of growth. Where\nexpansion is hopeless, it is little glory to have escaped distortion. Nor\nis it any blame that the rich fermentation of grapes should disturb the\ntransparency of their golden fluids. Fox had nothing new to tell us, nor\ndid he hold a position amongst men that required or would even have\nallowed him to tell anything new. He was helmsman to a party; what he had\nto do, though seeming to _give_ orders, was simply to repeat _their_\norders--'Port your helm,' said the party; 'Port it is,' replied the\nhelmsman.--But Burke was no steersman; he was the Orpheus that sailed with\nthe Argonauts; he was their _seer_, seeing more in his visions than he\nalways understood himself; he was their watcher through the hours of\nnight; he was their astrological interpreter. Who complains of a prophet\nfor being a little darker of speech than a post-office directory? or of\nhim that reads the stars for being sometimes perplexed?\n\nBut, even as to facts, Schlosser is always blundering. Post-office\ndirectories would be of no use to _him;_ nor link-boys; nor blazing\ntar-barrels. He wanders in a fog such as sits upon the banks of Cocytus.\nHe fancies that Burke, in his lifetime, was _popular_. Of course, it\nis so natural to be popular by means of '_wearisome tediousness_,'\nthat Schlosser, above all people, should credit such a tale. Burke has\nbeen dead just fifty years, come next autumn. I remember the time from\nthis accident--that my own nearest relative stepped on a day of October,\n1797, into that same suite of rooms at Bath (North Parade) from which, six\nhours before, the great man had been carried out to die at Beaconsfield.\nIt is, therefore, you see, fifty years. Now, ever since then, his\n_collective_ works have been growing in bulk by the incorporation of\njuvenile essays (such as his 'European Settlements,' his 'Essay on the\nSublime,' on 'Lord Bolingbroke,' &c.) or (as more recently) by the\nposthumous publication of his MSS; [9] and yet, ever since then, in spite\nof growing age and growing bulk, are more in demand. At this time, half a\ncentury after his last sigh, Burke _is_ popular; a thing, let me tell\nyou, Schlosser, which never happened before to a writer steeped to his\nlips in _personal_ politics. What a tilth of intellectual lava must\nthat man have interfused amongst the refuse and scoria of such mouldering\nparty rubbish, to force up a new verdure and laughing harvests, annually\nincreasing for new generations! Popular he _is_ now, but popular he\nwas not in his own generation. And how could Schlosser have the face to\nsay that he was? Did he never hear the notorious anecdote, that at one\nperiod Burke obtained the _sobriquet_ of 'dinner-bell?' And why? Not\nas one who invited men to a banquet by his gorgeous eloquence, but as one\nthat gave a signal to shoals in the House of Commons, for seeking refuge\nin a _literal_ dinner from the oppression of his philosophy. This\nwas, perhaps, in part a scoff of his opponents. Yet there must have been\nsome foundation for the scoff, since, at an earlier stage of Burke's\ncareer, Goldsmith had independently said, that this great orator\n\n          --------'went on refining,\n  And thought of convincing, whilst _they_ thought of dining.'\n\nI blame neither party. It ought not to be expected of any _popular_\nbody that it should be patient of abstractions amongst the intensities of\nparty-strife, and the immediate necessities of voting. No deliberative\nbody would less have tolerated such philosophic exorbitations from public\nbusiness than the _agora_ of Athens, or the Roman senate. So far the\nerror was in Burke, not in the House of Commons. Yet, also, on the other\nside, it must be remembered, that an intellect of Burke's combining power\nand enormous compass, could not, from necessity of nature, abstain from\nsuch speculations. For a man to reach a remote posterity, it is sometimes\nnecessary that he should throw his voice over to them in a vast arch--it\nmust sweep a parabola--which, therefore, rises high above the heads of\nthose next to him, and is heard by the bystanders but indistinctly, like\nbees swarming in the upper air before they settle on the spot fit for\nhiving.\n\nSee, therefore, the immeasurableness of misconception. Of all public men,\nthat stand confessedly in the first rank as to splendor of intellect,\nBurke was the _least_ popular at the time when our blind friend Schlosser\nassumes him to have run off with the lion's share of popularity. Fox, on\nthe other hand, as the leader of opposition, was at that time a household\nterm of love or reproach, from one end of the island to the other. To the\nvery children playing in the streets, Pitt and Fox, throughout Burke's\ngeneration, were pretty nearly as broad distinctions, and as much a war-\ncry, as English and French, Roman and Punic. Now, however, all this is\naltered. As regards the relations between the two Whigs whom Schlosser so\nsteadfastly delighteth to misrepresent,\n\n  'Now is the winter of our discontent\n  Made glorious summer'\n\nfor that intellectual potentate, Edmund Burke, the man whose true mode of\npower has never yet been truly investigated; whilst Charles Fox is known\nonly as an echo is known, and for any real _effect_ of intellect upon\nthis generation, for anything but the 'whistling of a name,' the Fox of\n1780-1807 sleeps where the carols of the larks are sleeping, that\ngladdened the spring-tides of those years--sleeps with the roses that\nglorified the beauty of their summers. [10]\n\n\nJUNIUS\n\nSchlosser talks of Junius, who is to him, as to many people, more than\nentirely the enigma of an enigma, Hermes Trismegistus, or the mediaeval\nPrester John. Not only are most people unable to solve the enigma, but\nthey have no idea of what it is that they are to solve. I have to inform\nSchlosser that there are three separate questions about Junius, of which\nhe has evidently no distinct knowledge, and cannot, therefore, have many\nchances to spare for settling them. The three questions are these:--A. Who\n_was_ Junius? B. What was it that armed Junius with a power so\nunaccountable at this day over the public mind? C. Why, having actually\nexercised this power, and gained under his masque far more than he ever\nhoped to gain, did this Junius not come forward _in his own person_,\nwhen all the legal danger had long passed away, to claim a distinction\nthat for _him_ (among the vainest of men) must have been more precious\nthan his heart's blood? The two questions, B and C, I have examined in\npast times, and I will not here repeat my explanations further than to\nsay, with respect to the last, that the reason for the author not claiming\nhis own property was this, because he _dared_ not; because it would have\nbeen _infamy_ for him to avow himself as Junius; because it would have\nrevealed a crime and published a crime in his own earlier life, for which\nmany a man is transported in our days, and for less than which many a man\nhas been in past days hanged, broken on the wheel, burned, gibbeted, or\nimpaled. To say that he watched and listened at his master's key-holes, is\nnothing. It was not key-holes only that he made free with, but keys; he\ntampered with his master's seals; he committed larcenies; not, like a\nbrave man, risking his life on the highway, but petty larcenies--larcenies\nin a dwelling-house--larcenies under the opportunities of a confidential\nsituation--crimes which formerly, in the days of Junius, our bloody code\nnever pardoned in villains of low degree. Junius was in the situation of\nLord Byron's Lara, or, because Lara is a plagiarism, of Harriet Lee's\nKraitzrer. But this man, because he had money, friends, and talents,\ninstead of going to prison, took himself off for a jaunt to the continent.\nFrom the continent, in full security and in possession of the _otium cum\ndignitate_, he negotiated with the government, whom he had alarmed by\npublishing the secrets which he had stolen. He succeeded. He sold himself\nto great advantage. Bought and sold he was; and of course it is understood\nthat, if you buy a knave, and expressly in consideration of his knaveries,\nyou secretly undertake not to hang him. 'Honor bright!' Lord Barrington\nmight certainly have indicted Junius at the Old Bailey, and had a reason\nfor wishing to do so; but George III., who was a party to the negotiation,\nand all his ministers, would have said, with fits of laughter--'Oh, come\nnow, my lord, you must _not_ do that. For, since we have bargained for a\nprice to send him out as a member of council to Bengal, you see clearly\nthat we could not possibly hang him _before_ we had fulfilled our bargain.\nThen it is true we might hang him after he comes back. But, since the man\n(being a clever man) has a fair chance in the interim of rising to be\nGovernor-General, we put it to your candor, Lord Barrington, whether it\nwould be for the public service to hang his excellency?' In fact, he might\nprobably have been Governor-General, had his bad temper not overmastered\nhim. Had he not quarrelled so viciously with Mr. Hastings, it is ten to\none that he might, by playing his cards well, have succeeded him. As it\nwas, after enjoying an enormous salary, he returned to England--not\nGovernor-General, certainly, but still in no fear of being hanged. Instead\nof hanging him, on second thoughts, Government gave him a red ribbon. He\nrepresented a borough in Parliament. He was an authority upon Indian\naffairs. He was caressed by the Whig party. He sat at good men's tables.\nHe gave for toasts--_Joseph Surface_ sentiments at dinner parties--\n'The man that betrays' [something or other]--'the man that sneaks into'\n[other men's portfolios, perhaps]--'is'--ay, _what_ is he? Why he is,\nperhaps, a Knight of the Bath, has a sumptuous mansion in St. James's\nSquare, dies full of years and honor, has a pompous funeral, and fears\nonly some such epitaph as this--'Here lies, in a red ribbon, the man who\nbuilt a great prosperity on the basis of a great knavery.' I complain\nheavily of Mr. Taylor, the very able unmasker of Junius, for blinking the\nwhole questions B and C. He it is that has settled the question A, so that\nit will never be re-opened by a man of sense. A man who doubts, after\n_really_ reading Mr. Taylor's work, is not only a blockhead, but an\nirreclaimable blockhead. It is true that several men, among them Lord\nBrougham, whom Schlosser (though hating him, and kicking him) cites, still\nprofess scepticism. But the reason is evident: they have not _read_\nthe book, they have only heard of it. They are unacquainted with the\nstrongest arguments, and even with the nature of the evidence. [11] Lord\nBrougham, indeed, is generally reputed to have reviewed Mr. Taylor's book.\n_That_ may be: it is probable enough: what I am denying is not at all\nthat Lord Brougham _reviewed_ Mr. Taylor, but that Lord Brougham _read_\nMr. Taylor. And there is not much wonder in _that_, when we see professed\nwriters on the subject--bulky writers--writers of Answers and Refutations,\ndispensing with the whole of Mr. Taylor's book, single paragraphs of which\nwould have forced them to cancel their own. The possibility of scepticism,\nafter really _reading_ Mr. Taylor's book, would be the strongest\nexemplification upon record of Sancho's proverbial reproach, that a man\n'wanted better bread than was made of wheat--' would be the old case\nrenewed from the scholastic grumblers 'that some men do not know when they\nare answered.' They have got their _quietus_, and they still continue to\n'maunder' on with objections long since disposed of. In fact, it is not\ntoo strong a thing to say--and Chief Justice Dallas _did_ say something\nlike it--that if Mr. Taylor is not right, if Sir Philip Francis is _not_\nJunius, then was no man ever yet hanged on sufficient evidence. Even\nconfession is no absolute proof. Even confessing to a crime, the man may\nbe mad. Well, but at least seeing is believing: if the court sees a man\ncommit an assault, will not _that_ suffice? Not at all: ocular delusions\non the largest scale are common. What's a court? Lawyers have no better\neyes than other people. Their physics are often out of repair, and whole\ncities have been known to see things that could have no existence. Now,\nall other evidence is held to be short of this blank seeing or blank\nconfessing. But I am not at all sure of _that_. Circumstantial evidence,\nthat multiplies indefinitely its points of _internexus_ with known\nadmitted facts, is more impressive than direct testimony. If you detect a\nfellow with a large sheet of lead that by many (to wit seventy) salient\nangles, that by tedious (to wit thirty) reentrant angles, fits into and\nowns its sisterly relationship to all that is left of the lead upon your\nroof--this tight fit will weigh more with a jury than even if my lord\nchief justice should jump into the witness-box, swearing that, with\njudicial eyes, he saw the vagabond cutting the lead whilst he himself sat\nat breakfast; or even than if the vagabond should protest before this\nhonorable court that he _did_ cut the lead, in order that he (the said\nvagabond) might have hot rolls and coffee as well as my lord, the witness.\nIf Mr. Taylor's body of evidence does _not_ hold water, then is there no\nevidence extant upon any question, judicial or not judicial, that _will_.\n\nBut I blame Mr. Taylor heavily for throwing away the whole argument\napplicable to B and C; not as any debt that rested particularly upon\n_him_ to public justice; but as a debt to the integrity of his own\nbook. That book is now a fragment; admirable as regards A; but (by\nomitting B and C) not sweeping the whole area of the problem. There yet\nremains, therefore, the dissatisfaction which is always likely to arise--\nnot from the smallest _allegatio falsi_, but from the large _suppressio\nveri_. B, which, on any other solution than the one I have proposed, is\nperfectly unintelligible, now becomes plain enough. To imagine a heavy,\ncoarse, hard-working government, seriously affected by such a bauble as\n_they_ would consider performances on the tight rope of style, is mere\nmidsummer madness. 'Hold your absurd tongue,' would any of the ministers\nhave said to a friend descanting on Junius as a powerful artist of style--\n'do you dream, dotard, that this baby's rattle is the thing that keeps us\nfrom sleeping? Our eyes are fixed on something else: that fellow, whoever\nhe is, knows what he ought _not_ to know; he has had his hand in some of\nour pockets: he's a good locksmith, is that Junius; and before he reaches\nTyburn, who knows what amount of mischief he may do to self and partners?'\nThe rumor that ministers were themselves alarmed (which was the naked\ntruth) travelled downwards; but the _why_ did not travel; and the\ninnumerable blockheads of lower circles, not understanding the real cause\nof fear, sought a false one in the supposed thunderbolts of the rhetoric.\nOpera-house thunderbolts they were: and strange it is, that grave men\nshould fancy newspapers, teeming (as they have always done) with\n_Publicolas_, with _Catos_, with _Algernon Sidneys_, able by such trivial\nsmall shot to gain a moment's attention from the potentates of Downing\nStreet. Those who have despatches to write, councils to attend, and votes\nof the Commons to manage, think little of Junius Brutus. A Junius Brutus,\nthat dares not sign by his own honest name, is presumably skulking from\nhis creditors. A Timoleon, who hints at assassination in a newspaper, one\nmay take it for granted, is a manufacturer of begging letters. And it is a\nconceivable case that a twenty pound note, enclosed to Timoleon's address,\nthrough the newspaper office, might go far to soothe that great patriot's\nfeelings, and even to turn aside his avenging dagger. These sort of people\nwere not the sort to frighten a British Ministry. One laughs at the\nprobable conversation between an old hunting squire coming up to comfort\nthe First Lord of the Treasury, on the rumor that he was panic-struck.\n'What, surely, my dear old friend, you're not afraid of Timoleon?' First\nLord.--'Yes, I am.' C. Gent.--'What, afraid of an anonymous fellow in the\npapers?' F. L.--'Yes, dreadfully.' C. Gent.--'Why, I always understood\nthat these people were a sort of shams--living in Grub Street--or where\nwas it that Pope used to tell us they lived? Surely you're not afraid of\nTimoleon, because some people think he's a patriot?' F. L.--'No, not at\nall; but I am afraid because some people think he's a housebreaker!' In\nthat character only could Timoleon become formidable to a Cabinet\nMinister; and in some such character must our friend, Junius Brutus, have\nmade himself alarming to Government. From the moment that B is properly\nexplained, it throws light upon C. The Government was alarmed--not at such\nmoonshine as patriotism, or at a soap-bubble of rhetoric--but because\ntreachery was lurking amongst their own households: and, if the thing went\non, the consequences might be appalling. But this domestic treachery,\nwhich accounts for B, accounts at the same time for C. The very same\ntreachery that frightened its objects at the time by the consequences it\nmight breed, would frighten its author afterwards from claiming its\nliterary honors by the remembrances it might awaken. The mysterious\ndisclosures of official secrets, which had once roused so much\nconsternation within a limited circle, and (like the French affair of the\ndiamond necklace) had sunk into neglect only when all clue seemed lost for\n_perfectly_ unravelling its would revive in all its interest when a\ndiscovery came before the public, viz., a claim on the part of Francis to\nhave written the famous letters, which must at the same time point a\nstrong light upon the true origin of the treacherous disclosures. Some\nastonishment had always existed as to Francis--how he rose so suddenly\ninto rank and station: some astonishment always existed as to Junius, how\nhe should so suddenly have fallen asleep as a writer in the journals. The\ncoincidence of this sudden and unaccountable silence with the sudden and\nunaccountable Indian appointment of Francis; the extraordinary familiarity\nof Junius, which had _not altogether escaped notice_, with the secrets of\none particular office, viz., the War Office; the sudden recollection, sure\nto flash upon all who remembered Francis, if again he should become\nrevived into suspicion, that he had held a situation of trust in that\nparticular War Office; all these little recollections would begin to take\nup their places in a connected story: _this_ and _that_, laid together,\nwould become clear as day-light; and to the keen eyes of still surviving\nenemies--Horne Tooke, 'little Chamier,' Ellis, the Fitzroy, Russell, and\nMurray houses--the whole progress and catastrophe of the scoundrelism, the\nperfidy and the profits of the perfidy, would soon become as intelligible\nas any tale of midnight burglary from without, in concert with a wicked\nbutler within, that was ever sifted by judge and jury at the Old Bailey,\nor critically reviewed by Mr. John Ketch at Tyburn.\n\nFrancis was the man. Francis was the wicked butler within, whom Pharaoh\nought to have hanged, but whom he clothed in royal apparel, and mounted\nupon a horse that carried him to a curule chair of honor. So far his\nburglary prospered. But, as generally happens in such cases, this\nprosperous crime subsequently avenged itself. By a just retribution, the\nsuccess of Junius, in two senses so monstrously exaggerated--exaggerated\nby a romantic over-estimate of its intellectual power through an error of\nthe public, not admitted to the secret--and equally exaggerated as to its\npolitical power by the government in the hush-money for its future\nsuppression, became the heaviest curse of the successful criminal. This\ncriminal thirsted for literary distinction above all other distinction,\nwith a childish eagerness, as for the _amrecta_ cup of immortality.\nAnd, behold! there the brilliant bauble lay, glittering in the sands of a\nsolitude, unclaimed by any man; disputed with him (if he chose to claim\nit) by nobody; and yet for his life he durst not touch it. He stood--he\nknew that he stood--in the situation of a murderer who has dropt an\ninestimable jewel upon the murdered body in the death-struggle with his\nvictim. The jewel is his! Nobody will deny it. He may have it for asking.\nBut to ask is his death-warrant. 'Oh yes!' would be the answer, 'here's\nyour jewel, wrapt up safely in tissue paper. But here's another lot that\ngoes along with it--no bidder can take them apart--viz. a halter, also\nwrapt up in tissue paper.' Francis, in relation to Junius, was in that\nexact predicament. 'You are Junius? You are that famous man who has been\nmissing since 1772? And you can prove it? God bless me! sir; what a long\ntime you've been sleeping: every body's gone to bed. Well, then, you are\nan exceedingly clever fellow, that have had the luck to be thought ten\ntimes more clever than really you were. And also, you are the greatest\nscoundrel that at this hour rests in Europe unhanged!'--Francis died, and\nmade no sign. Peace of mind he had parted with for a peacock's feather,\nwhich feather, living or dying, he durst not mount in the plumage of his\ncap.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n[1] Even Pope, with all his natural and reasonable interest in\naristocratic society, could not shut his eyes to the fact that a jest in\n_his_ mouth became twice a jest in a lord's. But still he failed to\nperceive what I am here contending for, that if the jest happened to miss\nfire, through the misfortune of bursting its barrel, the consequences\nwould be far worse for the lord than the commoner. There _is_, you see, a\nblind sort of compensation.\n\n[2] Mr. Schlosser, who speaks English, who has read rather too much\nEnglish for any good that he has turned it to, and who ought to have a\nkeen eye for the English version of his own book, after so much reading\nand study of it, has, however, overlooked several manifest errors. I do\nnot mean to tax Mr. Davison with, general inaccuracy. On the contrary, he\nseems wary, and in most cases successful as a dealer with the\npeculiarities of the German. But several cases of error I detect without\nneeding the original: they tell their own story. And one of these I here\nnotice, not only for its own importance, but out of love to Schlosser, and\nby way of nailing his guarantee to the counter--not altogether as a bad\nshilling, but as a light one. At p. 5 of vol. 2, in a foot-note, which is\nspeaking of Kant, we read of his _attempt to introduce the notion of\nnegative greatness into Philosophy. Negative greatness!_ What strange\nbird may _that_ be? Is it the _ornithorynchus paradoxus_? Mr. Schlosser\nwas not wide awake _there_. The reference is evidently to Kant's essay\nupon the advantages of introducing into philosophy the algebraic idea of\n_negative quantities_. It is one of Kant's grandest gleams into hidden\ntruth. Were it only for the merits of this most masterly essay in\nreconstituting the algebraic meaning of a _negative quantity_ [so\ngenerally misunderstood as a _negation_ of quantity, and which even Sir\nIsaac Newton misconstrued as regarded its metaphysics], great would have\nbeen the service rendered to logic by Kant. But there is a greater. From\nthis little _brochure_ I am satisfied was derived originally the German\nregeneration of the Dynamic philosophy, its expansion through the idea of\npolarity, indifference, &c. Oh, Mr. Schlosser, you had not _gepruft_ p. 5\nof vol. 2. You skipped the notes.\n\n[3] '_Little nurse_:'--the word _Glumdalclitch_, in Brobdingnagian,\nabsolutely _means little nurse_, and nothing else. It may seem odd that\nthe captain should call any nurse of Brobdingnag, however kind to him, by\nsuch an epithet as _little_; and the reader may fancy that Sherwood forest\nhad put it into his head, where Robin Hood always called his right hand\nman 'Little John,' not _although_, but expressly _because_ John stood\nseven feet high in his stockings. But the truth is--that Glumdalclitch\n_was_ little; and literally so; she was only nine years old, and (says the\ncaptain) 'little of her age,' being barely forty feet high. She had time\nto grow certainly, but as she had so much to do before she could overtake\nother women, it is probable that she would turn out what, in Westmoreland,\nthey call a, _little stiffenger_--very little, if at all, higher than a\ncommon English church steeple.\n\n[4.] '_Activity_,'--It is some sign of this, as well as of the more\nthoroughly English taste in literature which distinguished Steele, that\nhardly twice throughout the 'Spectator' is Shakspeare quoted or alluded to\nby Addison. Even these quotations he had from the theatre, or the breath\nof popular talk. Generally, if you see a line from Shakspeare, it is safe\nto bet largely that the paper is Steele's; sometimes, indeed, of casual\ncontributors; but, almost to a certainty, _not_ a paper of Addison's.\nAnother mark of Steele's superiority in vigor of intellect is, that much\noftener in _him_ than in other contributors strong thoughts came forward;\nharsh and disproportioned, perhaps, to the case, and never harmoniously\ndeveloped with the genial grace of Addison, but original, and pregnant\nwith promise and suggestion.\n\n[5] 'Letters of Joseph Mede,' published more than twenty years ago by Sir\nHenry Ellis.\n\n[6] It is an idea of many people, and erroneously sanctioned by\nWordsworth, that Lord Somers gave a powerful lift to the 'Paradise Lost.'\nHe was a subscriber to the sixth edition, the first that had plates; but\nthis was some years before the Revolution of 1688, and when he was simply\nMr. Somers, a barrister, with no effectual power of patronage.\n\n[7] '_Milton, Mr. John_:'--Dr. Johnson expressed his wrath, in an\namusing way, at some bookseller's hack who, when employed to make an\nindex, introduced Milton's name among the M's, under the civil title of--\n'Milton, Mr. John.'\n\n[8] '_Louis Baboon_:'--As people read nothing in these days that is more\nthan forty-eight hours old, I am daily admonished that allusions the most\nobvious to anything in the rear of our own time, needs explanation. _Louis\nBaboon_ is Swift's jesting name for _Louis Bourbon_, _i.e._, Louis XIV.\n\n[9] 'Of his MSS.:'--And, if all that I have heard be true, much has\nsomebody to answer for, that so little has been yet published. The two\nexecutors of Burke were Dr. Lawrence, of Doctors' Commons, a well-known M.\nP. in forgotten days, and Windham, a man too like Burke in elasticity of\nmind ever to be spoken of in connection with forgotten things. Which of\nthem was to blame, I know not. But Mr. R. Sharpe, M. P., twenty-five years\nago, well known as _River_ Sharpe, from the [Greek: _aperantologia_] of\nhis conversation, used to say, that one or both of the executors had\noffered _him_ (the river) a huge travelling trunk, perhaps an Imperial or\na Salisbury boot (equal to the wardrobe of a family), filled with Burke's\nMSS., on the simple condition of editing them with proper annotations. An\nOxford man, and also the celebrated Mr. Christian Curwen, then member for\nCumberland, made, in my hearing, the same report. The Oxford man, in\nparticular, being questioned as to the probable amount of MS., deposed,\nthat he could not speak upon oath to the cubical contents; but this he\ncould say, that, having stripped up his coat sleeve, he had endeavored, by\nsuch poor machinery as nature had allowed him, to take the soundings of\nthe trunk, but apparently there were none; with his middle finger he could\nfind no bottom; for it was stopped by a dense stratum of MS.; below which,\nyou know, other strata might lie _ad infinitum_. For anything proved to\nthe contrary, the trunk might be bottomless.\n\n[10] A man in Fox's situation is sure, whilst living, to draw after him\ntrains of sycophants; and it is the evil necessity of newspapers the most\nindependent, that they _must_ swell the mob of sycophants. The public\ncompels them to exaggerate the true proportions of such people as we see\nevery hour in our own day. Those who, for the moment, modify, or\n_may_ modify the national condition, become preposterous idols in the\neyes of the gaping public; but with the sad necessity of being too utterly\ntrodden under foot after they are shelved, unless they live in men's\nmemory by something better than speeches in Parliament. Having the usual\nfate, Fox was complimented, _whilst living_, on his knowledge of\nHomeric Greek, which was a jest: he knew neither more nor less of Homer,\nthan, fortunately, most English gentlemen of his rank; quite enough that\nis to read the 'Iliad' with unaffected pleasure, far too little to revise\nthe text of any three lines, without making himself ridiculous. The\nexcessive slenderness of his general literature, English and French, may\nbe seen in the letters published by his Secretary, Trotter. But his\nfragment of a History, published by Lord Holland, at two guineas, and\ncurrently sold for two shillings (not two _pence_, or else I have\nbeen defrauded of 1s. 10d.), most of all proclaims the tenuity of his\nknowledge. He looks upon Malcolm Laing as a huge oracle; and, having read\neven less than Hume, a thing not very easy, with great _naivete_, cannot\nguess where Hume picked up his facts.\n\n[11] Even in Dr. Francis's Translation of Select Speeches from\nDemosthenes, which Lord Brougham naturally used a little in his own labors\non that theme, there may be traced several peculiarities of diction that\nstartle us in Junius. Sir P. had them from his father. And Lord Brougham\nought not to have overlooked them. The same thing may be seen in the notes\nto Dr. Francis's translation of Horace. These points, though not\n_independently_ of much importance, become far more so in combination\nwith others. The reply made to me once by a publisher of some eminence\nupon this question, was the best fitted to lower Mr. Taylor's\ninvestigation with a _stranger_ to the long history of the dispute.\n'I feel,' he said, 'the impregnability of the case made out by Mr. Taylor.\nBut the misfortune is, that I have seen so many previous impregnable cases\nmade out for other claimants.' Ay, that _would_ be unfortunate. But\nthe misfortune for this repartee was, that I, for whose use it was\nintended, not being in the predicament of a _stranger_ to the dispute,\nhaving seen every page of the pleadings, knew all (except Mr. Taylor's) to\nbe false in their statements; after which their arguments signified\nnothing.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ANTIGONE OF SOPHOCLES, AS REPRESENTED ON THE EDINBURGH STAGE.\n\n\nEvery thing in our days is new. _Roads_, for instance, which, being\nformerly 'of the earth earthy,' and therefore perishable, are now iron,\nand next door to being immortal; _tragedies_, which are so entirely\nnew, that neither we nor our fathers, through eighteen hundred and ninety\nodd years, gone by, since Caesar did our little island the honor to sit\nupon its skirts, have ever seen the like to this 'Antigone;' and, finally,\neven more new are _readers_, who, being once an obedient race of men,\nmost humble and deferential in the presence of a Greek scholar, are now\nbecome intractably mutinous; keep their hats on whilst he is addressing\nthem; and listen to him or not, as he seems to talk sense or nonsense.\nSome there are, however, who look upon all these new things as being\nintensely old. Yet, surely the railroads are new? No; not at all. Talus,\nthe iron man in Spenser, who continually ran round the island of Crete,\nadministering gentle warning and correction to offenders, by flooring them\nwith an iron flail, was a very ancient personage in Greek fable; and the\nreceived opinion is, that he must have been a Cretan railroad, called The\nGreat Circular Coast-Line, that carried my lords the judges on their\ncircuits of jail-delivery. The 'Antigone,' again, that wears the freshness\nof morning dew, and is so fresh and dewy in the beautiful person of Miss\nFaucit, had really begun to look faded on the Athenian stage, and even 'of\na certain age,' about the death of Pericles, whose meridian year was the\nyear 444 before Christ. Lastly, these modern _readers_, that are so\nobstinately rebellious to the once Papal authority of Greek, they--No; on\nconsideration, they _are_ new. Antiquity produced many monsters, but\nnone like _them_.\n\nThe truth is, that this vast multiplication of readers, within the last\ntwenty-five years, has changed the prevailing character of readers. The\nminority has become the overwhelming majority: the quantity has disturbed\nthe quality. Formerly, out of every five readers, at least four were, in\nsome degree, classical scholars: or, if _that_ would be saying too\nmuch, if two of the four had 'small Latin and less Greek,' they were\ngenerally connected with those who had more, or at the worst, who had much\nreverence for Latin, and more reverence for Greek. If they did not all\nshare in the services of the temple, all, at least, shared in the\nsuperstition. But, now-a-days, the readers come chiefly from a class of\nbusy people who care very little for ancestral crazes. Latin they have\nheard of, and some of them know it as a good sort of industrious language,\nthat even, in modern times, has turned out many useful books,\nastronomical, medical, philosophical, and (as Mrs. Malaprop observes)\ndiabolical; but, as to Greek, they think of it as of an ancient mummy: you\nspend an infinity of time in unswathing it from its old dusty wrappers,\nand, when you have come to the end, what do you find for your pains? A\nwoman's face, or a baby's, that certainly is not the better for being\nthree thousand years old; and perhaps a few ears of wheat, stolen from\nPharaoh's granary; which wheat, when sown [1] in Norfolk or Mid-Lothian,\nreaped, thrashed, ground, baked, and hunted through all sorts of tortures,\nyields a breakfast roll that (as a Scottish baker observed to me) is 'not\njust _that_ bad.' Certainly not: not exactly '_that_ bad;' not worse than\nthe worst of our own; but still, much fitter for Pharaoh's breakfast-table\nthan for ours.\n\nI, for my own part, stand upon an isthmus, connecting me, at one terminus,\nwith the rebels against Greek, and, at the other, with those against whom\nthey are in rebellion. On the one hand, it seems shocking to me, who am\nsteeped to the lips in antique prejudices, that Greek, in unlimited\nquantities, should not secure a limited privilege of talking nonsense. Is\nall reverence extinct for old, and ivy-mantled, and worm-eaten things?