My study windows

By James Russell Lowell

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Title: My study windows

Author: James Russell Lowell

Release date: May 27, 2024 [eBook #73710]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1871

Credits: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY STUDY WINDOWS ***





                           MY STUDY WINDOWS

                                  BY

                         JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

                       [Illustration: colophon]


                          BOSTON AND NEW YORK
                     HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
                    The Riverside Press, Cambridge




        Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871,
                       BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL,
      in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

                           Copyright, 1899,
                       BY MABEL LOWELL BURNETT.

                        _All rights reserved._




PREFATORY NOTE.


My former volume of Essays has been so kindly received that I am
emboldened to make another and more miscellaneous collection. The papers
here gathered have been written at intervals during the last fifteen
years, and I knew no way so effectual to rid my mind of them and make
ready for a new departure, as this of shutting them between two covers
where they can haunt me, at least, no more. I should have preferred a
simpler title, but publishers nowadays are inexorable on this point, and
I was too much occupied for happiness of choice. That which I have
desperately snatched is meant to imply both the books within and the
world without, and perhaps may pass muster in the case of one who has
always found his most fruitful study in the open air.




                                  TO

                        PROFESSOR F. J. CHILD.


MY DEAR CHILD,--

You were good enough to like my Essay on Chaucer (about whom you know so
much more than I), and I shall accordingly so far presume upon our long
friendship as to inscribe the volume containing it with your name.

                        Always heartily yours,

                                                          J. R. LOWELL.

CAMBRIDGE, Christmas, 1870.




CONTENTS.


                                                                    PAGE

MY GARDEN ACQUAINTANCE                                                 1

A GOOD WORD FOR WINTER                                                24

ON A CERTAIN CONDESCENSION IN FOREIGNERS                              54

A GREAT PUBLIC CHARACTER                                              83

CARLYLE                                                              115

ABRAHAM LINCOLN                                                      150

THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF JAMES GATES PERCIVAL                         178

THOREAU                                                              193

SWINBURNE’S TRAGEDIES                                                210

CHAUCER                                                              227

LIBRARY OF OLD AUTHORS                                               290

EMERSON, THE LECTURER                                                375

POPE                                                                 385




MY GARDEN ACQUAINTANCE.


One of the most delightful books in my father’s library was White’s
Natural History of Selborne. For me it has rather gained in charm with
years. I used to read it without knowing the secret of the pleasure I
found in it, but as I grow older I begin to detect some of the simple
expedients of this natural magic. Open the book where you will, it takes
you out of doors. In our broiling July weather one can walk out with
this genially garrulous Fellow of Oriel and find refreshment instead of
fatigue. You have no trouble in keeping abreast of him as he ambles
along on his hobby-horse, now pointing to a pretty view, now stopping to
watch the motions of a bird or an insect, or to bag a specimen for the
Honourable Daines Barrington or Mr. Pennant. In simplicity of taste and
natural refinement he reminds one of Walton; in tenderness toward what
he would have called the brute creation, of Cowper. I do not know
whether his descriptions of scenery are good or not, but they have made
me familiar with his neighborhood. Since I first read him, I have walked
over some of his favorite haunts, but I still see them through his eyes
rather than by any recollection of actual and personal vision. The book
has also the delightfulness of absolute leisure. Mr. White seems never
to have had any harder work to do than to study the habits of his
feathered fellow-townsfolk, or to watch the ripening of his peaches on
the wall. His volumes are the journal of Adam in Paradise,

    “Annihilating all that’s made
     To a green thought in a green shade.”

It is positive rest only to look into that garden of his. It is vastly
better than to

                  “See great Diocletian walk
    In the Salonian garden’s noble shade,”

for thither ambassadors intrude to bring with them the noises of Rome,
while here the world has no entrance. No rumor of the revolt of the
American Colonies seems to have reached him. “The natural term of an
hog’s life” has more interest for him than that of an empire. Burgoyne
may surrender and welcome; of what consequence is _that_ compared with
the fact that we can explain the odd tumbling of rooks in the air by
their turning over “to scratch themselves with one claw”? All the
couriers in Europe spurring rowel-deep make no stir in Mr. White’s
little Chartreuse; but the arrival of the house-martin a day earlier or
later than last year is a piece of news worth sending express to all his
correspondents.

Another secret charm of this book is its inadvertent humor, so much the
more delicious because unsuspected by the author. How pleasant is his
innocent vanity in adding to the list of the British, and still more of
the Selbornian, _fauna_! I believe he would gladly have consented to be
eaten by a tiger or a crocodile, if by that means the occasional
presence within the parish limits of either of these anthropophagous
brutes could have been established. He brags of no fine society, but is
plainly a little elated by “having considerable acquaintance with a tame
brown owl.” Most of us have known our share of owls, but few can boast
of intimacy with a feathered one. The great events of Mr. White’s life,
too, have that disproportionate importance which is always humorous. To
think of his hands having actually been thought worthy (as neither
Willoughby’s nor Ray’s were) to hold a stilted plover, the _Charadrius
himantopus_, with no back toe, and therefore “liable, in speculation, to
perpetual vacillations”! I wonder, by the way, if metaphysicians have no
hind toes. In 1770 he makes the acquaintance in Sussex of “an old family
tortoise,” which had then been domesticated for thirty years. It is
clear that he fell in love with it at first sight. We have no means of
tracing the growth of his passion; but in 1780 we find him eloping with
its object in a post-chaise. “The rattle and hurry of the journey so
perfectly roused it that, when I turned it out in a border, it walked
twice down to the bottom of my garden.” It reads like a Court Journal:
“Yesterday morning H. R. H. the Princess Alice took an airing of half an
hour on the terrace of Windsor Castle.” This tortoise might have been a
member of the Royal Society, if he could have condescended to so ignoble
an ambition. It had but just been discovered that a surface inclined at
a certain angle with the plane of the horizon took more of the sun’s
rays. The tortoise had always known this (though he unostentatiously
made no parade of it), and used accordingly to tilt himself up against
the garden-wall in the autumn. He seems to have been more of a
philosopher than even Mr. White himself, caring for nothing but to get
under a cabbage-leaf when it rained, or the sun was too hot, and to bury
himself alive before frost,--a four-footed Diogenes, who carried his tub
on his back.

There are moods in which this kind of history is infinitely refreshing.
These creatures whom we affect to look down upon as the drudges of
instinct are members of a commonwealth whose constitution rests on
immovable bases. Never any need of reconstruction there! _They_ never
dream of settling it by vote that eight hours are equal to ten, or that
one creature is as clever as another and no more. _They_ do not use
their poor wits in regulating God’s clocks, nor think they cannot go
astray so long as they carry their guide-board about with them,--a
delusion we often practise upon ourselves with our high and mighty
reason, that admirable finger-post which points every way and always
right. It is good for us now and then to converse with a world like Mr.
White’s, where Man is the least important of animals. But one who, like
me, has always lived in the country and always on the same spot, is
drawn to his book by other occult sympathies. Do we not share his
indignation at that stupid Martin who had graduated his thermometer no
lower than 4° above zero of Fahrenheit, so that in the coldest weather
ever known the mercury basely absconded into the bulb, and left us to
see the victory slip through our fingers just as they were closing upon
it? No man, I suspect, ever lived long in the country without being
bitten by these meteorological ambitions. He likes to be hotter and
colder, to have been more deeply snowed up, to have more trees and
larger blown down than his neighbors. With us descendants of the
Puritans especially, these weather-competitions supply the abnegated
excitement of the race-course. Men learn to value thermometers of the
true imaginative temperament, capable of prodigious elations and
corresponding dejections. The other day (5th July) I marked 98° in the
shade, my high-water mark, higher by one degree than I had ever seen it
before. I happened to meet a neighbor; as we mopped our brows at each
other, he told me that he had just cleared 100°, and I went home a
beaten man. I had not felt the heat before, save as a beautiful
exaggeration of sunshine; but now it oppressed me with the prosaic
vulgarity of an oven. What had been poetic intensity became all at once
rhetorical hyperbole. I might suspect his thermometer (as indeed I did,
for we Harvard men are apt to think ill of any graduation but our own);
but it was a poor consolation. The fact remained that his herald
Mercury, standing a-tiptoe, could look down on mine. I seem to glimpse
something of this familiar weakness in Mr. White. He, too, has shared in
these mercurial triumphs and defeats. Nor do I doubt that he had a true
country-gentleman’s interest in the weathercock; that his first question
on coming down of a morning was, like Barabas’s,

    “Into what quarter peers my halcyon’s bill?”

It is an innocent and healthful employment of the mind, distracting one
from too continual study of himself, and leading him to dwell rather
upon the indigestions of the elements than his own. “Did the wind back
round, or go about with the sun?” is a rational question that bears not
remotely on the making of hay and the prosperity of crops. I have little
doubt that the regulated observation of the vane in many different
places, and the interchange of results by telegraph, would put the
weather, as it were, in our power, by betraying its ambushes before it
is ready to give the assault. At first sight, nothing seems more drolly
trivial than the lives of those whose single achievement is to record
the wind and the temperature three times a day. Yet such men are
doubtless sent into the world for this special end, and perhaps there is
no kind of accurate observation, whatever its object, that has not its
final use and value for some one or other. It is even to be hoped that
the speculations of our newspaper editors and their myriad
correspondents upon the signs of the political atmosphere may also fill
their appointed place in a well-regulated universe, if it be only that
of supplying so many more jack-o’-lanterns to the future historian. Nay,
the observations on finance of an M. C. whose sole knowledge of the
subject has been derived from a lifelong success in getting a living out
of the public without paying any equivalent therefor, will perhaps be
of interest hereafter to some explorer of our _cloaca maxima_, whenever
it is cleansed.

For many years I have been in the habit of noting down some of the
leading events of my embowered solitude, such as the coming of certain
birds and the like,--a kind of _mémoires pour servir_, after the fashion
of White, rather than properly digested natural history. I thought it
not impossible that a few simple stories of my winged acquaintances
might be found entertaining by persons of kindred taste.

There is a common notion that animals are better meteorologists than
men, and I have little doubt that in immediate weather-wisdom they have
the advantage of our sophisticated senses (though I suspect a sailor or
shepherd would be their match), but I have seen nothing that leads me to
believe their minds capable of erecting the horoscope of a whole season,
and letting us know beforehand whether the winter will be severe or the
summer rainless. I more than suspect that the clerk of the weather
himself does not always know very long in advance whether he is to draw
an order for hot or cold, dry or moist, and the musquash is scarce
likely to be wiser. I have noted but two days’ difference in the coming
of the song-sparrow between a very early and a very backward spring.
This very year I saw the linnets at work thatching, just before a
snow-storm which covered the ground several inches deep for a number of
days. They struck work and left us for a while, no doubt in search of
food. Birds frequently perish from sudden changes in our whimsical
spring weather of which they had no foreboding. More than thirty years
ago, a cherry-tree, then in full bloom, near my window, was covered with
humming-birds benumbed by a fall of mingled rain and snow, which
probably killed many of them. It should seem that their coming was
dated by the height of the sun, which betrays them into unthrifty
matrimony;

    “So nature pricketh hem in their corages”;

but their going is another matter. The chimney-swallows leave us early,
for example, apparently so soon as their latest fledglings are firm
enough of wing to attempt the long rowing-match that is before them. On
the other hand, the wild-geese probably do not leave the North till they
are frozen out, for I have heard their bugles sounding southward so late
as the middle of December. What may be called local migrations are
doubtless dictated by the chances of food. I have once been visited by
large flights of cross-bills; and whenever the snow lies long and deep
on the ground, a flock of cedar-birds comes in midwinter to eat the
berries on my hawthorns. I have never been quite able to fathom the
local, or rather geographical partialities of birds. Never before this
summer (1870) have the king-birds, handsomest of flycatchers, built in
my orchard; though I always know where to find them within half a mile.
The rose-breasted grosbeak has been a familiar bird in Brookline (three
miles away), yet I never saw one here till last July, when I found a
female busy among my raspberries and surprisingly bold. I hope she was
_prospecting_ with a view to settlement in our garden. She seemed, on
the whole, to think well of my fruit, and I would gladly plant another
bed if it would help to win over so delightful a neighbor.

The return of the robin is commonly announced by the newspapers, like
that of eminent or notorious people to a watering-place, as the first
authentic notification of spring. And such his appearance in the orchard
and garden undoubtedly is. But, in spite of his name of migratory
thrush, he stays with us all winter, and I have seen him when the
thermometer marked 15 degrees below zero of Fahrenheit, armed
impregnably within, like Emerson’s Titmouse, and as cheerful as he. The
robin has a bad reputation among people who do not value themselves less
for being fond of cherries. There is, I admit, a spice of vulgarity in
him, and his song is rather of the Bloomfield sort, too largely
ballasted with prose. His ethics are of the Poor Richard school, and the
main chance which calls forth all his energy is altogether of the belly.
He never has those fine intervals of lunacy into which his cousins, the
catbird and the mavis, are apt to fall. But for a’ that and twice as
muckle ’s a’ that, I would not exchange him for all the cherries that
ever came out of Asia Minor. With whatever faults, he has not wholly
forfeited that superiority which belongs to the children of nature. He
has a finer taste in fruit than could be distilled from many successive
committees of the Horticultural Society, and he eats with a relishing
gulp not inferior to Dr. Johnson’s. He feels and freely exercises his
right of eminent domain. His is the earliest mess of green peas; his all
the mulberries I had fancied mine. But if he get also the lion’s share
of the raspberries, he is a great planter, and sows those wild ones in
the woods, that solace the pedestrian and give a momentary calm even to
the jaded victims of the White Hills. He keeps a strict eye over one’s
fruit, and knows to a shade of purple when your grapes have cooked long
enough in the sun. During the severe drought a few years ago, the robins
wholly vanished from my garden. I neither saw nor heard one for three
weeks. Meanwhile a small foreign grape-vine, rather shy of bearing,
seemed to find the dusty air congenial, and, dreaming perhaps of its
sweet Argos across the sea, decked itself with a score or so of fair
bunches. I watched them from day to day till they should have secreted
sugar enough from the sunbeams, and at last made up my mind that I
would celebrate my vintage the next morning. But the robins too had
somehow kept note of them. They must have sent out spies, as did the
Jews into the promised land, before I was stirring. When I went with my
basket, at least a dozen of these winged vintagers bustled out from
among the leaves, and alighting on the nearest trees interchanged some
shrill remarks about me of a derogatory nature. They had fairly sacked
the vine. Not Wellington’s veterans made cleaner work of a Spanish town;
not Federals or Confederates were ever more impartial in the
confiscation of neutral chickens. I was keeping my grapes a secret to
surprise the fair Fidele with, but the robins made them a profounder
secret to her than I had meant. The tattered remnant of a single bunch
was all my harvest-home. How paltry it looked at the bottom of my
basket,--as if a humming-bird had laid her egg in an eagle’s nest! I
could not help laughing; and the robins seemed to join heartily in the
merriment. There was a native grape-vine close by, blue with its less
refined abundance, but my cunning thieves preferred the foreign flavor.
Could I tax them with want of taste?

The robins are not good solo singers, but their chorus, as, like
primitive fire-worshippers, they hail the return of light and warmth to
the world, is unrivalled. There are a hundred singing like one. They are
noisy enough then, and sing, as poets should, with no afterthought. But
when they come after cherries to the tree near my window, they muffle
their voices, and their faint _pip, pip, pop!_ sounds far away at the
bottom of the garden, where they know I shall not suspect them of
robbing the great black-walnut of its bitter-rinded store.[1] They are
feathered Pecksniffs, to be sure, but then how brightly their breasts,
that look rather shabby in the sunlight, shine in a rainy day against
the dark green of the fringe-tree! After they have pinched and shaken
all the life out of an earthworm, as Italian cooks pound all the spirit
out of a steak, and then gulped him, they stand up in honest
self-confidence, expand their red waistcoats with the virtuous air of a
lobby member, and outface you with an eye that calmly challenges
inquiry. “Do _I_ look like a bird that knows the flavor of raw vermin? I
throw myself upon a jury of my peers. Ask any robin if he ever ate
anything less ascetic than the frugal berry of the juniper, and he will
answer that his vow forbids him.” Can such an open bosom cover such
depravity? Alas, yes! I have no doubt his breast was redder at that very
moment with the blood of my raspberries. On the whole, he is a doubtful
friend in the garden. He makes his dessert of all kinds of berries, and
is not averse from early pears. But when we remember how omnivorous he
is, eating his own weight in an incredibly short time, and that Nature
seems exhaustless in her invention of new insects hostile to vegetation,
perhaps we may reckon that he does more good than harm. For my own part,
I would rather have his cheerfulness and kind neighborhood than many
berries.

For his cousin, the catbird, I have a still warmer regard. Always a good
singer, he sometimes nearly equals the brown thrush, and has the merit
of keeping up his music later in the evening than any bird of my
familiar acquaintance. Ever since I can remember, a pair of them have
built in a gigantic syringa, near our front door, and I have known the
male to sing almost uninterruptedly during the evenings of early summer
till twilight duskened into dark. They differ greatly in vocal talent,
but all have a delightful way of crooning over, and, as it were,
rehearsing their song in an undertone, which makes their nearness always
unobtrusive. Though there is the most trustworthy witness to the
imitative propensity of this bird, I have only once, during an intimacy
of more than forty years, heard him indulge it. In that case, the
imitation was by no means so close as to deceive, but a free
reproduction of the notes of some other birds, especially of the oriole,
as a kind of variation in his own song. The catbird is as shy as the
robin is vulgarly familiar. Only when his nest or his fledglings are
approached does he become noisy and almost aggressive. I have known him
to station his young in a thick cornel-bush on the edge of the
raspberry-bed, after the fruit began to ripen, and feed them there for a
week or more. In such cases he shows none of that conscious guilt which
makes the robin contemptible. On the contrary, he will maintain his post
in the thicket, and sharply scold the intruder who ventures to steal
_his_ berries. After all, his claim is only for tithes, while the robin
will bag your entire crop if he get a chance.

Dr. Watts’s statement that “birds in their little nests agree,” like too
many others intended to form the infant mind, is very far from being
true. On the contrary, the most peaceful relation of the different
species to each other is that of armed neutrality. They are very jealous
of neighbors. A few years ago, I was much interested in the
housebuilding of a pair of summer yellow-birds. They had chosen a very
pretty site near the top of a tall white lilac, within easy eye-shot of
a chamber window. A very pleasant thing it was to see their little home
growing with mutual help, to watch their industrious skill interrupted
only by little flirts and snatches of endearment, frugally cut short by
the common-sense of the tiny housewife. They had brought their work
nearly to an end, and had already begun to line it with fern-down, the
gathering of which demanded more distant journeys and longer absences.
But, alas! the syringa, immemorial manor of the catbirds, was not more
than twenty feet away, and these “giddy neighbors” had, as it appeared,
been all along jealously watchful, though silent, witnesses of what they
deemed an intrusion of squatters. No sooner were the pretty mates fairly
gone for a new load of lining, than

    “To their unguarded nest these weasel Scots
     Came stealing.”

Silently they flew back and forth, each giving a vengeful dab at the
nest in passing. They did not fall-to and deliberately destroy it, for
they might have been caught at their mischief. As it was, whenever the
yellow-birds came back, their enemies were hidden in their own
sight-proof bush. Several times their unconscious victims repaired
damages, but at length, after counsel taken together, they gave it up.
Perhaps, like other unlettered folk, they came to the conclusion that
the Devil was in it, and yielded to the invisible persecutions of
witchcraft.

The robins, by constant attacks and annoyances, have succeeded in
driving off the blue-jays who used to build in our pines, their gay
colors and quaint noisy ways making them welcome and amusing neighbors.
I once had the chance of doing a kindness to a household of them, which
they received with very friendly condescension. I had had my eye for
some time upon a nest, and was puzzled by a constant fluttering of what
seemed full-grown wings in it whenever I drew nigh. At last I climbed
the tree, in spite of angry protests from the old birds against my
intrusion. The mystery had a very simple solution. In building the nest,
a long piece of packthread had been somewhat loosely woven in. Three of
the young had contrived to entangle themselves in it, and had become
full-grown without being able to launch themselves upon the air. One was
unharmed; another had so tightly twisted the cord about its shank that
one foot was curled up and seemed paralyzed; the third, in its struggles
to escape, had sawn through the flesh of the thigh and so much harmed
itself that I thought it humane to put an end to its misery. When I took
out my knife to cut their hempen bonds, the heads of the family seemed
to divine my friendly intent. Suddenly ceasing their cries and threats,
they perched quietly within reach of my hand, and watched me in my work
of manumission. This, owing to the fluttering terror of the prisoners,
was an affair of some delicacy; but erelong I was rewarded by seeing one
of them fly away to a neighboring tree, while the cripple, making a
parachute of his wings, came lightly to the ground, and hopped off as
well as he could with one leg, obsequiously waited on by his elders. A
week later I had the satisfaction of meeting him in the pine-walk, in
good spirits, and already so far recovered as to be able to balance
himself with the lame foot. I have no doubt that in his old age he
accounted for his lameness by some handsome story of a wound received at
the famous Battle of the Pines, when our tribe, overcome by numbers, was
driven from its ancient camping-ground. Of late years the jays have
visited us only at intervals; and in winter their bright plumage, set
off by the snow, and their cheerful cry, are especially welcome. They
would have furnished Æsop with a fable, for the feathered crest in which
they seem to take so much satisfaction is often their fatal snare.
Country boys make a hole with their finger in the snow-crust just large
enough to admit the jay’s head, and, hollowing it out somewhat beneath,
bait it with a few kernels of corn. The crest slips easily into the
trap, but refuses to be pulled out again, and he who came to feast
remains a prey.

Twice have the crow-blackbirds attempted a settlement in my pines, and
twice have the robins, who claim a right of pre-emption, so successfully
played the part of border-ruffians as to drive them away,--to my great
regret, for they are the best substitute we have for rooks. At Shady
Hill (now, alas! empty of its so long-loved household) they build by
hundreds, and nothing can be more cheery than their creaking clatter
(like a convention of old-fashioned tavern-signs) as they gather at
evening to debate in mass meeting their windy politics, or to gossip at
their tent-doors over the events of the day. Their port is grave, and
their stalk across the turf as martial as that of a second-rate ghost in
Hamlet. They never meddled with my corn, so far as I could discover.

For a few years I had crows, but their nests are an irresistible bait
for boys, and their settlement was broken up. They grew so wonted as to
throw off a great part of their shyness, and to tolerate my near
approach. One very hot day I stood for some time within twenty feet of a
mother and three children, who sat on an elm bough over my head, gasping
in the sultry air, and holding their wings half-spread for coolness. All
birds during the pairing season become more or less sentimental, and
murmur soft nothings in a tone very unlike the grinding-organ repetition
and loudness of their habitual song. The crow is very comical as a
lover, and to hear him trying to soften his croak to the proper Saint
Preux standard, has something the effect of a Mississippi boatman
quoting Tennyson. Yet there are few things to my ear more melodious than
his caw of a clear winter morning as it drops to you filtered through
five hundred fathoms of crisp blue air. The hostility of all smaller
birds makes the moral character of the crow, for all his deaconlike
demeanor and garb, somewhat questionable. He could never sally forth
without insult. The golden robins, especially, would chase him as far as
I could follow with my eye, making him duck clumsily to avoid their
importunate bills. I do not believe, however, that he robbed any nests
hereabouts, for the refuse of the gas-works, which, in our free-and-easy
community, is allowed to poison the river, supplied him with dead
alewives in abundance. I used to watch him making his periodical visits
to the salt-marshes and coming back with a fish in his beak to his young
savages, who, no doubt, like it in that condition which makes it savory
to the Kanakas and other corvine races of men.

Orioles are in great plenty with me. I have seen seven males flashing
about the garden at once. A merry crew of them swing their hammocks from
the pendulous boughs. During one of these latter years, when the
canker-worms stripped our elms as bare as winter, these birds went to
the trouble of rebuilding their unroofed nests, and chose for the
purpose trees which are safe from those swarming vandals, such as the
ash and the button-wood. One year a pair (disturbed, I suppose,
elsewhere) built a second nest in an elm, within a few yards of the
house. My friend, Edward E. Hale, told me once that the oriole rejected
from his web all strands of brilliant color, and I thought it a striking
example of that instinct of concealment noticeable in many birds, though
it should seem in this instance that the nest was amply protected by its
position from all marauders but owls and squirrels. Last year, however,
I had the fullest proof that Mr. Hale was mistaken. A pair of orioles
built on the lowest trailer of a weeping elm, which hung within ten feet
of our drawing-room window, and so low that I could reach it from the
ground. The nest was wholly woven and felted with ravellings of woollen
carpet in which scarlet predominated. Would the same thing have happened
in the woods? Or did the nearness of a human dwelling perhaps give the
birds a greater feeling of security? They are very bold, by the way, in
quest of cordage, and I have often watched them stripping the fibrous
bark from a honeysuckle growing over the very door. But, indeed, all my
birds look upon me as if I were a mere tenant at will, and they were
landlords. With shame I confess it, I have been bullied even by a
humming-bird. This spring, as I was cleansing a pear-tree of its
lichens, one of these little zigzagging blurs came purring toward me,
couching his long bill like a lance, his throat sparkling with angry
fire, to warn me off from a Missouri-currant whose honey he was sipping.
And many a time he has driven me out of a flower-bed. This summer, by
the way, a pair of these winged emeralds fastened their mossy acorn-cup
upon a bough of the same elm which the orioles had enlivened the year
before. We watched all their proceedings from the window through an
opera-glass, and saw their two nestlings grow from black needles with a
tuft of down at the lower end, till they whirled away on their first
short experimental flights. They became strong of wing in a surprisingly
short time, and I never saw them or the male bird after, though the
female was regular as usual in her visits to our petunias and verbenas.
I do not think it ground enough for a generalization, but in the many
times when I watched the old birds feeding their young, the mother
always alighted, while the father as uniformly remained upon the wing.

The bobolinks are generally chance visitors, tinkling through the garden
in blossoming-time, but this year, owing to the long rains early in the
season, their favorite meadows were flooded, and they were driven to the
upland. So I had a pair of them domiciled in my grass-field. The male
used to perch in an apple-tree, then in full bloom, and, while I stood
perfectly still close by, he would circle away, quivering round the
entire field of five acres, with no break in his song, and settle down
again among the blossoms, to be hurried away almost immediately by a new
rapture of music. He had the volubility of an Italian charlatan at a
fair, and, like him, appeared to be proclaiming the merits of some quack
remedy. _Opodeldoc-opodeldoc-try-Doctor-Lincoln’s-opodeldoc!_ he seemed
to repeat over and over again, with a rapidity that would have distanced
the deftest-tongued Figaro that ever rattled. I remember Count Gurowski
saying once, with that easy superiority of knowledge about this country
which is the monopoly of foreigners, that we had no singing-birds! Well,
well, Mr. Hepworth Dixon has found the typical America in Oneida and
Salt Lake City. Of course, an intelligent European is the best judge of
these matters. The truth is there are more singing-birds in Europe
because there are fewer forests. These songsters love the neighborhood
of man because hawks and owls are rarer, while their own food is more
abundant. Most people seem to think, the more trees, the more birds.
Even Châteaubriand, who first tried the primitive-forest-cure, and whose
description of the wilderness in its imaginative effects is unmatched,
fancies the “people of the air singing their hymns to him.” So far as my
own observation goes, the farther one penetrates the sombre solitudes of
the woods, the more seldom does he hear the voice of any singing-bird.
Tn spite of Châteaubriand’s minuteness of detail, in spite of that
marvellous reverberation of the decrepit tree falling of its own weight,
which he was the first to notice, I cannot help doubting whether he
made his way very deep into the wilderness. At any rate, in a letter to
Fontanes, written in 1804, he speaks of _mes chevaux paissant à quelque
distance_. To be sure Châteaubriand was apt to mount the high horse, and
this may have been but an afterthought of the _grand seigneur_, but
certainly one would not make much headway on horseback toward the druid
fastnesses of the primæval pine.

The bobolinks build in considerable numbers in a meadow within a quarter
of a mile of us. A houseless lane passes through the midst of their
camp, and in clear westerly weather, at the right season, one may hear a
score of them singing at once. When they are breeding, if I chance to
pass, one of the male birds always accompanies me like a constable,
flitting from post to post of the rail-fence, with a short note of
reproof continually repeated, till I am fairly out of the neighborhood.
Then he will swing away into the air and run down the wind, gurgling
music without stint over the unheeding tussocks of meadow-grass and dark
clumps of bulrushes that mark his domain.

We have no bird whose song will match the nightingale’s in compass, none
whose note is so rich as that of the European blackbird; but for mere
rapture I have never heard the bobolink’s rival. But his opera-season is
a short one. The ground and tree sparrows are our most constant
performers. It is now late in August, and one of the latter sings every
day and all day long in the garden. Till within a fortnight, a pair of
indigo-birds would keep up their lively _duo_ for an hour together.
While I write, I hear an oriole gay as in June, and the plaintive
_may-be_ of the goldfinch tells me he is stealing my lettuce-seeds. I
know not what the experience of others may have been, but the only bird
I have ever heard sing in the night has been the chip-bird. I should
say he sang about as often during the darkness as cocks crow. One can
hardly help fancying that he sings in his dreams.

    “Father of light, what sunnie seed,
     What glance of day hast thou confined
     Into this bird? To all the breed
     This busie ray thou hast assigned;
     Their magnetism works all night,
     And dreams of Paradise and light.”

On second thought, I remember to have heard the cuckoo strike the hours
nearly all night with the regularity of a Swiss clock.

The dead limbs of our elms, which I spare to that end, bring us the
flicker every summer, and almost daily I hear his wild scream and laugh
close at hand, himself invisible. He is a shy bird, but a few days ago I
had the satisfaction of studying him through the blinds as he sat on a
tree within a few feet of me. Seen so near and at rest, he makes good
his claim to the title of pigeon-woodpecker. Lumberers have a notion
that he is harmful to timber, digging little holes through the bark to
encourage the settlement of insects. The regular rings of such
perforations which one may see in almost any apple-orchard seem to give
some probability to this theory. Almost every season a solitary quail
visits us, and, unseen among the currant-bushes, calls _Bob White, Bob
White_, as if he were playing at hide-and-seek with that imaginary
being. A rarer visitant is the turtle-dove, whose pleasant coo
(something like the muffled crow of a cock from a coop covered with
snow) I have sometimes heard, and whom I once had the good luck to see
close by me in the mulberry-tree. The wild-pigeon, once numerous, I have
not seen for many years.[2] Of savage birds, a hen-hawk now and then
quarters himself upon us for a few days, sitting sluggish in a tree
after a surfeit of poultry. One of them once offered me a near shot from
my study-window one drizzly day for several hours. But it was Sunday,
and I gave him the benefit of its gracious truce of God.

Certain birds have disappeared from our neighborhood within my memory. I
remember when the whippoorwill could be heard in Sweet Auburn. The
night-hawk, once common, is now rare. The brown thrush has moved farther
up country. For years I have not seen or heard any of the larger owls,
whose hooting was one of my boyish terrors. The cliff-swallow, strange
emigrant, that eastward takes his way, has come and gone again in my
time. The bank-swallows, wellnigh innumerable during my boyhood, no
longer frequent the crumbly cliff of the gravel-pit by the river. The
barn-swallows, which once swarmed in our barn, flashing through the
dusty sun-streaks of the mow, have been gone these many years. My father
would lead me out to see them gather on the roof, and take counsel
before their yearly migration, as Mr. White used to see them at
Selborne. _Eheu, fugaces!_ Thank fortune, the swift still glues his
nest, and rolls his distant thunders night and day in the wide-throated
chimneys, still sprinkles the evening air with his merry twittering. The
populous heronry in Fresh Pond meadows has been wellnigh broken up, but
still a pair or two haunt the old home, as the gypsies of Ellangowan
their ruined huts, and every evening fly over us riverwards, clearing
their throats with a hoarse hawk as they go, and, in cloudy weather,
scarce higher than the tops of the chimneys. Sometimes I have known one
to alight in one of our trees, though for what purpose I never could
divine. Kingfishers have sometimes puzzled me in the same way, perched
at high noon in a pine, springing their watchman’s rattle when they
flitted away from my curiosity, and seeming to shove their top-heavy
heads along as a man does a wheelbarrow.

Some birds have left us, I suppose, because the country is growing less
wild. I once found a summer duck’s nest within quarter of a mile of our
house, but such a _trouvaille_ would be impossible now as Kidd’s
treasure. And yet the mere taming of the neighborhood does not quite
satisfy me as an explanation. Twenty years ago, on my way to bathe in
the river, I saw every day a brace of woodcock, on the miry edge of a
spring within a few rods of a house, and constantly visited by thirsty
cows. There was no growth of any kind to conceal them, and yet these
ordinarily shy birds were almost as indifferent to my passing as common
poultry would have been. Since bird-nesting has become scientific, and
dignified itself as oölogy, that, no doubt, is partly to blame for some
of our losses. But some old friends are constant. Wilson’s thrush comes
every year to remind me of that most poetic of ornithologists. He flits
before me through the pine-walk like the very genius of solitude. A pair
of pewees have built immemorially on a jutting brick in the arched
entrance to the ice-house. Always on the same brick, and never more than
a single pair, though two broods of five each are raised there every
summer. How do they settle their claim to the homestead? By what right
of primogeniture? Once the children of a man employed about the place
_oölogized_ the nest, and the pewees left us for a year or two. I felt
towards those boys as the messmates of the Ancient Mariner did towards
him after he had shot the albatross. But the pewees came back at last,
and one of them is now on his wonted perch, so near my window that I can
hear the click of his bill as he snaps a fly on the wing with the
unerring precision a stately Trasteverina shows in the capture of her
smaller deer. The pewee is the first bird to pipe up in the morning;
and, during the early summer he preludes his matutinal ejaculation of
_pewee_ with a slender whistle, unheard at any other time. He saddens
with the season, and, as summer declines, he changes his note to _eheu,
pewee!_ as if in lamentation. Had he been an Italian bird, Ovid would
have had a plaintive tale to tell about him. He is so familiar as often
to pursue a fly through the open window into my library.

There is something inexpressibly dear to me in these old friendships of
a lifetime. There is scarce a tree of mine but has had, at some time or
other, a happy homestead among its boughs, to which I cannot say,

              “Many light hearts and wings,
    Which now be dead, lodged in thy living bowers.”

My walk under the pines would lose half its summer charm were I to miss
that shy anchorite, the Wilson’s thrush, nor hear in haying-time the
metallic ring of his song, that justifies his rustic name of
_scythe-whet_. I protect my game as jealously as an English squire. If
anybody had oölogized a certain cuckoo’s-nest I know of (I have a pair
in my garden every year), it would have left me a sore place in my mind
for weeks. I love to bring these aborigines back to the mansuetude they
showed to the early voyagers, and before (forgive the involuntary pun)
they had grown accustomed to man and knew his savage ways. And they
repay your kindness with a sweet familiarity too delicate ever to breed
contempt. I have made a Penn-treaty with them, preferring that to the
Puritan way with the natives, which converted them to a little Hebraism
and a great deal of Medford rum. If they will not come near enough to me
(as most of them will), I bring them close with an opera-glass,--a much
better weapon than a gun. I would not, if I could, convert them from
their pretty pagan ways. The only one I sometimes have savage doubts
about is the red squirrel. I _think_ he oölogizes. I _know_ he eats
cherries (we counted five of them at one time in a single tree, the
stones pattering down like the sparse hail that preludes a storm), and
that he gnaws off the small end of pears to get at the seeds. He steals
the corn from under the noses of my poultry. But what would you have? He
will come down upon the limb of the tree I am lying under till he is
within a yard of me. He and his mate will scurry up and down the great
black-walnut for my diversion, chattering like monkeys. Can I sign his
death-warrant who has tolerated me about his grounds so long? Not I. Let
them steal, and welcome. I am sure I should, had I had the same bringing
up and the same temptation. As for the birds, I do not believe there is
one of them but does more good than harm; and of how many featherless
bipeds can this be said?




A GOOD WORD FOR WINTER.


“Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is,” says Shelley; and I am apt to
think there are a good many other things concerning which their
knowledge might be largely increased without becoming burdensome. Nor
are they altogether reluctant to be taught,--not so reluctant, perhaps,
as unable,--and education is sure to find one fulcrum ready to her hand
by which to get a purchase on them. For most of us, I have noticed, are
not without an amiable willingness to assist at any spectacle or
entertainment (loosely so called) for which no fee is charged at the
door. If special tickets are sent us, another element of pleasure is
added in a sense of privilege and pre-eminence (pitiably scarce in a
democracy) so deeply rooted in human nature that I have seen people take
a strange satisfaction in being near of kin to the mute chief personage
in a funeral. It gave them a moment’s advantage over the rest of us
whose grief was rated at a lower place in the procession. But the words
“admission free” at the bottom of a handbill, though holding out no bait
of inequality, have yet a singular charm for many minds, especially in
the country. There is something touching in the constancy with which men
attend free lectures, and in the honest patience with which they listen
to them. He who pays may yawn or shift testily in his seat, or even go
out with an awful reverberation of criticism, for he has bought the
right to do any or all of these and paid for it. But gratuitous hearers
are anæsthetized to suffering by a sense of virtue. They are performing
perhaps the noblest, as it is one of the most difficult, of human
functions in getting Something (no matter how small) for Nothing. They
are not pestered by the awful duty of securing their money’s worth. They
are wasting time, to do which elegantly and without lassitude is the
highest achievement of civilization. If they are cheated, it is, at
worst, only of a superfluous hour which was rotting on their hands. Not
only is mere amusement made more piquant, but instruction more
palatable, by this universally relished sauce of gratuity. And if the
philosophic observer finds an object of agreeable contemplation in the
audience, as they listen to a discourse on the probability of making
missionaries go down better with the Feejee-Islanders by balancing the
hymn-book in one pocket with a bottle of Worcestershire in the other, or
to a plea for arming the female gorilla with the ballot, he also takes a
friendly interest in the lecturer, and admires the wise economy of
Nature who thus contrives an ample field of honest labor for her bores.
Even when the insidious hat is passed round after one of these
eleemosynary feasts, the relish is but heightened by a conscientious
refusal to disturb the satisfaction’s completeness with the rattle of a
single contributory penny. So firmly persuaded am I of this
_gratis_-instinct in our common humanity, that I believe I could fill a
house by advertising a free lecture on Tupper considered as a
philosophic poet, or on my personal recollections of the late James K.
Polk. This being so, I have sometimes wondered that the peep-shows which
Nature provides with such endless variety for her children, and to which
we are admitted on the bare condition of having eyes, should be so
generally neglected. To be sure, eyes are not so common as people think,
or poets would be plentier, and perhaps also these exhibitions of hers
are cheapened in estimation by the fact that in enjoying them we are not
getting the better of anybody else. Your true lovers of nature, however,
contrive to get even _this_ solace; and Wordsworth looking upon
mountains as his own peculiar sweethearts, was jealous of anybody else
who ventured upon even the most innocent flirtation with them. As if
_such_ fellows, indeed, could pretend to that nicer sense of
what-d’ye-call-it which was so remarkable in him! Marry come up!
Mountains, no doubt, may inspire a profounder and more exclusive
passion, but on the whole I am not sorry to have been born and bred
among more domestic scenes, where I can be hospitable without a pang. I
am going to ask you presently to take potluck with me at a board where
Winter shall supply whatever there is of cheer.

I think the old fellow has hitherto had scant justice done him in the
main. We make him the symbol of old age or death, and think we have
settled the matter. As if old age were never kindly as well as frosty;
as if it had no reverend graces of its own as good in their way as the
noisy impertinence of childhood, the elbowing self-conceit of youth, or
the pompous mediocrity of middle life! As if there were anything
discreditable in death, or nobody had ever longed for it! Suppose we
grant that Winter is the sleep of the year, what then? I take it upon me
to say that his dreams are finer than the best reality of his waking
rivals.

    “Sleep, Silence’ child, the father of soft Rest,”

is a very agreeable acquaintance, and most of us are better employed in
his company than anywhere else. For my own part, I think Winter a pretty
wide-awake old boy, and his bluff sincerity and hearty ways are more
congenial to my mood, and more wholesome for me, than any charms of
which his rivals are capable. Spring is a fickle mistress, who either
does not know her own mind, or is so long in making it up, whether you
shall have her or not have her, that one gets tired at last of her
pretty miffs and reconciliations. You go to her to be cheered up a bit,
and ten to one catch her in the sulks, expecting you to find enough
good-humor for both. After she has become Mrs. Summer she grows a little
more staid in her demeanor; and her abundant table, where you are sure
to get the earliest fruits and vegetables of the season, is a good
foundation for steady friendship; but she has lost that delicious aroma
of maidenhood, and what was delicately rounded grace in the girl gives
more than hints of something like redundance in the matron. Autumn is
the poet of the family. He gets you up a splendor that you would say was
made out of real sunset; but it is nothing more than a few hectic
leaves, when all is done. He is but a sentimentalist, after all; a kind
of Lamartine whining along the ancestral avenues he has made bare timber
of, and begging a contribution of good-spirits from your own savings to
keep him in countenance. But Winter has his delicate sensibilities too,
only he does not make them as good as indelicate by thrusting them
forever in your face. He is a better poet than Autumn, when he has a
mind, but, like a truly great one as he is, he brings you down to your
bare manhood, and bids you understand him out of that, with no
adventitious helps of association, or he will none of you. He does not
touch those melancholy chords on which Autumn is as great a master as
Heine. Well, is there no such thing as thrumming on them and maundering
over them till they get out of tune, and you wish some manly hand would
crash through them and leave them dangling brokenly forever? Take Winter
as you find him, and he turns out to be a thoroughly honest fellow,
with no nonsense in him, and tolerating none in you, which is a great
comfort in the long run. He is not what they call a genial critic; but
bring a real man along with you, and you will find there is a crabbed
generosity about the old cynic that you would not exchange for all the
creamy concessions of Autumn. “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,”
quotha? That’s just it; Winter soon blows your head clear of fog and
makes you see things as they are; I thank him for it! The truth is,
between ourselves, I have a very good opinion of the whole family, who
always welcome me without making me feel as if I were too much of a poor
relation. There ought to be some kind of distance, never so little, you
know, to give the true relish. They are as good company, the worst of
them, as any I know, and I am not a little flattered by a condescension
from any one of them; but I happen to hold Winter’s retainer, this time,
and, like an honest advocate, am bound to make as good a showing as I
can for him, even if it cost a few slurs upon the rest of the household.
Moreover, Winter is coming, and one would like to get on the blind side
of him.

The love of Nature in and for herself, or as a mirror for the moods of
the mind, is a modern thing. The fleeing to her as an escape from man
was brought into fashion by Rousseau; for his prototype Petrarch, though
he had a taste for pretty scenery, had a true antique horror for the
grander aspects of nature. He got once to the top of Mont Ventoux, but
it is very plain that he did not enjoy it. Indeed, it is only within a
century or so that the search after the picturesque has been a safe
employment. It is not so even now in Greece or Southern Italy. Where the
Anglo-Saxon carves his cold fowl, and leaves the relics of his picnic,
the ancient or mediæval man might be pretty confident that some ruffian
would try the edge of his knife on a chicken of the Platonic sort, and
leave more precious bones as an offering to the genius of the place. The
ancients were certainly more social than we, though that, perhaps, was
natural enough, when a good part of the world was still covered with
forest. They huddled together in cities as well for safety as to keep
their minds warm. The Romans had a fondness for country life, but they
had fine roads, and Rome was always within easy reach. The author of the
Book of Job is the earliest I know of who showed any profound sense of
the moral meaning of the outward world; and I think none has approached
him since, though Wordsworth comes nearest with the first two books of
the “Prelude.” But their feeling is not precisely of the kind I speak of
as modern, and which gave rise to what is called descriptive poetry.
Chaucer opens his Clerk’s Tale with a bit of landscape admirable for its
large style, and as well composed as any Claude.

    “There is right at the west end of Itaille,
     Down at the root of Vesulus the cold,
     A lusty plain abundant of vitaille,
     Where many a tower and town thou mayst behold,
     That founded were in time of fathers old,
     And many an other délectable sight;
     And Salucës this noble country hight.”

What an airy precision of touch there is here, and what a sure eye for
the points of character in landscape! But the picture is altogether
subsidiary. No doubt the works of Salvator Rosa and Gaspar Poussin show
that there must have been some amateur taste for the grand and terrible
in scenery; but the British poet Thomson (“sweet-souled” is Wordsworth’s
apt word) was the first to do with words what they had done partially
with colors. He was turgid, no good metrist, and his English is like a
translation from one of those poets who wrote in Latin after it was
dead; but he was a man of sincere genius, and not only English, but
European literature is largely in his debt. He was the inventor of cheap
amusement for the million, to be had of All-out-doors for the asking. It
was his impulse which unconsciously gave direction to Rousseau, and it
is to the school of Jean Jacques that we owe St. Pierre, Cowper,
Châteaubriand, Wordsworth, Byron, Lamartine, George Sand, Ruskin,--the
great painters of ideal landscape.

So long as men had slender means, whether of keeping out cold or
checkmating it with artificial heat, Winter was an unwelcome guest,
especially in the country. There he was the bearer of a _lettre de
cachet_, which shut its victims in solitary confinement with few
resources but to boose round the fire and repeat ghost-stories, which
had lost all their freshness and none of their terror. To go to bed was
to lie awake of cold, with an added shudder of fright whenever a loose
casement or a waving curtain chose to give you the goose-flesh. Bussy
Rabutin, in one of his letters, gives us a notion how uncomfortable it
was in the country, with green wood, smoky chimneys, and doors and
windows that thought it was their duty to make the wind whistle, not to
keep it out. With fuel so dear, it could not have been much better in
the city, to judge by Ménage’s warning against the danger of our
dressing-gowns taking fire, while we cuddle too closely over the sparing
blaze. The poet of Winter himself is said to have written in bed, with
his hand through a hole in the blanket; and we may suspect that it was
the warmth quite as much as the company that first drew men together at
the coffee-house. Coleridge, in January, 1800, writes to Wedgewood: “I
am sitting by a fire in a rug greatcoat.... It is most barbarously cold,
and you, I fear, can shield yourself from it only by perpetual
imprisonment.” This thermometrical view of winter is, I grant, a
depressing one; for I think there is nothing so demoralizing as cold. I
know of a boy who, when his father, a bitter economist, was brought home
dead, said only, “Now we can burn as much wood as we like.” I would not
off-hand prophesy the gallows for that boy. I remember with a shudder a
pinch I got from the cold once in a railroad-car. A born fanatic of
fresh air, I found myself glad to see the windows hermetically sealed by
the freezing vapor of our breath, and plotted the assassination of the
conductor every time he opened the door. I felt myself sensibly
barbarizing, and would have shared Colonel Jack’s bed in the ash-hole of
the glass-furnace with a grateful heart. Since then I have had more
charity for the prevailing ill-opinion of winter. It was natural enough
that Ovid should measure the years of his exile in Pontus by the number
of winters.

    Ut sumus in Ponto, ter frigore constitit Ister,
      Facta est Euxini dura ter unda maris:

    Thrice hath the cold bound Ister fast, since I
    In Pontus was, thrice Euxine’s wave made hard.

Jubinal has printed an Anglo-Norman piece of doggerel in which Winter
and Summer dispute which is the better man. It is not without a kind of
rough and inchoate humor, and I like it because old Whitebeard gets
tolerably fair play. The jolly old fellow boasts of his rate of living,
with that contempt of poverty which is the weak spot in the burly
English nature.

    Jà Dieu ne place que me avyenge
    Que ne face plus honour
    Et plus despenz en un soul jour
    Que vus en tote vostre vie:

    Now God forbid it hap to me
    That I make not more great display,
    And spend more in a single day
    Than you can do in all your life.

The best touch, perhaps, is Winter’s claim for credit as a mender of the
highways, which was not without point when every road in Europe was a
quagmire during a good part of the year unless it was bottomed on some
remains of Roman engineering.

    Je su, fet-il, seignur et mestre
    Et à bon droit le dey estre,
    Quant de la bowe face caucé
    Par un petit de geelé:

    Master and lord I am, says he,
    And of good right so ought to be,
    Since I make causeys, safely crost,
    Of mud, with just a pinch of frost.

But there is no recognition of Winter as the best of out-door company.

Even Emerson, an open-air man, and a bringer of it, if ever any,
confesses,

    “The frost-king ties my fumbling feet,
     Sings in my ear, my hands are stones,
     Curdles the blood to the marble bones,
     Tugs at the heartstrings, numbs the sense,
     And hems in life with narrowing fence.”

Winter was literally “the inverted year,” as Thomson called him; for
such entertainments as could be had must be got within doors. What
cheerfulness there was in brumal verse was that of Horace’s _dissolve
frigus ligna super foco large reponens_, so pleasantly associated with
the cleverest scene in Roderick Random. This is the tone of that poem of
Walton’s friend Cotton, which won the praise of Wordsworth:--

                      “Let us home,
    Our mortal enemy is come;
    Winter and all his blustering train
    Have made a voyage o’er the main.

           *       *       *       *       *

    “Fly, fly, the foe advances fast;
    Into our fortress let us haste.
    Where all the roarers of the north
    Can neither storm nor starve us forth.

    “There underground a magazine
    Of sovereign juice is cellared in,
    Liquor that will the siege maintain
    Should Phœbus ne’er return again.

           *       *       *       *       *

    “Whilst we together jovial sit
    Careless, and crowned with mirth and wit,
    Where, though bleak winds confine us home
    Our fancies round the world shall roam.”

Thomson’s view of Winter is also, on the whole, a hostile one, though he
does justice to his grandeur.

                    “Thus Winter falls,
    A heavy gloom oppressive o’er the world,
    Through Nature shedding influence malign.”

He finds his consolations, like Cotton, in the house, though more
refined:--

                                  “While without
    The ceaseless winds blow ice, be my retreat
    Between the groaning forest and the shore
    Beat by the boundless multitude of waves,
    A rural, sheltered, solitary scene,
    Where ruddy fire and beaming tapers join
    To cheer the gloom. There studious let me sit
    And hold high converse with the mighty dead.”

Doctor Akenside, a man to be spoken of with respect, follows Thomson.
With him, too, “Winter desolates the year,” and

    “How pleasing wears the wintry night
     Spent with the old illustrious dead!
     While by the taper’s trembling light
     I seem those awful scenes to tread
     Where chiefs or legislators lie,” &c.

Akenside had evidently been reading Thomson. He had the conceptions of a
great poet with less faculty than many a little one, and is one of those
versifiers of whom it is enough to say that we are always willing to
break him off in the middle with an &c., well knowing that what follows
is but the coming-round again of what went before, marching in a circle
with the cheap numerosity of a stage-army. In truth, it is no wonder
that the short days of that cloudy northern climate should have added to
winter a gloom borrowed of the mind. We hardly know, till we have
experienced the contrast, how sensibly our winter is alleviated by the
longer daylight and the pellucid atmosphere. I once spent a winter in
Dresden, a southern climate compared with England, and really almost
lost my respect for the sun when I saw him groping among the
chimney-pots opposite my windows as he described his impoverished arc in
the sky. The enforced seclusion of the season makes it the time for
serious study and occupations that demand fixed incomes of unbroken
time. This is why Milton said “that his vein never happily flowed but
from the autumnal equinox to the vernal,” though in his twentieth year
he had written, on the return of spring,--

    Fallor? an et nobis redeunt in carmina vires
    Ingeniumque mihi munere veris adest?

    Err I? or do the powers of song return
    To me, and genius too, the gifts of Spring?

Goethe, so far as I remember, was the first to notice the cheerfulness
of snow in sunshine. His _Harz-reise im Winter_ gives no hint of it, for
that is a diluted reminiscence of Greek tragic choruses and the Book of
Job in nearly equal parts. In one of the singularly interesting and
characteristic letters to Frau von Stein, however, written during the
journey, he says: “It is beautiful indeed; the mist heaps itself
together in light snow-clouds, the sun looks through, and the snow over
everything gives back a feeling of gayety.” But I find in Cowper the
first recognition of a general amiability in Winter. The gentleness of
his temper, and the wide charity of his sympathies, made it natural for
him to find good in everything except the human heart. A dreadful creed
distilled from the darkest moments of dyspeptic solitaries compelled him
against his will to see in _that_ the one evil thing made by a God whose
goodness is over all his works. Cowper’s two walks in the morning and
noon of a winter’s day are delightful, so long as he contrives to let
himself be happy in the graciousness of the landscape. Your muscles
grow springy, and your lungs dilate with the crisp air as you walk along
with him. You laugh with him at the grotesque shadow of your legs
lengthened across the snow by the just-risen sun. I know nothing that
gives a purer feeling of out-door exhilaration than the easy verses of
this escaped hypochondriac. But Cowper also preferred his sheltered
garden-walk to those robuster joys, and bitterly acknowledged the
depressing influence of the darkened year. In December, 1780, he writes:
“At this season of the year, and in this gloomy uncomfortable climate,
it is no easy matter for the owner of a mind like mine to divert it from
sad subjects, and to fix it upon such as may administer to its
amusement.” Or was it because he was writing to the dreadful Newton?
Perhaps his poetry bears truer witness to his habitual feeling, for it
is only there that poets disenthral themselves of their reserve and
become fully possessed of their greatest charm,--the power of being
franker than other men. In the Third Book of the Task he boldly affirms
his preference of the country to the city even in winter:--

    “But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumed
     By roses, and clear suns, though scarcely felt,
     And groves, if inharmonious, yet secure
     From clamor, and whose very silence charms,
     To be preferred to smoke?...
     They would be, were not madness in the head
     And folly in the heart; were England now
     What England was, plain, hospitable, kind,
     And undebauched.”

The conclusion shows, however, that he was thinking mainly of fireside
delights, not of the blusterous companionship of nature. This appears
even more clearly in the Fourth Book:--

    “O Winter, ruler of the inverted year”;

but I cannot help interrupting him to say how pleasant it always is to
track poets through the gardens of their predecessors and find out
their likings by a flower snapped off here and there to garnish their
own nosegays. Cowper had been reading Thomson, and “the inverted year”
pleased his fancy with its suggestion of that starry wheel of the zodiac
moving round through its spaces infinite. He could not help loving a
handy Latinism (especially with elision beauty added), any more than
Gray, any more than Wordsworth,--on the sly. But the member for Olney
has the floor:--

    “O Winter, ruler of the inverted year,
     Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled,
     Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks
     Fringed with a beard made white with other snows
     Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds,
     A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
     A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
     But urged by storms along its slippery way,
     I love thee all unlovely as thou seem’st,
     And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold’st the sun
     A prisoner in the yet undawning east,
     Shortening his journey between morn and noon,
     And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
     Down to the rosy west, but kindly still
     Compensating his loss with added hours
     Of social converse and instructive ease,
     And gathering at short notice, in one group,
     The family dispersed, and fixing thought,
     Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.
     I crown thee king of intimate delights,
     Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness,
     And all the comforts that the lowly roof
     Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours
     Of long uninterrupted evening know.”

I call this a good _human_ bit of writing, imaginative, too,--not so
flushed, not so ... highfaluting (let me dare the odious word!) as the
modern style since poets have got hold of a theory that imagination is
common-sense turned inside out, and not common-sense sublimed,--but
wholesome, masculine, and strong in the simplicity of a mind wholly
occupied with its theme. To me Cowper is still the best of our
descriptive poets for every-day wear. And what unobtrusive skill he has!
How he heightens, for example, your sense of winter-evening seclusion,
by the twanging horn of the postman on the bridge! That horn has rung in
my ears ever since I first heard it, during the consulate of the second
Adams. Wordsworth strikes a deeper note; but does it not sometimes come
over one (just the least in the world) that one would give anything for
a bit of nature pure and simple, without quite so strong a flavor of W.
W.? W. W. is, of course, sublime and all that--but! For my part, I will
make a clean breast of it, and confess that I can’t look at a mountain
without fancying the late laureate’s gigantic Roman nose thrust between
me and it, and thinking of Dean Swift’s profane version of _Romanos
rerum dominos_ into _Roman nose! a rare un! dom your nose!_ But do I
judge verses, then, by the impression made on me by the man who wrote
them? Not so fast, my good friend, but, for good or evil, the character
and its intellectual product are inextricably interfused.

If I remember aright, Wordsworth himself (except in his magnificent
skating-scene in the “Prelude”) has not much to say for winter out of
doors. I cannot recall any picture by him of a snow-storm. The reason
may possibly be that in the Lake Country even the winter storms bring
rain rather than snow. He was thankful for the Christmas visits of Crabb
Robinson, because they “helped him through the winter.” His only hearty
praise of winter is when, as Général Février, he defeats the French:--

    “Humanity, delighting to behold
     A fond reflection of her own decay,
     Hath painted Winter like a traveller old,
     Propped on a staff, and, through the sullen day,
     In hooded mantle, limping o’er the plain
     As though his weakness were disturbed by pain:
     Or, if a juster fancy should allow
     An undisputed symbol of command,
     The chosen sceptre is a withered bough
     Infirmly grasped within a withered hand.
     These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn;
     But mighty Winter the device shall scorn.”

The Scottish poet Grahame, in his “Sabbath,” says manfully:--

                      “Now is the time
    To visit Nature in her grand attire”;

and he has one little picture which no other poet has surpassed:--

    “High-ridged the whirlëd drift has almost reached
     The powdered keystone of the churchyard porch:
     Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried.”

Even in our own climate, where the sun shows his winter face as long and
as brightly as in central Italy, the seduction of the chimney-corner is
apt to predominate in the mind over the severer satisfactions of muffled
fields and penitential woods. The very title of Whittier’s delightful
“Snow-Bound” shows what _he_ was thinking of, though he does vapor a
little about digging out paths. The verses of Emerson, perfect as a
Greek fragment (despite the archaism of a dissyllabic fire), which he
has chosen for his epigraph, tell us, too, how the

                      “Housemates sit
    Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
    In a tumultuous privacy of storm.”

They are all in a tale. It is always the _tristis Hiems_ of Virgil.
Catch one of them having a kind word for old Barbe Fleurie, unless he
whines through some cranny, like a beggar, to heighten their enjoyment
while they toast their slippered toes. I grant there is a keen relish of
contrast about the bickering flame as it gives an emphasis beyond
Gherardo della Notte to loved faces, or kindles the gloomy gold of
volumes scarce less friendly, especially when a tempest is blundering
round the house. Wordsworth has a fine touch that brings home to us the
comfortable contrast of without and within, during a storm at night, and
the passage is highly characteristic of a poet whose inspiration always
has an undertone of _bourgeois_:--

    “How touching, when, at midnight, sweep
     Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark,
     To hear,--and sink again to sleep!”

J. H., one of those choice poets who will not tarnish their bright
fancies by publication, always insists on a snow-storm as essential to
the true atmosphere of whist. Mrs. Battles, in her famous rule for the
game, implies winter, and would doubtless have added tempest, if it
could be had for the asking. For a good solid read also, into the small
hours, there is nothing like that sense of safety against having your
evening laid waste, which Euroclydon brings, as he bellows down the
chimney, making your fire gasp, or rustles snow-flakes against the pane
with a sound more soothing than silence. Emerson, as he is apt to do,
not only hit the nail on the head, but drove it home, in that last
phrase of the “tumultuous privacy.”

But I would exchange this, and give something to boot, for the privilege
of walking out into the vast blur of a north-northeast snow-storm, and
getting a strong draught on the furnace within, by drawing the first
furrows through its sandy drifts. I love those

        “Noontide twilights which snow makes
    With tempest of the blinding flakes.”

If the wind veer too much toward the east, you get the heavy snow that
gives a true Alpine slope to the boughs of your evergreens, and traces a
skeleton of your elms in white; but you must have plenty of north in
your gale if you want those driving nettles of frost that sting the
cheeks to a crimson manlier than that of fire. During the great storm
of two winters ago, the most robustious periwig-pated fellow of late
years, I waded and floundered a couple of miles through the whispering
night, and brought home that feeling of expansion we have after being in
good company. “Great things doeth He which we cannot comprehend; for he
saith to the snow, ‘Be thou on the earth.’”

There is admirable snow scenery in Judd’s “Margaret,” but some one has
confiscated my copy of that admirable book, and, perhaps, Homer’s
picture of a snow-storm is the best yet in its large simplicity:--

    “And as in winter-time, when Jove his cold sharp javelins throws
     Amongst us mortals, and is moved to white the earth with snows,
     The winds asleep, he freely pours till highest prominents,
     Hill-tops, low meadows, and the fields that crown with most contents
     The toils of men, seaports and shores, are hid, and every place,
     But floods, that fair snow’s tender flakes, as their own brood, embrace.”

Chapman, after all, though he makes very free with him, comes nearer
Homer than anybody else. There is nothing in the original of that fair
snow’s tender flakes, but neither Pope nor Cowper could get out of their
heads the Psalmist’s tender phrase, “He giveth his snow like wool,” for
which also Homer affords no hint. Pope talks of “dissolving fleeces,”
and Cowper of a “fleecy mantle.” But David is nobly simple, while Pope
is simply nonsensical, and Cowper pretty. If they must have prettiness,
Martial would have supplied them with it in his

    Densum tacitarum vellus aquarum,

which is too pretty, though I fear it would have pleased Dr. Donne.
Eustathius of Thessalonica calls snow ὓὂωρ ἒρίωὂες, woolly water, which
a poor old French poet, Godeau, has amplified into this:--

    Lorsque la froidure inhumaine
    De leur verd ornement depouille les forêts
    Sous une neige épaisse il couvre les guérets,
    Et la neige a pour eux la chaleur de la laine.

In this, as in Pope’s version of the passage in Homer, there is, at
least, a sort of suggestion of snow-storm in the blinding drift of
words. But, on the whole, if one would know what snow is, I should
advise him not to hunt up what the poets have said about it, but to look
at the sweet miracle itself.

The preludings of Winter are as beautiful as those of Spring. In a gray
December day, when, as the farmers say, it is too cold to snow, his
numbed fingers will let fall doubtfully a few star-shaped flakes, the
snow-drops and anemones that harbinger his more assured reign. Now, and
now only, may be seen, heaped on the horizon’s eastern edge, those “blue
clouds” from forth which Shakespeare says that Mars “doth pluck the
masoned turrets.” Sometimes also, when the sun is low, you will see a
single cloud trailing a flurry of snow along the southern hills in a
wavering fringe of purple. And when at last the real snow-storm comes,
it leaves the earth with a virginal look on it that no other of the
seasons can rival,--compared with which, indeed, they seem soiled and
vulgar.

And what is there in nature so beautiful as the next morning after such
confusion of the elements? Night has no silence like this of busy day.
All the batteries of noise are spiked. We see the movement of life as a
deaf man sees it, a mere wraith of the clamorous existence that inflicts
itself on our ears when the ground is bare. The earth is clothed in
innocence as a garment. Every wound of the landscape is healed; whatever
was stiff has been sweetly rounded as the breasts of Aphrodite; what was
unsightly has been covered gently with a soft splendor, as if, Cowley
would have said, Nature had cleverly let fall her handkerchief to hide
it. If the Virgin (_Nôtre Dame de la neige_) were to come back, here is
an earth that would not bruise her foot nor stain it. It is

                  “The fanned snow
    That’s bolted by the northern blasts twice o’er,”--
    Soffiata e stretta dai venti Schiavi,
    Winnowed and packed by the Sclavonian winds,--

packed so hard sometimes on hill-slopes that it will bear your weight.
What grace is in all the curves, as if every one of them had been swept
by that inspired thumb of Phidias’s journeyman!

Poets have fancied the footprints of the wind in those light ripples
that sometimes scurry across smooth water with a sudden blur. But on
this gleaming hush the aerial deluge has left plain marks of its course;
and in gullies through which it rushed torrent-like, the eye finds its
bed irregularly scooped like that of a brook in hard beach-sand, or, in
more sheltered spots, traced with outlines like those left by the
sliding edges of the surf upon the shore. The air, after all, is only an
infinitely thinner kind of water, such as I suppose we shall have to
drink when the state does her whole duty as a moral reformer. Nor is the
wind the only thing whose trail you will notice on this sensitive
surface. You will find that you have more neighbors and night visitors
than you dreamed of. Here is the dainty footprint of a cat; here a dog
has looked in on you like an amateur watchman to see if all is right,
slumping clumsily about in the mealy treachery. And look! before you
were up in the morning, though you were a punctual courtier at the sun’s
levee, here has been a squirrel zigzagging to and fro like a hound
gathering the scent, and some tiny bird searching for unimaginable
food,--perhaps for the tinier creature, whatever it is, that drew this
slender continuous trail like those made on the wet beach by light
borderers of the sea. The earliest autographs were as frail as these.
Poseidon traced his lines, or giant birds made their mark, on preadamite
sea-margins; and the thunder-gust left the tear-stains of its sudden
passion there; nay, we have the signatures of delicatest fern-leaves on
the soft ooze of æons that dozed away their dreamless leisure before
consciousness came upon the earth with man. Some whim of nature locked
them fast in stone for us after-thoughts of creation. Which of us shall
leave a footprint as imperishable as that of the ornithorhyncus, or much
more so than that of these Bedouins of the snow-desert? Perhaps it was
only because the ripple and the rain-drop and the bird were not thinking
of themselves, that they had such luck. The chances of immortality
depend very much on that. How often have we not seen poor mortals, dupes
of a season’s notoriety, carving their names on seeming-solid rock of
merest beach-sand, whose feeble hold on memory shall be washed away by
the next wave of fickle opinion! Well, well, honest Jacques, there are
better things to be found in the snow than sermons.

The snow that falls damp comes commonly in larger flakes from windless
skies, and is the prettiest of all to watch from under cover. This is
the kind Homer had in mind; and Dante, who had never read him, compares
the _dilatate falde_, the flaring flakes, of his fiery rain, to those of
snow among the mountains without wind. This sort of snowfall has no
fight in it, and does not challenge you to a wrestle like that which
drives well from the northward, with all moisture thoroughly winnowed
out of it by the frosty wind. Burns, who was more out of doors than most
poets, and whose barefoot Muse got the color in her cheeks by vigorous
exercise in all weathers, was thinking of this drier deluge, when he
speaks of the “whirling drift,” and tells how

                    “Chanticleer
    Shook off the powthery snaw.”

But the damper and more deliberate falls have a choice knack at draping
the trees; and about eaves or stonewalls, wherever, indeed, the
evaporation is rapid, and it finds a chance to cling, it will build
itself out in curves of wonderful beauty. I have seen one of these dumb
waves, thus caught in the act of breaking, curl four feet beyond the
edge of my roof and hang there for days, as if Nature were too well
pleased with her work to let it crumble from its exquisite pause. After
such a storm, if you are lucky enough to have even a sluggish ditch for
a neighbor, be sure to pay it a visit. You will find its banks corniced
with what seems precipitated light, and the dark current down below
gleams as if with an inward lustre. Dull of motion as it is, you never
saw water that seemed alive before. It has a brightness, like that of
the eyes of some smaller animals, which gives assurance of life, but of
a life foreign and unintelligible.

A damp snow-storm often turns to rain, and, in our freakish climate, the
wind will whisk sometimes into the northwest so suddenly as to plate all
the trees with crystal before it has swept the sky clear of its last
cobweb of cloud. Ambrose Philips, in a poetical epistle from Copenhagen
to the Earl of Dorset, describes this strange confectionery of
Nature,--for such, I am half ashamed to say, it always seems to me,
recalling the “glorified sugar-candy” of Lamb’s first night at the
theatre. It has an artificial air, altogether beneath the grand artist
of the atmosphere, and besides does too much mischief to the trees for a
philodendrist to take unmixed pleasure in it. Perhaps it deserves a poet
like Philips, who really loved Nature and yet liked her to be mighty
fine, as Pepys would say, with a heightening of powder and rouge:--

    “And yet but lately have I seen e’en here
     The winter in a lovely dress appear.
     Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow,
     Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow,
     At evening a keen eastern breeze arose,
     And the descending rain unsullied froze.
     Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
     The ruddy noon disclosed at once to view
     The face of Nature in a rich disguise,
     And brightened every object to my eyes;
     For every shrub, and every blade of grass,
     And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass;
     In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
     And through the ice the crimson berries glow;
     The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes yield,
     Seem polished lances in a hostile field;
     The stag in limpid currents with surprise
     Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise;
     The spreading oak, the beech, the towering pine,
     Glazed over in the freezing ether shine;
     The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
     Which wave and glitter in the distant sun,
     When, if a sudden gust of wind arise,
     The brittle forest into atoms flies,
     The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends
     And in a spangled shower the prospect ends.”

It is not uninstructive to see how tolerable Ambrose is, so long as he
sticks manfully to what he really saw. The moment he undertakes to
improve on Nature he sinks into the mere court poet, and we surrender
him to the jealousy of Pope without a sigh. His “rattling branches” and
“crackling forest” are good, as truth always is after a fashion; but
what shall we say of that dreadful stag which, there is little doubt, he
valued above all the rest, because it was purely his own?