\nSurely, if your own grandmother lectures on morals, which perhaps now and\nthen she does, she will command that reverence from you, by means of her\ngrandmotherhood, which by means of her ethics she might _not_. To be\na good Grecian, is now to be a faded potentate; a sort of phantom Mogul,\nsitting at Delhi, with an English sepoy bestriding his shoulders. Matched\nagainst the master of _ologies_, in our days, the most accomplished\nof Grecians is becoming what the 'master of sentences' had become long\nsince, in competition with the political economist. Yet, be assured,\nreader, that all the 'ologies' hitherto christened oology, ichthyology,\nornithology, conchology, palaeodontology, &c., do not furnish such mines\nof labor as does the Greek language when thoroughly searched. The\n'Mithridates' of Adelung, improved by the commentaries of Vater and of\nsubsequent authors, numbers up about four thousand languages and jargons\non our polyglot earth; not including the chuckling of poultry, nor\ncaterwauling, nor barking, howling, braying, lowing, nor other respectable\nand ancient dialects, that perhaps have their elegant and their vulgar\nvarieties, as well as prouder forms of communication. But my impression\nis, that the Greek, taken by itself, this one exquisite language,\nconsidered as a quarry of _intellectual_ labor, has more work in it,\nis more truly a _piece de resistance_, than all the remaining three\nthousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, with caterwauling thrown into the\nbargain. So far I side with the Grecian, and think that he ought to be\nhonored with a little genuflexion. Yet, on the other hand, the finest\nsound on this earth, and which rises like an orchestra above all the\nuproars of earth, and the Babels of earthly languages, is truth--absolute\ntruth; and the hatefulest is conscious falsehood. Now, there _is_\nfalsehood, nay (which seems strange), even sycophancy, in the old\nundistinguishing homage to all that is called classical. Yet why should\nmen be sycophants in cases where they _must_ be disinterested? Sycophancy\ngrows out of fear, or out of mercenary self-interest. But what can there\nexist of either pointing to an old Greek poet? Cannot a man give his free\nopinion upon Homer, without fearing to be waylaid by his ghost? But it is\nnot _that_ which startles him from publishing the secret demur which his\nheart prompts, upon hearing false praises of a Greek poet, or praises\nwhich, if not false, are extravagant. What he fears, is the scorn of his\ncontemporaries. Let once a party have formed itself considerable enough to\nprotect a man from the charge of presumption in throwing off the yoke of\n_servile_ allegiance to all that is called classical,--let it be a party\never so small numerically, and the rebels will soon be many. What a man\nfears is, to affront the whole storm of indignation, real and affected, in\nhis own solitary person. 'Goth!' 'Vandal!' he hears from every side. Break\nthat storm by dividing it, and he will face its anger. 'Let me be a Goth,'\nhe mutters to himself, 'but let me not dishonor myself by affecting an\nenthusiasm which my heart rejects!'\n\nEver since the restoration of letters there has been a cabal, an academic\ninterest, a factious league amongst universities, and learned bodies, and\nindividual scholars, for exalting as something superterrestrial, and quite\nunapproachable by moderns, the monuments of Greek literature. France, in\nthe time of Louis XIV., England, in the latter part of that time; in fact,\neach country as it grew polished at some cost of strength, carried this\ncraze to a dangerous excess--dangerous as all things false are dangerous,\nand depressing to the aspirations of genius. Boileau, for instance, and\nAddison, though neither [2] of them accomplished in scholarship, nor\neither of them extensively read in _any_ department of the classic\nliterature, speak every where of the classics as having notoriously, and\nby the general confession of polished nations, carried the functions of\npoetry and eloquence to that sort of faultless beauty which probably does\n_really_ exist in the Greek sculpture. There are few things perfect\nin this world of frailty. Even lightning is sometimes a failure: Niagara\nhas horrible faults; and Mont Blanc might be improved by a century of\nchiselling from judicious artists. Such are the works of blind elements,\nwhich (poor things!) cannot improve by experience. As to man who\n_does_, the sculpture of the Greeks in their marbles and sometimes in\ntheir gems, seems the only act of _his_ workmanship which has hit the\nbull's eye in the target at which we are all aiming. Not so, with\npermission from Messrs. Boileau and Addison, the Greek literature. The\nfaults in this are often conspicuous; nor are they likely to be hidden for\nthe coming century, as they have been for the three last. The idolatry\nwill be shaken: as _idols_, some of the classic models are destined\nto totter: and I foresee, without gifts of prophecy, that many laborers\nwill soon be in this field--many idoloclasts, who will expose the signs of\ndisease, which zealots had interpreted as power; and of weakness, which is\nnot the less real because scholars had fancied it health, nor the less\ninjurious to the total effect because it was inevitable under the\naccidents of the Grecian position.\n\nMeantime, I repeat, that to disparage any thing whatever, or to turn the\neye upon blemishes, is no part of my present purpose. Nor could it be:\nsince the one sole section of the Greek literature, as to which I profess\nmyself an enthusiast, happens to be the tragic drama; and here, only, I\nmyself am liable to be challenged as an idolater. As regards the Antigone\nin particular, so profoundly do I feel the impassioned beauty of her\nsituation in connection with her character, that long ago, in a work of my\nown (yet unpublished), having occasion (by way of overture introducing one\nof the sections) to cite before the reader's eye the chief pomps of the\nGrecian theatre, after invoking 'the magnificent witch' Medea, I call up\nAntigone to this shadowy stage by the apostrophe, Holy heathen, daughter\nof God, before God was known, [3] flower from Paradise after Paradise was\nclosed; that quitting all things for which flesh languishes, safety and\nhonor, a palace and a home, didst make thyself a houseless pariah, lest\nthe poor pariah king, thy outcast father, should want a hand to lead him\nin his darkness, or a voice to whisper comfort in his misery; angel, that\nbadst depart for ever the glories of thy own bridal day, lest he that had\nshared thy nursery in childhood, should want the honors of a funeral;\nidolatrous, yet Christian Lady, that in the spirit of martyrdom trodst\nalone the yawning billows of the grave, flying from earthly hopes, lest\neverlasting despair should settle upon the grave of thy brother,' &c. In\nfact, though all the groupings, and what I would call permanent attitudes\nof the Grecian stage, are majestic, there is none that, to my mind, towers\ninto such affecting grandeur, as this final revelation, through Antigone\nherself, and through her own dreadful death, of the tremendous wo that\ndestiny had suspended over her house. If therefore my business had been\nchiefly with the individual drama, I should have found little room for any\nsentiment but that of profound admiration. But my present business is\ndifferent: it concerns the Greek drama generally, and the attempt to\nrevive it; and its object is to elucidate, rather than to praise or to\nblame. To explain this better, I will describe two things:--1st, The sort\nof audience that I suppose myself to be addressing; and, 2dly, As growing\nout of _that_, the particular quality of the explanations which I wish to\nmake.\n\n1st, As to the audience: in order to excuse the tone (which occasionally I\nmay be obliged to assume) of one speaking as from a station of knowledge,\nto others having no knowledge, I beg it to be understood, that I take that\nstation deliberately, on no conceit of superiority to my readers, but as a\ncompanion adapting my services to the wants of those who need them. I am\nnot addressing those already familiar with the Greek drama, but those who\nfrankly confess, and (according to their conjectural appreciation of it)\nwho regret their non-familiarity with that drama. It is a thing well known\nto publishers, through remarkable results, and is now showing itself on a\nscale continually widening, that a new literary public has arisen, very\ndifferent from any which existed at the beginning of this century. The\naristocracy of the land have always been, in a moderate degree, literary;\nless, however, in connection with the _current_ literature, than with\nliterature generally--past as well as present. And this is a tendency\nnaturally favored and strengthened in _them_, by the fine collections\nof books, carried forward through successive generations, which are so\noften found as a sort of hereditary foundation in the country mansions of\nour nobility. But a class of readers, prodigiously more extensive, has\nformed itself within the commercial orders of our great cities and\nmanufacturing districts. These orders range through a large scale. The\nhighest classes amongst them were always literary. But the interest of\nliterature has now swept downwards through a vast compass of descents: and\nthis large body, though the busiest in the nation, yet, by having under\ntheir undisturbed command such leisure time as they have _at all_ under\ntheir command, are eventually able to read more than those even who\nseem to have nothing else but leisure. In justice, however, to the\nnobility of our land, it should be remembered, that their stations in\nsociety, and their wealth, their territorial duties, and their various\npublic duties in London, as at court, at public meetings, in parliament,\n&c., bring crowded claims upon their time; whilst even sacrifices of time\nto the graceful courtesies of life, are in reference to _their_ stations,\na sort of secondary duties. These allowances made, it still remains true\nthat the busier classes are the main reading classes; whilst from their\nimmense numbers, they are becoming effectually the body that will more and\nmore impress upon the moving literature its main impulse and direction.\nOne other feature of difference there is amongst this commercial class of\nreaders: amongst the aristocracy all are thoroughly educated, excepting\nthose who go at an early age into the army; of the commercial body, none\nreceive an elaborate, and what is meant by a liberal education, except\nthose standing by their connections in the richest classes. Thus it\nhappens that, amongst those who have not inherited but achieved their\nstations, many men of fine and powerful understandings, accomplished in\nmanners, and admirably informed, not having had the benefits when young of\na regular classical education, find (upon any accident bringing up such\nsubjects) a deficiency which they do not find on other subjects. They are\ntoo honorable to undervalue advantages, which they feel to be\nconsiderable, simply because they were denied to themselves. They regret\ntheir loss. And yet it seems hardly worth while, on a simple prospect of\ncontingencies that may never be realized, to undertake an entirely new\ncourse of study for redressing this loss. But they would be glad to avail\nthemselves of any useful information not exacting study. These are the\npersons, this is the class, to which I address my remarks on the\n'Antigone;' and out of _their_ particular situation, suggesting upon all\nelevated subjects a corresponding tone of liberal curiosity, will arise\nthe particular nature and direction of these remarks.\n\nAccordingly, I presume, secondly, that this curiosity will take the\nfollowing course:--these persons will naturally wish to know, at starting,\nwhat there is _differentially_ interesting in a Grecian tragedy, as\ncontrasted with one of Shakspeare's or of Schiller's: in what respect, and\nby what agencies, a Greek tragedy affects us, or is meant to affect us,\notherwise than as _they_ do; and how far the Antigone of Sophocles was\njudiciously chosen as the particular medium for conveying to British minds\na first impression, and a representative impression, of Greek tragedy. So\nfar, in relation to the ends proposed, and the means selected. Finally,\nthese persons will be curious to know the issue of such an experiment. Let\nthe purposes and the means have been bad or good, what was the actual\nsuccess? And not merely success, in the sense of the momentary acceptance\nby half a dozen audiences, whom the mere decencies of justice must have\ncompelled to acknowledge the manager's trouble and expense on their\nbehalf; but what was the degree of satisfaction felt by students of the\nAthenian [4] tragedy, in relation to their long-cherished ideal? Did the\nrepresentation succeed in realizing, for a moment, the awful pageant of\nthe Athenian stage? Did Tragedy, in Milton's immortal expression,\n\n   ------come sweeping by\n  In sceptred pall?\n\nOr was the whole, though successful in relation to the thing attempted, a\nfailure in relation to what ought to have been attempted? Such are the\nquestions to be answered.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe first elementary idea of a Greek tragedy, is to be sought in a serious\nItalian opera. The Greek dialogue is represented by the recitative, and\nthe tumultuous lyrical parts assigned chiefly, though not exclusively, to\nthe chorus on the Greek stage, are represented by the impassioned airs,\nduos, trios, choruses, &c. on the Italian. And there, at the very outset,\noccurs a question which lies at the threshold of a Fine Art,--that is of\n_any_ Fine Art: for had the views of Addison upon the Italian opera had\nthe least foundation in truth, there could have been no room or opening\nfor any mode of imitation except such as belongs to a _mechanic_ art.\n\nThe reason for at all connecting Addison with this case is, that _he_\nchiefly was the person occupied in assailing the Italian opera; and this\nhostility arose, probably, in his want of sensibility to good (that is, to\nItalian) music.  But whatever might be his motive for the hostility, the\nsingle argument by which he supported it was this,--that a hero ought not\nto sing upon the stage, because no hero known to history ever summoned a\ngarrison in a song, or changed a battery in a semichorus. In this argument\nlies an ignorance of the very first principle concern in _every_ Fine\nArt. In all alike, more or less directly, the object is to reproduce in\nmind some great effect, through the agency of _idem in alio_. The\n_idem_, the same impression, is to be restored; but _in alio_, in a\ndifferent material,--by means of some different instrument. For instance,\non the Roman stage there was an art, now entirely lost, of narrating, and,\nin part of dramatically representing an impassioned tale, by means of\ndancing, of musical accompaniment in the orchestra, and of elaborate\npantomime in the performer. _Saltavit Hypermnestram_, he danced (that is,\nhe represented by dancing and pantomime the story of) Hypermnestra. Now,\nsuppose a man to object, that young ladies, when saving their youthful\nhusbands at midnight from assassination, could not be capable of waltzing\nor quadrilling, how wide is this of the whole problem! This is still\nseeking for the _mechanic_ imitation, some imitation founded in the very\nfact; whereas the object is to seek the imitation in the sameness of the\nimpression drawn from a different, or even from an impossible fact. If a\nman, taking a hint from the Roman 'Saltatio' (_saltavit Andromachen_),\nshould say that he would 'whistle Waterloo,' that is, by whistling\nconnected with pantomime, would express the passion and the changes of\nWaterloo, it would be monstrous to refuse him his postulate on the\npretence that 'people did not whistle at Waterloo.' Precisely so: neither\nare most people made of marble, but of a material as different as can well\nbe imagined, viz. of elastic flesh, with warm blood coursing along its\ntubes; and yet, for all _that_, a sculptor will draw tears from you, by\nexhibiting, in pure statuary marble, on a sepulchral monument, two young\nchildren with their little heads on a pillow, sleeping in each other's\narms; whereas, if he had presented them in wax-work, which yet is far more\nlike to flesh, you would have felt little more pathos in the scene than if\nthey had been shown baked in gilt gingerbread. He has expressed the\n_idem_, the identical thing expressed in the real children; the sleep that\nmasks death, the rest, the peace, the purity, the innocence; but _in\nalio_, in a substance the most different; rigid, non-elastic, and as\nunlike to flesh, if tried by touch, or eye, or by experience of life, as\ncan well be imagined. So of the whistling. It is the very worst objection\nin the world to say, that the strife of Waterloo did not reveal itself\nthrough whistling: undoubtedly it did not; but that is the very ground of\nthe man's art. He will reproduce the fury and the movement as to the only\npoint which concerns you, viz. the effect, upon your own sympathies,\nthrough a language that seems without any relation to it: he will set\nbefore you what _was_ at Waterloo through that which was _not_ at\nWaterloo. Whereas any direct factual imitation, resting upon painted\nfigures drest up in regimentals, and worked by watchwork through the whole\nmovements of the battle, would have been no art whatsoever in the sense of\na Fine Art, but a base _mechanic_ mimicry.\n\nThis principle of the _idem in alio_, so widely diffused through all\nthe higher revelations of art, it is peculiarly requisite to bear in mind\nwhen looking at Grecian tragedy, because no form of human composition\nemploys it in so much complexity. How confounding it would have been to\nAddison, if somebody had told him, that, substantially, he had himself\ncommitted the offence (as he fancied it) which he charged so bitterly upon\nthe Italian opera; and that, if the opera had gone farther upon that road\nthan himself, the Greek tragedy, which he presumed to be so prodigiously\nexalted beyond modern approaches, had gone farther even than the opera.\nAddison himself, when writing a tragedy, made this violation (as he would\nhave said) of nature, made this concession (as _I_ should say) to a\nhigher nature, that he compelled his characters to talk in metre. It is\ntrue this metre was the common iambic, which (as Aristotle remarks) is the\nmost natural and spontaneous of all metres; and, for a sufficient reason,\nin all languages. Certainly; but Aristotle never meant to say that it was\nnatural for a gentleman in a passion to talk threescore and ten iambics\n_consecutively_: a chance line might escape him once and away; as we\nknow that Tacitus opened one of his works by a regular dactylic hexameter\nin full curl, without ever discovering it to his dying day (a fact which\nis clear from his never having corrected it); and this being a very\nartificial metre, _a fortiori_ Tacitus might have slipped into a simple\niambic. But that was an accident, whilst Addison had deliberately\nand uniformly made his characters talk in verse. According to the common\nand false meaning [which was his own meaning] of the word nature, he had\nas undeniably violated the principle of the _natural_, by this metrical\ndialogue, as the Italian opera by musical dialogue. If it is hard and\ntrying for men to sing their emotions, not less so it must be to deliver\nthem in verse.\n\nBut, if this were shocking, how much more shocking would it have seemed to\nAddison, had he been introduced to parts which really exist in the Grecian\ndrama? Even Sophocles, who, of the three tragic poets surviving from the\nwrecks of the Athenian stage, is reputed the supreme _artist_ [5] if\nnot the most impassioned poet, with what horror he would have overwhelmed\nAddison, when read by the light of those principles which he had himself\nso scornfully applied to the opera! In the very monsoon of his raving\nmisery, from calamities as sudden as they were irredeemable, a king is\nintroduced, not only conversing, but conversing in metre; not only in\nmetre, but in the most elaborate of choral metres; not only under the\ntorture of these lyric difficulties, but also chanting; not only chanting,\nbut also in all probability dancing. What do you think of _that_, Mr.\nAddison?\n\nThere is, in fact, a scale of graduated ascents in these artifices for\nunrealizing the effects of dramatic situations:\n\n1. We may see, even in novels and prose comedies, a keen attention paid to\nthe inspiriting and _dressing_ of the dialogue: it is meant to be life-\nlike, but still it is a little raised, pointed, colored, and idealized.\n\n2. In comedy of a higher and more poetic cast, we find the dialogue\n_metrical_.\n\n3. In comedy or in tragedy alike, which is meant to be still further\nremoved from ordinary life, we find the dialogue fettered not only by\nmetre, but by _rhyme_. We need not go to Dryden, and others, of our\nown middle stage, or to the French stage for this: even in Shakspeare, as\nfor example, in parts of Romeo and Juliet (and for no capricious purpose),\nwe may see effects sought from the use of rhyme. There is another\nillustration of the idealizing effect to be obtained from a particular\ntreatment of the dialogue, seen in the Hamlet of Shakspeare. In that drama\nthere arises a necessity for exhibiting a play within a play. This\ninterior drama is to be further removed from the spectator than the\nprincipal drama; it is a deep below a deep; and, to produce that effect,\nthe poet relies chiefly upon the stiffening the dialogue, and removing it\nstill farther, than the general dialogue of the _including_ or _outside_\ndrama, from the standard of ordinary life.\n\n4. We find, superadded to these artifices for idealizing the situations,\neven music of an intermitting character, sometimes less, sometimes more\nimpassioned--recitatives, airs, choruses. Here we have reached the Italian\nopera.\n\n5. And, finally, besides all these resources of art, we find dancing\nintroduced; but dancing of a solemn, mystical, and symbolic character.\nHere, at last, we have reached the Greek tragedy. Probably the best\nexemplification of a Grecian tragedy that ever _will_ be given to a\nmodern reader is found in the Samson Agonistes of Milton. Now, in the\nchoral or lyric parts of this fine drama, Samson not only talks, 1st,\nmetrically ( as he does every where, and in the most level parts of the\nscenic business), but, 2d, in very intricate metres, and, 3d, occasionally\nin _rhymed_ metres (though the rhymes are too sparingly and too\ncapriciously scattered by Milton), and, 4th, _singing_ or chanting\nthese metres (for, as the chorus sang, it was impossible that _he_\ncould be allowed to talk in his ordinary voice, else he would have put\nthem out, and ruined the music). Finally, 5th, I am satisfied that Milton\nmeant him to _dance_. The office of the _chorus_ was imperfectly\ndefined upon the Greek stage. They are generally understood to be the\n_moralizers_ of the scene. But this is liable to exceptions. Some of\nthem have been known to do very bad things on the stage, and to come\nwithin a trifle of felony: as to misprision of felony, if there _is_\nsuch a crime, a Greek chorus thinks nothing of it. But that is no business\nof mine. What I was going to say is, that, as the chorus sometimes\nintermingles too much in the action, so the actors sometimes intermingle\nin the business of the chorus. Now, when you are at Rome, you must do as\nthey do at Rome. And that the actor, who mixed with the chorus, was\ncompelled to sing, is a clear case; for _his_ part in the choral ode\nis always in the nature of an echo, or answer, or like an _antiphony_\nin cathedral services. But nothing could be more absurd than that one of\nthese antiphonies should be sung, and another said. That he was also\ncompelled to dance, I am satisfied. The chorus only _sometimes_\nmoralized, but it _always_ danced: and any actor, mingling with the\nchorus, must dance also. A little incident occurs to my remembrance, from\nthe Moscow expedition of 1812, which may here be used as an illustration:\nOne day King Murat, flourishing his plumage as usual, made a gesture of\ninvitation to some squadrons of cavalry that they should charge the enemy:\nupon which the cavalry advanced, but maliciously contrived to envelope the\nking of dandies, before he had time to execute his ordinary manoeuvre of\nriding off to the left and becoming a spectator of their prowess. The\ncavalry resolved that his majesty should for once ride down at their head\nto the melee, and taste what fighting was like; and he, finding that the\nthing must be, though horribly vexed, made a merit of his necessity, and\nafterwards pretended that he liked it very much. Sometimes, in the\ndarkness, in default of other misanthropic visions, the wickedness of this\ncavalry, their _mechancete_, causes me to laugh immoderately. Now I\nconceive that any interloper into the Greek chorus must have danced when\n_they_ danced, or he would have been swept away by their impetus:\n_nolens volens_, he must have rode along with the orchestral charge,\nhe must have rode on the crest of the choral billows, or he would have\nbeen rode down by their impassioned sweep. Samson, and Oedipus, and\nothers, must have danced, if they sang; and they certainly _did_ sing, by\nnotoriously intermingling in the choral business.[6]\n\n'But now,' says the plain English reader, 'what was the object of all\nthese elaborate devices? And how came it that the English tragedy, which\nsurely is as good as the Greek,' (and at this point a devil of defiance\nwhispers to him, like the quarrelsome servant of the Capulets or the\nMontagus, 'say _better_,') 'that the English tragedy contented itself\nwith fewer of these artful resources than the Athenian?' I reply, that the\nobject of all these things was--to unrealize the scene. The English drama,\nby its metrical dress, and by other arts more disguised, unrealized\nitself, liberated itself from the oppression of life in its ordinary\nstandards, up to a certain height. Why it did not rise still higher, and\nwhy the Grecian _did_, I will endeavor to explain. It was not that the\nEnglish tragedy was less impassioned; on the contrary, it was far more\nso; the Greek being awful rather than impassioned; but the passion of each\nis in a different key. It is not again that the Greek drama sought a lower\nobject than the English: it sought a different object. It is not imparity,\nbut disparity, that divides the two magnificent theatres.\n\nSuffer me, reader, at this point, to borrow from my-self, and do not\nbetray me to the authorities that rule in this journal, if you happen to\nknow [which is not likely] that I am taking an idea from a paper which\nyears ago I wrote for an eminent literary journal. As I have no copy of\nthat paper before me, it is impossible that I should save myself any labor\nof writing. The words at any rate I must invent afresh: and, as to the\nidea, you never _can_ be such a churlish man as, by insisting on a new\none, in effect to insist upon my writing a false one. In the following\nparagraph, therefore, I give the substance of a thought suggested by\nmyself some years ago.\n\nThat kind of feeling, which broods over the Grecian tragedy, and to court\nwhich feeling the tragic poets of Greece naturally spread all their\ncanvas, was more nearly allied to the atmosphere of death than that of\nlife. This expresses rudely the character of awe and religious horror\ninvesting the Greek theatre. But to my own feeling the different principle\nof passion which governs the Grecian conception of tragedy, as compared\nwith the English, is best conveyed by saying that the Grecian is a\nbreathing from the world of sculpture, the English a breathing from the\nworld of painting. What we read in sculpture is not absolutely death, but\nstill less is it the fulness of life. We read there the abstraction of a\nlife that reposes, the sublimity of a life that aspires, the solemnity of\na life that is thrown to an infinite distance. This last is the feature of\nsculpture which seems most characteristic: the form which presides in the\nmost commanding groups, 'is not dead but sleepeth:' true, but it is the\nsleep of a life sequestrated, solemn, liberated from the bonds of space\nand time, and (as to both alike) thrown  (I repeat the words) to a\ndistance which is infinite. It affects us profoundly, but not by\nagitation. Now, on the other hand, the breathing life--life kindling,\ntrembling, palpitating--that life which speaks to us in painting, this is\nalso the life that speaks to us in English tragedy. Into an English\ntragedy even festivals of joy may enter; marriages, and baptisms, or\ncommemorations of national trophies: which, or any thing _like_ which, is\nincompatible with the very being of the Greek. In that tragedy what\nuniformity of gloom; in the English what light alternating with depths of\ndarkness! The Greek, how mournful; the English, how tumultuous! Even the\ncatastrophes how different! In the Greek we see a breathless waiting for a\ndoom that cannot be evaded; a waiting, as it were, for the last shock of\nan earthquake, or the inexorable rising of a deluge: in the English it is\nlike a midnight of shipwreck, from which up to the last and till the final\nruin comes, there still survives the sort of hope that clings to human\nenergies.\n\nConnected with this original awfulness of the Greek tragedy, and possibly\nin part its cause, or at least lending strength to its cause, we may next\nremark the grand dimensions of the ancient theatres. Every citizen had a\nright to accommodation. _There_ at once was a pledge of grandeur. Out\nof this original standard grew the magnificence of many a future\namphitheatre, circus, hippodrome. Had the original theatre been merely a\nspeculation of private interest, then, exactly as demand arose, a\ncorresponding supply would have provided for it through its ordinary\nvulgar channels; and this supply would have taken place through rival\ntheatres. But the crushing exaction of 'room for _every_ citizen,' put an\nend to that process of subdivision. Drury Lane, as I read (or think\nthat I read) thirty years ago, allowed sitting room for three thousand\neight hundred people. Multiply _that_ by ten; imagine thirty-eight\nthousand instead of thirty-eight hundred, and then you have an idea of the\nAthenian theatre. [7]\n\nNext, out of that grandeur in the architectural proportions arose, as by\nnecessity, other grandeurs. You are aware of the _cothurnus_, or buskin,\nwhich raised the actor's heel by two and a half inches; and you think that\nthis must have caused a deformity in the general figure as incommensurate\nto this height. Not at all. The flowing dress of Greece healed all _that_.\n\nBut, besides the _cothurnus_, you have heard of the mask. So far as\nit was fitted to swell the intonations of the voice, you are of opinion\nthat this mask would be a happy contrivance; for what, you say, could a\ncommon human voice avail against the vast radiation from the actor's\ncentre of more than three myriads? If, indeed (like the Homeric Stentor),\nan actor spoke in point of loudness, (Greek Text), as much as other fifty,\nthen he might become audible to the assembled Athenians without aid. But\nthis being impossible, art must be invoked; and well if the mask, together\nwith contrivances of another class, could correct it. Yet if it could,\nstill you think that this mask would bring along with it an overbalancing\nevil. For the expression, the fluctuating expression, of the features, the\nplay of the muscles, the music of the eye and of the lips,--aids to acting\nthat, in our times, have given immortality to scores, whither would those\nhave vanished? Reader, it mortifies me that all which I said to you upon\nthe peculiar and separate grandeur investing the Greek theatre is\nforgotten. For, you must consider, that where a theatre is built for\nreceiving upwards of thirty thousand spectators, the curve described by\nwhat in modern times you would call the tiers of boxes, must be so vast as\nto make the ordinary scale of human features almost ridiculous by\ndisproportion. Seat yourself at this day in the amphitheatre at Verona,\nand judge for yourself. In an amphitheatre, the stage, or properly the\narena, occupying, in fact, the place of our modern pit, was much nearer\nthan in a scenic theatre to the surrounding spectators. Allow for this,\nand placing some adult in a station expressing the distance of the\nAthenian stage, then judge by his appearance if the delicate pencilling of\nGrecian features could have told at the Grecian distance. But even if it\ncould, then I say that this circumstantiality would have been hostile to\nthe general tendencies (as already indicated) of the Grecian drama. The\nsweeping movement of the Attic tragedy _ought_ not to admit of\ninterruption from _distinct_ human features; the expression of an\neye, the loveliness of a smile, _ought_ to be lost amongst effects so\ncolossal. The mask aggrandized the features: even so far it acted\nfavorably. Then figure to yourself this mask presenting an idealized face\nof the noblest Grecian outline, moulded by some skilful artist _Phidiaca\nmanu_, so as to have the effect of a marble bust; this accorded with\nthe aspiring _cothurnus_; and the motionless character impressed upon\nthe features, the marble tranquillity, would (I contend) suit the solemn\nprocessional character of Athenian tragedy, far better than the most\nexpressive and flexible countenance on its natural scale. 'Yes,' you say,\non considering the character of the Greek drama, 'generally it might; in\nforty-nine cases suppose out of fifty: but what shall be done in the\nfiftieth, where some dreadful discovery or _anagnorisis_ (_i.e._\nrecognition of identity) takes place within the compass of a single line\nor two; as, for instance, in the Oedipus Tyrannus, at the moment when\nOedipus by a final question of his own, extorts his first fatal discovery,\nviz. that he had been himself unconsciously the murderer of Laius?' True,\nhe has no reason as yet to suspect that Laius was his own father; which\ndiscovery, when made further on, will draw with it another still more\ndreadful, viz. that by this parricide he had opened his road to a throne,\nand to a marriage with his father's widow, who was also his own natural\nmother. He does not yet know the worst: and to have killed an arrogant\nprince, would not in those days have seemed a very deep offence: but then\nhe believes that the pestilence had been sent as a secret vengeance for\nthis assassination, which is thus invested with a mysterious character of\nhorror. Just at this point, Jocasta, his mother and his wife, says, [8] on\nwitnessing the sudden revulsion of feeling in his face, 'I shudder, oh\nking, when looking on thy countenance.' Now, in what way could this\npassing spasm of horror be reconciled with the unchanging expression in\nthe marble-looking mask? This, and similar cases to this, must surely be\nfelt to argue a defect in the scenic apparatus. But I say, no: first,\nBecause the general indistinctiveness from distance is a benefit that\napplies equally to the fugitive changes of the features and to their\npermanent expression. You need not regret the loss through _absence_,\nof an appearance that would equally, though present, have been lost\nthrough _distance_. Secondly, The Greek actor had always the resource,\nunder such difficulties, of averting his face a resource sanctioned in\nsimilar cases by the greatest of the Greek painters. Thirdly, The\nvoluminous draperies of the scenic dresses, and generally of the Greek\ncostume, made it an easy thing to muffle the features altogether by a\ngesture most natural to sudden horror. Fourthly, We must consider\nthat there were no stage lights: but, on the contrary that the general\nlight of day was specially mitigated for that particular part of the\ntheatre; just as various architectural devices were employed to swell the\nvolume of sound. Finally. I repeat my sincere opinion, that the general\nindistinctness of the expression was, on principles of taste, an\nadvantage, as harmonizing with the stately and sullen monotony of the\nGreek tragedy. Grandeur in the attitudes, in the gestures, in the groups,\nin the processions--all this was indispensable: but, on so vast a scale as\nthe mighty cartoons of the Greek stage, an Attic artist as little regarded\nthe details of physiognomy, as a great architect would regard, on the\nfrontispiece of a temple, the miniature enrichments that might be suitable\nin a drawing-room.\n\nWith these views upon the Grecian theatre, and other views that it might\noppress the reader to dwell upon in this place, suddenly in December last\nan opportunity dawned--a golden opportunity, gleaming for a moment amongst\nthick clouds of impossibility that had gathered through three-and-twenty\ncenturies--for seeing a Grecian tragedy presented on a British stage, and\nwith the nearest approach possible to the beauty of those Athenian pomps\nwhich Sophocles, which Phidias, which Pericles created, beautified,\npromoted. I protest, when seeing the Edinburgh theatre's _programme_,\nthat a note dated from the Vatican would not have startled me more, though\nsealed with the seal of the fisherman, and requesting the favor of my\ncompany to take coffee with the Pope. Nay, less: for channels there were\nthrough which I might have compassed a presentation to his Holiness; but\nthe daughter of Oedipus, the holy Antigone, could I have hoped to see her\n'in the flesh?' This tragedy in an English version, [9] and with German\nmusic, had first been placed before the eyes and ears of our countrymen at\nConvent Garden during the winter of 1844--5. It was said to have\nsucceeded. And soon after a report sprang up, from nobody knew where, that\nMr. Murray meant to reproduce it in Edinburgh.