The damper snow tempts the amateur architect and sculptor. His
Pentelicus has been brought to his very door, and if there are boys to
be had (whose company beats all other recipes for prolonging life) a
middle-aged Master of the Works will knock the years off his account and
make the family Bible seem a dealer in foolish fables, by a few hours
given heartily to this business. First comes the Sisyphean toil of
rolling the clammy balls till they refuse to budge farther. Then, if
you would play the statuary, they are piled one upon the other to the
proper height; or if your aim be masonry, whether of house or fort, they
must be squared and beaten solid with the shovel. The material is
capable of very pretty effects, and your young companions meanwhile are
unconsciously learning lessons in æsthetics. From the feeling of
satisfaction with which one squats on the damp floor of his extemporized
dwelling, I have been led to think that the backwoodsman must get a
sweeter savor of self-reliance from the house his own hands have built
than Bramante or Sansovino could ever give. Perhaps the fort is the best
thing, for it calls out more masculine qualities and adds the cheer of
battle with that dumb artillery which gives pain enough to test pluck
without risk of serious hurt. Already, as I write, it is twenty-odd
years ago. The balls fly thick and fast. The uncle defends the
waist-high ramparts against a storm of nephews, his breast plastered
with decorations like another Radetsky’s. How well I recall the
indomitable good-humor under fire of him who fell in the front at Ball’s
Bluff, the silent pertinacity of the gentle scholar who got his last
hurt at Fair Oaks, the ardor in the charge of the gallant gentleman who,
with the death-wound in his side, headed his brigade at Cedar Creek! How
it all comes back, and they never come! I cannot again be the Vauban of
fortresses in the innocent snow, but I shall never see children moulding
their clumsy giants in it without longing to help. It was a pretty fancy
of the young Vermont sculptor to make his first essay in this evanescent
material. Was it a figure of Youth, I wonder? Would it not be well if
all artists could begin in stuff as perishable, to melt away when the
sun of prosperity began to shine, and leave nothing behind but the gain
of practised hands! It is pleasant to fancy that Shakespeare served his
apprenticeship at this trade, and owed to it that most pathetic of
despairing wishes,--

    “O, that I were a mockery-king of snow,
     Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
     To melt myself away in water-drops!”

I have spoken of the exquisite curves of snow surfaces. Not less rare
are the tints of which they are capable,--the faint blue of the hollows,
for the shadows in snow are always blue, and the tender rose of higher
points, as you stand with your back to the setting sun and look upward
across the soft rondure of a hillside. I have seen within a mile of home
effects of color as lovely as any iridescence of the Silberhorn after
sundown. Charles II., who never said a foolish thing, gave the English
climate the highest praise when he said that it allowed you more hours
out of doors than any other, and I think our winter may fairly make the
same boast as compared with the rest of the year. Its still mornings,
with the thermometer near zero, put a premium on walking. There is more
sentiment in turf, perhaps, and it is more elastic to the foot; its
silence, too, is wellnigh as congenial with meditation as that of fallen
pine-tassel; but for exhilaration there is nothing like a stiff
snow-crust that creaks like a cricket at every step, and communicates
its own sparkle to the senses. The air you drink is _frappé_, all its
grosser particles precipitated, and the dregs of your blood with them. A
purer current mounts to the brain, courses sparkling through it, and
rinses it thoroughly of all dejected stuff. There is nothing left to
breed an exhalation of ill-humor, or despondency. They say that this
rarefied atmosphere has lessened the capacity of our lungs. Be it so.
Quart-pots are for muddier liquor than nectar. To me, the city in winter
is infinitely dreary,--the sharp streetcorners have such a chill in
them, and the snow so soon loses its maidenhood to become a mere
drab,--“doing shameful things,” as Steele says of politicians, “without
being ashamed.” I pine for the Quaker purity of my country landscape. I
am speaking, of course, of those winters that are not niggardly of snow,
as ours too often are, giving us a gravelly dust instead. Nothing can be
unsightlier than those piebald fields where the coarse brown hide of
Earth shows through the holes of her ragged ermine. But even when there
is abundance of snow, I find as I grow older that there are not so many
good crusts as there used to be. When I first observed this, I rashly
set it to the account of that general degeneracy in nature (keeping pace
with the same melancholy phenomenon in man) which forces itself upon the
attention and into the philosophy of middle life. But happening once to
be weighed, it occurred to me that an arch which would bear fifty pounds
could hardly be blamed for giving way under more than three times the
weight. I have sometimes thought that if theologians would remember this
in their arguments, and consider that the man may slump through, with no
fault of his own, where the boy would have skimmed the surface in
safety, it would be better for all parties. However, when you _do_ get a
crust that will bear, and know any brooklet that runs down a hillside,
be sure to go and take a look at him, especially if your crust is due,
as it commonly is, to a cold snap following eagerly on a thaw. You will
never find him so cheerful. As he shrank away after the last thaw, he
built for himself the most exquisite caverns of ice to run through, if
not “measureless to man” like those of Alph, the sacred river, yet
perhaps more pleasing for their narrowness than those for their
grandeur. What a cunning silversmith is Frost! The rarest workmanship of
Delhi or Genoa copies him but clumsily, as if the fingers of all other
artists were thumbs. Fernwork and lacework and filagree in endless
variety, and under it all the water tinkles like a distant guitar, or
drums like a tambourine, or gurgles like the Tokay of an anchorite’s
dream. Beyond doubt there is a fairy procession marching along those
frail arcades and translucent corridors.

    “Their oaten pipes blow wondrous shrill,
     The hemlock small blow clear.”

And hark! is that the ringing of Titania’s bridle, or the bells of the
wee, wee hawk that sits on Oberon’s wrist! This wonder of Frost’s
handiwork may be had every winter, but he can do better than this,
though I have seen it but once in my life. There had been a thaw without
wind or rain, making the air fat with gray vapor. Towards sundown came
that chill, the avant-courier of a northwesterly gale. Then, though
there was no perceptible current in the atmosphere, the fog began to
attach itself in frosty roots and filaments to the southern side of
every twig and grass-stem. The very posts had poems traced upon them by
this dumb minstrel. Wherever the moist seeds found lodgement grew an
inch-deep moss fine as cobweb, a slender coral-reef, argentine,
delicate, as of some silent sea in the moon, such as Agassiz dredges
when he dreams. The frost, too, can wield a delicate graver, and in
fancy leaves Piranesi far behind. He covers your window-pane with Alpine
etchings, as if in memory of that sanctuary where he finds shelter even
in midsummer.

Now look down from your hillside across the valley. The trees are
leafless, but this is the season to study their anatomy, and did you
ever notice before how much color there is in the twigs of many of them?
And the smoke from those chimneys is so blue it seems like a feeder of
the sky into which it flows. Winter refines it and gives it agreeable
associations. In summer it suggests cookery or the drudgery of
steam-engines, but now your fancy (if it can forget for a moment the
dreary usurpation of stoves) traces it down to the fireside and the
brightened faces of children. Thoreau is the only poet who has fitly
sung it. The wood-cutter rises before day and

    “First in the dusky dawn he sends abroad
     His early scout, his emissary, smoke,
     The earliest, latest pilgrim from his roof,
     To feel the frosty air; ...
     And, while he crouches, still beside the hearth,
     Nor musters courage to unbar the door,
     It has gone down the glen with the light wind
     And o’er the plain unfurled its venturous wreath.
     Draped the tree-tops, loitered upon the hill,
     And warmed the pinions of the early bird;
     And now, perchance, high in the crispy air,
     Has caught sight of the day o’er the earth’s edge,
     And greets its master’s eye at his low door
     As some refulgent cloud in the upper sky.”

Here is very bad verse and very good imagination. He had been reading
Wordsworth, or he would not have made _tree-tops_ an iambus. In the
_Moretum_ of Virgil (or, if not his, better than most of his) is a
pretty picture of a peasant kindling his winter-morning fire. He rises
before dawn,

    Sollicitaque manu tenebras explorat inertes
    Vestigatque focum læsus quem denique sensit.
    Parvulus exusto remanebat stipite fumus,
    Et cinis obductæ celabat lumina prunæ.
    Admovet his pronam submissa fronte lucernam,
    Et producit acu stupas humore carentes,
    Excitat et crebris languentem flatibus ignem;
    Tandem concepto tenebræ fulgore recedunt,
    Oppositaque manu lumen defendit ab aura.

    With cautious hand he gropes the sluggish dark,
    Tracking the hearth which, scorched, he feels erelong.
    In burnt-out logs a slender smoke remained,
    And raked-up ashes hid the cinders’ eyes;
    Stooping, to these the lamp outstretched he nears.
    And, with a needle loosening the dry wick,
    With frequent breath excites the languid flame.
    Before the gathering glow the shades recede,
    And his bent hand the new-caught light defends.

Ovid heightens the picture by a single touch:--

        Ipse genu poito flammas exsuscitat aura.

    Kneeling, his breath calls back to life the flames.

If you walk down now into the woods, you may find a robin or a blue-bird
among the red-cedars, or a nuthatch scaling deviously the trunk of some
hardwood tree with an eye as keen as that of a French soldier foraging
for the _pot-au-feu_ of his mess. Perhaps a blue-jay shrills _cah cah_
in his corvine trebles, or a chickadee

    “Shows feats of his gymnastic play,
     Head downward, clinging to the spray.”

But both him and the snow-bird I love better to see, tiny fluffs of
feathered life, as they scurry about in a driving mist of snow, than in
this serene air.

Coleridge has put into verse one of the most beautiful phenomena of a
winter walk:--

    “The woodman winding westward up the glen
     At wintry dawn, where o’er the sheep-track’s maze
     The viewless snow-mist weaves a glistening haze,
     Sees full before him, gliding without tread,
     An image with a halo round its head.”

But this aureole is not peculiar to winter. I have noticed it often in a
summer morning, when the grass was heavy with dew, and even later in the
day, when the dewless grass was still fresh enough to have a gleam of
its own.

For my own part I prefer a winter walk that takes in the nightfall and
the intense silence that erelong follows it. The evening lamps look
yellower by contrast with the snow, and give the windows that hearty
look of which our secretive fires have almost robbed them. The stars
seem

    To hang, like twinkling winter lamps,
    Among the branches of the leafless trees,

or, if you are on a hill-top (whence it is sweet to watch the
home-lights gleam out one by one), they look nearer than in summer, and
appear to take a conscious part in the cold. Especially in one of those
stand-stills of the air that forebode a change of weather, the sky is
dusted with motes of fire of which the summer-watcher never dreamed.
Winter, too, is, on the whole, the triumphant season of the moon, a moon
devoid of sentiment, if you choose, but with the refreshment of a purer
intellectual light,--the cooler orb of middle life. Who ever saw
anything to match that gleam, rather divined than seen, which runs
before her over the snow, a breath of light, as she rises on the
infinite silence of winter night? High in the heavens, also she seems to
bring out some intenser property of cold with her chilly polish. The
poets have instinctively noted this. When Goody Blake imprecates a curse
of perpetual chill upon Harry Gill, she has

    “The cold, cold moon above her head”;

and Coleridge speaks of

                “The silent icicles,
    Quietly gleaming to the quiet moon.”

As you walk homeward,--for it is time that we should end our
ramble,--you may perchance hear the most impressive sound in nature,
unless it be the fall of a tree in the forest during the hush of summer
noon. It is the stifled shriek of the lake yonder as the frost throttles
it. Wordsworth has described it (too much, I fear, in the style of Dr.
Armstrong):--

    “And, interrupting oft that eager game,
     From under Esthwaite’s splitting fields of ice,
     The pent-up air, struggling to free itself,
     Gave out to meadow-grounds and hills a loud
     Protracted yelling, like the noise of wolves
     Howling in troops along the Bothnic main.”

Thoreau (unless the English lakes have a different dialect from ours)
calls it admirably well a “whoop.” But it is a noise like none other, as
if Demogorgon were moaning inarticulately from under the earth. Let us
get within doors, lest we hear it again, for there is something bodeful
and uncanny in it.




ON A CERTAIN CONDESCENSION IN FOREIGNERS.


Walking one day toward the Village, as we used to call it in the good
old days when almost every dweller in the town had been born in it, I
was enjoying that delicious sense of disenthralment from the actual
which the deepening twilight brings with it, giving as it does a sort of
obscure novelty to things familiar. The coolness, the hush, broken only
by the distant bleat of some belated goat, querulous to be disburthened
of her milky load, the few faint stars, more guessed as yet than seen,
the sense that the coming dark would so soon fold me in the secure
privacy of its disguise,--all things combined in a result as near
absolute peace as can be hoped for by a man who knows that there is a
writ out against him in the hands of the printer’s devil. For the
moment, I was enjoying the blessed privilege of thinking without being
called on to stand and deliver what I thought to the small public who
are good enough to take any interest therein. I love old ways, and the
path I was walking felt kindly to the feet it had known for almost fifty
years. How many fleeting impressions it had shared with me! How many
times I had lingered to study the shadows of the leaves mezzotinted upon
the turf that edged it by the moon, of the bare boughs etched with a
touch beyond Rembrandt by the same unconscious artist on the smooth page
of snow! If I turned round, through dusky tree-gaps came the first
twinkle of evening lamps in the dear old homestead. On Corey’s hill I
could see these tiny pharoses of love and home and sweet domestic
thoughts flash out one by one across the blackening salt-meadow between.
How much has not kerosene added to the cheerfulness of our evening
landscape! A pair of night-herons flapped heavily over me toward the
hidden river. The war was ended. I might walk townward without that
aching dread of bulletins that had darkened the July sunshine and twice
made the scarlet leaves of October seem stained with blood. I remembered
with a pang, half-proud, half-painful, how, so many years ago, I had
walked over the same path and felt round my finger the soft pressure of
a little hand that was one day to harden with faithful grip of sabre. On
how many paths, leading to how many homes where proud Memory does all
she can to fill up the fireside gaps with shining shapes, must not men
be walking in just such pensive mood as I? Ah, young heroes, safe in
immortal youth as those of Homer, you at least carried your ideal hence
untarnished! It is locked for you beyond moth or rust in the
treasure-chamber of Death.

Is not a country, I thought, that has had such as they in it, that could
give such as they a brave joy in dying for it, worth something, then?
And as I felt more and more the soothing magic of evening’s cool palm
upon my temples, as my fancy came home from its revery, and my senses,
with reawakened curiosity, ran to the front windows again from the
viewless closet of abstraction, and felt a strange charm in finding the
old tree and shabby fence still there under the travesty of falling
night, nay, were conscious of an unsuspected newness in familiar stars
and the fading outlines of hills my earliest horizon, I was conscious of
an immortal soul, and could not but rejoice in the unwaning goodliness
of the world into which I had been born without any merit of my own. I
thought of dear Henry Vaughan’s rainbow, “Still young and fine!” I
remembered people who had to go over to the Alps to learn what the
divine silence of snow was, who must run to Italy before they were
conscious of the miracle wrought every day under their very noses by the
sunset, who must call upon the Berkshire hills to teach them what a
painter autumn was, while close at hand the Fresh Pond meadows made all
oriels cheap with hues that showed as if a sunset-cloud had been wrecked
among their maples. One might be worse off than even in America, I
thought. There are some things so elastic that even the heavy roller of
democracy cannot flatten them altogether down. The mind can weave itself
warmly in the cocoon of its own thoughts and dwell a hermit anywhere. A
country without traditions, without ennobling associations, a scramble
of parvenus, with a horrible consciousness of shoddy running through
politics, manners, art, literature, nay, religion itself? I confess, it
did not seem so to me there in that illimitable quiet, that serene
self-possession of nature, where Collins might have brooded his “Ode to
Evening,” or where those verses on Solitude in Dodsley’s Collection,
that Hawthorne liked so much, might have been composed. Traditions?
Granting that we had none, all that is worth having in them is the
common property of the soul,--an estate in gavelkind for all the sons of
Adam,--and, moreover, if a man cannot stand on his two feet (the prime
quality of whoever has left any tradition behind him), were it not
better for him to be honest about it at once, and go down on all fours?
And for associations, if one have not the wit to make them for himself
out of his native earth, no ready-made ones of other men will avail him
much. Lexington is none the worse to me for not being in Greece, nor
Gettysburg that its name is not Marathon. “Blessed old fields,” I was
just exclaiming to myself, like one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroes, “dear
acres, innocently secure from history, which these eyes first beheld,
may you be also those to which they shall at last slowly darken!” when I
was interrupted by a voice which asked me in German whether I was the
Herr Professor, Doctor, So-and-so? The “Doctor” was by brevet or
vaticination, to make the grade easier to my pocket.

One feels so intimately assured that he is made up, in part, of shreds
and leavings of the past, in part of the interpolations of other people,
that an honest man would be slow in saying _yes_ to such a question. But
“my name is So-and-so” is a safe answer, and I gave it. While I had been
romancing with myself, the street-lamps had been lighted, and it was
under one of these detectives that have robbed the Old Road of its
privilege of sanctuary after nightfall that I was ambushed by my foe.
The inexorable villain had taken my description, it appears, that I
might have the less chance to escape him. Dr. Holmes tells us that we
change our substance, not every seven years, as was once believed, but
with every breath we draw. Why had I not the wit to avail myself of the
subterfuge, and, like Peter, to renounce my identity, especially, as in
certain moods of mind, I have often more than doubted of it myself? When
a man is, as it were, his own front-door, and is thus knocked at, why
may he not assume the right of that sacred wood to make every house a
castle, by denying himself to all visitations? I was truly not at home
when the question was put to me, but had to recall myself from all
out-of-doors, and to piece my self-consciousness hastily together as
well as I could before I answered it.

I knew perfectly well what was coming. It is seldom that debtors or good
Samaritans waylay people under gas-lamps in order to force money upon
them, so far as I have seen or heard. I was also aware, from
considerable experience, that every foreigner is persuaded that, by
doing this country the favor of coming to it, he has laid every native
thereof under an obligation, pecuniary or other, as the case may be,
whose discharge he is entitled-to on demand duly made in person or by
letter. Too much learning (of this kind) had made me mad in the
provincial sense of the word. I had begun life with the theory of giving
something to every beggar that came along, though sure of never finding
a native-born countryman among them. In a small way, I was resolved to
emulate Hatem Tai’s tent, with its three hundred and sixty-five
entrances, one for every day in the year,--I know not whether he was
astronomer enough to add another for leap-years. The beggars were a kind
of German-silver aristocracy; not real plate, to be sure, but better
than nothing. Where everybody was overworked, they supplied the
comfortable equipoise of absolute leisure, so æsthetically needful.
Besides, I was but too conscious of a vagrant fibre in myself, which too
often thrilled me in my solitary walks with the temptation to wander on
into infinite space, and by a single spasm of resolution to emancipate
myself from the drudgery of prosaic serfdom to respectability and the
regular course of things. This prompting has been at times my familiar
demon, and I could not but feel a kind of respectful sympathy for men
who had dared what I had only sketched out to myself as a splendid
possibility. For seven years I helped maintain one heroic man on an
imaginary journey to Portland,--as fine an example as I have ever known
of hopeless loyalty to an ideal. I assisted another so long in a
fruitless attempt to reach Mecklenburg-Schwerin, that at last we grinned
in each other’s faces when we met, like a couple of augurs. He was
possessed by this harmless mania as some are by the North Pole, and I
shall never forget his look of regretful compassion (as for one who was
sacrificing his higher life to the fleshpots of Egypt) when I at last
advised him somewhat strenuously to go to the D----, whither the road
was so much travelled that he could not miss it. General Banks, in his
noble zeal for the honor of his country, would confer on the Secretary
of State the power of imprisoning, in case of war, all these seekers of
the unattainable, thus by a stroke of the pen annihilating the single
poetic element in our humdrum life. Alas! not everybody has the genius
to be a Bobbin-Boy, or doubtless all these also would have chosen that
more prosperous line of life! But moralists, sociologists, political
economists, and taxes have slowly convinced me that my beggarly
sympathies were a sin against society. Especially was the Buckle
doctrine of averages (so flattering to our free-will) persuasive with
me; for as there must be in every year a certain number who would bestow
an alms on these abridged editions of the Wandering Jew, the withdrawal
of my quota could make no possible difference, since some destined proxy
must always step forward to fill my gap. Just so many misdirected
letters every year and no more! Would it were as easy to reckon up the
number of men on whose backs fate has written the wrong address, so that
they arrive by mistake in Congress and other places where they do not
belong! May not these wanderers of whom I speak have been sent into the
world without any proper address at all? Where is our Dead-Letter Office
for such? And if wiser social arrangements should furnish us with
something of the sort, fancy (horrible thought!) how many a workingman’s
friend (a kind of industry in which the labor is light and the wages
heavy) would be sent thither because not called for in the office where
he at present lies!

But I am leaving my new acquaintance too long under the lamp-post. The
same Gano which had betrayed me to him revealed to me a well-set young
man of about half my own age, as well dressed, so far as I could see, as
I was, and with every natural qualification for getting his own
livelihood as good, if not better, than my own. He had been reduced to
the painful necessity of calling upon me by a series of crosses
beginning with the Baden Revolution (for which, I own, he seemed rather
young,--but perhaps he referred to a kind of revolution practised every
season at Baden-Baden), continued by repeated failures in business, for
amounts which must convince me of his entire respectability, and ending
with our Civil War. During the latter, he had served with distinction as
a soldier, taking a main part in every important battle, with a rapid
list of which he favored me and no doubt would have admitted that,
impartial as Jonathan Wild’s great ancestor, he had been on both sides,
had I baited him with a few hints of conservative opinions on a subject
so distressing to a gentleman wishing to profit by one’s sympathy and
unhappily doubtful as to which way it might lean. For all these reasons,
and, as he seemed to imply, for his merit in consenting to be born in
Germany, he considered himself my natural creditor to the extent of five
dollars, which he would handsomely consent to accept in greenbacks,
though he preferred specie. The offer was certainly a generous one, and
the claim presented with an assurance that carried conviction. But,
unhappily, I had been led to remark a curious natural phenomenon. If I
was ever weak enough to give anything to a petitioner of whatever
nationality, it always rained decayed compatriots of his for a month
after. _Post hoc ergo propter hoc_ may not be always safe logic, but
here I seemed to perceive a natural connection of cause and effect. Now,
a few days before I had been so tickled with a paper (professedly
written by a benevolent American clergyman) certifying that the bearer,
a hard-working German, had long “sofered with rheumatic paints in his
limps,” that, after copying the passage into my note-book, I thought it
but fair to pay a trifling _honorarium_ to the author. I had pulled the
string of the shower-bath! It had been running shipwrecked sailors for
some time, but forthwith it began to pour Teutons, redolent of
_lager-bier_. I could not help associating the apparition of my new
friend with this series of otherwise unaccountable phenomena. I
accordingly made up my mind to deny the debt, and modestly did so,
pleading a native bias towards impecuniosity to the full as strong as
his own. He took a high tone with me at once, such as an honest man
would naturally take with a confessed repudiator. He even brought down
his proud stomach so far as to join himself to me for the rest of my
townward walk, that he might give me his views of the American people,
and thus inclusively of myself.

I know not whether it is because I am pigeon-livered and lack gall, or
whether it is from an overmastering sense of drollery, but I am apt to
submit to such bastings with a patience which afterwards surprises me,
being not without my share of warmth in the blood. Perhaps it is because
I so often meet with young persons who know vastly more than I do, and
especially with so many foreigners whose knowledge of this country is
superior to my own. However it may be, I listened for some time with
tolerable composure as my self-appointed lecturer gave me in detail his
opinions of my country and its people. America, he informed me, was
without arts, science, literature, culture, or any native hope of
supplying them. We were a people wholly given to money-getting, and who,
having got it, knew no other use for it than to hold it fast. I am fain
to confess that I felt a sensible itching of the biceps, and that my
fingers closed with such a grip as he had just informed me was one of
the effects of our unhappy climate. But happening just then to be where
I could avoid temptation by dodging down a by-street, I hastily left him
to finish his diatribe to the lamp-post, which could stand it better
than I. That young man will never know how near he came to being
assaulted by a respectable gentleman of middle age, at the corner of
Church Street. I have never felt quite satisfied that I did all my duty
by him in not knocking him down. But perhaps he might have knocked _me_
down, and then?

The capacity of indignation makes an essential part of the outfit of
every honest man, but I am inclined to doubt whether he is a wise one
who allows himself to act upon its first hints. It should be rather, I
suspect, a _latent_ heat in the blood, which makes itself felt in
character, a steady reserve for the brain, warming the ovum of thought
to life, rather than cooking it by a too hasty enthusiasm in reaching
the boiling-point. As my pulse gradually fell back to its normal beat, I
reflected that I had been uncomfortably near making a fool of myself,--a
handy salve of euphuism for our vanity, though it does not always make a
just allowance to Nature for her share in the business. What possible
claim had my Teutonic friend to rob me of my composure? I am not, I
think, specially thin-skinned as to other people’s opinions of myself,
having, as I conceive, later and fuller intelligence on that point than
anybody else can give me. Life is continually weighing us in very
sensitive scales, and telling every one of us precisely what his real
weight is to the last grain of dust. Whoever at fifty does not rate
himself quite as low as most of his acquaintance would be likely to put
him, must be either a fool or a great man, and I humbly disclaim being
either. But if I was not smarting in person from any scattering shot of
my late companion’s commination, why should I grow hot at any
implication of my country therein? Surely _her_ shoulders are broad
enough, if yours or mine are not, to bear up under a considerable
avalanche of this kind. It is the bit of truth in every slander, the
hint of likeness in every caricature, that makes us smart. “Art thou
_there_, old Truepenny?” How did your blade know its way so well to that
one loose rivet in our armor? I wondered whether Americans were
over-sensitive in this respect, whether they were more touchy than other
folks. On the whole, I thought we were not. Plutarch, who at least had
studied philosophy, if he had not mastered it, could not stomach
something Herodotus had said of Bœotia, and devoted an essay to showing
up the delightful old traveller’s malice and ill-breeding. French
editors leave out of Montaigne’s “Travels” some remarks of his about
France, for reasons best known to themselves. Pachydermatous
Deutschland, covered with trophies from every field of letters, still
winces under that question which Père Bouhours put two centuries ago,
_Si un Allemand peut être bel-esprit_? John Bull grew apoplectic with
angry amazement at the audacious persiflage of Pückler-Muskau. To be
sure, he was a prince,--but that was not all of it, for a chance phrase
of gentle Hawthorne sent a spasm through all the journals of England.
Then this tenderness is not peculiar to _us_? Console yourself, dear man
and brother, whatever you may be sure of, be sure at least of this, that
you are dreadfully like other people. Human nature has a much greater
genius for sameness than for originality, or the world would be at a sad
pass shortly. The surprising thing is that men have such a taste for
this somewhat musty flavor, that an Englishman, for example, should
feel himself defrauded, nay, even outraged, when he comes over here and
finds a people speaking what he admits to be something like English, and
yet so very different from (or, as he would say, to) those he left at
home. Nothing, I am sure, equals _my_ thankfulness when I meet an
Englishman who is _not_ like every other, or, I may add, an American of
the same odd turn.

Certainly it is no shame to a man that he should be as nice about his
country as about his sweetheart, and who ever heard even the friendliest
appreciation of that unexpressive she that did not seem to fall
infinitely short? Yet it would hardly be wise to hold every one an enemy
who could not see her with our own enchanted eyes. It seems to be the
common opinion of foreigners that Americans are _too_ tender upon this
point. Perhaps we are; and if so, there must be a reason for it. Have we
had fair play? Could the eyes of what is called Good Society (though it
is so seldom true either to the adjective or noun) look upon a nation of
democrats with any chance of receiving an undistorted image? Were not
those, moreover, who found in the old order of things an earthly
paradise, paying them quarterly dividends for the wisdom of their
ancestors, with the punctuality of the seasons, unconsciously bribed to
misunderstand if not to misrepresent us? Whether at war or at peace,
there we were, a standing menace to all earthly paradises of that kind,
fatal underminers of the very credit on which the dividends were based,
all the more hateful and terrible that our destructive agency was so
insidious, working invisible in the elements, as it seemed, active while
they slept, and coming upon them in the darkness like an armed man.
_Could_ Laius have the proper feelings of a father towards Œdipus,
announced as his destined destroyer by infallible oracles, and felt to
be such by every conscious fibre of his soul? For more than a century
the Dutch were the laughing-stock of polite Europe. They were
butter-firkins, swillers of beer and schnaps, and their _vrouws_ from
whom Holbein painted the all-but loveliest of Madonnas, Rembrandt the
graceful girl who sits immortal on his knee in Dresden, and Rubens his
abounding goddesses, were the synonymes of clumsy vulgarity. Even so
late as Irving the ships of the greatest navigators in the world were
represented as sailing equally well stern-foremost. That the
aristocratic Venetians should have

              “Riveted with gigantic piles
    Thorough the centre their new-catchëd miles,”

was heroic. But the far more marvellous achievement of the Dutch in the
same kind was ludicrous even to republican Marvell. Meanwhile, during
that very century of scorn, they were the best artists, sailors,
merchants, bankers, printers, scholars, jurisconsults, and statesmen in
Europe, and the genius of Motley has revealed them to us, earning a
right to themselves by the most heroic struggle in human annals. But,
alas! they were not merely simple burghers who had fairly made
themselves High Mightinesses, and could treat on equal terms with
anointed kings, but their commonwealth carried in its bosom the germs of
democracy. They even unmuzzled, at least after dark, that dreadful
mastiff, the Press, whose scent is, or ought to be, so keen for wolves
in sheep’s clothing and for certain other animals in lions’ skins. They
made fun of Sacred Majesty, and, what was worse, managed uncommonly well
without it. In an age when periwigs made so large a part of the natural
dignity of man, people with such a turn of mind were dangerous. How
could they seem other than vulgar and hateful?

In the natural course of things we succeeded to this unenviable position
of general butt. The Dutch had thriven under it pretty well, and there
was hope that we could at least contrive to worry along. And we
certainly did in a very redoubtable fashion. Perhaps we deserved some of
the sarcasm more than our Dutch predecessors in office. We had nothing
to boast of in arts or letters, and were given to bragging overmuch of
our merely material prosperity, due quite as much to the virtue of our
continent as to our own. There was some truth in Carlyle’s sneer, after
all. Till we had succeeded in some higher way than this, we had only the
success of physical growth. Our greatness, like that of enormous Russia,
was greatness on the map,--barbarian mass only; but had we gone down,
like that other Atlantis, in some vast cataclysm, we should have covered
but a pin’s point on the chart of memory, compared with those ideal
spaces occupied by tiny Attica and cramped England. At the same time,
our critics somewhat too easily forgot that material must make ready the
foundation for ideal triumphs, that the arts have no chance in poor
countries. But it must be allowed that democracy stood for a great deal
in our shortcoming. The Edinburgh Review never would have thought of
asking, “Who reads a Russian book?” and England was satisfied with iron
from Sweden without being impertinently inquisitive after her painters
and statuaries. Was it that they expected too much from the mere miracle
of Freedom? Is it not the highest art of a Republic to make men of flesh
and blood, and not the marble ideals of such? It may be fairly doubted
whether we have produced this higher type of man yet. Perhaps it is the
collective, not the individual, humanity that is to have a chance of
nobler development among us. We shall see. We have a vast amount of
imported ignorance, and, still worse, of native ready-made knowledge,
to digest before even the preliminaries of such a consummation can be
arranged. We have got to learn that statesmanship is the most
complicated of all arts, and to come back to the apprenticeship-system
too hastily abandoned. At present, we trust a man with making
constitutions on less proof of competence than we should demand before
we gave him our shoe to patch. We have nearly reached the limit of the
reaction from the old notion, which paid too much regard to birth and
station as qualifications for office, and have touched the extreme point
in the opposite direction, putting the highest of human functions up at
auction to be bid for by any creature capable of going upright on two
legs. In some places, we have arrived at a point at which civil society
is no longer possible, and already another reaction has begun, not
backwards to the old system, but towards fitness either from natural
aptitude or special training. But will it always be safe to let evils
work their own cure by becoming unendurable? Every one of them leaves
its taint in the constitution of the body-politic, each in itself,
perhaps, trifling, yet all together powerful for evil.

But whatever we might do or leave undone, we were not genteel, and it
was uncomfortable to be continually reminded that, though we should
boast that we were the Great West till we were black in the face, it did
not bring us an inch nearer to the world’s West-End. That sacred
enclosure of respectability was tabooed to us. The Holy Alliance did not
inscribe us on its visiting-list. The Old World of wigs and orders and
liveries would shop with us, but we must ring at the area-bell, and not
venture to awaken the more august clamors of the knocker. Our manners,
it must be granted, had none of those graces that stamp the caste of
Vere de Vere, in whatever museum of British antiquities they may be
hidden. In short, we were vulgar.

This was one of those horribly vague accusations, the victim of which
has no defence. An umbrella is of no avail against a Scotch mist. It
envelops you, it penetrates at every pore, it wets you through without
seeming to wet you at all. Vulgarity is an eighth deadly sin, added to
the list in these latter days, and worse than all the others put
together, since it perils your salvation in _this_ world,--far the more
important of the two in the minds of most men. It profits nothing to
draw nice distinctions between essential and conventional, for the
convention in this case _is_ the essence, and you may break every
command of the decalogue with perfect good-breeding, nay, if you are
adroit, without losing caste. We, indeed, had it not to lose, for we had
never gained it. “_How_ am I vulgar?” asks the culprit, shudderingly.
“Because thou art not like unto Us,” answers Lucifer, Son of the
Morning, and there is no more to be said. The god of this world may be a
fallen angel, but he has us _there_! We were as clean,--so far as my
observation goes, I think we were cleaner, morally and physically, than
the English, and therefore, of course, than everybody else. But we did
not pronounce the diphthong _ou_ as they did, and we said _eether_ and
not _eyther_, following therein the fashion of our ancestors, who
unhappily could bring over no English better than Shakespeare’s; and we
did not stammer as they had learned to do from the courtiers, who in
this way flattered the Hanoverian king, a foreigner among the people he
had come to reign over. Worse than all, we might have the noblest ideas
and the finest sentiments in the world, but we vented them through that
organ by which men are led rather than leaders, though some
physiologists would persuade us that Nature furnishes her captains with
a fine handle to their faces that Opportunity may get a good purchase on
them for dragging them to the front.

This state of things was so painful that excellent people were not
wanting who gave their whole genius to reproducing here the original
Bull, whether by gaiters, the cut of their whiskers, by a factitious
brutality in their tone, or by an accent that was forever tripping and
falling flat over the tangled roots of our common tongue. Martyrs to a
false ideal, it never occurred to them that nothing is more hateful to
gods and men than a second-rate Englishman, and for the very reason that
this planet never produced a more splendid creature than the first-rate
one, witness Shakespeare and the Indian Mutiny. Witness that truly
sublime self-abnegation of those prisoners lately among the bandits of
Greece, where average men gave an example of quiet fortitude for which
all the stoicism of antiquity can show no match. If we could contrive to
be not too unobtrusively our simple selves, we should be the most
delightful of human beings, and the most original; whereas, when the
plating of Anglicism rubs off, as it always will in points that come to
much wear, we are liable to very unpleasing conjectures about the
quality of the metal underneath. Perhaps one reason why the average
Briton spreads himself here with such an easy air of superiority may be
owing to the fact that he meets with so many bad imitations as to
conclude himself the only real thing in a wilderness of shams. He
fancies himself moving through an endless Bloomsbury, where his mere
apparition confers honor as an avatar of the court-end of the universe.
Not a Bull of them all but is persuaded he bears Europa upon his back.
This is the sort of fellow whose patronage is so divertingly
insufferable. Thank Heaven he is not the only specimen of
cater-cousinship from the dear old Mother Island that is shown to us!
Among genuine things, I know nothing more genuine than the better men
whose limbs were made in England. So manlytender, so brave, so true, so
warranted to wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is thicker than
water.

But it is not merely the Englishman; every European candidly admits in
himself some right of primogeniture in respect to us, and pats this
shaggy continent on the back with a lively sense of generous unbending.
The German who plays the bass-viol has a well-founded contempt, which he
is not always nice in concealing, for a country so few of whose children
ever take that noble instrument between their knees. His cousin, the
Ph.D. from Göttingen, cannot help despising a people who do not grow
loud and red over Aryans and Turanians, and are indifferent about their
descent from either. The Frenchman feels an easy mastery in speaking his
mother tongue, and attributes it to some native superiority of parts
that lifts him high above us barbarians of the West. The Italian _prima
donna_ sweeps a courtesy of careless pity to the over-facile pit which
unsexes her with the _bravo!_ innocently meant to show a familiarity
with foreign usage. But all without exception make no secret of
regarding us as the goose bound to deliver them a golden egg in return
for _their_ cackle. Such men as Agassiz, Guyot, and Goldwin Smith come
with gifts in their hands; but since it is commonly European failures
who bring hither their remarkable gifts and acquirements, this view of
the case is sometimes just the least bit in the world provoking. To
think what a delicious seclusion of contempt we enjoyed till California
and our own ostentatious _parvenus_, flinging gold away in Europe that
might have endowed libraries at home, gave us the ill repute of riches!
What a shabby downfall from the Arcadia which the French officers of our
Revolutionary War fancied they saw here through Rousseau-tinted
spectacles! Something of Arcadia there really was, something of the Old
Age; and that divine provincialism were cheaply repurchased could we
have it back again in exchange for the tawdry upholstery that has taken
its place.

For some reason or other, the European has rarely been able to see
America except in caricature. Would the first Review of the world have
printed the _niaiseries_ of Mr. Maurice Sand as a picture of society in
any civilized country? Mr. Sand, to be sure, has inherited nothing of
his famous mother’s literary outfit, except the pseudonyme. But since
the conductors of the _Revue_ could not have published his story because
it was clever, they must have thought it valuable for its truth. As true
as the last-century Englishman’s picture of Jean Crapaud! We do not ask
to be sprinkled with rosewater, but may perhaps fairly protest against
being drenched with the rinsings of an unclean imagination. The next
time the _Revue_ allows such ill-bred persons to throw their slops out
of its first-floor windows, let it honestly preface the discharge with a
_gare de l’eau!_ that we may run from under in season. And Mr. Duvergier
d’Hauranne, who knows how to be entertaining! I know _le Français est
plutôt indiscret que confiant_, and the pen slides too easily when
indiscretions will fetch so much a page; but should we not have been
_tant-soit-peu_ more cautious had we been writing about people on the
other side of the Channel? But then it is a fact in the natural history
of the American long familiar to Europeans, that he abhors privacy,
knows not the meaning of reserve, lives in hotels because of their
greater publicity, and is never so pleased as when his domestic affairs
(if he may be said to have any) are paraded in the newspapers. Barnum,
it is well known, represents perfectly the average national sentiment in
this respect. However it be, we are not treated like other people, or
perhaps I should say like people who are ever likely to be met with in
society.

Is it in the climate? Either I have a false notion of European manners,
or else the atmosphere affects them strangely when exported hither.
Perhaps they suffer from the sea-voyage like some of the more delicate
wines. During our Civil War an English gentleman of the highest
description was kind enough to call upon me, mainly, as it seemed, to
inform me how entirely he sympathized with the Confederates, and how
sure he felt that we could never subdue them,--“they were the
_gentlemen_ of the country, you know.” Another, the first greetings
hardly over, asked me how I accounted for the universal meagreness of my
countrymen. To a thinner man than I, or from a stouter man than he, the
question _might_ have been offensive. The Marquis of Hartington[3] wore
a secession badge at a public ball in New York. In a civilized country
he might have been roughly handled; but here, where the _biensèances_
are not so well understood, of course nobody minded it. A French
traveller told me he had been a good deal in the British colonies, and
had been astonished to see how soon the people became Americanized. He
added, with delightful _bonhomie_, and as if he were sure it would charm
me, that “they even began to talk through their noses, just like you!” I
was naturally ravished with this testimony to the assimilating power of
democracy, and could only reply that I hoped they would never adopt our
democratic patent-method of seeming to settle one’s honest debts, for
they would find it paying through the nose in the long-run. I am a man
of the New World, and do not know precisely the present fashion of
May-Fair, but I have a kind of feeling that if an American (_mutato
nomine, de te_ is always frightfully possible) were to do this kind of
thing under a European roof, it would induce some disagreeable
reflections as to the ethical results of democracy. I read the other day
in print the remark of a British tourist who had eaten large quantities
of our salt, such as it is (I grant it has not the European savor), that
the Americans were hospitable, no doubt, but that it was partly because
they longed for foreign visitors to relieve the tedium of their
dead-level existence, and partly from ostentation. What shall we do?
Shall we close our doors? Not I, for one, if I should so have forfeited
the friendship of L. S., most lovable of men. He somehow seems to find
us human, at least, and so did Clough, whose poetry will one of these
days, perhaps, be found to have been the best utterance in verse of this
generation. And T. H. the mere grasp of whose manly hand carries with it
the pledge of frankness and friendship, of an abiding simplicity of
nature as affecting as it is rare!

The fine old Tory aversion of former times was not hard to bear. There
was something even refreshing in it, as in a northeaster to a hardy
temperament. When a British parson, travelling in Newfoundland while the
slash of our separation was still raw, after prophesying a glorious
future for an island that continued to dry its fish under the ægis of
Saint George, glances disdainfully over his spectacles in parting at the
U. S. A., and forebodes for them a “speedy relapse into barbarism,” now
that they have madly cut themselves off from the humanizing influences
of Britain, I smile with barbarian self-conceit. But this kind of thing
became by degrees an unpleasant anachronism. For meanwhile the young
giant was growing, was beginning indeed to feel tight in his clothes,
was obliged to let in a gore here and there in Texas, in California, in
New Mexico, in Alaska, and had the scissors and needle and thread ready
for Canada when the time came. His shadow loomed like a Brocken-spectre
over against Europe,--the shadow of what they were coming to, that was
the unpleasant part of it. Even in such misty image as they had of him,
it was painfully evident that his clothes were not of any cut hitherto
fashionable, nor conceivable by a Bond Street tailor,--and this in an
age, too, when everything depends upon clothes, when, if we do not keep
up appearances, the seeming-solid frame of this universe, nay, your very
God, would slump into himself, like a mockery king of snow, being
nothing, after all, but a prevailing mode. From this moment the young
giant assumed the respectable aspect of a phenomenon, to be got rid of
if possible, but at any rate as legitimate a subject of human study as
the glacial period or the silurian what-d’ye-call-ems. If the man of the
primeval drift-heaps is so absorbingly interesting, why not the man of
the drift that is just beginning, of the drift into whose irresistible
current we are just being sucked whether we will or no? If I were in
their place, I confess I should not be frightened. Man has survived so
much, and contrived to be comfortable on this planet after surviving so
much! I am something of a protestant in matters of government also, and
am willing to get rid of vestments and ceremonies and to come down to
bare benches, if only faith in God take the place of a general agreement
to profess confidence in ritual and sham. Every mortal man of us holds
stock in the only public debt that is absolutely sure of payment, and
that is the debt of the Maker of this Universe to the Universe he has
made. I have no notion of selling out my stock in a panic.

It was something to have advanced even to the dignity of a phenomenon,
and yet I do not know that the relation of the individual American to
the individual European was bettered by it; and that, after all, must
adjust itself comfortably before there can be a right understanding
between the two. We had been a desert, we became a museum. People came
hither for scientific and not social ends. The very cockney could not
complete his education without taking a vacant stare at us in passing.
But the sociologists (I think they call themselves so) were the hardest
to bear. There was no escape. I have even known a professor of this
fearful science to come disguised in petticoats. We were cross-examined
as a chemist cross-examines a new substance. Human? yes, all the
elements are present, though abnormally combined. Civilized? Hm! that
needs a stricter assay. No entomologist could take a more friendly
interest in a strange bug. After a few such experiences, I, for one,
have felt as if I were merely one of those horrid things preserved in
spirits (and very bad spirits, too) in a cabinet. I was not the
fellow-being of these explorers: I was a curiosity; I was a _specimen_.
Hath not an American organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions
even as a European hath? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle
us, do we not laugh? I will not keep on with Shylock to his next
question but one.

Till after our Civil War it never seemed to enter the head of any
foreigner, especially of any Englishman, that an American had what could
be called a country, except as a place to eat, sleep, and trade in. Then
it seemed to strike them suddenly. “By Jove, you know, fellahs don’t
fight like that for a shop-till!” No, I rather think not. To Americans
America is something more than a promise and an expectation. It has a
past and traditions of its own. A descent from men who sacrificed
everything and came hither, not to better their fortunes, but to plant
their idea in virgin soil, should be a good pedigree. There was never
colony save this that went forth, not to seek gold, but God. Is it not
as well to have sprung from such as these as from some burly beggar who
came over with Wilhelmus Conquestor, unless, indeed, a line grow better
as it runs farther away from stalwart ancestors? And for history, it is
dry enough, no doubt, in the books, but, for all that, is of a kind that
tells in the blood. I have admitted that Carlyle’s sneer had a show of
truth in it. But what does he himself, like a true Scot, admire in the
Hohenzollerns? First of all, that they were _canny_, a thrifty,
forehanded race. Next, that they made a good fight from generation to
generation with the chaos around them. That is precisely the battle
which the English race on this continent has been carrying doughtily on
for two centuries and a half. Doughtily and silently, for you cannot
hear in Europe “that crash, the death-song of the perfect tree,” that
has been going on here from sturdy father to sturdy son, and making this
continent habitable for the weaker Old World breed that has swarmed to
it during the last half-century. If ever men did a good stroke of work
on this planet, it was the forefathers of those whom you are wondering
whether it would not be prudent to acknowledge as far-off cousins. Alas,
man of genius, to whom we owe so much, could you see nothing more than
the burning of a foul chimney in that clash of Michael and Satan which
flamed up under your very eyes?

Before our war we were to Europe but a huge mob of adventurers and
shop-keepers. Leigh Hunt expressed it well enough when he said that he
could never think of America without seeing a gigantic counter stretched
all along the seaboard. Feudalism had by degrees made commerce, the
great civilizer, contemptible. But a tradesman with sword on thigh and
very prompt of stroke was not only redoubtable, he had become
respectable also. Few people, I suspect, alluded twice to a needle in
Sir John Hawkwood’s presence, after that doughty fighter had exchanged
it for a more dangerous tool of the same metal. Democracy had been
hitherto only a ludicrous effort to reverse the laws of nature by
thrusting Cleon into the place of Pericles. But a democracy that could
fight for an abstraction, whose members held life and goods cheap
compared with that larger life which we call country, was not merely
unheard-of, but portentous. It was the nightmare of the Old World taking
upon itself flesh and blood, turning out to be substance and not dream.
Since the Norman crusader clanged down upon the throne of the
_porphyro-geniti_, carefully-draped appearances had never received such
a shock, had never been so rudely called on to produce their titles to
the empire of the world. Authority has had its periods not unlike those
of geology, and at last comes Man claiming kingship in right of his mere
manhood. The world of the Saurians might be in some respects more
picturesque, but the march of events is inexorable, and it is bygone.

The young giant had certainly got out of long-clothes. He had become the
_enfant terrible_ of the human household. It was not and will not be
easy for the world (especially for our British cousins) to look upon us
as grown up. The youngest of nations, its people must also be young and
to be treated accordingly, was the syllogism,--as if libraries did not
make all nations equally old in all those respects, at least, where age
is an advantage and not a defect. Youth, no doubt, has its good
qualities, as people feel who are losing it, but boyishness is another
thing. We had been somewhat boyish as a nation, a little loud, a little
pushing, a little braggart. But might it not partly have been because we
felt that we had certain claims to respect that were not admitted? The
war which established our position as a vigorous nationality has also
sobered us. A nation, like a man, cannot look death in the eye for four
years, without some strange reflections, without arriving at some
clearer consciousness of the stuff it is made of, without some great
moral change. Such a change, or the beginning of it, no observant person
can fail to see here. Our thought and our politics, our bearing as a
people, are assuming a manlier tone. We have been compelled to see what
was weak in democracy as well as what was strong. We have begun
obscurely to recognize that things do not go of themselves, and that
popular government is not in itself a panacea, is no better than any
other form except as the virtue and wisdom of the people make it so, and
that when men undertake to do their own kingship, they enter upon the
dangers and responsibilities as well as the privileges of the function.
Above all, it looks as if we were on the way to be persuaded that no
government can be carried on by declamation. It is noticeable also that
facility of communication has made the best English and French thought
far more directly operative here than ever before. Without being
Europeanized, our discussion of important questions in statesmanship,
political economy, in æsthetics, is taking a broader scope and a higher
tone. It had certainly been provincial, one might almost say local, to a
very unpleasant extent. Perhaps our experience in soldiership has taught
us to value training more than we have been popularly wont. We may
possibly come to the conclusion, one of these days, that self-made men
may not be always equally skilful in the manufacture of wisdom, may not
be divinely commissioned to fabricate the higher qualities of opinion on
all possible topics of human interest.

So long as we continue to be the most common-schooled and the least
cultivated people in the world, I suppose we must consent to endure this
condescending manner of foreigners toward us. The more friendly they
mean to be the more ludicrously prominent it becomes. They can never
appreciate the immense amount of silent work that has been done here,
making this continent slowly fit for the abode of man, and which will
demonstrate itself, let us hope, in the character of the people.
Outsiders can only be expected to judge a nation by the amount it has
contributed to the civilization of the world; the amount, that is, that
can be seen and handled. A great place in history can only be achieved
by competitive examinations, nay, by a long course of them. How much new
thought have we contributed to the common stock? Till that question can
be triumphantly answered, or needs no answer, we must continue to be
simply interesting as an experiment, to be studied as a problem, and not
respected as an attained result or an accomplished solution. Perhaps, as
I have hinted, their patronizing manner toward us is the fair result of
their failing to see here anything more than a poor imitation, a
plaster-cast of Europe. And are they not partly right? If the tone of
the uncultivated American has too often the arrogance of the barbarian,
is not that of the cultivated as often vulgarly apologetic? In the
America they meet with is there the simplicity, the manliness, the
absence of sham, the sincere human nature, the sensitiveness to duty and
implied obligation, that in any way distinguishes us from what our
orators call “the effete civilization of the Old World”? Is there a
politician among us daring enough (except a Dana here and there) to risk
his future on the chance of our keeping our word with the exactness of
superstitious communities like England? Is it certain that we shall be
ashamed of a bankruptcy of honor, if we can only keep the letter of our
bond? I hope we shall be able to answer all these questions with a frank
yes. At any rate, we would advise our visitors that we are not merely
curious creatures, but belong to the family of man, and that, as
individuals, we are not to be always subjected to the competitive
examination above mentioned, even if we acknowledged their competence as
an examining board. Above all, we beg them to remember that America is
not to us, as to them, a mere object of external interest to be
discussed and analyzed, but in us, part of our very marrow. Let them not
suppose that we conceive of ourselves as exiles from the graces and
amenities of an older date than we, though very much at home in a state
of things not yet all it might be or should be, but which we mean to
make so, and which we find both wholesome and pleasant for men (though
perhaps not for _dilettanti_) to live in. “The full tide of human
existence” may be felt here as keenly as Johnson felt it at Charing
Cross, and in a larger sense. I know one person who is singular enough
to think Cambridge the very best spot on the habitable globe. “Doubtless
God _could_ have made a better, but doubtless he never did.”

It will take England a great while to get over her airs of patronage
toward us, or even passably to conceal them. She cannot help confounding
the people with the country, and regarding us as lusty juveniles. She
has a conviction that whatever good there is in us is wholly English,
when the truth is that we are worth nothing except so far as we have
disinfected ourselves of Anglicism. She is especially condescending just
now, and lavishes sugar-plums on us as if we had not outgrown them. I am
no believer in sudden conversions, especially in sudden conversions to a
favorable opinion of people who have just proved you to be mistaken in
judgment and therefore unwise in policy. I never blamed her for not
wishing well to democracy,--how should she?--but Alabamas are not
wishes. Let her not be too hasty in believing Mr. Reverdy Johnson’s
pleasant words. Though there is no thoughtful man in America who would
not consider a war with England the greatest of calamities, yet the
feeling towards her here is very far from cordial, whatever our Minister
may say in the effusion that comes after ample dining. Mr. Adams, with
his famous “My Lord, this means war,” perfectly represented his country.
Justly or not, we have a feeling that we have been wronged, not merely
insulted. The only sure way of bringing about a healthy relation between
the two countries is for Englishmen to clear their minds of the notion
that we are always to be treated as a kind of inferior and deported
Englishman whose nature they perfectly understand, and whose back they
accordingly stroke the wrong way of the fur with amazing perseverance.
Let them learn to treat us naturally on our merits as human beings, as
they would a German or a Frenchman, and not as if we were a kind of
counterfeit Briton whose crime appeared in every shade of difference,
and before long there would come that right feeling which we naturally
call a good understanding. The common blood, and still more the common
language, are fatal instruments of misapprehension. Let them give up
_trying_ to understand us, still more thinking that they do, and acting
in various absurd ways as the necessary consequence, for they will never
arrive at that devoutly-to-be-wished consummation, till they learn to
look at us as we are and not as they suppose us to be. Dear old
long-estranged mother-in-law, it is a great many years since we parted.
Since 1660, when you married again, you have been a step-mother to us.
Put on your spectacles, dear madam. Yes, we _have_ grown, and changed
likewise. You would not let us darken your doors, if you could help it.
We know that perfectly well. But pray, when we look to be treated as
men, don’t shake that rattle in our faces, nor talk baby to us any
longer.

    “Do, child, go to it grandam, child;
     Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will
     Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig!”




A GREAT PUBLIC CHARACTER.[4]


It is the misfortune of American biography that it must needs be more or
less provincial, and that, contrary to what might have been predicted,
this quality in it predominates in proportion as the country grows
larger. Wanting any great and acknowledged centre of national life and
thought, our expansion has hitherto been rather aggregation than growth;
reputations must be hammered out thin to cover so wide a surface, and
the substance of most hardly holds out to the boundaries of a single
State. Our very history wants unity, and down to the Revolution the
attention is wearied and confused by having to divide itself among
thirteen parallel threads, instead of being concentred on a single clew.
A sense of remoteness and seclusion comes over us as we read, and we
cannot help asking ourselves, “Were _not_ these things done in a
corner?” Notoriety may be achieved in a narrow sphere, but fame demands
for its evidence a more distant and prolonged reverberation. To the
world at large we were but a short column of figures in the corner of a
blue-book, New England exporting so much salt-fish, timber, and Medford
rum, Virginia so many hogsheads of tobacco, and buying with the proceeds
a certain amount of English manufactures. The story of our early
colonization had a certain moral interest, to be sure, but was
altogether inferior in picturesque fascination to that of Mexico or
Peru. The lives of our worthies, like that of our nation, are bare of
those foregone and far-reaching associations with names, the
divining-rods of fancy, which the soldiers and civilians of the Old
World get for nothing by the mere accident of birth. Their historians
and biographers have succeeded to the good-will, as well as to the
long-established stand, of the shop of glory. Time is, after all, the
greatest of poets, and the sons of Memory stand a better chance of being
the heirs of Fame. The philosophic poet may find a proud solace in
saying,

    “Avia Pieridum peragro loca nullius ante
     Trita solo”;

but all the while he has the splendid centuries of Greece and Rome
behind him, and can begin his poem with invoking a goddess from whom
legend derived the planter of his race. His eyes looked out on a
landscape saturated with glorious recollections; he had seen Cæsar, and
heard Cicero. But who shall conjure with Saugus or Cato Four
Corners,--with Israel Putnam or Return Jonathan Meigs? We have been
transplanted, and for us the long hierarchical succession of history is
broken. The Past has not laid its venerable hands upon us in
consecration, conveying to us that mysterious influence whose force is
in its continuity. We are to Europe as the Church of England to her of
Rome. The latter old lady may be the Scarlet Woman, or the Beast with
ten horns, if you will, but hers are all the heirlooms, hers that vast
spiritual estate of tradition, nowhere yet everywhere, whose revenues
are none the less fruitful for being levied on the imagination. We may
claim that England’s history is also ours, but it is a _de jure_, and
not a _de facto_ property that we have in it,--something that may be
proved indeed, yet is a merely intellectual satisfaction, and does not
savor of the realty. Have we not seen the mockery crown and sceptre of
the exiled Stuarts in St. Peter’s? the medal struck so lately as 1784
with its legend, HEN IX MAG BRIT ET HIB REX, whose contractions but
faintly typify the scantness of the fact?

As the novelist complains that our society wants that sharp contrast of
character and costume which comes of caste, so in the narrative of our
historians we miss what may be called background and perspective, as if
the events and the actors in them failed of that cumulative interest
which only a long historical entail can give. Relatively, the crusade of
Sir William Pepperell was of more consequence than that of St. Louis,
and yet forgive us, injured shade of the second American baronet, if we
find the narrative of Joinville more interesting than your despatches to
Governor Shirley. Relatively, the insurrection of that Daniel whose
Irish patronymic Shea was euphonized into Shays, as a set-off for the
debasing of French chaise into shay, was more dangerous than that of
Charles Edward; but for some reason or other (as vice sometimes has the
advantage of virtue) the latter is more enticing to the imagination, and
the least authentic relic of it in song or story has a relish denied to
the painful industry of Minot. Our events seem to fall short of that
colossal proportion which befits the monumental style. Look grave as we
will, there is something ludicrous in Counsellor Keane’s pig being the
pivot of a revolution. We are of yesterday, and it is to no purpose that
our political augurs divine from the flight of our eagles that to-morrow
shall be ours, and flatter us with an all-hail hereafter. Things do
really gain in greatness by being acted on a great and cosmopolitan
stage, because there is inspiration in the thronged audience, and the
nearer match that puts men on their mettle. Webster was more largely
endowed by nature than Fox, and Fisher Ames not much below Burke as a
talker; but what a difference in the intellectual training, in the
literary culture and associations, in the whole social outfit, of the
men who were their antagonists and companions! It should seem that, if
it be collision with other minds and with events that strikes or draws
the fire from a man, then the quality of those might have something to
do with the quality of the fire,--whether it shall be culinary or
electric. We have never known the varied stimulus, the inexorable
criticism, the many-sided opportunity of a great metropolis, the
inspiring reinforcement of an undivided national consciousness. In
everything but trade we have missed the invigoration of foreign rivalry.
We may prove that we are this and that and the other,--our
Fourth-of-July orators have proved it time and again,--the census has
proved it; but the Muses are women, and have no great fancy for
statistics, though easily silenced by them. We are great, we are rich,
we are all kinds of good things; but did it never occur to you that
somehow we are not interesting, except as a phenomenon? It may safely be
affirmed that for one cultivated man in this country who studies
American, there are fifty who study European history, ancient or modern.

Till within a year or two we have been as distant and obscure to the
eyes of Europe as Ecuador to our own. Every day brings us nearer,
enables us to see the Old World more clearly, and by inevitable
comparison to judge ourselves with some closer approach to our real
value. This has its advantage so long as our culture is, as for a long
time it must be, European; for we shall be little better than apes and
parrots till we are forced to measure our muscle with the trained and
practised champions of that elder civilization. We have at length
established our claim to the noblesse of the sword, the first step still
of every nation that would make its entry into the best society of
history. To maintain ourselves there, we must achieve an equality in
the more exclusive circle of culture, and to that end must submit
ourselves to the European standard of intellectual weights and
measures--That we have made the hitherto biggest gun might excite
apprehension (were there a dearth of iron), but can never exact respect.
That our pianos and patent reapers have won medals does but confirm us
in our mechanic and material measure of merit. We must contribute
something more than mere contrivances for the saving of labor, which we
have been only too ready to misapply in the domain of thought and the
higher kinds of invention. In those Olympic games where nations contend
for truly immortal wreaths, it may well be questioned whether a
mowing-machine would stand much chance in the chariot-races,--whether a
piano, though made by a chevalier, could compete successfully for the
prize of music.

We shall have to be content for a good while yet with our provincialism,
and must strive to make the best of it. In it lies the germ of
nationality, and that is, after all, the prime condition of all
thorough-bred greatness of character. To this choicest fruit of a
healthy life, well rooted in native soil, and drawing prosperous juices
thence, nationality gives the keenest flavor. Mr. Lincoln was an
original man, and in so far a great man; yet it was the Americanism of
his every thought, word, and act which not only made his influence
equally at home in East and West, but drew the eyes of the outside
world, and was the pedestal that lifted him where he could be seen by
them. Lincoln showed that native force may transcend local boundaries,
but the growth of such nationality is hindered and hampered by our
division into so many half-independent communities, each with its
objects of county ambition, and its public men great to the borders of
their district. In this way our standard of greatness is insensibly
debased. To receive any national appointment, a man must have gone
through precisely the worst training for it; he must have so far
narrowed and belittled himself with State politics as to be acceptable
at home. In this way a man may become chairman of the Committee on
Foreign Affairs, because he knows how to pack a caucus in Catawampus
County, or be sent ambassador to Barataria, because he has drunk bad
whiskey with every voter in Wildcat City. Should we ever attain to a
conscious nationality, it will have the advantage of lessening the
number of our great men, and widening our appreciation to the larger
scale of the two or three that are left,--if there should be so many.
Meanwhile we offer a premium to the production of great men in a small
way, by inviting each State to set up the statues of two of its
immortals in the Capitol. What a niggardly percentage! Already we are
embarrassed, not to find the two, but to choose among the crowd of
candidates. Well, seventy-odd heroes in about as many years is pretty
well for a young nation. We do not envy most of them their eternal
martyrdom in marble, their pillory of indiscrimination. We fancy even
native tourists pausing before the greater part of the effigies, and,
after reading the names, asking desperately, “Who was _he_?” Nay, if
they should say, “Who the devil was _he_?” it were a pardonable
invocation, for none so fit as the Prince of Darkness to act as
_cicerone_ among such palpable obscurities. We recall the court-yard of
the Uffizj at Florence. That also is not free of parish celebrities; but
Dante, Galileo, Michael Angelo, Macchiavelli,--shall the inventor of the
sewing-machine, even with the button-holing improvement, let us say,
match with these, or with far lesser than these? Perhaps he was more
practically useful than any one of these, or all of them together, but
the soul is sensible of a sad difference somewhere. These also were
citizens of a provincial capital; so were the greater part of
Plutarch’s heroes. Did they have a better chance than we moderns,--than
we Americans? At any rate they have the start of us, and we must confess
that

    “By bed and table they lord it o’er us,
     Our elder brothers, but one in blood.”

Yes, one in blood; that is the hardest part of it. Is our provincialism
then in some great measure due to our absorption in the practical, as we
politely call it, meaning the material,--to our habit of estimating
greatness by the square mile and the hundred weight? Even during our
war, in the midst of that almost unrivalled stress of soul, were not our
speakers and newspapers so enslaved to the vulgar habit as to boast ten
times of the thousands of square miles it covered with armed men, for
once that they alluded to the motive that gave it all its meaning and
its splendor? Perhaps it was as well that they did not exploit that
passion of patriotism as an advertisement in the style of Barnum or
Perham. “I scale one hundred and eighty pounds, but when I’m mad I weigh
two ton,” said the Kentuckian, with a true notion of moral avoirdupois.
That ideal kind of weight is wonderfully increased by a national
feeling, whereby one man is conscious that thirty millions of men go
into the balance with him. The Roman in ancient, and the Englishman in
modern times, have been most conscious of this representative solidity,
and wherever one of them went there stood Rome or England in his shoes.
We have made some advance in the right direction. Our civil war, by the
breadth of its proportions and the implacability of its demands, forced
us to admit a truer valuation, and gave us, in our own despite, great
soldiers and sailors, allowed for such by all the world. The harder
problems it has left behind may in time compel us to have great
statesmen, with views capable of reaching beyond the next election. The
criticism of Europe alone can rescue us from the provincialism of an
over or false estimate of ourselves. Let us be thankful, and not angry,
that we must accept it as our touchstone. Our stamp has so often been
impressed upon base metal, that we cannot expect it to be taken on
trust, but we may be sure that true gold will be equally persuasive the
world over. Real manhood and honest achievement are nowhere provincial,
but enter the select society of all time on an even footing.

Spanish America might be a good glass for us to look into. Those
Catharine-wheel republics, always in revolution while the powder lasts,
and sure to burn the fingers of whoever attempts intervention, have also
their great men, as placidly ignored by us as our own by jealous Europe.
The following passage from the life of Don Simon Bolivar might allay
many _motus animorum_, if rightly pondered. Bolivar, then a youth, was
travelling in Italy, and his biographer tells us that “near Castiglione
he was present at the grand review made by Napoleon of the columns
defiling into the plain large enough to contain sixty thousand men. The
throne was situated on an eminence that overlooked the plain, and
Napoleon on several occasions looked through a glass at Bolivar and his
companions, who were at the base of the hill. The hero Cæsar could not
imagine that he beheld the liberator of the world of Columbus!” And
small blame to him, one would say. We are not, then, it seems, the only
foundling of Columbus, as we are so apt to take for granted. The great
Genoese did not, as we supposed, draw that first star-guided furrow
across the vague of waters with a single eye to the future greatness of
the United States. And have we not sometimes, like the enthusiastic
biographer, fancied the Old World staring through all its telescopes at
us, and wondered that it did not recognize in us what we were fully
persuaded we were _going_ to be and do?

Our American life is dreadfully barren of those elements of the social
picturesque which give piquancy to anecdote. And without anecdote, what
is biography, or even history, which is only biography on a larger
scale? Clio, though she take airs on herself, and pretend to be
“philosophy teaching by example,” is, after all, but a gossip who has
borrowed Fame’s speaking-trumpet, and should be figured with a tea-cup
instead of a scroll in her hand. How much has she not owed of late to
the tittle-tattle of her gillflirt sister Thalia? In what gutters has
not Macaulay raked for the brilliant bits with which he has put together
his admirable mosaic picture of England under the last two Stuarts? Even
Mommsen himself, who dislikes Plutarch’s method as much as Montaigne
loved it, cannot get or give a lively notion of ancient Rome, without
running to the comic poets and the anecdote-mongers. He gives us the
very beef-tea of history, nourishing and even palatable enough,
excellently portable for a memory that must carry her own packs, and can
afford little luggage; but for our own part, we prefer a full,
old-fashioned meal, with its side-dishes of spicy gossip, and its last
relish, the Stilton of scandal, so it be not too high. One volume of
contemporary memoirs, stuffed though it be with lies, (for lies to be
good for anything must have a potential probability, must even be true
so far as their moral and social setting is concerned,) will throw more
light into the dark backward of time than the gravest Camden or Thuanus.
If St. Simon is not accurate, is he any the less essentially _true_? No
history gives us so clear an understanding of the moral condition of
average men after the restoration of the Stuarts as the unconscious
blabbings of the Puritan tailor’s son, with his two consciences, as it
were,--an inward, still sensitive in spots, though mostly toughened to
India-rubber, and good rather for rubbing out old scores than retaining
them, and an outward, alert, and termagantly effective in Mrs. Pepys.
But we can have no St. Simons or Pepyses till we have a Paris or London
to delocalize our gossip and give it historic breadth. All our capitals
are fractional, merely greater or smaller gatherings of men, centres of
business rather than of action or influence. Each contains so many
souls, but is not, as the word “capital” implies, the true head of a
community and seat of its common soul.

Has not life itself perhaps become a little more prosaic than it once
was? As the clearing away of the woods scants the streams, may not our
civilization have dried up some feeders that helped to swell the current
of individual and personal force? We have sometimes thought that the
stricter definition and consequent seclusion from each other of the
different callings in modern times, as it narrowed the chance of
developing and giving variety to character, lessened also the interest
of biography. Formerly arts and arms were not divided by so impassable a
barrier as now. There was hardly such a thing as a _pékin_. Cæsar gets
up from writing his Latin Grammar to conquer Gaul, change the course of
history, and make so many things possible,--among the rest our English
language and Shakespeare. Horace had been a colonel; and from Æschylus,
who fought at Marathon, to Ben Jonson, who trailed a pike in the Low
Countries, the list of martial civilians is a long one. A man’s
education seems more complete who has smelt hostile powder from a less
æsthetic distance than Goethe. It raises our confidence in Sir Kenelm
Digby as a physicist, that he is able to illustrate some theory of
acoustics in his Treatise of Bodies by instancing the effect of his
guns in a sea-fight off Scanderoon. One would expect the proportions of
character to be enlarged by such variety and contrast of experience.
Perhaps it will by and by appear that our own Civil War has done
something for us in this way. Colonel Higginson comes down from his
pulpit to draw on his jack-boots, and thenceforth rides in our
imagination alongside of John Bunyan and Bishop Compton. To have stored
moral capital enough to meet the drafts of Death at sight, must be an
unmatched tonic. We saw our light-hearted youth come back with the
modest gravity of age, as if they had learned to throw out pickets
against a surprise of any weak point in their temperament. Perhaps that
American shiftiness, so often complained of, may not be so bad a thing,
if, by bringing men acquainted with every humor of fortune and human
nature, it puts them in fuller possession of themselves.

But with whatever drawbacks in special circumstances, the main interest
of biography must always lie in the amount of character or essential
manhood which the subject of it reveals to us, and events are of import
only as means to that end. It is true that lofty and far-seen exigencies
may give greater opportunity to some men, whose energy is more sharply
spurred by the shout of a multitude than by the grudging _Well done!_ of
conscience. Some theorists have too hastily assumed that, as the power
of public opinion increases, the force of private character, or what we
call originality, is absorbed into and diluted by it. But we think
Horace was right in putting tyrant and mob on a level as the trainers
and tests of a man’s solid quality. The amount of resistance of which
one is capable to whatever lies outside the conscience, is of more
consequence than all other faculties together; and democracy, perhaps,
tries this by pressure in more directions, and with a more continuous
strain, than any other form of society. In Josiah Quincy we have an
example of character trained and shaped, under the nearest approach to a
pure democracy the world has ever seen, to a firmness, unity, and
self-centred poise that recall the finer types of antiquity, in whom the
public and private man were so wholly of a piece that they were truly
everywhere at home, for the same sincerity of nature that dignified the
hearth carried also a charm of homeliness into the forum. The phrase “a
great public character,” once common, seems to be going out of fashion,
perhaps because there are fewer examples of the thing. It fits Josiah
Quincy exactly. Active in civic and academic duties till beyond the
ordinary period of man, at fourscore and ten his pen, voice, and
venerable presence were still efficient in public affairs. A score of
years after the energies of even vigorous men are declining or spent,
his mind and character made themselves felt as in their prime. A true
pillar of house and state, he stood unflinchingly upright under whatever
burden might be laid upon him. The French Revolutionists aped what was
itself but a parody of the elder republic, with their hair _à la_ Brutus
and their pedantic moralities _à la_ Cato Minor, but this man
unconsciously was the antique Roman they laboriously went about to be.
Others have filled places more conspicuous, few have made the place they
filled so conspicuous by an exact and disinterested performance of duty.

In the biography of Mr. Quincy by his son there is something of the
provincialism of which we have spoken as inherent in most American works
of the kind. His was a Boston life in the strictest sense. But
provincialism is relative, and where it has a flavor of its own, as in
Scotland, it is often agreeable in proportion to its very intensity. The
Massachusetts in which Mr. Quincy’s habits of thought were acquired was
a very different Massachusetts from that in which we of later
generations have been bred. Till after he had passed middle life, Boston
was more truly a capital than any other city in America, before or
since, except possibly Charleston. The acknowledged head of New England,
with a population of wellnigh purely English descent, mostly derived
from the earlier emigration, with ancestral traditions and inspiring
memories of its own, it had made its name familiar in both worlds, and
was both historically and politically more important than at any later
period. The Revolution had not interrupted, but rather given a freer
current to the tendencies of its past. Both by its history and position,
the town had what the French call a solidarity, an almost personal
consciousness, rare anywhere, rare especially in America, and more than
ever since our enormous importation of fellow-citizens to whom America
means merely shop, or meat three times a day. Boston has been called the
“American Athens.” Æsthetically, the comparison is ludicrous, but
politically it was more reasonable. Its population was homogeneous, and
there were leading families; while the form of government by
town-meeting, and the facility of social and civic intercourse, gave
great influence to popular personal qualities and opportunity to new
men. A wide commerce, while it had insensibly softened the asperities of
Puritanism and imported enough foreign refinement to humanize, not
enough foreign luxury to corrupt, had not essentially qualified the
native tone of the town. Retired sea-captains (true brothers of
Chaucer’s Shipman), whose exploits had kindled the imagination of Burke,
added a not unpleasant savor of salt to society. They belonged to the
old school of Gilbert, Hawkins, Frobisher, and Drake, parcel-soldiers
all of them, who had commanded armed ships and had tales to tell of
gallant fights with privateers or pirates, truest representatives of
those Vikings who, if trade in lumber or peltry was dull, would make
themselves Dukes of Dublin or Earls of Orkney. If trade pinches the
mind, commerce liberalizes it; and Boston was also advantaged with the
neighborhood of the country’s oldest College, which maintained the
wholesome traditions of culture,--where Homer and Horace are familiar
there is a certain amount of cosmopolitanism,--and would not allow
bigotry to become despotism. Manners were more self-respectful, and
therefore more respectful of others, and personal sensitiveness was
fenced with more of that ceremonial with which society armed itself when
it surrendered the ruder protection of the sword. We had not then seen a
Governor in his chamber at the State-House with his hat on, a cigar in
his mouth, and his feet upon the stove. Domestic service, in spite of
the proverb, was not seldom an inheritance, nor was household peace
dependent on the whim of a foreign armed neutrality in the kitchen.
Servant and master were of one stock; there was decent authority and
becoming respect; the tradition of the Old World lingered after its
superstition had passed away. There was an aristocracy such as is
healthful in a well-ordered community, founded on public service, and
hereditary so long as the virtue which was its patent was not escheated.
The clergy, no longer hedged by the reverence exacted by sacerdotal
caste, were more than repaid by the consideration willingly paid to
superior culture. What changes, many of them for the better, some of
them surely for the worse, and all of them inevitable, did not Josiah
Quincy see in that wellnigh secular life which linked the war of
independence to the war of nationality! We seemed to see a type of them
the other day in a colored man standing with an air of comfortable
self-possession while his boots were brushed by a youth of catholic
neutral tint, but whom nature had planned for white. The same eyes that
had looked on Gage’s red-coats, saw Colonel Shaw’s negro regiment march
out of Boston in the national blue. Seldom has a life, itself actively
associated with public affairs, spanned so wide a chasm for the
imagination. Oglethorpe’s offers a parallel,--the aide-de-camp of Prince
Eugene calling on John Adams, American Ambassador to England. Most long
lives resemble those threads of gossamer, the nearest approach to
nothing unmeaningly prolonged, scarce visible pathway of some worm from
his cradle to his grave; but Quincy’s was strung with seventy active
years, each one a rounded bead of usefulness and service.

Mr. Quincy was a Bostonian of the purest type. Since the settlement of
the town, there had been a colonel of the Boston regiment in every
generation of his family. He lived to see a grandson brevetted with the
same title for gallantry in the field. Only child of one among the most
eminent advocates of the Revolution, and who but for his untimely death
would have been a leading actor in it, his earliest recollections
belonged to the heroic period in the history of his native town. With
that history his life was thenceforth intimately united by offices of
public trust, as Representative in Congress, State Senator, Mayor, and
President of the University, to a period beyond the ordinary span of
mortals. Even after he had passed ninety, he would not claim to be
_emeritus_, but came forward to brace his townsmen with a courage and
warm them with a fire younger than their own. The legend of Colonel
Goffe at Deerfield became a reality to the eyes of this generation. The
New England breed is running out, we are told! This was in all ways a
beautiful and fortunate life,--fortunate in the goods of this
world,--fortunate, above all, in the force of character which makes
fortune secondary and subservient. We are fond in this country of what
are called self-made men (as if real success could ever be other); and
this is all very well, provided they make something worth having of
themselves. Otherwise it is not so well, and the examples of such are at
best but stuff for the Alnaschar dreams of a false democracy. The gist
of the matter is, not where a man starts from, but where he comes out.
We are glad to have the biography of one who, beginning as a gentleman,
kept himself such to the end,--who, with no necessity of labor, left
behind him an amount of thoroughly done work such as few have
accomplished with the mighty help of hunger. Some kind of pace may be
got out of the veriest jade by the near prospect of oats; but the
thorough-bred has the spur in his blood.

Mr. Edmund Quincy has told the story of his father’s life with the skill
and good taste that might have been expected from the author of
“Wensley.” Considering natural partialities, he has shown a discretion
of which we are oftener reminded by missing than by meeting it. He has
given extracts enough from speeches to show their bearing and
quality,--from letters, to recall bygone modes of thought and indicate
many-sided friendly relations with good and eminent men; above all, he
has lost no opportunity to illustrate that life of the past, near in
date, yet alien in manners, whose current glides so imperceptibly from
one generation into another that we fail to mark the shiftings of its
bed or the change in its nature wrought by the affluents that discharge
into it on all sides,--here a stream bred in the hills to sweeten, there
the sewerage of some great city to corrupt. We cannot but lament that
Mr. Quincy did not earlier begin to keep a diary. “Miss not the
discourses of the elders,” though put now in the Apocrypha, is a wise
precept, but incomplete unless we add, “Nor cease from recording
whatsoever thing thou hast gathered therefrom,”--so ready is Oblivion
with her fatal shears. The somewhat greasy heap of a literary
rag-and-bone-picker, like Athenæus, is turned to gold by time. Even the
_Virgilium vidi tantum_ of Dryden about Milton, and of Pope again about
Dryden, is worth having, and gives a pleasant fillip to the fancy. There
is much of this quality in Mr. Edmund Quincy’s book, enough to make us
wish there were more. We get a glimpse of President Washington, in 1795,
who reminded Mr. Quincy “of the gentlemen who used to come to Boston in
those days to attend the General Court from Hampden or Franklin County,
in the western part of the State. A little stiff in his person, not a
little formal in his manners, not particularly at ease in the presence
of strangers. He had the air of a country-gentleman not accustomed to
mix much in society, perfectly polite, but not easy in his address and
conversation, and not graceful in his gait and movements.” Our figures
of Washington have been so long equestrian, that it is pleasant to meet
him dismounted for once. In the same way we get a card of invitation to
a dinner of sixty covers at John Hancock’s, and see the rather
light-weighted great man wheeled round the room (for he had adopted Lord
Chatham’s convenient trick of the gout) to converse with his guests. In
another place we are presented, with Mr. Merry, the English Minister, to
Jefferson, whom we find in an unofficial costume of studied
slovenliness, intended as a snub to haughty Albion. Slippers down at the
heel and a dirty shirt become weapons of diplomacy and threaten more
serious war. Thus many a door into the past, long irrevocably shut upon
us, is set ajar, and we of the younger generation on the landing catch
peeps of distinguished men, and bits of their table-talk. We drive in
from Mr. Lyman’s beautiful seat at Waltham (unique at that day in its
stately swans and half-shy, half-familiar deer) with John Adams, who
tells us that Dr. Priestley looked on the French monarchy as the tenth
horn of the Beast in Revelation,--a horn that has set more sober wits
dancing than that of Huon of Bordeaux. Those were days, we are inclined
to think, of more solid and elegant hospitality than our own,--the
elegance of manners, at once more courtly and more frugal, of men who
had better uses for wealth than merely to display it. Dinners have more
courses now, and, like the Gascon in the old story, who could not see
the town for the houses, we miss the real dinner in the multiplicity of
its details. We might seek long before we found so good cheer, so good
company, or so good talk as our fathers had at Lieutenant-Governor
Winthrop’s or Senator Cabot’s.

We shall not do Mr. Edmund Quincy the wrong of picking out in advance
all the plums in his volume, leaving to the reader only the less savory
mixture that held them together,--a kind of filling unavoidable in books
of this kind, and too apt to be what boys at boarding-school call
_stick-jaw_, but of which there is no more than could not be helped
here, and that light and palatable. But here and there is a passage
where we cannot refrain, for there is a smack of Jack Horner in all of
us, and a reviewer were nothing without it. Josiah Quincy was born in
1772. His father, returning from a mission to England, died in sight of
the dear New England shore three years later. His young widow was worthy
of him, and of the son whose character she was to have so large a share
in forming. There is something very touching and beautiful in this
little picture of her which Mr. Quincy drew in his extreme old age.

“My mother imbibed, as was usual with the women of the period, the
spirit of the times. Patriotism was not then a profession, but an
energetic principle beating in the heart and active in the life. The
death of my father, under circumstances now the subject of history, had
overwhelmed her with grief. She viewed him as a victim in the cause of
freedom, and cultivated his memory with veneration, regarding him as a
martyr, falling, as did his friend Warren, in the defence of the
liberties of his country. These circumstances gave a pathos and
vehemence to her grief, which, after the first violence of passion had
subsided, sought consolation in earnest and solicitous fulfilment of
duty to the representative of his memory and of their mutual affections.
Love and reverence for the memory of his father was early impressed on
the mind of her son, and worn into his heart by her sadness and tears.
She cultivated the memory of my father in my heart and affections, even
in my earliest childhood, by reading to me passages from the poets, and
obliging me to learn by heart and repeat such as were best adapted to
her own circumstances and feelings. Among others, the whole leave-taking
of Hector and Andromache, in the sixth book of Pope’s Homer, was one of
her favorite lessons, which she made me learn and frequently repeat. Her
imagination, probably, found consolation in the repetition of lines
which brought to mind and seemed to typify her own great bereavement.

    ‘And think’st thou not how wretched we shall be,--
     A widow I, a helpless orphan he?’

These lines, and the whole tenor of Andromache’s address and
circumstances, she identified with her own sufferings, which seemed
relieved by the tears my repetition of them drew from her.”

Pope’s Homer is not Homer, perhaps; but how many noble natures have felt
its elation, how many bruised spirits the solace of its bracing, if
monotonous melody! To us there is something inexpressibly tender in this
instinct of the widowed mother to find consolation in the idealization
of her grief by mingling it with those sorrows which genius has turned
into the perennial delight of mankind. This was a kind of sentiment that
was healthy for her boy, refining without unnerving, and associating his
father’s memory with a noble company unassailable by time. It was
through this lady, whose image looks down on us out of the past, so full
of sweetness and refinement, that Mr. Quincy became of kin with Mr.
Wendell Phillips, so justly eminent as a speaker. There is something
nearer than cater-cousinship in a certain impetuous audacity of temper
common to them both.

When six years old, Mr. Quincy was sent to Phillips Academy at Andover,
where he remained till he entered college. His form-fellow here was a
man of thirty, who had been a surgeon in the Continental Army, and whose
character and adventures might almost seem borrowed from a romance of
Smollett. Under Principal Pearson, the lad, though a near relative of
the founder of the school, seems to have endured all that severity of
the old _a posteriori_ method of teaching which still smarted in
Tusser’s memory when he sang,

    “From Paul’s I went, to Eton sent,
     To learn straightways the Latin phrase,
     Where fifty-three stripes given to me
     At once I had.”

The young victim of the wisdom of Solomon was boarded with the parish
minister, in whose kindness he found a lenitive for the scholastic
discipline he underwent. This gentleman had been a soldier in the
Colonial service, and Mr. Quincy afterwards gave as a reason for his
mildness, that, “while a sergeant at Castle William, he had seen
something of mankind.” This, no doubt, would be a better preparative for
successful dealing with the young than is generally thought. However,
the birch was then the only classic tree, and every round in the ladder
of learning was made of its inspiring wood. Dr. Pearson, perhaps,
thought he was only doing justice to his pupil’s claims of kindred by
giving him a larger share of the educational advantages which the
neighboring forest afforded. The vividness with which this system is
always remembered by those who have been subjected to it would seem to
show that it really enlivened the attention, and thereby invigorated the
memory, nay, might even raise some question as to what part of the
person is chosen by the mother of the Muses for her residence. With an
appetite for the classics quickened by “Cheever’s Accidence,” and such
other preliminary whets as were then in vogue, young Quincy entered
college, where he spent the usual four years, and was graduated with the
highest honors of his class. The amount of Latin and Greek imparted to
the students of that day was not very great. They were carried through
Horace, Sallust, and the _De Oratoribus_ of Cicero, and read portions of
Livy, Xenophon, and Homer. Yet the chief end of classical studies was
perhaps as often reached then as now, in giving young men a love for
something apart from and above the more vulgar associations of life. Mr.
Quincy, at least, retained to the last a fondness for certain Latin
authors. While he was President of the College, he told a gentleman,
from whom we received the story, that, “if he were imprisoned, and
allowed to choose one book for his amusement, that should be Horace.”

In 1797 Mr. Quincy was married to Miss Eliza Susan Morton of New York, a
union which lasted in unbroken happiness for more than fifty years. His
case might be cited among the leading ones in support of the old poet’s
axiom, that

    “He never loved, that loved not at first sight”;

for he saw, wooed, and won in a week. In later life he tried in a most
amusing way to account for this rashness, and to find reasons of settled
gravity for the happy inspiration of his heart. He cites the evidence of
Judge Sedgwick, of Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Wolcott, of the Rev. Dr. Smith,
and others, to the wisdom of his choice. But it does not appear that he
consulted them beforehand. If love were not too cunning for that, what
would become of the charming idyl, renewed in all its wonder and
freshness for every generation? Let us be thankful that in every man’s
life there is a holiday of romance, an illumination of the senses by the
soul, that makes him a poet while it lasts. Mr. Quincy caught the
enchantment through his ears, a song of Burns heard from the next room
conveying the infection,--a fact still inexplicable to him after
lifelong meditation thereon, as he “was not very impressible by music”!
To us there is something very characteristic in this rapid energy of Mr.
Quincy, something very delightful in his naïve account of the affair. It
needs the magic of no Dr. Heidegger to make these dried roses, that drop
from between the leaves of a volume shut for seventy years, bloom again
in all their sweetness. Mr. Edmund Quincy tells us that his mother was
“not handsome”; but those who remember the gracious dignity of her old
age will hardly agree with him. She must always have had that highest
kind of beauty which grows more beautiful with years, and keeps the eyes
young, as if with the partial connivance of Time.

We do not propose to follow Mr. Quincy closely through his whole public
life, which, beginning with his thirty-second, ended with his
seventy-third year. He entered Congress as the representative of a party
privately the most respectable, publicly the least sagacious, among all
those which under different names have divided the country. The
Federalists were the only proper tories our politics have ever produced,
whose conservatism truly represented an idea, and not a mere selfish
interest,--men who honestly distrusted democracy, and stood up for
experience, or the tradition which they believed for such, against
empiricism. During his Congressional career, the government was little
more than an _attaché_ of the French legation, and the opposition to
which he belonged a helpless _revenant_ from the dead and buried
Colonial past. There are some questions whose interest dies the moment
they are settled; others, into which a moral element enters that hinders
them from being settled, though they may be decided. It is hard to
revive any enthusiasm about the _Embargo_, though it once could inspire
the boyish Muse of Bryant, or in the impressment quarrel, though the
Trent difficulty for a time rekindled its old animosities. The stars in
their courses fought against Mr. Quincy’s party, which was not in
sympathy with the instincts of the people, groping about for some
principle of nationality, and finding a substitute for it in hatred of
England. But there are several things which still make his career in
Congress interesting to us, because they illustrate the personal
character of the man. He prepared himself honestly for his duties, by a
thorough study of whatever could make him efficient in them. It was not
enough that he could make a good speech; he wished also to have
something to say. In Congress, as everywhere else, _quod voluit valde
voluit_; and he threw a fervor into the most temporary topic, as if his
eternal salvation depended upon it. He had not merely, as the French
say, the courage of his opinions, but his opinions became principles,
and gave him that gallantry of fanaticism which made him always ready to
head a forlorn hope,--the more ready, perhaps, that it was a forlorn
hope. This is not the humor of a statesman,--no, unless he holds a
position like that of Pitt, and can charge a whole people with his own
enthusiasm, and then we call it genius. Mr. Quincy had the moral
firmness which enabled him to decline a duel without any loss of
personal _prestige_. His opposition to the Louisiana purchase
illustrates that Roman quality in him to which we have alluded. He would
not conclude the purchase till each of the old thirteen States had
signified its assent. He was reluctant to endow a Sabine city with the
privilege of Roman citizenship. It is worth noting, that while in
Congress, and afterwards in the State Senate, many of his phrases became
the catch-words of party politics. He always dared to say what others
deemed it more prudent only to think, and whatever he said he
intensified with the whole ardor of his temperament. It is this which
makes Mr. Quincy’s speeches good reading still, even when the topics
they discussed were ephemeral. In one respect he is distinguished from
the politicians, and must rank with the far-seeing statesmen of his
time. He early foresaw and denounced the political danger with which the
Slave Power threatened the Union. His fears, it is true, were aroused
for the balance of power between the old States, rather than by any
moral sensitiveness, which would, indeed, have been an anachronism at
that time. But the Civil War justified his prescience.

It was as Mayor of his native city that his remarkable qualities as an
administrator were first called into requisition and adequately
displayed. He organized the city government, and put it in working
order. To him we owe many reforms in police, in the management of the
poor, and other kindred matters,--much in the way of cure, still more in
that of prevention. The place demanded a man of courage and firmness,
and found those qualities almost superabundantly in him. His virtues
lost him his office, as such virtues are only too apt to do in peaceful
times, where they are felt more as a restraint than a protection. His
address on laying down the mayoralty is very characteristic. We quote
the concluding sentences:--

“And now, gentlemen, standing as I do in this relation for the last time
in your presence and that of my fellow-citizens, about to surrender
forever a station full of difficulty, of labor and temptation, in which
I have been called to very arduous duties, affecting the rights,
property, and at times the liberty of others; concerning which the
perfect line of rectitude--though desired--was not always to be clearly
discerned; in which great interests have been placed within my control,
under circumstances in which it would have been easy to advance private
ends and sinister projects;--under these circumstances, I inquire, as I
have a right to inquire,--for in the recent contest insinuations have
been cast against my integrity,--in this long management of your
affairs, whatever errors have been committed,--and doubtless there have
been many,--have you found in me anything selfish, anything personal,
anything mercenary? In the simple language of an ancient seer, I say,
‘Behold, here I am; witness against me. Whom have I defrauded? Whom have
I oppressed? At whose hands have I received any bribe?’

“Six years ago, when I had the honor first to address the City Council,
in anticipation of the event which has now occurred, the following
expressions were used: ‘In administering the police, in executing the
laws, in protecting the rights and promoting the prosperity of the city,
its first officer will be necessarily beset and assailed by individual
interests, by rival projects, by personal influences, by party passions.
The more firm and inflexible he is in maintaining the rights and in
pursuing the interests of the city, the greater is the probability of
his becoming obnoxious to the censure of all whom he causes to be
prosecuted or punished, of all whose passions he thwarts, of all whose
interests he opposes.’

“The day and the event have come. I retire--as in that first address I
told my fellow-citizens, ‘If, in conformity with the experience of other
republics, faithful exertions should be followed by loss of favor and
confidence,’ I should retire--‘rejoicing, not, indeed, with a public and
patriotic, but with a private and individual joy’; for I shall retire
with a consciousness weighed against which all _human suffrages_ are but
as the light dust of the balance.”

Of his mayoralty we have another anecdote quite Roman in color. He was
in the habit of riding early in the morning through the various streets
that he might look into everything with his own eyes. He was once
arrested on a malicious charge of violating the city ordinance against
fast driving. He might have resisted, but he appeared in court and paid
the fine, because it would serve as a good example “that no citizen was
above the law.”

Hardly had Mr. Quincy given up the government of the city, when he was
called to that of the College. It is here that his stately figure is
associated most intimately and warmly with the recollections of the
greater number who hold his memory dear. Almost everybody looks back
regretfully to the days of some Consul Plancus. Never were eyes so
bright, never had wine so much wit and good-fellowship in it, never were
we ourselves so capable of the various great things we have never done.
Nor is it merely the sunset of life that casts such a ravishing light on
the past, and makes the western windows of those homes of fancy we have
left forever tremble with a sentiment of such sweet regret. We set
great store by what we had, and cannot have again, however indifferent
in itself, and what is past is infinitely past. This is especially true
of college life, when we first assume the titles without the
responsibilities of manhood, and the President of our year is apt to
become our Plancus very early. Popular or not while in office, an
ex-president is always sure of enthusiastic cheers at every college
festival. Mr. Quincy had many qualities calculated to win favor with the
young,--that one above all which is sure to do it, indomitable pluck.
With him the dignity was in the man, not in the office. He had some of
those little oddities, too, which afford amusement without contempt, and
which rather tend to heighten than diminish personal attachment to
superiors in station. His punctuality at prayers, and in dropping asleep
there, his forgetfulness of names, his singular inability to make even
the shortest off-hand speech to the students,--all the more singular in
a practised orator,--his occasional absorption of mind, leading him to
hand you his sand-box instead of the leave of absence he had just dried
with it,--the old-fashioned courtesy of his, “Sir, your servant,” as he
bowed you out of his study,--all tended to make him popular. He had also
a little of what is somewhat contradictorily called dry humor, not
without influence in his relations with the students. In taking leave of
the graduating class, he was in the habit of paying them whatever honest
compliment he could. Who, of a certain year which shall be nameless,
will ever forget the gravity with which he assured them that they were
“the _best-dressed_ class that had passed through college during his
administration”? How sincerely kind he was, how considerate of youthful
levity, will always be gratefully remembered by whoever had occasion to
experience it. A visitor not long before his death found him burning
some memoranda of college peccadilloes, lest they should ever rise up in
judgment against the men eminent in Church and State who had been guilty
of them. One great element of his popularity with the students was his
_esprit de corps_. However strict in discipline, he was always on _our_
side as respected the outside world. Of his efficiency, no higher
testimony could be asked than that of his successor, Dr. Walker. Here
also many reforms date from his time. He had that happiest combination
for a wise vigor in the conduct of affairs,--he was a conservative with
an open mind.

One would be apt to think that, in the various offices which Mr. Quincy
successively filled, he would have found enough to do. But his
indefatigable activity overflowed. Even as a man of letters, he occupies
no inconsiderable place. His “History of Harvard College” is a valuable
and entertaining treatment of a subject not wanting in natural dryness.
His “Municipal History of Boston,” his “History of the Boston Athenæum,”
and his “Life of Colonel Shaw” have permanent interest and value. All
these were works demanding no little labor and research, and the
thoroughness of their workmanship makes them remarkable as the
by-productions of a busy man. Having consented, when more than eighty,
to write a memoir of John Quincy Adams, to be published in the
“Proceedings” of the Massachusetts Historical Society, he was obliged to
excuse himself. On account of his age? Not at all, but because the work
had grown to be a volume under his weariless hand. _Ohne Hast ohne
Rast_, was as true of him as of Goethe. We find the explanation of his
accomplishing so much in a rule of life which he gave, when President,
to a young man employed as his secretary, and who was a little
behindhand with his work: “When you have a number of duties to perform,
always do the most disagreeable one first.” No advice could have been
more in character, and it is perhaps better than the great German’s, “Do
the duty that lies nearest thee.”

Perhaps the most beautiful part of Mr. Quincy’s life was his old age.
What in most men is decay, was in him but beneficent prolongation and
adjournment. His interest in affairs unabated, his judgment undimmed,
his fire unchilled, his last years were indeed “lovely as a Lapland
night.” Till within a year or two of its fall, there were no signs of
dilapidation in that stately edifice. Singularly felicitous was Mr.
Winthrop’s application to him of Wordsworth’s verses:--

    “The monumental pomp of age
     Was in that goodly personage.”

Everything that Macbeth foreboded the want of, he had in deserved
abundance,--the love, the honor, the obedience, the troops of friends.
His equanimity was beautiful. He loved life, as men of large vitality
always do, but he did not fear to lose life by changing the scene of it.
Visiting him in his ninetieth year with a friend, he said to us, among
other things: “I have no desire to die, but also no reluctance. Indeed,
I have a considerable curiosity about the other world. I have never been
to Europe, you know.” Even in his extreme senescence there was an April
mood somewhere in his nature “that put a spirit of youth in everything.”
He seemed to feel that he could draw against an unlimited credit of
years. When eighty-two, he said smilingly to a young man just returned
from a foreign tour, “Well, well, I mean to go myself when I am old
enough to profit by it.” We have seen many old men whose lives were mere
waste and desolation, who made longevity disreputable by their untimely
persistence in it; but in Mr. Quincy’s length of years there was nothing
that was not venerable. To him it was fulfilment, not deprivation; the
days were marked to the last for what they brought, not for what they
took away.

The memory of what Mr. Quincy did will be lost in the crowd of newer
activities; it is the memory of what he was that is precious to us.
_Bonum virum facile crederes, magnum libenter._ If John Winthrop be the
highest type of the men who shaped New England, we can find no better
one of those whom New England has shaped than Josiah Quincy. It is a
figure that we can contemplate with more than satisfaction,--a figure of
admirable example in a democracy as that of a model citizen. His courage
and high-mindedness were personal to him; let us believe that his
integrity, his industry, his love of letters, his devotion to duty, go
in some sort to the credit of the society which gave him birth and
formed his character. In one respect he is especially interesting to us,
as belonging to a class of men of whom he was the last representative,
and whose like we shall never see again. Born and bred in an age of
greater social distinctions than ours, he was an aristocrat in a sense
that is good even in a republic. He had the sense of a certain personal
dignity _inherent_ in him, and which could not be alienated by any whim
of the popular will. There is no stouter buckler than this for
independence of spirit, no surer guaranty of that courtesy which, in its
consideration of others, is but paying a debt of self-respect. During
his presidency, Mr. Quincy was once riding to Cambridge in a crowded
omnibus. A colored woman got in, and could nowhere find a seat. The
President instantly gave her his own, and stood the rest of the way, a
silent rebuke of the general rudeness. He was a man of quality in the
true sense,--of quality not hereditary, but personal. Position might be
taken from him, but _he_ remained where he was. In what he valued most,
his sense of personal worth, the world’s opinion could neither help nor
hinder. We do not mean that this was conscious in him; if it had been,
it would have been a weakness. It was an instinct, and acted with the
force and promptitude proper to such. Let us hope that the scramble of
democracy will give us something as good; anything of so classic dignity
we shall not look to see again.

Josiah Quincy was no seeker of office; from first to last he and it were
drawn together by the mutual attraction of need and fitness, and it
clung to him as most men cling to it. The people often make blunders in
their choice; they are apt to mistake presence of speech for presence of
mind; they love so to help a man rise from the ranks, that they will
spoil a good demagogue to make a bad general; a great many faults may be
laid at their door, but they are not fairly to be charged with
fickleness. They are constant to whoever is constant to his real self,
to the best manhood that is in him, and not to the mere selfishness, the
_antica lupa_ so cunning to hide herself in the sheep’s fleece even from
ourselves. It is true, the contemporary world is apt to be the gull of
brilliant parts, and the maker of a lucky poem or picture or statue, the
winner of a lucky battle, gets perhaps more than is due to the solid
result of his triumph. It is time that fit honor should be paid also to
him who shows a genius for public usefulness, for the achievement of
character, who shapes his life to a certain classic proportion, and
comes off conqueror on those inward fields where something more than
mere talent is demanded for victory. The memory of such men should be
cherished as the most precious inheritance which one generation can
bequeath to the next. However it might be with popular favor, public
respect followed Mr. Quincy unwaveringly for seventy years, and it was
because he had never forfeited his own. In this, it appears to us, lies
the lesson of his life, and his claim upon our grateful recollection. It
is this which makes him an example, while the careers of so many of our
prominent men are only useful for warning. As regards history, his
greatness was narrowly provincial; but if the measure of deeds be the
spirit in which they are done, that fidelity to instant duty, which,
according to Herbert, makes an action fine, then his length of years
should be very precious to us for its lesson. Talleyrand, whose life may
be compared with his for the strange vicissitude which it witnessed,
carried with him out of the world the respect of no man, least of all
his own; and how many of our own public men have we seen whose old age
but accumulated a disregard which they would gladly have exchanged for
oblivion! In Quincy the public fidelity was loyal to the private, and
the withdrawal of his old age was into a sanctuary,--a diminution of
publicity with addition of influence.

    “Conclude we, then, felicity consists
     Not in exterior fortunes....
     Sacred felicity doth ne’er extend
     Beyond itself....
     The swelling of an outward fortune can
     Create a prosperous, not a happy man.”




CARLYLE.[5]


A feeling of comical sadness is likely to come over the mind of any
middle-aged man who sets himself to recollecting the names of different
authors that have been famous, and the number of contemporary
immortalities whose end he has seen since coming to manhood. Many a
light, hailed by too careless observers as a fixed star, has proved to
be only a short-lived lantern at the tail of a newspaper kite. That
literary heaven which our youth saw dotted thick with rival glories, we
find now to have been a stage-sky merely, artificially enkindled from
behind; and the cynical daylight which is sure to follow all theatrical
enthusiasms shows us ragged holes where once were luminaries, sheer
vacancy instead of lustre. Our earthly reputations, says a great poet,
are the color of grass, and the same sun that makes the green bleaches
it out again. But next morning is not the time to criticise the
scene-painter’s firmament, nor is it quite fair to examine coldly a part
of some general illusion in the absence of that sympathetic enthusiasm,
that self-surrender of the fancy, which made it what it was. It would
not be safe for all neglected authors to comfort themselves in
Wordsworth’s fashion, inferring genius in an inverse proportion to
public favor, and a high and solitary merit from the world’s
indifference. On the contrary, it would be more just to argue from
popularity a certain amount of real value, though it may not be of that
permanent quality which insures enduring fame. The contemporary world
and Wordsworth were both half right. He undoubtedly owned and worked the
richest vein of his period; but he offered to his contemporaries a heap
of gold-bearing quartz where the baser mineral made the greater show,
and the purchaser must do his own crushing and smelting, with no
guaranty but the bare word of the miner. It was not enough that certain
bolder adventurers should now and then show a nugget in proof of the
success of their venture. The gold of the poet must be refined, moulded,
stamped with the image and superscription of his time, but with a beauty
of design and finish that are of no time. The work must surpass the
material. Wordsworth was wholly void of that shaping imagination which
is the highest criterion of a poet.

Immediate popularity and lasting fame, then, would seem to be the result
of different qualities, and not of mere difference in degree. It is safe
to prophesy a certain durability of recognition for any author who gives
evidence of intellectual force, in whatever kind, above the average
amount. There are names in literary history which are only names; and
the works associated with them, like acts of Congress already agreed on
in debate, are read by their titles and passed. What is it that insures
what may be called living fame, so that a book shall be at once famous
and read? What is it that relegates divine Cowley to that remote,
uncivil Pontus of the “British Poets,” and keeps garrulous Pepys within
the cheery circle of the evening lamp and fire? Originality, eloquence,
sense, imagination, not one of them is enough by itself, but only in
some happy mixture and proportion. Imagination seems to possess in
itself more of the antiseptic property than any other single quality;
but, without less showy and more substantial allies, it can at best
give only deathlessness, without the perpetual youth that makes it other
than dreary. It were easy to find examples of this Tithonus immortality,
setting its victims apart from both gods and men; helpless duration,
undying, to be sure, but sapless and voiceless also, and long ago
deserted by the fickle Hemera. And yet chance could confer that gift on
Glaucus, which love and the consent of Zeus failed to secure for the
darling of the Dawn. Is it mere luck, then? Luck may, and often does,
have some share in ephemeral successes, as in a gambler’s winnings spent
as soon as got, but not in any lasting triumph over time. Solid success
must be based on solid qualities and the honest culture of them.

The first element of contemporary popularity is undoubtedly the power of
entertaining. If a man have anything to tell, the world cannot be
expected to listen to him unless he have perfected himself in the best
way of telling it. People are not to be argued into a pleasurable
sensation, nor is taste to be compelled by any syllogism, however
stringent. An author may make himself very popular, however, and even
justly so, by appealing to the passion of the moment, without having
anything in him that shall outlast the public whim which he satisfies.
Churchill is a remarkable example of this. He had a surprising
extemporary vigor of mind; his phrase carries great weight of blow; he
undoubtedly surpassed all contemporaries, as Cowper says of him, in a
certain rude and earth-born vigor; but his verse is dust and ashes now,
solemnly inurned, of course, in the Chalmers columbarium, and without
danger of violation. His brawn and muscle are fading traditions, while
the fragile, shivering genius of Cowper is still a good life on the
books of the Critical Insurance Office. “Is it not, then, loftiness of
mind that puts one by the side of Virgil?” cries poor old Cavalcanti at
his wits’ end. Certainly not altogether that. There must be also the
great Mantuan’s art; his power, not only of being strong in parts, but
of making those parts coherent in an harmonious whole, and tributary to
it. Gray, if we may believe the commentators, has not an idea, scarcely
an epithet, that he can call his own; and yet he is, in the best sense,
one of the classics of English literature. He had exquisite felicity of
choice; his dictionary had no vulgar word in it, no harsh one, but all
culled from the luckiest moods of poets, and with a faint but delicious
aroma of association; he had a perfect sense of sound, and one idea
without which all the poetic outfit (_si absit prudentia_) is of little
avail,--that of combination and arrangement, in short, of art. The poets
from whom he helped himself have no more claim to any of his poems as
wholes, than the various beauties of Greece (if the old story were true)
to the Venus of the artist.

Imagination, as we have said, has more virtue to keep a book alive than
any other single faculty. Burke is rescued from the usual doom of
orators, because his learning, his experience, his sagacity are rimmed
with a halo by this bewitching light behind the intellectual eye from
the highest heaven of the brain. Shakespeare has impregnated his common
sense with the steady glow of it, and answers the mood of youth and age,
of high and low, immortal as that dateless substance of the soul he
wrought in. To have any chance of lasting, a book must satisfy, not
merely some fleeting fancy of the day, but a constant longing and hunger
of human nature; and it needs only a superficial study of literature to
be convinced that real fame depends rather on the sum of an author’s
powers than on any brilliancy of special parts. There must be wisdom as
well as wit, sense no less than imagination, judgment in equal measure
with fancy, and the fiery rocket must be bound fast to the poor wooden
stick that gives it guidance if it would mount and draw all eyes. There
are some who think that the brooding patience which a great work calls
for belonged exclusively to an earlier period than ours. Others lay the
blame on our fashion of periodical publication, which necessitates a
sensation and a crisis in every number, and forces the writer to strive
for startling effects, instead of that general lowness of tone which is
the last achievement of the artist. The simplicity of antique passion,
the homeliness of antique pathos, seem not merely to be gone out of
fashion, but out of being as well. Modern poets appear rather to tease
their words into a fury, than to infuse them with the deliberate heats
of their matured conception, and strive to replace the rapture of the
mind with a fervid intensity of phrase. Our reaction from the decorous
platitudes of the last century has no doubt led us to excuse this, and
to be thankful for something like real fire, though of stubble; but our
prevailing style of criticism, which regards parts rather than wholes,
which dwells on the beauty of passages, and, above all, must have its
languid nerves pricked with the expected sensation at whatever cost, has
done all it could to confirm us in our evil way. Passages are good when
they lead to something, when they are necessary parts of the building,
but they are not good to dwell in. This taste for the startling reminds
us of something which happened once at the burning of a country
meeting-house. The building stood on a hill, and, apart from any other
considerations, the fire was as picturesque as could be desired. When
all was a black heap, licking itself here and there with tongues of
fire, there rushed up a farmer gasping anxiously, “Hez the bell fell
yit?” An ordinary fire was no more to him than that on his hearthstone;
even the burning of a meeting-house, in itself a vulcanic rarity, (so
long as he was of another parish,) could not tickle his outworn palate;
but he had hoped for a certain _tang_ in the downcome of the bell that
might recall the boyish flavor of conflagration. There was something
dramatic, no doubt, in this surprise of the brazen sentinel at his post,
but the breathless rustic has always seemed to us a type of the
prevailing delusion in æsthetics. Alas! if the bell must fall in every
stanza or every monthly number, how shall an author contrive to stir us
at last, unless with whole Moscows, crowned with the tintinnabulary
crash of the Kremlin? For ourselves, we are glad to feel that we are
still able to find contentment in the more conversational and domestic
tone of our old-fashioned wood-fire. No doubt a great part of our
pleasure in reading is unexpectedness, whether in turn of thought or of
phrase; but an emphasis out of place, an intensity of expression not
founded on sincerity of moral or intellectual conviction, reminds one of
the underscorings in young ladies’ letters, a wonder even to themselves
under the colder north-light of matronage. It is the part of the critic,
however, to keep cool under whatever circumstances, and to reckon that
the excesses of an author will be at first more attractive to the many
than that average power which shall win him attention with a new
generation of men. It is seldom found out by the majority, till after a
considerable interval, that he was the original man who contrived to be
simply natural,--the hardest lesson in the school of art and the latest
learned, if, indeed, it be a thing capable of acquisition at all. The
most winsome and wayward of brooks draws now and then some lover’s foot
to its intimate reserve, while the spirt of a bursting water-pipe
gathers a gaping crowd forthwith.

Mr. Carlyle is an author who has now been so long before the world, that
we may feel toward him something of the unprejudice of posterity. It has
long been evident that he had no more ideas to bestow upon us, and that
no new turn of his kaleidoscope would give us anything but some
variation of arrangement in the brilliant colors of his style. It is
perhaps possible, then, to arrive at some not wholly inadequate estimate
of his place as a writer, and especially of the value of the ideas whose
advocate he makes himself, with a bitterness and violence that increase,
as it seems to us, in proportion as his inward conviction of their truth
diminishes.

The leading characteristics of an author who is in any sense original,
that is to say, who does not merely reproduce, but modifies the
influence of tradition, culture, and contemporary thought upon himself
by some admixture of his own, may commonly be traced more or less
clearly in his earliest works. This is more strictly true, no doubt, of
poets, because the imagination is a fixed quantity, not to be increased
by any amount of study and reflection. Skill, wisdom, and even wit are
cumulative; but that diviner faculty, which is the spiritual eye, though
it may be trained and sharpened, cannot be added to by taking thought.
This has always been something innate, unaccountable, to be laid to a
happy conjunction of the stars. Goethe, the last of the _great_ poets,
accordingly takes pains to tell us under what planets he was born; and
in him it is curious how uniform the imaginative quality is from the
beginning to the end of his long literary activity. His early poems show
maturity, his mature ones a youthful freshness. The apple already lies
potentially in the blossom, as that may be traced also in the ripened
fruit. With a mere change of emphasis, Goethe might be called an old boy
at both ends of his career.

In the earliest authorship of Mr. Carlyle we find some not obscure hints
of the future man. Nearly fifty years ago he contributed a few literary
and critical articles to the Edinburgh Encyclopædia. The outward fashion
of them is that of the period; but they are distinguished by a certain
security of judgment remarkable at any time, remarkable especially in
one so young. British criticism has been always more or less parochial;
has never, indeed, quite freed itself from sectarian cant, and planted
itself honestly on the æsthetic point of view. It cannot quite persuade
itself that truth is of immortal essence, totally independent of all
assistance from quarterly journals or the British army and navy.
Carlyle, in these first essays, already shows the influence of his
master, Goethe, the most widely receptive of critics. In a compact
notice of Montaigne, there is not a word as to his religious scepticism.
The character is looked at purely from its human and literary sides. As
illustrating the bent of the author’s mind, the following passage is
most to our purpose: “A modern reader will not easily cavil at the
patient and good-natured, though exuberant egotism which brings back to
our view ‘the form and pressure’ of a time long past. _The habits and
humors, the mode of acting and thinking, which characterized a Gascon
gentleman in the sixteenth century, cannot fail to amuse an inquirer of
the nineteenth; while the faithful delineation of human feelings, in all
their strength and weakness, will serve as a mirror to every mind
capable of self-examination._” We find here no uncertain indication of
that eye for the moral picturesque, and that sympathetic appreciation of
character, which within the next few years were to make Carlyle the
first in insight of English critics and the most vivid of English
historians. In all his earlier writing he never loses sight of his
master’s great rule, _Den Gegenstand fest zu halten_. He accordingly
gave to Englishmen the first humanly possible likeness of Voltaire,
Diderot, Mirabeau, and others, who had hitherto been measured by the
usual British standard of their respect for the geognosy of Moses and
the historic credibility of the Books of Chronicles. What was the real
meaning of this phenomenon? what the amount of this man’s honest
performance in the world? and in what does he show that family-likeness,
common to all the sons of Adam, which gives us a fair hope of being able
to comprehend him? These were the questions which Carlyle seems to have
set himself honestly to answer in the critical writings which fill the
first period of his life as a man of letters. In this mood he rescued
poor Boswell from the unmerited obloquy of an ungrateful generation, and
taught us to see something half-comically beautiful in the poor, weak
creature, with his pathetic instinct of reverence for what was nobler,
wiser, and stronger than himself. Everything that Mr. Carlyle wrote
during this first period thrills with the purest appreciation of
whatever is brave and beautiful in human nature, with the most vehement
scorn of cowardly compromise with things base; and yet, immitigable as
his demand for the highest in us seems to be, there is always something
reassuring in the humorous sympathy with mortal frailty which softens
condemnation and consoles for shortcoming. The remarkable feature of Mr.
Carlyle’s criticism (see, for example, his analysis and exposition of
Goethe’s “Helena”) is the sleuth-hound instinct with which he presses on
to the _matter_ of his theme,--never turned aside by a false scent,
regardless of the outward beauty of form, sometimes almost contemptuous
of it, in his hunger after the intellectual nourishment which it may
hide. The delicate skeleton of admirably articulated and related parts
which underlies and sustains every true work of art, and keeps it from
sinking on itself a shapeless heap, he would crush remorselessly to come
at the marrow of meaning. With him the ideal sense is secondary to the
ethical and metaphysical, and he has but a faint conception of their
possible unity.

By degrees the humorous element in his nature gains ground, till it
overmasters all the rest. Becoming always more boisterous and obtrusive,
it ends at last, as such humor must, in cynicism. In “Sartor Resartus”
it is still kindly, still infused with sentiment; and the book, with its
mixture of indignation and farce, strikes one as might the prophecies of
Jeremiah, if the marginal comments of the Rev. Mr. Sterne in his wildest
mood had by some accident been incorporated with the text. In “Sartor”
the marked influence of Jean Paul is undeniable, both in matter and
manner. It is curious for one who studies the action and reaction of
national literatures on each other, to see the humor of Swift and Sterne
and Fielding, after filtering through Richter, reappear in Carlyle with
a tinge of Germanism that makes it novel, alien, or even displeasing, as
the case may be, to the English mind. Unhappily the bit of _mother_ from
Swift’s vinegar-barrel has had strength enough to sour all the rest. The
whimsicality of “Tristram Shandy,” which, even in the original, has too
often the effect of forethought, becomes a deliberate artifice in
Richter, and at last a mere mannerism in Carlyle.

Mr. Carlyle in his critical essays had the advantage of a well-defined
theme, and of limits both in the subject and in the space allowed for
its treatment, which kept his natural extravagance within bounds, and
compelled some sort of discretion and compactness. The great merit of
these essays lay in a criticism based on wide and various study, which,
careless of tradition, applied its standard to the real and not the
contemporary worth of the literary or other performance to be judged,
and in an unerring eye for that fleeting expression of the moral
features of character, a perception of which alone makes the drawing of
a coherent likeness possible. Their defect was a tendency, gaining
strength with years, to confound the moral with the æsthetic standard,
and to make the value of an author’s work dependent on the general force
of his nature rather than on its special fitness for a given task. In
proportion as his humor gradually overbalanced the other qualities of
his mind, his taste for the eccentric, amorphous, and violent in men
became excessive, disturbing more and more his perception of the more
commonplace attributes which give consistency to portraiture. His
“French Revolution” is a series of lurid pictures, unmatched for
vehement power, in which the figures of such sons of earth as Mirabeau
and Danton loom gigantic and terrible as in the glare of an eruption,
their shadows swaying far and wide grotesquely awful. But all is painted
by eruption-flashes in violent light and shade. There are no half-tints,
no gradations, and we find it impossible to account for the continuance
in power of less Titanic actors in the tragedy like Robespierre, on any
theory whether of human nature or of individual character supplied by
Mr. Carlyle. Of his success, however, in accomplishing what he aimed at,
which was to haunt the mind with memories of a horrible political
nightmare, there can be no doubt.

Goethe says, apparently thinking of Richter, “The worthy Germans have
persuaded themselves that the essence of true humor is formlessness.”
Heine had not yet shown that a German might combine the most airy humor
with a sense of form as delicate as Goethe’s own, and that there was no
need to borrow the bow of Philoctetes for all kinds of game. Mr.
Carlyle’s own tendency was toward the lawless, and the attraction of
Jean Paul made it an overmastering one. Goethe, we think, might have
gone farther, and affirmed that nothing but the highest artistic sense
can prevent humor from degenerating into the grotesque, and thence
downwards to utter anarchy. Rabelais is a striking example of it. The
moral purpose of his book cannot give it that unity which the instinct
and forethought of art only can bring forth. Perhaps we owe the
masterpiece of humorous literature to the fact that Cervantes had been
trained to authorship in a school where form predominated over
substance, and the most convincing proof of the supremacy of art at the
highest period of Greek literature is to be found in Aristophanes. Mr.
Carlyle has no artistic sense of form or rhythm, scarcely of proportion.
Accordingly he looks on verse with contempt as something barbarous,--a
savage ornament which a higher refinement will abolish, as it has
tattooing and nose-rings. With a conceptive imagination vigorous beyond
any in his generation, with a mastery of language equalled only by the
greatest poets, he wants altogether the plastic imagination, the shaping
faculty, which would have made him a poet in the highest sense. He is a
preacher and a prophet,--anything you will,--but an artist he is not,
and never can be. It is always the knots and gnarls of the oak that he
admires, never the perfect and balanced tree.

It is certainly more agreeable to be grateful for what we owe an author,
than to blame him for what he cannot give us. But it is sometimes the
business of a critic to trace faults of style and of thought to their
root in character and temperament,--to show their necessary relation to,
and dependence on, each other,--and to find some more trustworthy
explanation than mere wantonness of will for the moral obliquities of a
man so largely moulded and gifted as Mr. Carlyle. So long as he was
merely an exhorter or dehorter, we were thankful for such eloquence,
such humor, such vivid or grotesque images, and such splendor of
illustration as only he could give; but when he assumes to be a teacher
of moral and political philosophy, when he himself takes to compounding
the social panaceas he has made us laugh at so often, and advertises
none as genuine but his own, we begin to inquire into his qualifications
and his defects, and to ask ourselves whether his patent pill differs
from others except in the larger amount of aloes, or has any better
recommendation than the superior advertising powers of a mountebank of
genius. Comparative criticism teaches us that moral and æsthetic defects
are more nearly related than is commonly supposed. Had Mr. Carlyle been
fitted out completely by nature as an artist, he would have had an ideal
in his work which would have lifted his mind away from the muddier part
of him, and trained him to the habit of seeking and seeing the harmony
rather than the discord and contradiction of things. His innate love of
the picturesque, (which is only another form of the sentimentalism he so
scoffs at, perhaps as feeling it a weakness in himself,) once turned in
the direction of character, and finding its chief satisfaction there,
led him to look for that ideal of human nature in individual men which
is but fragmentarily represented in the entire race, and is rather
divined from the aspiration, forever disenchanted to be forever renewed,
of the immortal part in us, than found in any example of actual
achievement. A wiser temper would have found something more consoling
than disheartening in the continual failure of men eminently endowed to
reach the standard of this spiritual requirement, would perhaps have
found in it an inspiring hint that it is mankind, and not special men,
that are to be shaped at last into the image of God, and that the
endless life of the generations may hope to come nearer that goal of
which the short-breathed threescore years and ten fall too unhappily
short.

But Mr. Carlyle has invented the Hero-cure, and all who recommend any
other method, or see any hope of healing elsewhere, are either quacks
and charlatans or their victims. His lively imagination conjures up the
image of an impossible he, as contradictorily endowed as the chief
personage in a modern sentimental novel, and who, at all hazards, must
not lead mankind like a shepherd, but bark, bite, and otherwise worry
them toward the fold like a truculent sheep-dog. If Mr. Carlyle would
only now and then recollect that men are men, and not sheep,--nay, that
the farther they are from being such, the more well grounded our hope of
one day making something better of them! It is indeed strange that one
who values Will so highly in the greatest, should be blind to its
infinite worth in the least of men; nay, that he should so often seem to
confound it with its irritable and purposeless counterfeit, Wilfulness.
The natural impatience of an imaginative temperament, which conceives so
vividly the beauty and desirableness of a nobler manhood and a diviner
political order, makes him fret at the slow moral processes by which the
All-Wise brings about his ends, and turns the very foolishness of men to
his praise and glory. Mr. Carlyle is for calling down fire from Heaven
whenever he cannot readily lay his hand on the match-box. No doubt it is
somewhat provoking that it should be so easy to build castles in the
air, and so hard to find tenants for them. It is a singular intellectual
phenomenon to see a man, who earlier in life so thoroughly appreciated
the innate weakness and futile tendency of the “storm and thrust” period
of German literature, constantly assimilating, as he grows older, more
and more nearly to its principles and practice. It is no longer the
sagacious and moderate Goethe who is his type of what is highest in
human nature, but far rather some Götz of the Iron Hand, some assertor
of the divine legitimacy of _Faustrecht_. It is odd to conceive the fate
of Mr. Carlyle under the sway of any of his heroes,--how Cromwell would
have scorned him as a babbler more long-winded than Prynne, but less
clear and practical,--how Friedrich would have scoffed at his tirades as
_dummes Zeug_ not to be compared with the romances of Crébillon _fils_,
or possibly have clapped him in a marching regiment as a fit subject for
the cane of the sergeant. Perhaps something of Mr. Carlyle’s
irritability is to be laid to the account of his early schoolmastership
at Ecclefechan. This great booby World is such a dull boy, and will not
learn the lesson we have taken such pains in expounding for the fiftieth
time. Well, then, if eloquence, if example, if the awful warning of
other little boys who neglected their accidence and came to the gallows,
if none of these avail, the birch at least is left, and we will try
that. The dominie spirit has become every year more obtrusive and
intolerant in Mr. Carlyle’s writing, and the rod, instead of being kept
in its place as a resource for desperate cases, has become the alpha and
omega of all successful training, the one divinely-appointed means of
human enlightenment and progress,--in short, the final hope of that
absurd animal who fancies himself a little lower than the angels. Have
we feebly taken it for granted that the distinction of man was reason?
Never was there a more fatal misconception. It is in the gift of
unreason that we are unenviably distinguished from the brutes, whose
nobler privilege of instinct saves them from our blunders and our
crimes.

But since Mr. Carlyle has become possessed with the hallucination that
he is head-master of this huge boys’ school which we call the world, his
pedagogic birch has grown to the taller proportions and more ominous
aspect of a gallows. His article on Dr. Francia was a panegyric of the
halter, in which the gratitude of mankind is invoked for the
self-appointed dictator who had discovered in Paraguay a tree more
beneficent than that which produced the Jesuits’ bark. Mr. Carlyle seems
to be in the condition of a man who uses stimulants, and must increase
his dose from day to day as the senses become dulled under the spur. He
began by admiring strength of character and purpose, and the manly
self-denial which makes a humble fortune great by steadfast loyalty to
duty. He has gone on till mere strength has become such washy weakness
that there is no longer any titillation in it; and nothing short of
downright violence will rouse his nerves now to the needed excitement.
At first he made out very well with remarkable men; then, lessening the
water and increasing the spirit, he took to Heroes: and now he must have
downright _in_humanity, or the draught has no savor;--so he gets on at
last to Kings, types of remorseless Force, who maintain the political
views of Berserkers by the legal principles of Lynch. Constitutional
monarchy is a failure, representative government is a gabble, democracy
a birth of the bottomless pit; there is no hope for mankind except in
getting themselves under a good driver who shall not spare the lash. And
yet, unhappily for us, these drivers are providential births not to be
contrived by any cunning of ours, and Friedrich II. is hitherto the last
of them. Meanwhile the world’s wheels have got fairly stalled in mire
and other matter of every vilest consistency and most disgustful smell.
What are we to do? Mr. Carlyle will not let us make a lever with a rail
from the next fence, or call in the neighbors. That would be too
commonplace and cowardly, too anarchical. No; he would have us sit down
beside him in the slough, and shout lustily for Hercules. If that
indispensable demigod will not or cannot come, we can find a useful and
instructive solace, during the intervals of shouting, in a hearty abuse
of human nature, which, at the long last, is always to blame.

Since “Sartor Resartus” Mr. Carlyle has done little but repeat himself
with increasing emphasis and heightened shrillness. Warning has steadily
heated toward denunciation, and remonstrance soured toward scolding. The
image of the Tartar prayer-mill, which he borrowed from Richter and
turned to such humorous purpose, might be applied to himself. The same
phrase comes round and round, only the machine, being a little crankier,
rattles more, and the performer is called on for a more visible
exertion. If there be not something very like cant in Mr. Carlyle’s
later writings, then cant is not the repetition of a creed after it has
become a phrase by the cooling of that white-hot conviction which once
made it both the light and warmth of the soul. We do not mean
intentional and deliberate cant, but neither is that which Mr. Carlyle
denounces so energetically in his fellow-men of that conscious kind. We
do not mean to blame him for it, but mention it rather as an interesting
phenomenon of human nature. The stock of ideas which mankind has to work
with is very limited, like the alphabet, and can at best have an air of
freshness given it by new arrangements and combinations, or by
application to new times and circumstances. Montaigne is but
Ecclesiastes writing in the sixteenth century, Voltaire but Lucian in
the eighteenth. Yet both are original, and so certainly is Mr. Carlyle,
whose borrowing is mainly from his own former works. But he does this so
often and so openly, that we may at least be sure that he ceased
growing a number of years ago, and is a remarkable example of arrested
development.

The cynicism, however, which has now become the prevailing temper of his
mind, has gone on expanding with unhappy vigor. In Mr. Carlyle it is
not, certainly, as in Swift, the result of personal disappointment, and
of the fatal eye of an accomplice for the mean qualities by which power
could be attained that it might be used for purposes as mean. It seems
rather the natural corruption of his exuberant humor. Humor in its first
analysis is a perception of the incongruous, and in its highest
development, of the incongruity between the actual and the ideal in men
and life. With so keen a sense of the ludicrous contrast between what
men might be, nay, wish to be, and what they are, and with a vehement
nature that demands the instant realization of his vision of a world
altogether heroic, it is no wonder that Mr. Carlyle, always hoping for a
thing and always disappointed, should become bitter. Perhaps if he
expected less he would find more. Saul seeking his father’s asses found
himself turned suddenly into a king; but Mr. Carlyle, on the lookout for
a king, always seems to find the other sort of animal. He sees nothing
on any side of him but a procession of the Lord of Misrule, in gloomier
moments, a Dance of Death, where everything is either a parody of
whatever is noble, or an aimless jig that stumbles at last into the
annihilation of the grave, and so passes from one nothing to another. Is
a world, then, which buys and reads Mr. Carlyle’s works distinguished
only for its “fair, large ears”? If he who has read and remembered so
much would only now and then call to mind the old proverb, _Nec deus,
nec lupus, sed homo_! If he would only recollect that, from the days of
the first grandfather, everybody has remembered a golden age behind
him!

The very qualities, it seems to us, which came so near making a great
poet of Mr. Carlyle, disqualify him for the office of historian. The
poet’s concern is with the appearances of things, with their harmony in
that whole which the imagination demands for its satisfaction, and their
truth to that ideal nature which is the proper object of poetry.
History, unfortunately, is very far from being ideal, still farther from
an exclusive interest in those heroic or typical figures which answer
all the wants of the epic and the drama and fill their utmost artistic
limits. Mr. Carlyle has an unequalled power and vividness in painting
detached scenes, in bringing out in their full relief the oddities or
peculiarities of character; but he has a far feebler sense of those
gradual changes of opinion, that strange communication of sympathy from
mind to mind, that subtile influence of very subordinate actors in
giving a direction to policy or action, which we are wont somewhat
vaguely to call the progress of events. His scheme of history is purely
an epical one, where only leading figures appear by name and are in any
strict sense operative. He has no conception of the people as anything
else than an element of mere brute force in political problems, and
would sniff scornfully at that unpicturesque common-sense of the many,
which comes slowly to its conclusions, no doubt, but compels obedience
even from rulers the most despotic when once its mind is made up. His
history of Frederick is, of course, a Fritziad; but next to his hero,
the cane of the drill-sergeant and iron ramrods appear to be the
conditions which to his mind satisfactorily account for the result of
the Seven Years War. It is our opinion, which subsequent events seem to
justify, that, had there not been in the Prussian people a strong
instinct of nationality, Protestant nationality too, and an intimate
conviction of its advantages, the war might have ended quite otherwise.
Frederick II. left the machine of war which he received from his father
even more perfect than he found it, yet within a few years of his death
it went to pieces before the shock of French armies animated by an idea.
Again a few years, and the Prussian soldiery, inspired once more by the
old national fervor, were victorious. Were it not for the purely
picturesque bias of Mr. Carlyle’s genius, for the necessity which his
epical treatment lays upon him of always having a protagonist, we should
be astonished that an idealist like him should have so little faith in
ideas and so much in matter.

Mr. Carlyle’s manner is not so well suited to the historian as to the
essayist. He is always great in single figures and striking episodes,
but there is neither gradation nor continuity. He has extraordinary
patience and conscientiousness in the gathering and sifting of his
material, but is scornful of commonplace facts and characters, impatient
of whatever will not serve for one of his clever sketches, or group well
in a more elaborate figure-piece. He sees history, as it were, by
flashes of lightning. A single scene, whether a landscape or an
interior, a single figure or a wild mob of men, whatever may be snatched
by the eye in that instant of intense illumination, is minutely
photographed upon the memory. Every tree and stone, almost every blade
of grass; every article of furniture in a room; the attitude or
expression, nay, the very buttons and shoe-ties of a principal figure;
the gestures of momentary passion in a wild throng,--everything leaps
into vision under that sudden glare with a painful distinctness that
leaves the retina quivering. The intervals are absolute darkness. Mr.
Carlyle makes us acquainted with the isolated spot where we happen to be
when the flash comes, as if by actual eyesight, but there is no
possibility of a comprehensive view. No other writer compares with him
for vividness. He is himself a witness, and makes us witnesses of
whatever he describes. This is genius beyond a question, and of a very
rare quality, but it is not history. He has not the cold-blooded
impartiality of the historian and while he entertains us, moves us to
tears or laughter, makes us the unconscious captives of his
ever-changeful mood, we find that he has taught us comparatively little.
His imagination is so powerful that it makes him the contemporary of his
characters, and thus his history seems to be the memoirs of a cynical
humorist, with hearty likes and dislikes, with something of acridity in
his partialities whether for or against, more keenly sensitive to the
grotesque than the simply natural, and who enters in his diary, even of
what comes within the range of his own observation, only so much as
amuses his fancy, is congenial with his humor, or feeds his prejudice.
Mr. Carlyle’s method is accordingly altogether pictorial, his hasty
temper making narrative wearisome to him. In his Friedrich, for example,
we get very little notion of the civil administration of Prussia; and
when he comes, in the last volume, to his hero’s dealings with civil
reforms, he confesses candidly that it would tire him too much to tell
us about it, even if he knew anything at all satisfactory himself.

Mr. Carlyle’s historical compositions are wonderful prose poems, full of
picture, incident, humor, and character, where we grow familiar with his
conception of certain leading personages, and even of subordinate ones,
if they are necessary to the scene, so that they come out living upon
the stage from the dreary limbo of names; but this is no more history
than the historical plays of Shakespeare. There is nothing in
imaginative literature superior in its own way to the episode of
Voltaire in the Fritziad. It is delicious in humor, masterly in minute
characterization. We feel as if the principal victim (for we cannot
help feeling all the while that he is so) of this mischievous genius had
been put upon the theatre before us by some perfect mimic like Foote,
who had studied his habitual gait, gestures, tones, turn of thought,
costume, trick of feature, and rendered them with the slight dash of
caricature needful to make the whole composition tell. It is in such
things that Mr. Carlyle is beyond all rivalry, and that we must go back
to Shakespeare for a comparison. But the mastery of Shakespeare is shown
perhaps more strikingly in his treatment of the ordinary than of the
exceptional. His is the gracious equality of Nature herself. Mr.
Carlyle’s gift is rather in the representation than in the evolution of
character; and it is a necessity of his art, therefore, to exaggerate
slightly his heroic, and to caricature in like manner his comic parts.
His appreciation is less psychological than physical and external. Grimm
relates that Garrick, riding once with Préville, proposed to him that
they should counterfeit drunkenness. They rode through Passy
accordingly, deceiving all who saw them. When beyond the town Préville
asked how he had succeeded. “Excellently,” said Garrick, “as to your
body; but your legs were not tipsy.” Mr. Carlyle would be as exact in
his observation of nature as the great actor, and would make us _see_ a
drunken man as well; but we doubt whether he could have conceived that
unmatchable scene in Antony and Cleopatra, where the tipsiness of
Lepidus pervades the whole metaphysical no less than the physical part
of the triumvir. If his sympathies bore any proportion to his instinct
for catching those traits which are the expression of character, but not
character itself, we might have had a great historian in him instead of
a history-painter. But that which is a main element in Mr. Carlyle’s
talent, and does perhaps more than anything else to make it effective,
is a defect of his nature. The cynicism, which renders him so
entertaining precludes him from any just conception of men and their
motives, and from any sane estimate of the relative importance of the
events which concern them. We remember a picture of Hamon’s, where
before a Punch’s theatre are gathered the wisest of mankind in rapt
attention. Socrates sits on a front bench, absorbed in the spectacle,
and in the corner stands Dante making entries in his note-book. Mr.
Carlyle as an historian leaves us in somewhat such a mood. The world is
a puppet-show, and when we have watched the play out, we depart with a
half-comic consciousness of the futility of all human enterprise, and
the ludicrousness of all man’s action and passion on the stage of the
world. Simple, kindly, blundering Oliver Goldsmith was after all wiser,
and his Vicar, ideal as Hector and not less immortal, is a demonstration
of the perennial beauty and heroism of the homeliest human nature. The
cynical view is congenial to certain moods, and is so little
inconsistent with original nobleness of mind, that it is not seldom the
acetous fermentation of it; but it is the view of the satirist, not of
the historian, and takes in but a narrow arc in the circumference of
truth. Cynicism in itself is essentially disagreeable. It is the
intellectual analogue of the truffle; and though it may be very well in
giving a relish to thought for certain palates, it cannot supply the
substance of it. Mr. Carlyle’s cynicism is not that polished weariness
of the outsides of life which we find in Ecclesiastes. It goes much
deeper than that to the satisfactions, not of the body or the intellect,
but of the very soul itself. It vaunts itself; it is noisy and
aggressive. What the wise master puts into the mouth of desperate
ambition, thwarted of the fruit of its crime, as the fitting expression
of passionate sophistry, seems to have become an article of his creed.
With him

                          “Life _is_ a tale
    Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
    Signifying nothing.”

He goes about with his Diogenes dark-lantern, professing to seek a man,
but inwardly resolved to find a monkey. He loves to flash it suddenly on
poor human nature in some ridiculous or degrading posture. He admires
still, or keeps affirming that he admires, the doughty, silent,
hard-working men who, like Cromwell, go honestly about their business;
but when we come to his later examples, we find that it is not loyalty
to duty or to an inward ideal of high-mindedness that he finds admirable
in them, but a blind unquestioning vassalage to whomsoever it has
pleased him to set up for a hero. He would fain replace the old
feudalism with a spiritual counterpart, in which there shall be an
obligation to soul-service. He who once popularized the word _flunkey_
by ringing the vehement changes of his scorn upon it, is at last forced
to conceive an ideal flunkeyism to squire the hectoring Don Belianises
of his fancy about the world. Failing this, his latest theory of Divine
government seems to be the cudgel. Poets have sung all manner of
vegetable loves; Petrarch has celebrated the laurel, Chaucer the daisy,
and Wordsworth the gallows-tree; it remained for the ex-pedagogue of
Ecclefechan to become the volunteer laureate of the rod, and to imagine
a world created and directed by a divine Dr. Busby. We cannot help
thinking that Mr. Carlyle might have learned something to his advantage
by living a few years in the democracy which he scoffs at as heartily _a
priori_ as if it were the demagogism which Aristophanes derided from
experience. The Hero, as Mr. Carlyle understands him, was a makeshift of
the past; and the ideal of manhood is to be found hereafter in free
communities, where the state shall at length sum up and exemplify in
itself all those qualities which poets were forced to imagine and
typify because they could not find them in the actual world.