\n\nWhat more natural? Connected so nearly with the noblest house of scenic\nartists that ever shook the hearts of nations, nobler than ever raised\nundying echoes amidst the mighty walls of Athens, of Rome, of Paris, of\nLondon,--himself a man of talents almost unparalleled for versatility,--\nwhy should not Mr. Murray, always so liberal in an age so ungrateful to\n_his_ profession, have sacrificed something to this occasion? He,\nthat sacrifices so much, why not sacrifice to the grandeur of the Antique?\nI was then in Edinburgh, or in its neighborhood; and one morning, at a\ncasual assembly of some literary friends, present Professor Wilson,\nMessrs. J. F., C. N., L. C., and others, advocates, scholars, lovers of\nclassical literature, we proposed two resolutions, of which the first was,\nthat the news was too good to be true. That passed _nem. con._; and\nthe second resolution was _nearly_ passing, viz. that a judgment would\ncertainly fall upon Mr. Murray, had a second report proved true, viz. that\nnot the Antigone, but a burlesque on the Antigone, was what he meditated\nto introduce. This turned out false; [l0] the original report was suddenly\nrevived eight or ten months after. Immediately on the heels of the promise\nthe execution followed; and on the last (which I believe was the seventh)\nrepresentation of the Antigone, I prepared myself to attend.\n\nIt had been generally reported as characteristic of myself, that in\nrespect to all coaches, steamboats, railroads, wedding-parties, baptisms,\nand so forth, there was a fatal necessity of my being a trifle too late.\nSome malicious fairy, not invited to my own baptism, was supposed to have\nendowed me with this infirmity. It occurred to me that for once in my life\nI would show the scandalousness of such a belief by being a trifle too\nsoon, say, three minutes. And no name more lovely for inaugurating such a\nchange, no memory with which I could more willingly connect any\nreformation, than thine, dear, noble Antigone! Accordingly, because a\ncertain man (whose name is down in my pocket-book for no good) had told me\nthat the doors of the theatre opened at half-past six, whereas, in fact,\nthey opened at seven, there was I, if you please, freezing in the little\ncolonnade of the theatre precisely as it wanted six-and-a-half minutes to\nseven,--six-and-a-half minutes observe too soon. Upon which this son of\nabsurdity coolly remarked, that, if he had not set me half-an-hour\nforward, by my own showing, I should have been twenty-three-and-a-half\nminutes too late. What sophistry! But thus it happened (namely, through\nthe wickedness of this man), that, upon entering the theatre, I found\nmyself like Alexander Selkirk, in a frightful solitude, or like a single\nfamily of Arabs gathering at sunset about a solitary coffee-pot in the\nboundless desert. Was there an echo raised? it was from my own steps. Did\nany body cough? it was too evidently myself. I was the audience; I was the\npublic. And, if any accident happened to the theatre, such as being burned\ndown, Mr. Murray would certainly lay the blame upon me. My business\nmeantime, as a critic, was--to find out the most malicious seat,\n_i.e._ the seat from which all things would take the most unfavorable\naspect. I could not suit myself in this respect; however bad a situation\nmight seem, I still fancied some other as promising to be worse. And I was\nnot sorry when an audience, by mustering in strength through all parts of\nthe house, began to divide my responsibility as to burning down the\nbuilding, and, at the same time, to limit the caprices of my distracted\nchoice. At last, and precisely at half-past seven, the curtain drew up; a\nthing not strictly correct on a Grecian stage. But in theatres, as in\nother places, one must forget and forgive. Then the music began, of which\nin a moment. The overture slipped out at one ear, as it entered the other,\nwhich, with submission to Mr. Mendelssohn, is a proof that it must be\nhorribly bad; for, if ever there lived a man that in music can neither\nforget nor forgive, that man is myself. Whatever is very good never\nperishes from my remembrance,--that is, sounds in my ears by intervals for\never,--and for whatever is bad, I consign the author, in my wrath, to his\nown conscience, and to the tortures of his own discords. The most\nvillanous things, however, have one merit; they are transitory as the best\nthings; and _that_ was true of the overture: it perished. Then, suddenly,\n--oh, heavens! what a revelation of beauty!--forth stepped, walking in\nbrightness, the most faultless of Grecian marbles, Miss Helen Faucit as\nAntigone. What perfection of Athenian sculpture! the noble figure, the\nlovely arms, the fluent drapery! What an unveiling of the ideal\nstatuesque! Is it Hebe? is it Aurora? is it a goddess that moves before\nus? Perfect she is in form; perfect in attitude;\n\n  'Beautiful exceedingly,\n  Like a ladie from a far countrie.'\n\nHere was the redeeming jewel of the performance. It flattered one's\npatriotic feelings, to see this noble young countrywoman realizing so\nexquisitely, and restoring to our imaginations, the noblest of Grecian\ngirls. We critics, dispersed through the house, in the very teeth of duty\nand conscience, all at one moment unanimously fell in love with Miss\nFaucit. We felt in our remorse, and did not pretend to deny, that our duty\nwas--to be savage. But when was the voice of duty listened to in the first\nuproars of passion? One thing I regretted, viz. that from the\nindistinctness of my sight for distant faces, I could not accurately\ndiscriminate Miss Faucit's features; but I was told by my next neighbor\nthat they were as true to the antique as her figure. Miss Faucit's voice\nis fine and impassioned, being deep for a female voice; but in this organ\nlay also the only blemish of her personation. In her last scene, which is\ninjudiciously managed by the Greek poet,--too long by much, and perhaps\nmisconceived in the modern way of understanding it,--her voice grew too\nhusky to execute the cadences of the intonations: yet, even in this scene,\nher fall to the ground, under the burden of her farewell anguish, was in a\nhigh degree sculpturesque through the whole succession of its stages.\n\nAntigone in the written drama, and still more in the personated drama,\ndraws all thoughts so entirely to herself, as to leave little leisure for\nexamining the other parts; and, under such circumstances, the first\nimpulse of a critic's mind is, that he ought to massacre all the rest\nindiscriminately; it being clearly his duty to presume every thing bad\nwhich he is not unwillingly forced to confess good, or concerning which he\nretains no distinct recollection. But I, after the first glory of\nAntigone's _avatar_ had subsided, applied myself to consider the general\n'setting' of this Theban jewel. Creon, whom the Greek tragic poets take\ndelight in describing as a villain, has very little more to do (until\nhis own turn comes for grieving), than to tell Antigone, by minute-guns,\nthat die she must. 'Well, uncle, don't say that so often,' is the answer\nwhich, secretly, the audience whispers to Antigone. Our uncle grows\ntedious; and one wishes at last that he himself could be 'put up the\nspout.' Mr. Glover, from the sepulchral depth of his voice, gave effect to\nthe odious Creontic menaces; and, in the final lamentations over the dead\nbody of Haemon, being a man of considerable intellectual power, Mr. Glover\ndrew the part into a prominence which it is the fault of Sophocles to have\nauthorized in that situation; for the closing sympathies of the spectator\nought not to be diverted, for a moment, from Antigone.\n\nBut the chorus, how did _they_ play their part? Mainly _their_ part must\nhave always depended on the character of the music: even at Athens, that\nmust have been very much the case, and at Edinburgh altogether, because\ndancing on the Edinburgh stage there was none. How came _that_ about? For\nthe very word, 'orchestral,' suggests to a Greek ear _dancing_, as the\nleading element in the choral functions. Was it because dancing with us is\nnever used mystically and symbolically never used in our religious\nservices? Still it would have been possible to invent solemn and intricate\ndances, that might have appeared abundantly significant, if expounded by\nimpassioned music. But that music of Mendelssohn!--like it I cannot. Say\nnot that Mendelssohn is a great composer. He _is_ so. But here he was\nvoluntarily abandoning the resources of his own genius, and the support of\nhis divine art, in quest of a chimera: that is, in quest of a thing called\nGreek music, which for _us_ seems far more irrecoverable than the 'Greek\nfire.' I myself, from an early date, was a student of this subject. I read\nbook after book upon it; and each successive book sank me lower into\ndarkness, until I had so vastly improved in ignorance, that I could myself\nhave written a quarto upon it, which all the world should not have found\nit possible to understand. It should have taken three men to construe one\nsentence. I confess, however, to not having yet seen the writings upon\nthis impracticable theme of Colonel Perronet Thompson. To write\nexperimental music for choruses that are to support the else meagre\noutline of a Greek tragedy, will not do. Let experiments be tried upon\nworthless subjects; and if this of Mendelssohn's be Greek music, the\nsooner it takes itself off the better. Sophocles will be delivered from an\nincubus, and we from an affliction of the auditory nerves.\n\nIt strikes me that I see the source of this music. We, that were learning\nGerman some thirty years ago, must remember the noise made at that time\nabout Mendelssohn, the Platonic philosopher. And why? Was there any thing\nparticular in 'Der Phaedon,' on the immortality of the soul? Not at all;\nit left us quite as mortal as it found us; and it has long since been\nfound mortal itself. Its venerable remains are still to be met with in\nmany worm-eaten trunks, pasted on the lids of which I have myself perused\na matter of thirty pages, except for a part that had been too closely\nperused by worms. But the key to all the popularity of the Platonic\nMendelssohn, is to be sought in the whimsical nature of German liberality,\nwhich, in those days, forced Jews into paying toll at the gates of cities,\nunder the title of 'swine,' but caressed their infidel philosophers. Now,\nin this category of Jew and infidel, stood the author of 'Phaedon.' He was\ncertainly liable to toll as a hog; but, on the other hand, he was much\nadmired as one who despised the Pentateuch. Now _that_ Mendelssohn,\nwhose learned labors lined our trunks, was the father of _this_\nMendelssohn, whose Greek music afflicts our ears. Naturally, then, it\nstrikes me, that as 'papa' Mendelssohn attended the synagogue to save\nappearances, the filial Mendelssohn would also attend it. I likewise\nattended the synagogue now and then at Liverpool, and elsewhere. We all\nthree have been cruising in the same latitudes; and, trusting to my own\nremembrances, I should pronounce that Mendelssohn has stolen his Greek\nmusic from the synagogue. There was, in the first chorus of the\n'Antigone,' one sublime ascent (and once repeated) that rang to heaven: it\nmight have entered into the music of Jubal's lyre, or have glorified the\ntimbrel of Miriam. All the rest, tried by the deep standard of my own\nfeeling, that clamors for the impassioned in music, even as the daughter\nof the horse-leech says, 'Give, give,' is as much without meaning as most\nof the Hebrew chanting that I heard at the Liverpool synagogue. I advise\nMr. Murray, in the event of his ever reviving the 'Antigone,' to make the\nchorus sing the Hundredth Psalm, rather than Mendelssohn's music; or,\nwhich would be better still, to import from Lancashire the Handel chorus-\nsingers.\n\nBut then, again, whatever change in the music were made, so as to 'better\nthe condition' of the poor audience, something should really be done to\n'better the condition' of the poor chorus. Think of these worthy men, in\ntheir white and skyblue liveries, kept standing the whole evening; no\nseats allowed, no dancing; no tobacco; nothing to console them but\nAntigone's beauty; and all this in our climate, latitude fifty-five\ndegrees, 30th of December, and Fahrenheit groping about, I don't pretend\nto know where, but clearly on his road down to the wine cellar. Mr.\nMurray, I am perfectly sure, is too liberal to have grudged the expense,\nif he could have found any classic precedent for treating the chorus to a\nbarrel of ale. Ale, he may object, is an unclassical tipple; but perhaps\nnot. Xenophon, the most Attic of prose writers, mentions pointedly in his\n_Anabasis_, that the Ten Thousand, when retreating through snowy\nmountains, and in circumstances very like our General Elphinstone's\nretreat from Cabul, came upon a considerable stock of bottled ale. To be\nsure, the poor ignorant man calls it _barley wine_, [Greek: _oitos\nchrithinos_:] but the flavor was found so perfectly classical that not\none man of the ten thousand, not even the Attic bee himself, is reported\nto have left any protest against it, or indeed to have left much of the\nale.\n\nBut stop: perhaps I am intruding upon other men's space. Speaking,\ntherefore, now finally to the principal question, How far did this\nmemorable experiment succeed? I reply, that, in the sense of realizing all\nthat the joint revivers proposed to realize, it succeeded; and failed only\nwhere these revivers had themselves failed to comprehend the magnificent\ntendencies of Greek tragedy, or where the limitations of our theatres,\narising out of our habits and social differences, had made it impossible\nto succeed. In London, I believe that there are nearly thirty theatres,\nand many more, if every place of amusement (not bearing the technical name\nof _theatre_) were included. All these must be united to compose a\nbuilding such as that which received the vast audiences, and consequently\nthe vast spectacles, of some ancient cities. And yet, from a great mistake\nin our London and Edinburgh attempts to imitate the stage of the Greek\ntheatres, little use was made of such advantages as really _were_ at\nour disposal. The possible depth of the Edinburgh stage was not laid open.\nInstead of a regal hall in Thebes, I protest I took it for the boudoir of\nAntigone. It was painted in light colors, an error which was abominable,\nthough possibly meant by the artist (but quite unnecessarily) as a proper\nground for relieving the sumptuous dresses of the leading performers. The\ndoors of entrance and exit were most unhappily managed. As to the dresses,\nthose of Creon, of his queen, and of the two loyal sisters, were good:\nchaste, and yet princely. The dress of the chorus was as bad as bad as\ncould be: a few surplices borrowed from Episcopal chapels, or rather the\nornamented _albes_, &c. from any rich Roman Catholic establishment,\nwould have been more effective. The _Coryphaeus_ himself seemed, to\nmy eyes, no better than a railway laborer, fresh from tunnelling or\nboring, and wearing a _blouse_ to hide his working dress. These ill-\nused men ought to 'strike' for better clothes, in case Antigone should\nagain revisit the glimpses of an Edinburgh moon; and at the same time they\nmight mutter a hint about the ale. But the great hindrances to a perfect\nrestoration of a Greek tragedy, lie in peculiarities of our theatres that\ncannot be removed, because bound up with their purposes. I suppose that\nSalisbury Plain would seem too vast a theatre: but at least a cathedral\nwould be required in dimensions, York Minster or Cologne. Lamp-light gives\nto us some advantages which the ancients had not. But much art would be\nrequired to train and organize the lights and the masses of superincumbent\ngloom, that should be such as to allow no calculation of the dimensions\noverhead. Aboriginal night should brood over the scene, and the sweeping\nmovements of the scenic groups: bodily expression should be given to the\nobscure feeling of that dark power which moved in ancient tragedy: and we\nshould be made to know why it is that, with the one exception of the\n_Persae_, founded on the second Persian invasion, [11] in which\nAeschylus, the author, was personally a combatant, and therefore a\n_contemporary_, not one of the thirty-four Greek tragedies surviving,\nbut recedes into the dusky shades of the heroic, or even fabulous times.\n\nA failure, therefore, I think the 'Antigone,' in relation to an object\nthat for us is unattainable; but a failure worth more than many ordinary\nsuccesses. We are all deeply indebted to Mr. Murray's liberality, in two\nsenses; to his liberal interest in the noblest section of ancient\nliterature, and to his liberal disregard of expense. To have seen a\nGrecian play is a great remembrance. To have seen Miss Helen Faucit's\nAntigone, were _that_ all, with her bust, [Greek: _os agalmatos_] [12] and\nher uplifted arm 'pleading against unjust tribunals,' is worth--what is it\nworth? Worth the money? How mean a thought! To see _Helen_, to see Helen\nof Greece, was the chief prayer of Marlow's Dr. Faustus; the chief gift\nwhich he exacted from the fiend. To see Helen of Greece? Dr. Faustus, we\n_have_ seen her: Mr. Murray is the Mephistopheles that showed her to us.\nIt was cheap at the price of a journey to Siberia, and is the next best\nthing to having seen Waterloo at sunset on the 18th of June, 1815. [13]\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n[1] '_When sown_;' as it has been repeatedly; a fact which some\nreaders may not be aware of.\n\n[2] Boileau, it is true, translated Longinus. But there goes little Greek\nto _that_. It is in dealing with Attic Greek, and Attic _poets_,\nthat a man can manifest his Grecian skill.\n\n[3] 'Before God was known;'--i.e. known in Greece.\n\n[4] At times, I say pointedly, the _Athenian_ rather than the\n_Grecian_ tragedy, in order to keep the reader's attention awake to a\nremark made by Paterculus,--viz. That although Greece coquettishly\nwelcomed homage to herself, as generally concerned in the Greek\nliterature, in reality Athens only had any original share in the drama, or\nin the oratory of Greece.\n\n[5] '_The supreme artist_:'--It is chiefly by comparison with Euripides,\nthat Sophocles is usually crowned with the laurels of _art_. But there is\nsome danger of doing wrong to the truth in too blindly adhering to these\nold rulings of critical courts. The judgments would sometimes be reversed,\nif the pleadings were before us. There were blockheads in those days.\nUndoubtedly it is past denying that Euripides at times betrays marks of\ncarelessness in the structure of his plots, as if writing too much in a\nhurry: the original cast of the fable is sometimes not happy, and the\nevolution or disentangling is too precipitate. It is easy to see that he\nwould have remoulded them in a revised edition, or _diaskeue [Greek.]_ On\nthe other hand, I remember nothing in the Greek drama more worthy of a\ngreat artist than parts in his Phoenissae. Neither is he the effeminately\ntender, or merely pathetic poet that some people imagine. He was able to\nsweep _all_ the chords of the impassioned spirit. But the whole of this\nsubject is in arrear: it is in fact _res integra_, almost unbroken ground.\n\n[6] I see a possible screw loose at this point: if _you_ see it, reader,\nhave the goodness to hold your tongue.\n\n[7] '_Athenian Theatre_:'--Many corrections remain to be made. Athens, in\nher bloom, was about as big as Calcutta, which contained, forty years ago,\nmore than half a million of people; or as Naples, which (being long rated\nat three hundred thousand), is now known to contain at least two hundred\nthousand more. The well known census of Demetrius Phalereus gave twenty-\none thousand citizens. Multiply this by 5, or 4-3/4, and you have their\nfamilies. Add ten thousand, multiplied by 4-1/2, for the _Inquilini_. Then\nadd four hundred thousand for the slaves: total, about five hundred and\nfifty thousand. But upon the fluctuations of the Athenian population there\nis much room for speculation. And, quaere, was not the population of\nAthens greater two centuries before Demetrius, in the days of Pericles?\n\n[8] Having no Sophocles at hand, I quote from memory, not pretending\ntherefore to exactness: but the sense is what I state.\n\n[9] _Whose_ version, I do not know. But one unaccountable error was\nforced on one's notice. _Thebes_, which, by Milton and by every scholar is\nmade a monosyllable, is here made a dissyllable. But _Thebez_, the\ndissyllable, is a _Syrian_ city. It is true that Causabon deduces from a\nSyriac word meaning a case or enclosure (a _theca_), the name of Thebes,\nwhether Boeotian or Egyptian. It is probable, therefore, that Thebes the\nhundred-gated of Upper Egypt, Thebes the seven-gated of Greece, and Thebes\nof Syria, had all one origin as regards the name. But this matters not; it\nis the _English_ name that we are concerned with.\n\n[10] '_False_:' or rather inaccurate. The burlesque was not on the\nAntigone, but on the Medea of Euripides; and very amusing.\n\n[11] But in this instance, perhaps, distance of space, combined with the\nunrivalled grandeur of the war, was felt to equiponderate the distance of\ntime, Susa, the Persian capital, being fourteen hundred miles from Athens.\n\n[12] _[Greek: Sterna th'os agalmatos], her bosom as the bosom of a\nstatue_; an expression of Euripides, and applied, I think, to Polyxena\nat the moment of her sacrifice on the tomb of Achilles, as the bride that\nwas being married to him at the moment of his death.\n\n[13] Amongst the questions which occurred to me as requiring an answer, in\nconnection with this revival, was one with regard to the comparative\nfitness of the Antigone for giving a representative idea of the Greek\nstage. I am of opinion that it was the worst choice which could have been\nmade; and for the very reason which no doubt governed that choice, viz.--\nbecause the austerity of the tragic passion is disfigured by a love\nepisode. Rousseau in his letter to D'Alembert upon his article _Geneve_,\nin the French Encyclopedie, asks,--'_Qui est-ce qui doute que, sur nos\ntheatres, la meilleure piece de Sophocle ne tombat tout-a-plat?_' And his\nreason (as collected from other passages) is--because an interest derived\nfrom the passion of sexual love can rarely be found on the Greek stage,\nand yet cannot be dispensed with on that of Paris. But why was it so rare\non the Greek stage? Not from accident, but because it did not harmonize\nwith the principle of that stage, and its vast overhanging gloom. It is\nthe great infirmity of the French, and connected constitutionally with the\ngayety of their temperament, that they cannot sympathize with this\nterrific mode of grandeur. We can. And for _us_ the choice should have\nbeen more purely and severely Grecian; whilst the slenderness of the plot\nin any Greek tragedy, would require a far more effective support from\ntumultuous movement in the chorus. Even the French are not uniformly\ninsensible to this Grecian grandeur. I remember that Voltaire, amongst\nmany just remarks on the Electra of Sophocles, mixed with others that are\n_not_ just, bitterly condemns this demand for a love fable on the French\nstage, and illustrates its extravagance by the French tragedy on the same\nsubject, of Crebillon. He (in default of any more suitable resource) has\nactually made Electra, whose character on the Greek stage is painfully\nvindictive, in love with an imaginary son of Aegisthus, her father's\nmurderer. Something should also have been said of Mrs. Leigh Murray's\nIsmene, which was very effective in supporting and in relieving the\nmagnificent impression of Antigone. I ought also to have added a note on\nthe scenic mask, and the common notion (not authorized, I am satisfied, by\nthe practice in the _supreme_ era of Pericles), that it exhibited a Janus\nface, the windward side expressing grief or horror, the leeward expressing\ntranquillity. Believe it not, reader. But on this and other points, it\nwill be better to speak circumstantially, in a separate paper on the Greek\ndrama, as a majestic but very exclusive and almost, if one may say so,\nbigoted form of the scenic art.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MARQUESS WELLESLEY. [1]\n\n\nIt sounds like the tolling of funeral bells, as the annunciation is made\nof one death after another amongst those who supported our canopy of\nempire through the last most memorable generation. The eldest of the\nWellesleys is gone: he is gathered to his fathers; and here we have his\nlife circumstantially written.\n\nWho, and of what origin are the Wellesleys? There is an impression current\namongst the public, or there _was_ an impression, that the true name\nof the Wellesley family is Wesley. This is a case very much resembling\nsome of those imagined by the old scholastic logicians, where it was\nimpossible either to deny or to affirm: saying _yes_, or saying _no_,\nequally you told a falsehood. The facts are these: the family was\noriginally English; and in England, at the earliest era, there is no\ndoubt at all that its name was De Welles leigh, which was pronounced in\nthe eldest times just as it is now, viz. as a dissyllable, [2] the first\nsyllable sounding exactly like the cathedral city _Wells_, in\nSomersetshire, and the second like _lea_, (a field lying fallow.) It\nis plain enough, from various records, that the true historical\n_genesis_ of the name, was precisely through that composition of\nwords, which here, for the moment, I had imagined merely to illustrate its\npronunciation. Lands in the diocese of Bath and Wells lying by the\npleasant river Perret, and almost up to the gates of Bristol, constituted\nthe earliest possessions of the De Wellesleighs. They, seven centuries\nbefore Assay, and Waterloo, were 'seised' of certain rich _leas_\nbelonging to _Wells_. And from these Saxon elements of the name, some\nhave supposed the Wellesleys a Saxon race. They could not possibly have\nbetter blood: but still the thing does not follow from the premises.\nNeither does it follow from the _de_ that they were Norman. The first\nDe Wellesley known to history, the very tip-top man of the pedigree, is\nAvenant de Wellesleigh. About a hundred years nearer to our own times,\nviz. in 1239, came Michael de Wellesleigh; of whom the important fact is\nrecorded, that he was the father of Wellerand de Wellesley. And what did\nyoung Mr. Wellerand perform in this wicked world, that the proud muse of\nhistory should condescend to notice his rather singular name? Reader, he\nwas--'killed:' that is all; and in company with Sir Robert de Percival;\nwhich again argues his Somersetshire descent: for the family of Lord\nEgmont, the head of all Percivals, ever was, and ever will be, in\nSomersetshire. But _how_ was he killed? The time _when_, viz. 1303, the\nplace _where_, are known: but the manner _how_, is not exactly stated; it\nwas in skirmish with rascally Irish 'kernes,' fellows that (when presented\nat the font of Christ for baptism) had their right arms covered up from\nthe baptismal waters, in order that, still remaining consecrated to the\ndevil, those arms might inflict a devilish blow. Such a blow, with such an\nunbaptized arm, the Irish villain struck; and there was an end of\nWellerand de Wellesleigh. Strange that history should make an end of a\nman, before it had made a beginning of him. These, however, are the\n_facts_; which, in writing a romance about Sir Wellerand and Sir\nPercival, I shall have great pleasure in falsifying. But how, says the too\ncurious reader, did the De Wellesleighs find themselves amongst Irish\nkernes? Had these scamps the presumption to invade Somersetshire? Did they\ndare to intrude into Wells? Not at all: but the pugnacious De Wellesleys\nhad dared to intrude into Ireland. Some say in the train of Henry II. Some\nsay--but no matter: _there_ they were: and _there_ they stuck like\nlimpets. They soon engrafted themselves into the county of Kildare;\nfrom which, by means of a fortunate marriage, they leaped into the county\nof Meath; and in that county, as if to refute the pretended mutability of\nhuman things, they have roosted ever since. There was once a famous copy\nof verses floating about Europe, which asserted that, whilst other princes\nwere destined to fight for thrones, Austria--the handsome house of\nHapsburgh--should obtain them by marriage:\n\n  'Pugnabunt alii: tu, felix Austria, nube.'\n\nSo of the Wellesleys: Sir Wellerand took quite the wrong way: not\ncudgelling, but courting, was the correct way for succeeding in Kildare.\nTwo great estates, by two separate marriages, the De Wellesleighs obtained\nin Kildare; and, by a third marriage in a third generation, they obtained\nin the county of Meath, Castle Dengan (otherwise Dangan) with lordships as\nplentiful as blackberries. Castle Dangan came to them in the year of our\nLord, 1411, _i.e._ before Agincourt: and, in Castle Dangan did Field-\nmarshal, the man of Waterloo, draw his first breath, shed his first tears,\nand perpetrate his earliest trespasses. That is what one might call a\npretty long spell for one family: four hundred and thirty-five years has\nCastle Dangan furnished a nursery for the Wellesley piccaninnies. Amongst\nthe lordships attached to Castle Dangan was _Mornington_, which more\nthan three centuries afterwards supplied an earldom for the grandfather of\nWaterloo. Any further memorabilia of the Castle Dangan family are not\nrecorded, except that in 1485 (which sure was the year of Bosworth field?)\nthey began to omit the _de_ and to write themselves Wellesley _tout\ncourt_. From indolence, I presume: for a certain lady Di. le Fl., whom\nonce I knew, a Howard by birth, of the house of Suffolk, told me as her\nreason for omitting the _Le_, that it caused her too much additional\ntrouble.\n\nSo far the evidence seems in favor of Wellesley and against Wesley. But,\non the other hand, during the last three centuries the Wellesleys wrote\nthe name Wesley. They, however, were only the _maternal_ ancestors of\nthe present Wellesleys. Garret Wellesley, the last male heir of the direct\nline, in the year 1745, left his whole estate to one of the Cowleys, a\nStaffordshire family who had emigrated to Ireland in Queen Elizabeth's\ntime, but who were, however, descended from the Wellesleys. This Cowley or\nColley, taking, in 1745, the name of Wesley, received from George II. the\ntitle of Earl Mornington: and Colley's grandson, the Marquess Wellesley of\nour age, was recorded in the Irish peerage as _Wesley_, Earl of\nMornington; was uniformly so described up to the end of the eighteenth\ncentury; and even Arthur of Waterloo, whom most of us Europeans know\npretty well, on going to India a little before his brother, was thus\nintroduced by Lord Cornwallis to Sir John Shore (Lord Teignmouth, the\nGovernor-general), 'Dear sir, I beg leave to introduce to you Colonel\nWesley, who is a lieutenant-colonel of my regiment. He is a sensible man,\nand a good officer.' Posterity, for _we_ are posterity in respect of\nLord Cornwallis, have been very much of _his_ opinion. Colonel Wesley\nreally _is_ a sensible man; and the sensible man, soon after his\narrival in Bengal, under the instigation of his brother, resumed the old\nname of Wellesley. In reality, the name of Wesley was merely the\nabbreviation of indolence, as Chumley for Cholmondeley, Pomfret for\nPontefract, Cicester for Cirencester; or, in Scotland, Marchbanks for\nMajoribanks, Chatorow for the Duke of Hamilton's French title of\nChatelherault. I remember myself, in childhood, to have met a niece of\nJohn Wesley the Proto-Methodist, who always spoke of the, second Lord\nMornington (author of the well-known glees) as a cousin, and as intimately\nconnected with her brother the great _foudroyant_ performer on the\norgan. Southey, in his Life of John Wesley, tells us that Charles Wesley,\nthe brother of John, and father of the great organist, had the offer from\nGarret Wellesley of those same estates which eventually were left to\nRichard Cowley. This argues a recognition of near consanguinity. Why the\noffer was declined, is not distinctly explained. But if it had been\naccepted, Southey thinks that then we should have had no storming of\nSeringapatam, no Waterloo, and no Arminian Methodists. All that is not\nquite clear. Tippoo was booked for a desperate British vengeance by his\nown desperate enmity to our name, though no Lord Wellesley had been\nGovernor-General. Napoleon, by the same fury of hatred to us, was booked\nfor the same fate, though the scene of it might not have been Waterloo.\nAnd, as to John Wesley, why should he not have made the same schism with\nthe English Church, because his brother Charles had become unexpectedly\nrich?\n\nThe Marquess Wellesley was of the same standing, as to age, or nearly so,\nas Mr. Pitt; though he outlived Pitt by almost forty years. Born in 1760,\nthree or four months before the accession of George III., he was sent to\nEton, at the age of eleven; and from Eton, in his eighteenth year, he was\nsent to Christ Church, Oxford, where he matriculated as a nobleman. He\nthen bore the courtesy title of Viscount Wellesley; but in 1781, when he\nhad reached his twenty-first year, he was summoned away from Oxford by the\ndeath of his father, the second Earl of Mornington. It is interesting, at\nthis moment, to look back on the family group of children collected at\nDangan Castle. The young earl was within a month of his majority: his\nyounger brothers and sisters were, William Wellesley Pole (since dead,\nunder the title of Lord Maryborough), then aged eighteen; Anne, since\nmarried to Henry, son of Lord Southampton, aged thirteen; Arthur, aged\ntwelve; Gerald Valerian, now in the church, aged ten; Mary Elizabeth\n(since Lady Culling Smith), aged nine; Henry, since Lord Cowley, and\nBritish ambassador to Spain, France, &c. aged eight. The new Lord\nMornington showed his conscientious nature, by assuming his father's\ndebts, and by superintending the education of his brothers. He had\ndistinguished himself at Oxford as a scholar; but he returned thither no\nmore, and took no degree. As Earl of Mornington, he sat in the Irish House\nof Lords; but not being a British peer, he was able to sit also in the\nEnglish House of Commons; and of this opening for a more national career,\nhe availed himself at the age of twenty-four. Except that he favored the\nclaims of the Irish Catholics, his policy was pretty uniformly that of Mr.\nPitt. He supported that minister throughout the contests on the French\nRevolution; and a little earlier, on the Regency question. This came\nforward in 1788, on occasion of the first insanity which attacked George\nIII. The reader, who is likely to have been born since that era, will\nperhaps not be acquainted with the constitutional question then at issue.\nIt was this: Mr. Fox held that, upon any incapacity arising in the\nsovereign, the regency would then settle (_ipso facto_ of that incapacity)\nupon the Prince of Wales; overlooking altogether the case in which there\nshould _be_ no Prince of Wales, and the case in which such a Prince might\nbe as incapable, from youth, of exercising the powers attached to the\noffice, as his father from disease. Mr. Pitt denied that a Prince of Wales\nsimply _as_ such, and apart from any moral fitness which he might possess,\nhad more title to the office of regent than any lamp-lighter or scavenger.