In the earlier part of his literary career, Mr. Carlyle was the
denouncer of shams, the preacher up of sincerity, manliness, and of a
living faith, instead of a droning ritual. He had intense convictions,
and he made disciples. With a compass of diction unequalled by any other
public performer of the time, ranging as it did from the unbooked
freshness of the Scottish peasant to the most far-sought phrase of
literary curiosity, with humor, pathos, and eloquence at will, it was no
wonder that he found eager listeners in a world longing for a sensation,
and forced to put up with the West-End gospel of “Pelham.” If not a
profound thinker, he had what was next best,--he felt profoundly, and
his cry came out of the depths. The stern Calvinism of his early
training was rekindled by his imagination to the old fervor of Wishart
and Brown, and became a new phenomenon as he reproduced it subtilized by
German transcendentalism and German culture. Imagination, if it lays
hold of a Scotchman, possesses him in the old demoniac sense of the
word, and that hard logical nature, if the Hebrew fire once gets fair
headway in it, burns unquenchable as an anthracite coal-mine. But to
utilize these sacred heats, to employ them, as a literary man is always
tempted, to keep the domestic pot a-boiling,--is such a thing possible?
Only too possible, we fear; and Mr. Carlyle is an example of it. If the
languid public long for a sensation, the excitement of making one
becomes also a necessity of the successful author, as the intellectual
nerves grow duller and the old inspiration that came unbidden to the
bare garret grows shier and shier of the comfortable parlor. As he
himself said thirty years ago of Edward Irving, “Unconsciously, for the
most part in deep unconsciousness, there was now the impossibility to
live neglected,--to walk on the quiet paths where alone it is well with
us. Singularity must henceforth succeed singularity. O foulest Circean
draught, thou poison of Popular Applause! madness is in thee and death;
thy end is Bedlam and the grave.” Mr. Carlyle won his first successes as
a kind of preacher in print. His fervor, his oddity of manner, his
pugnacious paradox, drew the crowd; the truth, or, at any rate, the
faith that underlay them all, brought also the fitter audience, though
fewer. But the curse was upon him; he must attract, he must astonish.
Thenceforth he has done nothing but revamp his telling things; but the
oddity has become always odder, the paradoxes more paradoxical. No very
large share of truth falls to the apprehension of any one man; let him
keep it sacred, and beware of repeating it till it turn to falsehood on
his lips by becoming ritual. Truth always has a bewitching savor of
newness in it, and novelty at the first taste recalls that original
sweetness to the tongue; but alas for him who would make the one a
substitute for the other! We seem to miss of late in Mr. Carlyle the old
sincerity. He has become the purely literary man, less concerned about
what he says than about how he shall say it to best advantage. The Muse
should be the companion, not the guide, says he whom Mr. Carlyle has
pronounced “the wisest of this generation.” What would be a virtue in
the poet is a vice of the most fatal kind in the teacher, and, alas that
we should say it! the very Draco of shams, whose code contained no
penalty milder than capital for the most harmless of them, has become at
last something very like a sham himself. Mr. Carlyle continues to be a
voice crying in the wilderness, but no longer a voice with any earnest
conviction behind it. Hearing him rebuke us for being humbugs and
impostors, we are inclined to answer, with the ambassador of Philip II.,
when his master reproached him with forgetting substance in ceremony,
“Your Majesty forgets that you are only a ceremony yourself.” And Mr.
Carlyle’s teaching, moreover,--if teaching we may call it,--belongs to
what the great German, whose disciple he is, condemned as the
“literature of despair.” An apostle to the gentiles might hope for some
fruit of his preaching; but of what avail an apostle who shouts his
message down the mouth of the pit to poor lost souls, whom he can
positively assure only that it is impossible to get out? Mr. Carlyle
lights up the lanterns of his Pharos after the ship is already rolling
between the tongue of the sea and the grinders of the reef. It is very
brilliant, and its revolving flashes touch the crests of the breakers
with an awful picturesqueness; but in so desperate a state of things,
even Dr. Syntax might be pardoned for being forgetful of the
picturesque. The Toryism of Scott sprang from love of the past; that of
Carlyle is far more dangerously infectious, for it is logically deduced
from a deep disdain of human nature.

Browning has drawn a beautiful picture of an old king sitting at the
gate of his palace to judge his people in the calm sunshine of that past
which never existed outside a poet’s brain. It is the sweetest of waking
dreams, this of absolute power and perfect wisdom in one supreme ruler;
but it is as pure a creation of human want and weakness, as clear a
witness of mortal limitation and incompleteness, as the shoes of
swiftness, the cloak of darkness, the purse of Fortunatus, and the
_elixir vitæ_. It is the natural refuge of imaginative temperaments
impatient of our blunders and shortcomings, and, given a complete man,
all would submit to the divine right of his despotism. But alas! to
every the most fortunate human birth hobbles up that malign fairy who
has been forgotten, with her fatal gift of imperfection! So far as our
experience has gone, it has been the very opposite of Mr. Carlyle’s.
Instead of finding men disloyal to their natural leader, nothing has
ever seemed to us so touching as the gladness with which they follow
him, when they are sure they have found him at last. But a natural
leader of the ideal type is not to be looked for _nisi dignus vindice
nodus_. The Divine Forethought had been cruel in furnishing one for
every petty occasion, and thus thwarting in all inferior men that
priceless gift of reason, to develop which, and to make it one with
free-will, is the highest use of our experience on earth. Mr. Carlyle
was hard bestead and very far gone in his idolatry of mere _pluck_, when
he was driven to choose Friedrich as a hero. A poet--and Mr. Carlyle is
nothing else--is unwise who yokes Pegasus to a prosaic theme which no
force of wing can lift from the dull earth. Charlemagne would have been
a wiser choice, far enough in the past for ideal treatment, more
manifestly the Siegfried of Anarchy, and in his rude way the refounder
of that empire which is the ideal of despotism in the Western world.

Friedrich was doubtless a remarkable man, but surely very far below any
lofty standard of heroic greatness. He was the last of the European
kings who could look upon his kingdom as his private patrimony; and it
was this estate of his, this piece of property, which he so obstinately
and successfully defended. He had no idea of country as it was
understood by an ancient Greek or Roman, as it is understood by a modern
Englishman or American; and there is something almost pitiful in seeing
a man of genius like Mr. Carlyle fighting painfully over again those
battles of the last century which settled nothing but the continuance of
the Prussian monarchy, while he saw only the “burning of a dirty
chimney” in the war which a great people was waging under his very eyes
for the idea of nationality and orderly magistrature, and which fixed,
let us hope forever, a boundary-line on the map of history and man’s
advancement toward self-conscious and responsible freedom. The true
historical genius, to our thinking, is that which can see the nobler
meaning of events that are near him, as the true poet is he who detects
the divine in the casual; and we somewhat suspect the depth of his
insight into the past, who cannot recognize the godlike of to-day under
that disguise in which it always visits us. Shall we hint to Mr. Carlyle
that a man may look on an heroic age, as well as an heroic master, with
the eyes of a valet, as misappreciative certainly, though not so
ignoble?

What Goethe says of a great poet, that he must be a citizen of his age
as well as of his country, may be said inversely of a great king. He
should be a citizen of his country as well as of his age. Friedrich was
certainly the latter in its fullest sense; whether he was, or could have
been, the former, in any sense, may be doubted. The man who spoke and
wrote French in preference to his mother-tongue, who, dying when Goethe
was already drawing toward his fortieth year, Schiller toward his
thirtieth, and Lessing had been already five years in his grave, could
yet see nothing but barbarism in German literature, had little of the
old Teutonic fibre in his nature. The man who pronounced the Nibelungen
Lied not worth a pinch of priming, had little conception of the power of
heroic traditions in making heroic men, and especially in strengthening
that instinct made up of so many indistinguishable associations which we
call love of country. Charlemagne, when he caused the old songs of his
people to be gathered and written down, showed a truer sense of the
sources of national feeling and a deeper political insight. This want
of sympathy points to the somewhat narrow limits of Friedrich’s nature.
In spite of Mr. Carlyle’s adroit statement of the case, and the whole
book has an air of being the plea of a masterly advocate in mitigation
of sentence, we feel that his hero was essentially hard, narrow, and
selfish. His popularity will go for little with any one who has studied
the trifling and often fabulous elements that make up that singular
compound. A bluntness of speech, a shabby uniform, a frugal camp
equipage, a timely familiarity, may make a man the favorite of an army
or a nation,--above all, if he have the knack of success. Moreover,
popularity is much more easily won from above downward, and is bought at
a better bargain by kings and generals than by other men. We doubt if
Friedrich would have been liked as a private person, or even as an
unsuccessful king. He apparently attached very few people to himself,
fewer even than his brutal old Squire Western of a father. His sister
Wilhelmina is perhaps an exception. We say perhaps, for we do not know
how much the heroic part he was called on to play had to do with the
matter, and whether sisterly pride did not pass even with herself for
sisterly affection. Moreover she was far from him; and Mr. Carlyle waves
aside, in his generous fashion, some rather keen comments of hers on her
brother’s character when she visited Berlin after he had become king.
Indeed, he is apt to deal rather contemptuously with all adverse
criticism of his hero. We sympathize with his impulse in this respect,
agreeing heartily as we do in Chaucer’s scorn of those who “_gladlie_
demen to the baser end” in such matters. But we are not quite sure if
this be a safe method with the historian. He must doubtless be the
friend of his hero if he would understand him, but he must be more the
friend of truth if he would understand history. Mr. Carlyle’s passion
for truth is intense, as befits his temper, but it is that of a lover
for his mistress. He would have her all to himself, and has a lover’s
conviction that no one is able, or even fit, to appreciate her but
himself. He does well to despise the tittle-tattle of vulgar minds, but
surely should not ignore _all_ testimony on the other side. For
ourselves, we think it not unimportant that Goethe’s friend Knebel, a
man not incapable of admiration, and who had served a dozen years or so
as an officer of Friedrich’s guard, should have bluntly called him “the
tyrant.”

Mr. Carlyle’s history traces the family of his hero down from its
beginnings in the picturesque chiaro-scuro of the Middle Ages. It was an
able and above all a _canny_ house, a Scotch version of the word _able_,
which implies thrift and an eye to the main chance, the said main chance
or chief end of man being altogether of this world. Friedrich,
inheriting this family faculty in full measure, was driven, partly by
ambition, partly by necessity, to apply it to war. He did so, with the
success to be expected where a man of many expedients has the good luck
to be opposed by men with few. He adds another to the many proofs that
it is possible to be a great general without a spark of that divine fire
which we call genius, and that good fortune in war results from the same
prompt talent and unbending temper which lead to the same result in the
peaceful professions. Friedrich had certainly more of the temperament of
genius than Marlborough or Wellington; but not to go beyond modern
instances, he does not impress us with the massive breadth of Napoleon,
nor attract us with the climbing ardor of Turenne. To compare him with
Alexander or Cæsar were absurd. The kingship that was in him, and which
won Mr. Carlyle to be his biographer, is that of will merely, of rapid
and relentless command. For organization he had a masterly talent; but
he could not apply it to the arts of peace, both because he wanted
experience and because the rash decision of the battle-field will not
serve in matters which are governed by natural laws of growth. He seems,
indeed, to have had a coarse, soldier’s contempt for all civil
distinction, altogether unworthy of a wise king, or even of a prudent
one. He confers the title of Hofrath on the husband of a woman with whom
his General Walrave is living in what Mr. Carlyle justly calls “brutish
polygamy,” and this at Walrave’s request, on the ground that “a
general’s drab ought to have a handle to her name.” Mr. Carlyle murmurs
in a mild parenthesis that “we rather regret this”! (Vol. III. p. 559.)
This is his usual way of treating unpleasant matters, sidling by with a
deprecating shrug of the shoulders. Not that he ever wilfully suppresses
anything. On the contrary, there is no greater proof of his genius than
the way in which, while he seems to paint a character with all its
disagreeable traits, he contrives to win our sympathy for it, nay,
almost our liking. This is conspicuously true of his portrait of
Friedrich’s father; and that he does not succeed in making Friedrich
himself attractive is a strong argument with us that the fault is in the
subject and not the artist.

The book, we believe, has been comparatively unsuccessful as a literary
venture. Nor do we wonder at it. It is disproportionately long, and too
much made up of those descriptions of battles to read which seems even
more difficult than to have won the victory itself, more disheartening
than to have suffered the defeat. To an American, also, the warfare
seemed Liliputian in the presence of a conflict so much larger in its
proportions and significant in its results. The interest, moreover,
flags decidedly toward the close, where the reader cannot help feeling
that the author loses breath somewhat painfully under the effort of so
prolonged a course. Mr. Carlyle has evidently devoted to his task a
labor that may be justly called prodigious. Not only has he sifted all
the German histories and memoirs, but has visited every battle-field,
and describes them with an eye for country that is without rival among
historians. The book is evidently an abridgment of even more abundant
collections, and yet as it stands the matter overburdens the work. It is
a bundle of lively episodes rather than a continuous narrative. In this
respect it contrasts oddly with the concinnity of his own earlier Life
of Schiller. But the episodes _are_ lively, the humor and pathos spring
from a profound nature, the sketches of character are masterly, the
seizure of every picturesque incident infallible, and the literary
judgments those of a thorough scholar and critic. There is, of course,
the usual amusing objurgation of Dryasdust and his rubbish-heaps, the
usual assumption of omniscience, and the usual certainty of the lively
French lady of being always in the right; yet we cannot help thinking
that a little of Dryasdust’s plodding exactness would have saved Fouquet
eleven years of the imprisonment to which Mr. Carlyle condemns him,
would have referred us to St. Simon rather than to Voltaire for the
character of the brothers Belle-Ile, and would have kept clear of a
certain ludicrous etymology of the name Antwerp, not to mention some
other trifling slips of the like nature. In conclusion, after saying, as
honest critics must, that “The History of Friedrich II. called Frederick
the Great” is a book to be read in with more satisfaction than to be
read through, after declaring that it is open to all manner of
criticism, especially in point of moral purpose and tendency, we must
admit with thankfulness, that it has the one prime merit of being the
work of a man who has every quality of a great poet except that supreme
one of rhythm which shapes both matter and manner to harmonious
proportion, and that where it is good, it is good as only genius knows
how to be.

With the gift of song, Carlyle would have been the greatest of epic
poets since Homer. Without it, to modulate and harmonize and bring parts
into their proper relation, he is the most amorphous of humorists, the
most shining avatar of whim the world has ever seen. Beginning with a
hearty contempt for shams, he has come at length to believe in brute
force as the only reality, and as little sense of justice as Thackeray
allowed to women. We say _brute force_ because, though the theory is
that this force should be directed by the supreme intellect for the time
being, yet all inferior wits are treated rather as obstacles to be
contemptuously shoved aside than as ancillary forces to be conciliated
through their reason. But, with all deductions, he remains the
profoundest critic and the most dramatic imagination of modern times.
Never was there a more striking example of that _ingenium perfervidum_
long ago said to be characteristic of his countrymen. His is one of the
natures, rare in these latter centuries, capable of rising to a white
heat; but once fairly kindled, he is like a three-decker on fire, and
his shotted guns go off, as the glow reaches them, alike dangerous to
friend or foe. Though he seems more and more to confound material with
moral success, yet there is always something wholesome in his unswerving
loyalty to reality, as he understands it. History, in the true sense, he
does not and cannot write, for he looks on mankind as a herd without
volition, and without moral force; but such vivid pictures of events,
such living conceptions of character, we find nowhere else in prose. The
figures of most historians seem like dolls stuffed with bran, whose
whole substance runs out through any hole that criticism may tear in
them, but Carlyle’s are so real in comparison, that, if you prick them,
they bleed. He seems a little wearied, here and there, in his Friedrich,
with the multiplicity of detail, and does his filling-in rather
shabbily; but he still remains in his own way, like his hero, the Only,
and such episodes as that of Voltaire would make the fortune of any
other writer. Though not the safest of guides in politics or practical
philosophy, his value as an inspirer and awakener cannot be
over-estimated. It is a power which belongs only to the highest order of
minds, for it is none but a divine fire that can so kindle and
irradiate. The debt due him from those who listened to the teachings of
his prime for revealing to them what sublime reserves of power even the
humblest may find in manliness, sincerity, and self-reliance, can be
paid with nothing short of reverential gratitude. As a purifier of the
sources whence our intellectual inspiration is drawn, his influence has
been second only to that of Wordsworth, if even to his.




ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

1864.


There have been many painful crises since the impatient vanity of South
Carolina hurried ten prosperous Commonwealths into a crime whose assured
retribution was to leave them either at the mercy of the nation they had
wronged, or of the anarchy they had summoned but could not control, when
no thoughtful American opened his morning paper without dreading to find
that he had no longer a country to love and honor. Whatever the result
of the convulsion whose first shocks were beginning to be felt, there
would still be enough square miles of earth for elbow-room; but that
ineffable sentiment made up of memory and hope, of instinct and
tradition, which swells every man’s heart and shapes his thought, though
perhaps never present to his consciousness, would be gone from it,
leaving it common earth and nothing more. Men might gather rich crops
from it, but that ideal harvest of priceless associations would be
reaped no longer; that fine virtue which sent up messages of courage and
security from every sod of it would have evaporated beyond recall. We
should be irrevocably cut off from our past, and be forced to splice the
ragged ends of our lives upon whatever new conditions chance might leave
dangling for us.

We confess that we had our doubts at first whether the patriotism of our
people were not too narrowly provincial to embrace the proportions of
national peril We felt an only too natural distrust of immense public
meetings and enthusiastic cheers.

That a reaction should follow the holiday enthusiasm with which the war
was entered-on, that it should follow soon, and that the slackening of
public spirit should be proportionate to the previous over-tension,
might well be foreseen by all who had studied human nature or history.
Men acting gregariously are always in extremes; as they are one moment
capable of higher courage, so they are liable, the next, to baser
depression, and it is often a matter of chance whether numbers shall
multiply confidence or discouragement. Nor does deception lead more
surely to distrust of men, than self-deception to suspicion of
principles. The only faith that wears well and holds its color in all
weathers is that which is woven of conviction and set with the sharp
mordant of experience. Enthusiasm is good material for the orator, but
the statesman needs something more durable to work in,--must be able to
rely on the deliberate reason and consequent firmness of the people,
without which that presence of mind, no less essential in times of moral
than of material peril, will be wanting at the critical moment. Would
this fervor of the Free States hold out? Was it kindled by a just
feeling of the value of constitutional liberty? Had it body enough to
withstand the inevitable dampening of checks, reverses, delays? Had our
population intelligence enough to comprehend that the choice was between
order and anarchy, between the equilibrium of a government by law and
the tussle of misrule by _pronunciamiento_? Could a war be maintained
without the ordinary stimulus of hatred and plunder, and with the
impersonal loyalty of principle? These were serious questions, and with
no precedent to aid in answering them.

At the beginning of the war there was, indeed, occasion for the most
anxious apprehension. A President known to be infected with the
political heresies, and suspected of sympathy with the treason, of the
Southern conspirators, had just surrendered the reins, we will not say
of power, but of chaos, to a successor known only as the representative
of a party whose leaders, with long training in opposition, had none in
the conduct of affairs; an empty treasury was called on to supply
resources beyond precedent in the history of finance; the trees were yet
growing and the iron unmined with which a navy was to be built and
armored; officers without discipline were to make a mob into an army;
and, above all, the public opinion of Europe, echoed and reinforced with
every vague hint and every specious argument of despondency by a
powerful faction at home, was either contemptuously sceptical or
actively hostile. It would be hard to over-estimate the force of this
latter element of disintegration and discouragement among a people where
every citizen at home, and every soldier in the field, is a reader of
newspapers. The pedlers of rumor in the North were the most effective
allies of the rebellion. A nation can be liable to no more insidious
treachery than that of the telegraph, sending hourly its electric thrill
of panic along the remotest nerves of the community, till the excited
imagination makes every real danger loom heightened with its unreal
double.

And even if we look only at more palpable difficulties, the problem to
be solved by our civil war was so vast, both in its immediate relations
and its future consequences; the conditions of its solution were so
intricate and so greatly dependent on incalculable and uncontrollable
contingencies; so many of the data, whether for hope or fear, were, from
their novelty, incapable of arrangement under any of the categories of
historical precedent, that there were moments of crisis when the
firmest believer in the strength and sufficiency of the democratic
theory of government might well hold his breath in vague apprehension of
disaster. Our teachers of political philosophy, solemnly arguing from
the precedent of some petty Grecian, Italian, or Flemish city, whose
long periods of aristocracy were broken now and then by awkward
parentheses of mob, had always taught us that democracies were incapable
of the sentiment of loyalty, of concentrated and prolonged effort, of
far-reaching conceptions; were absorbed in material interests; impatient
of regular, and much more of exceptional restraint; had no natural
nucleus of gravitation, nor any forces but centrifugal; were always on
the verge of civil war, and slunk at last into the natural almshouse of
bankrupt popular government, a military despotism. Here was indeed a
dreary outlook for persons who knew democracy, not by rubbing shoulders
with it lifelong, but merely from books, and America only by the report
of some fellow-Briton, who, having eaten a bad dinner or lost a
carpet-bag here, had written to the Times demanding redress, and drawing
a mournful inference of democratic instability. Nor were men wanting
among ourselves who had so steeped their brains in London literature as
to mistake Cockneyism for European culture, and contempt of their
country for cosmopolitan breadth of view, and who, owing all they had
and all they were to democracy, thought it had an air of high-breeding
to join in the shallow epicedium that our bubble had burst.

But beside any disheartening influences which might affect the timid or
the despondent, there were reasons enough of settled gravity against any
over-confidence of hope. A war--which, whether we consider the expanse
of the territory at stake, the hosts brought into the field, or the
reach of the principles involved, may fairly be reckoned the most
momentous of modern times--was to be waged by a people divided at home,
unnerved by fifty years of peace, under a chief magistrate without
experience and without reputation, whose every measure was sure to be
cunningly hampered by a jealous and unscrupulous minority, and who,
while dealing with unheard-of complications at home, must soothe a
hostile neutrality abroad, waiting only a pretext to become war. All
this was to be done without warning and without preparation, while at
the same time a social revolution was to be accomplished in the
political condition of four millions of people, by softening the
prejudices, allaying the fears, and gradually obtaining the
co-operation, of their unwilling liberators. Surely, if ever there were
an occasion when the heightened imagination of the historian might see
Destiny visibly intervening in human affairs, here was a knot worthy of
her shears. Never, perhaps, was any system of government tried by so
continuous and searching a strain as ours during the last three years;
never has any shown itself stronger; and never could that strength be so
directly traced to the virtue and intelligence of the people,--to that
general enlightenment and prompt efficiency of public opinion possible
only under the influence of a political framework like our own. We find
it hard to understand how even a foreigner should be blind to the
grandeur of the combat of ideas that has been going on here,--to the
heroic energy, persistency, and self-reliance of a nation proving that
it knows how much dearer greatness is than mere power; and we own that
it is impossible for us to conceive the mental and moral condition of
the American who does not feel his spirit braced and heightened by being
even a spectator of such qualities and achievements. That a steady
purpose and a definite aim have been given to the jarring forces which,
at the beginning of the war, spent themselves in the discussion of
schemes which could only become operative, if at all, after the war was
over; that a popular excitement has been slowly intensified into an
earnest national will; that a somewhat impracticable moral sentiment has
been made the unconscious instrument of a practical moral end; that the
treason of covert enemies, the jealousy of rivals, the unwise zeal of
friends, have been made not only useless for mischief, but even useful
for good; that the conscientious sensitiveness of England to the horrors
of civil conflict has been prevented from complicating a domestic with a
foreign war;--all these results, any one of which might suffice to prove
greatness in a ruler, have been mainly due to the good sense, the
good-humor, the sagacity, the large-mindedness, and the unselfish
honesty of the unknown man whom a blind fortune, as it seemed, had
lifted from the crowd to the most dangerous and difficult eminence of
modern times. It is by presence of mind in untried emergencies that the
native metal of a man is tested; it is by the sagacity to see, and the
fearless honesty to admit, whatever of truth there may be in an adverse
opinion, in order more convincingly to expose the fallacy that lurks
behind it, that a reasoner at length gains for his mere statement of a
fact the force of argument; it is by a wise forecast which allows
hostile combinations to go so far as by the inevitable reaction to
become elements of his own power, that a politician proves his genius
for state-craft; and especially it is by so gently guiding public
sentiment that he seems to follow it, by so yielding doubtful points
that he can be firm without seeming obstinate in essential ones, and
thus gain the advantages of compromise without the weakness of
concession; by so instinctively comprehending the temper and prejudices
of a people as to make them gradually conscious of the superior wisdom
of his freedom from temper and prejudice,--it is by qualities such as
these that a magistrate shows himself worthy to be chief in a
commonwealth of freemen. And it is for qualities such as these that we
firmly believe History will rank Mr. Lincoln among the most prudent of
statesmen and the most successful of rulers. If we wish to appreciate
him, we have only to conceive the inevitable chaos in which we should
now be weltering, had a weak man or an unwise one been chosen in his
stead.

“Bare is back,” says the Norse proverb, “without brother behind it”; and
this is, by analogy, true of an elective magistracy. The hereditary
ruler in any critical emergency may reckon on the inexhaustible
resources of _prestige_, of sentiment, of superstition, of dependent
interest, while the new man must slowly and painfully create all these
out of the unwilling material around him, by superiority of character,
by patient singleness of purpose, by sagacious presentiment of popular
tendencies and instinctive sympathy with the national character. Mr.
Lincoln’s task was one of peculiar and exceptional difficulty. Long
habit had accustomed the American people to the notion of a party in
power, and of a President as its creature and organ, while the more
vital fact, that the executive for the time being represents the
abstract idea of government as a permanent principle superior to all
party and all private interest, had gradually become unfamiliar. They
had so long seen the public policy more or less directed by views of
party, and often even of personal advantage, as to be ready to suspect
the motives of a chief magistrate compelled, for the first time in our
history, to feel himself the head and hand of a great nation, and to act
upon the fundamental maxim, laid down by all publicists, that the first
duty of a government is to defend and maintain its own existence.
Accordingly, a powerful weapon seemed to be put into the hands of the
opposition by the necessity under which the administration found itself
of applying this old truth to new relations. Nor were the opposition his
only nor his most dangerous opponents.

The Republicans had carried the country upon an issue in which ethics
were more directly and visibly mingled with politics than usual. Their
leaders were trained to a method of oratory which relied for its effect
rather on the moral sense than the understanding. Their arguments were
drawn, not so much from experience as from general principles of right
and wrong. When the war came, their system continued to be applicable
and effective, for here again the reason of the people was to be reached
and kindled through their sentiments. It was one of those periods of
excitement, gathering, contagious, universal, which, while they last,
exalt and clarify the minds of men, giving to the mere words _country_,
_human rights_, _democracy_, a meaning and a force beyond that of sober
and logical argument. They were convictions, maintained and defended by
the supreme logic of passion. That penetrating fire ran in and roused
those primary instincts that make their lair in the dens and caverns of
the mind. What is called the great popular heart was awakened, that
indefinable something which may be, according to circumstances, the
highest reason or the most brutish unreason. But enthusiasm, once cold,
can never be warmed over into anything better than cant,--and phrases,
when once the inspiration that filled them with beneficent power has
ebbed away, retain only that semblance of meaning which enables them to
supplant reason in hasty minds. Among the lessons taught by the French
Revolution there is none sadder or more striking than this, that you may
make everything else out of the passions of men except a political
system that will work, and that there is nothing so pitilessly and
unconsciously cruel as sincerity formulated into dogma. It is always
demoralizing to extend the domain of sentiment over questions where it
has no legitimate jurisdiction; and perhaps the severest strain upon Mr.
Lincoln was in resisting a tendency of his own supporters which chimed
with his own private desires while wholly opposed to his convictions of
what would be wise policy.

The change which three years have brought about is too remarkable to be
passed over without comment, too weighty in its lesson not to be laid to
heart. Never did a President enter upon office with less means at his
command, outside his own strength of heart and steadiness of
understanding, for inspiring confidence in the people, and so winning it
for himself, than Mr. Lincoln. All that was known of him was that he was
a good stump-speaker, nominated for his _availability_,--that is,
because he had no history,--and chosen by a party with whose more
extreme opinions he was not in sympathy. It might well be feared that a
man past fifty, against whom the ingenuity of hostile partisans could
rake up no accusation, must be lacking in manliness of character, in
decision of principle, in strength of will; that a man who was at best
only the representative of a party, and who yet did not fairly represent
even that, would fail of political, much more of popular, support. And
certainly no one ever entered upon office with so few resources of power
in the past, and so many materials of weakness in the present, as Mr.
Lincoln. Even in that half of the Union which acknowledged him as
President, there was a large, and at that time dangerous minority, that
hardly admitted his claim to the office, and even in the party that
elected him there was also a large minority that suspected him of being
secretly a communicant with the church of Laodicea. All that he did was
sure to be virulently attacked as ultra by one side; all that he left
undone, to be stigmatized as proof of lukewarmness and backsliding by
the other. Meanwhile he was to carry on a truly colossal war by means of
both; he was to disengage the country from diplomatic entanglements of
unprecedented peril undisturbed by the help or the hinderance of either,
and to win from the crowning dangers of his administration, in the
confidence of the people, the means of his safety and their own. He has
contrived to do it, and perhaps none of our Presidents since Washington
has stood so firm in the confidence of the people as he does after three
years of stormy administration.

Mr. Lincoln’s policy was a tentative one, and rightly so. He laid down
no programme which must compel him to be either inconsistent or unwise,
no cast-iron theorem to which circumstances must be fitted as they rose,
or else be useless to his ends. He seemed to have chosen Mazarin’s
motto, _Le temps et moi_. The _moi_, to be sure, was not very prominent
at first; but it has grown more and more so, till the world is beginning
to be persuaded that it stands for a character of marked individuality
and capacity for affairs. Time was his prime-minister, and, we began to
think, at one period, his general-in-chief also. At first he was so slow
that he tired out all those who see no evidence of progress but in
blowing up the engine; then he was so fast, that he took the breath away
from those who think there is no getting on safely while there is a
spark of fire under the boilers. God is the only being who has time
enough; but a prudent man, who knows how to seize occasion, can commonly
make a shift to find as much as he needs. Mr. Lincoln, as it seems to us
in reviewing his career, though we have sometimes in our impatience
thought otherwise, has always waited, as a wise man should, till the
right moment brought up all his reserves. _Semper nocuit differre
paratis_, is a sound axiom, but the really efficacious man will also be
sure to know when he is _not_ ready, and be firm against all persuasion
and reproach till he is.

One would be apt to think, from some of the criticisms made on Mr.
Lincoln’s course by those who mainly agree with him in principle, that
the chief object of a statesman should be rather to proclaim his
adhesion to certain doctrines, than to achieve their triumph by quietly
accomplishing his ends. In our opinion, there is no more unsafe
politician than a conscientiously rigid _doctrinaire_, nothing more sure
to end in disaster than a theoretic scheme of policy that admits of no
pliability for contingencies. True, there is a popular image of an
impossible He, in whose plastic hands the submissive destinies of
mankind become as wax, and to whose commanding necessity the toughest
facts yield with the graceful pliancy of fiction; but in real life we
commonly find that the men who control circumstances, as it is called,
are those who have learned to allow for the influence of their eddies,
and have the nerve to turn them to account at the happy instant. Mr.
Lincoln’s perilous task has been to carry a rather shaky raft through
the rapids, making fast the unrulier logs as he could snatch
opportunity, and the country is to be congratulated that he did not
think it his duty to run straight at all hazards, but cautiously to
assure himself with his setting-pole where the main current was, and
keep steadily to that. He is still in wild water, but we have faith that
his skill and sureness of eye will bring him out right at last.

A curious, and, as we think, not inapt parallel, might be drawn between
Mr. Lincoln and one of the most striking figures in modern
history,--Henry IV. of France. The career of the latter may be more
picturesque, as that of a daring captain always is; but in all its
vicissitudes there is nothing more romantic than that sudden change, as
by a rub of Aladdin’s lamp, from the attorney’s office in a country town
of Illinois to the helm of a great nation in times like these. The
analogy between the characters and circumstances of the two men is in
many respects singularly close. Succeeding to a rebellion rather than a
crown, Henry’s chief material dependence was the Huguenot party, whose
doctrines sat upon him with a looseness distasteful certainly, if not
suspicious, to the more fanatical among them. King only in name over the
greater part of France, and with his capital barred against him, it yet
gradually became clear to the more far-seeing even of the Catholic party
that he was the only centre of order and legitimate authority round
which France could reorganize itself. While preachers who held the
divine right of kings made the churches of Paris ring with declamations
in favor of democracy rather than submit to the heretic dog of a
Béarnois,--much as our _soi-disant_ Democrats have lately been preaching
the divine right of slavery, and denouncing the heresies of the
Declaration of Independence,--Henry bore both parties in hand till he
was convinced that only one course of action could possibly combine his
own interests and those of France. Meanwhile the Protestants believed
somewhat doubtfully that he was theirs, the Catholics hoped somewhat
doubtfully that he would be theirs, and Henry himself turned aside
remonstrance, advice, and curiosity alike with a jest or a proverb (if a
little _high_, he liked them none the worse), joking continually as his
manner was. We have seen Mr. Lincoln contemptuously compared to Sancho
Panza by persons incapable of appreciating one of the deepest pieces of
wisdom in the profoundest romance ever written; namely, that, while Don
Quixote was incomparable in theoretic and ideal statesmanship, Sancho,
with his stock of proverbs, the ready money of human experience, made
the best possible practical governor. Henry IV. was as full of wise saws
and modern instances as Mr. Lincoln, but beneath all this was the
thoughtful, practical, humane, and thoroughly earnest man, around whom
the fragments of France were to gather themselves till she took her
place again as a planet of the first magnitude in the European system.
In one respect Mr. Lincoln was more fortunate than Henry. However some
may think him wanting in zeal, the most fanatical can find no taint of
apostasy in any measure of his, nor can the most bitter charge him with
being influenced by motives of personal interest. The leading
distinction between the policies of the two is one of circumstances.
Henry went over to the nation; Mr. Lincoln has steadily drawn the nation
over to him. One left a united France; the other, we hope and believe,
will leave a reunited America. We leave our readers to trace the further
points of difference and resemblance for themselves, merely suggesting a
general similarity which has often occurred to us. One only point of
melancholy interest we will allow ourselves to touch upon. That Mr.
Lincoln is not handsome nor elegant, we learn from certain English
tourists who would consider similar revelations in regard to Queen
Victoria as thoroughly American in their want of _bienséance_. It is no
concern of ours, nor does it affect his fitness for the high place he so
worthily occupies; but he is certainly as fortunate as Henry in the
matter of good looks, if we may trust contemporary evidence. Mr. Lincoln
has also been reproached with Americanism by some not unfriendly British
critics; but, with all deference, we cannot say that we like him any the
worse for it, or see in it any reason why he should govern Americans
the less wisely.

People of more sensitive organizations may be shocked, but we are glad
that in this our true war of independence, which is to free us forever
from the Old World, we have had at the head of our affairs a man whom
America made, as God made Adam, out of the very earth, unancestried,
unprivileged, unknown, to show us how much truth, how much magnanimity,
and how much statecraft await the call of opportunity in simple manhood
when it believes in the justice of God and the worth of man.
Conventionalities are all very well in their proper place, but they
shrivel at the touch of nature like stubble in the fire. The genius that
sways a nation by its arbitrary will seems less august to us than that
which multiplies and reinforces itself in the instincts and convictions
of an entire people. Autocracy may have something in it more
melodramatic than this, but falls far short of it in human value and
interest.

Experience would have bred in us a rooted distrust of improvised
statesmanship, even if we did not believe politics to be a science,
which, if it cannot always command men of special aptitude and great
powers, at least demands the long and steady application of the best
powers of such men as it can command to master even its first
principles. It is curious, that, in a country which boasts of its
intelligence, the theory should be so generally held that the most
complicated of human contrivances, and one which every day becomes more
complicated, can be worked at sight by any man able to talk for an hour
or two without stopping to think.

Mr. Lincoln is sometimes claimed as an example of a ready-made ruler.
But no case could well be less in point; for, besides that he was a man
of such fair-mindedness as is always the raw material of wisdom, he had
in his profession a training precisely the opposite of that to which a
partisan is subjected. His experience as a lawyer compelled him not only
to see that there is a principle underlying every phenomenon in human
affairs, but that there are always two sides to every question, both of
which must be fully understood in order to understand either, and that
it is of greater advantage to an advocate to appreciate the strength
than the weakness of his antagonist’s position. Nothing is more
remarkable than the unerring tact with which, in his debate with Mr.
Douglas, he went straight to the reason of the question; nor have we
ever had a more striking lesson in political tactics than the fact,
that, opposed to a man exceptionally adroit in using popular prejudice
and bigotry to his purpose, exceptionally unscrupulous in appealing to
those baser motives that turn a meeting of citizens into a mob of
barbarians, he should yet have won his case before a jury of the people.
Mr. Lincoln was as far as possible from an impromptu politician. His
wisdom was made up of a knowledge of things as well as of men; his
sagacity resulted from a clear perception and honest acknowledgment of
difficulties, which enabled him to see that the only durable triumph of
political opinion is based, not on any abstract right, but upon so much
of justice, the highest attainable at any given moment in human affairs,
as may be had in the balance of mutual concession. Doubtless he had an
ideal, but it was the ideal of a practical statesman,--to aim at the
best, and to take the next best, if he is lucky enough to get even that.
His slow, but singularly masculine, intelligence taught him that
precedent is only another name for embodied experience, and that it
counts for even more in the guidance of communities of men than in that
of the individual life. He was not a man who held it good public economy
to pull down on the mere chance of rebuilding better. Mr. Lincoln’s
faith in God was qualified by a very well-founded distrust of the wisdom
of man. Perhaps it was his want of self-confidence that more than
anything else won him the unlimited confidence of the people, for they
felt that there would be no need of retreat from any position he had
deliberately taken. The cautious, but steady, advance of his policy
during the war was like that of a Roman army. He left behind him a firm
road on which public confidence could follow; he took America with him
where he went; what he gained he occupied, and his advanced posts became
colonies. The very homeliness of his genius was its distinction. His
kingship was conspicuous by its workday homespun. Never was ruler so
absolute as he, nor so little conscious of it; for he was the incarnate
common-sense of the people. With all that tenderness of nature whose
sweet sadness touched whoever saw him with something of its own pathos,
there was no trace of sentimentalism in his speech or action. He seems
to have had but one rule of conduct, always that of practical and
successful politics, to let himself be guided by events, when they were
sure to bring him out where he wished to go, though by what seemed to
unpractical minds, which let go the possible to grasp at the desirable,
a longer road.

Undoubtedly the highest function of statesmanship is by degrees to
accommodate the conduct of communities to ethical laws, and to
subordinate the conflicting self-interests of the day to higher and more
permanent concerns. But it is on the understanding, and not on the
sentiment, of a nation that all safe legislation must be based.
Voltaire’s saying, that “a consideration of petty circumstances is the
tomb of great things,” may be true of individual men, but it certainly
is not true of governments. It is by a multitude of such considerations,
each in itself trifling, but all together weighty, that the framers of
policy can alone divine what is practicable and therefore wise. The
imputation of inconsistency is one to which every sound politician and
every honest thinker must sooner or later subject himself. The foolish
and the dead alone never change their opinion. The course of a great
statesman resembles that of navigable rivers, avoiding immovable
obstacles with noble bends of concession, seeking the broad levels of
opinion on which men soonest settle and longest dwell, following and
marking the almost imperceptible slopes of national tendency, yet always
aiming at direct advances, always recruited from sources nearer heaven,
and sometimes bursting open paths of progress and fruitful human
commerce through what seem the eternal barriers of both. It is loyalty
to great ends, even though forced to combine the small and opposing
motives of selfish men to accomplish them; it is the anchored cling to
solid principles of duty and action, which knows how to swing with the
tide, but is never carried away by it,--that we demand in public men,
and not sameness of policy, or a conscientious persistency in what is
impracticable. For the impracticable, however theoretically enticing, is
always politically unwise, sound statesmanship being the application of
that prudence to the public business which is the safest guide in that
of private men.

No doubt slavery was the most delicate and embarrassing question with
which Mr. Lincoln was called on to deal, and it was one which no man in
his position, whatever his opinions, could evade; for, though he might
withstand the clamor of partisans, he must sooner or later yield to the
persistent importunacy of circumstances, which thrust the problem upon
him at every turn and in every shape.

It has been brought against us as an accusation abroad, and repeated
here by people who measure their country rather by what is thought of
it than by what it is, that our war has not been distinctly and avowedly
for the extinction of slavery, but a war rather for the preservation of
our national power and greatness, in which the emancipation of the negro
has been forced upon us by circumstances and accepted as a necessity. We
are very far from denying this; nay, we admit that it is so far true
that we were slow to renounce our constitutional obligations even toward
those who had absolved us by their own act from the letter of our duty.
We are speaking of the government which, legally installed for the whole
country, was bound, so long as it was possible, not to overstep the
limits of orderly prescription, and could not, without abnegating its
own very nature, take the lead in making rebellion an excuse for
revolution. There were, no doubt, many ardent and sincere persons who
seemed to think this as simple a thing to do as to lead off a Virginia
reel. They forgot what should be forgotten least of all in a system like
ours, that the administration for the time being represents not only the
majority which elects it, but the minority as well,--a minority in this
case powerful, and so little ready for emancipation that it was opposed
even to war. Mr. Lincoln had not been chosen as general agent of an
antislavery society, but President of the United States, to perform
certain functions exactly defined by law. Whatever were his wishes, it
was no less duty than policy to mark out for himself a line of action
that would not further distract the country, by raising before their
time questions which plainly would soon enough compel attention, and for
which every day was making the answer more easy.

Meanwhile he must solve the riddle of this new Sphinx, or be devoured.
Though Mr. Lincoln’s policy in this critical affair has not been such as
to satisfy those who demand an heroic treatment for even the most
trifling occasion, and who will not cut their coat according to their
cloth, unless they can borrow the scissors of Atropos, it has been at
least not unworthy of the long-headed king of Ithaca. Mr. Lincoln had
the choice of Bassanio offered him. Which of the three caskets held the
prize that was to redeem the fortunes of the country? There was the
golden one whose showy speciousness might have tempted a vain man; the
silver of compromise, which might have decided the choice of a merely
acute one; and the leaden,--dull and homely-looking, as prudence always
is,--yet with something about it sure to attract the eye of practical
wisdom. Mr. Lincoln dallied with his decision perhaps longer than seemed
needful to those on whom its awful responsibility was not to rest, but
when he made it, it was worthy of his cautious but sure-footed
understanding. The moral of the Sphinx-riddle, and it is a deep one,
lies in the childish simplicity of the solution. Those who fail in
guessing it, fail because they are over-ingenious, and cast about for an
answer that shall suit their own notion of the gravity of the occasion
and of their own dignity, rather than the occasion itself.

In a matter which must be finally settled by public opinion, and in
regard to which the ferment of prejudice and passion on both sides has
not yet subsided to that equilibrium of compromise from which alone a
sound public opinion can result, it is proper enough for the private
citizen to press his own convictions with all possible force of argument
and persuasion; but the popular magistrate, whose judgment must become
action, and whose action involves the whole country, is bound to wait
till the sentiment of the people is so far advanced toward his own point
of view, that what he does shall find support in it, instead of merely
confusing it with new elements of division. It was not unnatural that
men earnestly devoted to the saving of their country, and profoundly
convinced that slavery was its only real enemy, should demand a decided
policy round which all patriots might rally,--and this might have been
the wisest course for an absolute ruler. But in the then unsettled state
of the public mind, with a large party decrying even resistance to the
slaveholders’ rebellion as not only unwise, but even unlawful; with a
majority, perhaps, even of the would-be loyal so long accustomed to
regard the Constitution as a deed of gift conveying to the South their
own judgment as to policy and instinct as to right, that they were in
doubt at first whether their loyalty were due to the country or to
slavery; and with a respectable body of honest and influential men who
still believed in the possibility of conciliation,--Mr. Lincoln judged
wisely, that, in laying down a policy in deference to one party, he
should be giving to the other the very fulcrum for which their
disloyalty had been waiting.

It behooved a clear-headed man in his position not to yield so far to an
honest indignation against the brokers of treason in the North as to
lose sight of the materials for misleading which were their stock in
trade, and to forget that it is not the falsehood of sophistry which is
to be feared, but the grain of truth mingled with it to make it
specious,--that it is not the knavery of the leaders so much as the
honesty of the followers they may seduce, that gives them power for
evil. It was especially his duty to do nothing which might help the
people to forget the true cause of the war in fruitless disputes about
its inevitable consequences.

The doctrine of State rights can be so handled by an adroit demagogue as
easily to confound the distinction between liberty and lawlessness in
the minds of ignorant persons, accustomed always to be influenced by
the sound of certain words, rather than to reflect upon the principles
which give them meaning. For, though Secession involves the manifest
absurdity of denying to a State the right of making war against any
foreign power while permitting it against the United States; though it
supposes a compact of mutual concessions and guaranties among States
without any arbiter in case of dissension; though it contradicts
common-sense in assuming that the men who framed our government did not
know what they meant when they substituted Union for Confederation;
though it falsifies history, which shows that the main opposition to the
adoption of the Constitution was based on the argument that it did not
allow that independence in the several States which alone would justify
them in seceding;--yet, as slavery was universally admitted to be a
reserved right, an inference could be drawn from any direct attack upon
it (though only in self-defence) to a natural right of resistance,
logical enough to satisfy minds untrained to detect fallacy, as the
majority of men always are, and now too much disturbed by the disorder
of the times, to consider that the order of events had any legitimate
bearing on the argument. Though Mr. Lincoln was too sagacious to give
the Northern allies of the Rebels the occasion they desired and even
strove to provoke, yet from the beginning of the war the most persistent
efforts have been made to confuse the public mind as to its origin and
motives, and to drag the people of the loyal States down from the
national position they had instinctively taken to the old level of party
squabbles and antipathies. The wholly unprovoked rebellion of an
oligarchy proclaiming negro slavery the corner-stone of free
institutions, and in the first flush of over-hasty confidence venturing
to parade the logical sequence of their leading dogma, “that slavery is
right in principle, and has nothing to do with difference of
complexion,” has been represented as a legitimate and gallant attempt to
maintain the true principles of democracy. The rightful endeavor of an
established government, the least onerous that ever existed, to defend
itself against a treacherous attack on its very existence, has been
cunningly made to seem the wicked effort of a fanatical clique to force
its doctrines on an oppressed population.

Even so long ago as when Mr. Lincoln, not yet convinced of the danger
and magnitude of the crisis, was endeavoring to persuade himself of
Union majorities at the South, and to carry on a war that was half peace
in the hope of a peace that would have been all war,--while he was still
enforcing the Fugitive Slave Law, under some theory that Secession,
however it might absolve States from their obligations, could not
escheat them of their claims under the Constitution, and that
slaveholders in rebellion had alone among mortals the privilege of
having their cake and eating it at the same time,--the enemies of free
government were striving to persuade the people that the war was an
Abolition crusade. To rebel without reason was proclaimed as one of the
rights of man, while it was carefully kept out of sight that to suppress
rebellion is the first duty of government. All the evils that have come
upon the country have been attributed to the Abolitionists, though it is
hard to see how any party can become permanently powerful except in one
of two ways,--either by the greater truth of its principles, or the
extravagance of the party opposed to it. To fancy the ship of state,
riding safe at her constitutional moorings, suddenly engulfed by a huge
kraken of Abolitionism, rising from unknown depths and grasping it with
slimy tentacles, is to look at the natural history of the matter with
the eyes of Pontoppidan. To believe that the leaders in the Southern
treason feared any danger from Abolitionism, would be to deny them
ordinary intelligence, though there can be little doubt that they made
use of it to stir the passions and excite the fears of their deluded
accomplices. They rebelled, not because they thought slavery weak, but
because they believed it strong enough, not to overthrow the government,
but to get possession of it; for it becomes daily clearer that they used
rebellion only as a means of revolution, and if they got revolution,
though not in the shape they looked for, is the American people to save
them from its consequences at the cost of its own existence? The
election of Mr. Lincoln, which it was clearly in their power to prevent
had they wished, was the occasion merely, and not the cause, of their
revolt. Abolitionism, till within a year or two, was the despised heresy
of a few earnest persons, without political weight enough to carry the
election of a parish constable; and their cardinal principle was
disunion, because they were convinced that within the Union the position
of slavery was impregnable. In spite of the proverb, great effects do
not follow from small causes,--that is, disproportionately small,--but
from adequate causes acting under certain required conditions. To
contrast the size of the oak with that of the parent acorn, as if the
poor seed had paid all costs from its slender strong-box, may serve for
a child’s wonder; but the real miracle lies in that divine league which
bound all the forces of nature to the service of the tiny germ in
fulfilling its destiny. Everything has been at work for the past ten
years in the cause of antislavery, but Garrison and Phillips have been
far less successful propagandists than the slaveholders themselves, with
the constantly-growing arrogance of their pretensions and encroachments.
They have forced the question upon the attention of every voter in the
Free States, by defiantly putting freedom and democracy on the
defensive. But, even after the Kansas outrages, there was no wide-spread
desire on the part of the North to commit aggressions, though there was
a growing determination to resist them. The popular unanimity in favor
of the war three years ago was but in small measure the result of
antislavery sentiment, far less of any zeal for abolition. But every
month of the war, every movement of the allies of slavery in the Free
States, has been making Abolitionists by the thousand. The masses of any
people, however intelligent, are very little moved by abstract
principles of humanity and justice, until those principles are
interpreted for them by the stinging commentary of some infringement
upon their own rights, and then their instincts and passions, once
aroused, do indeed derive an incalculable reinforcement of impulse and
intensity from those higher ideas, those sublime traditions, which have
no motive political force till they are allied with a sense of immediate
personal wrong or imminent peril. Then at last the stars in their
courses begin to fight against Sisera. Had any one doubted before that
the rights of human nature are unitary, that oppression is of one hue
the world over, no matter what the color of the oppressed,--had any one
failed to see what the real essence of the contest was,--the efforts of
the advocates of slavery among ourselves to throw discredit upon the
fundamental axioms of the Declaration of Independence and the radical
doctrines of Christianity, could not fail to sharpen his eyes.

While every day was bringing the people nearer to the conclusion which
all thinking men saw to be inevitable from the beginning, it was wise in
Mr. Lincoln to leave the shaping of his policy to events. In this
country, where the rough and ready understanding of the people is sure
at last to be the controlling power, a profound common-sense is the best
genius for statesmanship. Hitherto the wisdom of the President’s
measures has been justified by the fact that they have always resulted
in more firmly uniting public opinion. One of the things particularly
admirable in the public utterances of President Lincoln is a certain
tone of familiar dignity, which, while it is perhaps the most difficult
attainment of mere style, is also no doubtful indication of personal
character. There must be something essentially noble in an elective
ruler who can descend to the level of confidential ease without losing
respect, something very manly in one who can break through the etiquette
of his conventional rank and trust himself to the reason and
intelligence of those who have elected him. No higher compliment was
ever paid to a nation than the simple confidence, the fireside
plainness, with which Mr. Lincoln always addresses himself to the reason
of the American people. This was, indeed, a true democrat, who grounded
himself on the assumption that a democracy can think. “Come, let us
reason together about this matter,” has been the tone of all his
addresses to the people; and accordingly we have never had a chief
magistrate who so won to himself the love and at the same time the
judgment of his countrymen. To us, that simple confidence of his in the
right-mindedness of his fellow-men is very touching, and its success is
as strong an argument as we have ever seen in favor of the theory that
men can govern themselves. He never appeals to any vulgar sentiment, he
never alludes to the humbleness of his origin; it probably never
occurred to him, indeed, that there was anything higher to start from
than manhood; and he put himself on a level with those he addressed, not
by going down to them, but only by taking it for granted that they had
brains and would come up to a common ground of reason. In an article
lately printed in “The Nation,” Mr. Bayard Taylor mentions the striking
fact, that in the foulest dens of the Five Points he found the portrait
of Lincoln. The wretched population that makes its hive there threw all
its votes and more against him, and yet paid this instinctive tribute to
the sweet humanity of his nature. Their ignorance sold its vote and took
its money, but all that was left of manhood in them recognized its saint
and martyr.

Mr. Lincoln is not in the habit of saying, “This is _my_ opinion, or
_my_ theory,” but, “This is the conclusion to which, in my judgment, the
time has come, and to which, accordingly, the sooner we come the better
for us.” His policy has been the policy of public opinion based on
adequate discussion and on a timely recognition of the influence of
passing events in shaping the features of events to come.

One secret of Mr. Lincoln’s remarkable success in captivating the
popular mind is undoubtedly an unconsciousness of self which enables
him, though under the necessity of constantly using the capital _I_, to
do it without any suggestion of egotism. There is no single vowel which
men’s mouths can pronounce with such difference of effect. That which
one shall hide away, as it were, behind the substance of his discourse,
or, if he bring it to the front, shall use merely to give an agreeable
accent of individuality to what he says, another shall make an offensive
challenge to the self-satisfaction of all his hearers, and an
unwarranted intrusion upon each man’s sense of personal importance,
irritating every pore of his vanity, like a dry northeast wind, to a
goose-flesh of opposition and hostility. Mr. Lincoln has never studied
Quinctilian; but he has, in the earnest simplicity and unaffected
Americanism of his own character, one art of oratory worth all the rest.
He forgets himself so entirely in his object as to give his _I_ the
sympathetic and persuasive effect of _We_ with the great body of his
countrymen. Homely, dispassionate, showing all the rough-edged process
of his thought as it goes along, yet arriving at his conclusions with an
honest kind of every-day logic, he is so eminently our representative
man, that, when he speaks, it seems as if the people were listening to
their own thinking aloud. The dignity of his thought owes nothing to any
ceremonial garb of words, but to the manly movement that comes of
settled purpose and an energy of reason that knows not what rhetoric
means. There has been nothing of Cleon, still less of Strepsiades
striving to underbid him in demagogism, to be found in the public
utterances of Mr. Lincoln. He has always addressed the intelligence of
men, never their prejudice, their passion, or their ignorance.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the day of his death, this simple Western attorney, who according to
one party was a vulgar joker, and whom the _doctrinaires_ among his own
supporters accused of wanting every element of statesmanship, was the
most absolute ruler in Christendom, and this solely by the hold his
good-humored sagacity had laid on the hearts and understandings of his
countrymen. Nor was this all, for it appeared that he had drawn the
great majority, not only of his fellow-citizens, but of mankind also, to
his side. So strong and so persuasive is honest manliness without a
single quality of romance or unreal sentiment to help it! A civilian
during times of the most captivating military achievement, awkward, with
no skill in the lower technicalities of manners, he left behind him a
fame beyond that of any conqueror, the memory of a grace higher than
that of outward person, and of a gentlemanliness deeper than mere
breeding. Never before that startled April morning did such multitudes
of men shed tears for the death of one they had never seen, as if with
him a friendly presence had been taken away from their lives, leaving
them colder and darker. Never was funeral panegyric so eloquent as the
silent look of sympathy which strangers exchanged when they met on that
day. Their common manhood had lost a kinsman.




THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.


This is an interesting and in many respects instructive book. Mr. Ward
has done his work, as is fitting, in a loving spirit; and if he
over-estimates both what Percival was and what he did, he enables us to
form our own judgment by letting him so far as possible speak for
himself. The book gives a rather curious picture of what the life of a
man of letters is likely to be in a country not yet ripe for literary
production, especially if he be not endowed with the higher qualities
which command and can wait for that best of all successes which comes
slowly. In a generation where everybody can write verses, and where
certain modes of thought and turns of phrase have become so tyrannous
that it is as hard to distinguish between the productions of one minor
poet and another as among those of so many Minnesingers or Troubadours,
there is a demand for only two things,--for what chimes with the
moment’s whim of popular sentiment and is forgotten when that has
changed, or for what is never an anachronism, because it slakes or seems
to slake the eternal thirst of our nature for those ideal waters that
glimmer before us and still before us in ever-renewing mirage. Percival
met neither of these conditions. With a nature singularly unplastic,
unsympathetic, and self-involved, he was incapable of receiving into his
own mind the ordinary emotions of men and giving them back in music;
and with a lofty conception of the object and purposes of poesy, he had
neither the resolution nor the power which might have enabled him to
realize it. He offers as striking an example as could be found of the
poetic temperament unballasted with those less obvious qualities which
make the poetic faculty. His verse carries every inch of canvas that
diction and sentiment can crowd, but the craft is cranky, and we miss
that deep-grasping keel of reason which alone can steady and give
direction. His mind drifts, too waterlogged to answer the helm, and in
his longer poems, like “Prometheus,” half the voyage is spent in trying
to make up for a leeway which becomes at last irretrievable. If he had a
port in view when he set out, he seems soon to give up all hope of ever
reaching it; and wherever we open the log-book, we find him running for
nowhere in particular, as the wind happens to lead, or lying-to in the
merest gale of verbiage. The truth is, that Percival was led to the
writing of verse by a sentimental desire of the mind, and not by that
concurring instinct of all the faculties which is a self-forgetting
passion of the entire man. Too excitable to possess his subject fully,
as a man of mere talent may often do, he is not possessed by it as the
man of genius is, and seems helplessly striving, the greater part of the
time, to make out what, in the name of common or uncommon sense, he is
after. With all the stock properties of verse whirling and dancing about
his ears puffed out to an empty show of life, the reader of much of his
blank verse feels as if a mob of well-draperied clothes-lines were
rioting about him in all the unwilling ecstasy of a thunder-gust.

Percival, living from 1795 to 1856, arrived at manhood just as the last
war with England had come to an end. Poor, shy, and proud, there is
nothing in his earlier years that might not be paralleled in those of
hundreds of sensitive boys who gradually get the nonsense shaken out of
them in the rough school of life. The length of the schooling needful in
his case is what makes it peculiar. Not till after he was fifty, if even
then, did he learn that the world never takes a man at his own
valuation, and never pays money for what it does not want, or think it
wants. It did not want his poetry, simply because it was not, is not,
and by no conceivable power of argument can be made, interesting,--the
first duty of every artistic product. Percival, who would have thought
his neighbors mad if they had insisted on his buying twenty thousand
refrigerators merely because they had been at the trouble of making
them, and found it convenient to turn them into cash, could never
forgive the world for taking this business view of the matter in his own
case. He went on doggedly, making refrigerators of every possible
pattern, and comforted himself with the thought of a wiser posterity,
which should have learned that the purpose of poetry is to cool and not
to kindle. His “Mind,” which is on the whole perhaps the best of his
writings, vies in coldness with the writings of his brother doctor,
Akenside, whose “Pleasures of Imagination” are something quite other
than pleasing in reality. If there be here and there a semblance of pale
fire, it is but the reflection of moonshine upon ice. Akenside is
respectable, because he really had something new to say, in spite of his
pompous, mouthing way of saying it; but when Percival says it over
again, it is a little too much. In his more ambitious pieces,--and it is
curious how literally the word “pieces” applies to all he did,--he
devotes himself mainly to telling us what poetry ought to be, as if
mankind were not always more than satisfied with any one who fulfils the
true office of poet, by showing them, with the least possible fuss, what
it is. Percival was a professor of poetry rather than a poet, and we
are not surprised at the number of lectures he reads us, when we learn
that in early life he was an excellent demonstrator of anatomy, whose
subject must be dead before his business with it begins. His interest in
poetry was always more or less scientific. He was forever trying
experiments in matter and form, especially the latter. And these were
especially unhappy, because it is plain that he had no musical ear, or
at best a very imperfect one. His attempts at classical metres are
simply unreadable, whether as verse or prose. He contrives to make even
the Sapphic so, which when we read it in Latin moves featly to our
modern accentuation. Let any one who wishes to feel the difference
between ear and no ear compare Percival’s specimens with those in the
same kind of Coleridge, who had the finest metrical sense since Milton.
We take this very experimenting to be a sufficient proof that Percival’s
faculty, such as it was, and we do not rate it highly, was artificial,
and not innate. The true poet is much rather experimented upon by life
and nature, by joy and sorrow, by beauty and defect, till it be found
out whether he have any hidden music in him that can sing them into an
accord with the eternal harmony which we call God.

It is easy to trace the literary influences to which the mind of
Percival was in turn subjected. Early in life we find a taint of
Byronism, which indeed does not wholly disappear to the last. There is
among his poems “An Imprecation,” of which a single stanza will suffice
as a specimen:--

    “Wrapped in sheets of gory lightning,
     While cursed night-hags ring thy knell,
     May the arm of vengeance bright’ning,
     O’er thee wave the sword of hell!”

If we could fancy Laura Matilda shut up tipsy in the watch-house, we
might suppose her capable of this melodious substitute for swearing. We
confess that we cannot read it without laughing, after learning from Mr.
Ward that its Salmoneus-thunderbolts were launched at the comfortable
little city of Hartford, because the poet fancied that the inhabitants
thereof did not like him or his verses so much as he himself did. There
is something deliciously ludicrous in the conception of night-hags
ringing the orthodox bell of the Second Congregational or First Baptist
Meeting-house to summon the parishioners to witness these fatal
consequences of not reading Percival’s poems. Nothing less than the fear
of some such catastrophe could compel the perusal of the greater part of
them. Next to Byron comes Moore, whose cloying sentimentalism and too
facile melody are recalled by the subject and treatment of very many of
the shorter lyrics of Percival. In “Prometheus” it is Shelley who is
paramount for the time, and Shelley at his worst period, before his
unwieldy abundance of incoherent words and images, that were merely
words and images without any meaning of real experience to give them
solidity, had been compressed in the stricter moulds of thought and
study. In the blank verse again, we encounter Wordsworth’s tone and
sentiment. These were no good models for Percival, who always
improvised, and who seems to have thought verse the great distinction
between poetry and prose. Percival got nothing from Shelley but the
fatal copiousness which is his vice, nothing from Wordsworth but that
tendency to preach at every corner about a sympathy with nature which is
not his real distinction, and which becomes a wearisome cant at
second-hand. Shelley and Wordsworth are both stilted, though in
different ways. Shelley wreathed his stilts with flowers; while
Wordsworth, protesting against the use of them as sinful, mounts his
solemnly at last, and stalks away conscientiously eschewing whatever
would serve to hide the naked wood,--nay, was it not Gray’s only that
were scandalous, and were not his own, modelled upon those of the
sainted Cowper, of strictly orthodox pattern after all? Percival, like
all imitators, is caught by the defects of what he copies, and
exaggerates them. With him the stilts are the chief matter; and getting
a taller pair than either of his predecessors, he lifts his commonplace
upon them only to make it more drearily conspicuous. Shelley has his
gleams of unearthly wildfire, Wordsworth is by fits the most deeply
inspired man of his generation; but Percival has no lucid interval. He
is pertinaciously and unappeasably dull,--as dull as a comedy of Goethe.
He never in his life wrote a rememberable verse. We should not have
thought this of any consequence now, for we need not try to read him,
did not Mr. Ward with amusing gravity all along assume that he was a
great poet. There was scarce timber enough in him for the making of a
Tiedge or a Hagedorn, both of whom he somewhat resembles.

Percival came to maturity at an unfortunate time for a man so liable to
self-delusion. Leaving college with so imperfect a classical training
(in spite of the numerous “testimonials” cited by Mr. Ward) that he was
capable of laying the accent on the second syllable of Pericles, he
seems never to have systematically trained even such faculty as was in
him, but to have gone on to the end mistaking excitability of brain for
wholesome exercise of thought. The consequence is a prolonged
immaturity, which makes his latest volume, published in 1843, as crude
and as plainly wanting in enduring quality as the first number of his
“Clio.” We have the same old complaints of neglected genius,--as if
genius could ever be neglected so long as it has the perennial
consolation of its own divine society,--the same wilted sentiment, the
same feeling about for topics of verse in which he may possibly find
that inspiration from without which the true poet cannot flee from in
himself. These tedious wailings about heavenly powers suffocating in the
heavy atmosphere of an uncongenial, unrecognizing world, and Percival is
profuse of them, are simply an advertisement to whoever has ears of some
innate disability in the man who utters them. Heavenly powers know very
well how to take care of themselves. The poor “World,” meaning thereby
that small fraction of society which has any personal knowledge of an
author or his affairs, has had great wrong done it in such matters. It
is not, and never was, the powers of a man that it neglects,--it could
not if it would,--but his weaknesses, and especially the publication of
them, of which it grows weary. It can never supply any man with what is
wanting in himself, and the attempt to do it only makes bad worse. If a
man can find the proof of his own genius only in public appreciation,
still worse, if his vanity console itself with taking it as an evidence
of rare qualities in himself that his fellow-mortals are unable to see
them, it is all up with him. The “World” resolutely refused to find
Wordsworth entertaining, and it refuses still, on good grounds; but the
genius that was in him bore up unflinchingly, would take no denial, got
its claim admitted on all hands, and impregnated at last the literature
of an entire generation, though _habitans in sicco_, if ever genius did.
But Percival seems to have satisfied himself with a syllogism something
like this: Men of genius are neglected; the more neglect, the more
genius; I am altogether neglected,--_ergo_, wholly made up of that
priceless material.

The truth was that he suffered rather from over-appreciation; and
“when,” says a nameless old Frenchman, “I see a man go up like a
rocket, I expect before long to see the stick come down.” The times were
singularly propitious to mediocrity. As in Holland one had only to

    “Invent a shovel and be a magistrate,”

so here to write a hundred blank verses was to be immortal, till
somebody else wrote a hundred and fifty blanker ones. It had been
resolved unanimously that we must and would have a national literature.
England, France, Spain, Italy, each already had one, Germany was getting
one made as fast as possible, and Ireland vowed that she once had one
far surpassing them all. To be respectable, we must have one also, and
that speedily. That we were not yet, in any true sense, a nation; that
we wanted that literary and social atmosphere which is the breath of
life to all artistic production; that our scholarship, such as it was,
was mostly of that theological sort which acts like a prolonged drouth
upon the brain; that our poetic fathers were Joel Barlow and Timothy
Dwight,--was nothing to the purpose; a literature adapted to the size of
the country was what we must and would have. Given the number of square
miles, the length of the rivers, the size of the lakes, and you have the
greatness of the literature we were bound to produce without further
delay. If that little dribble of an Avon had succeeded in engendering
Shakespeare, what a giant might we not look for from the mighty womb of
Mississippi! Physical Geography for the first time took her rightful
place as the tenth and most inspiring Muse. A glance at the map would
satisfy the most incredulous that she had done her best for us, and
should we be wanting to the glorious opportunity? Not we indeed! So
surely as Franklin invented the art of printing, and Fulton the
steam-engine, we would invent us a great poet in time to send the news
by the next packet to England, and teach her that we were her masters in
arts as well as arms.

Percival was only too ready to be invented, and he forthwith produced
his bale of verses from a loom capable of turning off a hitherto
unheard-of number of yards to the hour, and perfectly adapted to the
amplitude of our territory, inasmuch as it was manufactured on the
theory of covering the largest surface with the least possible amount of
meaning that would hold words together. He was as ready to accept the
perilous emprise, and as loud in asserting his claim thereto, as Sir Kay
used to be, and with much the same result. Our critical journals--and
America certainly _has_ led the world in a department of letters which
of course requires no outfit but the power to read and write,
gratuitously furnished by our public schools--received him with a shout
of welcome. Here came the true deliverer at last, mounted on a steed to
which he himself had given the new name of “Pegāsus,”--for we were to be
original in everything,--and certainly blowing his own trumpet with
remarkable vigor of lungs. Solitary enthusiasts, who had long awaited
this sublime avatar, addressed him in sonnets which he accepted with a
gravity beyond all praise. (To be sure, even Mr. Ward seems to allow
that his sense of humor was hardly equal to his other transcendent
endowments.) His path was strewn with laurel--of the native variety,
altogether superior to that of the Old World, at any rate not precisely
like it. Verses signed “P.,” as like each other as two peas, and as much
like poetry as that vegetable is like a peach, were watched for in the
corner of a newspaper as an astronomer watches for a new planet. There
was never anything so comically unreal since the crowning in the Capitol
of Messer Francesco Petrarca, Grand Sentimentalist in Ordinary at the
Court of King Robert of Naples. Unhappily, Percival took it all quite
seriously. There was no praise too ample for the easy elasticity of his
swallow. He believed himself as gigantic as the shadow he cast on these
rolling mists of insubstantial adulation, and life-long he could never
make out why _his_ fine words refused to butter his parsnips for him,
nay, to furnish both parsnips and sauce. While the critics were debating
precisely how many of the prime qualities of the great poets of his own
and preceding generations he combined in his single genius, and in what
particular respects he surpassed them all,--a point about which he
himself seems never to have had any doubts,--the public, which could
read Scott and Byron with avidity, and which was beginning even to taste
Wordsworth, found his verses inexpressibly wearisome. They would not
throng and subscribe for a collected edition of those works which singly
had been too much for them. With whatever dulness of sense they may be
charged, they have a remarkably keen scent for tediousness, and will
have none of it unless in a tract or sermon, where, of course, it is to
be expected. Percival never forgave the public; but it was the critics
that he never should have forgiven, for of all the maggots that can make
their way into the brains through the ears, there is none so disastrous
as the persuasion that you are a great poet. There is surely something
in the construction of the ears of small authors which lays them
specially open to the inroads of this pest. It tickles pleasantly while
it eats away the fibre of will, and incapacitates a man for all honest
commerce with realities. Unhappily its insidious titillation seems to
have been Percival’s one great pleasure during life.

We began by saying that the book before us was interesting and
instructive; but we meant that it was so not so much from any positive
merits of its own as by the lesson which almost every page of it
suggests. To those who have some knowledge of the history of literature,
or some experience in life, it is from beginning to end a history of
weakness mistaking great desires for great powers. If poetry, in Bacon’s
noble definition of it, “adapt the shows of things to the desires of the
mind,” sentimentalism is equally skilful in making realities shape
themselves to the cravings of vanity. The theory that the poet is a
being above the world and apart from it is true of him as an observer
only who applies to the phenomena about him the test of a finer and more
spiritual sense. That he is a creature divinely set apart from his
fellow-men by a mental organization that makes them mutually
unintelligible to each other, is in flat contradiction with the lives of
those poets universally acknowledged as greatest. Dante, Shakespeare,
Cervantes, Calderon, Milton, Molière, Goethe,--in what conceivable sense
is it true of them that they wanted the manly qualities which made them
equal to the demands of the world in which they lived? That a poet
should assume, as Victor Hugo used to do, that he is a reorganizer of
the moral world, and that works cunningly adapted to the popular whim of
the time form part of some mysterious system which is to give us a new
heaven and a new earth, and to remodel laws of art which are as
unchangeable as those of astronomy, can do no very great harm to any one
but the author himself, who will thereby be led astray from his proper
function, and from the only path to legitimate and lasting success. But
when the theory is carried a step further, and we are asked to believe,
as in Percival’s case, that, because a man can write verses, he is
exempt from that inexorable logic of life and circumstance to which all
other men are subjected, and to which it is wholesome for them that
they should be, then it becomes mischievous, and calls for a protest
from all those who have at heart the interests of good morals and
healthy literature. It is the theory of idlers and _dilettanti_, of
fribbles in morals and declaimers in verse, which a young man of real
power may dally with during some fit of mental indigestion, but which
when accepted by a mature man, and carried along with him through life,
is a sure mark of feebleness and of insincere dealing with himself.
Percival is a good example of a class of authors unhappily too numerous
in these latter days. In Europe the natural growth of a world ill at
ease with itself and still nervous with the frightful palpitation of the
French Revolution, they are but feeble exotics in our healthier air.
Without faith or hope, and deprived of that outward support in the
habitual procession of events and in the authoritative limitations of
thought which in ordinary times gives steadiness to feeble and timid
intellects, they are turned inward, and forced, like Hudibras’s sword,

    “To eat into themselves, for lack
     Of other thing to hew and hack.”

Compelled to find within them that stay which had hitherto been supplied
by creeds and institutions, they learned to attribute to their own
consciousness the grandeur which belongs of right only to the mind of
the human race, slowly endeavoring after an equilibrium between its
desires and the external conditions under which they are attainable.
Hence that exaggeration of the individual, and depreciation of the
social man, which has become the cant of modern literature. Abundance of
such phenomena accompanied the rise of what was called Romanticism in
Germany and France, reacting to some extent even upon England, and
consequently America. The smaller poets erected themselves into a kind
of guild, into which all were admitted who gave proof of a certain
feebleness of character which rendered them superior to their grosser
fellow-men. It was a society of cripples undertaking to teach the new
generation how to walk. Meanwhile, the object of their generous
solicitude, what with clinging to Mother Past’s skirts, and helping
itself by every piece of household furniture it could lay hands on,
learned, after many a tumble, to get on its legs, and to use them as
other generations had done before it. Percival belonged to this new
order of bards, weak in the knees, and thinking it healthy exercise to
climb the peaks of Dreamland. To the vague and misty views attainable
from those sublime summits into his own vast interior, his reports in
blank verse and otherwise did ample justice, but failed to excite the
appetite of mankind. He spent his life, like others of his class, in
proclaiming himself a neglected Columbus, ever ready to start on his
voyage when the public would supply the means of building his ships.
Meanwhile, to be ready at a moment’s warning, he packs his mind pellmell
like a carpet-bag, wraps a geologist’s hammer in a shirt with a Byron
collar, does up Volney’s “Ruins” with an odd volume of Wordsworth, and
another of Bell’s “Anatomy” in a loose sheet of Webster’s Dictionary,
jams Moore’s poems between the leaves of Bopp’s Grammer,--and forgets
only such small matters as combs and brushes. It never seems to have
entered his head that the gulf between genius and its new world is never
too wide for a stout swimmer. Like all sentimentalists, he reversed the
process of nature, which makes it a part of greatness that it is a
simple thing to itself, however much of a marvel it may be to other men.
He discovered his own genius, as he supposed,--a thing impossible had
the genius been real. Donne never wrote a profounder verse than

    “Who knows his virtue’s name and place, hath none.”

Percival’s life was by no means a remarkable one, except, perhaps, in
the number of chances that seem to have been offered him to make
something of himself, if anything were possibly to be made. He was never
without friends, never without opportunities, if he could have availed
himself of them. It is pleasant to see Mr. Ticknor treating him with
that considerate kindness which many a young scholar can remember as
shown so generously to himself. But nothing could help Percival, whose
nature had defeat worked into its very composition. He was not a real,
but an imaginary man. His early attempt at suicide (as Mr. Ward seems to
think it) is typical of him. He is not the first young man who, when
crossed in love, has spoken of “loupin o’er a linn,” nor will he be the
last. But that any one who really meant to kill himself should put
himself resolutely in the way of being prevented, as Percival did, is
hard to believe. Châteaubriand, the arch sentimentalist of these latter
days, had the same harmless _velleity_ of self-destruction,--enough to
scare his sister and so give him a smack of sensation,--but a very
different thing from the settled will which would be really perilous.
Shakespeare, always true to Nature, makes Hamlet dally with the same
exciting fancy. Alas! self is the one thing the sentimentalist never
truly wishes to destroy! One remarkable gift Percival seems to have had,
which may be called memory of the eye. What he saw he never forgot, and
this fitted him for a good geological observer. How great his power of
combination was, which alone could have made him a great geologist, we
cannot determine. But he seems to have shown but little in other
directions. His faculty of acquiring foreign tongues we do not value so
highly as Mr. Ward. We have known many otherwise inferior men who
possessed it. Indeed, the power to express the same nothing in ten
different languages is something to be dreaded rather than admired. It
gives a horrible advantage to dulness. The best thing to be learned from
Percival’s life is that he was happy for the first time when taken away
from his vague pursuit of the ideal, and set to practical work.




THOREAU.


What contemporary, if he was in the fighting period of his life, (since
Nature sets limits about her conscription for spiritual fields, as the
state does in physical warfare,) will ever forget what was somewhat
vaguely called the “Transcendental Movement” of thirty years ago?
Apparently set astirring by Carlyle’s essays on the “Signs of the
Times,” and on “History,” the final and more immediate impulse seemed to
be given by “Sartor Resartus.” At least the republication in Boston of
that wonderful Abraham à Sancta Clara sermon on Lear’s text of the
miserable forked radish gave the signal for a sudden mental and moral
mutiny. _Ecce nunc tempus acceptabile!_ was shouted on all hands with
every variety of emphasis, and by voices of every conceivable pitch,
representing the three sexes of men, women, and Lady Mary Wortley
Montagues. The nameless eagle of the tree Ygdrasil was about to sit at
last, and wild-eyed enthusiasts rushed from all sides, each eager to
thrust under the mystic bird that chalk egg from which the new and
fairer Creation was to be hatched in due time. _Redeunt Saturnia
regna_,--so far was certain, though in what shape, or by what methods,
was still a matter of debate. Every possible form of intellectual and
physical dyspepsia brought forth its gospel. Bran had its prophets, and
the presartorial simplicity of Adam its martyrs, tailored impromptu from
the tar-pot by incensed neighbors, and sent forth to illustrate the
“feathered Mercury,” as defined by Webster and Worcester. Plainness of
speech was carried to a pitch that would have taken away the breath of
George Fox; and even swearing had its evangelists, who answered a simple
inquiry after their health with an elaborate ingenuity of imprecation
that might have been honorably mentioned by Marlborough in general
orders. Everybody had a mission (with a capital M) to attend to
everybody-else’s business. No brain but had its private maggot, which
must have found pitiably short commons sometimes. Not a few impecunious
zealots abjured the use of money (unless earned by other people),
professing to live on the internal revenues of the spirit. Some had an
assurance of instant millennium so soon as hooks and eyes should be
substituted for buttons. Communities were established where everything
was to be common but common-sense. Men renounced their old gods, and
hesitated only whether to bestow their furloughed allegiance on Thor or
Budh. Conventions were held for every hitherto inconceivable purpose.
The belated gift of tongues, as among the Fifth Monarchy men, spread
like a contagion, rendering its victims incomprehensible to all
Christian men; whether equally so to the most distant possible heathen
or not was unexperimented, though many would have subscribed liberally
that a fair trial might be made. It was the pentecost of Shinar. The day
of utterances reproduced the day of rebuses and anagrams, and there was
nothing so simple that uncial letters and the style of Diphilus the
Labyrinth could not turn into a riddle. Many foreign revolutionists out
of work added to the general misunderstanding their contribution of
broken English in every most ingenious form of fracture. All stood ready
at a moment’s notice to reform everything but themselves. The general
motto was:--

          “And we’ll _talk_ with them, too,
    And take upon ’s the mystery of things
    As if we were God’s spies.”

Nature is always kind enough to give even her clouds a humorous lining.
We have barely hinted at the comic side of the affair, for the material
was endless. This was the whistle and trailing fuse of the shell, but
there was a very solid and serious kernel, full of the most deadly
explosiveness. Thoughtful men divined it, but the generality suspected
nothing. The word “transcendental” then was the maid of all work for
those who could not think, as “Pre-Raphaelite” has been more recently
for people of the same limited housekeeping. The truth is, that there
was a much nearer metaphysical relation and a much more distant æsthetic
and literary relation between Carlyle and the Apostles of the Newness,
as they were called in New England, than has commonly been supposed.
Both represented the reaction and revolt against _Philisterei_, a
renewal of the old battle begun in modern times by Erasmus and Reuchlin,
and continued by Lessing, Goethe, and, in a far narrower sense, by Heine
in Germany, and of which Fielding, Sterne, and Wordsworth in different
ways have been the leaders in England. It was simply a struggle for
fresh air, in which, if the windows could not be opened, there was
danger that panes would be broken, though painted with images of saints
and martyrs. Light colored by these reverend effigies was none the more
respirable for being picturesque. There is only one thing better than
tradition, and that is the original and eternal life out of which all
tradition takes its rise. It was this life which the reformers demanded,
with more or less clearness of consciousness and expression, life in
politics, life in literature, life in religion. Of what use to import a
gospel from Judæa, if we leave behind the soul that made it possible,
the God who keeps it forever real and present? Surely Abana and Pharpar
_are_ better than Jordan, if a living faith be mixed with those waters
and none with these.

Scotch Presbyterianism as a motive of spiritual progress was dead; New
England Puritanism was in like manner dead; in other words,
Protestantism had made its fortune and no longer protested; but till
Carlyle spoke out in the Old World and Emerson in the New, no one had
dared to proclaim, _Le roi est mort: vive le roi!_ The meaning of which
proclamation was essentially this: the vital spirit has long since
departed out of this form once so kingly, and the great seal has been in
commission long enough; but meanwhile the soul of man, from which all
power emanates and to which it reverts, still survives in undiminished
royalty; God still survives, little as you gentlemen of the Commission
seem to be aware of it,--nay, may possibly outlive the whole of you,
incredible as it may appear. The truth is, that both Scotch
Presbyterianism and New England Puritanism made their new avatar in
Carlyle and Emerson, the heralds of their formal decease, and the
tendency of the one toward Authority and of the other toward
Independency might have been prophesied by whoever had studied history.
The necessity was not so much in the men as in the principles they
represented and the traditions which overruled them. The Puritanism of
the past found its unwilling poet in Hawthorne, the rarest creative
imagination of the century, the rarest in some ideal respects since
Shakespeare; but the Puritanism that cannot die, the Puritanism that
made New England what it is, and is destined to make America what it
should be, found its voice in Emerson. Though holding himself aloof from
all active partnership in movements of reform, he has been the sleeping
partner who has supplied a great part of their capital.

The artistic range of Emerson is narrow, as every well-read critic must
feel at once; and so is that of Æschylus, so is that of Dante, so is
that of Montaigne, so is that of Schiller, so is that of nearly every
one except Shakespeare; but there is a gauge of height no less than of
breadth, of individuality as well as of comprehensiveness, and, above
all, there is the standard of genetic power, the test of the masculine
as distinguished from the receptive minds. There are staminate plants in
literature, that make no fine show of fruit, but without whose pollen,
quintessence of fructifying gold, the garden had been barren. Emerson’s
mind is emphatically one of these, and there is no man to whom our
æsthetic culture owes so much. The Puritan revolt had made us
ecclesiastically, and the Revolution politically independent, but we
were still socially and intellectually moored to English thought, till
Emerson cut the cable and gave us a chance at the dangers and the
glories of blue water. No man young enough to have felt it can forget,
or cease to be grateful for, the mental and moral _nudge_ which he
received from the writings of his high-minded and brave-spirited
countryman. That we agree with him, or that he always agrees with
himself, is aside from the question; but that he arouses in us something
that we are the better for having awakened, whether that something be of
opposition or assent, that he speaks always to what is highest and least
selfish in us, few Americans of the generation younger than his own
would be disposed to deny. His oration before the Phi Beta Kappa Society
at Cambridge, some thirty years ago, was an event without any former
parallel in our literary annals, a scene to be always treasured in the
memory for its picturesqueness and its inspiration. What crowded and
breathless aisles, what windows clustering with eager heads, what
enthusiasm of approval, what grim silence of foregone dissent! It was
our Yankee version of a lecture by Abelard, our Harvard parallel to the
last public appearances of Schelling.

We said that the Transcendental Movement was the protestant spirit of
Puritanism seeking a new outlet and an escape from forms and creeds
which compressed rather than expressed it. In its motives, its
preaching, and its results, it differed radically from the doctrine of
Carlyle. The Scotchman, with all his genius, and his humor gigantesque
as that of Rabelais, has grown shriller and shriller with years,
degenerating sometimes into a common scold, and emptying very unsavory
vials of wrath on the head of the sturdy British Socrates of worldly
common-sense. The teaching of Emerson tended much more exclusively to
self-culture and the independent development of the individual man. It
seemed to many almost Pythagorean in its voluntary seclusion from
commonwealth affairs. Both Carlyle and Emerson were disciples of Goethe,
but Emerson in a far truer sense; and while the one, from his bias
toward the eccentric, has degenerated more and more into mannerism, the
other has clarified steadily toward perfection of style,--exquisite
fineness of material, unobtrusive lowness of tone and simplicity of
fashion, the most high-bred garb of expression. Whatever may be said of
his thought, nothing can be finer than the delicious limpidness of his
phrase. If it was ever questionable whether democracy could develop a
gentleman, the problem has been affirmatively solved at last. Carlyle,
in his cynicism and his admiration of force in and for itself, has
become at last positively inhuman; Emerson, reverencing strength,
seeking the highest outcome of the individual, has found that society
and politics are also main elements in the attainment of the desired
end, and has drawn steadily manward and worldward. The two men represent
respectively those grand personifications in the drama of Æschylus, Βία
and Κράτος.

Among the pistillate plants kindled to fruitage by the Emersonian
pollen, Thoreau is thus far the most remarkable; and it is something
eminently fitting that his posthumous works should be offered us by
Emerson, for they are strawberries from his own garden. A singular
mixture of varieties, indeed, there is;--alpine, some of them, with the
flavor of rare mountain air; others wood, tasting of sunny roadside
banks or shy openings in the forest; and not a few seedlings swollen
hugely by culture, but lacking the fine natural aroma of the more modest
kinds. Strange books these are of his, and interesting in many
ways,--instructive chiefly as showing how considerable a crop may be
raised on a comparatively narrow close of mind, and how much a man may
make of his life if he will assiduously follow it, though perhaps never
truly finding it at last.

We have just been renewing our recollection of Mr. Thoreau’s writings,
and have read through his six volumes in the order of their production.
We shall try to give an adequate report of their impression upon us both
as critic and as mere reader. He seems to us to have been a man with so
high a conceit of himself that he accepted without questioning, and
insisted on our accepting, his defects and weaknesses of character as
virtues and powers peculiar to himself. Was he indolent, he finds none
of the activities which attract or employ the rest of mankind worthy of
him. Was he wanting in the qualities that make success, it is success
that is contemptible, and not himself that lacks persistency and
purpose. Was he poor, money was an unmixed evil. Did his life seem a
selfish one, he condemns doing good as one of the weakest of
superstitions. To be of use was with him the most killing bait of the
wily tempter Uselessness. He had no faculty of generalization from
outside of himself, or at least no experience which would supply the
material of such, and he makes his own whim the law, his own range the
horizon of the universe. He condemns a world, the hollowness of whose
satisfactions he had never had the means of testing, and we recognize
Apemantus behind the mask of Timon. He had little active imagination; of
the receptive he had much. His appreciation is of the highest quality;
his critical power, from want of continuity of mind, very limited and
inadequate. He somewhere cites a simile from Ossian, as an example of
the superiority of the old poetry to the new, though, even were the
historic evidence less convincing, the sentimental melancholy of those
poems should be conclusive of their modernness. He had no artistic power
such as controls a great work to the serene balance of completeness, but
exquisite mechanical skill in the shaping of sentences and paragraphs,
or (more rarely) short bits of verse for the expression of a detached
thought, sentiment, or image. His works give one the feeling of a sky
full of stars,--something impressive and exhilarating certainly,
something high overhead and freckled thickly with spots of isolated
brightness; but whether these have any mutual relation with each other,
or have any concern with our mundane matters, is for the most part
matter of conjecture,--astrology as yet, and not astronomy.

It is curious, considering what Thoreau afterwards became, that he was
not by nature an observer. He only saw the things he looked for, and was
less poet than naturalist. Till he built his Walden shanty, he did not
know that the hickory grew in Concord. Till he went to Maine, he had
never seen phosphorescent wood, a phenomenon early familiar to most
country boys. At forty he speaks of the seeding of the pine as a new
discovery, though one should have thought that its gold-dust of blowing
pollen might have earlier drawn his eye. Neither his attention nor his
genius was of the spontaneous kind. He discovered nothing. He thought
everything a discovery of his own, from moonlight to the planting of
acorns and nuts by squirrels. This is a defect in his character, but one
of his chief charms as a writer. Everything grows fresh under his hand.
He delved in his mind and nature; he planted them with all manner of
native and foreign seeds, and reaped assiduously. He was not merely
solitary, he would be isolated, and succeeded at last in almost
persuading himself that he was autochthonous. He valued everything in
proportion as he fancied it to be exclusively his own. He complains in
“Walden,” that there is no one in Concord with whom he could talk of
Oriental literature, though the man was living within two miles of his
hut who had introduced him to it. This intellectual selfishness becomes
sometimes almost painful in reading him. He lacked that generosity of
“communication” which Johnson admired in Burke. De Quincey tells us that
Wordsworth was impatient when any one else spoke of mountains, as if he
had a peculiar property in them. And we can readily understand why it
should be so: no one is satisfied with another’s appreciation of his
mistress. But Thoreau seems to have prized a lofty way of thinking
(often we should be inclined to call it a remote one) not so much
because it was good in itself as because he wished few to share it with
him. It seems now and then as if he did not seek to lure others up
“above our lower region of turmoil,” but to leave his own name cut on
the mountain peak as the first climber. This itch of originality infects
his thought and style. To be misty is not to be mystic. He turns
commonplaces end for end, and fancies it makes something new of them.
As we walk down Park Street, our eye is caught by Dr. Windship’s
dumb-bells, one of which bears an inscription testifying that it is the
heaviest ever put up at arm’s length by any athlete; and in reading Mr.
Thoreau’s books we cannot help feeling as if he sometimes invited our
attention to a particular sophism or paradox as the biggest yet
maintained by any single writer. He seeks, at all risks, for perversity
of thought, and revives the age of _concetti_ while he fancies himself
going back to a pre-classical nature. “A day,” he says, “passed in the
society of those Greek sages, such as described in the Banquet of
Xenophon, would not be comparable with the dry wit of decayed
cranberry-vines and the fresh Attic salt of the moss-beds.” It is not so
much the True that he loves as the Out-of-the-Way. As the Brazen Age
shows itself in other men by exaggeration of phrase, so in him by
extravagance of statement. He wishes always to trump your suit and to
_ruff_ when you least expect it. Do you love Nature because she is
beautiful? He will find a better argument in her ugliness. Are you tired
of the artificial man? He instantly dresses you up an ideal in a
Penobscot Indian, and attributes to this creature of his
otherwise-mindedness as peculiarities things that are common to all
woodsmen, white or red, and this simply because he has not studied the
pale-faced variety.

This notion of an absolute originality, as if one could have a
patent-right in it, is an absurdity. A man cannot escape in thought, any
more than he can in language, from the past and the present. As no one
ever invents a word, and yet language somehow grows by general
contribution and necessity, so it is with thought. Mr. Thoreau seems to
us to insist in public on going back to flint and steel, when there is a
match-box in his pocket which he knows very well how to use at a pinch.
Originality consists in power of digesting and assimilating thought, so
that they become part of our life and substance. Montaigne, for example,
is one of the most original of authors, though he helped himself to
ideas in every direction. But they turn to blood and coloring in his
style, and give a freshness of complexion that is forever charming. In
Thoreau much seems yet to be foreign and unassimilated, showing itself
in symptoms of indigestion. A preacher-up of Nature, we now and then
detect under the surly and stoic garb something of the sophist and the
sentimentalizer. We are far from implying that this was conscious on his
part. But it is much easier for a man to impose on himself when he
measures only with himself. A greater familiarity with ordinary men
would have done Thoreau good, by showing him how many fine qualities are
common to the race. The radical vice of his theory of life was, that he
confounded physical with spiritual remoteness from men. One is far
enough withdrawn from his fellows if he keep himself clear of their
weaknesses. He is not so truly withdrawn as exiled, if he refuse to
share in their strength. “Solitude,” says Cowley, “can be well fitted
and set right but upon a very few persons. They must have enough
knowledge of the world to see the vanity of it, and enough virtue to
despise all vanity.” It is a morbid self-consciousness that pronounces
the world of men empty and worthless before trying it, the instinctive
evasion of one who is sensible of some innate weakness, and retorts the
accusation of it before any has made it but himself. To a healthy mind,
the world is a constant challenge of opportunity. Mr. Thoreau had not a
healthy mind, or he would not have been so fond of prescribing. His
whole life was a search for the doctor. The old mystics had a wiser
sense of what the world was worth. They ordained a severe
apprenticeship to law, and even ceremonial, in order to the gaining of
freedom and mastery over these. Seven years of service for Rachel were
to be rewarded at last with Leah. Seven other years of faithfulness with
her were to win them at last the true bride of their souls. Active Life
was with them the only path to the Contemplative.

Thoreau had no humor, and this implies that he was a sorry logician.
Himself an artist in rhetoric, he confounds thought with style when he
undertakes to speak of the latter. He was forever talking of getting
away from the world, but he must be always near enough to it, nay, to
the Concord corner of it, to feel the impression he makes there. He
verifies the shrewd remark of Sainte-Beuve, “On touche encore à son
temps et trèsfort, même quand on le repousse.” This egotism of his is a
Stylites pillar after all, a seclusion which keeps him in the public
eye. The dignity of man is an excellent thing, but therefore to hold
one’s self too sacred and precious is the reverse of excellent. There is
something delightfully absurd in six volumes addressed to a world of
such “vulgar fellows” as Thoreau affirmed his fellow-men to be. We once
had a glimpse of a genuine solitary who spent his winters one hundred
and fifty miles beyond all human communication, and there dwelt with his
rifle as his only confidant. Compared with this, the shanty on Walden
Pond has something the air, it must be confessed, of the Hermitage of La
Chevrette. We do not believe that the way to a true cosmopolitanism
carries one into the woods or the society of musquashes. Perhaps the
narrowest provincialism is that of Self; that of Kleinwinkel is nothing
to it. The natural man, like the singing birds, comes out of the forest
as inevitably as the natural bear and the wildcat stick there. To seek
to be natural implies a consciousness that forbids all naturalness
forever. It is as easy--and no easier--to be natural in a _salon_ as in
a swamp, if one do not aim at it, for what we call unnaturalness always
has its spring in a man’s thinking too much about himself. “It is
impossible,” said Turgot, “for a vulgar man to be simple.”

We look upon a great deal of the modern sentimentalism about Nature as a
mark of disease. It is one more symptom of the general liver-complaint.
To a man of wholesome constitution the wilderness is well enough for a
mood or a vacation, but not for a habit of life. Those who have most
loudly advertised their passion for seclusion and their intimacy with
nature, from Petrarch down, have been mostly sentimentalists, unreal
men, misanthropes on the spindle side, solacing an uneasy suspicion of
themselves by professing contempt for their kind. They make demands on
the world in advance proportioned to their inward measure of their own
merit, and are angry that the world pays only by the visible measure of
performance. It is true of Rousseau, the modern founder of the sect,
true of Saint Pierre, his intellectual child, and of Châteaubriand, his
grandchild, the inventor, we might almost say, of the primitive forest,
and who first was touched by the solemn falling of a tree from natural
decay in the windless silence of the woods. It is a very shallow view
that affirms trees and rocks to be healthy, and cannot see that men in
communities are just as true to the laws of their organization and
destiny; that can tolerate the puffin and the fox, but not the fool and
the knave; that would shun politics because of its demagogues, and snuff
up the stench of the obscene fungus. The divine life of Nature is more
wonderful, more various, more sublime in man than in any other of her
works, and the wisdom that is gained by commerce with men, as Montaigne
and Shakespeare gained it, or with one’s own soul among men, as Dante,
is the most delightful, as it is the most precious, of all. In outward
nature it is still man that interests us, and we care far less for the
things seen than the way in which poetic eyes like Wordsworth’s or
Thoreau’s see them, and the reflections they cast there. To hear the
to-do that is often made over the simple fact that a man sees the image
of himself in the outward world, one is reminded of a savage when he for
the first time catches a glimpse of himself in a looking-glass.
“Venerable child of Nature,” we are tempted to say, “to whose science in
the invention of the tobacco-pipe, to whose art in the tattooing of
thine undegenerate hide not yet enslaved by tailors, we are slowly
striving to climb back, the miracle thou beholdest is sold in my unhappy
country for a shilling!” If matters go on as they have done, and
everybody must needs blab of all the favors that have been done him by
roadside and river-brink and woodland walk, as if to kiss and tell were
no longer treachery, it will be a positive refreshment to meet a man who
is as superbly indifferent to Nature as she is to him. By and by we
shall have John Smith, of No.--12--12th Street, advertising that he is
not the J. S. who saw a cow-lily on Thursday last, as he never saw one
in his life, would not see one if he could, and is prepared to prove an
alibi on the day in question.

Solitary communion with Nature does not seem to have been sanitary or
sweetening in its influence on Thoreau’s character. On the contrary, his
letters show him more cynical as he grew older. While he studied with
respectful attention the minks and woodchucks, his neighbors, he looked
with utter contempt on the august drama of destiny of which his country
was the scene, and on which the curtain had already risen. He was
converting us back to a state of nature “so eloquently,” as Voltaire
said of Rousseau, “that he almost persuaded us to go on all fours,”
while the wiser fates were making it possible for us to walk erect for
the first time. Had he conversed more with his fellows, his sympathies
would have widened with the assurance that his peculiar genius had more
appreciation, and his writings a larger circle of readers, or at least a
warmer one, than he dreamed of. We have the highest testimony[6] to the
natural sweetness, sincerity, and nobleness of his temper, and in his
books an equally irrefragable one to the rare quality of his mind. He
was not a strong thinker, but a sensitive feeler. Yet his mind strikes
us as cold and wintry in its purity. A light snow has fallen everywhere
in which he seems to come on the track of the shier sensations that
would elsewhere leave no trace. We think greater compression would have
done more for his fame. A feeling of sameness comes over us as we read
so much. Trifles are recorded with an over-minute punctuality and
conscientiousness of detail. He records the state of his personal
thermometer thirteen times a day. We cannot help thinking sometimes of
the man who

          “Watches, starves, freezes, and sweats
    To learn but catechisms and alphabets
    Of unconcerning things, matters of fact,”

and sometimes of the saying of the Persian poet, that “when the owl
would boast, he boasts of catching mice at the edge of a hole.” We could
readily part with some of his affectations. It was well enough for
Pythagoras to say, once for all, “When I was Euphorbus at the siege of
Troy”; not so well for Thoreau to travesty it into “When I was a
shepherd on the plains of Assyria.” A naive thing said over again is
anything but naive. But with every exception, there is no writing
comparable with Thoreau’s in kind, that is comparable with it in degree
where it is best; where it disengages itself, that is, from the tangled
roots and dead leaves of a second-hand Orientalism, and runs limpid and
smooth and broadening as it runs, a mirror for whatever is grand and
lovely in both worlds.

George Sand says neatly, that “Art is not a study of positive reality,”
(_actuality_ were the fitter word,) “but a seeking after ideal truth.”
It would be doing very inadequate justice to Thoreau if we left it to be
inferred that this ideal element did not exist in him, and that too in
larger proportion, if less obtrusive, than his nature-worship. He took
nature as the mountain-path to an ideal world. If the path wind a good
deal, if he record too faithfully every trip over a root, if he botanize
somewhat wearisomely, he gives us now and then superb outlooks from some
jutting crag, and brings us out at last into an illimitable ether, where
the breathing is not difficult for those who have any true touch of the
climbing spirit. His shanty-life was a mere impossibility, so far as his
own conception of it goes, as an entire independency of mankind. The tub
of Diogenes had a sounder bottom. Thoreau’s experiment actually
presupposed all that complicated civilization which it theoretically
abjured. He squatted on another man’s land; he borrows an axe; his
boards, his nails, his bricks, his mortar, his books, his lamp, his
fish-hooks, his plough, his hoe, all turn state’s evidence against him
as an accomplice in the sin of that artificial civilization which
rendered it possible that such a person as Henry D. Thoreau should exist
at all. _Magnis tamen excidit ausis._ His aim was a noble and a useful
one, in the direction of “plain living and high thinking.” It was a
practical sermon on Emerson’s text that “things are in the saddle and
ride mankind,” an attempt to solve Carlyle’s problem (condensed from
Johnson) of “lessening your denominator.” His whole life was a rebuke of
the waste and aimlessness of our American luxury, which is an abject
enslavement to tawdry upholstery. He had “fine translunary things” in
him. His better style as a writer is in keeping with the simplicity and
purity of his life. We have said that his range was narrow, but to be a
master is to be a master. He had caught his English at its living
source, among the poets and prose-writers of its best days; his
literature was extensive and recondite; his quotations are always
nuggets of the purest ore: there are sentences of his as perfect as
anything in the language, and thoughts as clearly crystallized; his
metaphors and images are always fresh from the soil; he had watched
Nature like a detective who is to go upon the stand; as we read him, it
seems as if all-out-of-doors had kept a diary and become its own
Montaigne; we look at the landscape as in a Claude Lorraine glass;
compared with his, all other books of similar aim, even White’s
“Selborne,” seem dry as a country clergyman’s meteorological journal in
an old almanac. He belongs with Donne and Browne and Novalis; if not
with the originally creative men, with the scarcely smaller class who
are peculiar, and whose leaves shed their invisible thought-seed like
ferns.




SWINBURNE’S TRAGEDIES.


Are we really, then, to believe the newspapers for once, and to doff our
critical nightcaps, in which we have comfortably overslept many similar
rumors and false alarms, to welcome the advent of a new poet? New poets,
to our thinking, are not very common, and the soft columns of the press
often make dangerous concessions, for which the marble ones of Horace’s
day were too stony-hearted. Indeed, we have some well-grounded doubts
whether England is precisely the country from which we have a right to
expect that most precious of gifts just now. There is hardly enough
fervor of political life there at present to ripen anything but the
fruits of the literary forcing-house, so fair outwardly and so
flavorless compared with those which grow in the hardier open air of a
vigorous popular sentiment. Mere wealth of natural endowment is not
enough; there must be also the co-operation of the time, of the public
genius roused to a consciousness of itself by the necessity of asserting
or defending the vital principle on which that consciousness rests, in
order that a poet may rise to the highest level of his vocation. The
great names of the last generation--Scott, Wordsworth, Byron--represent
moods of national thought and feeling, and are therefore more or less
truly British poets; just as Goethe, in whose capacious nature, open to
every influence of earth and sky, the spiritual fermentation of the
eighteenth century settled and clarified, is a European one. A sceptic
might say, we think, with some justice, that poetry in England was
passing now, if it have not already passed, into one of those periods of
mere art without any intense convictions to back it, which lead
inevitably, and by no long gradation, to the mannered and artificial.
Browning, by far the richest nature of the time, becomes more difficult,
draws nearer to the all-for-point fashion of the _concettisti_, with
every poem he writes; the dainty trick of Tennyson cloys when caught by
a whole generation of versifiers, as the _style_ of a great poet never
can be; and we have a foreboding that Clough, imperfect as he was in
many respects, and dying before he had subdued his sensitive temperament
to the sterner requirements of his art, will be thought a hundred years
hence to have been the truest expression in verse of the moral and
intellectual tendencies, the doubt and struggle towards settled
convictions, of the period in which he lived. To make beautiful
conceptions immortal by exquisiteness of phrase, is to be a poet, no
doubt; but to be a new poet is to feel and to utter that immanent life
of things without which the utmost perfection of mere form is at best
only wax or marble. He who can do both is the great poet.

Over “Chastelard, a Tragedy,” we need not spend much time. It is at best
but the school exercise of a young poet learning to write, and who
reproduces in his copy-book, more or less travestied, the copy that has
been set for him at the page’s head by the authors he most admires.
Grace and even force of expression are not wanting, but there is the
obscurity which springs from want of definite intention; the characters
are vaguely outlined from memory, not drawn firmly from the living and
the nude in actual experience of life; the working of passion is an _a
priori_ abstraction from a scheme in the author’s mind; and there is no
thought, but only a vehement grasping after thought. The hand is the
hand of Swinburne, but the voice is the voice of Browning. With here
and there a pure strain of sentiment, a genuine touch of nature, the
effect of the whole is unpleasant with the faults of the worst school of
modern poetry,--the physically intense school, as we should be inclined
to call it, of which Mrs. Browning’s “Aurora Leigh” is the worst
example, whose muse is a _fast_ young woman with the lavish ornament and
somewhat overpowering perfume of the _demi-monde_, and which pushes
expression to the last gasp of sensuous exhaustion. They forget that
convulsion is not energy, and that words, to hold fire, must first catch
it from vehement heat of thought, while no artificial fervors of phrase
can make the charm work backward to kindle the mind of writer or reader.
An overmastering passion no longer entangles the spiritual being of its
victim in the burning toils of a retribution foredoomed in its own
nature, purifying us with the terror and pity of a soul in its
extremity, as the great masters were wont to set it before us; no, it
must be fleshly, corporeal, must “bite with small white teeth” and draw
blood, to satisfy the craving of our modern inquisitors, who torture
language instead of wooing it to confess the secret of its witchcraft.
That books written on this theory should be popular, is one of the worst
signs of the times; that they should be praised by the censors of
literature shows how seldom criticism goes back to first principles, or
is even aware of them,--how utterly it has forgotten its most earnest
function of demolishing the high places where the unclean rites of Baal
and Ashtaroth usurp on the worship of the one only True and Pure.

“Atalanta in Calydon” is in every respect better than its forerunner. It
is a true poem, and seldom breaks from the maidenly reserve which should
characterize the higher forms of poetry, even in the keenest energy of
expression. If the blank verse be a little mannered and stiff,
reminding one of Landor in his attempts to reproduce the antique, the
lyrical parts are lyrical in the highest sense, graceful, flowing, and
generally simple in sentiment and phrase. There are some touches of
nature in the mother’s memories of Althea, so sweetly pathetic that they
go as right to the heart as they came from it, and are neither Greek nor
English, but broadly human. And yet, when we had read the book through,
we felt as if we were leaving a world of shadows, inhabited by less
substantial things than that nether realm of Homer where the very
eidolon of Achilles is still real to us in its longings and regrets.
These are not characters, but outlines after the Elgin marbles in the
thinnest manner of Flaxman. There is not so much blood in the whole of
them as would warm the little finger of one of Shakespeare’s living and
breathing conceptions. We could not help thinking of those exquisite
verses addressed by Schiller to Goethe, in which, while he expresses a
half-truth so eloquently as almost to make it seem a whole one, he
touches unconsciously the weak point of their common striving after a
Grecian instead of a purely human ideal.

    “Doch leicht gezimmert nur ist Thespis Wagen,
     Und er ist gleich dem acheront’schen Kahn;
     Nur Schatten und Idole kann er tragen,
     Und dräugt das rohe Leben sich heran,
     So droht das leichte Fahrzeug umzuschlagen
     Das nur die flücht’gen Geister fassen kann;
     Der Schein soll nie die Wirklichkeit erreichen
     Und siegt Natur, so muss die Kunst entweichen.”

The actors in the drama are unreal and shadowy, the motives which
actuate them alien to our modern modes of thought and conceptions of
character. To a Greek, the element of Fate, with which his imagination
was familiar, while it heightened the terror of the catastrophe, would
have supplied the place of that impulse in mere human nature which our
habit of mind demands for its satisfaction. The fulfilment of an oracle,
the anger of a deity, the arbitrary doom of some blind and purposeless
power superior to man, the avenging of blood to appease an injured
ghost, any one of these might make that seem simply natural to a
contemporary of Sophocles which is intelligible to us only by study and
reflection. It is not a little curious that Shakespeare should have made
the last of the motives we have just mentioned, and which was conclusive
for Orestes, insufficient for Hamlet, who so perfectly typifies the
introversion and complexity of modern thought as compared with ancient,
in dealing with the problems of life and action. It was not perhaps
without intention (for who may venture to assume a want of intention in
the world’s highest poetic genius at its full maturity?) that
Shakespeare brings in his hero fresh from the University of Wittenberg,
where Luther, who entailed upon us the responsibility of private
judgment, had been Professor. The dramatic motive in the “Electra” and
“Hamlet” is essentially the same, but what a difference between the
straightforward bloody-mindedness of Orestes and the metaphysical
punctiliousness of the Dane! Yet each was natural in his several way,
and each would have been unintelligible to the audience for which the
other was intended. That Fate which the Greeks made to operate from
without, we recognize at work within in some vice of character or
hereditary predisposition. Hawthorne, the most profoundly ideal genius
of these latter days, was continually returning, more or less directly,
to this theme; and his “Marble Faun,” whether consciously or not,
illustrates that invasion of the æsthetic by the moral which has
confused art by dividing its allegiance, and dethroned the old dynasty
without as yet firmly establishing the new in an acknowledged
legitimacy.

“Atalanta in Calydon” shows that poverty of thought and profusion of
imagery which are at once the defect and the compensation of all
youthful poetry, even of Shakespeare’s. It seems a paradox to say that
there can be too much poetry in a poem, and yet this is a fault with
which all poets begin, and which some never get over. But “Atalanta” is
hopefully distinguished, in a rather remarkable way, from most early
attempts, by a sense of form and proportion, which, if seconded by a
seasonable ripening of other faculties, as we may fairly expect, gives
promise of rare achievement hereafter. Mr. Swinburne’s power of
assimilating style, which is, perhaps, not so auspicious a symptom,
strikes us as something marvellous. The argument of his poem, in its
quaint archaism, would not need the change of a word or in the order of
a period to have been foisted on Sir Thomas Malory as his own
composition. The choosing a theme which Æschylus had handled in one of
his lost tragedies is justified by a certain Æschylean flavor in the
treatment. The opening, without deserving to be called a mere imitation,
recalls that of the “Agamemnon,” and the chorus has often an imaginative
lift in it, an ethereal charm of phrase, of which it is the highest
praise to say that it reminds us of him who soars over the other Greek
tragedians like an eagle.

But in spite of many merits, we cannot help asking ourselves, as we
close the book, whether “Atalanta” can be called a success, and if so,
whether it be a success in the right direction. The poem reopens a
question which in some sort touches the very life of modern literature.
We do not mean to renew the old quarrel of Fontenelle’s day as to the
comparative merits of ancients and moderns. That is an affair of taste,
which does not admit of any authoritative settlement. Our concern is
about a principle which certainly demands a fuller discussion, and
which is important enough to deserve it. Do we show our appreciation of
the Greeks most wisely in attempting the mechanical reproduction of
their forms, or by endeavoring to comprehend the thoughtful spirit of
full-grown manhood in which they wrought, to kindle ourselves by the
emulation of it, and to bring it to bear with all its plastic force upon
our wholly new conditions of life and thought? It seems to us that the
question is answered by the fact, patent in the history of all the fine
arts, that every attempt at reproducing a bygone excellence by external
imitation of it, or even by applying the rules which analytic criticism
has formulated from the study of it, has resulted in producing the
artificial, and not the artistic. That most subtile of all essences in
physical organization, which eludes chemist, anatomist, and
microscopist, the life, is in æsthetics not less shy of the critic, and
will not come forth in obedience to his most learned spells, for the
very good reason that it cannot, because in all works of art it is the
joint product of the artist and of the time. Faust may believe he is
gazing on “the face that launched a thousand ships,” but Mephistopheles
knows very well that it is only shadows that he has the skill to
conjure. He is not merely the spirit that ever denies, but the spirit
also of discontent with the present, that material in which every man
shall work who will achieve realities and not their hollow semblance.
The true anachronism, in our opinion, is not in Shakespeare’s making
Ulysses talk as Lord Bacon might, but in attempting to make him speak in
a dialect of thought utterly dead to all present comprehension. Ulysses
was the type of long-headedness; and the statecraft of an Ithacan
cateran would have seemed as childish to the age of Elizabeth and
Burleigh as it was naturally sufficing to the first hearers of Homer.
Ulysses, living in Florence during the fifteenth century, might have
been Macchiavelli; in France, during the seventeenth, Cardinal
Richelieu; in America, during the nineteenth, Abraham Lincoln, but not
Ulysses. Truth to nature can be reached ideally, never historically; it
must be a study from the life, and not from the scholiasts. Theocritus
lets us into the secret of his good poetry, when he makes Daphnis tell
us that he preferred his rock with a view of the Siculian Sea to the
kingdom of Pelops.

It is one of the marvels of the human mind, this sorcery which the fiend
of technical imitation weaves about his victims, giving a phantasmal
Helen to their arms, and making an image of the brain seem substance.
Men still pain themselves to write Latin verses, matching their wooden
bits of phrase together as children do dissected maps, and measuring the
value of what they have done, not by any standard of intrinsic merit,
but by the difficulty of doing it. Petrarch expected to be known to
posterity by his Africa. Gray hoped to make a Latin poem his monument.
Goethe, who was classic in the only way it is now possible to be
classic, in his “Hermann and Dorothea,” and at least Propertian in his
“Roman Idyls,” wasted his time and thwarted his creative energy on the
mechanical mock-antique of an unreadable “Achilleis.” Landor prized his
waxen “Gebirus Rex” above all the natural fruits of his mind; and we
have no doubt that, if some philosopher should succeed in accomplishing
Paracelsus’s problem of an artificial _homunculus_, he would dote on
this misbegotten babe of his science, and think him the only genius of
the family. We cannot over-estimate the value of some of the ancient
classics, but a certain amount of superstition about Greek and Latin has
come down to us from the revival of learning, and seems to hold in
mortmain the intellects of whoever has, at some time, got a smattering
of them. Men quote a platitude in either of those tongues with a relish
of conviction as droll to the uninitiated as the knighthood of
free-masonry. Horace Walpole’s nephew, the Earl of Orford, when he was
in his cups, used to have Statius read aloud to him every night for two
hours by a tipsy tradesman, whose hiccupings threw in here and there a
kind of cæsural pause, and found some strange mystery of sweetness in
the disqualified syllables. So powerful is this hallucination that we
can conceive of _festina lente_ as the favorite maxim of a Mississippi
steamboat captain, and ἄριστον μὲν ὕδωρ cited as conclusive by a
gentleman for whom the bottle before him reversed the wonder of the
stereoscope, and substituted the Gascon _v_ for the _b_ in binocular.

Something of this singular superstition has infected the minds of those
who confound the laws of conventional limitation which governed the
practice of Greek authors in dramatic composition--laws adapted to the
habits and traditions and preconceptions of their audience--with that
sense of ideal form which made the Greeks masters in art to all
succeeding generations. Aristophanes is beyond question the highest type
of pure comedy, etherealizing his humor by the infusion, or intensifying
it by the contrast of poetry, and deodorizing the personality of his
sarcasm by a sprinkle from the clearest springs of fancy. His satire,
aimed as it was at typical characteristics, is as fresh as ever; but we
doubt whether an Aristophanic drama, retaining its exact form, but
adapted to present events and personages, would keep the stage as it is
kept by “The Rivals,” for example, immeasurably inferior as that is in
every element of genius except the prime one of liveliness. Something
similar in purpose to the parabasis was essayed in one, at least, of the
comedies of Beaumont and Fletcher, and in our time by Tieck; but it
took, of necessity, a different form of expression, and does not seem
to have been successful. Indeed, the fact that what is called the
legitimate drama of modern times in England, Spain, and France has been
strictly a growth, and not a manufacture, that in each country it took a
different form, and that, in all, the period of its culminating and
beginning to decline might be measured by a generation, seems to point
us toward some natural and inevitable law of human nature, and to show
that, while the principles of art are immutable, their application must
accommodate itself to the material supplied them by the time and by the
national character and traditions. The Spanish tragedy inclines more
toward the lyrical, the French toward the epical, the English toward the
historical, in the representation of real life; the Spanish and English
agree in the Teutonic peculiarity of admitting the humorous offset of
the clown, though in the one case he parodies the leading motive of the
drama, and represents the self-consciousness of the dramatist, while in
the other he heightens the tragic effect by contrast, (as in the
grave-digging scene of Hamlet,) and suggests that stolid but wholesome
indifference of the general life--of what, for want of a better term, we
call Nature--to the sin and suffering, the weakness and misfortunes of
the individual man. All these nations had the same ancient examples
before them, had the same reverence for antiquity, yet they
involuntarily deviated, more or less happily, into originality, success,
and the freedom of a living creativeness. The higher kinds of
literature, the only kinds that live on because they had life at the
start, are not, then, it should seem, the fabric of scholarship, of
criticism, diligently studying and as diligently copying the best
models, but are much rather born of some genetic principle in the
character of the people and the age which produce them. One drop of
ruddy human blood puts more life into the veins of a poem, than all the
delusive _aurum potabile_ that can be distilled out of the choicest
library.

The opera is the closest approach we have to the ancient drama in the
essentials of structure and presentation; and could we have a _libretto_
founded on a national legend and written by one man of genius to be
filled out and accompanied by the music of another, we might hope for
something of the same effect upon the stage. But themes of universal
familiarity and interest are rare,--Don Giovanni and Faust, perhaps,
most nearly, though not entirely, fulfilling the required
conditions,--and men of genius rarer. The oratorio seeks to evade the
difficulty by choosing Scriptural subjects, and it may certainly be
questioned whether the day of popular mythology, in the sense in which
it subserves the purposes of epic or dramatic poetry, be not gone by
forever. Longfellow is driven to take refuge among the red men, and
Tennyson in the Cambro-Breton cyclus of Arthur; but it is impossible
that such themes should come so intimately home to us as the
semi-fabulous stories of their own ancestors did to the Greeks. The most
successful attempt at reproducing the Greek tragedy, both in theme and
treatment, is the “Samson Agonistes,” as it is also the most masterly
piece of English versification. Goethe admits that it alone, among
modern works, has caught life from the breath of the antique spirit. But
he failed to see, or at least to give, the reason of it; probably failed
to see it, or he would never have attempted the “Iphigenia.” Milton not
only subjected himself to the structural requirements of the Attic
tragedy, but with a true poetic instinct availed himself of the striking
advantage it had in the choice of a subject. No popular tradition lay
near enough to him for his purpose; none united in itself the essential
requisites of human interest and universal belief. He accordingly chose
a Jewish mythus, very near to his own heart as a blind prisoner,
betrayed by his wife, among the Philistines of the Restoration, and
familiar to the earliest associations of his hearers. This subject, and
this alone, met all the demands both of living poetic production and of
antique form,--the action grandly simple, the personages few, the
protagonist at once a victim of divine judgment and an executor of
divine retribution, an intense personal sympathy in the poet himself,
and no strangeness to the habitual prepossessions of those he addressed
to be overcome before he could touch their hearts or be sure of aid from
their imaginations. To compose such a drama on such a theme was to _be_
Greek, and not to counterfeit it; for Samson was to Milton traditionally
just what Herakles was to Sophocles, and personally far more. The
“Agonistes” is still fresh and strong as morning, but where are
“Caractacus” and “Elfrida”? Nay, where is the far better work of a far
abler man,--where is “Merope”? If the frame of mind which performs a
deliberate experiment were the same as that which produces poetry
vitalized through and through by the conspiring ardors of every nobler
passion and power of the soul, then “Merope” might have had some little
space of life. But without color, without harmonious rhythm of movement,
with less passion than survived in an average Grecian ghost, and all
this from the very theory of her creation, she has gone back, a shadow,
to join her shadowy Italian and French namesakes in that limbo of things
that would be and cannot be. Mr. Arnold but retraces, in his Preface to
“Merope,” the arguments of Mason in the letters prefixed to his
classical experiments. What finds defenders, but not readers, may be
correct, classic, right in principle, but it is not poetry of that
absolute kind which may and does help men, but needs no help of theirs;
and such surely we have a right to demand in tragedy, if nowhere else.
We should not speak so unreservedly if we did not set a high value on
Mr. Arnold and his poetic gift. But “Merope” has that one fault against
which the very gods, we are told, strive in vain. It is dull, and the
seed of this dulness lay in the system on which it was written.

Pseudo-classicism takes two forms. Sometimes, as Mr. Landor has done, it
attempts truth of detail to ancient scenery and manners, which may be
attained either by hard reading and good memory, or at a cheaper rate
from such authors as Becker. The “Moretum,” once attributed to Virgil,
and the idyl of Theocritus lately chosen as a text by Mr. Arnold, are
interesting, because they describe real things; but the mock-antique, if
not true, is nothing, and how true such poems are likely to be we can
judge by “Punch’s” success at Yankeeisms, by all England’s accurate
appreciation of the manners and minds of a contemporary people one with
herself in language, laws, religion, and literature. The eye is the only
note-book of the true poet; but a patchwork of second-hand memories is a
laborious futility, hard to write and harder to read, with about as much
nature in it as a dialogue of the Deipnosophists. Alexander’s bushel of
peas was a criticism worthy of Aristotle’s pupil. We should reward such
writing with the gift of a classical dictionary. In this idyllic kind of
poetry also we have a classic, because Goldsmith went to nature for his
“Deserted Village,” and borrowed of tradition nothing but the poetic
diction in which he described it. This is the only method by which a
poet may surely reckon on ever becoming an ancient himself. When we
heard it said once that a certain poem might have been written by
Simonides, we could not help thinking that, if it were so, then it was
precisely what Simonides could never have written, since he looked at
the world through his own eyes, not through those of Linus or Hesiod,
and thought his own thoughts, not theirs, or we should never have had
him to imitate.

Objections of the same nature, but even stronger, lie against a servile
copying of the form and style of the Greek tragic drama, and yet more
against the selection of a Greek theme. As we said before, the life we
lead, and the views we take of it, are more complex than those of men
who lived five centuries before Christ. They may be better or worse,
but, at any rate, they are different, and irremediably so. The idea and
the form in which it naturally embodies itself, mutually sustaining and
invigorating each other, cannot be divided without endangering the lives
of both. For in all real poetry the form is not a garment, but a body.
Our very passion has become metaphysical, and speculates upon itself.
Their simple and downright way of thinking loses all its savor when we
assume it to ourselves by an effort of thought. Human nature, it is
true, remains always the same, but the displays of it change; the habits
which are a second nature modify it inwardly as well as outwardly, and
what moves it to passionate action in one age may leave it indifferent
in the next. Between us and the Greeks lies the grave of their murdered
paganism, making our minds and theirs irreconcilable. Christianity as
steadily intensifies the self-consciousness of man as the religion of
the Greeks must have turned their thoughts away from themselves to the
events of this life and the phenomena of nature. We cannot even conceive
of their conception of Phoibos with any plausible assurance of coming
near the truth. To take lesser matters, since the invention of printing
and the cheapening of books have made the thought of all ages and
nations the common property of educated men, we cannot so dis-saturate
our minds of it as to be keenly thrilled in the modern imitation with
those commonplaces of proverbial lore in which the chorus and secondary
characters are apt to indulge, though in the original they may interest
us as being natural and characteristic. In the German-silver of the
modern we get something of this kind, which does not please us the more
by being cut up into single lines that recall the outward semblance of
some pages in Sophocles. We find it cheaper to make a specimen than to
borrow one.

    CHORUS. Foolish who bites off nose, his face to spite.
    OUTIS. Who fears his fate, him Fate shall one day spurn.
    CHORUS. The gods themselves are pliable to Fate.
    OUTIS. The strong self-ruler dreads no other sway.
    CHORUS. Sometimes the shortest way goes most about.
    OUTIS. Why fetch a compass, having stars within?
    CHORUS. A shepherd once, I know that stars may set.
    OUTIS. That thou led’st sheep fits not for leading men.
    CHORUS. To sleep-sealed eyes the wolf-dog barks in vain.

We protest that we have read something very like this, we will not say
where, and we might call it the battle-door and shuttlecock style of
dialogue, except that the players do not seem to have any manifest
relation to each other, but each is intent on keeping his own bit of
feathered cork continually in the air.

The first sincerely popular yearning toward antiquity, the first germ of
Schiller’s “Götter Griechenland’s” is to be found in the old poem of
Tanhäuser, very nearly coincident with the beginnings of the
Reformation. And if we might allegorize it, we should say that it
typified precisely that longing after Venus, under her other name of
Charis, which represents the relation in which modern should stand to
ancient art. It is the grace of the Greeks, their sense of proportion,
their distaste for the exaggerated, their exquisite propriety of
phrase, which steadies imagination without cramping it,--it is these
that we should endeavor to assimilate without the loss of our own
individuality. We should quicken our sense of form by intelligent
sympathy with theirs, and not stiffen it into formalism by a servile
surrender of what is genuine in us to what _was_ genuine in them. “A
pure form,” says Schiller, “helps and sustains, an impure one hinders
and shatters.” But we should remember that the spirit of the age must
enter as a modifying principle, not only into ideas, but into the best
manner of their expression. The old bottles will not always serve for
the new wine. A principle of life is the first requirement of all art,
and it can only be communicated by the touch of the time and a simple
faith in it; all else is circumstantial and secondary. The Greek tragedy
passed through the three natural stages of poetry,--the imaginative in
Æschylus, the thoughtfully artistic in Sophocles, the sentimental in
Euripides,--and then died. If people could only learn the general
applicability to periods and schools of what young Mozart says of
Gellert, that “he had written no poetry _since_ his death”! No effort to
raise a defunct past has ever led to anything but just enough galvanic
twitching of the limbs to remind us unpleasantly of life. The romantic
movement of the school of German poets which succeeded Goethe and
Schiller ended in extravagant unreality, and Goethe himself with his
enerring common-sense, has given us, in the second part of Faust, the
result of his own and Schiller’s common striving after a Grecian ideal.
Euphorion, the child of Faust and Helen, falls dead at their feet; and
Helen herself soon follows him to the shades, leaving only her mantle in
the hands of her lover. This, he is told, shall lift him above the
earth. We fancy we can interpret the symbol. Whether we can or not, it
is certainly suggestive of thought that the only immortal production of
the greatest of recent poets was conceived and carried out in that
Gothic spirit and form from which he was all his life struggling to
break loose.




CHAUCER.[7]


Will it _do_ to say anything more about Chaucer? Can any one hope to say
anything, not new, but even fresh, on a topic so well worn? It may well
be doubted; and yet one is always the better for a walk in the morning
air,--a medicine which may be taken over and over again without any
sense of sameness, or any failure of its invigorating quality. There is
a pervading wholesomeness in the writings of this man,--a vernal
property that soothes and refreshes in a way of which no other has ever
found the secret. I repeat to myself a thousand times,--

    “Whan that Aprilë with his showrës sotë
     The droughte of March hath percëd to the rotë,
     And bathëd every veine in swich licour
     Of which vertue engendered is the flour,--
     When Zephyrus eek with his swetë breth
     Enspirëd hath in every holt and heth
     The tender croppës, and the yongë sonne
     Hath in the ram his halfë cors yronne,
     And smalë foulës maken melodië,”--

and still at the thousandth time a breath of uncontaminate springtide
seems to lift the hair upon my forehead. If here be not the _largior
ether_, the serene and motionless atmosphere of classical antiquity, we
find at least the _seclusum nemus_, the _domos placidas_, and the
_oubliance_, as Froissart so sweetly calls it, that persuade us we are
in an Elysium none the less sweet that it appeals to our more purely
human, one might almost say domestic, sympathies. We may say of
Chaucer’s muse, as Overbury of his milkmaid, “her breath is her own,
which scents all the year long of _June_ like a new-made haycock.” The
most hardened _roué_ of literature can scarce confront these simple and
winning graces without feeling somewhat of the unworn sentiment of his
youth revive in him. Modern imaginative literature has become so
self-conscious, and therefore so melancholy, that Art, which should be
“the world’s sweet inn,” whither we repair for refreshment and repose,
has become rather a watering-place, where one’s own private touch of the
liver-complaint is exasperated by the affluence of other sufferers whose
talk is a narrative of morbid symptoms. Poets have forgotten that the
first lesson of literature, no less than of life, is the learning how to
burn your own smoke; that the way to be original is to be healthy; that
the fresh color, so delightful in all good writing, is won by escaping
from the fixed air of self into the brisk atmosphere of universal
sentiments; and that to make the common marvellous, as if it were a
revelation, is the test of genius. It is good to retreat now and then
beyond earshot of the introspective confidences of modern literature,
and to lose ourselves in the gracious worldliness of Chaucer. Here was a
healthy and hearty man, so genuine that he need not ask whether he were
genuine or no, so sincere as quite to forget his own sincerity, so truly
pious that he could be happy in the best world that God chose to make,
so humane that he loved even the foibles of his kind. Here was a truly
epic poet, without knowing it, who did not waste time in considering
whether his age were good or bad, but quietly taking it for granted as
the best that ever was or could be for _him_, has left us such a picture
of contemporary life as no man ever painted. “A perpetual fountain of
good-sense,” Dryden calls him, yes, and of good-humor, too, and
wholesome thought. He was one of those rare authors whom, if we had met
him under a porch in a shower, we should have preferred to the rain. He
could be happy with a crust and spring-water, and could see the shadow
of his benign face in a flagon of Gascon wine without fancying Death
sitting opposite to cry _Supernaculum!_ when he had drained it. He could
look to God without abjectness, and on man without contempt. The pupil
of manifold experience,--scholar, courtier, soldier, ambassador, who had
known poverty as a housemate and been the companion of princes,--his was
one of those happy temperaments that could equally enjoy both halves of
culture,--the world of books and the world of men.

    “Unto this day it doth mine hertë boote,
     That I have had my world as in my time!”

The portrait of Chaucer, which we owe to the loving regret of his
disciple Occleve, confirms the judgment of him which we make from his
works. It is, I think, more engaging than that of any other poet. The
downcast eyes, half sly, half meditative, the sensuous mouth, the broad
brow, drooping with weight of thought, and yet with an inexpugnable
youth shining out of it as from the morning forehead of a boy, are all
noticeable, and not less so their harmony of placid tenderness. We are
struck, too, with the smoothness of the face as of one who thought
easily, whose phrase flowed naturally, and who had never puckered his
brow over an unmanageable verse.

Nothing has been added to our knowledge of Chaucer’s life since Sir
Harris Nicholas, with the help of original records, weeded away the
fictions by which the few facts were choked and overshadowed. We might
be sorry that no confirmation has been found for the story, fathered on
a certain phantasmal Mr. Buckley, that Chaucer was “fined two shillings
for beating a Franciscan friar in Fleet Street,” if it were only for the
alliteration; but we refuse to give up the meeting with Petrarch. All
the probabilities are in its favor. That Chaucer, being at Milan, should
not have found occasion to ride across so far as Padua, for the sake of
seeing the most famous literary man of the day, is incredible. If
Froissart could journey on horseback through Scotland and Wales, surely
Chaucer, whose curiosity was as lively as his, might have ventured what
would have been a mere pleasure-trip in comparison. I cannot easily
bring myself to believe that he is not giving some touches of his own
character in that of the Clerk of Oxford:--

    “For him was liefer have at his bed’s head
     A twenty bookës clothed in black and red
     Of Aristotle and his philosophië
     Than robës rich, or fiddle or psaltrië:
     But although that he were a philosòpher
     Yet had he but a little gold in coffer:
     Of study took he mostë care and heed;
     Not one word spake he morë than was need:
     All that he spake it was of high prudèncë,
     And short and quick, and full of great sentencë;
     Sounding in moral virtue was his speech
     And gladly would he learn and gladly teach.”

That, himself as plump as Horace, he should have described the Clerk as
being lean, will be no objection to those who remember how carefully
Chaucer effaces his own personality in his great poem. Our chief debt to
Sir Harris Nicholas is for having disproved the story that Chaucer,
imprisoned for complicity in the insurrection of John of Northampton,
had set himself free by betraying his accomplices. That a poet, one of
whose leading qualities is his good sense and moderation, and who should
seem to have practised his own rule, to

    “Fly from the press and dwell with soothfastness;
     Sufficë thee thy good though it be small,”

should have been concerned in any such political excesses, was
improbable enough; but that he should add to this the baseness of broken
faith was incredible except to such as in a doubtful story

    “Demen gladly to the badder end.”

Sir Harris Nicholas has proved by the records that the fabric is
baseless, and we may now read the poet’s fine verse,

    “Truth is the highest thing a man may keep,”

without a pang. We are thankful that Chaucer’s shoulders are finally
discharged of that weary load, “The Testament of Love.”[8] The later
biographers seem inclined to make Chaucer a younger man at his death in
1400 than has hitherto been supposed. Herr Hertzberg even puts his birth
so late as 1340. But, till more conclusive evidence is produced, we
shall adhere to the received dates as on the whole more consonant with
the probabilities of the case. The monument is clearly right as to the
year of his death, and the chances are at least even that both this and
the date of birth were copied from an older inscription. The only
counter-argument that has much force is the manifestly unfinished
condition of the “Canterbury Tales.” That a man of seventy odd could
have put such a spirit of youth into those matchless prologues will
not, however, surprise those who remember Dryden’s second spring-time.
It is plain that the notion of giving unity to a number of disconnected
stories by the device which Chaucer adopted was an afterthought. These
stories had been written, and some of them even published, at periods
far asunder, and without any reference to connection among themselves.
The prologues, and those parts which internal evidence justifies us in
taking them to have been written after the thread of plan to string them
on was conceived, are in every way more mature,--in knowledge of the
world, in easy mastery of verse and language, and in the overpoise of
sentiment by judgment. They may with as much probability be referred to
a green old age as to the middle-life of a man who, upon any theory of
the dates, was certainly slow in ripening.

       *       *       *       *       *

The formation of a Chaucer Society, now four centuries and a half after
the poet’s death, gives suitable occasion for taking a new observation
of him, as of a fixed star, not only in our own, but in the European
literary heavens, “whose worth’s unknown although his height be taken.”
The admirable work now doing by this Society, whose establishment was
mainly due to the pious zeal of Mr. Furnivall, deserves recognition from
all who know how to value the too rare union of accurate scholarship
with minute exactness in reproducing the text. The six-text edition of
the “Canterbury Tales,” giving what is practically equivalent to six
manuscript copies, is particularly deserving of gratitude from this side
the water, as it for the first time affords to Americans the opportunity
of independent critical study and comparison. This beautiful work is
fittingly inscribed to our countryman, Professor Child, of Harvard, a
lover of Chaucer, “so proved by his wordës and his werke,” who has done
more for the great poet’s memory than any man since Tyrwhitt. We
earnestly hope that the Society may find enough support to print all the
remaining manuscript texts of importance, for there can hardly be any
one of them that may not help us to a valuable hint. The works of Mr.
Sandras and Herr Hertzberg show that this is a matter of interest not
merely or even primarily to English scholars. The introduction to the
latter is one of the best essays on Chaucer yet written, while the
former, which is an investigation of the French and Italian sources of
the poet, supplies us with much that is new and worth having as respects
the training of the poet, and the obstacles of fashion and taste through
which he had to force his way before he could find free play for his
native genius or even so much as arrive at a consciousness thereof. M.
Sandras is in every way a worthy pupil of the accomplished M. Victor
Leclerc, and, though he lays perhaps a little too much stress on the
indebtedness of Chaucer in particulars, shows a singularly intelligent
and clear-sighted eye for the general grounds of his claim to greatness
and originality. It is these grounds which I propose chiefly to examine
here.

The first question we put to any poet, nay, to any so-called national
literature, is that which Farinata addressed to Dante, _Chi fur li
maggior tui?_ Here is no question of plagiarism, for poems are not made
of words and thoughts and images, but of that something in the poet
himself which can compel them to obey him and move to the rhythm of his
nature. Thus it is that the new poet, however late he come, can never be
forestalled, and the ship-builder who built the pinnace of Columbus has
as much claim to the discovery of America as he who suggests a thought
by which some other man opens new worlds to us has to a share in that
achievement by him unconceived and inconceivable. Chaucer undoubtedly
began as an imitator, perhaps as mere translator, serving the needful
apprenticeship in the use of his tools. Children learn to speak by
watching the lips and catching the words of those who know how already,
and poets learn in the same way from their elders. They import their raw
material from any and everywhere, and the question at last comes down to
this,--whether an author have original force enough to assimilate all he
has acquired, or that be so overmastering as to assimilate _him_. If the
poet turn out the stronger, we allow him to help himself from other
people with wonderful equanimity. Should a man discover the art of
transmuting metals and present us with a lump of gold as large as an
ostrich-egg, would it be in human nature to inquire too nicely whether
he had stolen the lead?

Nothing is more certain than that great poets are not sudden prodigies,
but slow results. As an oak profits by the foregone lives of immemorial
vegetable races that have worked-over the juices of earth and air into
organic life out of whose dissolution a soil might gather fit to
maintain that nobler birth of nature, so we may be sure that the genius
of every remembered poet drew the forces that built it up out of the
decay of a long succession of forgotten ones. Nay, in proportion as the
genius is vigorous and original will its indebtedness be greater, will
its roots strike deeper into the past and grope in remoter fields for
the virtue that must sustain it. Indeed, if the works of the great poets
teach anything, it is to hold mere invention somewhat cheap. It is not
the finding of a thing, but the making something out of it after it is
found, that is of consequence. Accordingly, Chaucer, like Shakespeare,
invented almost nothing. Wherever he found anything directed to Geoffrey
Chaucer, he took it and made the most of it. It was not the subject
treated, but himself, that was the new thing. _Cela m’appartient de
droit_, Molière is reported to have said when accused of plagiarism.
Chaucer pays that “usurious interest which genius,” as Coleridge says,
“always pays in borrowing.” The characteristic touch is his own. In the
famous passage about the caged bird, copied from the “Romaunt of the
Rose,” the “gon eten wormes” was added by him. We must let him, if he
will, eat the heart out of the literature that had preceded him, as we
sacrifice the mulberry-leaves to the silkworm, because he knows how to
convert them into something richer and more lasting. The question of
originality is not one of form, but of substance, not of cleverness, but
of imaginative power. Given your material, in other words the life in
which you live, how much can you see in it? For on that depends how much
you can make of it. Is it merely an arrangement of man’s contrivance, a
patchwork of expediencies for temporary comfort and convenience, good
enough if it last your time, or is it so much of the surface of that
ever-flowing deity which we call Time, wherein we catch such fleeting
reflection as is possible for us, of our relation to perdurable things?
This is what makes the difference between Æschylus and Euripides,
between Shakespeare and Fletcher, between Goethe and Heine, between
literature and rhetoric. Something of this depth of insight, if not in
the fullest, yet in no inconsiderable measure, characterizes Chaucer. We
must not let his playfulness, his delight in the world as mere
spectacle, mislead us into thinking that he was incapable of serious
purpose or insensible to the deeper meanings of life.

There are four principal sources from which Chaucer may be presumed to
have drawn for poetical suggestion or literary culture,--the Latins, the
Troubadours, the Trouvères, and the Italians. It is only the two latter
who can fairly claim any immediate influence in the direction of his
thought or the formation of his style. The only Latin poet who can be
supposed to have influenced the spirit of mediæeval literature is Ovid.
In his sentimentality, his love of the marvellous and the picturesque,
he is its natural precursor. The analogy between his Fasti and the
versified legends of saints is more than a fanciful one. He was
certainly popular with the poets of the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries. Virgil had wellnigh become mythical. The chief merit of the
Provençal poets is in having been the first to demonstrate that it was
possible to write with elegance in a modern dialect, and their interest
for us is mainly as forerunners, as indications of tendency. Their
literature is prophecy, not fulfilment. Its formal sentiment culminated
in Laura, its ideal aspiration in Beatrice. Shakespeare’s hundred and
sixth sonnet, if, for the imaginary mistress to whom it was addressed,
we substitute the muse of a truer conception and more perfected
utterance, represents exactly the feeling with which we read Provençal
poetry:--

    “When in the chronicle of wasted Time
     I see descriptions of the fairest wights
     And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
     In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,

           *       *       *       *       *

     I see their antique pen would have expressed
     Even such a beauty as you master now;
     So all their praises are but prophecies
     Of this our time, all you prefiguring,
     And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
     They had not skill enough your worth to sing.”