\nIt was the province of Parliament exclusively to legislate for the\nparticular case. The practical decision of the question was not called\nfor, from the accident of the king's sudden recovery: but in Ireland, from\nthe independence asserted by the two houses of the British council, the\nquestion grew still more complex. The Lord Lieutenant refused to transmit\ntheir address, [3] and Lord Mornington supported him powerfully in his\nrefusal.\n\nTen years after this hot collision of parties, Lord Mornington was\nappointed Governor-General of India, and now first he entered upon a stage\nworthy of his powers. I cannot myself agree with Mr. Pearce, that 'the\nwisdom of his policy is now universally recognized;' because the same\nfalse views of our Indian position, which at that time caused his splendid\nservices to be slighted in many quarters, still preponderates. All\nadministrations alike have been intensely ignorant of Indian politics; and\nfor the natural reason, that the business of home politics leaves them no\ndisposable energies for affairs so distant, and with which each man's\nchance of any durable connection is so exceedingly small. What Lord\nMornington did was this: he looked our prospects in the face. Two great\nenemies were then looming upon the horizon, both ignorant of our real\nresources, and both deluded by our imperfect use of such resources, as,\neven in a previous war, we had possessed. One of these enemies was Tippoo,\nthe Sultan of Mysore: him, by the crushing energy of his arrangements,\nLord Mornington was able utterly to destroy, and to distribute his\ndominions with equity and moderation, yet so as to prevent any new\ncoalition arising in that quarter against the British power. There is a\nportrait of Tippoo, of this very ger, in the second volume of Mr. Pearce's\nwork, which expresses sufficiently the unparalleled ferocity of his\nnature; and it is guaranteed, by its origin, as authentic. Tippoo, from\nthe personal interest investing him, has more fixed the attention of\nEurope than a much more formidable enemy: that enemy was the Mahratta\nconfederacy, chiefly existing in the persons of the Peishwah, of Scindia,\nof Holkar, and the Rajah of Berar. Had these four princes been less\nprofoundly ignorant, had they been less inveterately treacherous, they\nwould have cost us the only dreadful struggle which in India we have\nstood. As it was, Lord Mornington's government reduced and crippled the\nMaharattas to such an extent, that in 1817, Lord Hastings found it\npossible to crush them for ever. Three services of a profounder nature,\nLord Wellesley was enabled to do for India; first, to pave the way for the\npropagation of Christianity,--mighty service, stretching to the clouds,\nand which, in the hour of death, must have given him consolation;\nsecondly, to enter upon the abolition of such Hindoo superstitions as are\nmost shocking to humanity, particularly the practice of Suttee, and the\nbarbarous exposure of dying persons, or of first-born infants at Sangor on\nthe Ganges; finally, to promote an enlarged system of education, which (if\nhis splendid scheme had been adopted) would have diffused its benefits all\nover India. It ought also to be mentioned that the expedition by way of\nthe Red Sea against the French in Egypt, was so entirely of his suggestion\nand his preparation, that, to the great dishonor of Messrs. Pitt and\nDundas, whose administration was the worst, as a _war_ administration,\nthus ever misapplied, or non-applied, the resources of a mighty empire, it\nlanguished for eighteen months purely through _their_ neglect.\n\nIn 1805, having staid about seven years in India, Lord Mornington was\nrecalled, was created Marquess of Wellesley, was sent, in 1821, as Viceroy\nto Ireland, where there was little to do; having previously, in 1809, been\nsent Ambassador to the Spanish Cortes, where there was an affinity to do,\nbut no means of doing it. The last great political act of Lord Wellesley,\nwas the smashing of the Peel ministry in 1834 viz. by the famous\nresolution (which he personally drew up) for appropriating to general\neducation in Ireland any surplus arising from the revenues of the Irish\nChurch. Full of honors, he retired from public life at the age of seventy-\nfive, and, for seven years more of life, dedicated his time to such\nliterary pursuits as he had found most interesting in early youth.\n\nMr. Pearce, who is so capable of writing vigorously and sagaciously, has\ntoo much allowed himself to rely upon public journals. For example, he\nreprints the whole of the attorney-general's official information against\neleven obscure persons, who, from the gallery of the Dublin theatre, did\n'wickedly, riotously, and routously' hiss, groan, insult, and assault (to\nsay nothing of their having caused and procured to be hissed, groaned,\n&c.) the Marquess Wellesley, Lord-Lieutenant General, and General Governor\nof Ireland. This document covers more than nine pages; and, after all,\nomits the only fact of the least consequence, viz., that several missiles\nwere thrown by the rioters into the vice-regal box, and amongst them a\nquart-bottle, which barely missed his excellency's temples. Considering\nthe impetus acquired by the descent from the gallery, there is little\ndoubt that such a weapon would have killed Lord Wellesley on the spot. In\ndefault however, of this weighty fact, the attorney-general favors us with\nmemorializing the very best piece of doggerel that I remember to have\nread; viz., that upon divers, to wit, three thousand papers, the rioters\nhad wickedly and maliciously written and printed, besides, observe,\n_causing_ to be written and printed, 'No Popery,' as also the following\ntraitorous couplet--\n\n  'The Protestants want Talbot,\n  As the Papists have _got all but_;'\n\nMeaning 'all but' that which they got some years later by means of the\nClare election. Yet if, in some instances like this, Mr. Pearce has too\nlargely drawn upon official papers, which he should rather have abstracted\nand condensed, on the other hand, his work has a specific value in\nbringing forward private documents, to which his opportunities have gained\nhim a confidential access. Two portraits of Lord Wellesley, one in middle\nlife, and one in old age, from a sketch by the Comte d'Orsay, are\nfelicitously executed.\n\nSomething remains to be said of Lord Wellesley as a literary man; and\ntowards such a judgment Mr. Pearce has contributed some very pleasing\nmaterials. As a public speaker, Lord Wellesley had that degree of\nbrilliancy and effectual vigor, which might have been expected in a man of\ngreat talents, possessing much native sensibility to the charms of style,\nbut not led by any personal accidents of life into a separate cultivation\nof oratory, or into any profound investigation of its duties and its\npowers on the arena of a British senate. There is less call for speaking\nof Lord Wellesley in this character, where he did not seek for any eminent\ndistinction, than in the more general character of an elegant\n_litterateur_, which furnished to him much of his recreation in all\nstages of his life, and much of his consolation in the last. It is\ninteresting to see this accomplished nobleman, in advanced age, when other\nresources were one by one decaying, and the lights of life were\nsuccessively fading into darkness, still cheering his languid hours by the\nculture of classical literature, and in his eighty-second year drawing\nsolace from those same pursuits which had given grace and distinction to\nhis twentieth.\n\nOne or two remarks I will make upon Lord Wellesley's verses--Greek as well\nas Latin. The Latin lines upon Chantrey's success at Holkham in killing\ntwo woodcocks at the first shot, which subsequently he sculptured in\nmarble and presented to Lord Leicester, are perhaps the most felicitous\namongst the whole. Masquerading, in Lord Wellesley's verses, as\nPraxiteles, who could not well be represented with a Manon having a\npercussion lock, Chantrey is armed with a bow and arrows:\n\n  'En! trajecit aves una sagitta duas.'\n\nIn the Greek translation of _Parthenopaeus_, there are as few faults\nas could reasonably be expected. But, first, one word as to the original\nLatin poem: to whom does it belong? It is traced first to Lord Grenville,\nwho received it from his tutor (afterwards Bishop of London), who had\ntaken it as an anonymous poem from the 'Censor's book;' and with very\nlittle probability, it is doubtfully assigned to 'Lewis of the War\nOffice,' meaning, no doubt, the father of Monk Lewis. By this anxiety in\ntracing its pedigree, the reader is led to exaggerate the pretensions of\nthe little poem; these are inconsiderable: and there is a conspicuous\nfault, which it is worth while noticing, because it is one peculiarly\nbesetting those who write modern verses with the help of a gradus, viz.\nthat the Pentameter is often a mere reverberation of the preceding\nHexameter. Thus, for instance--\n\n  'Parthenios inter saltus non amplius erro,\n  Non repeto Dryadum pascua laeta choris;'\n\nand so of others, where the second line is but a variation of the first.\nEven Ovid, with all his fertility, and partly in consequence of his\nfertility, too often commits this fault. Where indeed the thought is\neffectually varied, so that the second line acts as a musical _minor_,\nsucceeding to the _major_, in the first, there may happen to arise a\npeculiar beauty. But I speak of the ordinary case, where the second is\nmerely the rebound of the first, presenting the same thought in a diluted\nform. This is the commonest resource of feeble thinking, and is also a\nstanding temptation or snare for feeble thinking. Lord Wellesley, however,\nis not answerable for these faults in the original, which indeed he\nnotices slightly as 'repetitions;' and his own Greek version is spirited\nand good. There, are, however, some mistakes. The second line is\naltogether faulty;\n\n        [Greek: _Choria Mainaliph pant erateina theph\n  Achnumenos leipon_]\n\ndoes not express the sense intended. Construed correctly, this clause of\nthe sentence would mean--'_I, sorrowfully leaving all places gracious to\nthe Maenalian god_:' but _that_ is not what Lord Wellesley designed: '_I\nleaving the woods of Cyllene, and the snowy summits of Pholoe, places that\nare all of them dear to Pan_'--_that_ is what was meant: that is to say,\nnot _leaving all places dear to Pan_, far from it; but _leaving a few\nplaces, every one of which is dear to Pan_. In the line beginning\n\n  [Greek: _Kan eth uph aelikias_]\n\nwhere the meaning is--_and if as yet, by reason of my immature age_,\nthere is a metrical error; and [Greek: _aelikia_] will not express\nimmaturity of age. I doubt whether in the next line,\n\n  [Greek: _Maed alkae thalloi gounasin aeitheos_]\n\n[Greek: _gounasin_] could convey the meaning without the preposition\n[Greek: _eth_]. And in\n\n  [Greek: _Spherchomai ou kaleousi theoi._]\n\n_I hasten whither the gods summon me_--[Greek: _ou_] is not the right\nword. It is, however, almost impossible to write Greek verses which\nshall be liable to no verbal objections; and the fluent movement of these\nverses sufficiently argues the off-hand ease with which Lord Wellesley\nmust have _read_ Greek, writing it so elegantly and with so little of\napparent constraint.\n\nMeantime the most interesting (from its circumstances) of Lord Wellesley's\nverses, is one to which his own English interpretation of it has done less\nthan justice. It is a Latin epitaph on the daughter (an only child) of\nLord and Lady Brougham. She died, and (as was generally known at the time)\nof an organic affection disturbing the action of the heart, at the early\nage of eighteen. And the peculiar interest of the case lies in the\nsuppression by this pious daughter (so far as it was possible) of her own\nbodily anguish, in order to beguile the mental anguish of her parents. The\nLatin epitaph is this:\n\n  'Blanda anima, e cunis heu! longo exercita morbo,\n      Inter maternas heu lachrymasque patris,\n  Quas risu lenire tuo jucunda solebas,\n      Et levis, et proprii vix memor ipsa mali;\n   I, pete calestes, ubi nulla est cura, recessus:\n      Et tibi sit nullo mista dolore quies!'\n\nThe English version is this:\n\n  'Doom'd to long suffering from earliest years,\n      Amidst your parents' grief and pain alone\n  Cheerful and gay, you smiled to soothe their tears;\n      And in _their_ agonies forgot your own.\n  Go, gentle spirit; and among the blest\n      From grief and pain eternal be thy rest!'\n\nIn the Latin, the phrase _e cunis_ does not express _from your cradle\nupwards_. The second line is faulty in the opposition of _maternas_ to\n_patris_. And in the fourth line _levis_ conveys a false meaning: _levis_\nmust mean either _physically light_, _i.e._ not heavy, which is not the\nsense, or else _tainted with levity_, which is still less the sense. What\nLord Wellesley wished to say--was _light-hearted_: this he has _not_\nsaid: but neither is it easy to say it in good Latin.\n\nI complain, however, of the whole as not bringing out Lord Wellesley's own\nfeeling--which feeling is partly expressed in his verses, and partly in\nhis accompanying prose note on Miss Brougham's mournful destiny ('her life\nwas a continual illness') contrasted with her fortitude, her innocent\ngaiety, and the pious motives with which she supported this gaiety to the\nlast. Not as a direct version, but as filling up the outline of Lord\nWellesley, sufficiently indicated by himself, I propose this:--\n\n  'Child, that for thirteen years hast fought with pain,\n      Prompted by joy and depth of natural love,--\n   Rest now at God's command: oh! not in vain\n      His angel ofttimes watch'd thee,--oft, above\n   All pangs, that else had dimm'd thy parents' eyes,\n      Saw thy young heart victoriously rise.\n   Rise now for ever, self-forgetting child,\n      Rise to those choirs, where love like thine is blest,\n   From pains of flesh--from filial tears assoil'd,\n      Love which God's hand shall crown with God's own rest.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n[1] Memoirs and Correspondence.\n\n[2] '_As a dissyllable_:'--just as the _Annesley_ family, of\nwhich Lord Valentia is the present head, do not pronounce their name\ntrisyllabically (as strangers often suppose), but as the two syllables\n_Anns lea_, accent on the first.\n\n[3] Which adopted neither view; for by _offering_ the regency of Ireland\nto the Prince of Wales, they negatived Mr. Fox's view, who held it to be\nthe Prince's by inherent right; and, on the other hand, they still more\nopenly opposed Mr. Pitt.\n\n\n\n\nMILTON _VERSUS_ SOUTHEY AND LANDOR.\n\n\nThis conversation is doubly interesting: interesting by its subject,\ninteresting by its interlocutors; for the subject is Milton, whilst the\ninterlocutors are _Southey_ and _Landor_. If a British gentleman, when\ntaking his pleasure in his well-armed yacht, descries, in some foreign\nwaters, a noble vessel, from the Thames or the Clyde, riding peaceably at\nanchor--and soon after, two smart-looking clippers, with rakish masts,\nbearing down upon her in company--he slackens sail: his suspicions are\nslightly raised; they have not shown their teeth as yet, and perhaps all\nis right; but there can be no harm in looking a little closer; and,\nassuredly, if he finds any mischief in the wind against his countryman, he\nwill show _his_ teeth also; and, please the wind, will take up such a\nposition as to rake both of these pirates by turns. The two dialogists are\nintroduced walking out after breakfast, 'each his Milton in his pocket;'\nand says Southey, 'Let us collect all the graver faults we can lay our\nhands upon, without a too minute and troublesome research;'--just so;\nthere would be danger in _that_--help might put off from shore;--'not,'\nsays he, 'in the spirit of Johnson, but in our own.' Johnson we may\nsuppose, is some old ruffian well known upon that coast; and '_faults_'\nmay be a flash term for what the Americans call 'notions.' A part of the\ncargo it clearly is; and one is not surprised to hear Landor, whilst\nassenting to the general plan of attack, suggesting in a whisper 'that\nthey should abase their eyes in reverence to so great a man, without\nabsolutely closing them;' which I take to mean--that, without trusting\nentirely to their boarders, or absolutely closing their ports, they should\ndepress their guns and fire down into the hold, in respect of the vessel\nattacked standing so high out of the water. After such plain speaking,\nnobody can wonder much at the junior pirate (Landor) muttering, 'It will\nbe difficult for us always to refrain.' Of course it will: _refraining_\nwas no part of the business, I should fancy, taught by that same\nbuccaneer, Johnson. There is mischief, you see, reader, singing in the\nair--'miching malhecho'--and it is our business to watch it.\n\nBut, before coming to the main attack, I must suffer myself to be detained\nfor a few moments by what Mr. L. premises upon the 'moral' of any great\nfable, and the relation which it bears, or _should_ bear, to the solution\nof such a fable. Philosophic criticism is so far improved, that, at this\nday, few people, who have reflected at all upon such subjects, but are\nagreed as to one point: viz., that in metaphysical language the moral\nof an epos or a drama should be _immanent_, not _transient_; or,\notherwise, that it should be vitally distributed through the whole\norganization of the tree, not gathered or secreted into a sort of red\nberry or _racemus_, pendent at the end of its boughs. This view Mr. Landor\nhimself takes, as a general view; but, strange to say, by some Landorian\nperverseness, where there occurs a memorable exception to this rule (as in\nthe 'Paradise Lost'), in that case he insists upon the rule in its rigor--\nthe rule, and nothing _but_ the rule. Where, on the contrary, the rule\ndoes really and obviously take effect (as in the 'Iliad' and 'Odyssey'),\nthere he insists upon an exceptional case. There _is_ a moral, in _his_\nopinion, hanging like a tassel of gold bullion from the 'Iliad;'--and what\nis it? Something so fantastic, that I decline to repeat it. As well might\nhe have said, that the moral of 'Othello' was--'_Try Warren's Blacking!_'\nThere is no moral, little or big, foul or fair, to the 'Iliad.' Up to the\n17th book, the moral might seem dimly to be this--'Gentlemen, keep the\npeace: you see what comes of quarrelling.' But _there_ this moral ceases;\n--there is now a break of guage: the narrow guage takes place after this;\nwhilst up to this point, the broad guage--viz., the wrath of Achilles,\ngrowing out of his turn-up with Agamemnon--had carried us smoothly along\nwithout need to shift our luggage. There is no more quarrelling after Book\n17, how then can there be any more moral from quarrelling? If you insist\non _my_ telling _you_ what is the moral of the 'Iliad,' I insist upon\n_your_ telling _me_ what is the moral of a rattlesnake or the moral of a\nNiagara. I suppose the moral is--that you must get out of their way, if\nyou mean to moralize much longer. The going-up (or anabasis) of the Greeks\nagainst Troy, was a _fact;_ and a pretty dense fact; and, by accident, the\nvery first in which all Greece had a common interest. It was a joint-stock\nconcern--a representative expedition--whereas, previously there had been\nnone; for even the Argonautic expedition, which is rather of the darkest,\nimplied no confederation except amongst individuals. How could it? For the\nArgo is supposed to have measured only twenty-seven tons: how she would\nhave been classed at Lloyd's is hard to say, but certainly not as A 1.\nThere was no state-cabin; everybody, demi-gods and all, pigged in the\nsteerage amongst beans and bacon. Greece was naturally proud of having\ncrossed the herring-pond, small as it was, in search of an entrenched\nenemy; proud also of having licked him 'into Almighty smash;' this was\nsufficient; or if an impertinent moralist sought for something more,\ndoubtless the moral must have lain in the booty. A peach is the moral of a\npeach, and moral enough; but if a man _will_ have something better--a\nmoral within a moral--why, there is the peach-stone, and its kernel, out\nof which he may make ratafia, which seems to be the ultimate morality that\n_can_ be extracted from a peach. Mr. Archdeacon Williams, indeed, of the\nEdinburgh Academy, has published an _octavo_ opinion upon the case, which\nasserts that the moral of the Trojan war was (to borrow a phrase from\nchildren) _tit for tat_. It was a case of retaliation for crimes against\nHellas, committed by Troy in an earlier generation. It may be so; Nemesis\nknows best. But this moral, if it concerns the total expedition to the\nTroad, cannot concern the 'Iliad,' which does not take up matters from so\nearly a period, nor go on to the final catastrophe of Ilium.\n\nNow, as to the 'Paradise Lost,' it happens that there is--whether there\nought to be or not--a pure golden moral, distinctly announced, separately\ncontemplated, and the very weightiest ever uttered by man or realized by\nfable. It is a moral rather for the drama of a world than for a human\npoem. And this moral is made the more prominent and memorable by the\ngrandeur of its annunciation. The jewel is not more splendid in itself\nthan in its setting. Excepting the well-known passage on Athenian oratory\nin the 'Paradise Regained,' there is none even in Milton where the\nmetrical pomp is made so effectually to aid the pomp of the sentiment.\nHearken to the way in which a roll of dactyles is made to settle, like the\nswell of the advancing tide, into the long thunder of billows breaking for\nleagues against the shore:\n\n  'That to the height of this great argument\n   I may assert eternal Providence.'--\n\nHear what a motion, what a tumult, is given by the dactylic close to each\nof the introductory lines! And how massily is the whole locked up into the\npeace of heaven, as the aerial arch of a viaduct is locked up into\ntranquil stability by its key-stone, through the deep spondaic close,\n\n  'And justify the ways of God to man.'\n\nThat is the moral of the Miltonic epos; and as much grander than any other\nmoral _formally_ illustrated by poets, as heaven is higher than earth.\n\nBut the most singular moral, which Mr. Landor anywhere discovers, is in\nhis own poem of '_Gebir_.' Whether he still adheres to it, does not\nappear from the present edition. But I remember distinctly, in the\noriginal edition, a Preface (now withdrawn) in which he made his\nacknowledgments to some book read at a Welsh Inn for the outline of the\nstory; and as to the moral, he declared it to be an exposition of that\nmost mysterious offence, _Over-Colonization_. Much I mused, in my\nyouthful simplicity, upon this criminal novelty. What might it be? Could\nI, by mistake, have committed it myself? Was it a felony, or a\nmisdemeanor?--liable to transportation, or only to fine and imprisonment?\nNeither in the Decemviral Tables, nor in the Code of Justinian, nor the\nmaritime Code of Oleron, nor in the Canon Law, nor the Code Napoleon, nor\nour own Statutes at large, nor in Jeremy Bentham, had I read of such a\ncrime as a possibility. Undoubtedly the vermin, locally called\n_Squatters_, [1] both in the wilds of America and Australia, who pre-\noccupy other men's estates, have latterly illustrated the logical\npossibility of such an offence; but they were quite unknown at the era of\nGebir. Even Dalica, who knew as much wickedness as most people, would have\nstared at this unheard of villany, and have asked, as eagerly as _I_\ndid--'What is it now? Let's have a shy at it in Egypt.' I, indeed, knew a\ncase, but Dalica did _not_, of shocking over-colonization. It was the\ncase, which even yet occurs on out-of-the-way roads, where a man, unjustly\nbig, mounts into the inside of a stage-coach already sufficiently crowded.\nIn streets and squares, where men could give him a wide berth, they had\ntolerated the injustice of his person; but now, in a chamber so confined,\nthe length and breadth of his wickedness shines revealed to every eye. And\nif the coach should upset, which it would not be the less likely to do for\nhaving _him_ on board, somebody or other (perhaps myself) must lie\nbeneath this monster, like Enceladus under Mount Etna, calling upon Jove\nto come quickly with a few thunderbolts and destroy both man and mountain,\nboth _succubus_ and _incubus_, if no other relief offered. Meantime, the\nonly case of over-colonization notorious to all Europe, is that which some\nGerman traveller (Riedesel, I think) has reported so eagerly, in ridicule\nof our supposed English credulity; viz.--the case of the foreign swindler,\nwho advertised that he would get into a quart bottle, filled Drury Lane,\npocketed the admission money, and decamped, protesting (in his adieus to\nthe spectators) that' it lacerated his heart to disappoint so many noble\nislanders; but that on his next visit he would make full reparation by\ngetting into a vinegar cruet.' Now, here certainly was a case of over-\ncolonization, not perpetrated, but meditated. Yet, when one examines this\ncase, the crime consisted by no means in doing it, but in _not_ doing it;\nby no means in getting into the bottle, but in _not_ getting into it. The\nforeign contractor would have been probably a very unhappy man, had he\nfulfilled his contract by over-colonizing the bottle, but he would have\nbeen decidedly a more virtuous man. He would have redeemed his pledge;\nand, if he had even died in the bottle, we should have honored him as a\n'_vir bonus, cum mala fortuna compositus_;' as a man of honor matched in\nsingle duel with calamity, and also as the best of conjurers. Over-\ncolonization, therefore, except in the one case of the stage-coach, is\napparently no crime; and the offence of King Gebir, in my eyes, remains a\nmystery to this day.\n\nWhat next solicits notice is in the nature of a digression: it is a kind\nof parenthesis on Wordsworth.\n\n'_Landor._--When it was a matter of wonder how Keats, who was ignorant of\nGreek, could have written his \"Hyperion,\" Shelley, whom envy never\ntouched, gave as a reason--\"because he _was_ a Greek.\" Wordsworth, being\nasked his opinion of the same poem, called it, scoffingly, \"a pretty piece\nof paganism;\" yet he himself, in the best verses he ever wrote--and\nbeautiful ones they are--reverts to the powerful influence of the \"pagan\ncreed.\"'\n\nHere are nine lines exactly in the original type. Now, nine tailors are\nranked, by great masters of algebra, as = one man; such is the received\nequation; or, as it is expressed, with more liveliness, in an old English\ndrama, by a man who meets and quarrels with eighteen tailors--'Come, hang\nit! I'll fight you _both_.' But, whatever be the algebraic ratio of\ntailors to men, it is clear that nine Landorian lines are not always equal\nto the delivery of one accurate truth, or to a successful conflict with\nthree or four signal errors. Firstly--Shelley's reason, if it ever was\nassigned, is irrelevant as regards any question that must have been\nintended. It could not have been meant to ask--Why was the 'Hyperion' so\nGrecian in its spirit? for it is anything but Grecian. We should praise it\nfalsely to call it so; for the feeble, though elegant, mythology of Greece\nwas incapable of breeding anything so deep as the mysterious portents\nthat, in the 'Hyperion,' run before and accompany the passing away of\ndivine immemorial dynasties. Nothing can be more impressive than the\npicture of Saturn in his palsy of affliction, and of the mighty goddess\nhis grand-daughter, or than the secret signs of coming woe in the palace\nof Hyperion. These things grew from darker creeds than Greece had ever\nknown since the elder traditions of Prometheus--creeds that sent down\ntheir sounding plummets into far deeper wells within the human spirit.\nWhat had been meant, by the question proposed to Shelley, was no doubt--\nHow so young a man as Keats, not having had the advantage of a regular\nclassical education, could have been so much at home in the details of the\n_elder_ mythology? Tooke's 'Pantheon' might have been obtained by\nfavor of any English schoolboy, and Dumoustier's '_Lettres a Emile sur\nla Mythologie_' by favor of very many young ladies; but these,\naccording to my recollection of them, would hardly have sufficed. Spence's\n'_Polymetis_,' however, might have been had by favor of any good\nlibrary; and the '_Bibliotheca_' of Apollodorus, who is the cock of\nthe walk on this subject, might have been read by favor of a Latin\ntranslation, supposing Keats really unequal to the easy Greek text. There\nis no wonder in the case; nor, if there had been, would Shelley's kind\nremark have solved it. The _treatment_ of the facts must, in any\ncase, have been due to Keats's genius, so as to be the same whether he had\nstudied Greek or not: the _facts_, apart from the treatment, must in\nany case have been had from a book. Secondly--Let Mr. Landor rely upon it\n--that Wordsworth never said the thing ascribed to him here as any formal\njudgment, or what Scottish law would call _deliverance_, upon the\n'Hyperion.' As to what he might have said incidentally and collaterally;\nthe meaning of words is so entirely affected by their position in a\nconversation--what followed, what went before--that five words dislocated\nfrom their context never would be received as evidence in the Queen's\nBench. The court which, of all others, least strictly weighs its rules of\nevidence, is the female tea-table; yet even that tribunal would require\nthe deponent to strengthen his evidence, if he had only five detached\nwords to produce. Wordsworth is a very proud man as he has good reason to\nbe; and perhaps it was I myself, who once said in print of him--that it is\nnot the correct way of speaking, to say that Wordsworth is as proud as\nLucifer; but, inversely, to say of Lucifer that some people have conceived\nhim to be as proud as Wordsworth. But, if proud, Wordsworth is not\nhaughty, is not ostentatious, is not anxious for display, is not arrogant,\nand, least of all, is he capable of descending to envy. Who or what is it\nthat _he_ should be envious of? Does anybody suppose that Wordsworth\nwould be jealous of Archimedes if he now walked upon earth, or Michael\nAngelo, or Milton? Nature does not repeat herself. Be assured she will\nnever make a second Wordsworth. Any of us would be jealous of his own\nduplicate; and, if I had a _doppelganger_, who went about personating\nme, copying me, and pirating me, philosopher as I am, I might (if the\nCourt of Chancery would not grant an injunction against him) be so far\ncarried away by jealousy as to attempt the crime of murder upon his\ncarcass; and no great matter as regards HIM. But it would be a sad thing\nfor _me_ to find myself hanged; and for what, I beseech you? for\nmurdering a sham, that was either nobody at all, or oneself repeated once\ntoo often. But if you show to Wordsworth a man as great as himself, still\nthat great man will not be much _like_ Wordsworth--the great man will\nnot be Wordsworth's _doppelganger_. If not _impar_ (as you say) he will be\n_dispar_; and why, then, should Wordsworth be jealous of him, unless he is\njealous of the sun, and of Abd el Kader, and of Mr. Waghorn--all of whom\ncarry off a great deal of any spare admiration which Europe has to dispose\nof. But suddenly it strikes me that we are all proud, every man of us; and\nI daresay with some reason for it, 'be the same more or less.' For I never\ncame to know any man in my whole life intimately, who could not do\nsomething or other better than anybody else. The only man amongst us that\nis thoroughly free from pride, that you may at all seasons rely on as a\npattern of humility, is the pickpocket. That man is so admirable in his\ntemper, and so used to pocketing anything whatever which Providence sends\nin his way, that he will even pocket a kicking, or anything in that line\nof favors which you are pleased to bestow. The smallest donations are by\nhim thankfully received, provided only that you, whilst half-blind with\nanger in kicking him round a figure of eight, like a dexterous skater,\nwill but allow _him_ (which is no more than fair) to have a second 'shy'\nat your pretty Indian pocket-handkerchief, so as to convince you, on\ncooler reflection, that he does not _always_ miss. Thirdly--Mr. Landor\nleaves it doubtful what verses those are of Wordsworth's which celebrate\nthe power 'of the Pagan creed;' whether that sonnet in which Wordsworth\nwishes to exchange for glimpses of human life, _then and in those\ncircumstances_, 'forlorn,' the sight\n\n  '----Of Proteus coming from the sea,\n  And hear old Triton wind his wreathed horn;'\n\nwhether this, or the passage on the Greek mythology in 'The Excursion.'\nWhichever he means, I am the last man to deny that it is beautiful, and\nespecially if he means the latter. But it is no presumption to deny firmly\nMr. Landor's assertion, that these are 'the best verses Wordsworth ever\nwrote.' Bless the man!\n\n  'There are a thousand such elsewhere,\n  As worthy of your wonder:'--\n\nElsewhere, I mean, in Wordsworth's poems. In reality it is\n_impossible_ that these should be the best; for even if, in the\nexecutive part, they were so, which is not the case, the very nature of\nthe thought, of the feeling, and of the relation, which binds it to the\ngeneral theme, and the nature of that theme itself, forbid the possibility\nof merits so high. The whole movement of the feeling is fanciful: it\nneither appeals to what is deepest in human sensibilities, nor is meant to\ndo so. The result, indeed, serves only to show Mr. Landor's slender\nacquaintance with Wordsworth. And what is worse than being slenderly\nacquainted, he is erroneously acquainted even with these two short\nbreathings from the Wordsworthian shell. He mistakes the logic. Wordsworth\ndoes not celebrate any power at all in Paganism. Old Triton indeed! he's\nlittle better, in respect of the terrific, than a mail-coach guard, nor\nhalf as good, if you allow the guard his official seat, a coal-black\nnight, lamps blazing back upon his royal scarlet, and his blunderbuss\ncorrectly slung. Triton would not stay, I engage, for a second look at the\nold Portsmouth mail, as once I knew it. But, alas! better things than ever\nstood on Triton's pins are now as little able to stand up for themselves,\nor to startle the silent fields in darkness, with the sudden flash of\ntheir glory--gone before it had fall come--as Triton is to play the\nFreyschutz chorus on his humbug of a horn. But the logic of Wordsworth is\nthis--not that the Greek mythology is potent; on the contrary, that it is\nweaker than cowslip tea, and would not agitate the nerves of a hen\nsparrow; but that, weak as it is--nay, by means of that very weakness--it\ndoes but the better serve to measure the weakness of something which\n_he_ thinks yet weaker--viz. the death-like torpor of London society\nin 1808, benumbed by conventional apathy and worldliness--\n\n  'Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life.'\n\nThis seems a digression from Milton, who is properly the subject of this\ncolloquy. But, luckily, it is not one of _my_ sins. Mr. Landor is lord\nwithin the house of his own book; he pays all accounts whatever; and\nreaders that have either a bill, or bill of exceptions, to tender against\nthe concern, must draw upon _him_. To Milton he returns upon a very\ndangerous topic indeed--viz. the structure of his blank verse. I know of\nnone that is so trying to a wary man's nerves. You might as well tax\nMozart with harshness in the divinest passages of 'Don Giovanni,' as\nMilton with any such offence against metrical science. Be assured, it is\nyourself that do not read with understanding, not Milton that by\npossibility can be found deaf to the demands of perfect harmony. You are\ntempted, after walking round a line threescore times, to exclaim at last--\n'Well, if the Fiend himself should rise up before me at this very moment,\nin this very study of mine, and say that no screw was loose in that line,\nthen would I reply--'Sir, with submission, you are----.' 