It is astonishing how little of the real life of the time we learn from
the Troubadours except by way of inference and deduction. Their poetry
is purely lyric in its most narrow sense, that is, the expression of
personal and momentary moods. To the fancy of critics who take their
cue from tradition, Provençe is a morning sky of early summer, out of
which innumerable larks rain a faint melody (the sweeter because rather
half divined than heard too distinctly) over an earth where the dew
never dries and the flowers never fade. But when we open Raynouard it is
like opening the door of an aviary. We are deafened and confused by a
hundred minstrels singing the same song at once, and more than suspect
that the flowers they welcome are made of French cambric spangled with
dewdrops of prevaricating glass. Bernard de Ventadour and Bertrand de
Born are wellnigh the only ones among them in whom we find an original
type. Yet the Troubadours undoubtedly led the way to refinement of
conception and perfection of form. They were the conduit through which
the failing stream of Roman literary tradition flowed into the new
channel which mediæval culture was slowly shaping for itself. Without
them we could not understand Petrarca, who earned the manufacture of
artificial bloom and fictitious dew-drop to a point of excellence where
artifice, if ever, may claim the praise of art. Without them we could
not understand Dante, in whom their sentiment for woman was idealized by
a passionate intellect and a profound nature, till Beatrice becomes a
half-human, half-divine abstraction, a woman still to memory and
devotion, a disembodied symbol to the ecstasy of thought. The Provençal
love-poetry was as abstracted from all sensuality as that of Petrarca,
but it stops short of that larger and more gracious style of treatment
which has secured him a place in all gentle hearts and refined
imaginations forever. In it also woman leads her servants upward, but it
is along the easy slopes of conventional sentiment, and no Troubadour so
much as dreamed of that loftier region, native to Dante, where _the_
woman is subtilized into _das Ewig-Weibliche_, type of man’s finer
conscience and nobler aspiration made sensible to him only through her.

On the whole, it would be hard to find anything more tediously
artificial than the Provençal literature, except the reproduction of it
by the Minnesingers. The _Tedeschi lurchi_ certainly _did_ contrive to
make something heavy as dough out of what was at least light, if not
very satisfying, in the canorous dialect of Southern Gaul. But its doom
was inevitably predicted in its nature and position, nay, in its very
name. It was, and it continues to be, a strictly _provincial_
literature, imprisoned within extremely narrow intellectual and even
geographical limits. It is not race or language that can inflict this
leprous isolation, but some defect of sympathy with the simpler and more
universal relations of human nature. You cannot shut up Burns in a
dialect bristling with archaisms, nor prevent Béranger from setting all
pulses a-dance in the least rhythmic and imaginative of modern tongues.
The healthy temperament of Chaucer, with its breadth of interest in all
ranks and phases of social life, could have found little that was
sympathetic in the evaporated sentiment and rhetorical punctilios of a
school of poets which, with rare exceptions, began and ended in courtly
dilettantism.

The refined formality with which the literary product of Provençe is for
the most part stamped, as with a trademark, was doubtless the legacy of
Gallo-Roman culture, itself at best derivative and superficial. I think,
indeed, that it may well be doubted whether Roman literature, always a
half-hardy exotic, could ripen the seeds of living reproduction. The
Roman genius was eminently practical, and far more apt for the triumphs
of politics and jurisprudence than of art. Supreme elegance it could and
did arrive at in Virgil, but, if I may trust my own judgment, it
produced but one original poet, and that was Horace, who has ever since
continued the favorite of men of the world, an apostle to the Gentiles
of the mild cynicism of middle-age and an after-dinner philosophy.
Though in no sense national, he was, more truly than any has ever been
since, till the same combination of circumstances produced Béranger, an
urbane or city poet. Rome, with her motley life, her formal religion,
her easy morals, her spectacles, her luxury, her suburban country-life,
was his muse. The situation was new, and found a singer who had wit
enough to turn it to account. There are a half-dozen pieces of Catullus
unsurpassed (unless their Greek originals should turn up) for lyric
grace and fanciful tenderness. The sparrow of Lesbia still pecks the
rosy lips of his mistress, immortal as the eagle of Pindar. One profound
imagination, one man, who with a more prosperous subject might have been
a great poet, lifted Roman literature above its ordinary level of
tasteful common-sense. The invocation of Venus, as the genetic force of
nature, by Lucretius, seems to me the one sunburst of purely poetic
inspiration which the Latin language can show. But this very force,
without which _neque fit lœtum neque amabile quicquam_ was wholly
wanting in those poets of the post-classic period, through whom the
literary influences of the past were transmitted to the romanized
provincials. The works of Ausonius interest us as those of our own
Dwights and Barlows do. The “Conquest of Canaan” and the “Columbiad”
were Connecticut epics no doubt, but still were better than nothing in
their day. If not literature, they were at least memories of literature,
and such memories are not without effect in reproducing what they
regret. The provincial writers of Latin devoted themselves with a dreary
assiduity to the imitation of models which they deemed classical, but
which were truly so only in the sense that they were the more
decorously respectful of the dead form in proportion as the living
spirit had more utterly gone out of it. It is, I suspect, to the
traditions of this purely rhetorical influence, indirectly exercised,
that we are to attribute the rapid passage of the new Provençal poetry
from what must have been its original popular character to that highly
artificial condition which precedes total extinction. It was the
alienation of the written from the spoken language (always, perhaps,
more or less malignly operative in giving Roman literature a
cold-blooded turn as compared with Greek), which, ending at length in
total divorce, rendered Latin incapable of supplying the wants of new
men and new ideas. The same thing, I am strongly inclined to think, was
true of the language of the Troubadours. It had become literary, and so
far dead. It is true that no language is ever so far gone in consumption
as to be beyond the great-poet-cure. Undoubtedly a man of genius can out
of his own super-abundant vitality compel life into the most decrepit
vocabulary. But it is by the infusion of his own blood, as it were, and
not without a certain sacrifice of power. No such rescue came for the
_langue d’oc_, which, it should seem, had performed its special function
in the development of modern literature, and would have perished even
without the Albigensian war. The position of the Gallo-Romans of the
South, both ethical and geographical, precluded them from producing
anything really great or even original in literature, for that must have
its root in a national life, and this they never had. After the
Burgundian invasion their situation was in many respects analogous to
our own after the Revolutionary War. They had been thoroughly romanized
in language and culture, but the line of their historic continuity had
been broken. The Roman road, which linked them with the only past they
knew, had been buried under the great barbarian land-slide. In like
manner we, inheriting the language, the social usages, the literary and
political traditions of Englishmen, were suddenly cut adrift from our
historical anchorage. Very soon there arose a demand for a native
literature, nay, it was even proposed that, as a first step toward it,
we should adopt a lingo of our own to be called the Columbian or
Hesperian. This, to be sure, was never accomplished, though our English
cousins seem to hint sometimes that we have made very fair advances
toward it; but if it could have been, our position would have been
precisely that of the Provençals when they began to have a literature of
their own. They had formed a language which, while it completed their
orphanage from their imperial mother, continually recalled her, and kept
alive their pride of lineage. Such reminiscences as they still retained
of Latin culture were pedantic and rhetorical,[9] and it was only
natural that out of these they should have elaborated a code of poetical
jurisprudence with titles and subtitles applicable to every form of
verse and tyrannous over every mode of sentiment. The result could not
fail to be artificial and wearisome, except where some man with a truly
lyrical genius could breathe life into the rigid formula and make it
pliant to his more passionate feeling. The great service of the
Provençals was that they kept in mind the fact that poetry was not
merely an amusement, but an art, and long after their literary activity
had ceased their influence reacted beneficially upon Europe through
their Italian pupils. They are interesting as showing the tendency of
the Romanic races to a scientific treatment of what, if it be not
spontaneous, becomes a fashion and erelong an impertinence. Fauriel has
endeavored to prove that they were the first to treat the mediæval
heroic legends epically, but the evidence is strongly against him. The
testimony of Dante on this point is explicit,[10] and moreover not a
single romance of chivalry has come down to us in a dialect of the pure
Provencal.

The Trouvères, on the other hand, are apt to have something naive and
vigorous about them, something that smacks of race and soil. Their very
coarseness is almost better than the Troubadour delicacy, because it was
not an affectation. The difference between the two schools is that
between a culture pedantically transmitted and one which grows and
gathers strength from natural causes. Indeed, it is to the North of
France and to the Trouvères that we are to look for the true origins of
our modern literature. I do not mean in their epical poetry, though
there is something refreshing in the mere fact of their choosing native
heroes and legends as the subjects of their song. It was in their
_Fabliaux_ and _Lais_ that, dealing with the realities of the life about
them, they became original and delightful in spite of themselves. Their
_Chansons de Geste_ are fine specimens of fighting Christianity, highly
inspiring for men like Peire de Bergerac, who sings

    “Bel m’es can aug lo resso
     Que fai l’ausbercs ab l’arso,
     Li bruit e il crit e il masan
     Que il corn e las trombas fan”;[11]

but who after reading them--even the best of them, the Song of
Roland--can remember much more than a cloud of battle-dust, through
which the paladins loom dimly gigantic, and a strong verse flashes here
and there like an angry sword? What are the _Roman d’avantures_, the
cycle of Arthur and his knights, but a procession of armor and plumes,
mere spectacle, not vision like their Grecian antitype, the Odyssey,
whose pictures of life, whether domestic or heroic, are among the
abiding consolations of the mind? An element of disproportion, of
grotesqueness,[12] earmark of the barbarian, disturbs us, even when it
does not disgust, in them all. Except the _Roland_, they all want
adequate motive, and even in that we may well suspect a reminiscence of
the Iliad. They are not without a kind of dignity, for manliness is
always noble, and there are detached scenes that are striking, perhaps
all the more so from their rarity, like the combat of Oliver and
Fierabras, and the leave-taking of Parise la Duchesse. But in point of
art they are far below even Firdusi, whose great poem is of precisely
the same romantic type. The episode of Sohrab and Rustem as much
surpasses the former of the passages just alluded to in largeness and
energy of treatment, in the true epical quality, as the lament of
Tehmine over her son does the latter of them in refined and natural
pathos. In our revolt against pseudo-classicism we must not let our
admiration for the vigor and freshness which are the merit of this old
poetry tempt us to forget that our direct literary inheritance comes to
us from an ancestry who would never have got beyond the Age of Iron but
for the models of graceful form and delicate workmanship which they
found in the tombs of an earlier race.

I recall but one passage (from _Jourdain de Blaivies_) which in its
simple movement of the heart can in any way be compared with Chaucer. I
translate it freely, merely changing the original assonance into rhyme.
Eremborc, to save the son of her liege-lord, has passed-off her own
child for his, only stipulating that he shall pass the night before his
death with her in the prison where she is confined by the usurper
Fromond. The time is just as the dreaded dawn begins to break.

    “‘Garnier, fair son,’ the noble lady said,
     ‘To save thy father’s life must thou be dead;
     And mine, alas, must be with sorrow spent,
     Since thou must die, albeit so innocent!
     Evening thou shalt not see that see’st the morn!
     Woe worth the hour that I beheld thee born,
     Whom nine long months within my side I bore!
     Was never babe desired so much before.
     Now summer will the pleasant days recall
     When I shall take my stand upon the wall
     And see the fair young gentlemen thy peers
     That come and go, and, as beseems their years
     Run at the quintain, strive to pierce the shield,
     And in the tourney keep their sell or yield;
     Then must my heart be tearswoln for thy sake
     That’t will be marvel if it do not break.’
     At morning, when the day began to peer,
     Matins rang out from minsters far and near,
     And the clerks sang full well with voices high.
     ‘God,’ said the dame, ‘thou glorious in the sky,
     These lingering nights were wont to tire me so!
     And this, alas, how swift it hastes to go!
     These clerks and cloistered folk, alas, in spite
     So early sing to cheat me of my night!’”

The great advantages which the _langue d’oil_ had over its sister
dialect of the South of France were its wider distribution, and its
representing the national and unitary tendencies of the people as
opposed to those of provincial isolation. But the Trouvères had also
this superiority, that they gave a voice to real and not merely
conventional emotions. In comparison with the Troubadours their
sympathies were more human, and their expression more popular. While the
tiresome ingenuity of the latter busied itself chiefly in the filigree
of wiredrawn sentiment and supersubtilized conceit, the former took
their subjects from the street and the market as well as from the
chateau. In the one case language had become a mere material for clever
elaboration; in the other, as always in live literature, it was a soil
from which the roots of thought and feeling unconsciously drew the
coloring of vivid expression. The writers of French, by the greater
pliancy of their dialect and the simpler forms of their verse, had
acquired an ease which was impossible in the more stately and sharply
angled vocabulary of the South. Their octosyllabics have not seldom a
careless facility not unworthy of Swift in his best mood. They had
attained the highest skill and grace in narrative, as the lays of Marie
de France and the _Lai de l’Oiselet_ bear witness[13]. Above all, they
had learned how to brighten the hitherto monotonous web of story with
the gayer hues of fancy.

It is no improbable surmise that the sudden and surprising development
of the more strictly epical poetry in the North of France, and
especially its growing partiality for historical in preference to
mythical subjects, were due to the Normans. The poetry of the Danes was
much of it authentic history, or what was believed to be so; the heroes
of their Sagas were real men, with wives and children, with relations
public and domestic, on the common levels of life, and not mere
creatures of imagination, who dwell apart like stars from the vulgar
cares and interests of men. If we compare Havelok with the least
idealized figures of Carlovingian or Arthurian romance, we shall have a
keen sense of this difference. Manhood has taken the place of caste, and
homeliness of exaggeration. Havelok says,--

    “Godwot, I will with thee gang
     For to learn some good to get;
     Swinken would I for my meat;
     It is no shame for to swinken.”

This Dane, we see, is of our own make and stature, a being much nearer
our kindly sympathies than his compatriot Ogier, of whom we are told,

    “Dix piès de lonc avoit le chevalier.”

But however large or small share we may allow to the Danes in changing
the character of French poetry and supplanting the Romance with the
Fabliau, there can be little doubt either of the kind or amount of
influence which the Normans must have brought with them into England. I
am not going to attempt a definition of the Anglo-Saxon element in
English literature, for generalizations are apt to be as dangerous as
they are tempting. But as a painter may draw a cloud so that we
recognize its general truth, though the boundaries of real clouds never
remain the same for two minutes together, so amid the changes of feature
and complexion brought about by commingling of race, there still remains
a certain cast of physiognomy which points back to some one ancestor of
marked and peculiar character. It is toward this type that there is
always a tendency to revert, to borrow Mr. Darwin’s phrase, and I think
the general belief is not without some adequate grounds which in France
traces this predominant type to the Kelt, and in England to the Saxon.
In old and stationary communities, where tradition has a chance to take
root, and where several generations are present to the mind of each
inhabitant, either by personal recollection or transmitted anecdote,
everybody’s peculiarities, whether of strength or weakness, are
explained and, as it were, justified upon some theory of hereditary
bias. Such and such qualities he got from a grandfather on the spear or
a great-uncle on the spindle side. This gift came in a right line from
So-and-so; that failing came in by the dilution of the family blood with
that of Such-a-one. In this way a certain allowance is made for every
aberration from some assumed normal type, either in the way of
reinforcement or defect, and that universal desire of the human mind to
have everything accounted for--which makes the moon responsible for the
whimsies of the weathercock--is cheaply gratified. But as mankind in the
aggregate is always wiser than any single man, because its experience is
derived from a larger range of observation and experience, and because
the springs that feed it drain a wider region both of time and space,
there is commonly some greater or smaller share of truth in all popular
prejudices. The meteorologists are beginning to agree with the old women
that the moon _is_ an accessary before the fact in our atmospheric
fluctuations. Now, although to admit this notion of inherited good or
ill to its fullest extent would be to abolish personal character, and
with it, all responsibility, to abdicate freewill, and to make every
effort at self-direction futile, there is no inconsiderable alloy of
truth in it, nevertheless. No man can look into the title-deeds of what
may be called his personal estate, his faculties, his predilections, his
failings,--whatever, in short, sets him apart as a capital I,--without
something like a shock of dread to find how much of him is held in
mortmain by those who, though long ago mouldered away to dust, are yet
fatally alive and active in him for good or ill. What is true of
individual men is true also of races, and the prevailing belief in a
nation as to the origin of certain of its characteristics has something
of the same basis in facts of observation as the village estimate of the
traits of particular families. _Interdum vulgus rectum videt._

We are apt, it is true, to talk rather loosely about our Anglo-Saxon
ancestors, and to attribute to them in a vague way all the pith of our
institutions and the motive power of our progress. For my own part, I
think there is such a thing as being too Anglo-Saxon, and the warp and
woof of the English national character, though undoubtedly two elements
mainly predominate in it, is quite too complex for us to pick out a
strand here and there, and affirm that the _body_ of the fabric is of
this or that. Our present concern with the Saxons is chiefly a literary
one; but it leads to a study of general characteristics. What, then, so
far as we can make it out, seems to be their leading mental feature?
Plainly, understanding, common-sense,--a faculty which never carries its
possessor very high in creative literature, though it may make him great
as an acting and even thinking man. Take Dr. Johnson as an instance. The
Saxon, as it appears to me, has never shown any capacity for art, nay,
commonly commits ugly blunders when he is tempted in that direction. He
has made the best working institutions and the ugliest monuments among
the children of men. He is wanting in taste, which is as much as to say
that he has no true sense of proportion. His genius is his
_solidity_,--an admirable foundation of national character. He is
healthy, in no danger of liver-complaint, with digestive apparatus of
amazing force and precision. He is the best farmer and best grazier
among men, raises the biggest crops and the fattest cattle, and consumes
proportionate quantities of both. He settles and sticks like a diluvial
deposit on the warm, low-lying levels, physical and moral. He has a
prodigious talent, to use our Yankee phrase, of _staying put_. You
cannot move him; he and rich earth have a natural sympathy of cohesion.
Not quarrelsome, but with indefatigable durability of fight in him,
sound of stomach, and not too refined in nervous texture, he is capable
of indefinitely prolonged punishment, with a singularly obtuse sense of
propriety in acknowledging himself beaten. Among all races perhaps none
has shown so acute a sense of the side on which its bread is buttered,
and so great a repugnance for having fine phrases take the place of the
butyraceous principle. They invented the words “humbug,” “cant,” “sham,”
“gag,” “soft-sodder,” “flapdoddle,” and other disenchanting formulas
whereby the devil of falsehood and unreality gets his effectual _apage
Satana!_

An imperturbable perception of the _real_ relations of things is the
Saxon’s leading quality,--no sense whatever, or at best small, of the
ideal in him. He has no notion that two and two ever make five, which is
the problem the poet often has to solve. Understanding, that is,
equilibrium of mind, intellectual good digestion, this, with unclogged
biliary ducts, makes him mentally and physically what we call a very
fixed fact; but you shall not find a poet in a hundred thousand square
miles,--in many prosperous centuries of such. But one element of
incalculable importance we have not mentioned. In this homely nature,
the idea of God, and of a simple and direct relation between the
All-Father and his children, is deeply rooted. There, above all, will he
have honesty and simplicity; less than anything else will he have the
sacramental wafer,--that beautiful emblem of our dependence on Him who
giveth the daily bread; less than anything will he have this smeared
with that Barmecide butter of fair words. This is the lovely and noble
side of his character. Indignation at this will make him forget crops
and cattle; and this, after so many centuries, will give him at last a
poet in the monk of Eisleben, who shall cut deep on the memory of
mankind that brief creed of conscience,--“Here am I. God help me: I
cannot otherwise.” This, it seems to me, with dogged sense of
justice,--both results of that equilibrium of thought which springs
from clear-sighted understanding,--makes the beauty of the Saxon nature.

He believes in another world, and conceives of it without metaphysical
subtleties as something very much after the pattern of this, but
infinitely more desirable. Witness the vision of John Bunyan. Once beat
it into him that his eternal _well-being_, as he calls it, depends on
certain conditions, that only so will the balance in the ledger of
eternity be in his favor, and the man who seemed wholly of _this_ world
will give all that he has, even his life, with a superb simplicity and
scorn of the theatric, for a chance in the next. Hard to move, his very
solidity of nature makes him terrible when once fairly set agoing. He is
the man of all others slow to admit the thought of revolution; but let
him once admit it, he will carry it through and make it _stick_,--a
secret hitherto undiscoverable by other races.

But poetry is not made out of the understanding; that is not the sort of
block out of which you can carve wing-footed Mercuries. The question of
common-sense is always, “What is it good for?”--a question which would
abolish the rose and be answered triumphantly by the cabbage. The danger
of the prosaic type of mind lies in the stolid sense of superiority
which blinds it to everything ideal, to the use of anything that does
not serve the practical purposes of life. Do we not remember how the
all-observing and all-fathoming Shakespeare has typified this in Bottom
the weaver? Surrounded by all the fairy creations of fancy, he sends one
to fetch him the bag of a humble-bee, and can find no better employment
for Mustard-seed than to help Cavalero Cobweb scratch his ass’s head
between the ears. When Titania, queen of that fair ideal world, offers
him a feast of beauty, he says he has a good stomach to a pottle of
hay!

The Anglo-Saxons never had any real literature of their own. They
produced monkish chronicles in bad Latin, and legends of saints in worse
metre. Their earlier poetry is essentially Scandinavian. It was that
_gens inclytissima Northmannorum_ that imported the divine power of
imagination,--that power which, mingled with the solid Saxon
understanding, produced at last the miracle of Stratford. It was to this
adventurous race, which found America before Columbus, which, for the
sake of freedom of thought, could colonize inhospitable Iceland, which,
as it were, typifying the very action of the imaginative faculty itself,
identified itself always with what it conquered, that we owe whatever
aquiline features there are in the national physiognomy of the English
race. It was through the Normans that the English mind and fancy,
hitherto provincial and uncouth, were first infused with the lightness,
grace, and self-confidence of Romance literature. They seem to have
opened a window to the southward in that solid and somewhat sombre
insular character, and it was a painted window all aglow with the
figures of tradition and poetry. The old Gothic volume, grim with
legends of devilish temptation and satanic lore, they illuminated with
the gay and brilliant inventions of a softer climate and more genial
moods. Even the stories of Arthur and his knights, toward which the
stern Dante himself relented so far as to call them _gratissimas
ambages_, most delightful circumlocutions, though of British original,
were first set free from the dungeon of a barbarous dialect by the
French poets, and so brought back to England, and made popular there by
the Normans.

Chaucer, to whom French must have been almost as truly a mother tongue
as English, was familiar with all that had been done by Troubadour or
Trouvère. In him we see the first result of the Norman yeast upon the
home-baked Saxon loaf. The flour had been honest, the paste well
kneaded, but the inspiring leaven was wanting till the Norman brought it
over. Chaucer works still in the solid material of his race, but with
what airy lightness has he not infused it? Without ceasing to be
English, he has escaped from being insular. But he was something more
than this; he was a scholar, a thinker, and a critic. He had studied the
_Divina Commedia_ of Dante, he had read Petrarca and Boccaccio, and some
of the Latin poets. He calls Dante the great poet of Italy, and Petrarch
a learned clerk. It is plain that he knew very well the truer purpose of
poetry, and had even arrived at the higher wisdom of comprehending the
aptitudes and limitations of his own genius. He saw clearly and felt
keenly what were the faults and what the wants of the prevailing
literature of his country. In the “Monk’s Tale” he slyly satirizes the
long-winded morality of Gower, as his prose antitype, Fielding, was to
satirize the prolix sentimentality of Richardson. In the rhyme of Sir
Thopas he gives the _coup de grace_ to the romances of Chivalry, and in
his own choice of a subject he heralds that new world in which the
actual and the popular were to supplant the fantastic and the heroic.

Before Chaucer, modern Europe had given birth to one great poet, Dante;
and contemporary with him was one supremely elegant one, Petrarch. Dante
died only seven years before Chaucer was born, and, so far as culture is
derived from books, the moral and intellectual influences they had been
subjected to, the speculative stimulus that may have given an impulse to
their minds,--there could have been no essential difference between
them. Yet there are certain points of resemblance and of contrast, and
those not entirely fanciful, which seem to me of considerable interest.
Both were of mixed race, Dante certainly, Chaucer presumably so. Dante
seems to have inherited on the Teutonic side the strong moral sense, the
almost nervous irritability of conscience, and the tendency to mysticism
which made him the first of Christian poets,--first in point of time and
first in point of greatness. From the other side he seems to have
received almost in overplus a feeling of order and proportion, sometimes
wellnigh hardening into mathematical precision and formalism,--a
tendency which at last brought the poetry of the Romanic races to a
dead-lock of artifice and decorum. Chaucer, on the other hand, drew from
the South a certain airiness of sentiment and expression, a felicity of
phrase, and an elegance of turn hitherto unprecedented and hardly yet
matched in our literature, but all the while kept firm hold of his
native soundness of understanding, and that genial humor which seems to
be the proper element of worldly wisdom. With Dante, life represented
the passage of the soul from a state of nature to a state of grace; and
there would have been almost an even chance whether (as Burns says) the
_Divina Commedia_ had turned out a song or a sermon, but for the
wonderful genius of its author, which has compelled the sermon to sing
and the song to preach, whether they would or no. With Chaucer, life is
a pilgrimage, but only that his eye may be delighted with the varieties
of costume and character. There are good morals to be found in Chaucer,
but they are always incidental. With Dante the main question is the
saving of the soul, with Chaucer it is the conduct of life. The distance
between them is almost that between holiness and prudence. Dante applies
himself to the realities and Chaucer to the scenery of life, and the
former is consequently the more universal poet, as the latter is the
more truly national one. Dante represents the justice of God, and
Chaucer his loving-kindness. If there is anything that may properly be
called satire in the one, it is like a blast of the divine wrath, before
which the wretches cower and tremble, which rends away their cloaks of
hypocrisy and their masks of worldly propriety, and leaves them
shivering in the cruel nakedness of their shame. The satire of the other
is genial with the broad sunshine of humor, into which the victims walk
forth with a delightful unconcern, laying aside of themselves the
disguises that seem to make them uncomfortably warm, till they have made
a thorough betrayal of themselves so unconsciously that we almost pity
while we laugh. Dante shows us the punishment of sins against God and
one’s neighbor, in order that we may shun them, and so escape the doom
that awaits them in the other world. Chaucer exposes the cheats of the
transmitter of metals, of the begging friars, and of the pedlers of
indulgences, in order that we may be on our guard against them in this
world. If we are to judge of what is national only by the highest and
most characteristic types, surely we cannot fail to see in Chaucer the
true forerunner and prototype of Shakespeare, who, with an imagination
of far deeper grasp, a far wider reach of thought, yet took the same
delight in the pageantry of the actual world, and whose moral is the
moral of worldly wisdom only heightened to the level of his wide-viewing
mind, and made typical by the dramatic energy of his plastic nature.

Yet if Chaucer had little of that organic force of life which so
inspires the poem of Dante that, as he himself says of the heavens, part
answers to part with mutual interchange of light, he had a structural
faculty which distinguishes him from all other English poets, his
contemporaries, and which indeed is the primary distinction of poets
properly so called. There is, to be sure, only one other English writer
coeval with himself who deserves in any way to be compared with him, and
that rather for contrast than for likeness.

With the single exception of Langland, the English poets, his
contemporaries, were little else than bad versifiers of legends classic
or mediæval, as happened, without selection and without art. Chaucer is
the first who broke away from the dreary traditional style, and gave not
merely stories, but lively _pictures_ of real life as the ever-renewed
substance of poetry. He was a reformer, too, not only in literature, but
in morals. But as in the former his exquisite tact saved him from all
eccentricity, so in the latter the pervading sweetness of his nature
could never be betrayed into harshness and invective. He seems incapable
of indignation. He mused good-naturedly over the vices and follies of
men, and, never forgetting that he was fashioned of the same clay, is
rather apt to pity than condemn. There is no touch of cynicism in all he
wrote. Dante’s brush seems sometimes to have been smeared with the
burning pitch of his own fiery lake. Chaucer’s pencil is dipped in the
cheerful color-box of the old illuminators, and he has their patient
delicacy of touch, with a freedom far beyond their somewhat mechanic
brilliancy.

English narrative poetry, as Chaucer found it, though it had not
altogether escaped from the primal curse of long-windedness so painfully
characteristic of its prototype, the French Romance of Chivalry, had
certainly shown a feeling for the picturesque, a sense of color, a
directness of phrase, and a simplicity of treatment which give it graces
of its own and a turn peculiar to itself. In the easy knack of
story-telling, the popular minstrels cannot compare with Marie de
France. The lightsomeness of fancy, that leaves a touch of sunshine and
is gone, is painfully missed in them all. Their incidents enter
dispersedly, as the old stage directions used to say, and they have not
learned the art of concentrating their force on the key-point of their
hearers’ interest. They neither get fairly hold of their subject, nor,
what is more important, does it get hold of them. But they sometimes
yield to an instinctive hint of leaving-off at the right moment, and in
their happy negligence achieve an effect only to be matched by the
highest successes of art.

    “That lady heard his mourning all
     Right under her chamber wall,
     In her oriel where she was,
     Closëd well with royal glass;
     Fulfilled it was with imagery
     Every window, by and by;
     On each side had there a gin
     Sperred with many a divers pin;
     Anon that lady fair and free
     Undid a pin of ivory
     And wide the window she open set,
     The sun shone in at her closet.”

It is true the old rhymer relapses a little into the habitual drone of
his class, and shows half a mind to bolt into their common inventory
style when he comes to his _gins_ and _pins_, but he withstands the
temptation manfully, and his sunshine fills our hearts with a gush as
sudden as that which illumines the lady’s oriel. Coleridge and Keats
have each in his way felt the charm of this winsome picture, but have
hardly equalled its hearty honesty, its economy of material, the supreme
test of artistic skill. I admit that the phrase “_had_ there a gin” is
suspicious, and suggests a French original, but I remember nothing
altogether so good in the romances from the other side of the Channel.
One more passage occurs to me, almost incomparable in its simple
straightforward force and choice of the right word.

    “Sir Graysteel to his death thus thraws,
     He welters [wallows] and the grass updraws;

           *       *       *       *       *

     A little while then lay he still,
     (Friends that saw him liked full ill,)
     And bled into his armor bright.”

The last line, for suggestive reticence, almost deserves to be put
beside the famous

    “Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante”

of the great master of laconic narration. In the same poem[14] the
growing love of the lady, in its maidenliness of unconscious betrayal,
is touched with a delicacy and tact as surprising as they are
delightful. But such passages, which are the despair of poets who have
to work in a language that has faded into diction, are exceptional. They
are to be set down rather to good luck than to art. Even the stereotyped
similes of these fortunate illiterates, like “weary as water in a weir,”
or “glad as grass is of the rain,” are new, like nature, at the
thousandth repetition. Perhaps our palled taste overvalues the wild
flavor of these wayside treasure-troves. They are wood-strawberries,
prized in proportion as we must turn over more leaves ere we find one.
This popular literature is of value in helping its toward a juster
estimate of Chaucer by showing what the mere language was capable of,
and that all it wanted was a poet to put it through its paces. For
though the poems I have quoted be, in their present form, later than he,
they are, after all, but modernized versions of older copies, which they
doubtless reproduce with substantial fidelity.

It is commonly assumed that Chaucer did for English what Dante is
supposed to have done for Italian and Luther for German, that he, in
short, in some hitherto inexplicable way, created it. But this is to
speak loosely and without book. Languages are never made in any such
fashion, still less are they the achievement of any single man, however
great his genius, however powerful his individuality. They shape
themselves by laws as definite as those which guide and limit the growth
of other living organisms. Dante, indeed, has told us that he chose to
write in the tongue that might be learned of nurses and chafferers in
the market. His practice shows that he knew perfectly well that poetry
has needs which cannot be answered by the vehicle of vulgar commerce
between man and man. What he instinctively felt was, that there was the
living heart of all speech, without whose help the brain were powerless
to send will, motion, meaning, to the limbs and extremities. But it is
true that a language, as respects the uses of literature, is liable to a
kind of syncope. No matter how complete its vocabulary may be, how
thorough an outfit of inflections and case-endings it may have, it is a
mere dead body without a soul till some man of genius set its arrested
pulses once more athrob, and show what wealth of sweetness, scorn,
persuasion, and passion lay there awaiting its liberator. In this sense
it is hardly too much to say that Chaucer, like Dante, found his native
tongue a dialect and left it a language. But it was not what he did with
deliberate purpose of reform, it was his kindly and plastic genius that
wrought this magic of renewal and inspiration. It was not the new words
he introduced,[15] but his way of using the old ones, that surprised
them into grace, ease, and dignity in their own despite. In order to
feel fully how much he achieved, let any one subject himself to a
penitential course of reading in his contemporary, Gower, who worked in
a material to all intents and purposes the same, or listen for a moment
to the barbarous jangle which Lydgate and Occleve contrive to draw from
the instrument their master had tuned so deftly. Gower has positively
raised tediousness to the precision of science, he has made dulness an
heirloom for the students of our literary history. As you slip to and
fro on the frozen levels of his verse, which give no foothold to the
mind, as your nervous ear awaits the inevitable recurrence of his rhyme,
regularly pertinacious as the tick of an eight-day clock and reminding
you of Wordsworth’s

        “Once more the ass did lengthen out
    The hard, dry, seesaw of his horrible bray,”

you learn to dread, almost to respect, the powers of this indefatigable
man. He is the undertaker of the fair mediæval legend, and his style has
the hateful gloss, the seemingly unnatural length, of a coffin. Love,
beauty, passion, nature, art, life, the natural and theological
virtues,--there is nothing beyond his power to disenchant, nothing out
of which the tremendous hydraulic press of his allegory (or whatever it
is, for I am not sure if it be not something even worse) will not
squeeze all feeling and freshness and leave it a juiceless pulp. It
matters not where you try him, whether his story be Christian or pagan,
borrowed from history or fable, you cannot escape him. Dip in at the
middle or the end, dodge back to the beginning, the patient old man is
there to take you by the button and go on with his imperturbable
narrative. You may have left off with Clytemnestra, and you begin again
with Samson; it makes no odds, for you cannot tell one from tother. His
tediousness is omnipresent, and like Dogberry he could find in his heart
to bestow it all (and more if he had it) on your worship. The word
_lengthy_ has been charged to our American account, but it must have
been invented by the first reader of Gower’s works, the only inspiration
of which they were ever capable. Our literature had to lie by and
recruit for more than four centuries ere it could give us an equal
vacuity in Tupper, so persistent a uniformity of commonplace in the
“Recreations of a Country Parson.” Let us be thankful that the
industrious Gower never found time for recreation!

But a fairer as well as more instructive comparison lies between Chaucer
and the author of “Piers Ploughman.” Langland has as much tenderness, as
much interest in the varied picture of life, as hearty a contempt for
hypocrisy, and almost an equal sense of fun. He has the same easy
abundance of matter. But what a difference! It is the difference between
the poet and the man of poetic temperament. The abundance of the one is
a continual fulness within the fixed limits of good taste; that of the
other is squandered in overflow. The one can be profuse on occasion; the
other is diffuse whether he will or no. The one is full of talk; the
other is garrulous. What in one is the refined _bonhomie_ of a man of
the world, is a rustic shrewdness in the other. Both are kindly in their
satire, and have not (like too many reformers) that vindictive love of
virtue which spreads the stool of repentance with thistle-burrs before
they invite the erring to seat themselves therein. But what in “Piers
Ploughman” is sly fun, has the breadth and depth of humor in Chaucer;
and it is plain that while the former was taken up by his moral purpose,
the main interest of the latter turned to perfecting the form of his
work. In short, Chaucer had that fine literary sense which is as rare as
genius, and, united with it, as it was in him, assures an immortality of
fame. It is not merely what he has to say, but even more the agreeable
way he has of saying it, that captivates our attention and gives him an
assured place in literature. Above all, it is not in detached passages
that his charm lies, but in the entirety of expression and the
cumulative effect of many particulars working toward a common end. Now
though _ex ungue leonem_ be a good rule in comparative anatomy, its
application, except in a very limited way, in criticism is sure to
mislead; for we should always bear in mind that the really great writer
is great in the mass, and is to be tested less by his cleverness in the
elaboration of parts than by that _reach_ of mind which is incapable of
random effort, which selects, arranges, combines, rejects, denies itself
the cheap triumph of immediate effects, because it is absorbed by the
controlling charm of proportion and unity. A careless good-luck of
phrase is delightful; but criticism cleaves to the teleological
argument, and distinguishes the creative intellect, not so much by any
happiness of natural endowment as by the marks of design. It is true
that one may sometimes discover by a single verse whether an author have
imagination, or may make a shrewd guess whether he have style or no,
just as by a few spoken words you may judge of a man’s accent; but the
true artist in language is never spotty, and needs no guide-boards of
admiring italics, a critical method introduced by Leigh Hunt, whose
feminine temperament gave him acute perceptions at the expense of
judgment. This is the Bœotian method, which offers us a brick as a
sample of the house, forgetting that it is not the goodness of the
separate bricks, but the way in which they are put together, that brings
them within the province of art, and makes the difference between a heap
and a house. A great writer does not reveal himself here and there, but
everywhere. Langland’s verse runs mostly like a brook, with a beguiling
and wellnigh slumberous prattle, but he, more often than any writer of
his class, flashes into salient lines, gets inside our guard with the
home-thrust of a forthright word, and he gains if taken piecemeal. His
imagery is naturally and vividly picturesque, as where he says of Old
Age,--

    “Eld the hoar
     That was in the vauntward,
     And bare the banner before death,”--

and he softens to a sweetness of sympathy beyond Chaucer when he speaks
of the poor or tells us that Mercy is “sib of all sinful”; but to
compare “Piers Ploughman” with the “Canterbury Tales” is to compare
sermon with song.

Let us put a bit of Langland’s satire beside one of Chaucer’s. Some
people in search of Truth meet a pilgrim and ask him whence he comes. He
gives a long list of holy places, appealing for proof to the relics on
his hat:--

    “‘I have walked full wide in wet and in dry
     And sought saints for my soul’s health.’
     ‘Know’st thou ever a relic that is called Truth?
     Couldst thou show us the way where that wight dwelleth?’
     ‘Nay, so God help me,’ said the man then,
     ‘I saw never palmer with staff nor with scrip
     Ask after him ever till now in this place.’”

This is a good hit, and the poet is satisfied; but, in what I am going
to quote from Chaucer, everything becomes picture, over which lies broad
and warm the sunshine of humorous fancy.

    “In oldë dayës of the King Artour
     Of which that Britouns speken gret honour,
     All was this lond fulfilled of fayerie:
     The elf-queen with her joly compaignie
     Dancëd ful oft in many a grenë mede:
     This was the old opinion as I rede;
     I speke of many hundrid yer ago:
     But now can no man see none elvës mo,
     For now the gretë charite and prayëres
     Of lymytours and other holy freres
     That sechen every lond and every streem,
     As thick as motis in the sonnëbeam,
     Blessyng halles, chambres, kichenës, and boures,
     Citees and burghës, castels hihe and toures,
     Thorpës and bernes, shepnes and dayeries,
     This makith that ther ben no fayeries.
     For ther as wont to walken was an elf
     There walkith none but the lymytour himself,
     In undermelës and in morwenynges.
     And sayth his matyns and his holy thinges,
     As he goth in his lymytatioun.
     Wommen may now go saufly up and doun;
     In every bush or under every tre
     There is none other incubus but he,
     And he ne wol doon hem no dishonóur.”

How cunningly the contrast is suggested here between the Elf-queen’s
jolly company and the unsocial limiters, thick as motes in the sunbeam,
yet each walking by himself! And with what an air of innocent
unconsciousness is the deadly thrust of the last verse given, with its
contemptuous emphasis on the _he_ that seems so well-meaning! Even
Shakespeare, who seems to come in after everybody has done his best with
a “Let me take hold a minute and show you how to do it,” could not have
bettered this.

“Piers Ploughman” is the best example I know of what is called popular
poetry,--of compositions, that is, which contain all the simpler
elements of poetry, but still in solution, not crystallized around any
thread of artistic purpose. In it appears at her best the Anglo-Saxon
Muse, a first cousin of Poor Richard, full of proverbial wisdom, who
always brings her knitting in her pocket, and seems most at home in the
chimney-corner. It is genial; it plants itself firmly on human nature
with its rights and wrongs; it has a surly honesty, prefers the
downright to the gracious, and conceives of speech as a tool rather than
a musical instrument. If we should seek for a single word that would
define it most precisely, we should not choose simplicity, but
homeliness. There is more or less of this in all early poetry, to be
sure; but I think it especially proper to English poets, and to the most
English among them, like Cowper, Crabbe, and one is tempted to add
Wordsworth,--where he forgets Coleridge’s private lectures. In reading
such poets as Langland, also, we are not to forget a certain charm of
distance in the very language they use, making it unhackneyed without
being alien. As it is the chief function of the poet to make the
familiar novel, these fortunate early risers of literature, who gather
phrases with the dew still on them, have their poetry done for them, as
it were, by their vocabulary. But in Chaucer, as in all great poets, the
language gets its charm from him. The force and sweetness of his genius
kneaded more kindly together the Latin and Teutonic elements of our
mother tongue, and made something better than either. The necessity of
writing poetry, and not mere verse, made him a reformer whether he would
or no; and the instinct of his finer ear was a guide such as none before
him or contemporary with him, nor indeed any that came after him, till
Spenser, could command. Gower had no notion of the uses of rhyme except
as a kind of crease at the end of every eighth syllable, where the verse
was to be folded over again into another layer. He says, for example,

    “This maiden Canacee was hight,
     Both in the day and eke by night,”

as if people commonly changed their names at dark. And he could not even
contrive to say this without the clumsy pleonasm of _both_ and _eke_.
Chaucer was put to no such shifts of piecing out his metre with
loose-woven bits of baser stuff. He himself says, in the “Man of Law’s
Tale,”--

    “Me lists not of the chaff nor of the straw
     To make so long a tale as of the corn.”

One of the world’s three or four great story-tellers, he was also one of
the best versifiers that ever made English trip and sing with a gayety
that seems careless, but where every foot beats time to the tune of the
thought. By the skilful arrangement of his pauses he evaded the
monotony of the couplet, and gave to the rhymed pentameter, which he
made our heroic measure, something of the architectural repose of blank
verse. He found our language lumpish, stiff, unwilling, too apt to speak
Saxonly in grouty monosyllables; he left it enriched with the longer
measure of the Italian and Provençal poets. He reconciled, in the
harmony of his verse, the English bluntness with the dignity and
elegance of the less homely Southern speech. Though he did not and could
not create our language (for he who writes to be read does not write for
linguisters), yet it is true that he first made it easy, and to that
extent modern, so that Spenser, two hundred years later, studied his
method and called him master. He first wrote _English_; and it was a
feeling of this, I suspect, that made it fashionable in Elizabeth’s day
to “talk pure Chaucer.” Already we find in his works verses that might
pass without question in Milton or even Wordsworth, so mainly unchanged
have the language of poetry and the movement of verse remained from his
day to our own.

                          “Thou Polymnia
    On Pérnaso, that, with[16] thy sisters glade,
    By Helicon, not far from Cirrea,
    Singest with voice memorial in the shade,
    Under the laurel which that may not fade.”

    “And downward from a hill under a bent
    There stood the temple of Mars omnipotent
    Wrought all of burned steel, of which th’ entrée
    Was long and strait and ghastly for to see:
    The northern light in at the doorës shone
    For window in the wall ne was there none
    Through which men mighten any light discerne;
    The dore was all of adamant eterne.”

And here are some lines that would not seem out of place in the
“Paradise of Dainty Devises”:--

    “Hide, Absolom, thy giltë [gilded] tresses clear,
     Esther lay thou thy meekness all adown.

           *       *       *       *       *

     Make of your wifehood no comparison;
     Hide ye your beauties Ysoude and Elaine,
     My lady cometh, that all this may distain.”

When I remember Chaucer’s malediction upon his scrivener, and consider
that by far the larger proportion of his verses (allowing always for
change of pronunciation) are perfectly accordant with our present
accentual system, I cannot believe that he ever wrote an imperfect line.
His ear would never have tolerated the verses of nine syllables, with a
strong accent on the first, attributed to him by Mr. Skeate and Mr.
Morris. Such verses seem to me simply impossible in the pentameter
iambic as Chaucer wrote it. A great deal of misapprehension would be
avoided in discussing English metres, if it were only understood that
quantity in Latin and quantity in English mean very different things.
Perhaps the best quantitative verses in our language (better even than
Coleridge’s) are to be found in Mother Goose, composed by nurses wholly
by ear and beating time as they danced the baby on their knee. I suspect
Chaucer and Shakespeare would be surprised into a smile by the learned
arguments which supply their halting verses with every kind of excuse
except that of being readable. When verses were written to be chanted,
more license could be allowed, for the ear tolerates the widest
deviations from habitual accent in words that are sung. _Segnius
irritant demissa per aurem._ To some extent the same thing is true of
anapæstic and other tripping measures, but we cannot admit it in
marching tunes like those of Chaucer. He wrote for the eye more than for
the voice, as poets had begun to do long before.[17] Some loose talk of
Coleridge, loose in spite of its affectation of scientific precision,
about “retardations” and the like, has misled many honest persons into
believing that they can make good verse out of bad prose. Coleridge
himself, from natural fineness of ear, was the best metrist among modern
English poets, and, read with proper allowances, his remarks upon
versification are always instructive to whoever is not rhythm-deaf. But
one has no patience with the dyspondæuses, the pæon primuses, and what
not, with which he darkens verses that are to be explained only by the
contemporary habits of pronunciation. Till after the time of Shakespeare
we must always bear in mind that it is not a language of books but of
living speech that we have to deal with. Of this language Coleridge had
little knowledge, except what could be acquired through the ends of his
fingers as they lazily turned the leaves of his haphazard reading. If
his eye was caught by a single passage that gave him a chance to
theorize he did not look farther. Speaking of Massinger, for example, he
says, “When a speech is interrupted, or one of the characters speaks
aside, the last syllable of the former speech and first of the
succeeding Massinger counts for one, because both are supposed to be
spoken at the same moment.

    ‘And felt the sweetness _of’t_
              ‘_How_ her mouth runs over.’”

Now fifty instances may be cited from Massinger which tell against this
fanciful notion, for one that seems, and only seems, in its favor. Any
one tolerably familiar with the dramatists knows that in the passage
quoted by Coleridge, the _how_ being emphatic, “_how her_” was
pronounced _how’r_. He tells us that “Massinger is fond of the anapæst
in the first and third foot, as:--

    ‘Tŏ yoŭr mōre | thăn mās|cŭlinĕ rēa|sŏn thāt | cŏmmānds ’ĕm ||.’

Likewise of the second pæon (⌣--⌣⌣) in the first foot, followed by four
trochees (--⌣), as:--

    ‘Sŏ grēēdĭly̆ | lōng fōr, | knōw theĭr | tītĭll|ātiŏns.’”

In truth, he was no fonder of them than his brother dramatists who, like
him, wrote for the voice by the ear. “To your” is still one syllable in
ordinary speech, and “masculine” and “greedily” were and are
dissyllables or trisyllables according to their place in the verse.
Coleridge was making pedantry of a very simple matter. Yet he has said
with perfect truth of Chaucer’s verse, “Let a few plain rules be given
for sounding the final è of syllables, and for expressing the
terminations of such words as _ocëan_ and _natiön_, &c., as
dissyllables,--or let the syllables to be sounded in such cases be
marked by a competent metrist. This simple expedient would, with a very
few trifling exceptions, where the errors are inveterate, enable any one
to feel the perfect smoothness and harmony of Chaucer’s verse.” But let
us keep widely clear of Latin and Greek terms of prosody! It is also
more important here than even with the dramatists of Shakespeare’s time
to remember that we have to do with a language caught more from the ear
than from books. The best school for learning to understand Chaucer’s
elisions, compressions, slurrings-over and runnings-together of
syllables is to listen to the habitual speech of rustics with whom
language is still plastic to meaning, and hurries or prolongs itself
accordingly. Here is a contraction frequent in Chaucer, and still
common in New England:--

    “But me were lever than [lever ’n] all this town, quod he.”

Let one example suffice for many. To Coleridge’s rules another should be
added by a wise editor; and that is to restore the final _n_ in the
infinitive and third person plural of verbs, and in such other cases as
can be justified by the authority of Chaucer himself. Surely his ear
could never have endured the sing-song of such verses as

    “I couth_e_ tell_e_ for a gown_e_-cloth,”

or

    “Than ye to me schuld brek_e_ your_e_ trouth_e_.”

Chaucer’s measure is so uniform (making due allowances) that words
should be transposed or even omitted where the verse manifestly demands
it,--and with copyists so long and dull of ear this is often the case.
Sometimes they leave out a needful word:--

    “But er [the] thunder stynte, there cometh rain,”
    “When [that] we ben yflattered and ypraised,”
    “Tak [ye] him for the greatest gentleman.”

Sometimes they thrust in a word or words that hobble the verse:--

    “She trowed he were yfel in [some] maladie,”
    “Ye faren like a man [that] had lost his wit,”
    “Then have I got of you the maystrie, quod she,”
    (Then have I got the maystery, quod she,)
    “And quod the jugë [also] thou must lose thy head.”

Sometimes they give a wrong word identical in meaning:--

    “And therwithal he knew [couthë] mo proverbes.”

Sometimes they change the true order of the words:--

    “Therefore no woman of clerkës is [is of clerkës] praised”
    “His felaw lo, here he stont [stont he] hool on live.”
    “He that covèteth is a porë wight
    For he wold have that is not in his might;
    But he that nought hath ne coveteth nought to have.”

Here the “but” of the third verse belongs at the head of the first, and
we get rid of the anomaly of “coveteth” differently accented within two
lines. Nearly all the seemingly unmetrical verses may be righted in this
way. I find a good example of this in the last stanza of “Troilus and
Creseide.” As it stands, we read,--

    “Thou one, two, and three, eterne on live
     That raignast aie in three, two and one.”

It is plain that we should read “one _and_ two” in the first verse, and
“three _and_ two” in the second. Remembering, then, that Chaucer was
here translating Dante, I turned (after making the correction) to the
original, and found as I expected

    “Quell’ uno _e_ due e tre che sempre vive
     E regna sempre in tre _e_ due ed uno.” (Par. xiv. 28, 29.)

In the stanza before this we have,--

    “To thee and to the philosophic_all_ strode,
     To vouchsafe [vouchësafe] there need is, to correct”;

and further on,--

    “With all mine herte’ of mercy ever I pray
     And to the Lord aright thus I speake and say,”

where we must either strike out the second “I” or put it after “speake.”

One often finds such changes made by ear justified by the readings in
other texts, and we cannot but hope that the Chaucer Society will give
us the means of at last settling upon a version which shall make the
poems of one of the most fluent of metrists at least readable. Let
anyone compare the “Franklin’s Tale” in the Aldine edition[18] with the
text given by Wright, and he will find both sense and metre clear
themselves up in a surprising way. A careful collation of texts, by the
way, confirms one’s confidence in Tyrwhitt’s good taste and
thoroughness.

A writer in the “Proceedings of the Philological Society” has lately
undertaken to prove that Chaucer did not sound the final or medial _e_,
and throws us back on the old theory that he wrote “riding-rime,” that
is, verse to the eye and not the ear. This he attempts to do by showing
that the Anglo-Norman poets themselves did not sound the _e_, or, at any
rate, were not uniform in so doing. It should seem a sufficient answer
to this merely to ask whence modern French poetry derived its rules of
pronunciation so like those of Chaucer, so different from those of
prose. But it is not enough to prove that some of the Anglo-Norman
rhymers were bad versifiers. Let us look for examples in the works of
the best poet among them all, Marie de France, with whose works Chaucer
was certainly familiar. What was _her_ practice? I open at random and
find enough to overthrow the whole theory:--

    “Od sa fill_ë_[19] ke le cela--
     Tut li curag_ë_s li fremi--
     Di mei, fet-el_ë_ par ta fei--
     La Dameisel_ë_ l’aporta--
     Kar ne li sembla mi_ë_ boens--
     La dam_ë_ l’aveit apelée--
     Et la mer_ë_ l’areisuna.”

But how about the elision?

    “Le pal_i_’ _e_sgard_ë_ sur le lit--
     Et el_e_’ _e_st devant li alée--
     Bel_e_’ amië [cf. mi_ë_, above] n_e’i_l me celez.
     La dam_e_’ ad sa fill_e_’ amenée.”

These are all on a single page[20], and there are some to spare. How
about the _hiatus_? On the same page I find,--

    “Kar l’Ercëveskë _i_ _e_stoit--
    Pur eus beneistr_e_’ _e_ _e_nseiner.”

What was the practice of Wace? Again I open at random.

    “N’osa remaindr_e_’ en Normandië,
     Maiz, quant la guerr_ë_ fu finië,
     Od sou herneiz en Puill_e_’ _a_la--
     Cil de Baienës lung_ë_ment--
     N_e_ _i_l nes pout par forc_ë_ prendre--
     Dunc la vil_ë_ mult amendout,
     Prisons e preiës amenout.”[21]

Again we have the sounded final _e_, the elision, and the _hiatus_. But
what possible reason is there for supposing that Chaucer would go to
obscure minstrels to learn the rules of French versification? Nay, why
are we to suppose that he followed them at all? In his case as in
theirs, as in that of the Italians, with the works of whose two greater
poets he was familiar, it was the language itself and the usages of
pronunciation that guided the poet, and not arbitrary laws laid down by
a synod of versemakers. Chaucer’s verse differs from that of Gower and
Lydgate precisely as the verse of Spenser differs from that of
Gascoigne, and for the same reason,--that he was a great poet, to whom
measure was a natural vehicle. But admitting that he must have formed
his style on the French poets, would he not have gone for lessons to the
most famous and popular among them,--the authors of the “Roman de la
Rose”? Wherever you open that poem, you find Guillaume de Lorris and
Jean de Meung following precisely the same method,--a method not in the
least arbitrary, but inherent in the material which they wrought. The
_e_ sounded or absorbed under the same conditions, the same slurring of
diphthongs, the same occasional _hiatus_, the same compression of
several vowels into one sound where they immediately follow each other.
Shakespeare and Milton would supply examples enough of all these
practices that seem so incredible to those who write about versification
without sufficient fineness of sense to feel the difference between Ben
Jonson’s blank verse and Marlow’s. Some men are verse-deaf as others are
color-blind,--Messrs. Malone and Guest, for example.

I try Rutebeuf in the same haphazard way, and chance brings me upon his
“Pharisian.” This poem is in stanzas, the verses of the first of which
have all of them masculine rhymes, those of the second feminine ones,
and so on in such continual alternation to the end, as to show that it
was done with intention to avoid monotony. Of feminine rhymes we find
ypocrisi_ë_, fam_ë_, justic_ë_, mesur_ë_, yglis_ë_. But did Rutebeuf
mean so to pronounce them? I open again at the poem of the _Secrestain_,
which is written in regular octosyllabics, and read,--

    “Envi_ë_ fet hom_ë_ tuer,
     Et si fait bonn_ë_ remuer--
     Envië grev_e_’, envië blec_ë_,
     Envi_ë_ confont charit_ë_
     Envi_e_’ ocist humilit_ë_,--
     Estoit en ce païs en vi_ë_
     Sanz orgueil er_e_’ _e_t sanz envi_ë_--
     La glorieus_ë_, dam_ë_, chier_ë_.”[22]

Froissart was Chaucer’s contemporary. What was his usage?

    “J’avoi_ë_ fait en ce voiaig_ë_
     Et je li di, ‘Ma dam_ë_ s’ai-je
     Pour vous ëu maint souvenir’;
     Mais je ne sui pas bien hardis
     De vous remonstrer, dam_ë_ chier_ë_,
     Par quel art ne par quel manier_ë_,
     J’ai ëu ce comenc_ë_ment
     De l’amourous atouch_ë_ment.’”

If we try Philippe Mouskes, a mechanical rhymer, if ever there was one,
and therefore the surer not to let go the leading-strings of rule, the
result is the same.

But Chaucer, it is argued, was not uniform in his practice. Would this
be likely? Certainly not with those terminations (like _courtesië_)
which are questioned, and in diphthongs generally. Dante took precisely
the same liberties.

    “Fac_ea_ le stelle a n_oi_ parer più radi,”
    “Nè fu per fantas_ia_ giamm_ai_ compreso”
    “P_oi_ p_io_vve dentro all ‘alta fantas_ia_,”
    “Sol_ea_ valor e cortes_ia_ trovarsi,”
    “Che ne ’nvogliava amor e cortes_ia_.”

Here we have _fantasì’_ and _fantasiä_, _cortesì’_ and _cortesiä_. Even
Pope has _promiscuous_, _obsequious_, as trisyllables, _individual_ as a
quadrisyllable, and words like _tapestry_, _opera_, indifferently as
trochees or dactyls according to their place in the verse. Donne even
goes so far as to make Cain a monosyllable and dissyllable in the same
verse:--

    “Sister and wife to Cain, Caïn that first did plough.”

The cæsural pause (a purely imaginary thing in accentual metres) may be
made to balance a line like this of Donne’s,

    “Are they not like | singers at doors for meat,”

but we defy any one by any trick of voice to make it supply a missing
syllable in what is called our heroic measure, so mainly used by
Chaucer.

Enough and far more than enough on a question about which it is as hard
to be patient as about the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays. It is easy
to find all manner of bad metres among these versifiers, and plenty of
inconsistencies, many or most of them the fault of careless or ignorant
transcribers, but whoever has read them thoroughly, and with enough
philological knowledge of cognate languages to guide him, is sure that
they at least aimed at regularity, precisely as he is convinced that
Raynouard’s rule about singular and plural terminations has plenty of
evidence to sustain it, despite the numerous exceptions. To show what a
bad versifier _could_ make out of the same language that Chaucer used, I
copy one stanza from a contemporary poem.

    “When Phebus fresh was in chare resplendent,
     In the moneth of May erly in a morning,
     I hard two lovers profer this argument
     In the yeere of our Lord a M. by rekening,
     CCCXL. and VIII. yeere following.
     O potent princesse conserve true lovers all
     And grant them thy region and blisse celestial.”[23]

Here is riding-rhyme, and on a very hard horse too. Can any one be
insensible to the difference between such stuff as this and the measure
of Chaucer? Is it possible that with him the one halting verse should be
the rule, and the twenty musical ones the exception? Let us take heed to
his own words:--

    “And, for there is so great diversitë
     In English, and in writing of our tong,
     So pray I God[24] that none miswritë the
     Ne the mismetre for defaut of tong,
     And redde whereso thou be or ellës song
     That thou be understood God I beseech.”

Yet more. Boccaccio’s _ottava rima_ is almost as regular as that of
Tasso. Was Chaucer unconscious of this? It will be worth while to
compare a stanza of the original with one of the translation.

    “Era cortese Ettore di natura
     Però vedendo di costei il gran pianto,
     Ch’era più bella ch’altra creatura,
     Con pio parlare confortolla alquanto,
     Dicendo, lascia con la ria ventura
     Tuo padre andar che tulti ha offeso tanto,
     E tu, sicura e lieta, senza noia,
     Mentre t’aggrada, con noi resta in Troia.”[25]

    “Now was this Hector pitous of naturë,
     And saw that she was sorrowful begon
     And that she was so faire a creaturë,
     Of his goodnesse he gladed her anon
     And said [saidë] let your father’s treason gon
     Forth with mischance, and ye yourself in joy
     Dwelleth with us while [that] you list in Troy.”

If the Italian were read with the same ignorance that has wreaked itself
on Chaucer, the riding-rhyme would be on its high horse in almost every
line of Boccaccio’s stanza. The same might be said of many a verse in
Donne’s satires. Spenser in his eclogues for February, May, and
September evidently took it for granted that he had caught the measure
of Chaucer, and it would be rather amusing, as well as instructive, to
hear the maintainers of the hop-skip-and-jump theory of versification
attempt to make the elder poet’s verses dance to the tune for which one
of our greatest metrists (in his philological deafness) supposed their
feet to be trained.

I will give one more example of Chaucer’s verse, again making my
selection from one of his less mature works. He is speaking of
Tarquin:--

    “And ay the morë he was in despair
     The more he coveted and thought her fair;
     His blinde lust was all his coveting.
     On morrow when the bird began to sing
     Unto the siege he cometh full privily
     And by himself he walketh soberly
     The imáge of her recording alway new:
     Thus lay her hair, and thus fresh was her hue,
     Thus sate, thus spake, thus span, this was her cheer,
     Thus fair she was, and this was her manére.
     All this conceit his heart hath new ytake,
     And as the sea, with tempest all toshake,
     That after, when the storm is all ago,
     Yet will the water quap a day or two,
     Right so, though that her forme were absént,
     The pleasance of her forme was presént.”

And this passage leads me to say a few words of Chaucer as a descriptive
poet; for I think it a great mistake to attribute to him any properly
dramatic power, as some have done. Even Herr Hertzberg, in his
remarkably intelligent essay, is led a little astray on this point by
his enthusiasm. Chaucer is a great narrative poet; and, in this species
of poetry, though the author’s personality should never be obtruded, it
yet unconsciously pervades the whole, and communicates an individual
quality,--a kind of flavor of its own. This very quality, and it is one
of the highest in its way and place, would be fatal to all dramatic
force. The narrative poet is occupied with his characters as picture,
with their grouping, even their costume, it may be, and he feels for and
with them instead of being they for the moment, as the dramatist must
always be. The story-teller must possess the situation perfectly in all
its details, while the imagination of the dramatist must be possessed
and mastered by it. The latter puts before us the very passion or
emotion itself in its utmost intensity; the former gives them, not in
their primary form, but in that derivative one which they have acquired
by passing through his own mind and being modified by his reflection.
The deepest pathos of the drama, like the quiet “no more but so?” with
which Shakespeare tells us that Ophelia’s heart is bursting, is sudden
as a stab, while in narrative it is more or less suffused with pity,--a
feeling capable of prolonged sustention. This presence of the author’s
own sympathy is noticeable in all Chaucer’s pathetic passages, as, for
instance, in the lamentation of Constance over her child in the “Man of
Law’s Tale.” When he comes to the sorrow of his story, he seems to croon
over his thoughts, to soothe them and dwell upon them with a kind of
pleased compassion, as a child treats a wounded bird which he fears to
grasp too tightly, and yet cannot make up his heart wholly to let go. It
is true also of his humor that it pervades his comic tales like
sunshine, and never dazzles the attention by a sudden flash. Sometimes
he brings it in parenthetically, and insinuates a sarcasm so slyly as
almost to slip by without our notice, as where he satirizes
provincialism by the cock

    “Who knew by nature each ascensiön
     Of the equinoctial in his native town.”

Sometimes he turns round upon himself and smiles at a trip he has made
into fine writing:--

    “Till that the brightë sun had lost his hue,
     For th’ orisont had reft the sun his light,
     (This is as much to sayen as ‘it was night.’)”

Nay, sometimes it twinkles roguishly through his very tears, as in the

    “‘Why wouldest thou be dead,’ these women cry,
     ‘Thou haddest gold enough--and Emily?’”

that follows so close upon the profoundly tender despair of Arcite’s
farewell:--

    “What is this world? What asken men to have?
     Now with his love now in the coldë grave
     Alone withouten any company!”

The power of diffusion without being diffuse would seem to be the
highest merit of narration, giving it that easy flow which is so
delightful. Chaucer’s descriptive style is remarkable for its lowness of
tone,--for that combination of energy with simplicity which is among the
rarest gifts in literature. Perhaps all is said in saying that he has
style at all, for that consists mainly in the absence of undue emphasis
and exaggeration, in the clear uniform pitch which penetrates our
interest and retains it, where mere loudness would only disturb and
irritate.

Not that Chaucer cannot be intense, too, on occasion; but it is with a
quiet intensity of his own, that comes in as it were by accident.

    “Upon a thickë palfrey, paper-white,
     With saddle red embroidered with delight,
     Sits Dido:
     And she is fair as is the brightë morrow
     That healeth sickë folk of nightës sorrow.
     Upon a courser startling as the fire,
     Æneas sits.”

Pandarus, looking at Troilus,

    “Took up a light and found his countenance
     As for to look upon an old romance.”

With Chaucer it is always the thing itself and not the description of it
that is the main object. His picturesque bits are incidental to the
story, glimpsed in passing; they never stop the way. His key is so low
that his high lights are never obtrusive. His imitators, like Leigh
Hunt, and Keats in his “Endymion,” missing the nice gradation with which
the master toned everything down, become streaky. Hogarth, who reminds
one of him in the variety and natural action of his figures, is like him
also in the subdued brilliancy of his coloring. When Chaucer condenses,
it is because his conception is vivid. He does not need to personify
Revenge, for personification is but the subterfuge of unimaginative and
professional poets; but he embodies the very passion itself in a verse
that makes us glance over our shoulder as if we heard a stealthy tread
behind us:--

    “The smiler with the knife hid under the cloak.”[26]

And yet how unlike is the operation of the imaginative faculty in him
and Shakespeare! When the latter describes, his epithets imply always
an impression on the moral sense (so to speak) of the person who hears
or sees. The sun “flatters the mountain-tops with sovereign eye”; the
bending “weeds lacquey the dull stream”; the shadow of the falcon
“coucheth the fowl below”; the smoke is “helpless”; when Tarquin enters
the chamber of Lucrece “the threshold grates the door to have him
heard.” His outward sense is merely a window through which the
metaphysical eye looks forth, and his mind passes over at once from the
simple sensation to the complex _meaning_ of it,--feels _with_ the
object instead of merely feeling it. His imagination is forever
dramatizing. Chaucer gives only the direct impression made on the eye or
ear. He was the first great poet who really loved outward nature as the
source of conscious pleasurable emotion. The Troubadour hailed the
return of spring; but with him it was a piece of empty ritualism.
Chaucer took a true delight in the new green of the leaves and the
return of singing birds,--a delight as simple as that of Robin Hood:--

    “In summer when the shaws be sheen,
      And leaves be large and long,
     It is full merry in fair forest
      To hear the small birds’ song.”

He has never so much as heard of the “burthen and the mystery of all
this unintelligible world.” His flowers and trees and birds have never
bothered themselves with Spinoza. He himself sings more like a bird than
any other poet, because it never occurred to him, as to Goethe, that he
ought to do so. He pours himself out in sincere joy and thankfulness.
When we compare Spenser’s imitations of him with the original passages,
we feel that the delight of the later poet was more in the expression
than in the thing itself. Nature with him is only good to be
transfigured by art. We walk among Chaucer’s sights and sounds; we
listen to Spenser’s musical reproduction of them. In the same way, the
pleasure which Chaucer takes in telling his stories has in itself the
effect of consummate skill, and makes us follow all the windings of his
fancy with sympathetic interest. His best tales run on like one of our
inland rivers, sometimes hastening a little and turning upon themselves
in eddies that dimple without retarding the current; sometimes loitering
smoothly, while here and there a quiet thought, a tender feeling, a
pleasant image, a golden-hearted verse, opens quietly as a water-lily,
to float on the surface without breaking it into ripple. The vulgar
intellectual palate hankers after the titillation of foaming phrase, and
thinks nothing good for much that does not go off with a pop like a
champagne cork. The mellow suavity of more precious vintages seems
insipid: but the taste, in proportion as it refines, learns to
appreciate the indefinable flavor, too subtile for analysis. A manner
has prevailed of late in which every other word seems to be underscored
as in a school-girl’s letter. The poet seems intent on showing his
sinew, as if the power of the slim Apollo lay in the girth of his
biceps. Force for the mere sake of force ends like Milo, caught and held
mockingly fast by the recoil of the log he undertook to rive. In the
race of fame, there are a score capable of brilliant _spurts_ for one
who comes in winner after a steady pull with wind and muscle to spare.
Chaucer never shows any signs of effort, and it is a main proof of his
excellence that he can be so inadequately sampled by detached
passages,--by single lines taken away from the connection in which they
contribute to the general effect. He has that continuity of thought,
that evenly prolonged power, and that delightful equanimity, which
characterize the higher orders of mind. There is something in him of the
disinterestedness that made the Greeks masters in art. His phrase is
never importunate. His simplicity is that of elegance, not of poverty.
The quiet unconcern with which he says his best things is peculiar to
him among English poets, though Goldsmith, Addison, and Thackeray have
approached it in prose. He prattles inadvertently away, and all the
while, like the princess in the story, lets fall a pearl at every other
word. It is such a piece of good luck to be natural! It is the good gift
which the fairy godmother brings to her prime favorites in the cradle.
If not genius, it is alone what makes genius amiable in the arts. If a
man have it not, he will never find it, for when it is sought it is
gone.

When Chaucer describes anything, it is commonly by one of those simple
and obvious epithets or qualities that are so easy to miss. Is it a
woman? He tells us she is _fresh_; that she has _glad_ eyes; that “every
day her beauty newed”; that

    “Methought all fellowship as naked
     Withouten her that I saw once,
     As a coróne without the stones.”

Sometimes he describes amply by the merest hint, as where the Friar,
before setting himself softly down, drives away the cat. We know without
need of more words that he has chosen the snuggest corner. In some of
his early poems he sometimes, it is true, falls into the catalogue style
of his contemporaries; but after he had found his genius he never
particularizes too much,--a process as deadly to all effect as an
explanation to a pun. The first stanza of the “Clerk’s Tale” gives us a
landscape whose stately choice of objects shows a skill in composition
worthy of Claude, the last artist who painted nature epically:--

     “There is at the west endë of Itaile,
      Down at the foot of Vesulus the cold,
      A lusty plain abundant of vitaile,
      Where many a tower and town thou may’st behold
      That founded were in time of fathers old,
      And many another delítable sight;
    And Sàlucës this noble country hight.”

The Pre-Raphaelite style of landscape entangles the eye among the
obtrusive weeds and grass-blades of the foreground which, in looking at
a real bit of scenery, we overlook; but what a sweep of vision is here!
and what happy generalization in the sixth verse as the poet turns away
to the business of his story! The whole is full of open air.

But it is in his characters, especially, that his manner is large and
free; for he is painting history, though with the fidelity of portrait.
He brings out strongly the essential traits, characteristic of the genus
rather than of the individual. The Merchant who keeps so steady a
countenance that

    “There wist no wight that he was e’er in debt,”

the Sergeant at Law, “who seemëd busier than he was,” the Doctor of
Medicine, whose “study was but little on the Bible,”--in all these cases
it is the type and not the personage that fixes his attention. William
Blake says truly, though he expresses his meaning somewhat clumsily,
“the characters of Chaucer’s Pilgrims are the characters which compose
all ages and nations. Some of the names and titles are altered by time,
but the characters remain forever unaltered, and consequently they are
the physiognomies and lineaments of universal human life, beyond which
Nature never steps. Names alter, things never alter. As Newton numbered
the stars, and as Linnæus numbered the plants, so Chaucer numbered the
classes of men.” In his outside accessaries, it is true, he sometimes
seems as minute as if he were illuminating a missal. Nothing escapes his
sure eye for the picturesque,--the cut of the beard, the soil of armor
on the buff jerkin, the rust on the sword, the expression of the eye.
But in this he has an artistic purpose. It is here that he
individualizes, and, while every touch harmonizes with and seems to
complete the moral features of the character, makes us feel that we are
among living men, and not the abstracted images of men. Crabbe adds
particular to particular, scattering rather than deepening the
impression of reality, and making us feel as if every man were a species
by himself; but Chaucer, never forgetting the essential sameness of
human nature, makes it possible, and even probable, that his motley
characters should meet on a common footing, while he gives to each the
_expression_ that belongs to him, the result of special circumstance or
training. Indeed, the absence of any suggestion of _caste_ cannot fail
to strike any reader familiar with the literature on which he is
supposed to have formed himself. No characters are at once so broadly
human and so definitely outlined as his. Belonging, some of them, to
extinct types, they continue contemporary and familiar forever. So wide
is the difference between knowing a great many men and that knowledge of
human nature which comes of sympathetic insight and not of observation
alone.

It is this power of sympathy which makes Chaucer’s satire so
kindly,--more so, one is tempted to say, than the panegyric of Pope.
Intellectual satire gets its force from personal or moral antipathy, and
measures offences by some rigid conventional standard. Its mouth waters
over a galling word, and it loves to say _Thou_, pointing out its victim
to public scorn. _Indignatio facit versus_, it boasts, though they might
as often be fathered on envy or hatred. But imaginative satire, warmed
through and through with the genial leaven of humor, smiles half sadly
and murmurs _We_. Chaucer either makes one knave betray another, through
a natural jealousy of competition, or else expose himself with a
_naïveté_ of good-humored cynicism which amuses rather than disgusts. In
the former case the butt has a kind of claim on our sympathy; in the
latter, it seems nothing strange if the sunny atmosphere which floods
that road to Canterbury should tempt anybody to throw off one disguise
after another without suspicion. With perfect tact, too, the Host is
made the _choragus_ in this diverse company, and the coarse jollity of
his temperament explains, if it does not excuse, much that would
otherwise seem out of keeping. Surely nobody need have any scruples with
_him_.

Chaucer seems to me to have been one of the most purely original of
poets, as much so in respect of the world that is about us as Dante in
respect of that which is within us. There had been nothing like him
before, there has been nothing since. He is original, not in the sense
that he thinks and says what nobody ever thought and said before, and
what nobody can ever think and say again, but because he is always
natural, because, if not always absolutely new, he is always
delightfully fresh, because he sets before us the world as it honestly
appeared to Geoffrey Chaucer, and not a world as it seemed proper to
certain people that it ought to appear. He found that the poetry which
had preceded him had been first the expression of individual feeling,
then of class feeling as the vehicle of legend and history, and at last
had wellnigh lost itself in chasing the mirage of allegory. Literature
seemed to have passed through the natural stages which at regular
intervals bring it to decline. Even the lyrics of the _jongleurs_ were
all run in one mould, and the Pastourelles of Northern France had become
as artificial as the Pastorals of Pope. The Romances of chivalry had
been made over into prose, and the _Melusine_ of his contemporary Jehan
d’Arras is the forlorn hope of the modern novel. Arrived thus far in
their decrepitude, the monks endeavored to give them a religious and
moral turn by allegorizing them. Their process reminds one of something
Ulloa tells us of the fashion in which the Spaniards converted the
Mexicans: “Here we found an old man in a cavern so extremely aged as it
was wonderful, which could neither see nor go because he was so lame and
crooked. The Father, Friar Raimund, said it were good (seeing he was so
aged) to make him a Christian; whereupon we baptized him.” The monks
found the Romances in the same stage of senility, and gave them a saving
sprinkle with the holy water of allegory. Perhaps they were only trying
to turn the enemy’s own weapons against himself, for it was the
free-thinking “Romance of the Rose” that more than anything else had
made allegory fashionable. Plutarch tells us that an allegory is to say
one thing where another is meant, and this might have been needful for
the personal security of Jean de Meung, as afterwards for that of his
successor, Rabelais. But, except as a means of evading the fagot, the
method has few recommendations. It reverses the true office of poetry by
making the real unreal. It is imagination endeavoring to recommend
itself to the understanding by means of cuts. If an author be in such
deadly earnest, or if his imagination be of such creative vigor as to
project real figures when it meant to cast only a shadow upon vapor; if
the true spirit come, at once obsequious and terrible, when the conjurer
has drawn his circle and gone through with his incantations merely to
produce a proper frame of mind in his audience, as was the case with
Dante, there is no longer any question of allegory as the word and thing
are commonly understood. But with all secondary poets, as with Spenser
for example, the allegory does not become of one substance with the
poetry, but is a kind of carven frame for it, whose figures lose their
meaning, as they cease to be contemporary. It was not a style that could
have much attraction for a nature so sensitive to the actual, so
observant of it, so interested by it as that of Chaucer. He seems to
have tried his hand at all the forms in vogue, and to have arrived in
his old age at the truth, essential to all really great poetry, that his
own instincts were his safest guides, that there is nothing deeper in
life than life itself, and that to conjure an allegorical significance
into it was to lose sight of its real meaning. He of all men could not
say one thing and mean another, unless by way of humorous contrast.

In thus turning frankly and gayly to the actual world, and drinking
inspiration from sources open to all; in turning away from a colorless
abstraction to the solid earth and to emotions common to every pulse; in
discovering that to make the best of nature, and not to grope vaguely
after something better than nature, was the true office of Art; in
insisting on a definite purpose, on veracity, cheerfulness, and
simplicity, Chaucer shows himself the true father and founder of what is
characteristically _English_ literature. He has a hatred of cant as
hearty as Dr. Johnson’s, though he has a slier way of showing it; he has
the placid common-sense of Franklin, the sweet, grave humor of Addison,
the exquisite taste of Gray; but the whole texture of his mind, though
its substance seem plain and grave, shows itself at every turn
iridescent with poetic feeling like shot silk. Above all, he has an eye
for character that seems to have caught at once not only its mental and
physical features, but even its expression in variety of costume,--an
eye, indeed, second only, if it should be called second in some
respects, to that of Shakespeare.

I know of nothing that may be compared with the prologue to the
“Canterbury Tales,” and with that to the story of the “Chanon’s Yeoman”
before Chaucer. Characters and portraits from real life had never been
drawn with such discrimination, or with such variety, never with such
bold precision of outline, and with such a lively sense of the
picturesque. His Parson is still unmatched, though Dryden and Goldsmith
have both tried their hands in emulation of him. And the humor also in
its suavity, its perpetual presence and its shy unobtrusiveness, is
something wholly new in literature. For anything that deserves to be
called like it in English we must wait for Henry Fielding.

Chaucer is the first great poet who has treated To-day as if it were as
good as Yesterday, the first who held up a mirror to contemporary life
in its infinite variety of high and low, of humor and pathos. But he
reflected life in its large sense as the life of _men_, from the knight
to the ploughman,--the life of every day as it is made up of that
curious compound of human nature with manners. The very form of the
“Canterbury Tales” was imaginative. The garden of Boccaccio, the
supper-party of Grazzini, and the voyage of Giraldi make a good enough
thread for their stories, but exclude all save equals and friends,
exclude consequently human nature in its wider meaning. But by choosing
a pilgrimage, Chaucer puts us on a plane where all men are equal, with
souls to be saved, and with another world in view that abolishes all
distinctions. By this choice, and by making the Host of the Tabard
always the central figure, he has happily united the two most familiar
emblems of life,--the short journey and the inn. We find more and more
as we study him that he rises quietly from the conventional to the
universal, and may fairly take his place with Homer in virtue of the
breadth of his humanity.

In spite of some external stains, which those who have studied the
influence of manners will easily account for without imputing them to
any moral depravity, we feel that we can join the pure-minded Spenser in
calling him “most sacred, happy spirit.” If character may be divined
from works, he was a good man, genial, sincere, hearty, temperate of
mind, more wise, perhaps, for this world than the next, but thoroughly
humane, and friendly with God and men. I know not how to sum up what we
feel about him better than by saying (what would have pleased most one
who was indifferent to fame) that we love him more even than we admire.
We are sure that here was a true brother-man so kindly that, in his
“House of Fame,” after naming the great poets, he throws in a pleasant
word for the oaten-pipes

            “Of the little herd-grooms
    That keepen beasts among the brooms.”

No better inscription can be written on the first page of his works than
that which he places over the gate in his “Assembly of Fowls,” and which
contrasts so sweetly with the stern lines of Dante from which they were
imitated:--

    “Through me men go into the blissful place
     Of the heart’s heal and deadly woundës’ cure;
     Through me men go unto the well of Grace,
     Where green and lusty May doth ever endure;
     This is the way to all good aventure;
     Be glad, thou Reader, and thy sorrow offcast,
     All open am I, pass in, and speed thee fast!”




LIBRARY OF OLD AUTHORS.[27]


Many of our older readers can remember the anticipation with which they
looked for each successive volume of the late Dr. Young’s excellent
series of old English prose-writers, and the delight with which they
carried it home, fresh from the press and the bindery in its appropriate
livery of evergreen. To most of us it was our first introduction to the
highest society of letters, and we still feel grateful to the departed
scholar who gave us to share the conversation of such men as Latimer,
More, Sidney, Taylor, Browne, Fuller, and Walton. What a sense of
security in an old book which Time has criticised for us! What a
precious feeling of seclusion in having a double wall of centuries
between us and the heats and clamors of contemporary literature! How
limpid seems the thought, how pure the old wine of scholarship that has
been settling for so many generations in those silent crypts and
Falernian _amphoræ_ of the Past! No other writers speak to us with the
authority of those whose ordinary speech was that of our translation of
the Scriptures; to no modern is that frank unconsciousness possible
which was natural to a period when yet reviews were not; and no later
style breathes that country charm characteristic of days ere the
metropolis had drawn all literary activity to itself, and the trampling
feet of the multitude had banished the lark and the daisy from the fresh
privacies of language. Truly, as compared with the present, these old
voices seem to come from the morning fields and not the paved
thoroughfares of thought.

Even the “Retrospective Review” continues to be good reading, in virtue
of the antique aroma (for wine only acquires its _bouquet_ by age) which
pervades its pages. Its sixteen volumes are so many tickets of admission
to the vast and devious vaults of the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries, through which we wander, tasting a thimbleful of rich Canary,
honeyed Cyprus, or subacidulous Hock, from what dusty butt or keg our
fancy chooses. The years during which this review was published were
altogether the most fruitful in genuine appreciation of old English
literature. Books were prized for their imaginative and not their
antiquarian value by young writers who sate at the feet of Lamb and
Coleridge. Rarities of style, of thought, of fancy, were sought, rather
than the barren scarcities of typography. But another race of men seems
to have sprung up, in whom the futile enthusiasm of the collector
predominates, who substitute archæologic perversity for fine-nerved
scholarship, and the worthless profusion of the curiosity-shop for the
sifted exclusiveness of the cabinet of Art. They forget, in their
fanaticism for antiquity, that the dust of never so many centuries is
impotent to transform a curiosity into a gem, that only good books
absorb mellowness of tone from age, and that a baptismal register which
proves a patriarchal longevity (if existence be life) cannot make
mediocrity anything but a bore, or garrulous commonplace entertaining.
There are volumes which have the old age of Plato, rich with gathering
experience, meditation, and wisdom, which seem to have sucked color and
ripeness from the genial autumns of all the select intelligences that
have steeped them in the sunshine of their love and appreciation;--these
quaint freaks of russet tell of Montaigne; these stripes of crimson
fire, of Shakespeare; this sober gold, of Sir Thomas Browne; this
purpling bloom, of Lamb; in such fruits we taste the legendary gardens
of Alcinoüs and the orchards of Atlas; and there are volumes again which
can claim only the inglorious senility of Old Parr or older Jenkins,
which have outlived their half-dozen of kings to be the prize of showmen
and treasuries of the born-to-be-forgotten trifles of a hundred years
ago.

We confess a bibliothecarian avarice that gives all books a value in our
eyes; there is for us a recondite wisdom in the phrase, “A book is a
book”; from the time when we made the first catalogue of our library, in
which “Bible, large, 1 vol.,” and “Bible, small, 1 vol.,” asserted their
alphabetic individuality and were the sole _B_s in our little hive, we
have had a weakness even for those checker-board volumes that only fill
up; we cannot breathe the thin air of that Pepysian self-denial, that
Himalayan selectness, which, content with one bookcase, would have no
tomes in it but _porphyrogeniti_, books of the bluest blood, making room
for choicer new-comers by a continuous ostracism to the garret of
present incumbents. There is to us a sacredness in a volume, however
dull; we live over again the author’s lonely labors and tremulous hopes;
we see him, on his first appearance after parturition, “as well as could
be expected,” a nervous sympathy yet surviving between the late-severed
umbilical cord and the wondrous offspring, doubtfully entering the
Mermaid, or the Devil Tavern, or the Coffee-house of Will or Button,
blushing under the eye of Ben or Dryden or Addison, as if they must
needs know him for the author of the “Modest Enquiry into the Present
State of Dramatique Poetry,” or of the “Unities briefly considered by
Philomusus,” of which they have never heard and never will hear so much
as the names; we see the country-gentlemen (sole cause of its surviving
to our day) who buy it as a book no gentleman’s library can be complete
without; we see the spendthrift heir, whose horses and hounds and
Pharaonic troops of friends, drowned in a Red Sea of claret, bring it to
the hammer, the tall octavo in tree-calf following the ancestral oaks of
the park. Such a volume is sacred to us. But it must be the original
foundling of the book-stall, the engraved blazon of some extinct
baronetcy within its cover, its leaves enshrining memorial-flowers of
some passion which the churchyard smothered ere the Stuarts were yet
discrowned, suggestive of the trail of laced ruffles, burnt here and
there with ashes from the pipe of some dozing poet, its binding worn and
weather-stained, that has felt the inquisitive finger, perhaps, of
Malone, or thrilled to the touch of Lamb, doubtful between desire and
the odd sixpence. When it comes to a question of reprinting, we are more
choice. The new duodecimo is bald and bare, indeed, compared with its
battered prototype that could draw us with a single hair of association.

It is not easy to divine the rule which has governed Mr. Smith in making
the selections for his series. A choice of old authors should be a
_florilegium_, and not a botanist’s _hortus siccus_, to which grasses
are as important as the single shy blossom of a summer. The old-maidenly
genius of antiquarianism seems to have presided over the editing of the
“Library.” We should be inclined to surmise that the works to be
reprinted had been commonly suggested by gentlemen with whom they were
especial favorites, or who were ambitious that their own names should be
signalized on the title-pages with the suffix of EDITOR. The volumes
already published are: Increase Mather’s “Remarkable Providences”; the
poems of Drummond of Hawthornden; the “Visions of Piers Ploughman;” the
works in prose and verse of Sir Thomas Overbury; the “Hymns and Songs”
and the “Hallelujah” of George Wither; the poems of Southwell; Selden’s
“Table-Talk”; the “Enchiridion” of Quarles; the dramatic works of
Marston, Webster, and Lilly; Chapman’s translation of Homer; Lovelace,
and four volumes of “Early English Poetry”! The volume of Mather is
curious and entertaining, and fit to stand on the same shelf with the
“Magnalia” of his book-suffocated son. Cunningham’s comparatively recent
edition, we should think, might satisfy for a long time to come the
demand for Drummond, whose chief value to posterity is as the Boswell of
Ben Jonson. Sir Thomas Overbury’s “Characters” are interesting
illustrations of contemporary manners, and a mine of foot-notes to the
works of better men,--but, with the exception of “The Fair and Happy
Milkmaid,” they are dull enough to have pleased James the First; his
“Wife” is a _cento_ of far-fetched conceits,--here a tomtit, and there a
hen mistaken for a pheasant, like the contents of a cockney’s game-bag,
and his chief interest for us lies in his having been mixed up with an
inexplicable tragedy and poisoned in the Tower, not without suspicion of
royal complicity. The “Piers Ploughman” is a reprint, with very little
improvement that we can discover, of Mr. Wright’s former edition. It
would have been very well to have republished the “Fair Virtue,” and
“Shepherd’s Hunting” of George Wither, which contain all the true poetry
he ever wrote; but we can imagine nothing more dreary than the seven
hundred pages of his “Hymns and Songs,” whose only use, that we can
conceive of, would be as penal reading for incorrigible poetasters. If a
steady course of these did not bring them out of their nonsenses,
nothing short of hanging would. Take this as a sample, hit on by opening
at random:--

    “Rottenness my bones possest;
     Trembling fear possessèd me;
     I that troublous day might rest:
     For, when his approaches be
     Onward to the people made,
     His strong troops will them invade.”

Southwell is, if possible, worse. He paraphrases David, putting into his
mouth such punning conceits as “fears are my feres,” and in his “Saint
Peter’s Complaint” makes that rashest and shortest-spoken of the
Apostles drawl through thirty pages of maudlin repentance, in which the
distinctions between the north and northeast sides of a sentimentality
are worthy of Duns Scotus. It does not follow, that, because a man is
hanged for his faith, he is able to write good verses. We would almost
match the fortitude that quails not at the good Jesuit’s poems with his
own which carried him serenely to the fatal tree. The stuff of which
poets are made, whether finer or not, is of a very different fibre from
that which is used in the tough fabric of martyrs. It is time that an
earnest protest should be uttered against the wrong done to the
religious sentiment by the greater part of what is called religious
poetry, and which is commonly a painful something misnamed by the noun
and misqualified by the adjective. To dilute David, and make doggerel of
that majestic prose of the Prophets which has the glow and wide-orbited
metre of constellations, may be a useful occupation to keep
country-gentlemen out of litigation or retired clergymen from polemics;
but to regard these metrical mechanics as sacred because nobody wishes
to touch them, as meritorious because no one can be merry in their
company,--to rank them in the same class with those ancient songs of the
Church, sweet with the breath of saints, sparkling with the tears of
forgiven penitents, and warm with the fervor of martyrs,--nay, to set
them up beside such poems as those of Herbert, composed in the upper
chambers of the soul that open toward the sun’s rising, is to confound
piety with dulness, and the manna of heaven with its sickening namesake
from the apothecary’s drawer. The “Enchiridion” of Quarles is hardly
worthy of the author of the “Emblems,” and is by no means an
unattainable book in other editions,--nor a matter of heartbreak, if it
were. Of the dramatic works of Marston and Lilly it is enough to say
that they are truly _works_ to the reader, but in no sense dramatic,
nor, as literature, worth the paper they blot. They seem to have been
deemed worthy of republication because they were the contemporaries of
true poets; and if all the Tuppers of the nineteenth century will buy
their plays on the same principle, the sale will be a remunerative one.
It was worth while, perhaps, to reprint Lovelace, if only to show what
dull verses may be written by a man who has made one lucky hit. Of the
“Early English Poetry,” nine tenths had better never have been printed
at all, and the other tenth reprinted by an editor who had some vague
suspicion, at least, of what they meant. The Homer of Chapman is so
precious a gift, that we are ready to forgive all Mr. Smith’s
shortcomings in consideration of it. It is a vast _placer_, full of
nuggets for the philologist and the lover of poetry.

Having now run cursorily through the series of Mr. Smith’s reprints, we
come to the closer question of _How are they edited?_ Whatever the merit
of the original works, the editors, whether self-elected or chosen by
the publisher, should be accurate and scholarly. The editing of the
Homer we can heartily commend; and Dr. Rimbault, who carried the works
of Overbury through the press, has done his work well; but the other
volumes of the Library are very creditable neither to English
scholarship nor to English typography. The Introductions to some of
them are enough to make us think that we are fallen to the necessity of
reprinting our old authors because the art of writing correct and
graceful English has been lost. William B. Turnbull, Esq., of Lincoln’s
Inn, Barrister at Law, says, for instance, in his Introduction to
Southwell: “There was resident at Uxendon, near Harrow on the Hill, in
Middlesex, a Catholic family of the name of Bellamy whom [which]
Southwell was in the habit of visiting and providing with religious
instruction when he exchanged his ordinary [ordinarily] close
confinement for a purer atmosphere.” (p. xxii.) Again, (p. xxii,) “He
had, in this manner, for six years, pursued, with very great success,
the objects of his mission, when these were abruptly terminated by his
foul betrayal into the hands of his enemies in 1592.” We should like to
have Mr. Turnbull explain how the _objects_ of a mission could be
terminated by a betrayal, however it might be with the mission itself.
From the many similar flowers in the Introduction to Mather’s
“Providences,” by Mr. George Offor, (in whom, we fear, we recognize a
countryman,) we select the following: “It was at this period when,
[that,] oppressed by the ruthless hand of persecution, our Pilgrim
Fathers, threatened with torture and death, succumbed not to man, but
trusting on [in] an almighty arm, braved the dangers of an almost
unknown ocean, and threw themselves into the arms of men called savages,
who proved more beneficent than national Christians.” To whom or what
our Pilgrim Fathers _did_ succumb, and what “national Christians” are,
we leave, with the song of the Sirens, to conjecture. Speaking of the
“Providences,” Mr. Offor says, that “they faithfully delineate the state
of public opinion two hundred years ago, the most striking feature being
an implicit faith in the power of the [in-]visible world to hold
visible intercourse with man:--not the angels to bless poor erring
mortals, but of demons imparting power to witches and warlocks to
injure, terrify and destroy,”--a sentence which we defy any witch or
warlock, though he were Michael Scott himself, to parse with the
astutest demonic aid. On another page, he says of Dr. Mather, that “he
was one of the first divines who discovered that very many strange
events, which were considered preternatural, had occurred in the course
of nature or by deceitful juggling; that the Devil could not speak
English, nor prevail with Protestants; the smell of herbs alarms the
Devil; that medicine drives out Satan!” We do not wonder that Mr. Offor
put a mark of exclamation at the end of this surprising sentence, but we
do confess our astonishment that the vermilion pencil of the
proof-reader suffered it to pass unchallenged. Leaving its bad English
out of the question, we find, on referring to Mather’s text, that he was
never guilty of the absurdity of believing that Satan was less eloquent
in English than in any other language; that it was the British (Welsh)
tongue which a certain demon whose education had been neglected (not
_the_ Devil) could not speak; that Mather is not fool enough to say that
the Fiend cannot prevail with Protestants, nor that the smell of herbs
alarms him, nor that medicine drives him out. Anything more helplessly
inadequate than Mr. Offor’s preliminary dissertation on Witchcraft we
never read; but we could hardly expect much from an editor whose
citations from the book he is editing show that he had either not read
or not understood it.

Mr. Offor is superbly Protestant and iconoclastic,--not sparing, as we
have seen, even Priscian’s head among the rest; but, _en revanche_, Mr.
Turnbull is ultramontane beyond the editors of the _Civiltà Cattolica_.
He allows himself to say, that, “after Southwell’s death, one of his
sisters, a Catholic in heart, but timidly and blamably simulating
heresy, wrought, with some relics of the martyr, several cures on
persons afflicted with desperate and deadly diseases, which had baffled
the skill of all physicians.” Mr. Turnbull is, we suspect, a recent
convert, or it would occur to him that doctors are still secure of a
lucrative practice in countries full of the relics of greater saints
than even Southwell. That father was hanged (according to Protestants)
for treason, and the relic which put the whole pharmacopœia to shame
was, if we mistake not, his neckerchief. But whatever the merits of the
Jesuit himself, and however it may gratify Mr. Turnbull’s catechumenical
enthusiasm to exalt the curative properties of this integument of his,
even at the expense of Jesuits’ bark, we cannot but think that he has
shown a credulity that unfits him for writing a fair narrative of his
hero’s life, or making a tolerably just estimate of his verses. It is
possible, however, that these last seem prosaic as a necktie only to
heretical readers.

We have singled out the Introductions of Messrs. Turnbull and Offor for
special animadversion because they are on the whole the worst, both of
them being offensively sectarian, while that of Mr. Offor in particular
gives us almost no information whatever. Some of the others are not
without grave faults, chief among which is a vague declamation,
especially out of place in critical essays, where it serves only to
weary the reader and awaken his distrust. In his Introduction to
Wither’s “Hallelujah,” for instance, Mr. Farr informs us that “nearly
all the best poets of the latter half of the sixteenth century--for that
was the period when the Reformation was fully established--and the whole
of the seventeenth century were sacred poets,” and that “even
Shakespeare and the contemporary dramatists of his age sometimes attuned
their well-strung harps to the songs of Zion.” Comment on statements
like these would be as useless as the assertions themselves are absurd.

We have quoted these examples only to justify us in saying that Mr.
Smith must select his editors with more care if he wishes that his
“Library of Old Authors” should deserve the confidence and thereby gain
the good word of intelligent readers,--without which such a series can
neither win nor keep the patronage of the public. It is impossible that
men who cannot construct an English sentence correctly, and who do not
know the value of clearness in writing, should be able to disentangle
the knots which slovenly printers have tied in the thread of an old
author’s meaning; and it is more than doubtful whether they who assert
carelessly, cite inaccurately, and write loosely are not by nature
disqualified for doing thoroughly what they undertake to do. If it were
unreasonable to demand of every one who assumes to edit one of our early
poets the critical acumen, the genial sense, the illimitable reading,
the philological scholarship, which in combination would alone make the
ideal editor, it is not presumptuous to expect some one of these
qualifications singly, and we have the right to insist upon patience and
accuracy, which are within the reach of every one, and without which all
the others are wellnigh vain. Now to this virtue of accuracy Mr. Offor
specifically lays claim in one of his remarkable sentences: “We are
bound to admire,” he says, “the accuracy and beauty of this specimen of
typography. Following in the path of my late friend William Pickering,
our publisher rivals the Aldine and Elzevir presses, which have been so
universally admired.” We should think that it was the product of those
presses which had been admired, and that Mr. Smith presents a still
worthier object of admiration when he contrives to follow a path and
rival a press at the same time. But let that pass;--it is the claim to
accuracy which we dispute; and we deliberately affirm, that, so far as
we are able to judge by the volumes we have examined, no claim more
unfounded was ever set up. In some cases, as we shall show presently,
the blunders of the original work have been followed with painful
accuracy in the reprint; but many others have been added by the
carelessness of Mr. Smith’s printers or editors. In the thirteen pages
of Mr. Offor’s own Introduction we have found as many as seven
typographical errors,--unless some of them are to be excused on the
ground that Mr. Offor’s studies have not yet led him into those arcana
where we are taught such recondite mysteries of language as that verbs
agree with their nominatives. In Mr. Farr’s Introduction to the “Hymns
and Songs” nine short extracts from other poems of Wither are quoted,
and in these we have found no less than seven misprints or false
readings which materially affect the sense. Textual inaccuracy is a
grave fault in the new edition of an old poet; and Mr. Farr is not only
liable to this charge, but also to that of making blundering
misstatements which are calculated to mislead the careless or uncritical
reader. Infected by the absurd cant which has been prevalent for the
last dozen years among literary sciolists, he says,--“The language used
by Wither in all his various works--whether secular or sacred--is pure
Saxon.” Taken literally, this assertion is manifestly ridiculous, and,
allowing it every possible limitation, it is not only untrue of Wither,
but of every English poet, from Chaucer down. The translators of our
Bible made use of the German version, and a poet versifying the English
Scriptures would therefore be likely to use more words of Teutonic
origin than in his original compositions. But no English poet can write
English poetry except in English,--that is, in that compound of Teutonic
and Romanic which derives its heartiness and strength from the one and
its canorous elegance from the other. The Saxon language does not sing,
and, though its tough mortar serve to hold together the less compact
Latin words, porous with vowels, it is to the Latin that our verse owes
majesty, harmony, variety, and the capacity for rhyme. A quotation of
six lines from Wither ends at the top of the very page on which Mr. Farr
lays down his extraordinary _dictum_, and we will let this answer him,
Italicizing the words of Romance derivation:--

“Her true _beauty_ leaves behind _Apprehensions_ in the mind, Of more
sweetness than all _art_ Or _inventions_ can _impart_; Thoughts too deep
to be _expressed_, And too strong to be _suppressed._”

Mr. Halliwell, at the close of his Preface to the Works of Marston,
(Vol. I. p. xxii,) says, “The dramas now collected together are
reprinted absolutely from the early editions, which were placed in the
hands of our printers, who thus had the advantage of following them
without the intervention of a transcriber. They are given as nearly as
possible in their original state, the only modernizations attempted
consisting in the alternations of the letters _i_ and _j_, and _u_ and
_v_, the retention of which” (does Mr. Halliwell mean the letters or the
“alternations”?) “would have answered no useful purpose, while it would
have unnecessarily perplexed the modern reader.”

This is not very clear; but as Mr. Halliwell is a member of several
learned foreign societies, and especially of the Royal _Irish_ Academy,
perhaps it would be unfair to demand that he should write clear English.
As one of Mr. Smith’s editors, it was to be expected that he should not
write it idiomatically. Some malign constellation (Taurus, perhaps,
whose infaust aspect may be supposed to preside over the makers of bulls
and blunders) seems to have been in conjunction with heavy Saturn when
the Library was projected. At the top of the same page from which we
have made our quotation, Mr. Halliwell speaks of “conveying a favorable
impression _on_ modern readers.” It was surely to no such phrase as this
that Ensign Pistol alluded when he said, “_Convey_ the _wise_ it call.”

A literal reprint of an old author may be of value in two ways: the
orthography may in certain cases indicate the ancient pronunciation, or
it may put us on a scent which shall lead us to the burrow of a word
among the roots of language. But in order to this, it surely is not
needful to undertake the reproduction of all the original errors of the
press; and even were it so, the proofs of carelessness in the editorial
department are so glaring, that we are left in doubt, after all, if we
may congratulate ourselves on possessing all these sacred blunders of
the Elizabethan type-setters in their integrity, and without any
debasement of modern alloy. If it be gratifying to know that there lived
stupid men before our contemporary Agamemnons in that kind, yet we
demand absolute accuracy in the report of the phenomena in order to
arrive at anything like safe statistics. For instance, we find (Vol. I.
p. 89) “ACTUS SECUNDUS, SCENA PRIMUS,” and (Vol. III. p. 174) “_exit
ambo_,” and we are interested to know that in a London printing-house,
two centuries and a half ago, there was a philanthropist who wished to
simplify the study of the Latin language by reducing all the nouns to
one gender and all the verbs to one number. Had his emancipated
theories of grammar prevailed, how much easier would that part of boys
which cherubs want have found the school-room benches! How would birchen
bark, as an educational tonic, have fallen in repute! How white would
have been the (now black-and-blue) memories of Dr. Busby and so many
other educational _lictors_, who, with their bundles of rods, heralded
not alone the consuls, but all other Roman antiquities to us! We dare
not, however, indulge in the grateful vision, since there are
circumstances which lead us to infer that Mr. Halliwell himself (member
though he be of so many learned societies) has those vague notions of
the speech of ancient Rome which are apt to prevail in regions which
count not the _betula_ in their _Flora_. On page xv of his Preface, he
makes Drummond say that Ben Jonson “was dilated” (_delated_,--Gifford
gives it in English, _accused_) “to the king by Sir James Murray,”--Ben,
whose corpulent person stood in so little need of that malicious
increment!

What is Mr. Halliwell’s conception of editorial duty? As we read along,
and the once fair complexion of the margin grew more and more pitted
with pencil-marks, like that of a bad proof-sheet, we began to think
that he was acting on the principle of every man his own
washerwoman,--that he was making blunders of set purpose, (as teachers
of languages do in their exercises,) in order that we might correct them
for ourselves, and so fit us in time to be editors also, and members of
various learned societies, even as Mr. Halliwell himself is. We fancied,
that, magnanimously waving aside the laurel with which a grateful
posterity crowned General Wade, he wished us “to see these roads
_before_ they were made,” and develop our intellectual muscles in
getting over them. But no; Mr. Halliwell has appended notes to his
edition, and among them are some which correct misprints, and therefore
seem to imply that he considers that service as belonging properly to
the editorial function. We are obliged, then, to give up our theory that
his intention was to make every reader an editor, and to suppose that he
wished rather to show how disgracefully a book might be edited and yet
receive the commendation of professional critics who read with the ends
of their fingers. If this were his intention, Marston himself never
published so biting a satire.

Let us look at a few of the intricate passages, to help us through which
Mr. Halliwell lends us the light of his editorial lantern. In the
Induction to “What you Will” occurs the striking and unusual phrase,
“Now out up-pont,” and Mr. Halliwell favors us with the following note:
“Page 221, line 10. _Up-pont._--That is, upon’t.” Again in the same play
we find--

    “Let twattling fame cheatd others rest,
     I um no dish for rumors feast.”

Of course, it should read,--

    “Let twattling [twaddling] Fame cheate others’ rest,
     I am no dish for Rumor’s feast.”

Mr. Halliwell comes to our assistance thus: “Page 244, line 21, [22 it
should be,] _I um_,--a printer’s error for _I am_.” _Dignus vindice
nodus!_ Five lines above, we have “whole” for “who’ll,” and four lines
below, “helmeth” for “whelmeth”; but Mr. Halliwell vouchsafes no note.
In the “Fawn” we read, “Wise _neads_ use few words,” and the editor says
in a note, “a misprint for _heads_”! Kind Mr. Halliwell!

Having given a few examples of our “Editor’s” corrections, we proceed to
quote a passage or two which, it is to be presumed, he thought perfectly
clear.

    “A man can skarce put on a tuckt-up cap,
     A button’d frizado sute, skarce eate good meate,
     _Anchoves_, _caviare_, but hee’s satyred
     And term’d phantasticall. By the muddy spawne
     Of slymie neughtes, when troth, phantasticknesse
     That which the naturall sophysters tearme
     _Phantusia incomplexa_--is a function
     Even of the bright immortal part of man.
     It is the common passe, the sacred dore,
     Unto the prive chamber of the soule;
     That bar’d, nought passeth past the baser court
     Of outward scence by it th’inamorate
     Most lively thinkes he sees the absent beauties
     Of his lov’d mistres.” (Vol. I. p. 241.)

In this case, also, the true readings are clear enough:--

    “And termed fantastical by the muddy spawn
     Of slimy newts”;

and

                “ ... past the baser court
    Of outward sense”;--

but, if anything was to be explained, why are we here deserted by our
_fida compagna_? Again, (Vol. II. pp. 55, 56,) we read, “This Granuffo
is a right wise good lord, a man of excellent discourse, and never
speakes his signes to me, and men of profound reach instruct
aboundantly; hee begges suites with signes, gives thanks with signes,”
etc. This Granuffo is qualified among the “Interlocutors” as “a silent
lord,” and what fun there is in the character (which, it must be
confessed, is rather of a lenten kind) consists in his genius for saying
nothing. It is plain enough that the passage should read, “a man of
excellent discourse, and never speaks; his signs to me and men of
profound reach instruct abundantly,” etc.

In both the passages we have quoted, it is not difficult for the reader
to set the text right. But if not difficult for the reader, it should
certainly not have been so for the editor, who should have done what
Broome was said to have done for Pope in his Homer,--“gone before and
swept the way.” An edition of an English author ought to be intelligible
to English readers, and, if the editor do not make it so, he wrongs the
old poet, for two centuries lapt in lead, to whose works he undertakes
to play the gentleman-usher. A play written in our own tongue should not
be as tough to us as Æschylus to a ten years’ graduate, nor do we wish
to be reduced to the level of a chimpanzee, and forced to gnaw our way
through a thick shell of misprints and mispointings only to find (as is
generally the case with Marston) a rancid kernel of meaning after all.
But even Marston sometimes deviates into poetry, as a man who wrote in
that age could hardly help doing, and one of the few instances of it is
in a speech of _Erichtho_, in the first scene of the fourth act of
“Sophonisba,” (Vol. I. p. 197,) which Mr. Halliwell presents to us in
this shape:--

    ----“hardby the reverent (!) ruines
    Of a once glorious temple rear’d to Jove
    Whose very rubbish ...
... yet beares
    A deathlesse majesty, though now quite rac’d, [razed,]
    Hurl’d down by wrath and lust of impious kings,
    So that where holy Flamins [Flamens] wont to sing
    Sweet hymnes to Heaven, there the daw and crow,
    The ill-voyc’d raven, and still chattering pye,
    Send out ungratefull sounds and loathsome filth;
    Where statues and Joves acts were vively limbs,

           *       *       *       *       *

    Where tombs and beautious urnes of well dead men
    Stood in assured rest,” etc.

The last verse and a half are worthy of Chapman; but why did not Mr.
Halliwell, who explains _up-pont_ and _I um_, change “Joves acts were
vively limbs” to “Jove’s acts were lively limned,” which was
unquestionably what Marston wrote?

In the “Scourge of Villanie,” (Vol. III. p. 252,) there is a passage
which till lately had a modern application in America, though happily
archaic in England, which Mr. Halliwell suffers to stand thus:--

    “Once Albion lived in such a cruel age
     Than man did hold by servile vilenage:
     Poore brats were slaves of bondmen that were borne,
     And marted, sold: but that rude law is torne
     And disannuld, as too too inhumane.”

This should read--

    “_Man_ man did hold in servile villanage;
     Poor brats were slaves (of bondmen that were born)”;

and perhaps some American poet will one day write in the past tense
similar verses of the barbarity of his forefathers.

We will give one more scrap of Mr. Halliwell’s text:--

      “Yfaith, why then, caprichious mirth,
    Skip, light moriscoes, in our frolick blond,
    Flagg’d veines, sweete, plump with fresh-infused joyes!”

which Marston, doubtless, wrote thus:--

      “I’faith, why then, capricious Mirth,
    Skip light moriscoes in our frolic blood!
    Flagg’d veins, swell plump with fresh-infused joys!”

We have quoted only a few examples from among the scores that we had
marked, and against such a style of “editing” we invoke the shade of
Marston himself. In the Preface to the Second Edition of the “Fawn,” he
says, “Reader, know I have perused this coppy, _to make some
satisfaction for the first faulty impression; yet so urgent hath been my
business that some errors have styll passed, which thy discretion may
amend_.”

Literally, to be sure, Mr. Halliwell has availed himself of the
permission of the poet, in leaving all emendation to the reader; but
certainly he has been false to the spirit of it in his self-assumed
office of editor. The notes to explain _up-pont_ and _I um_ give us a
kind of standard of the highest intelligence which Mr. Halliwell dares
to take for granted in the ordinary reader. Supposing this _nousometer_
of his to be a centigrade, in what hitherto unconceived depths of cold
obstruction can he find his zero-point of entire idiocy? The expansive
force of average wits cannot be reckoned upon, as we see, to drive them
up as far as the temperate degree of misprints in one syllable, and
those, too, in their native tongue. _A fortiori_, then, Mr. Halliwell is
bound to lend us the aid of his great learning wherever his author has
introduced foreign words and the old printers have made _pie_ of them.
In a single case he has accepted his responsibility as dragoman, and the
amount of his success is not such as to give us any poignant regret that
he has everywhere else left us to our own devices. On p. 119, Vol. II.,
_Francischina_, a Dutchwoman, exclaims, “O, mine aderliver love.” Here
is Mr. Halliwell’s note. “_Aderliver._--This is the speaker’s error for
_alder-liever_, the best beloved by all.” Certainly not “the _speaker’s_
error,” for Marston was no such fool as intentionally to make a
Dutchwoman blunder in her own language. But is it an error for
_alderliever_? No, but for _alderliefster_. Mr. Halliwell might have
found it in many an old Dutch song. For example, No. 96 of Hoffmann von
Fallersleben’s “Niederländische Volkslieder” begins thus:--

    “Mijn hert altijt heeft verlanghen
     Naer u, die _alderliefste_ mijn.”

But does the word mean “best beloved by all”? No such thing, of course;
but “best beloved of all,”--that is, by the speaker.

In “Antonio and Mellida” (Vol. I. pp. 50, 51) occur some Italian verses,
and here we hoped to fare better; for Mr. Halliwell (as we learn from
the title-page of his Dictionary) is a member of the “_Reale Academia di
Firenze_.” This is the _Accademia della Crusca_, founded for the
conservation of the Italian language in its purity, and it is rather a
fatal symptom that Mr. Halliwell should indulge in the heresy of
spelling _Accademia_ with only one _c_. But let us see what our Della
Cruscan’s notions of conserving are. Here is a specimen:--

    “Bassiammi, coglier l’ aura odorata
     Che in sua neggia in quello dolce labra.
     Dammi pimpero del tuo gradit’ amore.”

It is clear enough that we ought to read,

    “Lasciami coglier,.... Che ha sua seggia,.... Dammi l’ impero.”

A Della Cruscan academician might at least have corrected by his
dictionary the spelling and number of _labra_.

We think that we have sustained our indictment of Mr. Halliwell’s text
with ample proof. The title of the book should have been, “The Works of
John Marston, containing all the Misprints of the Original Copies,
together with a few added for the First Time in this Edition, the whole
carefully let alone by James Orchard Halliwell, F. R. S., F. S. A.” It
occurs to us that Mr. Halliwell may be also a Fellow of the Geological
Society, and may have caught from its members the enthusiasm which leads
him to attach so extraordinary a value to every goose-track of the
Elizabethan formation. It is bad enough to be, as Marston was, one of
those middling poets whom neither gods nor men nor columns (Horace had
never seen a newspaper) tolerate; but, really, even they do not deserve
the frightful retribution of being reprinted by a Halliwell.

We have said that we could not feel even the dubious satisfaction of
knowing that the blunders of the old copies had been faithfully followed
in the reprinting. We see reason for doubting whether Mr. Halliwell ever
read the proof-sheets. In his own notes we have found several mistakes.
For instance, he refers to p. 159 when he means p. 153; he cites “I, but
her _life_,” instead of “_lip_”; and he makes Spenser speak of “old
Pithonus.” Marston is not an author of enough importance to make it
desirable that we should be put in possession of all the corrupted
readings of his text, were such a thing possible even with the most
minute painstaking, and Mr. Halliwell’s edition loses its only claim to
value the moment a doubt is cast upon the accuracy of its inaccuracies.
It is a matter of special import to us (whose means of access to
originals are exceedingly limited) that the English editors of our old
authors should be faithful and trustworthy, and we have singled out Mr.
Halliwell’s Marston for particular animadversion only because we think
it on the whole the worst edition we ever saw of any author.

Having exposed the condition in which our editor has left the text, we
proceed to test his competency in another respect, by examining some of
the emendations and explanations of doubtful passages which he proposes.
These are very few; but had they been even fewer, they had been too
many.

Among the _dramatis personæ_ of the “Fawn,” as we said before, occurs
“Granuffo, _a silent lord_.” He speaks only once during the play, and
that in the last scene. In Act I. Scene 2, _Gonzago_ says, speaking to
_Granuffo_,--

                  “Now, sure, thou art a man
    Of a most learned _scilence_, and one whose words
    Have bin most pretious to me.”

This seems quite plain, but Mr. Halliwell annotates thus:
“_Scilence._--Query, _science_? The common reading, _silence_, may,
however, be what is intended. That the spelling should have troubled Mr.
Halliwell is remarkable; for elsewhere we find “god-boy” for “good-bye,”
“seace” for “cease,” “bodies” for “boddice,” “pollice” for “policy,”
“pitittying” for “pitying,” “scence” for “sense,” “Misenzius” for
“Mezentius,” “Ferazes” for “Ferrarese,”--and plenty beside, equally odd.
That he should have doubted the meaning is no less strange; for on p. 41
of the same play we read, “My Lord Granuffo, you may likewise stay, for
I know _you’l say nothing_,”--on pp. 55, 56, “This Granuffo is a right
wise good lord, _a man of excellent discourse and never speaks_,”--and
on p. 94, we find the following dialogue:--

    “_Gon._ My Lord Granuffo, this Fawne is an excellent fellow.
    “_Don._ Silence.
    “_Gon._ _I warrant you for my lord here._”

In the same play (p. 44) are these lines:--

                            “I apt for love?
    Let lazy idlenes fild full of wine
    Heated with meates, high fedde with lustfull ease
    Goe dote on culler [color]. As for me, why, death a sence,
    I court the ladie?”

This is Mr. Halliwell’s note: “_Death a sence._--‘Earth a sense,’ ed.
1633. Mr. Dilke suggests: ‘For me, why, earth’s as sensible.’ The
original is not necessarily corrupt. It may mean,--why, you might as
well think Death was a sense, one of the senses. See a like phrase at p.
77.” What help we should get by thinking Death one of the senses, it
would demand another Œdipus to unriddle. Mr. Halliwell can astonish us
no longer, but we are surprised at Mr. Dilke, the very competent editor
of the “Old English Plays,” 1815. From him we might have hoped for
better things. “Death o’ sense!” is an exclamation. Throughout these
volumes we find _a_ for _o’_,--as, “a clock” for “o’clock,” “a the side”
for “o’ the side.” A similar exclamation is to be found in three other
places in the same play, where the sense is obvious. Mr. Halliwell
refers to one of them on p. 77,--“Death a man! is she delivered?” The
others are,--“Death a justice! are we in Normandy?” (p. 98); and “Death
a discretion! if I should prove a foole now,” or, as given by Mr.
Halliwell, “Death, a discretion!” Now let us apply Mr. Halliwell’s
explanation. “Death a man!” you might as well think Death was a man,
that is, one of the men!--or a discretion, that is, one of the
discretions!--or a justice, that is, one of the quorum! We trust Mr.
Halliwell may never have the editing of Bob Acres’s imprecations. “Odd’s
triggers!” he would say, “that is, as odd as, or as strange as,
triggers.”

Vol. III. p. 77, “the vote-killing mandrake.” Mr. Halliwell’s note is,
“_vote-killing_.--‘Voice-killing,’ ed. 1613. It may well be doubted
whether either be the correct reading.” He then gives a familiar
citation from Browne’s “Vulgar Errors.” “Vote-killing” may be a mere
misprint for “note-killing,” but “voice-killing” is certainly the better
reading. Either, however, makes sense. Although Sir Thomas Browne does
not allude to the deadly property of the mandrake’s shriek, yet Mr.
Halliwell, who has edited Shakespeare, might have remembered the

    “Would curses kill, _as doth the mandrake’s groan_.”
         (Second Part of Henry VI., Act III. Scene 2.)

and the notes thereon in the _variorum_ edition. In Jacob Grimm’s
“Deutsche Mythologie,” (Vol. II. p. 1154,) under the word _Alraun_, may
be found a full account of the superstitions concerning the mandrake.
“When it is dug up, it groans and shrieks so dreadfully that the digger
will surely die. One must, therefore, before sunrise on a Friday, having
first stopped one’s ears with wax or cotton-wool, take with him an
entirely black dog without a white hair on him, make the sign of the
cross three times over the _alraun_, and dig about it till the root
holds only by thin fibres. Then tie these by a string to the tail of the
dog, show him a piece of bread, and run away as fast as possible. The
dog runs eagerly after the bread, pulls up the root, and falls stricken
dead by its groan of pain.”

These, we believe, are the only instances in which Mr. Halliwell has
ventured to give any opinion upon the text, except as to a palpable
misprint, here and there. Two of these we have already cited. There is
one other,--“p. 46, line 10. _Iuconstant._--An error for _inconstant_.”
Wherever there is a real difficulty, he leaves us in the lurch. For
example, in “What you Will,” he prints without comment,--

    “Ha! he mount Chirall on the wings of fame!”
                    (Vol. I. p. 239.)

which should be “mount cheval,” as it is given in Mr. Dilke’s edition
(Old English Plays, Vol. II. p. 222). We cite this, not as the worst,
but the shortest, example at hand.

Some of Mr. Halliwell’s notes are useful and interesting,--as that on
“keeling the pot,” and a few others,--but the greater part are utterly
useless. He thinks it necessary, for instance, to explain that “_to
speak pure foole_, is in sense equivalent to ‘I will speak like a pure
fool,’”--that “belkt up” means “belched up,”--that “aprecocks” means
“apricots.” He has notes also upon “meal-mouthed,” “luxuriousnesse,”
“termagant,” “fico,” “estro,” “a nest of goblets,” which indicate either
that the “ general reader” is a less intelligent person in England than
in America, or that Mr. Halliwell’s standard of scholarship is very low.
We ourselves, from our limited reading, can supply him with a reference
which will explain the allusion to the “Scotch barnacle” much better
than his citations from Sir John Maundeville and Giraldus
Cambrensis,--namely, note 8, on page 179 of a Treatise on Worms, by Dr.
Ramesey, court physician to Charles II.

       *       *       *       *       *

We turn now to Mr. Hazlitt’s edition of Webster. We wish he had chosen
Chapman; for Mr. Dyce’s Webster is hardly out of print, and, we believe,
has just gone through a second and revised edition. Webster was a far
more considerable man than Marston, and infinitely above him in genius.
Without the poetic nature of Marlowe, or Chapman’s somewhat unwieldy
vigor of thought, he had that inflammability of mind which, untempered
by a solid understanding, made his plays a strange mixture of vivid
expression, incoherent declamation, dramatic intensity, and extravagant
conception of character. He was not, in the highest sense of the word, a
great dramatist. Shakespeare is the only one of that age. Marlowe had a
rare imagination, a delicacy of sense that made him the teacher of
Shakespeare and Milton in versification, and was, perhaps, as purely a
poet as any that England has produced; but his mind had no
balance-wheel. Chapman abounds in splendid enthusiasms of diction, and
now and then dilates our imaginations with suggestions of profound
poetic depth. Ben Jonson was a conscientious and intelligent workman,
whose plays glow, here and there, with the golden pollen of that poetic
feeling with which his age impregnated all thought and expression; but
his leading characteristic, like that of his great namesake, Samuel, was
a hearty common sense, which fitted him rather to be a great critic than
a great poet. He had a keen and ready eye for the comic in situation,
but no humor. Fletcher was as much a poet as fancy and sentiment can
make any man. Only Shakespeare wrote comedy and tragedy with truly ideal
elevation and breadth. Only Shakespeare had that true sense of humor
which, like the universal solvent sought by the alchemists, so fuses
together all the elements of a character, (as in Falstaff,) that any
question of good or evil, of dignified or ridiculous, is silenced by the
apprehension of its thorough humanity. Rabelais shows gleams of it in
Panurge; but, in our opinion, no man ever possessed it in an equal
degree with Shakespeare, except Cervantes; no man has since shown
anything like an approach to it, (for Molière’s quality was comic power
rather than humor,) except Sterne, Fielding, and perhaps Richter. Only
Shakespeare was endowed with that healthy equilibrium of nature whose
point of rest was midway between the imagination and the
understanding,--that perfectly unruffled brain which reflected all
objects with almost inhuman impartiality,--that outlook whose range was
ecliptical, dominating all zones of human thought and action,--that
power of veri-similar conception which could take away Richard III. from
History, and Ulysses from Homer,--and that creative faculty whose equal
touch is alike vivifying in Shallow and in Lear. He alone never seeks in
abnormal and monstrous characters to evade the risks and
responsibilities of absolute truthfulness, nor to stimulate a jaded
imagination by Caligulan horrors of plot. He is never, like many of his
fellow-dramatists, confronted with unnatural Frankensteins of his own
making, whom he must get off his hands as best he may. Given a human
foible, he can incarnate it in the nothingness of Slender, or make it
loom gigantic through the tragic twilight of Hamlet. We are tired of the
vagueness which classes all the Elizabethan playwrights together as
“great dramatists,”--as if Shakespeare did not differ from them in kind
as well as in degree. Fine poets some of them were; but though
imagination and the power of poetic expression are, singly, not uncommon
gifts, and even in combination not without secular examples, yet it is
the rarest of earthly phenomena to find them joined with those faculties
of perception, arrangement, and plastic instinct in the loving union
which alone makes a great dramatic poet possible. We suspect that
Shakespeare will long continue the only specimen of the genus. His
contemporaries, in their comedies, either force what they call “a humor”
till it becomes fantastical, or hunt for jokes, like rat-catchers, in
the sewers of human nature and of language. In their tragedies they
become heavy without grandeur, like Jonson, or mistake the stilts for
the cothurnus, as Chapman and Webster too often do. Every new edition of
an Elizabethan dramatist is but the putting of another witness into the
box to prove the inaccessibility of Shakespeare’s stand-point as poet
and artist.

Webster’s most famous works are “The Duchess of Malfy” and “Vittoria
Corombona,” but we are strongly inclined to call “The Devil’s Law-Case”
his best play. The two former are in a great measure answerable for the
“spasmodic” school of poets, since the extravagances of a man of genius
are as sure of imitation as the equable self-possession of his higher
moments is incapable of it. Webster had, no doubt, the primal requisite
of a poet, imagination, but in him it was truly untamed, and Aristotle’s
admirable distinction between the _Horrible_ and the _Terrible_ in
tragedy was never better illustrated and confirmed than in the “Duchess”
and “Vittoria.” His nature had something of the sleuth-hound quality in
it, and a plot, to keep his mind eager on the trail, must be sprinkled
with fresh blood at every turn. We do not forget all the fine things
that Lamb has said of Webster, but, when Lamb wrote, the Elizabethan
drama was an El Dorado, whose micaceous sand, even, was treasured as
auriferous,--and no wonder, in a generation which admired the “Botanic
Garden.” Webster is the Gherardo della Notte of his day, and himself
calls his “Vittoria Corombona” a “night-piece.” Though he had no
conception of Nature in its large sense, as something pervading a whole
character and making it consistent with itself, nor of Art, as that
which dominates an entire tragedy and makes all the characters foils to
each other and tributaries to the catastrophe, yet there are flashes of
Nature in his plays, struck out by the collisions of passion, and
dramatic intensities of phrase for which it would be hard to find the
match. The “prithee, undo this button” of Lear, by which Shakespeare
makes us feel the swelling of the old king’s heart, and that the bodily
results of mental anguish have gone so far as to deaden for the moment
all intellectual consciousness and forbid all expression of grief, is
hardly finer than the broken verse which Webster puts into the mouth of
Ferdinand when he sees the body of his sister, murdered by his own
procurement:--

    “Cover her face: mine eyes dazzle: she died young.”

He has not the condensing power of Shakespeare, who squeezed meaning
into a phrase with an hydraulic press, but he could carve a cherry-stone
with any of the _concettisti_, and abounds in imaginative quaintnesses
that are worthy of Donne, and epigrammatic tersenesses that remind us of
Fuller. Nor is he wanting in poetic phrases of the purest
crystallization. Here are a few examples:--

    “Oh, if there be another world i’ th’ moon,
     As some fantastics dream, I could wish all _men_,
     The whole race of them, for their inconstancy,
     Sent thither to people that!”

(Old Chaucer was yet slier. After saying that Lamech was the first
faithless lover, he adds,--

    “And he invented _tents_, unless men lie,”--

implying that he was the prototype of nomadic men.)

    “Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds:
     In the trenches, for the soldier; in the wakeful study,
     For the scholar; in the furrows of the sea,
     For men of our profession [merchants]; all of which
     Arise and spring up honor.”

(“Of all which,” Mr. Hazlitt prints it.)

    “Poor Jolenta! should she hear of this,
     She would not after the report keep fresh
     So long as flowers on graves.”

     “For sin and shame are ever tied together
     With Gordian knots of such a strong thread spun,
     They cannot without violence be undone.”

                     “One whose mind
     Appears more like a ceremonious chapel
     Full of sweet music, than a thronging presence.”

                     “What is death?
     The safest trench i’ th’ world to keep man free
     From Fortune’s gunshot.”

               “It has ever been my opinion
     That there are none love perfectly indeed,
     But those that hang or drown themselves for love,”

says Julio, anticipating Butler’s

    “But he that drowns, or blows out ’s brains,
     The Devil’s in him, if he feigns.”

He also anticipated La Rochefoucauld and Byron in their apophthegm
concerning woman’s last love. In “The Devil’s Law-Case,” Leonora says,--

    “For, as we love our youngest children best,
     So the last fruit of our affection,
     Wherever we bestow it, is most strong,
     Most violent, most unresistible;
     Since ’t is, indeed, our latest harvest-home,
     Last merriment ’fore winter.”

In editing Webster, Mr. Hazlitt had the advantage (except in a single
doubtful play) of a predecessor in the Rev. Alexander Dyce, beyond all
question the best living scholar of the literature of the times of
Elizabeth and James I. If he give no proof of remarkable fitness for his
task, he seems, at least, to have been diligent and painstaking. His
notes are short and to the point, and--which we consider a great
merit--at the foot of the page. If he had added a glossarial index, we
should have been still better pleased. Mr. Hazlitt seems to have read
over the text with some care, and he has had the good sense to modernize
the orthography, or, as he says, has “observed the existing standard of
spelling throughout.” Yet--for what reason we cannot imagine--he prints
“I” for “ay,” taking the pains to explain it every time in a note, and
retains “banquerout” and “coram” apparently for the sake of telling us
that they mean “bankrupt” and “quorum.” He does not seem to have a quick
ear for scansion, which would sometimes have assisted him to the true
reading. We give an example or two:--

    “The obligation wherein we all stood bound
    Cannot be concealed [_cancelled_] without great reproach.”

                  “The realm, not they,
    Must be regarded. Be [we] strong and bold,
    We are the people’s factors.”

    “Shall not be o’erburdened [_overburdened_] in our reign

                      “A merry heart
    And a good stomach to [a] feast are all.”

    “Have her meat serv’d up by bawds and ruffians” [_dele_ “up.”]

                      “Brother or father
    In [a] dishonest suit, shall be to me.”

    “What’s she in Rome your greatness cannot awe.
    Or your rich purse purchase? Promises and threats.”
        [_dele_ the second “your.”]

    “Through clouds of envy and disast [rous] change.”

    “The Devil drives, ’tis [it is] full time to go.”

He has overlooked some strange blunders. What is the meaning of

    “Laugh at your misery, as foredeeming you
     An idle meteor, which drawn forth, the earth
     Would soon be lost i’ the air”?

We hardly need say that it should be

    “An idle meteor, which, drawn forth the earth,
     Would,” &c.

“_For_wardness” for _fro_wardness,” (Vol. II. p. 87,) “tennis-balls
struck and ban_ded_” for “ban_died_,” (Ib. p. 275,) may be errors of the
press; but

                “Come, I’ll love you wisely:
    That’s jealousy,”

has crept in by editorial oversight for “wisely, that ’s jealously.” So
have

    “Ay, the great emperor of [_or_] the mighty Cham”;

and

    “This wit [_with_] taking long journeys”;

and

    “Virginius, thou dost but supply my place,
     I thine: Fortune hath lift me [_thee_] to my chair,
     And thrown me headlong to thy pleading bar”;

and

    “I’ll pour my soul into my daughter’s belly, [_body_,]
     And with my soldier’s tears embalm her wounds.”

We suggest that the change of an _a_ to an _r_ would make sense of the
following: “Come, my little punk, with thy two compositors, to this
unlawful painting-house,” [printing-house,] which Mr. Hazlitt awkwardly
endeavors to explain by this note on the word _compositors_,--“i. e.
(conjecturally), making up the composition of the picture “! Our readers
can decide for themselves;--the passage occurs Vol. I. p. 214.

We think Mr. Hazlitt’s notes are, in the main, good; but we should like
to know his authority for saying that _pench_ means “the hole in a bench
by which it was taken up,”--that “descant” means “look askant on,”--and
that “I wis” is equivalent to “I surmise, imagine,” which it surely is
not in the passage to which his note is appended. On page 9, Vol. I., we
read in the text,

    “To whom, my lord, bends thus your awe,”

and in the note, “i. e. submission. The original has _aue_, which, if it
mean _ave_, is unmeaning here.” Did Mr. Hazlitt never see a picture of
the Annunciation with _ave_ written on the scroll proceeding from the
bending angel’s mouth? We find the same word in Vol. III. p. 217:--

    “Whose station’s built on avees and applause.”

Vol. III. pp. 47, 48:--

      “And then rest, gentle bones; yet pray
    That when by the precise you are view’d,
    A supersedeas be not sued
    To remove you to a place more airy,
    That in your stead they may keep chary
    Stockfish or seacoal, for the abuses
    Of sacrilege have turned graves to viler uses.”

To the last verse Mr. Hazlitt appends this note, “Than that of burning
men’s bones for fuel.” There is no allusion here to burning men’s bones,
but simply to the desecration of graveyards by building warehouses upon
them, in digging the foundations for which the bones would be thrown
out. The allusion is, perhaps, to the “Churchyard of the Holy
Trinity”;--see Stow’s _Survey_, ed. 1603, p. 126. Elsewhere, in the same
play, Webster alludes bitterly to “begging church-land.”

Vol. I. p. 73, “And if he walk through the street, he ducks at the
penthouses, like an ancient that dares not nourish at the oathtaking of
the prætor for fear of the signposts.” Mr. Hazlitt’s note is, “_Ancient_
was a standard or flag; also an _ensign_, of which Skinner says it is a
corruption. What the meaning of the simile is the present editor cannot
suggest.” We confess we find no difficulty. The meaning plainly is, that
he ducks for fear of hitting the penthouses, as an ensign on the Lord
Mayor’s day dares not flourish his standard for fear of hitting the
signposts. We suggest the query, whether _ancient_, in this sense, be
not a corruption of the Italian word _anziano_.

Want of space compels us to leave many other passages, which we had
marked for comment, unnoticed. We are surprised that Mr. Hazlitt, (see
his Introduction to “Vittoria Corombona,”) in undertaking to give us
some information concerning the Dukedom and Castle of Bracciano, should
uniformly spell it _Brachiano_. Shakespeare’s _Petruchio_ might have put
him on his guard. We should be glad also to know in what part of Italy
he places _Malfi_.

Mr. Hazlitt’s General Introduction supplies us with no new information,
but this was hardly to be expected where Mr. Dyce had already gone over
the field. We wish that he had been able to give us better means of
distinguishing the three almost contemporary John Websters one from the
other, for we think the internal evidence is enough to show that all the
plays attributed to the author of the “Duchess” and “Vittoria” could not
have been written by the same person. On the whole, he has given us a
very respectable, and certainly a very pretty, edition of an eminent
poet.

       *       *       *       *       *

We could almost forgive all other shortcomings of Mr. Smith’s _library_
for the great gift it brings us in the five volumes of Chapman’s
translations. Coleridge, sending Chapman’s Homer to Wordsworth, writes,
“What is stupidly said of Shakespeare is really true and appropriate of
Chapman; mighty faults counterpoised by mighty beauties.... It is as
truly an original poem as the Faery Queene;--it will give you small idea
of Homer, though a far truer one than Pope’s epigrams, or Cowper’s
cumbersome most anti-Homeric Miltonism. For Chapman writes and feels as
a poet,--as Homer might have written had he lived in England in the
reign of Queen Elizabeth. In short, it is an exquisite poem, in spite of
its frequent and perverse quaintnesses and harshnesses, which are,
however, amply repaid by almost unexampled sweetness and beauty of
language, all over spirit and feeling.”[28] From a passage of his
Preface it would appear that Chapman had been criticised pretty sharply
in his own day for amplifying his author. “And this one example I
thought necessary to insert here to show my detractors that they have
no reason to vilify my circumlocution sometimes, when their most
approved Grecians, Homer’s interpreters generally, hold him fit to be so
converted. Yet how much I differ, and with what authority, let my
impartial and judicial reader judge. Always conceiving how pedantical
and absurd an affectation it is in the interpretation of any author
(much more of Homer) to turn him word for word, when (according to
Horace and other best lawgivers to translators) it is the part of every
knowing and judicial interpreter not to follow the number and order of
words, but the material things themselves, and sentences to weigh
diligently, and to clothe and adorn them with words and such a style and
form of oration as are most apt for the language in which they are
converted.” Again in his verses _To the Reader_, he speaks of

    “The _ample transmigration_ to be shown
     By nature-loving Poesy,”

and defends his own use of “needful periphrases,” and says that “word
for word” translation is to

    “Make fish with fowl, camels with whales, engender.”

      “For even as different a production
       Ask Greek and English: since, as they in sounds
       And letters shun one form and unison,
       So have their sense and elegancy bounds
       In their distinguished natures, and require
       Only a judgment to make both consent
       In sense and elocution.”

There are two theories of translation,--literal paraphrase and free
reproduction. At best, the translation of poetry is but an imitation of
natural flowers in cambric or wax; and however much of likeness there
may be, the aroma, whose charm of indefinable suggestion in the
association of ideas is so powerful, is precisely what is lost
irretrievably. From where it lurked in the immortal verse, a presence
divined rather than ascertained, baffling the ear which it enchanted,
escaping the grasp which yet it thrilled, airy, evanescent,
imperishable, beckoning the imagination with promises better than any
fulfilment,

     “The parting _genius_ is with sighing sent.”

The paraphrase is a plaster-cast of the Grecian urn; the reproduction,
if by a man of genius, is like Keats’s ode, which makes the figures move
and the leaves tremble again, if not with the old life, with a sorcery
which deceives the fancy. Of all English poets, Keats was the one to
have translated Homer.

In any other than a mere prose version of a great poem, we have a right
to demand that it give us at least an adequate impression of force and
originality. We have a right to ask, If this poem were published now for
the first time, as the work of a contemporary, should we read it, not
with the same, but with anything like the same conviction of its
freshness, vigor, and originality, its high level of style and its
witchery of verse, that Homer, if now for the first time discovered,
would infallibly beget in us? Perhaps this looks like asking for a new
Homer to translate the old one; but if this be too much, it is certainly
not unfair to insist that the feeling given us should be that of life,
and not artifice.

The Homer of Chapman, whatever its defects, alone of all English
versions has this crowning merit of being, where it is most successful,
thoroughly alive. He has made for us the best poem that has yet been
Englished out of Homer, and in so far gives us a truer idea of him. Of
all translators he is farthest removed from the fault with which he
charges others, when he says that “our divine master’s most ingenious
imitating the life of things (which is the soul of a poem) is never
respected nor perceived by his interpreters only standing pedantically
on the grammar and words, utterly ignorant of the sense and grace of
him.” His mastery of English is something wonderful even in an age of
masters, when the language was still a mother-tongue, and not a
contrivance of pedants and grammarians. He had a reverential sense of
“our divine Homer’s depth and gravity, which will not open itself to the
curious austerity of belaboring art, but only to the natural and most
ingenious soul of our thrice-sacred Poesy.” His task was as holy to him
as a version of Scripture; he justifies the tears of Achilles by those
of Jesus, and the eloquence of his horse by that of Balaam’s less noble
animal. He does not always keep close to his original, but he sins no
more, even in this, than any of his rivals. He is especially great in
the similes. Here he rouses himself always, and if his enthusiasm
sometimes lead him to heighten a little, or even to add outright, he
gives us a picture full of life and action, or of the grandeur and
beauty of nature, as stirring to the fancy as his original. Of all who
have attempted Homer, he has the topping merit of being inspired by him.

In the recent discussions of Homeric translation in England, it has
always been taken for granted that we had or could have some adequate
conception of Homer’s metre. Lord Derby, in his Preface, plainly assumes
this. But there can be no greater fallacy. No human ears, much less
Greek ones, could have endured what, with our mechanical knowledge of
the verse, ignorance of the accent, and English pronunciation, we
blandly accept for such music as Homer chanted. We have utterly lost the
tune and cannot reproduce it. Mr. Newman conjectures it to have been
something like Yankee Doodle; Mr. Arnold is sure it was the English
hexameter; and they are both partly right so far as we may trust our
reasonable impressions; for, after all, an impression is all that we
have. Cowper attempts to give the ring of the ἀργυρέοιο βιοῖο by

    “Dread-sounding, bounding on the silver bow,”

which only too fatally recalls the old Scottish dancing-tune,--

    “Amaisit I gaisit
     To see, led at command,
     A strampant and rampant
     Ferss lyon in his hand.”