'What!' suppose\nthe Fiend suddenly to demand in thunder; 'what am I?' 'Horribly wrong,'\nyou wish exceedingly to say; but, recollecting that some people are\ncholeric in argument, you confine yourself to the polite answer-'That,\nwith deference to his better education, you conceive him to lie;'--that's\na bad word to drop your voice upon in talking with a fiend, and you hasten\nto add--'under a slight, a _very_ slight mistake.' Ay, you might venture\non that opinion with a fiend. But how if an angel should undertake the\ncase? And angelic was the ear of Milton. Many are the _prima facie_\nanomalous lines in Milton; many are the suspicious lines, which in many a\nbook I have seen many a critic peering into, with eyes made up for\nmischief, yet with a misgiving that all was not quite safe, very much\nlike an old raven looking down a marrow-bone. In fact, such is the\nmetrical skill of the man, and such the perfection of his metrical\nsensibility, that, on any attempt to take liberties with a passage of his,\nyou feel as when coming, in a forest, upon what seems a dead lion; perhaps\nhe may _not_ be dead, but only sleeping; nay, perhaps he may _not_ be\nsleeping, but only shamming. And you have a jealousy, as to Milton, even\nin the most flagrant case of almost palpable error, that, after all, there\nmay be a plot in it. You may be put down with shame by some man reading\nthe line otherwise, reading it with a different emphasis, a different\ncaesura, or perhaps a different suspension of the voice, so as to bring\nout a new and self-justifying effect. It must be added, that, in\nreviewing Milton's metre, it is quite necessary to have such books as\n'Nare's English Orthoepy' (_in a late edition_), and others of that\nclass, lying on the table; because the accentuation of Milton's age was,\nin many words, entirely different from ours. And Mr. Landor is not free\nfrom some suspicion of inattention as to this point. Over and above his\naccentual difference, the practice of our elder dramatists in the\nresolution of the final _tion_ (which now is uniformly pronounced\n_shon_), will be found exceedingly important to the appreciation of a\nwriter's verse. Contribution, which now is necessarily pronounced as a\nword of four syllables, would then, in verse, have five, being read into\ncon-tri-bu-ce-on. Many readers will recollect another word, which for\nyears brought John Kemble into hot water with the pit of Drury Lane. It\nwas the plural of the word ache. This is generally made a dissyllable by\nthe Elizabethan dramatists; it occurs in the 'Tempest.' Prospero says--\n\n  'I'll fill thy bones with aches.'\n\nWhat follows, which I do not remember _literatim_, is such metrically\nas to _require_ two syllables for aches. But how, then, was this to\nbe pronounced? Kemble thought _akies_ would sound ludicrous; _aitches_\ntherefore he called it: and always the pit howled like a famished\n_menagerie_, as they did also when he chose (and he constantly chose) to\npronounce _beard_ like _bird_. Many of these niceties must be known,\nbefore a critic can ever allow _himself_ to believe that he is right in\n_obelizing_, or in marking with so much as a ? any verse whatever of\nMilton's. And there are some of these niceties, I am satisfied, not even\nyet fully investigated.\n\nIt is, however, to be borne in mind, after all allowances and provisional\nreservations have been made that Bentley's hypothesis (injudiciously as it\nwas managed by that great scholar) has really a truth of fact to stand\nupon. Not only must Milton have composed his three greatest poems, the two\n'Paradises, and the 'Samson,' in a state of blindness--but subsequently,\nin the correction of the proofs, he must have suffered still more from\nthis conflict with darkness and, consequently, from this dependence upon\ncareless readers. This is Bentley's case: as lawyers say: 'My lord, that\nis my case.' It is possible enough to write correctly in the dark, as I\nmyself often do, when losing or missing my lucifers--which, like some\nelder lucifers, are always rebelliously straying into place where they\n_can_ have no business. But it is quite impossible to _correct a proof_ in\nthe dark. At least, if there _is_ such an art, it must be a section of the\nblack art. Bentley gained from Pope that admirable epithet of _slashing,\n['the ribbalds--from slashing Bentley down to piddling Theobalds_,' i.e.\n_Tibbulds_ as it was pronounced], altogether from his edition of the\n'Paradise Lost.' This the doctor founded on his own hypothesis as to the\nadvantage taken of Milton's blindness; and corresponding was the havoc\nwhich he made of the text. In fact, on the really just allegation that\nMilton must have used the services of an amanuensis; and the plausible one\nthat this amanuensis, being often weary of his task, would be likely to\nneglect punctilious accuracy; and the most improbable allegation that this\nweary person would also be very conceited, and add much rubbish of his\nown; Bentley resigned himself luxuriously, without the whisper of a\nscruple, to his own sense of what was or was not poetic, which sense\nhappened to be that of the adder for music. The deaf adder heareth not\nthough the musician charm ever so wisely. No scholarship, which so far\nbeyond other men Bentley had, could gain him the imaginative sensibility\nwhich, in a degree so far beyond average men, he wanted. Consequently, the\nworld never before beheld such a scene of massacre as his 'Paradise Lost'\nexhibited. He laid himself down to his work of extermination like the\nbrawniest of reapers going in steadily with his sickle, coat stripped off,\nand shirt sleeves tucked up, to deal with an acre of barley. One duty, and\nno other, rested upon _his_ conscience; one voice he heard--Slash away,\nand hew down the rotten growths of this abominable amanuensis. The carnage\nwas like that after a pitched battle. The very finest passages in every\nbook of the poem were marked by italics, as dedicated to fire and\nslaughter. 'Slashing Dick' went through the whole forest, like a woodman\nmarking with white paint the giant trees that must all come down in a\nmonth or so. And one naturally reverts to a passage in the poem itself,\nwhere God the Father is supposed to say to his Filial assessor on the\nheavenly throne, when marking the desolating progress of Sin and Death,--\n\n  'See with what havoc these fell dogs advance\n  To ravage this fair world.'\n\nBut still this inhuman extravagance of Bentley, in following out his\nhypothesis, does not exonerate _us_ from bearing in mind so much\ntruth as that hypothesis really must have had, from the pitiable\ndifficulties of the great poet's situation.\n\nMy own opinion, therefore, upon the line, for instance, from 'Paradise\nRegained,' which Mr. Landor appears to have indicated for the reader's\namazement, viz.:--\n\n  'As well might recommend\n  _Such solitude before choicest society_,'\n\nis--that it escaped revision from some accident calling off the ear of\nMilton whilst in the act of having the proof read to him. Mr. Landor\nsilently prints it in italics, without assigning his objection; but, of\ncourse that objection must be--that the line has one foot too much. It is\nan Alexandrine, such as Dryden scattered so profusely, without asking\nhimself why; but which Milton never tolerates except in the choruses of\nthe Samson.\n\n  '_Not difficult, if thou hearken to me_'--\n\nis one of the lines which Mr. Landor thinks that 'no authority will\nreconcile' to our ears. I think otherwise. The caesura is meant to fall\nnot with the comma after _difficult _, but after _thou_; and there is a\nmost effective and grand suspension intended. It is Satan who speaks--\nSatan in the wilderness; and he marks, as he wishes to mark, the\ntremendous opposition of attitude between the two parties to the\ntemptation.\n\n  'Not difficult if thou----'\n\nthere let the reader pause, as if pulling up suddenly four horses in\nharness, and throwing them on their haunches--not difficult if thou (in\nsome mysterious sense the son of God); and then, as with a burst of\nthunder, again giving the reins to your _quadriga_,\n\n  '----hearken to me:'\n\nthat is, to me, that am the Prince of the Air, and able to perform all my\npromises for those that hearken to any temptations.\n\nTwo lines are cited under the same ban of irreconcilability to our ears,\nbut on a very different plea. The first of these lines is--\n\n  '_Launcelot, or Pellias, or Pellinore;_'\n\nThe other\n\n  _'Quintius, Fabricius, Curius, Regulus._'\n\nThe reader will readily suppose that both are objected to as 'roll-calls\nof proper names.' Now, it is very true that nothing is more offensive to\nthe mind than the practice of mechanically packing into metrical\nsuccessions, as if packing a portmanteau, names without meaning or\nsignificance to the feelings. No man ever carried that atrocity so far as\nBoileau, a fact of which Mr. Landor is well aware; and slight is the\nsanction or excuse that can be drawn from _him_. But it must not be\nforgotten that Virgil, so scrupulous in finish of composition, committed\nthis fault. I remember a passage ending\n\n  '----Noemonaque Prytaninque;'\n\nbut, having no Virgil within reach, I cannot at this moment quote it\naccurately. Homer, with more excuse, however, from the rudeness of his\nage, is a deadly offender in this way. But the cases from Milton are very\ndifferent. Milton was incapable of the Homeric or Virgilian blemish. The\nobjection to such rolling musketry of names is, that unless interspersed\nwith epithets, or broken into irregular groups by brief circumstances of\nparentage, country, or romantic incident, they stand audaciously perking\nup their heads like lots in a catalogue, arrow-headed palisades, or young\nlarches in a nursery ground, all occupying the same space, all drawn up in\nline, all mere iterations of each other. But in\n\n  '_Quintius, Fabricius, Curius, Regulus,_'\n\nthough certainly not a good line _when insulated_ (better, however,\nin its connection with the entire succession of which it forms part), the\napology is, that the massy weight of the separate characters enables them\nto stand like granite pillars or pyramids, proud of their self-supporting\nindependency.\n\nMr. Landor makes one correction by a simple improvement in the\npunctuation, which has a very fine effect. Rarely has so large a result\nbeen distributed through a sentence by so slight a change. It is in the\n'Samson.' Samson says, speaking of himself (as elsewhere) with that\nprofound pathos, which to all hearts invests Milton's own situation in the\ndays of his old age, when he was composing that drama--\n\n  'Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him\n  _Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves._'\n\nThus it is usually printed; that is, without a comma in the latter line;\nbut, says Landor, 'there ought to be commas after _eyeless_, after\n_Gaza_, after _mill_.' And why? because thus 'the grief of Samson is\naggravated at every member of the sentence.' He (like Milton) was--1.\nblind; 2. in a city of triumphant enemies; 3. working for daily bread; 4.\nherding with slaves; Samson literally, and Milton with those whom\npolitically he regarded as such.\n\nMr. Landor is perfectly wrong, I must take the liberty of saying, when he\ndemurs to the line in Paradise Regained:\n\n  '_From that placid aspect and meek regard,_'\n\non the ground that; '_meek regard_ conveys no new idea to _placid\naspect_.' But _aspect_ is the countenance of Christ when passive\nto the gaze of others: _regard_ is the same countenance in active\ncontemplation of those others whom he loves or pities. The _placid\naspect_ expresses, therefore, the divine rest; the _meek regard_\nexpresses the divine benignity: the one is the self-absorption of the\ntotal Godhead, the other the eternal emanation of the Filial Godhead.\n\n'By what ingenuity,' says Landor, 'can we erect into a verse--\n\n  \"_In the bosom of bliss, and light of light?_'\"\n\nNow really it is by my watch exactly three minutes too late for _him_\nto make that objection. The court cannot receive it now; for the line just\nthis moment cited, the ink being hardly yet dry, is of the same identical\nstructure. The usual iambic flow is disturbed in both lines by the very\nsame ripple, viz., a trochee in the second foot, _placid_ in the one\nline, _bosom_ in the other. They are a sort of _snags_, such as lie in the\ncurrent of the Mississippi. _There_, they do nothing but mischief. Here,\nwhen the lines are read in their entire _nexus_, the disturbance stretches\nforwards and backwards with good effect on the music. Besides, if it did\n_not_, one is willing to take a _snag_ from Milton, but one does not\naltogether like being _snagged_ by the Mississippi. One sees no particular\nreason for bearing it, if one only knew how to be revenged on a river.\n\nBut, of these metrical skirmishes, though full of importance to the\nimpassioned text of a great poet (for mysterious is the life that connects\nall modes of passion with rhythmus), let us suppose the casual reader to\nhave had enough. And now at closing for the sake of change, let us treat\nhim to a harlequin trick upon another theme. Did the reader ever happen to\nsee a sheriff's officer arresting an honest gentleman, who was doing no\nmanner of harm to gentle or simple, and immediately afterwards a second\nsheriff's officer arresting the first--by which means that second officer\nmerits for himself a place in history; for at the same moment he liberates\na deserving creature (since an arrested officer cannot possibly bag his\nprisoner), and he also avenges the insult put upon that worthy man?\nPerhaps the reader did _not_ ever see such a sight; and, growing personal,\nhe asks _me_, in return, if _I_ ever saw it. To say the truth, I never\n_did_; except once, in a too-flattering dream; and though I applauded so\nloudly as even to waken myself, and shouted '_encore_,' yet all went for\nnothing; and I am still waiting for that splendid exemplification of\nretributive justice. But why? Why should it be a spectacle so uncommon?\nFor surely those official arresters of men must want arresting at times as\nwell as better people. At least, however, _en attendant_ one may luxuriate\nin the vision of such a thing; and the reader shall now see such a vision\nrehearsed. He shall see Mr. Landor arresting Milton--Milton, of all men!--\nfor a flaw in his Roman erudition; and then he shall see me instantly\nstepping up, tapping Mr. Landor on the shoulder, and saying, 'Officer,\nyou're wanted;' whilst to Milton I say, touching my hat, 'Now, sir, be\noff; run for your life, whilst I hold his man in custody, lest he should\nfasten on you again.'\n\nWhat Milton had said, speaking of the '_watchful_ cherubim,' was--\n\n             'Four faces each\n  Had, _like a double Janus_;'\n\nUpon which Southey--but, of course, Landor, ventriloquizing through\nSouthey--says, 'Better left this to the imagination: double Januses are\nqueer figures.' Not at all. On the contrary, they became so common, that\nfinally there were no other. Rome, in her days of childhood, contented\nherself with a two-faced Janus; but, about the time of the first or second\nCaesar, a very ancient statue of Janus was exhumed, which had four faces.\nEver afterwards, this sacred resurgent statue became the model for any\npossible Janus that could show himself in good company. The _quadrifrons\nJanus_ was now the orthodox Janus; and it would have been as much a\nsacrilege to rob him of any single face as to rob a king's statue [2] of\nits horse. One thing may recall this to Mr. Landor's memory. I think it\nwas Nero, but certainly it was one of the first six Caesars, that built,\nor that finished, a magnificent temple to Janus; and each face was so\nmanaged as to point down an avenue leading to a separate market-place.\nNow, that there were _four_ market-places, I will make oath before\nany Justice of the Peace. One was called the _Forum Julium_, one the\n_Forum Augustum_, a third the _Forum Transitorium_: what the fourth was\ncalled is best known to itself, for really I forget. But if anybody says\nthat perhaps it was called the _Forum Landorium_, I am not the man to\nobject; for few names have deserved such an honor more, whether from those\nthat then looked forward into futurity with one face, or from our\nposterity that will look back into the vanishing past with another.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n[1] _Squatters_:--They are a sort of self-elected warming-pans. What\nwe in England mean by the political term '_warming-pans_,' are men\nwho occupy, by consent, some official place, or Parliamentary seat, until\nthe proper claimant is old enough in law to assume his rights. When the\ntrue man comes to bed, the warming-pan respectfully turns out. But these\nultra-marine warming-pans _wouldn't_ turn out. They showed fight, and\nwouldn't hear of the true man, even as a bed-fellow.\n\n[2] _A king's statue_:--Till very lately the etiquette of Europe was,\nthat none but royal persons could have equestrian statues. Lord Hopetoun,\nthe reader will object, is allowed to have a horse, in St. Andrew's\nSquare, Edinburgh. True, but observe that he is not allowed to mount him.\nThe first person, so far as I remember, that, not being royal, has, in our\nisland, seated himself comfortably in the saddle, is the Duke of\nWellington.\n\n\n\n\nFALSIFICATION OF ENGLISH HISTORY.\n\n\nI am myself, and always have been, a member of the Church of England, and\nam grieved to hear the many attacks against the Church [frequently most\nilliberal attacks], which not so much religion as political rancor gives\nbirth to in every third journal that I take up. This I say to acquit\nmyself of all dishonorable feelings, such as I would abhor to co-operate\nwith, in bringing a very heavy charge against that great body in its\nliterary capacity. Whosoever has reflected on the history of the English\nconstitution--must be aware that the most important stage of its\ndevelopment lies within the reign of Charles I. It is true that the\njudicial execution of that prince has been allowed by many persons to\nvitiate all that was done by the heroic parliament of November, 1640: and\nthe ordinary histories of England assume as a matter of course that the\nwhole period of parliamentary history through those times is to be\nregarded as a period of confusion. Our constitution, say they, was formed\nin 1688-9. Meantime it is evident to any reflecting man that the\nrevolution simply re-affirmed the principles developed in the strife\nbetween the two great parties which had arisen in the reign of James I.,\nand had ripened and come to issue with each other in the reign of his son.\nOur constitution was not a birth of a single instant, as they would\nrepresent it, but a gradual growth and development through a long tract of\ntime. In particular the doctrine of the king's vicarious responsibility in\nthe person of his ministers, which first gave a sane and salutary meaning\nto the doctrine of the king's personal irresponsibility ['The king can do\nno wrong'], arose undeniably between 1640 and 1648. This doctrine is the\nmain pillar of our constitution, and perhaps the finest discovery that was\never made in the theory of government. Hitherto the doctrine _that the\nKing can do no wrong_ had been used not to protect the indispensable\nsanctity of the king's constitutional character, but to protect the wrong.\nUsed in this way, it was a maxim of Oriental despotism, and fit only for a\nnation where law had no empire. Many of the illustrious patriots of the\nGreat Parliament saw this; and felt the necessity of abolishing a maxim so\nfatal to the just liberties of the people. But some of them fell into the\nopposite error of supposing that this abolition could be effected only by\nthe direct negation of it; _their_ maxim accordingly was--'The king\n_can_ do wrong,' _i.e._ is responsible in his own person. In this great\nerror even the illustrious wife of Colonel Hutchinson participated; [1]\nand accordingly she taxes those of her own party who scrupled to accede to\nthe new maxim, and still adhered to the old one, with unconscientious\ndealing. But she misapprehended their meaning, and failed to see where\nthey laid the emphasis: the emphasis was not laid, as it was by the royal\nparty, on the words 'can do no _wrong_'--but on 'The king:' that is, wrong\nmay be done; and in the king's name; but it cannot be the king who did it\n[the king cannot constitutionally be supposed the person who did it]. By\nthis exquisite political refinement, the old tyrannical maxim was disarmed\nof its sting; and the entire redress of all wrong, so indispensable to the\npopular liberty, was brought into perfect reconciliation with the entire\ninviolability of the sovereign, which is no less indispensable to the\npopular liberty. There is moreover a double wisdom in the new sense: for\nnot only is one object [the redress of wrong] secured in conjunction with\nanother object [the king's inviolability] hitherto held irreconcilable,--\nbut even with a view to the first object alone a much more effectual means\nis applied, because one which leads to no schism in the state, than could\nhave been applied by the blank negation of the maxim; _i.e._ by lodging\nthe responsibility exactly where the executive power [_ergo_ the power of\nresisting this responsibility] was lodged. Here then is one example in\nillustration of my thesis--that the English constitution was in a great\nmeasure gradually evolved in the contest between the different parties in\nthe reign of Charles I. Now, if this be so, it follows that for\nconstitutional history no period is so important as that: and indeed,\nthough it is true that the Revolution is the great era for the\nconstitutional historian, because he there first finds the constitution\nfully developed as the 'bright consummate _flower_,' and what is equally\nimportant he there first finds the principles of our constitution\n_ratified_ by a competent authority,--yet, to trace the _root_ and growth\nof the constitution, the three reigns immediately preceding are still more\nproperly the objects of his study. In proportion then as the reign of\nCharles I. is Important to the history of our constitution, in that\nproportion are those to be taxed with the most dangerous of all possible\nfalsifications of our history, who have misrepresented either the facts or\nthe principles of those times. Now I affirm that the clergy of the Church\nof England have been in a perpetual conspiracy since the era of the\nrestoration to misrepresent both. As an illustration of what I mean I\nrefer to the common edition of Hudibras by Dr. Grey: for the proof I might\nrefer to some thousands of books. Dr. Grey's is a disgusting case: for he\nswallowed with the most anile credulity every story, the most extravagant\nthat the malice of those times could invent against either the\nPresbyterians or the Independents: and for this I suppose amongst other\ndeformities his notes were deservedly ridiculed by Warburton. But, amongst\nhundreds of illustrations more respectable than Dr. Grey's I will refer\nthe reader to a work of our own days, the Ecclesiastical Biography [in\npart a republication of Walton's Lives] edited by the present master of\nTrinity College, Cambridge, who is held in the highest esteem wherever he\nis known, and is I am persuaded perfectly conscientious and as impartial\nas in such a case it is possible for a high churchman to be. Yet so it is\nthat there is scarcely one of the notes having any political reference to\nthe period of 1640-1660, which is not disfigured by unjust prejudices: and\nthe amount of the moral which the learned editor grounds upon the\ndocuments before him--is this, that the young student is to cherish the\ndeepest abhorrence and contempt of all who had any share on the\nparliamentary side in the 'confusions' of the period from 1640 to 1660:\nthat is to say of men to whose immortal exertions it was owing that the\nvery revolution of 1688, which Dr. W. will be the first to applaud, found\nus with any such stock of political principles or feelings as could make a\nbeneficial revolution possible. Where, let me ask, would have been the\nwillingness of some Tories to construe the flight of James II. into a\nvirtual act of abdication, or to consider even the most formal act of\nabdication binding against the king,-had not the great struggle of\nCharles's days gradually substituted in the minds of all parties a\nrational veneration of the king's _office_ for the old superstition\nin behalf of the king's _person_, which would have protected him from\nthe effects of any acts however solemnly performed which affected\ninjuriously either his own interests or the liberties of his people.\nTempora mutantur: _nos et mutamur in illis_. Those whom we find in\nfierce opposition to the popular party about 1640 we find still in the\nsame personal opposition fifty years after, but an opposition resting on\nfar different principles: insensibly the principles of their antagonists\nhad reached even them: and a courtier of 1689 was willing to concede more\nthan a patriot of 1630 would have ventured to ask. Let me not be\nunderstood to mean that true patriotism is at all more shown in supporting\nthe rights of the people than those of the king: as soon as both are\ndefined and limited, the last are as indispensable to the integrity of the\nconstitution--as the first: and popular freedom itself would suffer as\nmuch, though indirectly, from an invasion of Caesar's rights--as by a more\ndirect attack on itself. But in the 17th century the rights of the people\nwere as yet _not_ defined: throughout that century they were gradually\ndefining themselves--and, as happiness to all great practical interests,\ndefining themselves through a course of fierce and bloody contests. For\nthe kingly rights are almost inevitably carried too high in ages of\nimperfect civilization: and the well-known laws of Henry the Seventh, by\nwhich he either broke or gradually sapped the power of the aristocracy,\nhad still more extravagantly exalted them. On this account it is just to\nlook upon democratic or popular politics as identical in the 17th century\nwith patriotic politics. In later periods, the democrat and the patriot\nhave sometimes been in direct opposition to each other: at that period\nthey were inevitably in conjunction. All this, however, is in general\noverlooked by those who either write English history or comment upon it.\nMost writers _of_ or _upon_ English history proceed either upon servile\nprinciples, or upon no principles: and a good _Spirit of English History_,\nthat is, a history which should abstract the tendencies and main results\n[as to laws, manners, and constitution] from every age of English history,\nis a work which I hardly hope to see executed. For it would require the\nconcurrence of some philosophy, with a great deal of impartiality. How\nidly do we say, in speaking of the events of our own time which affect our\nparty feelings,--'We stand too near to these events for an impartial\nestimate: we must leave them to the judgment of posterity!' For it is a\nfact that of the many books of memoirs written by persons who were not\nmerely contemporary with the great civil war, but actors and even leaders\nin its principal scenes--there is hardly one which does not exhibit a more\nimpartial picture of that great drama than the histories written at his\nday. The historian of Popery does not display half so much zealotry and\npassionate prejudice in speaking of the many events which have affected\nthe power and splendor of the Papal See for the last thirty years, and\nunder his own eyes, as he does when speaking of a reformer who lived three\ncenturies ago--of a translator of the Bible into a vernacular tongue who\nlived nearly five centuries ago--of an Anti-pope--of a Charlemagne or a\nGregory the Great still further removed from himself. The recent events he\nlooks upon as accidental and unessential: but in the great enemies, or\ngreat founders of the Romish temporal power, and in the history of their\nactions and their motives, he feels that the whole principle of the Romish\ncause and its pretensions are at stake. Pretty much under the same feeling\nhave modern writers written with a rancorous party spirit of the political\nstruggles in the 17th century: here they fancy that they can detect the\n_incunabula_ of the revolutionary spirit: here some have been so\nsharpsighted as to read the features of pure jacobinism: and others [2]\nhave gone so far as to assert that all the atrocities of the French\nrevolution had their direct parallelisms in acts done or countenanced by\nthe virtuous and august Senate of England in 1640! Strange distortion of\nthe understanding which can thus find a brotherly resemblance between two\ngreat historical events, which of all that ever were put on record stand\noff from each other in most irreconcilable enmity: the one originating, as\nMr. Coleridge has observed, in excess of principle; the other in the utter\ndefect of all moral principle whatever; and the progress of each being\nanswerable to its origin! Yet so it is. And not a memoir-writer of that\nage is reprinted in this, but we have a preface from some red-hot Anti-\njacobin warning us with much vapid common-place from the mischiefs and\neventual anarchy of too rash a spirit of reform as displayed in the French\nrevolution--_not_ by the example of that French revolution, but by that of\nour own in the age of Charles I. The following passage from the\nIntroduction to Sir William Waller's Vindication published in 1793, may\nserve as a fair instance: 'He' (Sir W. Waller) 'was, indeed, at length\nsensible of the misery which he had contributed to bring on his country;'\n(by the way, it is a suspicious circumstance--that Sir William [3] first\nbecame sensible that his country was miserable, when he became sensible\nthat he himself was not likely to be again employed; and became fully\nconvinced of it, when his party lost their ascendancy:) 'he was convinced,\nby fatal experience, that anarchy was a bad step towards a perfect\ngovernment; that the subversion of every establishment was no safe\nfoundation for a permanent and regular constitution: he found that\npretences of reform were held up by the designing to dazzle the eyes of\nthe unwary, &c.; he found in short that reformation, by popular\ninsurrection, must end in the destruction and cannot tend to the formation\nof a regular Government.' After a good deal more of this well-meaning\ncant, the Introduction concludes with the following sentence:--the writer\nis addressing the reformers of 1793, amongst whom--'both leaders and\nfollowers,' he says, 'may together reflect--that, upon speculative and\nvisionary reformers,' (_i.e._ those of 1640) 'the severest punishment\nwhich God in his vengeance ever yet inflicted--was to curse them with the\ncomplete gratification of their own inordinate desires.' I quote this\npassage--not as containing any thing singular, but for the very reason\nthat it is _not_ singular: it expresses in fact the universal opinion:\nnotwithstanding which I am happy to say that it is false. What 'complete\ngratification of their own desires' was ever granted to the 'reformers' in\nquestion? On the contrary, it is well known (and no book illustrates that\nparticular fact so well as Sir William Waller's) that as early as 1647 the\narmy had too effectually subverted the just relations between itself and\nparliament--not to have suggested fearful anticipations to all discerning\npatriots of that unhappy issue which did in reality blight their\nprospects. And, when I speak of an 'unhappy issue,' I would be understood\nonly of the immediate issue: for the remote issue was--the revolution of\n1688, as I have already asserted. Neither is it true that even the\nimmediate issue was 'unhappy' to any extent which can justify the ordinary\nlanguage in which it is described. Here again is a world of delusions. We\nhear of 'anarchy,' of 'confusions,' of 'proscriptions,' of 'bloody and\nferocious tyranny.' All is romance; there was no anarchy; no confusions;\nno proscriptions; no tyranny in the sense designed. The sequestrations,\nforfeitures, and punishments of all sorts which were inflicted by the\nconquering party on their antagonists--went on by due course of law; and\nthe summary justice of courts martial was not resorted to in England:\nexcept for the short term of the two wars, and the brief intermediate\ncampaign of 1648, the country was in a very tranquil state. Nobody was\npunished without an open trial; and all trials proceeded in the regular\ncourse, according to the ancient forms, and in the regular courts of\njustice. And as to 'tyranny,' which is meant chiefly of the acts of\nCromwell's government, it should be remembered that the Protectorate\nlasted not a quarter of the period in question (1640-1660); a fact which\nis constantly forgotten even by very eminent writers, who speak as though\nCromwell had drawn his sword in January 1649--cut off the king's head--\ninstantly mounted his throne--and continued to play the tyrant for the\nwhole remaining period of his life (nearly ten years). Secondly, as to the\n_kind_ of tyranny which Cromwell exercised, the misconception is\nludicrous: continental writers have a notion, well justified by the\nlanguage of English writers, that Cromwell was a ferocious savage who\nbuilt his palace of human skulls and desolated his country. Meantime, he\nwas simply a strong-minded--rough-built Englishman, with a character\nthoroughly English, and exceedingly good-natured. Gray valued himself upon\nhis critical knowledge of English history: yet how thoughtlessly does he\nexpress the abstract of Cromwell's life in the line on the village\nCromwell--'Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood!' How was\nCromwell guilty of his country's blood? What blood did he cause to be\nshed? A great deal was shed no doubt in the wars (though less, by the way,\nthan is imagined): but in those Cromwell was but a servant of the\nparliament: and no one will allege that he had any hand in causing a\nsingle war. After he attained the sovereign power, no more domestic wars\narose: and as to a few persons who were executed for plots and\nconspiracies against his person, they were condemned upon evidence openly\ngiven and by due course of law. With respect to the general character of\nhis government, it is evident that in the unsettled and revolutionary\nstate of things which follows a civil war some critical cases will arise\nto demand an occasional 'vigor beyond the law'--such as the Roman\ngovernment allowed of in the dictatorial power. But in general, Cromwell's\ngovernment was limited by law: and no reign in that century, prior to the\nrevolution, furnishes fewer instances of attempts to tamper with the laws\n--to overrule them--to twist them to private interpretations--or to\ndispense with them. As to his major-generals of counties, who figure in\nmost histories of England as so many _Ali Pachas_ that impaled a few\nprisoners every morning before breakfast--or rather as so many ogres that\nate up good Christian men, women and children alive, they were\ndisagreeable people who were disliked much in the same way as our\ncommissioners of the income-tax were disliked in the memory of us all; and\nheartily they would have laughed at the romantic and bloody masquerade in\nwhich they are made to figure in the English histories. What then was the\n'tyranny' of Cromwell's government, which is confessedly complained of\neven in those days? The word 'tyranny' was then applied not so much to the\nmode in which his power was administered (except by the prejudiced)--as to\nits origin. However mercifully a man may reign,--yet, if he have no right\nto reign at all, we may in one sense call him a tyrant; his power not\nbeing justly derived, and resting upon an unlawful (_i.e._ a military)\nbasis. As a usurper, and one who had diverted the current of a grand\nnational movement to selfish and personal objects, Cromwell was and\nwill be called a tyrant; but not in the more obvious sense of the word.\nSuch are the misleading statements which disfigure the History of England\nin its most important chapter. They mislead by more than a simple error of\nfact: those, which I have noticed last, involve a moral anachronism; for\nthey convey images of cruelty and barbarism such as could not co-exist\nwith the national civilization at that time; and whosoever has not\ncorrected this false picture by an acquaintance with the English\nliterature of that age, must necessarily image to himself a state of\nsociety as rude and uncultured as that which prevailed during the wars of\nYork and Lancaster--_i.e._ about two centuries earlier. But those,\nwith which I introduced this article, are still worse; because they\ninvolve an erroneous view of constitutional history, and a most\ncomprehensive act of ingratitude: the great men of the Long Parliament\npaid a heavy price for their efforts to purchase for their descendants a\nbarrier to irresponsible power and security from the anarchy of undefined\nregal prerogative: in these efforts most of them made shipwreck of their\nown tranquillity and peace; that such sacrifices were made unavailingly\n(as it must have seemed to themselves), and that few of them lived to see\nthe 'good old cause' finally triumphant, does not cancel their claims upon\nour gratitude--but rather strengthen them by the degree in which it\naggravated the difficulty of bearing such sacrifices with patience. But\nwhence come these falsifications of history? I believe, from two causes;\nfirst (as I have already said) from the erroneous tone impressed upon the\nnational history by the irritated spirit of the clergy of the established\nchurch: to the religious zealotry of those times--the church was the\nobject of especial attack; and its members were naturally exposed to heavy\nsufferings: hence their successors are indisposed to find my good in a\ncause which could lead to such a result. It is their manifest right to\nsympathize with their own order in that day; and in such a case it is\nalmost their duty to be incapable of an entire impartiality. Meantime they\nhave carried this much too far: the literature of England must always be\nin a considerable proportion lodged in their hands; and the extensive\nmeans thus placed at their disposal for injuriously coloring that\nimportant part of history they have used with no modesty or forbearance.\nThere is not a page of the national history even in its local subdivisions\nwhich they have not stained with the atrabilious hue of their wounded\nremembrances: hardly a town in England, which stood a siege for the king\nor the parliament, but has some printed memorial of its constancy and its\nsufferings; and in nine cases out of ten the editor is a clergyman of the\nestablished church, who has contrived to deepen 'the sorrow of the time'\nby the harshness of his commentary. Surely it is high time that the wounds\nof the 17th century should close; that history should take a more\ncommanding and philosophic station; and that brotherly charity should now\nlead us to a saner view of constitutional politics; or a saner view of\npolitics to a more comprehensive charity. The other cause of this\nfalsification springs out of a selfishness which has less claim to any\nindulgence--viz. the timidity with which the English Whigs of former days\nand the party to whom They [4] succeeded, constantly shrank from\nacknowledging any alliance with the great men of the Long Parliament under\nthe nervous horror of being confounded with the regicides of 1649. It was\nof such urgent importance to them, for any command over the public\nsupport, that they should acquit themselves of an sentiment of lurking\ntoleration for regicide, with which their enemies never failed to load\nthem, that no mode of abjuring it seemed sufficiently emphatic to them\nhence it was that Addison, with a view to the interest of his party,\nthought fit when in Switzerland, to offer a puny insult to the memory of\nGeneral Ludlow; hence it is that even in our own days, no writers have\ninsulted Milton with so much bitterness and shameless irreverence as the\nWhigs; though it is true that some few Whigs, more however in their\nliterary than in their political character, have stepped forward in his\nvindication. At this moment I recollect a passage in the writings of a\nmodern Whig bishop--in which, for the sake of creating a charge of\nfalsehood against Milton, the author has grossly mis-translated a passage\nin the _Defensio pro Pop. Anglicano_: and, if that bishop were not\ndead, I would here take the liberty of rapping his knuckles--were it only\nfor breaking Priscian's head. To return over to the clerical feud against\nthe Long Parliament,--it was a passage in a very pleasing work of this day\n(_Ecclesiastical Biography_) which suggested to me the whole of what\nI have now written. Its learned editor, who is incapable of uncandid\nfeelings except in what concerns the interests of his order, has adopted\nthe usual tone in regard to the men of 1640 throughout his otherwise\nvaluable annotations: and somewhere or other (in the Life of Hammond,\naccording to my remembrance) he has made a statement to this effect--That\nthe custom prevalent among children in that age of asking their parents'\nblessing was probably first brought into disuse by the Puritans. Is it\npossible to imagine a perversity of prejudice more unreasonable? The\nunamiable side of the patriotic character in the seventeenth century was\nunquestionably its religious bigotry; which, however, had its ground in a\nreal fervor of religious feeling and a real strength of religious\nprinciple somewhat exceeding the ordinary standard of the 19th century.\nBut, however palliated, their bigotry is not to be denied; it was often\noffensive from its excess; and ludicrous in its direction. Many harmless\ncustoms, many ceremonies and rituals that had a high positive value, their\nfrantic intolerance quarrelled with: and for my part I heartily join in\nthe sentiment of Charles II.--applying it as he did, but a good deal more\nextensively, that their religion 'was not a religion for a gentleman:'\nindeed all sectarianism, but especially that which has a modern origin--\narising and growing up within our own memories, unsupported by a grand\ntraditional history of persecutions--conflicts--and martyrdoms, lurking\nmoreover in blind alleys, holes, corners, and tabernacles, must appear\nspurious and mean in the eyes of him who has been bred up in the grand\nclassic forms of the Church of England or the Church of Rome. But, because\nthe bigotry of the Puritans was excessive and revolting, is _that_ a\nreason for fastening upon them all the stray evils of omission or\ncommission for which no distinct fathers can be found? The learned editor\ndoes not pretend that there is any positive evidence, or presumption even,\nfor imputing to the Puritans a dislike to the custom in question: but,\nbecause he thinks it a good custom, his inference is that nobody could\nhave abolished it but the Puritans. Now who does not see that, if this had\nbeen amongst the usages discountenanced by the Puritans, it would on that\naccount have been the more pertinaciously maintained by their enemies in\nchurch and state? Or, even if this usage were of a nature to be prohibited\nby authority, as the public use of the liturgy--organs--surplices, &c.,\nwho does not see that with regard to _that_ as well as to other\nPuritanical innovations there would have been a reflux of zeal in the\nrestoration of the king which would have established them in more strength\nthan ever? But it is evident to the unprejudiced that the usage in\nquestion gradually went out in submission to the altered spirit of the\ntimes. It was one feature of a general system of manners, fitted by its\npiety and simplicity for a pious and simple age, and which therefore even\nthe 17th century had already outgrown. It is not to be inferred that\nfilial affection and reverence have decayed amongst us, because they no\nlonger express themselves in the same way. In an age of imperfect culture,\nall passions and emotions are in a more elementary state--'speak a plainer\nlanguage'--and express themselves _externally_: in such an age the\nframe and constitution of society is more picturesque; the modes of life\nrest more undisguisedly upon the basis of the absolute and original\nrelation of things: the son is considered in his sonship, the father in\nhis fatherhood: and the manners take an appropriate coloring. Up to the\nmiddle of the 17th century there were many families in which the children\nnever presumed to sit down in their parents' presence. But with us, in an\nage of more complete intellectual culture, a thick disguise is spread over\nthe naked foundations of human life; and the instincts of good taste\nbanish from good company the expression of all the profounder emotions. A\nson therefore, who should kneel down in this age to ask his papa's\nblessing on leaving town for Brighton or Bath--would be felt by himself to\nbe making a theatrical display of filial duty, such as would be painful to\nhim in proportion as his feelings were sincere. All this would have been\nevident to the learned editor in any case but one which regarded the\nPuritans: they were at any rate to be molested: in default of any graver\nmatter, a mere fanciful grievance is searched out. Still, however, nothing\nwas effected; fanciful or real, the grievance must be connected with the\nPuritans: here lies the offence, there lies the Puritans: it would be very\nagreeable to find some means of connecting the one with the other: but how\nshall this be done? Why, in default of all other means, the learned editor\n_assumes_ the connection. He leaves the reader with an impression\nthat the Puritans are chargeable with a serious wound to the manners of\nthe nation in a point affecting the most awful of the household charities:\nand he fails to perceive that for this whole charge his sole ground is--\nthat it would be very agreeable to him if he had a ground. Such is the\npower of the _esprit de corps_ to palliate and recommend as colorable\nthe very weakest logic to a man of acknowledged learning and talent!--In\nconclusion I must again disclaim any want of veneration and entire\naffection for the Established Church: the very prejudices and injustice,\nwith which I tax the English clergy, have a generous origin: but it is\nright to point the attention of historical students to their strength and\nthe effect which they have had. They have been indulged to excess; they\nhave disfigured the grandest page in English history; they have hid the\ntrue descent and tradition of our constitutional history; and, by\nimpressing upon the literature of the country a false conception of the\npatriotic party in and out of Parliament, they have stood in the way of a\ngreat work,--a work which, according to my ideal of it, would be the most\nuseful that could just now be dedicated to the English public--viz. _a\nphilosophic record of the revolutions of English History_. The English\nConstitution, as proclaimed and ratified in 1688-9, is in its kind, the\nnoblest work of the human mind working in conjunction with Time, and what\nin such a case we may allowably call Providence. Of this _chef d'oeuvre_\nof human wisdom it were desirable that we should have a proportionable\nhistory: for such a history the great positive qualification would be a\nphilosophic mind: the great negative qualification would be this [which to\nthe established clergy may now be recommended as a fit subject for their\nmagnanimity]; viz. complete conquest over those prejudices which have\nhitherto discolored the greatest era of patriotic virtue by contemplating\nthe great men of that era under their least happy aspect--namely, in\nrelation to the Established Church.\n\nNow that I am on the subject of English History, I will notice one of the\nthousand mis-statements of Hume's which becomes a memorable one from the\nstress which he has laid upon it, and from the manner and situation in\nwhich he has introduced it. Standing in the current of a narrative, it\nwould have merited a silent correction in an unpretending note: but it\noccupies a much more assuming station; for it is introduced in a\nphilosophical essay; and being relied on for a particular purpose with the\nmost unqualified confidence, and being alleged in opposition to the very\nhighest authority [viz. the authority of an eminent person contemporary\nwith the fact] it must be looked on as involving a peremptory defiance to\nall succeeding critics who might hesitate between the authority of Mr.\nHume at the distance of a century from the facts and Sir William Temple\nspeaking to them as a matter within his personal recollections. Sir\nWilliam Temple had represented himself as urging in a conversation with\nCharles II., the hopelessness of any attempt on the part of an English\nking to make himself a despotic and absolute monarch, except indeed\nthrough the affections of his people. [5] This general thesis he had\nsupported by a variety of arguments; and, amongst the rest, he had\ndescribed himself as urging this--that even Cromwell had been unable to\nestablish himself in unlimited power, though supported by a military force\nof _eighty thousand men_. Upon this Hume calls the reader's attention\nto the extreme improbability which there must beforehand appear to be in\nsupposing that Sir W. Temple,--speaking of so recent a case, with so much\nofficial knowledge of that case at his command, uncontradicted moreover by\nthe king whose side in the argument gave him an interest in contradicting\nSir William's statement, and whose means of information were paramount to\nthose of all others,--could under these circumstances be mistaken.\nDoubtless, the reader will reply to Mr. Hume, the improbability _is_\nextreme, and scarcely to be invalidated by any possible authority--which,\nat best, must terminate in leaving an equilibrium of opposing evidence.\nAnd yet, says Mr. Hume, Sir William was unquestionably wrong, and grossly\nwrong: Cromwell never had an army at all approaching to the number of\neighty thousand. Now here is a sufficient proof that Hume had never read\nLord Clarendon's account of his own life: this book is not so common as\nhis 'History of the Rebellion;' and Hume had either not met with it, or\nhad neglected it. For, in the early part of this work, Lord Clarendon,\nspeaking of the army which was assembled on Blackheath to welcome the\nreturn of Charles II., says that it amounted to fifty thousand men: and,\nwhen it is remembered that this army was exclusive of the troops in\ngarrison--of the forces left by Monk in the North--and above all of the\nentire army in Ireland,--it cannot be doubted that the whole would amount\nto the number stated by Sir William Temple. Indeed Charles II. himself, in\nthe year 1678 [_i.e._ about four years after this conversation] as\nSir W. Temple elsewhere tells us, 'in six weeks' time raised an army of\ntwenty thousand men, the completest--and in all appearance the bravest\ntroops that could be any where seen, and might have raised many more; and\nit was confessed by all the Foreign Ministers that no king in Christendom\ncould have made and completed such a levy as this appeared in such a\ntime.' William III. again, about eleven years afterwards, raised twenty-\nthree regiments with the same ease and in the same space of six weeks. It\nmay be objected indeed to such cases, as in fact it _was_ objected to\nthe case of William III. by Howlett in his sensible Examination of Dr.\nPrice's Essay on the Population of England, that, in an age when\nmanufactures were so little extended, it could ever have been difficult to\nmake such a levy of men--provided there were funds for paying and\nequipping them. But, considering the extraordinary funds which were\ndisposable for this purpose in Ireland, &c. during the period of\nCromwell's Protectorate, we may very safely allow the combined authority\nof Sir William Temple--of the king--and of that very prime minister who\ndisbanded Cromwell's army, to outweigh the single authority of Hume at the\ndistance of a century from the facts. Upon any question of fact, indeed,\nHume's authority is none at all.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES.\n\n[1] This is remarked by her editor and descendant Julius Hutchinson, who\nadds some words to this effect--'that _if_ the patriot of that day\nwere the inventors of the maxim [_The king can do no wrong_], we are\nmuch indebted to them.' The patriots certainly did not invent the maxim,\nfor they found it already current: but they gave it its new and\nconstitutional sense. I refer to the book, however, as I do to almost all\nbooks in these notes, from memory; writing most of them in situations\nwhere I have no access to books. By the way, Charles I., who used the\nmaxim in the most odious sense, furnished the most colorable excuse for\nhis own execution. He constantly maintained the irresponsibility of his\nministers: but, if that were conceded, it would then follow that the king\nmust be made responsible in his own person:--and that construction led of\nnecessity to his trial and death.\n\n[2] Amongst these Mr. D'Israeli in one of the latter volumes of his\n'Curiosities of Literature' has dedicated a chapter or so to a formal\nproof of this proposition. A reader who is familiar with the history of\nthat age comes to the chapter with a previous indignation, knowing what\nsort of proof he has to expect. This indignation is not likely to be\nmitigated by what he will there find. Because some one madman, fool, or\nscoundrel makes a monstrous proposal--which dies of itself unsupported,\nand is in violent contrast to all the acts and the temper of those times,\n--this is to sully the character of the parliament and three-fourths of\nthe people of England. If this proposal had grown out of the spirit of the\nage, that spirit would have produced many more proposals of the same\ncharacter and acts corresponding to them. Yet upon this one infamous\nproposal, and two or three scandalous anecdotes from the libels of the\nday, does the whole onus of Mr. D'Israeli's parallel depend. _Tantamne\nrem tam negligenter?_--in the general character of an Englishman I have\na right to complain that so heavy an attack upon the honor of England and\nher most virtuous patriots in her most virtuous age should be made with so\nmuch levity: a charge so solemn in its matter should have been prosecuted\nwith a proportionate solemnity of manner. Mr. D'Israeli refers with just\napplause to the opinions of Mr. Coleridge: I wish that he would have\nallowed a little more weight to the striking passage in which that\ngentleman contrasts the French revolution with the English revolution of\n1640-8. However, the general tone of honor and upright principle, which\nmarks Mr. D'Israeli's' work, encourages me and others to hope that he will\ncancel the chapter--and not persist in wounding the honor of a great\npeople for the sake of a parallelism, which--even if it were true--is a\nthousand times too slight and feebly supported to satisfy the most\naccommodating reader.\n\n[3] Sir William and his cousin Sir Hardress Waller, were both remarkable\nmen. Sir Hardress had no conscience at all; Sir William a very scrupulous\none; which, however, he was for ever tampering with--and generally\nsucceeded in reducing into compliance with his immediate interest. He was,\nhowever, an accomplished gentleman: and as a man of talents worthy of the\nhighest admiration.\n\n[4] Until after the year 1688, I do not remember ever to have found the\nterm Whig applied except to the religious characteristics of that party:\nwhatever reference it might have to their political distinctions was only\nsecondary and by implication.\n\n[5] Sir William had quoted to Charles a saying from Gourville (a Frenchman\nwhom the king esteemed, and whom Sir William himself considered the only\nforeigner he had ever known that understood England) to this effect: 'That\na king of England who will be the man of his people, is the greatest king\nin the world; but, if he will be something more, by G-- he is nothing at\nall.'\n\n\n\n\nA PERIPATETIC PHILOSOPHER.\n\n\nHe was a man of very extraordinary genius. He has generally been treated\nby those who have spoken of him in print as a madman. But this is a\nmistake and must have been founded chiefly on the titles of his books. He\nwas a man of fervid mind and of sublime aspirations: but he was no madman;\nor, if he was, then I say that it is so far desirable to be a madman. In\n1798 or 1799, when I must have been about thirteen years old, Walking\nStewart was in Bath--where my family at that time resided. He frequented\nthe pump-room, and I believe all public places--walking up and down, and\ndispersing his philosophic opinions to the right and the left, like a\nGrecian philosopher. The first time I saw him was at a concert in the\nUpper Rooms; he was pointed out to me by one of my party as a very\neccentric man who had walked over the habitable globe. I remember that\nMadame Mara was at that moment singing: and Walking Stewart, who was a\ntrue lover of music (as I afterwards came to know), was hanging upon her\nnotes like a bee upon a jessamine flower. His countenance was striking,\nand expressed the union of benignity with philosophic habits of thought.\nIn such health had his pedestrian exercises preserved him, connected with\nhis abstemious mode of living, that though he must at that time have been\nconsiderably above forty, he did not look older than twenty-eight; at\nleast the face which remained upon my recollection for some years was that\nof a young man. Nearly ten years afterwards I became acquainted with him.\nDuring the interval I had picked up one of his works in Bristol,--viz. his\n_Travels to discover the Source of Moral Motion_, the second volume\nof which is entitled _The Apocalypse of Nature_. I had been greatly\nimpressed by the sound and original views which in the first volume he had\ntaken of the national characters throughout Europe. In particular he was\nthe first, and so far as I know the only writer who had noticed the\nprofound error of ascribing a phlegmatic character to the English nation.\n'English phlegm' is the constant expression of authors when contrasting\nthe English with the French. Now the truth is, that, beyond that of all\nother nations, it has a substratum of profound passion: and, if we are to\nrecur to the old doctrine of temperaments, the English character must be\nclassed not under the _phlegmatic_ but under the _melancholic_\ntemperament; and the French under the _sanguine_. The character of a\nnation may be judged of in this particular by examining its idiomatic\nlanguage. The French, in whom the lower forms of passion are constantly\nbubbling up from the shallow and superficial character of their feelings,\nhave appropriated all the phrases of passion to the service of trivial and\nordinary life: and hence they have no language of passion for the service\nof poetry or of occasions really demanding it: for it has been already\nenfeebled by continual association with cases of an unimpassioned order.\nBut a character of deeper passion has a perpetual standard in itself, by\nwhich as by an instinct it tries all cases, and rejects the language of\npassion as disproportionate and ludicrous where it is not fully justified.\n'Ah Heavens!' or 'Oh my God!' are exclamations with us so exclusively\nreserved for cases of profound interest,--that on hearing a woman even\n(i.e. a person of the sex most easily excited) utter such words, we look\nround expecting to see her child in some situation of danger. But, in\nFrance, 'Ciel!' and 'Oh mon Dieu!' are uttered by every woman if a mouse\ndoes but run across the floor. The ignorant and the thoughtless, however,\nwill continue to class the English character under the phlegmatic\ntemperament, whilst the philosopher will perceive that it is the exact\npolar antithesis to a phlegmatic character. In this conclusion, though\notherwise expressed and illustrated, Walking Stewart's view of the English\ncharacter will be found to terminate: and his opinion is especially\nvaluable--first and chiefly, because he was a philosopher; secondly,\nbecause his acquaintance with man civilized and uncivilized, under all\nnational distinctions, was absolutely unrivalled. Meantime, this and\nothers of his opinions were expressed in language that if literally\nconstrued would often appear insane or absurd. The truth is, his long\nintercourse with foreign nations had given something of a hybrid tincture\nto his diction; in some of his works, for instance, he uses the French\nword _helas!_ uniformly for the English _alas!_ and apparently with no\nconsciousness of his mistake. He had also this singularity about him\n--that he was everlastingly metaphysicizing against metaphysics. To me,\nwho was buried in metaphysical reveries from my earliest days, this was\nnot likely to be an attraction any more than the vicious structure of his\ndiction was likely to please my scholarlike taste. All grounds of disgust,\nhowever, gave way before my sense of his powerful merits; and, as I have\nsaid, I sought his acquaintance. Coming up to London from Oxford about\n1807 or 1808 I made inquiries about him; and found that he usually read\nthe papers at a coffee-room in Piccadilly: understanding that he was poor,\nit struck me that he might not wish to receive visits at his lodgings, and\ntherefore I sought him at the coffee-room. Here I took the liberty of\nintroducing myself to him. He received me courteously, and invited me to\nhis rooms--which at that time were in Sherrard-street, Golden-square--a\nstreet already memorable to me. I was much struck with the eloquence of\nhis conversation; and afterwards I found that Mr. Wordsworth, himself the\nmost eloquent of men in conversation, had been equally struck when he had\nmet him at Paris between the years 1790 and 1792, during the early storms\nof the French revolution. In Sherrard-street I visited him repeatedly, and\ntook notes of the conversations I had with him on various subjects. These\nI must have somewhere or other; and I wish I could introduce them here, as\nthey would interest the reader. Occasionally in these conversations, as in\nhis books, he introduced a few notices of his private history: in\nparticular I remember his telling me that in the East Indies he had been a\nprisoner of Hyder's: that he had escaped with some difficulty; and that,\nin the service of one of the native princes as secretary or interpreter,\nhe had accumulated a small fortune. This must have been too small, I fear,\nat that time to allow him even a philosopher's comforts: for some part of\nit, invested in the French funds, had been confiscated. I was grieved to\nsee a man of so much ability, of gentlemanly manners, and refined habits,\nand with the infirmity of deafness, suffering under such obvious\nprivations; and I once took the liberty, on a fit occasion presenting\nitself, of requesting that he would allow me to send him some books which\nhe had been casually regretting that he did not possess; for I was at that\ntime in the hey-day of my worldly prosperity. This offer, however, he\ndeclined with firmness and dignity, though not unkindly. And I now mention\nit, because I have seen him charged in print with a selfish regard to his\nown pecuniary interest. On the contrary, he appeared to me a very liberal\nand generous man: and I well remember that, whilst he refused to accept of\nany thing from me, he compelled me to receive as presents all the books\nwhich he published during my acquaintance with him: two of these,\ncorrected with his own hand, viz. the Lyre of Apollo and the Sophiometer,\nI have lately found amongst other books left in London; and others he\nforwarded to me in Westmoreland. In 1809 I saw him often: in the spring of\nthat year, I happened to be in London; and Mr. Wordsworth's tract on the\nConvention of Cintra being at that time in the printer's hands, I\nsuperintended the publication of it; and, at Mr. Wordsworth's request, I\nadded a long note on Spanish affairs which is printed in the Appendix. The\nopinions I expressed in this note on the Spanish character at that time\nmuch calumniated, on the retreat to Corunna then fresh in the public mind,\nabove all, the contempt I expressed for the superstition in respect to the\nFrench military prowess which was then universal and at its height, and\nwhich gave way in fact only to the campaigns of 1814 and 1815, fell in, as\nit happened, with Mr. Stewart's political creed in those points where at\nthat time it met with most opposition. In 1812 it was, I think, that I saw\nhim for the last time: and by the way, on the day of my parting with him,\nI had an amusing proof in my own experience of that sort of ubiquity\nascribed to him by a witty writer in the London Magazine: I met him and\nshook hands with him under Somerset-house, telling him that I should leave\ntown that evening for Westmoreland. Thence I went by the very shortest\nroad (_i.e._ through Moor-street, Soho--for I am learned in many\nquarters of London) towards a point which necessarily led me through\nTottenham-court-road: I stopped nowhere, and walked fast: yet so it was\nthat in Tottenham-court-road I was not overtaken by (_that_ was\ncomprehensible), but overtook, Walking Stewart. Certainly, as the above\nwriter alleges, there must have been three Walking Stewarts in London. He\nseemed no ways surprised at this himself, but explained to me that\nsomewhere or other in the neighborhood of Tottenham-court-road there was a\nlittle theatre, at which there was dancing and occasionally good singing,\nbetween which and a neighboring coffee-house he sometimes divided his\nevenings. Singing, it seems, he could hear in spite of his deafness. In\nthis street I took my final leave of him; it turned out such; and,\nanticipating at the time that it would be so, I looked after his white hat\nat the moment it was disappearing and exclaimed--'Farewell, thou half-\ncrazy and most eloquent man! I shall never see thy face again.' I did not\nintend, at that moment, to visit London again for some years: as it\nhappened, I was there for a short time in 1814: and then I heard, to my\ngreat satisfaction, that Walking Stewart had recovered a considerable sum\n(about 14,000 pounds I believe) from the East India Company; and from the\nabstract given in the London Magazine of the Memoir by his relation, I\nhave since learned that he applied this money most wisely to the purchase\nof an annuity, and that he 'persisted in living' too long for the peace of\nan annuity office. So fare all companies East and West, and all annuity\noffices, that stand opposed in interest to philosophers! In 1814, however,\nto my great regret, I did not see him; for I was then taking a great deal\nof opium, and never could contrive to issue to the light of day soon\nenough for a morning call upon a philosopher of such early hours; and in\nthe evening I concluded that he would be generally abroad, from what he\nhad formerly communicated to me of his own habits. It seems, however, that\nhe afterwards held _conversaziones_ at his own rooms; and did not\nstir out to theatres quite so much. From a brother of mine, who at one\ntime occupied rooms in the same house with him, I learned that in other\nrespects he did not deviate in his prosperity from the philosophic tenor\nof his former life. He abated nothing of his peripatetic exercises; and\nrepaired duly in the morning, as he had done in former years, to St.\nJames's Park,--where he sate in contemplative ease amongst the cows,\ninhaling their balmy breath and pursuing his philosophic reveries. He had\nalso purchased an organ, or more than one, with which he solaced his\nsolitude and beguiled himself of uneasy thoughts if he ever had any.\n\nThe works of Walking Stewart must be read with some indulgence; the titles\nare generally too lofty and pretending and somewhat extravagant; the\ncomposition is lax and unprecise, as I have before said; and the doctrines\nare occasionally very bold, incautiously stated, and too hardy and high-\ntoned for the nervous effeminacy of many modern moralists. But Walking\nStewart was a man who thought nobly of human nature: he wrote therefore at\ntimes in the spirit and with the indignation of an ancient prophet against\nthe oppressors and destroyers of the time. In particular I remember that\nin one or more of the pamphlets which I received from him at Grasmere he\nexpressed himself in such terms on the subject of Tyrannicide\n(distinguishing the cases in which it was and was not lawful) as seemed to\nMr. Wordsworth and myself every way worthy of a philosopher; but, from the\nway in which that subject was treated in the House of Commons, where it\nwas at that time occasionally introduced, it was plain that his doctrine\nwas not fitted for the luxurious and relaxed morals of the age. Like all\nmen who think nobly of human nature, Walking Stewart thought of it\nhopefully. In some respects his hopes were wisely grounded; in others they\nrested too much upon certain metaphysical speculations which are\nuntenable, and which satisfied himself only because his researches in that\ntrack had been purely self-originated and self-disciplined. He relied upon\nhis own native strength of mind; but in questions, which the wisdom and\nphilosophy of every age building successively upon each other have not\nbeen able to settle, no mind, however strong, is entitled to build wholly\nupon itself. In many things he shocked the religious sense--especially as\nit exists in unphilosophic minds; he held a sort of rude and unscientific\nSpinosism; and he expressed it coarsely and in the way most likely to give\noffence. And indeed there can be no stronger proof of the utter obscurity\nin which his works have slumbered than that they should all have escaped\nprosecution. He also allowed himself to look too lightly and indulgently\non the afflicting spectacle of female prostitution as it exists in London\nand in all great cities. This was the only point on which I was disposed\nto quarrel with him; for I could not but view it as a greater reproach to\nhuman nature than the slave-trade or any sight of wretchedness that the\nsun looks down upon. I often told him so; and that I was at a loss to\nguess how a philosopher could allow himself to view it simply as part of\nthe equipage of civil life, and as reasonably making part of the\nestablishment and furniture of a great city as police-offices, lamp-\nlighting, or newspapers. Waiving however this one instance of something\nlike compliance with the brutal spirit of the world, on all other subjects\nhe was eminently unworldly, child-like, simple-minded, and upright. He\nwould flatter no man: even when addressing nations, it is almost laughable\nto see how invariably he prefaces his counsels with such plain truths\nuttered in a manner so offensive as must have defeated his purpose if it\nhad otherwise any chance of being accomplished. For instance, in\naddressing America, he begins thus:--'People of America! since your\nseparation from the mother-country your moral character has degenerated in\nthe energy of thought and sense; produced by the absence of your\nassociation and intercourse with British officers and merchants: you have\nno moral discernment to distinguish between the protective power of\nEngland and the destructive power of France.' And his letter to the Irish\nnation opens in this agreeable and conciliatory manner:--'People of\nIreland! I address you as a true philosopher of nature, foreseeing the\nperpetual misery your irreflective character and total absence of moral\ndiscernment are preparing for' &c. The second sentence begins thus--'You\nare sacrilegiously arresting the arm of your parent kingdom fighting the\ncause of man and nature, when the triumph of the fiend of French police-\nterror would be your own instant extirpation--.' And the letter closes\nthus:--'I see but one awful alternative--that Ireland will be a perpetual\nmoral volcano, threatening the destruction of the world, if the education\nand instruction of thought and sense shall not be able to generate the\nfaculty of moral discernment among a very numerous class of the\npopulation, who detest the civic calm as sailors the natural calm--and\nmake civic rights on which they cannot reason a pretext for feuds which\nthey delight in.' As he spoke freely and boldly to others, so he spoke\nloftily of himself: at p. 313, of 'The Harp of Apollo,' on making a\ncomparison of himself with Socrates (in which he naturally gives the\npreference to himself) he styles 'The Harp,' &c., 'this unparalleled work\nof human energy.' At p. 315, he calls it 'this stupendous work;' and lower\ndown on the same page he says--'I was turned out of school at the age of\nfifteen for a dunce or blockhead, because I would not stuff into my memory\nall the nonsense of erudition and learning; and if future ages should\ndiscover the unparalleled energies of genius in this work, it will prove\nmy most important doctrine--that the powers of the human mind must be\ndeveloped in the education of thought and sense in the study of moral\nopinion, not arts and science.' Again, at p. 225 of his Sophiometer, he\nsays:--'The paramount thought that dwells in my mind incessantly is a\nquestion I put to myself--whether, in the event of my personal dissolution\nby death, I have communicated all the discoveries my unique mind possesses\nin the great master-science of man and nature.' In the next page he\ndetermines that he _has_, with the exception of one truth,--viz. 'the\nlatent energy, physical and moral, of human nature as existing in the\nBritish people.' But here he was surely accusing himself without ground:\nfor to my knowledge he has not failed in any one of his numerous works to\ninsist upon this theme at least a billion of times. Another instance of\nhis magnificent self-estimation is--that in the title pages of several of\nhis works he announces himself as 'John Stewart, the only man of nature\n[1] that ever appeared in the world.'\n\nBy this time I am afraid the reader begins to suspect that he was crazy:\nand certainly, when I consider every thing, he must have been crazy when\nthe wind was at NNE; for who but Walking Stewart ever dated his books by a\ncomputation drawn--not from the creation, not from the flood, not from\nNabonassar, or _ab urbe condita_, not from the Hegira--but from\nthemselves, from their own day of publication, as constituting the one\ngreat era in the history of man by the side of which all other eras were\nfrivolous and impertinent? Thus, in a work of his given to me in 1812 and\nprobably published in that year, I find him incidentally recording of\nhimself that he was at that time 'arrived at the age of sixty-three, with\na firm state of health acquired by temperance, and a peace of mind almost\nindependent of the vices of mankind--because my knowledge of life has\nenabled me to place my happiness beyond the reach or contact of other\nmen's follies and passions, by avoiding all family connections, and all\nambitious pursuits of profit, fame, or power.' On reading this passage I\nwas anxious to ascertain its date; but this, on turning to the title page,\nI found thus mysteriously expressed: 'in the 7000th year of Astronomical\nHistory, and the first day of Intellectual Life or Moral World, from the\nera of this work.' Another slight indication of craziness appeared in a\nnotion which obstinately haunted his mind that all the kings and rulers of\nthe earth would confederate in every age against his works, and would hunt\nthem out for extermination as keenly as Herod did the innocents in\nBethlehem. On this consideration, fearing that they might be intercepted\nby the long arms of these wicked princes before they could reach that\nremote Stewartian man or his precursor to whom they were mainly addressed,\nhe recommended to all those who might be impressed with a sense of their\nimportance to bury a copy or copies of each work properly secured from\ndamp, &c. at a depth of seven or eight feet below the surface of the\nearth; and on their death-beds to communicate the knowledge of this fact\nto some confidential friends, who in their turn were to send down the\ntradition to some discreet persons of the next generation; and thus, if\nthe truth was not to be dispersed for many ages, yet the knowledge that\nhere and there the truth lay buried on this and that continent, in secret\nspots on Mount Caucasus--in the sands of Biledulgerid--and in hiding-\nplaces amongst the forests of America, and was to rise again in some\ndistant age and to vegetate and fructify for the universal benefit of\nman,--this knowledge at least was to be whispered down from generation to\ngeneration; and, in defiance of a myriad of kings crusading against him,\nWalking Stewart was to stretch out the influence of his writings through a\nlong series of [Greek: _lampadophoroi_] to that child of nature whom\nhe saw dimly through a vista of many centuries. If this were madness, it\nseemed to me a somewhat sublime madness: and I assured him of my co-\noperation against the kings, promising that I would bury 'The Harp of\nApollo' in my own orchard in Grasmere at the foot of Mount Fairfield; that\nI would bury 'The Apocalypse of Nature' in one of the coves of Helvellyn,\nand several other works in several other places best known to myself. He\naccepted my offer with gratitude; but he then made known to me that he\nrelied on my assistance for a still more important service--which was\nthis: in the lapse of that vast number of ages which would probably\nintervene between the present period and the period at which his works\nwould have reached their destination, he feared that the English language\nmight itself have mouldered away. 'No!' I said, '_that_ was not probable:\nconsidering its extensive diffusion, and that it was now transplanted into\nall the continents of our planet, I would back the English language\nagainst any other on earth.' His own persuasion however was, that the\nLatin was destined to survive all other languages; it was to be the\neternal as well as the universal language; and his desire was that\nI would translate his works, or some part of them, into that language. [2]\nThis I promised; and I seriously designed at some leisure hour to\ntranslate into Latin a selection of passages which should embody an\nabstract of his philosophy. This would have been doing a service to all\nthose who might wish to see a digest of his peculiar opinions cleared from\nthe perplexities of his peculiar diction and brought into a narrow compass\nfrom the great number of volumes through which they are at present\ndispersed. However, like many another plan of mine, it went unexecuted.\n\nOn the whole, if Walking Stewart were at all crazy, he was so in a way\nwhich did not affect his natural genius and eloquence--but rather exalted\nthem. The old maxim, indeed, that 'Great wits to madness sure are near\nallied,' the maxim of Dryden and the popular maxim, I have heard disputed\nby Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Wordsworth, who maintain that mad people are the\ndullest and most wearisome of all people. As a body, I believe they are\nso. But I must dissent from the authority of Messrs. Coleridge and\nWordsworth so far as to distinguish. Where madness is connected, as it\noften is, with some miserable derangement of the stomach, liver, &c. and\nattacks the principle of pleasurable life, which is manifestly seated in\nthe central organs of the body (i.e. in the stomach and the apparatus\nconnected with it), there it cannot but lead to perpetual suffering and\ndistraction of thought; and there the patient will be often tedious and\nincoherent. People who have not suffered from any great disturbance in\nthose organs are little aware how indispensable to the process of thinking\nare the momentary influxes of pleasurable feeling from the regular goings\non of life in its primary function; in fact, until the pleasure is\nwithdrawn or obscured, most people are not aware that they _have_ any\npleasure from the due action of the great central machinery of the system:\nproceeding in uninterrupted continuance, the pleasure as much escapes the\nconsciousness as the act of respiration: a child, in the happiest state of\nits existence, does not _know_ that it is happy. And generally whatsoever\nis the level state of the hourly feeling is never put down by the\nunthinking (_i.e._ by 99 out of 100) to the account of happiness: it is\nnever put down with the positive sign, as equal to + x; but simply\nas = 0. And men first become aware that it _was_ a positive quantity,\nwhen they have lost it (_i.e._ fallen into--x). Meantime the genial\npleasure from the vital processes, though not represented to the\nconsciousness, is _immanent_ in every act--impulse--motion--word--and\nthought: and a philosopher sees that the idiots are in a state of\npleasure, though they cannot see it themselves. Now I say that, where this\nprinciple of pleasure is not attached, madness is often little more than\nan enthusiasm highly exalted; the animal spirits are exuberant and in\nexcess; and the madman becomes, if he be otherwise a man of ability and\ninformation, all the better as a companion. I have met with several such\nmadmen; and I appeal to my brilliant friend, Professor W----, who is not a\nman to tolerate dulness in any quarter, and is himself the ideal of a\ndelightful companion, whether he ever met a more amusing person than that\nmadman who took a post-chaise with us from ---- to Carlisle, long years\nago, when he and I were hastening with the speed of fugitive felons to\ncatch the Edinburgh mail. His fancy and his extravagance, and his furious\nattacks on Sir Isaac Newton, like Plato's suppers, refreshed us not only\nfor that day but whenever they recurred to us; and we were both grieved\nwhen we heard some time afterwards from a Cambridge man that he had met\nour clever friend in a stage coach under the care of a brutal keeper.----\nSuch a madness, if any, was the madness of Walking Stewart: his health was\nperfect; his spirits as light and ebullient as the spirits of a bird in\nspring-time; and his mind unagitated by painful thoughts, and at peace\nwith itself. Hence, if he was not an amusing companion, it was because the\nphilosophic direction of his thoughts made him something more. Of\nanecdotes and matters of fact he was not communicative: of all that he had\nseen in the vast compass of his travels he never availed himself in\nconversation. I do not remember at this moment that he ever once alluded\nto his own travels in his intercourse with me except for the purpose of\nweighing down by a statement grounded on his own great personal experience\nan opposite statement of many hasty and misjudging travellers which he\nthought injurious to human nature: the statement was this, that in all his\ncountless rencontres with uncivilized tribes, he had never met with any so\nferocious and brutal as to attack an unarmed and defenceless man who was\nable to make them understand that he threw himself upon their hospitality\nand forbearance.\n\nOn the whole, Walking Stewart was a sublime visionary: he had seen and\nsuffered much amongst men; yet not too much, or so as to dull the genial\ntone of his sympathy with the sufferings of others. His mind was a mirror\nof the sentient universe.--The whole mighty vision that had fleeted before\nhis eyes in this world,--the armies of Hyder-Ali and his son with oriental\nand barbaric pageantry,--the civic grandeur of England, the great deserts\nof Asia and America,--the vast capitals of Europe,--London with its\neternal agitations, the ceaseless ebb and flow of its 'mighty heart,'--\nParis shaken by the fierce torments of revolutionary convulsions, the\nsilence of Lapland, and the solitary forests of Canada, with the swarming\nlife of the torrid zone, together with innumerable recollections of\nindividual joy and sorrow, that he had participated by sympathy--lay like\na map beneath him, as if eternally co-present to his view; so that, in the\ncontemplation of the prodigious whole, he had no leisure to separate the\nparts, or occupy his mind with details. Hence came the monotony which the\nfrivolous and the desultory would have found in his conversation. I,\nhowever, who am perhaps the person best qualified to speak of him, must\npronounce him to have been a man of great genius; and, with reference to\nhis conversation, of great eloquence. That these were not better known and\nacknowledged was owing to two disadvantages; one grounded in his imperfect\neducation, the other in the peculiar structure of his mind. The first was\nthis: like the late Mr. Shelley he had a fine vague enthusiasm and lofty\naspirations in connection with human nature generally and its hopes; and\nlike him he strove to give steadiness, a uniform direction, and an\nintelligible purpose to these feelings, by fitting to them a scheme of\nphilosophical opinions. But unfortunately the philosophic system of both\nwas so far from supporting their own views and the cravings of their own\nenthusiasm, that, as in some points it was baseless, incoherent, or\nunintelligible, so in others it tended to moral results, from which, if\nthey had foreseen them, they would have been themselves the first to\nshrink as contradictory to the very purposes in which their system had\noriginated. Hence, in maintaining their own system they both found\nthemselves painfully entangled at times with tenets pernicious and\ndegrading to human nature. These were the inevitable consequences of the\n[Greek: _proton pheudos_] in their speculations; but were naturally\ncharged upon them by those who looked carelessly into their books as\nopinions which not only for the sake of consistency they thought\nthemselves bound to endure, but to which they gave the full weight of\ntheir sanction and patronage as to so many moving principles in their\nsystem. The other disadvantage under which Walking Stewart labored, was\nthis: he was a man of genius, but not a man of talents; at least his\ngenius was out of all proportion to his talents, and wanted an organ as it\nwere for manifesting itself; so that his most original thoughts were\ndelivered in a crude state--imperfect, obscure, half developed, and not\nproducible to a popular audience. He was aware of this himself; and,\nthough he claims everywhere the faculty of profound intuition into human\nnature, yet with equal candor he accuses himself of asinine stupidity,\ndulness, and want of talent. He was a disproportioned intellect, and so\nfar a monster: and he must be added to the long list of original-minded\nmen who have been looked down upon with pity and contempt by commonplace\nmen of talent, whose powers of mind--though a thousand times inferior--\nwere yet more manageable, and ran in channels more suited to common uses\nand common understandings.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n[1] In Bath, he was surnamed 'the Child of Nature;'--which arose from his\ncontrasting on every occasion the existing man of our present experience\nwith the ideal or Stewartian man that might be expected to emerge in some\nmyriads of ages; to which latter man he gave the name of the Child of\nNature.\n\n[2] I was not aware until the moment of writing this passage that Walking\nStewart had publicly made this request three years after making it to\nmyself: opening the 'Harp of Apollo,' I have just now accidentally\nstumbled on the following passage, 'This Stupendous work is destined, I\nfear, to meet a worse fate than the Aloe, which as soon as it blossoms\nloses its stalk. This first blossom of reason is threatened with the loss\nof both its stalk and its soil: for, if the revolutionary tyrant should\ntriumph, he would destroy all the English books and energies of thought. I\nconjure my readers to translate this work into Latin, and to bury it in\nthe ground, communicating on their death-beds only its place of\nconcealment to men of nature.'\n\nFrom the title page of this work, by the way, I learn that 'the 7000th\nyear of Astronomical History' is taken from the Chinese tables, and\ncoincides (as I had supposed) with the year 1812 of our computation.\n\n\n\n\nON SUICIDE.\n\n\nIt is a remarkable proof of the inaccuracy with which most men read--that\nDonne's _Biathanatos_ has been supposed to countenance Suicide; and\nthose who reverence his name have thought themselves obliged to apologize\nfor it by urging, that it was written before he entered the church. But\nDonne's purpose in this treatise was a pious one: many authors had charged\nthe martyrs of the Christian church with Suicide--on the principle that if\nI put myself in the way of a mad bull, knowing that he will kill me--I am\nas much chargeable with an act of self-destruction as if I fling myself\ninto a river. Several casuists had extended this principle even to the\ncase of Jesus Christ: one instance of which, in a modern author, the\nreader may see noticed and condemned by Kant, in his _Religion innerhalb\ndie gronzen der blossen Vernunft_; and another of much earlier date (as\nfar back as the 13th century, I think), in a commoner book--Voltaire's\nnotes on the little treatise of Beccaria, _Dei delitti e delle pene_.\nThese statements tended to one of two results: either they unsanctified\nthe characters of those who founded and nursed the Christian church; or\nthey sanctified suicide. By way of meeting them, Donne wrote his book: and\nas the whole argument of his opponents turned upon a false definition of\nsuicide (not explicitly stated, but assumed), he endeavored to\nreconstitute the notion of what is essential to create an act of suicide.\nSimply to kill a man is not murder: _prima facie_, therefore, there\nis some sort of presumption that simply for a man to kill himself--may not\nalways be so: there is such a thing as simple homicide distinct from\nmurder: there may, therefore, possibly be such a thing as self-homicide\ndistinct from self-murder. There _may_ be a ground for such a distinction,\n_ex analogia_. But, secondly, on examination, _is_ there any ground for\nsuch a distinction? Donne affirms that there is; and, reviewing several\neminent cases of spontaneous martyrdom, he endeavors to show that acts so\nmotived and so circumstantiated will not come within the notion of suicide\nproperly defined. Meantime, may not this tend to the encouragement of\nsuicide in general, and without discrimination of its species? No: Donne's\narguments have no prospective reference or application; they are purely\nretrospective. The circumstances necessary to create an act of mere self-\nhomicide can rarely concur, except in a state of disordered society, and\nduring the _cardinal_ revolutions of human history: where, however, they\n_do_ concur, there it will not be suicide. In fact, this is the natural\nand practical judgment of us all. We do not all agree on the particular\ncases which will justify self-destruction: but we all feel and\ninvoluntarily acknowledge (_implicitly_ acknowledge in our admiration,\nthough not explicitly in our words or in our principles), that there _are_\nsuch cases. There is no man, who in his heart would not reverence a woman\nthat chose to die rather than to be dishonored: and, if we do not say,\nthat it is her duty to do so, _that_ is because the moralist must\ncondescend to the weakness and infirmities of human nature: mean and\nignoble natures must not be taxed up to the level of noble ones. Again,\nwith regard to the other sex, corporal punishment is its peculiar and\n_sexual_ degradation; and if ever the distinction of Donne can be applied\nsafely to any case, it will be to the case of him who chooses to die\nrather than to submit to that ignominy. _At present_, however, there is\nbut a dim and very confined sense, even amongst enlightened men (as we may\nsee by the debates of Parliament), of the injury which is done to human\nnature by giving legal sanction to such brutalizing acts; and therefore\nmost men, in seeking to escape it, would be merely shrinking from a\n_personal_ dishonor. Corporal punishment is usually argued with a single\nreference to the case of him who suffers it; and _so_ argued, God knows\nthat it is worthy of all abhorrence: but the weightiest argument against\nit--is the foul indignity which is offered to our common nature lodged in\nthe person of him on whom it is inflicted. _His_ nature is _our_ nature:\nand, supposing it possible that _he_ were so far degraded as to be\nunsusceptible of any influences but those which address him through the\nbrutal part of his nature, yet for the sake of ourselves--No! not merely\nfor ourselves, or for the human race now existing, but for the sake of\nhuman nature, which trancends all existing participators of that nature--\nwe should remember that the evil of corporal punishment is not to be\nmeasured by the poor transitory criminal, whose memory and offence are\nsoon to perish: these, in the sum of things, are as nothing: the injury\nwhich can be done him, and the injury which he can do, have so momentary\nan existence that they may be safely neglected: but the abiding injury is\nto the most august interest which for the mind of man can have any\nexistence,--viz. to his own nature: to raise and dignify which, I am\npersuaded, is the first--last--and holiest command [1] which the\nconscience imposes on the philosophic moralist. In countries, where the\ntraveller has the pain of seeing human creatures performing the labors of\nbrutes, [2]--surely the sorrow which the spectacle moves, if a wise\nsorrow, will not be chiefly directed to the poor degraded individual--too\ndeeply degraded, probably, to be sensible of his own degradation, but to\nthe reflection that man's nature is thus exhibited in a state of miserable\nabasement; and, what is worst of all, abasement proceeding from man\nhimself. Now, whenever this view of corporal punishment becomes general\n(as inevitably it will, under the influence of advancing civilization), I\nsay, that Donne's principle will then become applicable to this case, and\nit will be the duty of a man to die rather than to suffer his own nature\nto be dishonored in that way. But so long as a man is not fully sensible\nof the dishonor, to him the dishonor, except as a personal one, does not\nwholly exist. In general, whenever a paramount interest of human nature is\nat stake, a suicide which maintains that interest is self-homicide: but,\nfor a personal interest, it becomes self-murder. And into this principle\nDonne's may be resolved.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA doubt has been raised--whether brute animals ever commit suicide: to me\nit is obvious that they do not, and cannot. Some years ago, however, there\nwas a case reported in all the newspapers of an old ram who committed\nsuicide (as it was alleged) in the presence of many witnesses. Not having\nany pistols or razors, he ran for a short distance, in order to aid the\nimpetus of his descent, and leaped over a precipice, at the foot of which\nhe was dashed to pieces. His motive to the 'rash act,' as the papers\ncalled it, was supposed to be mere taedium vitae. But, for my part, I\ndoubted the accuracy of the report. Not long after a case occurred in\nWestmoreland which strengthened my doubts. A fine young blood horse, who\ncould have no possible reason for making away with himself, unless it were\nthe high price of oats at that time, was found one morning dead in his\nfield. The case was certainly a suspicious one: for he was lying by the\nside of a stone-wall, the upper part of which wall his skull had\nfractured, and which had returned the compliment by fracturing his skull.\nIt was argued, therefore, that in default of ponds, &c. he had\ndeliberately hammered with his head against the wall; this, at first,\nseemed the only solution; and he was generally pronounced _felo de\nse_. However, a day or two brought the truth to light. The field lay\nupon the side of a hill: and, from a mountain which rose above it, a\nshepherd had witnessed the whole catastrophe, and gave evidence which\nvindicated the character of the horse. The day had been very windy; and\nthe young creature being in high spirits, and, caring evidently as little\nfor the corn question as for the bullion question, had raced about in all\ndirections; and at length, descending too steep a part of the field, had\nbeen unable to check himself, and was projected by the impetus of his own\ndescent like a battering ram against the wall.\n\nOf human suicides, the most affecting I have ever seen recorded is one\nwhich I met with in a German book: the most calm and deliberate is the\nfollowing, which is _said_ to have occurred at Keswick, in Cumberland: but\nI must acknowledge, that I never had an opportunity, whilst staying at\nKeswick, of verifying the statement. A young man of studious turn, who is\nsaid to have resided near Penrith, was anxious to qualify himself for\nentering the church, or for any other mode of life which might secure to\nhim a reasonable portion of literary leisure. His family, however, thought\nthat under the circumstances of his situation he would have a better\nchance for success in life as a tradesman; and they took the necessary\nsteps for placing him as an apprentice at some shopkeeper's in Penrith.\nThis he looked upon as an indignity, to which he was determined in no case\nto submit. And accordingly, when he had ascertained that all opposition to\nthe choice of his friends was useless, he walked over to the mountainous\ndistrict of Keswick (about sixteen miles distant)--looked about him in\norder to select his ground--cooly walked up Lattrig (a dependency of\nSkiddaw)--made a pillow of sods--laid himself down with his face looking\nup to the sky--and in that posture was found dead, with the appearance of\nhaving died tranquilly.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n[1] On which account, I am the more struck by the ignoble argument of\nthose statesmen who have contended in the House of Commons that such and\nsuch classes of men in this nation are not accessible to any loftier\ninfluences. Supposing that there were any truth in this assertion, which\nis a libel not on this nation only, but on man in general,--surely it is\nthe duty of lawgivers not to perpetuate by their institutions the evil\nwhich they find, but to presume and gradually to create a better spirit.\n\n[2] Of which degradation, let it never be forgotten that France but thirty\nyears ago presented as shocking cases as any country, even where slavery\nis tolerated. An eye-witness to the fact, who has since published it in\nprint, told me, that in France, before the revolution, he had repeatedly\nseen a woman yoked with an ass to the plough; and the brutal ploughman\napplying his whip indifferently to either. English people, to whom I have\noccasionally mentioned this as an exponent of the hollow refinement of\nmanners in France, have uniformly exclaimed--'_That_ is more than I\ncan believe;' and have taken it for granted that I had my information from\nsome prejudiced Englishman. But who was my informer? A Frenchman, reader,\n--M. Simond; and though now by adoption an American citizen, yet still\nFrench in his heart and in all his prejudices.\n\n\n\n\nSUPERFICIAL KNOWLEDGE.\n\n\nIt is asserted that this is the age of Superficial Knowledge; and amongst\nthe proofs of this assertion we find Encyclopaedias and other popular\nabstracts of knowledge particularly insisted on. But in this notion and\nits alleged proofs there is equal error--wherever there is much diffusion\nof knowledge, there must be a good deal of superficiality: prodigious\n_extension_ implies a due proportion of weak _intension_; a sea-like\nexpansion of knowledge will cover large shallows as well as large\ndepths. But in that quarter in which it is superficially cultivated the\nintellect of this age is properly opposed in any just comparison to an\nintellect without any culture at all:--leaving the deep soils out of the\ncomparison, the shallow ones of the present day would in any preceding one\nhave been barren wastes. Of this our modern encyclopedias are the best\nproof. For whom are they designed, and by whom used?--By those who in a\nformer age would have gone to the fountain heads? No, but by those who in\nany age preceding the present would have drunk at no waters at all.\nEncyclopedias are the growth of the last hundred years; not because those\nwho were formerly students of higher learning have descended, but because\nthose who were below encyclopaedias have ascended. The greatness of the\nascent is marked by the style in which the more recent encyclopaedias are\nexecuted: at first they were mere abstracts of existing books--well or ill\nexecuted: at present they contain many _original_ articles of great\nmerit. As in the periodical literature of the age, so in the\nencyclopaedias it has become a matter of ambition with the publishers to\nretain the most eminent writers in each several department. And hence it\nis that our encyclopaedias now display one characteristic of this age--the\nvery opposite of superficiality (and which on other grounds we are well\nassured of)--viz. its tendency in science, no less than in other\napplications of industry, to extreme subdivision. In all the employments\nwhich are dependent in any degree upon the political economy of nations,\nthis tendency is too obvious to have been overlooked. Accordingly it has\nlong been noticed for congratulation in manufactures and the useful arts--\nand for censure in the learned professions. We have now, it is alleged, no\ngreat and comprehensive lawyers like Coke: and the study of medicine is\nsubdividing itself into a distinct ministry (as it were) not merely upon\nthe several organs of the body (oculists, aurists, dentists,\ncheiropodists, &c.) but almost upon the several diseases of the same\norgan: one man is distinguished for the treatment of liver complaints of\none class--a second for those of another class; one man for asthma--\nanother for phthisis; and so on. As to the law, the evil (if it be one)\nlies in the complex state of society which of necessity makes the laws\ncomplex: law itself is become unwieldy and beyond the grasp of one man's\nterm of life and possible range of experience: and will never again come\nwithin them. With respect to medicine, the case is no evil but a great\nbenefit--so long as the subdividing principle does not descend too low to\nallow of a perpetual re-ascent into the generalizing principle (the\n[Greek: _to_] commune) which secures the unity of the science. In\nancient times all the evil of such a subdivision was no doubt realized in\nEgypt: for there a distinct body of professors took charge of each organ\nof the body, not (as we may be assured) from any progress of the science\noutgrowing the time and attention of the general professor, but simply\nfrom an ignorance of the organic structure of the human body and the\nreciprocal action of the whole upon each part and the parts upon the\nwhole; an ignorance of the same kind which has led sailors seriously (and\nnot merely, as may sometimes have happened, by way of joke) to reserve one\nulcerated leg to their own management, whilst the other was given up to\nthe management of the surgeon. With respect to law and medicine then, the\ndifference between ourselves and our ancestors is not subjective but\nobjective; not, _i.e._ in our faculties who study them, but in the\nthings themselves which are the objects of study: not we (the students)\nare grown less, but they (the studies) are grown bigger;--and that our\nancestors did not subdivide as much as we do--was something of their luck,\nbut no part of their merit. Simply as subdividers therefore to the extent\nwhich now prevails, we are less superficial than any former age. In all\nparts of science the same principle of subdivision holds: here therefore,\nno less than in those parts of knowledge which are the subjects of\ndistinct civil professions, we are of necessity more profound than our\nancestors; but, for the same reason, less comprehensive than they. Is it\nbetter to be a profound student, or a comprehensive one? In some degree\nthis must depend upon the direction of the studies: but generally, I\nthink, it is better for the interests of knowledge that the scholar should\naim at profundity, and better for the interests of the individual that he\nshould aim at comprehensiveness. A due balance and equilibrium of the mind\nis but preserved by a large and multiform knowledge: but knowledge itself\nis but served by an exclusive (or at least paramount) dedication of one\nmind to one science. The first proposition is perhaps unconditionally\ntrue: but the second with some limitations. There are such people as\nLeibnitzes on this earth; and their office seems not that of planets--to\nrevolve within the limits of one system, but that of comets (according to\nthe theory of some speculators)--to connect different systems together. No\ndoubt there is much truth in this: a few Leibnitzes in every age would be\nof much use: but neither are many men fitted by nature for the part of\nLeibnitz; nor would the aspect of knowledge be better, if they were. We\nshould then have a state of Grecian life amongst us in which every man\nindividually would attain in a moderate degree all the purposes of the\nsane understanding,--but in which all the purposes of the sane\nunderstanding would be but moderately attained. What I mean is this:--let\nall the objects of the understanding in civil life or in science be\nrepresented by the letters of the alphabet; in Grecian life each man would\nseparately go through all the letters in a tolerable way; whereas at\npresent each letter is served by a distinct body of men. Consequently the\nGrecian individual is superior to the modern; but the Grecian whole is\ninferior: for the whole is made up of the individuals; and the Grecian\nindividual repeats himself. Whereas in modern life the whole derives its\nsuperiority from the very circumstances which constitute the inferiority\nof the parts; for modern life is _cast_ dramatically: and the difference\nis as between an army consisting of soldiers who should each individually\nbe competent to go through the duties of a dragoon--of a hussar--of a\nsharp-shooter--of an artillery-man--of a pioneer, &c. and an army on its\npresent composition, where the very inferiority of the soldier as an\nindividual--his inferiority in compass and versatility of power and\nknowledge--is the very ground from which the army derives its superiority\nas a whole, viz. because it is the condition of the possibility of a total\nsurrender of the individual to one exclusive pursuit. In science\ntherefore, and (to speak more generally) in the whole evolution of the\nhuman faculties, no less than in Political Economy, the progress of\nsociety brings with it a necessity of sacrificing the ideal of what is\nexcellent for the individual, to the ideal of what is excellent for the\nwhole. We need therefore not trouble ourselves (except as a speculative\nquestion) with the comparison of the two states; because, as a practical\nquestion, it is precluded by the overruling tendencies of the age--which\nno man could counteract except in his own single case, _i.e._ by refusing\nto adapt himself as a part to the whole, and thus foregoing the advantages\nof either one state or the other. [1]\n\n\nFOOTNOTE\n\n[1] The latter part of what is here said coincides, in a way which is\nrather remarkable, with a passage in an interesting work of Schiller's\nwhich I have since read, (_on the Aesthetic Education of Men_, in a\nseries of letters: vid. letter the 6th.) 'With us in  order to obtain the\nrepresentative _word_ (as it were) of the total species, we must\nspell it out by the help of a series of individuals. So that on a survey\nof society as it actually exists, one might suppose that the faculties of\nthe mind do really in actual experience show themselves in as separate a\nform, and in as much insulation, as psychology is forced to exhibit them\nin its analysis. And thus we see not only individuals, but whole classes\nof men, unfolding only one part of the germs which are laid in them by the\nhand of nature. In saying this I am fully aware of the advantages which\nthe human species of modern ages has, when considered as a unity, over the\nbest of antiquity: but the comparison should begin with the individuals:\nand then let me ask where is the modern individual that would have the\npresumption to step forward against the Athenian individual--man to man,\nand to contend for the prize of human excellence? The polypus nature of\nthe Grecian republics, in which every individual enjoyed a separate life,\nand if it were necessary could become a whole, has now given place to an\nartificial watch-work, where many lifeless parts combine to form a\nmechanic whole. The state and the church, laws and manners, are now torn\nasunder: labor is divided from enjoyment, the means from the end, the\nexertion from the reward. Chained for ever to a little individual fraction\nof the whole, man himself is moulded into a fraction; and, with the\nmonotonous whirling of the wheel which he turns everlastingly in his ear,\nhe never develops the harmony of his being; and, instead of imaging the\ntotality of human nature, becomes a bare abstract of his business or the\nscience which he cultivates. The dead letter takes the place of the living\nunderstanding; and a practised memory becomes a surer guide than genius\nand sensibility. Doubtless the power of genius, as we all know, will not\nfetter itself within the limits of its occupation; but talents of\nmediocrity are all exhausted in the monotony of the employment allotted to\nthem; and that man must have no common head who brings with him the\ngeniality of his powers unstripped of their freshness by the ungenial\nlabors of life to the cultivation of the genial.' After insisting at some\nlength on this wise, Schiller passes to the other side of the\ncontemplation, and proceeds thus:--'It suited my immediate purpose to\npoint out the injuries of this condition of the species, without\ndisplaying the compensations by which nature has balanced them. But I will\nnow readily acknowledge--that, little as this practical condition may suit\nthe interests of the individual, yet the species could in no other way\nhave been progressive. Partial exercise of the faculties (literally\n\"_one-sidedness_ in the exercise of the faculties\") leads the individual\nundoubtedly into error, but the species into truth. In no other way than\nby concentrating the whole energy of our spirit, and by converging our\nwhole being, so to speak, into a single faculty, can we put wings as it\nwere to the individual faculty and carry it by this artificial flight far\nbeyond the limits within which nature has else doomed it to walk. Just as\ncertain as it is that all human beings could never, by clubbing their\nvisual powers together, have arrived at the power of seeing what the\ntelescope discovers to the astronomer; just so certain it is that\nthe human intellect would never have arrived at an analysis of the\ninfinite or a _Critical Analysis of the Pure Reason_ (the principal\nwork of Kant), unless individuals had dismembered (as it were) and\ninsulated this or that specific faculty, and had thus armed their\nintellectual sight by the keenest abstraction and by the submersion of the\nother powers of their nature. Extraordinary men are formed then by\nenergetic and over-excited spasms as it were in the individual faculties;\nthough it is true that the equable exercise of all the faculties in\nharmony with each other can alone make happy and perfect men.' After this\nstatement, from which it should seem that in the progress of society\nnature has made it necessary for man to sacrifice _his own_ happiness\nto the attainment of _her_ ends in the development of his species,\nSchiller goes on to inquire whether this evil result cannot be remedied;\nand whether 'the totality of our nature, which art has destroyed, might\nnot be re-established by a higher art,'--but this, as leading to a\ndiscussion beyond the limits of my own, I omit.\n\n\n\n\nENGLISH DICTIONARIES.\n\n\nIt has already, I believe, been said more than once in print that one\ncondition of a good dictionary would be to exhibit the _history_ of\neach word; that is, to record the exact succession of its meanings. But\nthe philosophic reason for this has not been given; which reason, by the\nway, settles a question often agitated, viz. whether the true meaning of a\nword be best ascertained from its etymology, or from its present use and\nacceptation. Mr. Coleridge says, 'the best explanation of a word is often\nthat which is suggested by its derivation' (I give the substance of his\nwords from memory). Others allege that we have nothing to do with the\nprimitive meaning of the word; that the question is--what does it mean\nnow? and they appeal, as the sole authority they acknowledge, to the\nreceived--\n\n   Usus, penes quem est jus et norma loquendi.\n\nIn what degree each party is right, may be judged from this consideration\n--that no word can ever deviate from its first meaning _per saltum_:\neach successive stage of meaning must always have been determined by that\nwhich preceded. And on this one law depends the whole philosophy of the\ncase: for it thus appears that the original and primitive sense of the\nword will contain virtually all which can ever afterwards arise: as in the\n_evolution_-theory of generation, the whole series of births is\nrepresented as involved in the first parent. Now, if the evolution of\nsuccessive meanings has gone on rightly, _i.e._ by simply lapsing\nthrough a series of close affinities, there can be no reason for recurring\nto the primitive meaning of the word: but, if it can be shown that the\nevolution has been faulty, _i.e._ that the chain of true affinities\nhas ever been broken through ignorance, then we have a right to reform the\nword, and to appeal from the usage ill-instructed to a usage better-\ninstructed. Whether we ought to exercise this right, will depend on a\nconsideration which I will afterwards notice. Meantime I will first give a\nfew instances of faulty evolution.\n\n1. _Implicit_. This word is now used in a most ignorant way; and from\nits misuse it has come to be a word wholly useless: for it is now never\ncoupled, I think, with any other substantive than these two--faith and\nconfidence: a poor domain indeed to have sunk to from its original wide\nrange of territory. Moreover, when we say, _implicit faith_, or\n_implicit confidence_, we do not thereby indicate any specific _kind_ of\nfaith and confidence differing from other faith or other confidence: but\nit is a vague rhetorical word which expresses a great _degree_ of faith\nand confidence; a faith that is unquestioning, a confidence that is\nunlimited; _i.e._ in fact, a faith that _is_ a faith, a confidence that\n_is_ a confidence. Such a use of the word ought to be abandoned to women:\ndoubtless, when sitting in a bower in the month of May, it is pleasant to\nhear from a lovely mouth--'I put implicit confidence in your honor:' but,\nthough pretty and becoming to such a mouth, it is very unfitting to the\nmouth of a scholar: and I will be bold to affirm that no man, who had ever\nacquired a scholar's knowledge of the English language, has used the word\nin that lax and unmeaning way. The history of the word is this.--\n_Implicit_ (from the Latin _implicitus_, involved in, folded up) was\nalways used originally, and still is so by scholars, as the direct\nantithete of explicit (from the Latin _explicitus_, evolved, unfolded):\nand the use of both may be thus illustrated.\n\n_Q._ 'Did Mr. A. ever say that he would marry Miss B.?'--_A._ 'No; not\nexplicitly (_i.e._ in so many words); but he did implicitly--by showing\ngreat displeasure if she received attentions from any other man; by asking\nher repeatedly to select furniture for his house; by consulting her on his\nown plans of life.'\n\n_Q._ 'Did Epicurus maintain any doctrines such as are here ascribed\nto him?'--_A._ 'Perhaps not explicitly, either in words or by any other\nmode of direct sanction: on the contrary, I believe he denied them--\nand disclaimed them with vehemence: but he maintained them implicitly: for\nthey are involved in other acknowledged doctrines of his, and may be\ndeduced from them by the fairest and most irresistible logic.'\n\n_Q._ 'Why did you complain of the man? Had he expressed any contempt\nfor your opinion?'--_A._ 'Yes, he had: not explicit contempt, I admit; for\nhe never opened his stupid mouth; but implicitly he expressed the utmost\nthat he could: for, when I had spoken two hours against the old newspaper,\nand in favor of the new one, he went instantly and put his name down as a\nsubscriber to the old one.'\n\n_Q._ 'Did Mr.---- approve of that gentleman's conduct and way of life?'--\n_A._ 'I don't know that I ever heard him speak about it: but he seemed to\ngive it his implicit approbation by allowing both his sons to associate\nwith him when the complaints ran highest against him.'\n\nThese instances may serve to illustrate the original use of the word;\nwhich use has been retained from the sixteenth century down to our own\ndays by an uninterrupted chain of writers. In the eighteenth century this\nuse was indeed nearly effaced  but still in the first half of that century\nit was retained by Saunderson the Cambridge professor of mathematics (see\nhis Algebra, &c.), with three or four others, and in the latter half by a\nman to whom Saunderson had some resemblance in spring and elasticity of\nunderstanding, viz. by Edmund Burke. Since his day I know of no writers\nwho have avoided the slang and unmeaning use of the word, excepting\nMessrs. Coleridge and Wordsworth; both of whom (but especially the last)\nhave been remarkably attentive to the scholar-like [1] use of words, and\nto the history of their own language.\n\nThus much for the primitive use of the word _implicit_. Now, with\nregard to the history of its transition into its present use, it is\nbriefly this; and it will appear at once, that it has arisen through\nignorance. When it was objected to a papist that his church exacted an\nassent to a great body of traditions and doctrines to which it was\nimpossible that the great majority could be qualified, either as respected\ntime--or knowledge--or culture of the understanding, to give any\nreasonable assent,--the answer was: 'Yes; but that sort of assent is not\nrequired of a poor uneducated man; all that he has to do--is to believe in\nthe church: he is to have faith in _her_ faith: by that act he adopts\nfor his own whatsoever the church believes, though he may never have hoard\nof it even: his faith is implicit, _i.e._ involved and wrapped up in\nthe faith of the church, which faith he firmly believes to be the true\nfaith upon the conviction he has that the church is preserved from all\npossibility of erring by the spirit of God.' [2] Now, as this sort of\nbelieving by proxy or implicit belief (in which the belief was not\n_immediate_ in the thing proposed to the belief, but in the authority\nof another person who believed in that thing and thus _mediately_ in\nthe thing itself) was constantly attacked by the learned assailants of\npopery,--it naturally happened that many unlearned readers of these\nprotestant polemics caught at a phrase which was so much bandied between\nthe two parties: the spirit of the context sufficiently explained to them\nthat it was used by protestants as a term of reproach, and indicated a\nfaith that was an erroneous faith by being too easy--too submissive--and\ntoo passive: but the particular mode of this erroneousness they seldom\ncame to understand, as learned writers naturally employed the term without\nexplanation, presuming it to be known to those whom they addressed. Hence\nthese ignorant readers caught at the last _result_ of the phrase 'implicit\nfaith' rightly, truly supposing it to imply a resigned and unquestioning\nfaith; but they missed the whole immediate cause of meaning by which only\nthe word 'implicit' could ever have been entitled to express that result.\n\nI have allowed myself to say so much on this word 'implicit,' because the\nhistory of the mode by which its true meaning was lost applies almost to\nall other corrupted words--_mutatis mutandis_: and the amount of it\nmay be collected into this formula,--that the _result_ of the word is\napprehended and retained, but the _schematismus_ by which that result\nwas ever reached is lost. This is the brief theory of all corruption of\nwords. The word _schematismus_ I have unwillingly used, because no\nother expresses my meaning. So great and extensive a doctrine however\nlurks in this word, that I defer the explanation of it to a separate\narticle. Meantime a passable sense of the word will occur to every body\nwho reads Greek. I now go on to a few more instances of words that have\nforfeited their original meaning through the ignorance of those who used\nthem.\n\n'_Punctual._' This word is now confined to the meagre denoting of\naccuracy in respect to time--fidelity to the precise moment of an\nappointment. But originally it was just as often, and just as reasonably,\napplied to space as to time; 'I cannot punctually determine the origin of\nthe Danube; but I know in general the district in which it rises, and that\nits fountain is near that of the Rhine.' Not only, however, was it applied\nto time and space, but it had a large and very elegant figurative use.\nThus in the History of the Royal Society by Sprat (an author who was\nfinical and nice in his use of words)--I remember a sentence to this\neffect: 'the Society gave punctual directions for the conducting of\nexperiments;' _i.e._ directions which descended to the minutiae and\nlowest details. Again in the once popular romance of Parismus Prince of\nBohemia--'She' (I forget who) 'made a punctual relation of the whole\nmatter;' _i.e._ a relation which was perfectly circumstantial and\ntrue to the minutest features of the case.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n[1] Among the most shocking of the unscholarlike barbarisms, now\nprevalent, I must notice the use of the word '_nice_' in an objective\ninstead of a subjective sense: '_nice_' does not and cannot express a\nquality of the object, but merely a quality of the subject: yet we hear\ndaily of 'a very nice letter'--'a nice young lady,' &c., meaning a letter\nor a young lady that it is pleasant to contemplate: but 'a nice young\nlady'--means a fastidious young lady; and 'a nice letter' ought to mean a\nletter that is very delicate in its rating and in the choice of its\ncompany.\n\n[2] Thus Milton, who (in common with his contemporaries) always uses the\nword accurately, speaks of Ezekiel 'swallowing his implicit roll of\nknowledge'--_i.e._ coming to the knowledge of many truths not separately\nand in detail, but by the act of arriving at some one master truth which\ninvolved all the rest.--So again, if any man or government were to\nsuppress a book, that man or government might justly be reproached as the\nimplicit destroyer of all the wisdom and virtue that might have been the\nremote products of that book.\n\n\n\n\nDRYDEN'S HEXASTICH.\n\n\nIt is a remarkable fact, that the very finest epigram in the English\nlanguage happens also to be the worst. _Epigram_ I call it in the\naustere Greek sense; which thus far resembled our modern idea of an\nepigram, that something pointed and allied to wit was demanded in the\nmanagement of the leading thought at its close, but otherwise nothing\ntending towards the comic or the ludicrous. The epigram I speak of is the\nwell-known one of Dryden dedicated to the glorification of Milton. It is\nirreproachable as regards its severe brevity. Not one word is there that\ncould be spared; nor could the wit of man have cast the movement of the\nthought into a better mould. There are three couplets. In the first\ncouplet we are reminded of the fact that this earth had, in three\ndifferent stages of its development, given birth to a trinity of\ntranscendent poets; meaning narrative poets, or, even more narrowly, epic\npoets. The duty thrown upon the second couplet is to characterize these\nthree poets, and to value them against each other, but in such terms as\nthat, whilst nothing less than the very highest praise should be assigned\nto the two elder poets in this trinity--the Greek and the Roman--\nnevertheless, by some dexterous artifice, a higher praise than the highest\nshould suddenly unmask itself, and drop, as it were, like a diadem from\nthe clouds upon the brows of their English competitor. In the kind of\nexpectation raised, and in the extreme difficulty of adequately meeting\nthis expectation, there was pretty much the same challenge offered to\nDryden as was offered, somewhere about the same time, to a British\nambassador when dining with his political antagonists. One of these--the\nambassador of France--had proposed to drink his master, Louis XIV., under\nthe character of the sun, who dispensed life and light to the whole\npolitical system. To this there was no objection; and immediately, by way\nof intercepting any further draughts upon the rest of the solar system,\nthe Dutch ambassador rose, and proposed the health of their high\nmightinesses the Seven United States, as the moon and six [1] planets, who\ngave light in the absence of the sun. The two foreign ambassadors,\nMonsieur and Mynheer, secretly enjoyed the mortification of their English\nbrother, who seemed to be thus left in a state of bankruptcy, 'no funds'\nbeing available for retaliation, or so they fancied. But suddenly our\nBritish representative toasted _his_ master as Joshua, the son of\nNun, that made the sun and moon stand still. All had seemed lost for\nEngland, when in an instant of time both her antagonists were checkmated.\nDryden assumed something of the same position. He gave away the supreme\njewels in his exchequer; apparently nothing remained behind; all was\nexhausted. To Homer he gave A; to Virgil he gave B; and, behold! after\nthese were given away, there remained nothing at all that would not have\nbeen a secondary praise. But, in a moment of time, by giving A _and_\nB to Milton, at one sling of his victorious arm he raised him above Homer\nby the whole extent of B, and above Virgil by the whole extent of A. This\nfelicitous evasion of the embarrassment is accomplished in the second\ncouplet; and, finally, the third couplet winds up with graceful effect, by\nmaking a _resume_, or recapitulation of the logic concerned in the\ndistribution of prizes just announced. Nature, he says, had it not in her\npower to provide a third prize separate from the first and second; her\nresource was, to join the first and second in combination: 'To make a\nthird, she joined the former two.'\n\nSuch is the abstract of this famous epigram; and, judged simply by the\noutline and tendency of the thought, it merits all the vast popularity\nwhich it has earned. But in the meantime, it is radically vicious as\nregards the filling in of this outline; for the particular quality in\nwhich Homer is accredited with the pre-eminence, viz., _loftiness of\nthought_, happens to be a mere variety of expression for that quality,\nviz. _majesty_, in which the pre-eminence is awarded to Virgil. Homer\nexcels Virgil in the very point in which lies Virgil's superiority to\nHomer; and that synthesis, by means of which a great triumph is reserved\nto Milton, becomes obviously impossible, when it is perceived that the\nsupposed analytic elements of this synthesis are blank reiterations of\neach other.\n\nExceedingly striking it is, that a thought should have prospered for one\nhundred and seventy years, which, on the slightest steadiness of\nexamination, turns out to be no thought at all, but mere blank vacuity.\nThere is, however, this justification of the case, that the mould, the set\nof channels, into which the metal of the thought is meant to run, really\n_has_ the felicity which it appears to have: the form is perfect; and\nit is merely in the _matter_, in the accidental filling up of the mould,\nthat a fault has been committed. Had the Virgilian point of excellence\nbeen _loveliness_ instead of _majesty_, or any word whatever suggesting\nthe common antithesis of sublimity and beauty; or had it been power on the\none side, matched against grace on the other, the true lurking tendency of\nthe thought would have been developed, and the sub-conscious purpose of\nthe epigram would have fulfilled itself to the letter.\n\n_N.B._--It is not meant that _loftiness of thought_ and _majesty_ are\nexpressions so entirely interchangeable, as that no shades of difference\ncould be suggested; it is enough that these 'shades' are not substantial\nenough, or broad enough, to support the weight of opposition which the\nepigram assigns to them. _Grace_ and _elegance_, for instance, are far\nfrom being in all relations synonymous; but they are so to the full extent\nof any purposes concerned in this epigram. Nevertheless, it is probable\nenough that Dryden had moving in his thoughts a relation of the word\n_majesty_, which, if developed, would have done justice to his meaning. It\nwas, perhaps, the decorum and sustained dignity of the _composition_--the\nworkmanship apart from the native grandeur of the materials--the majestic\nstyle of the artistic treatment as distinguished from the original\ncreative power--which Dryden, the translator of the Roman poet, familiar\ntherefore with his weakness and with his strength, meant in this place to\npredicate as characteristically observable in Virgil.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE\n\n[1] '_Six planets_;'--No more had then been discovered.\n\n\n\n\nPOPE'S RETORT UPON ADDISON.\n\n\nThere is nothing extraordinary, or that could merit a special notice, in a\nsimple case of oversight, or in a blunder, though emanating from the\ngreatest of poets. But such a case challenges and forces our attention,\nwhen we know that the particular passage in which it occurs was wrought\nand burnished with excessive pains; or (which in this case is also known)\nwhen that particular passage is pushed into singular prominence as having\nobtained a singular success. In no part of his poetic mission did Pope so\nfascinate the gaze of his contemporaries as in his functions of satirist;\nwhich functions, in his latter years, absorbed all other functions. And\none reason, I believe, why it was that the interest about Pope decayed so\nrapidly after his death (an accident somewhere noticed by Wordsworth),\nmust be sought in the fact, that the most stinging of his personal\nallusions, by which he had given salt to his later writings, were\ncontinually losing their edge, and sometimes their intelligibility, as\nPope's own contemporary generation was dying off. Pope alleges it as a\npalliation of his satiric malice, that it had been forced from him in the\nway of retaliation; forgetting that such a plea wilfully abjures the\ngrandest justification of a satirist, viz., the deliberate assumption of\nthe character as something corresponding to the prophet's mission amongst\nthe Hebrews. It is no longer the _facit indignatio versum_. Pope's\nsatire, where even it was most effective, was personal and vindictive, and\nupon that argument alone could not he philosophic. Foremost in the order\nof his fulminations stood, and yet stands, the bloody castigation by\nwhich, according to his own pretence, he warned and menaced (but by which,\nin simple truth, he executed judgment upon) his false friend, Addison.\n\nTo say that this drew vast rounds of applause upon its author, and\nfrightened its object into deep silence for the rest of his life, like the\n_Quos ego_ of angry Neptune, sufficiently argues that the verses must\nhave ploughed as deeply as the Russian knout. Vitriol could not scorch\nmore fiercely. And yet the whole passage rests upon a blunder; and the\nblunder is so broad and palpable, that it implies instant forgetfulness\nboth in the writer and the reader. The idea which furnishes the basis of\nthe passage is this: that the conduct ascribed to Addison is in its own\nnature so despicable, as to extort laughter by its primary impulse; but\nthat this laughter changes into weeping, when we come to understand that\nthe person concerned in this delinquency is Addison. The change, the\ntransfiguration, in our mood of contemplating the offence, is charged upon\nthe discovery which we are supposed to make as to the person of the\noffender; that which by its baseness had been simply comic when imputed to\nsome corresponding author, passes into a tragic _coup-de-theatre_,\nwhen it is suddenly traced back to a man of original genius. The whole,\ntherefore, of this effect is made to depend upon the sudden scenical\ntransition from a supposed petty criminal to one of high distinction. And,\nmeantime, no such stage effect had been possible, since the knowledge that\na man of genius was the offender had been what we started with from the\nbeginning. 'Our laughter is changed to tears,' says Pope, 'as soon as we\ndiscover that the base act had a noble author.' And, behold! the initial\nfeature in the whole description of the case is, that the libeller was one\nwhom 'true genius fired:'\n\n  'Peace to all such! But were there one whose mind\n  True genius fires,' &c.\n\nBefore the offence is described, the perpetrator is already characterized\nas a man of genius: and, _in spite of that knowledge_, we laugh. But\nsuddenly our mood changes, and we weep, but why? I beseech you. Simply\nbecause we have ascertained the author to be a man of genius.\n\n  'Who would not laugh, if such a man there be?\n   Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?'\n\nThe sole reason for weeping is something that we knew already before we\nbegan to laugh.\n\nIt would not be right in logic, in fact, it would be a mis-classification,\nif I should cite as at all belonging to the same group several passages in\nMilton that come very near to Irish bulls, by virtue of distorted\nlanguage. One reason against such a classification would lie precisely in\nthat fact--viz., that the assimilation to the category of bulls lurks in\nthe verbal expression, and not (as in Pope's case) amongst the conditions\nof the thought. And a second reason would lie in the strange circumstance,\nthat Milton had not fallen into this snare of diction through any\ncarelessness or oversight, but with his eyes wide open, deliberately\navowing his error as a special elegance; repeating it; and well aware of\nsplendid Grecian authority for his error, if anybody should be bold enough\nto call it an error. Every reader must be aware of the case--\n\n  'Adam the goodliest man of men since born\n  His sons; the fairest of her daughters Eve'--\n\nwhich makes Adam one of his own sons, Eve one of her own daughters. This,\nhowever, is authorized by Grecian usage in the severest writers. Neither\ncan it be alleged that these might be bold poetic expressions, harmonizing\nwith the Grecian idiom; for Poppo has illustrated this singular form of\nexpression in a prose-writer, as philosophic and austere as Thucydides; a\nform which (as it offends against logic) must offend equally in all\nlanguages. Some beauty must have been described in the idiom, such as\natoned for its solecism: for Milton recurs to the same idiom, and under\nthe same entire freedom of choice, elsewhere; particularly in this\ninstance, which has not been pointed out: 'And never,' says Satan to the\nabhorred phantoms of Sin and Death, when crossing his path,\n\n  'And never saw till now\n  Sight more detestable than him and thee.'\n\nNow, therefore, it seems, he _had_ seen a sight more detestable than\nthis very sight. He now looked upon something more hateful than X Y Z.\nWhat was it? It was X Y Z.\n\nBut the authority of Milton, backed by that of insolent Greece, would\nprove an overmatch for the logic of centuries. And I withdraw, therefore,\nfrom the rash attempt to quarrel with this sort of bull, involving itself\nin the verbal expression. But the following, which lies rooted in the mere\nfacts and incidents, is certainly the most extraordinary _practical_\nbull [1] that all literature can furnish. And a stranger thing, perhaps,\nthan the oversight itself lies in this--that not any critic throughout\nEurope, two only excepted, but has failed to detect a blunder so\nmemorable. All the rampant audacity of Bentley--'slashing Bentley'--all\nthe jealous malignity of Dr. Johnson--who hated Milton without disguise as\na republican, but secretly and under a mask _would_ at any rate have\nhated him from jealousy of his scholarship--had not availed to sharpen\nthese practised and these interested eyes into the detection of an\noversight which argues a sudden Lethean forgetfulness on the part of\nMilton; and in many generations of readers, however alive and awake with\nmalice, a corresponding forgetfulness not less astonishing. Two readers\nonly I have ever heard of that escaped this lethargic inattention; one of\nwhich two is myself; and I ascribe my success partly to good luck, but\npartly to some merit on my own part in having cultivated a habit of\nsystematically accurate reading. If I read at all, I make it a duty to\nread truly and faithfully. I profess allegiance for the time to the man\nwhom I undertake to study; and I am as loyal to all the engagements\ninvolved in such a contract, as if I had come under a _sacramentum\nmilitare_. So it was that, whilst yet a boy, I came to perceive, with a\nwonder not yet exhausted, that unaccountable blunder which Milton has\ncommitted in the main narrative on which the epic fable of the 'Paradise\nLost' turns as its hinges. And many a year afterwards I found that Paul\nRichter, whose vigilance nothing escaped, who carried with him through\nlife 'the eye of the hawk, and the fire therein,' had not failed to make\nthe same discovery. It is this: The archangel Satan has designs upon man;\nhe meditates his ruin; and it is known that he does. Specially to\ncounteract these designs, and for no other purpose whatever, a choir of\nangelic police is stationed at the gates of Paradise, having (I repeat)\none sole commission, viz., to keep watch and ward over the threatened\nsafety of the newly created human pair. Even at the very first this duty\nis neglected so thoroughly, that Satan gains access without challenge or\nsuspicion. That is awful: for, ask yourself, reader, how a constable or an\ninspector of police would be received who had been stationed at No. 6, on\na secret information, and spent the night in making love at No. 15.\nThrough the regular surveillance at the gates, Satan passes without\nobjection; and he is first of all detected by a purely accidental\ncollision during the rounds of the junior angels. The result of this\ncollision, and of the examination which follows, is what no reader can\never forget--so unspeakable is the grandeur of that scene between the two\nhostile archangels, when the _Fiend_ (so named at the moment under\nthe fine machinery used by Milton for exalting or depressing the ideas of\nhis nature) finally takes his flight as an incarnation of darkness,\n\n           'And fled\n  Murmuring; and with him fled the shades of night.\n\nThe darkness flying with him, naturally we have the feeling that he\n_is_ the darkness, and that all darkness has some essential relation\nto Satan.\n\nBut now, having thus witnessed his terrific expulsion, naturally we ask\nwhat was the sequel. Four books, however, are interposed before we reach\nthe answer to that question. This is the reason that we fail to remark the\nextraordinary oversight of Milton. Dislocated from its immediate plan in\nthe succession of incidents, that sequel eludes our notice, which else and\nin its natural place would have shocked us beyond measure. The simple\nabstract of the whole story is, that Satan, being ejected, and sternly\ncharged under Almighty menaces not to intrude upon the young Paradise of\nGod, 'rides with darkness' for exactly one week, and, having digested his\nwrath rather than his fears on the octave of his solemn banishment,\nwithout demur, or doubt, or tremor, back he plunges into the very centre\nof Eden. On a Friday, suppose, he is expelled through the main entrance:\non the Friday following he re-enters upon the forbidden premises through a\nclandestine entrance. The upshot is, that the heavenly police suffer, in\nthe first place, the one sole enemy, who was or could be the object of\ntheir vigilance, to pass without inquest or suspicion; thus they\n_inaugurate_ their task; secondly, by the merest accident (no thanks\nto their fidelity) they detect him, and with awful adjurations sentence\nhim to perpetual banishment; but, thirdly, on his immediate return, in\nutter contempt of their sentence, they ignore him altogether, and\napparently act upon Dogberry's direction, that, upon meeting a thief, the\npolice may suspect him to be no true man; and, with such manner of men,\nthe less they meddle or make, the more it will be for their honesty.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE.\n\n[1] It is strange, or rather it is _not_ strange, considering the\nfeebleness of that lady in such a field, that Miss Edgeworth always\nfancied herself to have caught Milton in a bull, under circumstances\nwhich, whilst leaving the shadow of a bull, effectually disown the\nsubstance. 'And in the lowest deep a lower deep still opens to devour me.'\nThis is the passage denounced by Miss Edgeworth. 'If it was already the\nlowest deep,' said the fair lady, 'how the deuce (no, perhaps it might be\n_I_ that said '_how the deuce_') could it open into a lower deep?' Yes,\nhow could it? In carpentry, it is clear to my mind that it could _not_.\nBut, in cases of deep imaginative feeling, no phenomenon is more natural\nthan precisely this never-ending growth of one colossal grandeur chasing\nand surmounting another, or of abysses that swallowed up abysses.\nPersecutions of this class oftentimes are amongst the symptoms of fever,\nand amongst the inevitable spontaneities of nature. Other people I have\nknown who were inclined to class amongst bulls Milton's all-famous\nexpression of '_darkness visible_,' whereas it is not even a bold or\ndaring expression; it describes a pure optical experience of very common\noccurrence. There are two separate darknesses or obscurities: first, that\nobscurity _by_ which you see dimly; and secondly, that obscurity _which_\nyou see. The first is the atmosphere through which vision is performed,\nand, therefore, part of the _subjective_ conditions essential to the act\nof seeing. The second is the _object_ of your sight. In a glass-house at\nnight illuminated by a sullen fire in one corner, but else dark, you see\nthe darkness massed in the rear as a black object. _That_ is the 'visible\ndarkness.' And on the other hand, the murky atmosphere between you and the\ndistant rear is not the object, but the medium, through or athwart which\nyou descry the black masses. The first darkness is _subjective_ darkness;\nthat is, a darkness in your own eye, and entangled with your very faculty\nof vision. The second darkness is perfectly different: it is _objective_\ndarkness; that is to say, not any darkness which affects or modifies your\nfaculty of seeing either for better or worse; but a darkness which is the\n_object_ of your vision; a darkness which you see projected from yourself\nas a massy volume of blackness, and projected, possibly, to a vast\ndistance.","title":"Note Book of an English Opium-Eater","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":82570}