The attempt was in the right direction, however, for Homer, like Dante
and Shakespeare, like all who really command language, seems fond of
playing with assonances. No doubt the Homeric verse consented at will to
an eager rapidity, and no doubt also its general character is that of
prolonged but unmonotonous roll. Everybody says it is like the long
ridges of the sea, some overtopping their neighbors a little, each with
an independent undulation of its crest, yet all driven by a common
impulse, and breaking, not with the sudden snap of an unyielding
material, but one after the other, with a stately curve, to slide back
and mingle with those that follow. Chapman’s measure has the
disadvantage of an association with Sternhold and Hopkins, but it has
the merit of length, and, where he is in the right mood, is free,
spirited, and sonorous. Above all, there is everywhere the movement of
life and passion in it. Chapman was a master of verse, making it hurry,
linger, or stop short, to suit the meaning. Like all great versifiers he
must be read with study, for the slightest change of accent loses the
expression of an entire passage. His great fault as a translator is that
he takes fire too easily and runs beyond his author. Perhaps he
_intensifies_ too much, though this be a fault on the right side; he
certainly sometimes weakens the force of passages by crowding in
particulars which Homer had wisely omitted, for Homer’s simplicity is
by no means mere simplicity of thought, nor, as it is often foolishly
called, of nature. It is the simplicity of consummate art, the last
achievement of poets and the invariable characteristic of the greatest
among them. To Chapman’s mind once warmed to its work, the words are
only a mist, suggesting, while it hides, the divine form of the original
image or thought; and his imagination strives to body forth that, as he
conceives it, in all its celestial proportions. Let us compare with Lord
Derby’s version, as the latest, a passage where Chapman merely
intensities (Book XIII., beginning at the 86th verse in Lord Derby, the
73d of Chapman, and the 76th of Homer):--

    “Whom answered thus the son of Telamon:
     ‘My hands, too, grasp with firmer hold the spear,
     My spirit, like thine, is stirred; I feel my feet
     Instinct with fiery life; nor should I fear
     With Hector, son of Priam, in his might
     Alone to meet, and grapple to the death.’”

Thus Lord Derby. Chapman renders:--

    “This Telamonius thus received: ‘So, to my thoughts, my hands
     Burn with desire to toss my lance; _each foot beneath me stands
     Bare on bright fire to use his speed_; my heart is raised so high,
     That to encounter Hector’s self I long insatiately.’”

There is no question which version is the more energetic. Is Lord
Derby’s nearer the original in being tamer? He has taken the “instinct
with fiery life” from Chapman’s hint. The original has simply
“restless,” or more familiarly “in a fidget.” There is nothing about
“grappling to the death,” and “nor should I fear” is feeble where
Chapman with his “long insatiately” is literal. We will give an example
where Chapman has amplified his original (Book XVI. v. 426; Derby, 494;
Chapman, 405):--

    “Down jumped he from his chariot; down leapt his foe as light;
     And as, on some far-looking rock, a cast of vultures fight,
     Fly on each other, strike and truss, part, meet, and then stick by,
     Tug both with crooked beaks and seres, cry, fight, and fight and cry,
     So fiercely fought these angry kings.”[29]

Lord Derby’s version is nearer:--

    “He said, and from his car, accoutred, sprang;
     Patroclus saw and he too leaped to earth.
     As on a lofty rock, with angry screams,
     Hook-beaked, with talons curved, two vultures fight,
     So with loud shouts these two to battle rushed.”

Chapman has made his first line out of two in Homer, but, granting the
license, how rapid and springy is the verse! Lord Derby’s “withs” are
not agreeable, his “shouts” is an ill-chosen word for a comparison with
vultures, “talons curved” is feeble, and his verse is, as usual, mainly
built up of little blocks of four syllables each. “To battle” also is
vague. With whom? Homer says that they rushed each at other. We shall
not discuss how much license is loyal in a translator, but, as we think
his chief aim should be to give a feeling of that life and spirit which
makes the immortality of his original, and is the very breath in the
nostrils of all poetry, he has a right to adapt himself to the genius of
his own language. If he would do justice to his author, he must make up
in one passage for his unavoidable shortcomings in another. He may here
and there take for granted certain exigencies of verse in his original
which he feels in his own case. Even Dante, who boasted that no word had
ever made him say what he did not wish, should have made an exception of
rhyming ones, for these sometimes, even in so abundant a language as the
Italian, have driven the most straightforward of poets into an awkward
_détour_.

We give one more passage from Chapman:--

                                      “And all in golden weeds
    He clothed himself; the golden scourge most elegantly done
    He took and mounted to his seat; and then the god begun
    To drive his chariot through the waves. From whirl-pits every way
    The whales exulted under him, and knew their king; the sea
    For joy did open, and his horse so swift and lightly flew
    The under axle-tree of brass no drop of water drew.”

Here the first half is sluggish and inadequate, but what surging vigor,
what tumult of the sea, what swiftness, in the last! Here is Lord
Derby’s attempt:--

    “All clad in gold, the golden lash he grasped
     Of curious work, and, mounting on his car,
     Skimmed o’er the waves; from all the depths below
     Gambolled around the monsters of the deep,
     Acknowledging their king: the joyous sea
     Parted her waves; swift flew the bounding steeds,
     Nor was the brazen axle wet with spray.”

Chapman here is truer to his master, and the motion is in the verse
itself. Lord Derby’s is description, and not picture. “Monsters of the
deep” is an example of the hackneyed periphrases in which he abounds,
like all men to whom language is a literary tradition, and not a living
gift of the Muses. “_Lash_” is precisely the wrong word. Chapman is
always great at sea. Here is another example from the Fourteenth Book:--

    “And as, when with unwieldy waves _the great sea forefeels winds_
     That both ways murmur, and no way her certain current finds,
     But pants and swells confusedly, here goes, and there will stay,
     Till on it air casts one firm wind, and then it rolls away.”

Observe how the somewhat ponderous movement of the first verse assists
the meaning of the words.

He is great, too, in single phrases and lines:--

    “And as, from top of some steep hill, the Lightener strips a cloud
     _And lets a great sky out of Heaven_, in whose delightsome light
     All prominent foreheads, forests, towers, and temples cheer the sight.’
                           (Book XVI. v. 286.)

The lion “lets his rough brows down so low they hide his eyes”; the
flames “wrastle” in the woods; “rude feet dim the day with a fog of
dust;” and so in a hundred other instances.

For an example of his more restrained vigor, take the speech of Sarpedon
in the Twelfth Book of the Iliad, and for poetic beauty, the whole story
of Ulysses and Nausikaa in the Odyssey. It was here that Keats made
himself Grecian and learned to versify.

Mr. Hooper has done his work of editing well. But he has sometimes
misapprehended his author, and distorted his meaning by faulty
punctuation. In one of the passages already cited, Mr. Hooper’s text
stands thus: “Lest I be prejudiced with opinion, to dissent of
ignorance, or singularity.” All the commas which darken the sense should
be removed. Chapman meant to say, “Lest I be condemned beforehand by
people thinking I dissent out of ignorance or singularity.” (Iliad Vol.
I. p. 23.) So on the next page the want of a hyphen makes nonsense: “And
saw the round coming [round-coming] of this silver bow of our Phoebus,”
that is, the crescent coming to the full circle. In the translations,
too, the pointing needs reformation now and then, but shows, on the
whole, a praiseworthy fidelity. We will give a few examples of what we
believe to be errors on the part of Mr. Hooper, who, by the way, is
weakest on points which concern the language of Chapman’s day. We follow
the order of the text as most convenient.

“Bid” (Il. i.) is explained to mean “threaten, challenge,” where “offer”
would be the right word.

                      “And cast
    The offal of all to the deep.” (Il. i. 309.)

Surely a slip of Chapman’s pen. He must have intended to write “Of all
the offal,” a transversion common with him and needed here to avoid a
punning jingle.

    “So much I must affirm our power exceeds th’ inhabitant.” (Il. ii. 110.)

Mr. Hooper’s note is “inhabiters, viz. of Troy.” “Inhabitant” is an
adjective agreeing with “power.” Our power without exceeds that within.

                              “Yet all this time to stay,
    Out of our judgments, for our end, and now to take our way
    Without it were absurd and vile.” (Il. ii, 257.)

A note on this passage tells us that “out of judgments” means “against
our inclinations.” It means simply “in accordance with our good
judgment,” just as we still say “out of his wisdom.” Compare Il. iii.
63,

     “Hector, because thy sharp reproof is _out of justice_ given, I
     take it well.”

     “And as Jove, brandishing a star which men a comet call, Hurls out
     his curled hair abroad, that from his brand exhals A thousand
     sparks.” (Il. iv. 85.)

Mr. Hooper’s note is “‘_Which men a comet call_’--so both the folios.
Dr. Taylor has printed ‘_which man a comet calls_.’ This certainly suits
the rhyme, but I adhere to Chapman’s text.” Both editors have
misunderstood the passage. The fault is not in “call” but in “exhals,” a
clear misprint for “exhall,” the spelling, as was common, being
conformed to the visible rhyme. “That” means “so that” (a frequent
Elizabethan construction) and “exhall” is governed by “sparks.” The
meaning is, “As when Jove, brandishing a comet, hurls out its curled
hair so that a thousand sparks exhale from its burning.”

    “The _evicke_ skipping from the rock.”

Mr. Hooper tells us, “It is doubtful what this word really is. Dr.
Taylor suggests that it may probably mean the _evict_, or doomed
one--but? It is possible Chapman meant to Anglicize the Greek αἴξ; or
should we read Ibex, as the αἴξ ἴξαλος was such?” The word means the
_chamois_, and is merely the English form of the French _ibiche_. Dr.
Taylor’s reading would amaze us were we not familiar with the
commentators on Shakespeare.

    “And now they _out-ray_ to your fleet.” (Il. v. 793.)

“_Out-ray_--spread out in array; abbreviated from array. Dr. Taylor says
‘rush out,’ from the Anglo-Saxon ‘_rean_,’ to flow; but there seems no
necessity for such an etymology.” We should think not! Chapman, like
Pope, made his first sketch from the French, and corrected it by the
Greek. Those who would understand Chapman’s English must allow for
traces of his French guide here and there. This is one of them, perhaps.
The word is etymologically unrelated to _array_. It is merely the old
French _oultréer_, a derivative of _ultra_. It means “they pass beyond
their gates even to your fleet.” He had said just before that formerly
“your foes durst not a foot address _without their ports_.” The word
occurs again Il. xxiii. 413.

    “When none, though many kings put on, could make his vaunt, he led
    Tydides to renewed assault or issued first the dike.” (Il. viii. 217.)

“_Tydides_.--He led Tydides, i. e. Tydides he led. An unusual
construction.” Not in the least. The old printers or authors sometimes
put a comma where some connecting particle was left out. We had just now
an instance where one took the place of _so_. Here it supplies _that_.
“None could make his vaunt that he led (that is, was before) Tydides.”
We still use the word in the same sense, as the “leading” horse in a
race.

    “And all did wilfully expect the silver-throned morn.” (Il. viii. 497.)

“_Wilfully_--willingly, anxiously.” _Wishfully_, as elsewhere in
Chapman.

    “And as, upon a rich man’s crop of barley or of wheat,
     Opposed for swiftness at their work, a sort of reapers sweat.”

“_Opposed_--standing opposite to one another for expedition’s sake.” We
hope Mr. Hooper understood his own note, for it baffles us utterly. The
meaning is simply “pitted against each other to see which will reap most
swiftly.” In a note (Il. xi. 417.) we are told that “the etymology [of
_lucern_] seems uncertain.” It is nothing more than a corruption of the
old French _leucerve_ (_loup-cervier_).

              “I would then make-in in deed and steep
    My income in their bloods.” (Il. xvii. 481.)

“_Income_--communication, or infusion, of courage from the Gods. The
word in this sense Todd says was a favorite in Cromwell’s time.” A
surprising note! _Income_ here means nothing more than “onfall,” as the
context shows.

    “To put the best in _ure_.” (Il. xvii. 545.)

“_Ure_--use. Skinner thinks it a contraction of _usura_. It is frequent
in Chaucer. Todd gives examples from Hooker and L’Estrange.” The word is
common enough, but how Mr. Hooper could seriously quote good old Skinner
for such an etymology we cannot conceive. It does not mean “in use,” but
“to work,” being merely the English form of _en œuvre_, as “manure” is
of _manœuvrer_.

    “So troop-meal Troy pursued a while.” (Il. xvii. 634.)

“_Troop-meal_--in troops, troop by troop. So piecemeal. To _meal_ was to
mingle, mix together; from the French _mêler_.... The reader would do
well to consult Dr. Jamieson’s excellent ‘Dictionary of the Scottish
Language’ in voce ‘_mell_.’” No doubt the reader might profit by
consulting it under any other word beginning with M, and any of them
would be as much to the purpose as _mell_. _Troop-meal_, like
_inch-meal_, _piece-meal_, implies separation, not mingling, and is from
a Teutonic root. Mr. Hooper is always weak in his linguistic. In a note
on Il. xviii. 144, he informs us that “To _sterve_ is to _die_; and the
sense of _starve_, with cold or hunger originated in the 17th century.”
We would it had! But we suspect that men had died of both these diseases
earlier. What he should have said was that the restriction of meaning to
dying with hunger was modern.

Il. xx. 239 we have “the God’s” for “the Gods’” and a few lines below
“Anchisiades’” for “Anchisiades’s”; Il. xxi. 407, “press’d” for “prest.”

We had noted a considerable number of other slips, but we will mention
only two more. “Treen broches” is explained to mean “branches of trees.”
(Hymn to Hermes, 227.) It means “wooden spits.” In the Bacchus (28, 29)
Mr. Hooper restores a corrupt reading which Mr. Singer (for a wonder)
had set right. He prints,--

    “Nay, which of all the Pow’r fully-divined
     Esteem ye him?”

Of course it should be powerfully-divined, for otherwise we must read
“Pow’rs.” The five volumes need a very careful revision in their
punctuation, and in another edition we should advise Mr. Hooper to
strike out every note in which he has been tempted into etymology.

       *       *       *       *       *

We come next to Mr. W. C. Hazlitt’s edition of Lovelace. Three short
pieces of Lovelace’s have lived, and deserved to live: “To Lucasta from
Prison,” “To Lucasta on going to the Wars,” and “The Grasshopper.” They
are graceful, airy, and nicely finished. The last especially is a
charming poem, delicate in expression, and full of quaint fancy, which
only in the latter half is strained to conceit. As the verses of a
gentleman they are among the best, though not of a very high order as
poetry. He is to be classed with the _lucky_ authors who, without great
powers, have written one or two pieces so facile in thought and
fortunate in phrase as to be carried lightly in the memory, poems in
which analysis finds little, but which are charming in their frail
completeness. This faculty of hitting on the precise _lilt_ of thought
and measure that shall catch the universal ear and sing themselves in
everybody’s memory, is a rare gift. We have heard many ingenious persons
try to explain the _cling_ of such a poem as “The Burial of Sir John
Moore,” and the result of all seemed to be, that there were certain
verses that were good, not because of their goodness, but because one
could not forget them. They have the great merit of being portable, and
we have to carry so much luggage through life, that we should be
thankful for what will pack easily and take up no room.

All that Lovelace wrote beside these three poems is utterly worthless,
mere chaff from the threshing of his wits. Take out the four pages on
which they are printed, and we have two hundred and eighty-nine left of
the sorriest stuff that ever spoiled paper. The poems are obscure,
without anything in them to reward perseverance, dull without being
moral, and full of conceits so far-fetched that we could wish the author
no worse fate than to carry them back to where they came from. We are no
enemies to what are commonly called conceits, but authors bear them, as
heralds say, with a difference. And a terrible difference it is! With
men like Earle, Donne, Fuller, Butler, Marvell, and even Quarles,
conceit means wit; they would carve the merest cherry-stone of thought
in the quaintest and delicatest fashion. But with duller and more
painful writers, such as Gascoyne, Marston, Fe11tham, and a score of
others, even with cleverer ones like Waller, Crashawe, and Suckling,
where they insisted on being fine, their wit is conceit. Difficulty
without success is perhaps the least tolerable kind of writing. Mere
stupidity is a natural failing; we skip and pardon. But the other is
Dulness in a domino, that travesties its familiar figure, and lures us
only to disappoint. These unhappy verses of Lovelace’s had been dead and
lapt in congenial lead these two hundred years;--what harm had they done
Mr. Hazlitt that he should disinter them? There is no such disenchanter
of peaceable reputations as one of these resurrectionmen of literature,
who will not let mediocrities rest in the grave, where the kind sexton,
Oblivion, had buried them, but dig them up to make a profit on their
lead.

Of all Mr. Smith’s editors, Mr. W. Carew Hazlitt is the worst. He is at
times positively incredible, worse even than Mr. Halliwell, and that is
saying a good deal. Worthless as Lovelace’s poems were, they should have
been edited correctly, if edited at all. Even dulness and dirtiness have
a right to fair play, and to be dull and dirty in their own way. Mr.
Hazlitt has allowed all the misprints of the original (or by far the
greater part of them) to stand, but he has ventured on many emendations
of the text, and in every important instance has blundered, and that,
too, even where the habitual practice of his author in the use of words
might have led him right. The misapprehension shown in some of his notes
is beyond the belief of any not familiar with the way in which old books
are edited in England by the job. We have brought a heavy indictment,
and we proceed to our proof, choosing only cases where there can be no
dispute. We should premise that Mr. Hazlitt professes to have corrected
the punctuation.

    “And though he sees it full of wounds,
      Cruel one, still he wounds it. (p. 34.)

Here the original reads, “Cruel still on,” and the only correction
needed was a comma after “cruel.”

        “And by the glorious light
    Of both those stars, which of their spheres bereft,
        Only the jelly’s left.” (p. 41.)

The original has “of which,” and rightly, for “their spheres bereft” is
parenthetic, and the sense is “of which only the jelly’s left.” Lovelace
is speaking of the eyes of a mistress who has grown old, and his image,
confused as it is, is based on the belief that stars shooting from their
spheres fell to the earth as jellies,--a belief, by the way, still to be
met with in New England.

Lovelace, describing a cow (and it is one of the few pretty passages in
the volume), says,--

    “She was the largest, goodliest beast
     That ever mead or altar blest,
     Round as her udder, and more white
     Than is the Milky-Way in night.” (p. 64.)

Mr. Hazlitt changes to “Round was her udder,” thus making that white
instead of the cow, as Lovelace intended. On the next page we read,--

    “She takes her leave o’ th’ mournful neat,
     Who, by her toucht, now prizeth her life,
     Worthy alone the hollowed knife.”

Compare Chapman (Iliads, xviii. 480):--

    “Slew all their white fleec’d sheep and _neat_.”

The original was “prize their life,” and the use of “neat” as a singular
in this way is so uncommon, if not unprecedented, and the verse as
corrected so halting, that we have no doubt Lovelace so wrote it. Of
course “hollowed” should be “hallowed,” though the broader pronunciation
still lingers in our country pulpits.

    “What need she other bait or charm
     But look? or angle but her arm?” (p. 65.)

So the original, which Mr. Hazlitt, missing the sense, has changed to
“what hook or angle.”

    “Fly Joy on wings of Popinjays
     To courts of fools _where_ as your plays
     Die laught at and forgot.” (p. 67.)

The original has “there.” Read,--

    “Fly, Joy, on wings of popinjays
     To courts of fools; there, as your plays,
     Die,” &c.

“Where as,” as then used, would make it the “plays” that were to die.

    “As he Lucasta nam’d, a groan
     Strangles the fainting passing tone;
     But as she heard, Lucasta smiles,
     Posses her round; she’s slipt meanwhiles
     Behind the blind of a thick bush.” (p. 68.)

Mr. Hazlitt’s note on “posses” could hardly be matched by any member of
the _posse comitatus_ taken at random:--

     “This word does not appear to have any very exact meaning. See
     Halliwell’s _Dictionary of Archaic Words_, art. Posse, and
     Worcester’s Dict., _ibid._, &c. The context here requires _to turn
     sharply or quickly._”

The “_ibid._, &c.” is delightful; in other words, “find out the meaning
of _posse_ for yourself.” Though dark to Mr. Hazlitt, the word has not
the least obscurity in it. It is only another form of _push_, nearer the
French _pousser_, from Latin _pulsare_, and “the context here requires”
nothing more than that an editor should read a poem if he wish to
understand it. The plain meaning is,--

    “But, as she heard _Lucasta_, smiles
     Possess her round.”

That is, when she heard the name _Lucasta_,--for thus far in the poem
she has passed under the pseudonyme of _Amarantha_. “Possess her round”
is awkward, but mildly so for Lovelace, who also spells “commandress” in
the same way with a single _s_. _Process_ is spelt _prosses_ in the
report of those who absented themselves from Church in Stratford.

    “O thou, that swing’st upon the waving eare,
        Of some well-filled oaten beard.” (p. 94.)

Mr. Hazlitt, for some inscrutable reason, has changed “haire” to “eare”
in the first line, preferring the ear of a _beard_ to its hair!

Mr. Hazlitt prints,--

    “Poor verdant foole! and now green ice, thy joys
     Large and as lasting as thy peirch of grass,
     Bid us lay in ’gainst winter raine and poize
     Their flouds with an o’erflowing glasse.” (p. 95.)

Surely we should read:--

    “Poor verdant foole and now green ice, thy joys,
     Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass,
     _Bid_,” &c.

i. e. “Poor fool now frozen, the shortness of thy joys, who mad’st no
provision against winter, warns us to do otherwise.”

    “The radiant gemme was brightly set
     In as divine a carkanet;
     Of which the clearer was not knowne
     Her minde or her complexion.” (p. 101.)

The original reads rightly “for which,” &c., and, the passage being
rightly pointed, we have,--

    “For which the clearer was not known,
     Her mind or her complexion.”

Of course “complexion” had not its present limited meaning.

          “ ... my future daring bayes
    Shall bow itself.” (p. 107.)

“We should read _themselves_,” says Mr. Hazlitt’s note authoritatively.
Of course a noun ending in _s_ is plural! Not so fast. In spite of the
dictionaries, _bays_ was often used in the singular.

    “Do plant a sprig of cypress, not of bays,”

says Robert Randolph in verses prefixed to his brother’s poems; and
Fe11tham in “Jonsonus Virbius,”

    “A greener bays shall crown Ben Jonson’s name.”

But we will cite Mr. Bayes himself:--

    “And, where he took _it_ up, resigns the _bays_.”

    “But we (defend us!) are divine,
    [Not] female, but madam born, and come
    From a right-honorable wombe.” (p. 115.)

Here Mr. Hazlitt has ruined both sense and metre by his unhappy “not.”
We should read “Female, but madam-born,” meaning clearly enough “we are
women, it is true, but of another race.”

    “In every hand [let] a cup be found
     That from all hearts a health may sound.” (p. 121.)

Wrong again, and the inserted “let” ruinous to the measure. Is it
possible that Mr. Hazlitt does not understand so common an English
construction as this?

    “First told thee into th’ ayre, then to the ground.” (p. 141.)

Mr. Hazlitt inserts the “to,” which is not in the original, from another
version. Lovelace wrote “ayër.” We have noted two other cases (pp. 203
and 248) where he makes the word a dissyllable. On the same page we have
“shewe’s” changed to “shew” because Mr. Hazlitt did not know it meant
“show us” and not “shows.” On page 170, “their” is substituted for
“her,” which refers to Lucasta, and could refer to nothing else.

Mr. Hazlitt changes “quarrels _the_ student Mercury” to “quarrels
_with_,” not knowing that _quarrels_ was once used as a transitive verb.
(p. 189.)

Wherever he chances to notice it, Mr. Hazlitt changes the verb following
two or more nouns connected by an “and” from singular to plural. For
instance:--

    “You, sir, alone, fame, and all conquering rhyme
     File the set teeth,” &c. (p. 224.)

for “files.” Lovelace commonly writes so;--on p. 181, where it escaped
Mr. Hazlitt’s grammatical eye, we find,--

    “But broken faith, and th’ cause of it,
     All damning gold, _was_ damned to the pit.”

Indeed, it was usual with writers of that day. Milton in one of his
sonnets has,--

    “Thy worth and skill _exempts_ thee from the throng,”--

and Leigh Hunt, for the sake of the archaism, in one of his, “Patience
and Gentleness _is_ power.”

Weariness, and not want of matter, compels us to desist from further
examples of Mr. Hazlitt’s emendations. But we must also give a few
specimens of his notes, and of the care with which he has corrected the
punctuation.

In a note on “flutes of canary” (p. 76) too long to quote, Mr. Hazlitt,
after citing the glossary of Nares (edition of 1859, by Wright and
Halliwell, a very careless book, to speak mildly), in which _flute_ is
conjectured to mean _cask_, says that he is not satisfied, but adds, “I
suspect that a flute _of canary_ was so called from the cask having
several vent-holes.” But flute means simply a tall glass. Lassel,
describing the glass-making at Murano, says, “For the High Dutch they
have high glasses called _Flutes_, a full yard long.” So in Dryden’s
_Sir Martin Mar-all_, “bring two flute-_glasses_ and some stools, ho!
We’ll have the ladies’ health.” The origin of the word, though doubtful,
is probably nearer to _flood_ than _flute_. But conceive of two
gentlemen, members of one knows not how many learned societies, like
Messrs. Wright and Halliwell, pretending to edit Nares, when they query
a word which they could have found in any French or German dictionary!

On page 93 we have,--

    “Hayle, holy cold! chaste temper, hayle! the fire
     Raved o’er my purer thoughts I feel t’ expire.”

Mr. Hazlitt annotates thus: “_Rav’d_ seems here to be equivalent to
_reav’d_ or _bereav’d_. Perhaps the correct reading may be ’reav’d.’ See
Worcester’s _Dictionary_, art. RAVE?, where Menage’s supposition of
affinity between _rave_ and _bereave_ is perhaps a little too
slightingly treated.”

The meaning of Lovelace was, “the fire _that_ raved.” But what Mr.
Hazlitt would make with “reaved o’er my purer thoughts,” we cannot
conceive. On the whole, we think he must have written the note merely to
make his surprising glossological suggestion. All that Worcester does
for the etymology, by the way, is to cite Richardson, no safe guide.

    “Where now one _so so_ spatters, t’other: no!” (p. 112.)

The comma in this verse has, of course, no right there, but Mr. Hazlitt
leaves the whole passage so corrupt that we cannot spend time in
disinfecting it. We quote it only for the sake of his note on “_so so_.”
It is marvellous.

     “An exclamation of approval when an actor made a hit. The
     corruption seems to be somewhat akin to the Italian, ’_si, si_,’ a
     corruption of ’_sia, sia_.’”

That the editor of an English poet need not understand Italian we may
grant, but that he should not know the meaning of a phrase so common in
his own language as _so-so_ is intolerable. Lovelace has been saying
that a certain play might have gained applause under certain
circumstances, but that everybody calls it _so-so_,--something very
different from “an exclamation of approval,” one should say. The phrase
answers exactly to the Italian _così così_, while _sì_ (not _si_) is
derived from _sic_, and is analogous with the affirmative use of the
German so and the Yankee _jes’ so_.

    “Oh, how he hast’ned death, burnt to be fryed!” (p. 141.)

The note on _fryed_ is,--

     “I. e. freed. _Free_ and _freed_ were sometimes pronounced like
     _fry_ and _fryed_; for Lord North, in his _Forest of Varieties_,
     1645, has these lines:--

    ’Birds that long have lived free,
    Caught and cag’d, but pine and die.’

     Here evidently _free_ is intended to rhyme with _die_.”

“Evidently!” An instance of the unsafeness of rhyme as a guide to
pronunciation. It was _die_ that had the sound of _dee_, as everybody
(but Mr. Hazlitt) knows. Lovelace himself rhymes _die_ and _she_ on p.
269. But what shall we say to our editor’s not knowing that _fry_ was
used formerly where we should say _burn_? Lovers used to _fry_ with
love, whereas now they have got out of the frying-pan into the fire. In
this case a martyr is represented as burning (i. e. longing) to be fried
(i. e. burned).

    “Her beams ne’er shed or change like th’ hair of day.” (p. 224.)

Mr. Hazlitt’s note is,--

     “_Hair_ is here used in what has become quite an obsolete sense.
     The meaning is outward form, nature, or character. The word used to
     be by no means uncommon; but it is now, as was before remarked, out
     of fashion; and indeed I do not think that it is found even in any
     old writer used exactly in the way in which Lovelace has employed
     it.”

We should think not, as Mr. Hazlitt understands it! Did he never hear of
the golden hair of Apollo,--of the _intonsum Cynthium_? Don Quixote was
a better scholar where he speaks of _las doradas hebras de sus hermosos
cabellos_. But _hair_ never meant what Mr. Hazlitt says it does, even
when used as he supposes it to be here. It had nothing to do with
“outward form, nature, or character,” but had a meaning much nearer what
we express by temperament, which its color was and is thought to
indicate.

On p. 232 “_wild_ ink” is explained to mean “_unrefined_.” It is a mere
misprint for “_vild_.”

Page 237, Mr. Hazlitt, explaining an illusion of Lovelace to the “east
and west” in speaking of George Sandys, mentions Sandys’s Oriental
travels, but seems not to know that he translated Ovid in Virginia.

Pages 251, 252:--

    “And as that soldier conquest doubted not,
     Who but one splinter had of Castriot,
     But would assault ev’n death, so strongly charmed,
     And naked oppose rocks, with this bone armed.”

Mr. Hazlitt reads _his_ for _this_ in the last verse, and his note on
“bone” is:--

     “And he found a new jawbone of an ass, and put forth his hand and
     took it, and slew a thousand men therewith. (Judges xv. 15.)”

Could the farce of “editing” go further? To make a “splinter of
Castriot” an ass’s jawbone is a little too bad. We refer Mr. Hazlitt to
“The Life of George Castriot, King of Epirus and Albania,” &c., &c.,
(Edinburgh, 1753,) p. 32, for an explanation of this profound
difficulty. He will there find that the Turkish soldiers wore relics of
Scanderbeg as charms.

Perhaps Mr. Hazlitt’s most astounding note is on the word _pickear_. (p.
203.)

    “So within shot she doth pickear,
     Now gall’s [galls] the flank and now the rear.”

“In the sense in which it is here used this word seems to be peculiar to
Lovelace. _To pickear_, or _pickeer_, means _to skirmish_.” And, pray,
what other possible meaning can it have here?

Of his corrections of the press we will correct a few samples.

Page 34, for “Love _nee’re_ his standard,” read “_neere_.” Page 82, for
“fall _too_,” read “fall _to_” (or, as we ought to print such words,
“fall-to”). Page 83, for “star-made firmament,” read “star, made
firmament.” Page 161, for “To look their enemies _in_ their hearse,”
read, both for sense and metre, _into_. Page 176, for “the gods _have_
kneeled,” read _had_. Page 182, for “In beds they tumbled _off_ their
own,” read _of_. Page 184, for “in mine one monument I lie,” read
_owne_. Page 212, for “Deucalion’s _black_flung stone,” read
“backflung.” Of the punctuation we shall give but one specimen, and that
a fair average one:--

    “Naso to his Tibullus flung the wreath,
     He to Catullus thus did each bequeath.
     This glorious circle, to another round,
     At last the temples of a god it bound.”

Our readers over ten years of age will easily correct this for
themselves.

       *       *       *       *       *

Time brings to obscure authors[30] an odd kind of reparation, an
immortality, not of love and interest and admiration, but of curiosity
merely. In proportion as their language was uncouth, provincial, or even
barbarous, their value becomes the greater. A book of which only a
single copy escaped its natural enemies, the pastry-cook and
trunk-maker, may contain one word that makes daylight in some dark
passage of a great author, and its name shall accordingly live forever
in a note. Is not, then, a scholiastic athanasy better than none? And if
literary vanity survive death, or even worse, as Brunetto Latini’s made
him insensible for a moment to the rain of fire and the burning sand,
the authors of such books as are not properly literature may still
comfort themselves with a _non omnis moriar_, laying a mournful emphasis
on the adjective, and feeling that they have not lived wholly in vain
while they share with the dodo a fragmentary continuance on earth. To be
sure, the immortality, such as it is, belongs less to themselves than to
the famous men they help to illustrate. If they escape oblivion, it is
by a back door, as it were, and they survive only in fine print at the
page’s foot. At the banquet of fame they sit below the salt. After all,
perhaps, the next best thing to being famous or infamous is to be
utterly forgotten, for this also is to achieve a kind of definite result
by living. To hang on the perilous edge of immortality by the nails,
liable at any moment to drop into the fathomless ooze of oblivion, is at
best a questionable beatitude. And yet sometimes the merest barnacles
that have attached themselves to the stately keels of Dante or
Shakespeare or Milton have an interest of their own by letting us know
in what remote waters those hardy navigators went a pearl-fishing. Has
not Mr. Dyce traced Shakespeare’s “dusty death” to Anthony Copley, and
Milton’s “back resounded Death!” to Abraham Fraunce? Nay, is it not
Bernard de Ventadour’s lark that sings forever in the diviner air of
Dante’s Paradise?

    “Quan vey laudeta mover
     De joi sas alas contra’l rai,
     Que s’oblida e s laissa cazer
     Per la doussor qu ’al cor li ’n vai.”

    “Qual lodoletta che in aere si spazia,
     Prima cantando, e poi tace contenta
     Dell’ ultima dolcezza che la sazia.”

We are not sure that Bernard’s “Que s’oblida es laissa cazer” is not
sweeter than Dante’s “tace contenta,” but it was plainly the _doussor_
that gave its cue to the greater poet’s memory, and he has improved on
it with that exquisite _ultima_, as his master Virgil sometimes did on
Homer.

But authors whose interest for us is mainly bibliographic belong rather
in such collections as Mr. Allibone’s. As literature they are
oppressive; as items of literary history they find their place in that
vast list which records not only those named for promotion, but also the
killed, wounded, and missing in the Battle of the Books. There our
hearts are touched with something of the same vague pathos that dims the
eye in some deserted graveyard. The brief span of our earthly
immortalities is brought home to us as nowhere else. What a necrology of
notability! How many a controversialist, terrible in his day, how many a
rising genius that somehow stuck on the horizon, how many a withering
satirist, lies here shrunk all away to the tombstone brevity of a name
and date! Think of the aspirations, the dreams, the hopes, the toil, the
confidence (of himself and wife) in an impartial and generous
posterity,--and then read “Smith J. [ohn?] 1713-1784 (?). The Vision of
Immortality, an Epique Poem in twelve books, 1740, 4to. See _Lowndes_.”
The time of his own death less certain than that of his poem, (which we
may fix pretty safely in 1740,) and the only posterity that took any
interest in him the indefatigable compiler to whom a name was valuable
in proportion as it was obscure. Well, to have even so much as your
title-page read after it has rounded the corner of its first century,
and to enjoy a posthumous public of one is better than nothing. This is
the true Valhalla of Mediocrity, the _Libro d’oro_ of the
_onymi-anonymi_, of the never-named authors who exist only in name.
Parson Adams would be here had he found a printer for his sermons, and
Mr. Primrose, if a copy existed of his tracts on monogamy. Papyrorcetes
junior will turn here with justifiable pride to the name of his
respectable progenitor. Here we are secure of perpetuity at least, if of
nothing better, and are sons though we may not be heirs, of fame. Here
is a handy and inexpensive substitute for the waxen _imagines_ of the
Roman patriciate, for those must have been inconvenient to pack on a
change of lodgings, liable to melt in warm weather (even the elder
Brutus himself might soften in the dog-days) and not readily salable
unless to some _novus homo_ willing to buy a set of ancestors
ready-made, as some of our own enthusiasts in genealogy are said to
order a family-tree from the heraldic nurseryman, skilled to imp a slip
of Scroggins on a stock of De Vere or Montmorenci. Fame, it should seem,
like electricity, is both positive and negative, and if a writer must be
Somebody to make himself of permanent interest to the world at large, he
must not less be Nobody to have his namelessness embalmed by M. Guérard.
The benignity of Providence is nowhere more clearly to be seen than in
its compensations. As there is a large class of men madly desirous to
decipher cuneiform and other inscriptions, simply because of their
illegibility, so there is another class driven by a like irresistible
instinct to the reprinting of unreadable books. Whether these have even
a philologic value for us depends on the accuracy and learning bestowed
upon them by the editor.

For there is scarcely any rubbish-heap of literature out of which
something precious may not be raked by the diligent explorer, and the
late Mr. Dyce (since Gifford, the best editor of our literature of the
Tudor and Jacobean periods) might well be called the Golden Dustman, so
many were the precious trifles sifted out by his intelligent industry.
It would not be easy to name any work more thoroughly done than his
edition of Skelton. He was not a philologist in the stricter sense, but
no man had such a commonplace-book as he, or knew so exactly the meaning
with which words were used during the period he did so much to
illustrate. Elegant scholar ship is not often, as in him, patient of
drudgery and conscientious in painstaking. Between such a man and Mr.
Carew Hazlitt the contrast is by no means agreeable. The one was not
more distinguished by modest accuracy than the other is by the rash
conceit of that half-knowledge which is more mischievous in an editor
than downright ignorance. This language is strong because it is true,
though we should not have felt called upon to use it but for the vulgar
flippancy with which Mr. Hazlitt alludes depreciatingly to the labors of
his predecessors,--to such men as Ritson, Utterson, Wright, and Sir
Frederick Madden, his superiors in everything that goes to the making of
a good editor. Most of them are now dead and nailed in their chests, and
it is not for us to forget the great debt we owe to them, and others
like them, who first opened paths for us through the tangled wilderness
of our early literature. A modern editor, with his ready-made helps of
glossary, annotation, and comment, should think rather of the
difficulties than the defects of these pioneers.

How different is Mr. Hazlitt’s spirit from that of the thorough and
therefore modest scholar! In the Preface to his _Altenglische
Sprachproben_, Mätzner says of an editor, _das Beste was er ist verdankt
er Andern_, an accidental pentameter that might seem to have dropped out
of _Nathan der Weise_. Mr. Hazlitt would profit much by getting some
friend to translate for him the whole paragraph in which it occurs.

We see it announced that Mr. Hazlitt is to superintend a new edition of
Warton’s History of English Poetry, and are pained to think of the
treatment that robust scholar and genial poet is likely to receive at
the hands of an editor without taste, discrimination, or learning. Of
his taste a single specimen may suffice. He tells us that “in an
artistic and constructive point of view, the _Mylner of Abington_ is
superior to its predecessor,” that predecessor being Chaucer’s _Reve’s
Tale_, which, with his usual inaccuracy, he assigns to the _Miller_! Of
his discrimination we have a sufficient test in the verses he has
fathered upon Herrick in a late edition of the most graceful of our
lyric poets. Perhaps discrimination is not, after all, the right word,
for we have sometimes seen cause to doubt whether Mr. Hazlitt ever reads
carefully the very documents he prints. For example, in the Biographical
Notice prefixed to the Herrick he says (p. xvii): “Mr. W. Perry Herrick
has plausibly suggested that the payments made by Sir William to his
nephew were simply on account of the fortune which belonged to Robert in
right of his father, and which his uncle held in trust; this was about
£400; and I think from allusions in the letters printed elsewhere that
this view may be the correct one.” _May_ be! The poet says expressly, “I
entreat you out of _my little possession_ to deliver to this bearer the
_customarye_ £10, without which I cannot meate [?] my ioyrney.” The
words we have italicized are conclusive. By the way, Mr. Hazlitt’s
wise-looking query after “meate” is conclusive also as to his fitness
for editorship. Did he never hear of the familiar phrase “to _meet_ the
expense”? If so trifling a misspelling can mystify him, what must be the
condition of his mind in face of the more than Protean travesties which
words underwent before they were uniformed by Johnson and Walker? Mr.
Hazlitt’s mind, to be sure, like the wind Cecias, always finds its own
fog. In another of Herrick’s letters we find, “For what her monie can be
effected (_sic_) when there is diuision ’twixt the hart and hand?” “Her
monie” of course means _harmonie_, and _effected_ is therefore right.
What Mr. Hazlitt may have meant by his “(_sic_)” it were idle to
inquire.

We have already had occasion to examine some of Mr. Hazlitt’s work, and
we are sorry to say that in the four volumes before us we find no reason
for changing our opinion of his utter disqualification for the duties of
editorship. He seldom clears up a real difficulty (never, we might say,
with lights of his own), he frequently creates a darkness where none was
before, and the peculiar _bumptiousness_ of his incapacity makes it
particularly offensive. We shall bring a few instances in proof of what
we assert, our only embarrassment being in the superabundance of our
material. In the Introduction to the second volume of his collection,
Mr. Hazlitt speaks of “the utter want of common care on the part of
previous editors of our old poetry.” Such oversights as he has remarked
upon in his notes are commonly errors of the press, a point on which Mr.
Hazlitt, of all men, should have been charitable, for his own volumes
are full of them. We call his attention to one such which is rather
amusing. In his “additional notes” we find “line 77, _wylle_. Strike out
the note upon this word; but the explanation is correct. _Be wroght_ was
a misprint, however, for _he wroght_.” The error occurs in a citation of
three lines in which _lother_ is still left for _tother_. The original
note affords us so good an example of Mr. Hazlitt’s style of editing as
to be worth preserving. In the “Kyng and the Hermit” we read,--

    “He ne wyst w[h]ere that he was
     Ne out of the forest for to passe,
     And thus he rode all wylle.”

And here is Mr. Hazlitt’s annotation on the word _wylle_:--

“_i. e._ evil. In a MS. of the _Tale of the Basyn_, supposed by Mr.
Wright, who edited it in 1836, to be written in the Salopian dialect,
are the following lines:--

    ‘The lother hade litull thoght,
     Off husbandry cowth he noght,
     But alle his wyves _will_ be wroght.’” (Vol. I. p. 16.)

It is plain that he supposed _will_, in this very simple passage, to
mean _evil_! This he would seem to rectify, but at the same time takes
care to tell us that “the explanation [of _wylle_] is correct.” He is
willing to give up one blunder, if only he may have one left to comfort
himself withal! _Wylle_ is simply a rhyming fetch for _wild_, and the
passage means that the king rode at random. The use of _wild_ with this
meaning is still common in such phrases as “he struck wild.” In
“Havelok” we find it in the nearly related sense of _being at a loss,
knowing not what to do_:--

    “To lincolne barfot he yede
     Hwan he kam ther he was ful _wil_,
     Ne hauede he no frend to gangen til.”

_All wylle_, in short, means the kind of editing that is likely to be
done by a gentleman who picks up his misinformation as he goes along. We
would hint that a person must know _something_ before he can use even a
glossary with safety.

In the “King and the Barker,” when the tanner finds out that it is the
king whom he has been treating so familiarly, and falls upon his knees,
Mr. Hazlitt prints,

    “He had no meynde of hes hode, nor cape, ne radell,”

and subjoins the following note: “Radell, or raddle, signifies a side of
a cart; but here, apparently, stands for the cart itself. Ritson printed
_ner adell_.” Mr. Hazlitt’s explanation of _raddle_, which he got from
Halliwell, is incorrect. The word, as its derivation (from O. F.
_rastel_) implies, means the side or end of a _hay_-cart, in which the
uprights are set like the teeth of a rake. But what has a cart to do
here? There is perhaps a touch of what an editor of old doggerel would
benignantly call humor, in the tanner’s forgetfulness of his raiment,
but the cart is as little to the purpose as one of Mr. Hazlitt’s own
notes. The tanner was on horseback, as the roads of the period required
that he should be, and good old Ritson was plainly on the right track in
his reading, though his text was muddled by a misprint. As it was, he
got _one_ word right, and so far has the advantage of Mr. Hazlitt. The
true reading is, of course, _ner a dell_, never a deal, not a whit. The
very phrase occurs in another poem which Mr. Hazlitt has reprinted in
his collection,--

    “For _never a dell_
     He wyll me love agayne.” (Vol. III. p. 2.)

That _adell_ was a misprint in Ritson is proved by the fact that the
word does not appear in his glossary. If we were to bring Mr. Hazlitt to
book for his misprints! In the poem we have just quoted he gravely
prints,--

    “Matter in dede,
     My sides did blede,”

for “mother, indede,” “through ryght wysenes” for “though ryghtwisenes,”
“with man vnkynde” for “sith man vnkynde,” “ye knowe a parte” for “ye
knowe aperte,” “here in” for “herein,” all of which make nonsense, and
all come within the first one hundred and fifty lines, and those of the
shortest, mostly of four syllables each. Perhaps they rather prove
ignorance than want of care. One blunder falling within the same limits
we have reserved for special comment, because it affords a good example
of Mr. Hazlitt’s style of editing:--

    “Your herte souerayne
     Clouen in twayne
     By longes the blynde.” (Vol. III. p. 7.)

Here the uninstructed reader would be as completely in the dark as to
what _longes_ meant as the editor plainly was himself. The old rhymer no
doubt wrote Longis, meaning thereby Longinus, a personage familiar
enough, one should think, to any reader of mediæval poetry. Mr. Hazlitt
absolves himself for not having supplied a glossary by the plea that
none is needed by the class of readers for whom his volumes are
intended. But this will hardly seem a valid excuse for a gentleman who
often goes out of his way to explain in his notes such simple matters as
that “shape” means “form,” and that “Johan of the golden mouthe” means
“St. Chrysostom,” which, indeed, it does not, any more than Johannes
Baptista means St. Baptist. We will supply Mr. Hazlitt with an
illustration of the passage from Bekker’s _Ferabras_, the more willingly
as it may direct his attention to a shining example of how an old poem
should be edited:--

    “en la crotz vos pendero li fals Iuzieu truan,
     can Longis vos ferie de sa lansa trencan:
     el non avia vist en trastot son vivan;
     lo sanc li venc per l’asta entro al punh colan;
     e [el] toquet ne sos huelhs si vic el mantenan.”

Mr. Hazlitt, to be sure (who prints _sang parlez_ for _sanz parler_)
(Vol. I. p. 265), will not be able to form any notion of what these
verses mean, but perhaps he will be able to draw an inference from the
capital L that _longes_ is a proper name. The word _truan_ at the end of
the first verse of our citation may also suggest to him that _truant_ is
not quite so satisfactory an explanation of the word _trewāt_ as he
seems to think. (Vol. IV. p. 24, _note_.) In deference to Mr. Hazlitt’s
presumed familiarity with an author sometimes quoted by him in his
notes, we will point him to another illustration:--

    “Ac ther cam forth a knyght,
     With a kene spere y-grounde
     Highte Longeus, as the lettre telleth,
     And longe hadde lore his sighte.”
                     _Piers Ploughman_, Wright, p. 374.

Mr. Hazlitt shows to peculiar advantage where old French is in question.
Upon the word _Osyll_ he favors us with the following note: “The
blackbird. In East Cornwall _ozell_ is used to signify the windpipe, and
thence the bird may have had its name, as Mr. Couch has suggested to
me.” (Vol. II. p. 25.) Of course the blackbird, alone among fowls, is
distinguished by a windpipe! The name is merely another form of O. F.
_oisil_, and was usurped naturally enough by one of the commonest birds,
just as _pajaro_ (L. _passer_) in Spanish, by a similar process in the
opposite direction, came to mean bird in general. On the very next page
he speaks of “the Romance which is vulgarly entitled _Lybeaus Disconus_,
i. e. _Le Beau Disconnu_.” If he had corrected _Disconus_ to _Desconus_,
all had been well; but _Disconnu_ neither is nor ever was French at all.
Where there is blundering to be done, one stone often serves Mr. Hazlitt
for two birds. _Ly beaus Disconus_ is perfectly correct old French, and
another form of the adjective (_bius_) perhaps explains the sound we
give to the first syllable of _beauty_ and _Beaufort_. A barrister at
law, as Mr. Hazlitt is, may not be called on to know anything about old
English or modern French, but we might fairly expect him to have at
least a smattering of Law French! In volume fourth, page 129, a goodman
trying his wife,

    “Bad her take the pot that sod ouer the fire
     And set it abooue vpon the astire.”

Mr. Hazlitt’s note upon _astire_ is “hearth, i. q. _astre_.” Knowing
that the modern French was âtre, he too rashly inferred a form which
never existed except in Italian. The old French word is _aistre_ or
_estre_, but Mr. Hazlitt, as usual, prefers something that is neither
old French nor new. We do not pretend to know what _astire_ means, but a
hearth that should be _abooue_ the pot seething over the fire would be
unusual, to say the least, in our semi-civilized country.

In the “Lyfe of Roberte the Deuill” (Vol. I. p. 232), Mr. Hazlitt twice
makes a knight _sentre_ his lance, and tells us in a note that the “Ed.
1798 has _fentered_,” a very easy misprint for the right word
_feutered_. What Mr. Hazlitt supposed to be the meaning of _sentre_ he
has not vouchsafed to tell us. _Fautre_ (sometimes _faltre_ or
_feutre_) means in old French the _rest_ of a lance. Thus in the _Roman
du Renart_ (26517),

    “Et mist sa lance sor le _fautre_.”

But it also meant a peculiar _kind_ of rest. In Sir F. Madden’s edition
of _Gawayne_ (to which Mr. Hazlitt refers occasionally) we read,

    “They _feutred_ their lances, these knyghtes good”;

and in the same editor’s “William and the Werwolf,”

    “With sper festened in _feuter_, him for to spille.”

In a note on the latter passage Sir F. Madden says, “There seems no
reason, however, why it [feuter] should not mean the rest attached to
the armour.” But Roquefort was certainly right in calling it a
“garniture d’une selle pour tenir la lance.” A spear fastened to the
saddle gave more deadly weight to the blow. The “_him for to spille_”
implies this. So in “Merlin” (E. E. Text Soc., p. 488): “Than thei toke
speres grete and rude, and putte hem in fewtre, and that is the grettest
crewelte that oon may do, ffor turnement oweth to be with-oute felonye,
and they meved to smyte hem as in mortall werre.” The context shows that
the _fewtre_ turned sport into earnest. A citation in Raynouard’s
_Lexique Roman_ (though wrongly explained by him) directed us to a
passage which proves that this particular kind of rest for the lance was
attached to the saddle, in order to render the blow heavier:--

    “Lances _à_ [lege _as_] _arçons_ afeutrées
     _Pour plus de dures colées rendre._”
                _Branche des Royaux Lignages_, 4514, 4515.

Mr. Hazlitt, as we have said, lets no occasion slip to insinuate the
inaccuracy and carelessness of his predecessors. The long and useful
career of Mr. Wright, who, if he had given us nothing more than his
excellent edition of “Piers Ploughman” and the volume of “Ancient
Vocabularies,” would have deserved the gratitude of all lovers of our
literature or students of our language, does not save him from the
severe justice of Mr. Hazlitt, nor is the name of Warton too venerable
to be coupled with a derogatory innuendo. Mr. Wright needs no plea in
abatement from us, and a mischance of Mr. Hazlitt’s own has comically
avenged Warton. The word _prayer_, it seems, had somehow substituted
itself for _prayse_ in a citation by Warton of the title of the
“Schole-House of Women.” Mr. Hazlitt thereupon takes occasion to charge
him with often “speaking at random,” and after suggesting that it might
have been the blunder of a copyist, adds, “or it is by no means
impossible that Warton himself, having been allowed to inspect the
production, was guilty of this oversight.” (Vol. IV. p. 98.) Now, on the
three hundred and eighteenth page of the same volume, Mr. Hazlitt has
allowed the following couplet to escape his conscientious attention:--

    “Next, that no gallant should not ought suppose
     That _prayers_ and glory doth consist in cloathes.”

_Lege, nostro periculo_, PRAYSE! Were dear old Tom still on earth, he
might light his pipe cheerfully with any one of Mr. Hazlitt’s pages,
secure that in so doing he was consuming a brace of blunders at the
least. The word _prayer_ is an unlucky one for Mr. Hazlitt. In the
“Knyght and his Wyfe” (Vol. II. p. 18) he prints:--

    “And sayd, Syre, I rede we make
     In this chapel oure prayers,
     That God us kepe both in ferrus.”

Why did not Mr. Hazlitt, who explains so many things that everybody
knows, give us a note upon _in ferrus_? It would have matched his
admirable elucidation of _waygose_, which we shall notice presently. Is
it not barely possible that the MS. may have read _prayere_ and _in
fere_? _Prayere_ occurs two verses further on, and not as a rhyme.

Mr. Hazlitt even sets Sir Frederick Madden right on a question of Old
English grammar, telling him superciliously that _can_, with an
infinitive, in such phrases as _he can go_, is used not “to denote a
_past_ tense, but an _imperfect_ tense.” By _past_ we suppose him to
mean _perfect_. But even if an imperfect tense were not a past one, we
can show by a passage in one of the poems in this very collection that
_can_, in the phrases referred to, sometimes not only denotes a past but
a perfect tense:--

    “And thorow that worde y felle in pryde;
     As the aungelle can of hevyn glyde,
     And with the tywnkling[31] of an eye
     God for-dud alle that maystrye
     And so hath he done for my gylte.”

Now the angel here is Lucifer, and _can of hevyn glyde_ means simply
_fell from heaven_, not _was falling_. It is in the same tense as
_for-dud_ in the next line. The fall of the angels is surely a _fait
accompli_. In the last line, by the way, Mr. Hazlitt changes “my for” to
“for my,” and wrongly, the _my_ agreeing with _maystrye_ understood. In
modern English we should use _mine_ in the same way. But Sir Frederick
Madden can take care of himself.

We have less patience with Mr. Hazlitt’s impertinence to Ritson, a man
of ample reading and excellent taste in selection, and who, real scholar
as he was, always drew from original sources. We have a _foible_ for
Ritson with his oddities of spelling, his acerb humor, his unconsciously
depreciatory mister Tyrwhitts and mister Bryants, and his obstinate
disbelief in Doctor Percy’s folio manuscript. Above all, he was a most
conscientious editor, and an accurate one so far as was possible with
the lights of that day. Mr. Hazlitt has reprinted two poems, “The Squyr
of Low Degre” and “The Knight of Curtesy,” which had already been edited
by Ritson. The former of these has passages that are unsurpassed in
simple beauty by anything in our earlier poetry. The author of it was a
good versifier, and Ritson, though he corrected some glaring errors, did
not deal so trenchantly with verses manifestly lamed by the copyist as
perhaps an editor should.[32] Mr. Hazlitt says of Ritson’s text, that
“it offers more than _an hundred_ departures from the original,” and of
the “Knight of Courtesy,” that “Ritson’s text is by no means accurate.”
Now Mr. Hazlitt has adopted nearly all of Ritson’s emendations, without
giving the least hint of it. On the contrary, in some five or six
instances, he gives the original reading in a foot-note with an “old ed.
has” so and so, thus leaving the reader to infer that the corrections
were his own. Where he has not followed Ritson, he has almost uniformly
blundered, and that through sheer ignorance. For example, he prints,

    “Alas! it tourned to _wroth her heyle_,”

where Ritson had substituted _wrotherheyle_. The measure shows that
Ritson was right. _Wroth her heyle_, moreover, is nonsense. It should
have been _wrother her heyle_ at any rate, but the text is far too
modern to admit of that archaic form. In the “Debate of the Body and the
Soul” (Mätzner’s A. E. Sprachproben, 103) we have,

    “Why schope thou me to wrother-hele,”

and in “Dame Siris” (Ibid., 110),

    “To goder hele ever came thou hider.”

Mr. Hazlitt prints,

    “For yf it may be found in thee
     That thou them [de] fame for enuyte.”

The emendation [de] is Ritson’s, and is probably right, though it would
require, for the metre’s sake, the elision of _that_ at the beginning of
the verse. But what is _enuyte_? Ritson reads _enmyte_, which is, of
course, the true reading. Mr. Hazlitt prints (as usual either without
apprehending or without regarding the sense),

    “With browes _bent_ and eyes full mery,”

where Ritson has _brent_, and gives parallel passages in his note on the
word. Mr. Hazlitt gives us

    “To here the bugles there yblow,
     With their _bugles_ in that place,”

though Ritson had made the proper correction to _begles_. Mr. Hazlitt,
with ludicrous _nonchalance_, allows the Squire to press into the throng

    “With a _bastard_ large and longe,”

and that with the right word (_baslarde_) staring him in the face from
Ritson’s text. We wonder he did not give us an illustrative quotation
from Falconbridge! Both editors have allowed some gross errors to
escape, such as “come _not_” for “come” (v. 425); “so leue _he_ be” for
“ye be” (v. 593); “vnto _her_ chambre” for “vnto your” (v. 993); but in
general Ritson’s is the better and more intelligent text of the two. In
the “Knight of Curtesy,” Mr. Hazlitt has followed Ritson’s text almost
_literatim_. Indeed, it is demonstrable that he gave it to his printers
as copy to set up from. The proof is this: Ritson has accented a few
words ending in _tè_. Generally he uses the grave accent, but now and
then the acute. Mr. Hazlitt’s text follows all these variations exactly.
The main difference between the two is that Ritson prints the first
personal pronoun _i_, and Mr. Hazlitt, I. Ritson is probably right; for
in the “Scholehouse of Women” (vv. 537, 538) where the text no doubt was

    “i [i. e. _one_] deuil a woman to speak may constrain,
     But all that in hel be cannot let it again,”

Mr. Hazlitt changes “i” to “A,” and says in a note, “Old ed. has _I_.”
That by his correction he should miss the point was only natural; for he
evidently conceives that the _sense_ of a passage does not in the least
concern an editor. An instance or two will suffice. In the “Knyght and
his Wyfe” (Vol. II. p. 17) we read,

    “The fynd tyl hure hade myche tene
     As hit was a sterfull we seme!”

Mr. Hazlitt in a note explains _tene_ to mean “trouble or sorrow”; but
if that were its meaning here, we should read _made_, and not _hade_,
which would give to the word its other sense of _attention_. The last
verse of the couplet Mr. Hazlitt seems to think perfectly intelligible
as it stands. We should not be surprised to learn that he looked upon it
as the one gem that gave lustre to a poem otherwise of the dreariest. We
fear we shall rob it of all its charm for him by putting it into modern
English:--

    “As it was after full well seen.”

So in the “Smyth and his Dame” (Vol. III. p. 204) we read,

    “It were a lytele maystry
     To make a blynde man to se,”

instead of “_as_ lytell.” It might, indeed, be as easy to perform the
miracle on a blind man as on Mr. Hazlitt. Again, in the same poem, a
little further on,

    “For I tell the now trevely,
     Is none so wyse ne _to_ sle,
     But ever _ye_ may som what lere,”

which, of course, should be,

                  “ne _so_ sle
    But ever _he_ may som what lere.”

Worse than all, Mr. Hazlitt tells us (Vol. I. p. 158) that when they
bury the great Khan, they lay his body in a tabernacle,

    “With sheld and spere and other wede
     With a whit mere to gyf him in ylke.”

We will let Sir John Maundeville correct the last verse: “And they seyn
that when he shale come into another World ... the mare schalle _gheven
him mylk_.” Mr. Hazlitt gives us some wretched doggerel by “Piers of
Fulham,” and gives it swarming with blunders. We take at random a couple
of specimens:--

    “And loveship goith ay to warke
     Where that presence is put a bake,” (Vol. II. pp. 13, 14,)

where we should read “love’s ship,” “wrake,” and “abake.” Again, just
below,

    “Ffor men haue seyn here to foryn,
     That love laughet when men be forsworn.”

Love should be “Iove.” Ovid is the obscure person alluded to in the “men
here to foryn”:

    “Jupiter e cœlo perjuria ridet amantum.”

We dare say Mr. Hazlitt, if he ever read the passage, took it for
granted that “to foryn” meant _too foreign_, and gave it up in despair.
But surely Shakespeare’s

                  “At lovers’ perjuries,
    They say, Jove laughs,”

is not too foreign to have put him on the right scent.

Mr. Hazlitt is so particular in giving us _v_ for _u_ and _vice versa_,
that such oversights are a little annoying. Every man his own editor
seems to be his theory of the way in which old poetry should be
reprinted. On this plan, the more riddles you leave (or make) for the
reader to solve, the more pleasure you give him. To correct the blunders
in any book edited by Mr. Hazlitt would give the young student a pretty
thorough training in archaic English. In this sense the volumes before
us might be safely recommended to colleges and schools. When Mr. Hazlitt
undertakes to correct, he is pretty sure to go wrong. For example, in
“Doctour Doubble Ale” (Vol. III. p. 309) he amends thus:--

    “And sometyme mikle strife is
     Among the ale wyfes, [y-wis];

where the original is right as it stands. Just before, in the same poem,
we have a parallel instance:--

    “And doctours dulpatis
     That falsely to them pratis,
     And bring them to the gates.”

The original probably reads (or should read) _wyfis_ and _gatis_. But it
is too much to expect of Mr. Hazlitt that he should remember the very
poems he is editing from one page to another, nay, as we shall presently
show, that he should even read them. He will change _be_ into _ben_
where he should have let it alone (though his own volumes might have
furnished him with such examples as “were go,” “have se,” “is do,” and
fifty more), but he will sternly retain _bene_ where the rhyme requires
_be_, and Ritson had so printed. In “Adam Bel” the word _pryme_ occurs
(Vol. II. p. 140), and he vouchsafes us the following note: “i. e. noon.
It is commonly used by early writers in this sense. In the _Four_ P. P.,
by John Heywood, circa 1540, the apothecary says

    ‘If he taste this boxe nye aboute the pryme
     By the masse, he is in heven or even songe tyme.’”

Let our readers admire with us the easy “it is commonly used” of Mr.
Hazlitt, as if he had store of other examples in his note-book. He could
an if he would! But unhappily he borrowed this single quotation from
Nares, and, as usual, it throws no scintilla of light upon the point in
question, for his habit in annotation is to find by means of a glossary
some passage (or passages if possible) in which the word to be explained
occurs, and then--why, then to give the word as an explanation of
itself. But in this instance, Mr. Hazlitt, by the time he had reached
the middle of his next volume (Vol. III. p. 281) had wholly forgotten
that _pryme_ was “commonly used by early writers” for _noon_, and in a
note on the following passage,

    “I know not whates a clocke
     But by the countre cocke,
     The mone nor yet the pryme,
     Vntyll the sonne do shyne,”

he informs us that it means “six o’clock in the morning”! Here again
this editor, who taxes Ritson with want of care, prints _mone_ for
_none_ in the very verse he is annotating, and which we may therefore
presume that he had read. A man who did not know the moon till the sun
showed it him is a match even for Mr. Hazlitt himself. We wish it were
as easy as he seems to think it to settle exactly what _pryme_ means
when used by our “early writers,” but it is at least absolutely certain
that it did not mean _noon_.

But Mr. Hazlitt, if these volumes are competent witnesses, knows nothing
whatever about English, old or new. In the “Mery Jest of Dane Hew” he
finds the following verses,

    “Dame he said what shall we now doo
     Sir she said so mote go
     The munk in a corner ye shall lay”

which we print purposely without punctuation. Mr. Hazlitt prints them
thus,

    “Dame, he said, what shall we now doo?
     Sir, she said, so mote [it] go.
     The munk,” &c.,

and gives us a note on the locution he has invented to this effect, “?
so might it be managed.” And the Chancellor said, _I doubt!_ Mr.
Hazlitt’s query makes such a singular exception to his more natural mood
of immediate inspiration that it is almost pathetic. The amended verse,
as everybody (not confused by too great familiarity with our “early
writers”) knows, should read,

    “Sir, she said, so might I go,”

and should be followed only by a comma, to show its connection with the
next. The phrase “so mote I go,” is as common as a weed in the works of
the elder poets, both French and English; it occurs several times in Mr.
Hazlitt’s own collection, and its other form, “so mote I fare,” which
may also be found there, explains its meaning. On the phrase
_point-device_ (Vol. III. p. 117) Mr. Hazlitt has a positively
incredible note, of which we copy only a part: “This term, which is
commonly used in early poems” [mark once more his intimacy with our
earlier literature] “to signify extreme exactitude, originated in the
points which were marked on the astrolabe, as one of the means which the
astrologers and dabblers in the black art adopted to enable them (as
they pretended) to read the fortunes of those by whom they were
consulted in the stars and planetary orbs. The excessive precision which
was held to be requisite in the delineation of these points” [the
delineation of a _point_ is good!] “&c. on the astrolabe, led to
_point-device_, or points-device (as it is sometimes found spelled),
being used as a proverbial expression for minute accuracy of any kind.”
Then follows a quotation from Gower, in which an astrolabe is spoken of
“with points and cercles merveilous,” and the note proceeds thus:
“Shakespeare makes use of a similar figure of speech in the _Tempest_,
I. 2, where the following dialogue takes place between Prospero and
Ariel:--

        ‘_Prosp._ Hast thou, spirit,
    Performed _to point_ the tempest that I bade thee?
        _Ar._ In every article.’”

Neither the proposed etymology nor the illustration requires any remark
from us. We will only say that _point-device_ is excellently explained
and illustrated by Wedgwood.

We will give a few more examples out of many to show Mr. Hazlitt’s utter
unfitness for the task he has undertaken. In the “Kyng and the Hermyt”
are the following verses,

    “A wyld wey, I hold, it were
     The wey to wend, I you swere,
       Bot ye the dey may se,”

meaning simply, “I think it would he a wild thing (in you) to go on your
way unless you wait for daylight.” Mr. Hazlitt punctuates and amends
thus:--

    “A wyld wey I hold it were,
     The wey to wend, I you swere,
       Ye bot [by] the dey may se.” (Vol. I. p. 19.)

The word _bot_ seems a stumbling-block to Mr. Hazlitt. On page 54 of the
same volume we have,

    “Herd i neuere bi no leuedi
     _Hote_ hendinesse and curteysi.”

The use of the word _by_ as in this passage would seem familiar enough,
and yet in the “Hye Way to the Spittel Hous” Mr. Hazlitt explains it as
meaning _be_. Any boy knows that _without_ sometimes means _unless_
(Fielding uses it often in that sense), but Mr. Hazlitt seems unaware
of the fact. In his first volume (p. 224) he gravely prints:--

    “They trowed verelye that she shoulde dye;
     _With that_ our ladye wold her helpe and spede.”

The semicolon after _dye_ shows that this is not a misprint, but that
the editor saw no connection between the first verse and the second. In
the same volume (p. 133) we have the verse,

    “He was a grete tenement man, and ryche of londe and lede,”

and to _lede_ Mr. Hazlitt appends this note: “_Lede_, in early English,
is found in various significations, but here stands as the plural of
_lad_, a servant.” In what conceivable sense is it the plural of _lad_?
And does _lad_ necessarily mean a servant? The _Promptorium_ has _ladde_
glossed by _garcio_, but the meaning _servant_, as in the parallel cases
of παις, _puer_, _garçon_, and _boy_, was a derivative one, and of later
origin. The word means simply _man_ (in the generic sense) and in the
plural _people_. So in the “Squyr of Low Degre,”

    “I will forsake both land and _lede_,”

and in the “Smyth and his Dame,”

    “That hath both land and _lyth_.”

The word was _not_ “used in various significations.” Even so lately as
“Flodden Ffeild” we find,

    “He was a noble _leed_ of high degree.”

Connected with _land_ it was a commonplace in German as well as in
English. So in the _Tristan_ of Godfrey of Strasburg,

      “Er Bevalch sin liut und fin lant
    An sines marschalkes hant.”

Mr. Hazlitt is more nearly right than usual when he says that in the
particular case cited above _lede_ means _servants_. But were these of
only one sex? Does he not know that even in the middle of the last
century when an English nobleman spoke of “my people,” he meant simply
his domestics?

Encountering the familiar phrase _No do!_ (Vol. IV. p. 64), Mr. Hazlitt
changes it to _Not do!_ He informs us that _Goddes are_ (Vol. I. p. 197)
means “God’s heir”! He says (Vol. II. p. 146): “_To borrow_, in the
sense of _to take_, _to guard_, or _to protect_, is so common in early
English that it is unnecessary to bring forward any illustration of its
use in this way.” But he relents, and presently gives us two from _Ralph
Roister Doister_, each containing the phrase “Saint George to borrow!”
That _borrow_ means _take_ no owner of books need be told, and Mr.
Hazlitt has shown great skill in _borrowing_ other people’s
illustrations for his notes, but the phrase he quotes has no such
meaning as he gives it. Mr. Dyce in a note on Skelton explains it
rightly, “St. George being my pledge or surety.”

We gather a few more of these flowers of exposition and etymology:--

    “The while thou sittest in chirche, thi bedys schalt thou bidde.”
                                        (Vol. I. p. 181.)

i. e. thou shalt offer thy prayers. Mr. Hazlitt’s note on _bidde_ is,
“i. e. _bead_. So in _The Kyng and the Hermit_, line 111:--

    ‘That herd an hermyte there within
     Unto the gate he gan to wyn
        Bedying his prayer.’”

Precisely what Mr. Hazlitt understands by _beading_ (or indeed by
anything else) we shall not presume to divine, but we _should_ like to
hear him translate “if any man bidde the worshyp,” which comes a few
lines further on. Now let us turn to page 191 of the same volume.
“Maydenys ben loneliche and no thing sekir.” Mr. Hazlitt tells us in a
note that “sekir or sicker” is a very common form of _secure_, and
quotes in illustration from the prose _Morte Arthure_, “A! said Sir
Launcelot, comfort yourselfe, for it shall bee unto us as a great
honour, and much more then if we died in any other places: for of death
wee be _sicker_.” Now in the text the word means _safe_, and in the note
it means _sure_. Indeed _sure_, which is only a shorter form of
_secure_, is its ordinary meaning. “I mak sicker,” said Kirkpatrick, a
not unfitting motto for certain editors, if they explained it in their
usual phonetic way.

In the “Frere and the Boye,” when the old man has given the boy a bow,
he says:--

    “Shote therin, whan thou good thynke;
     For yf thou shote and wynke,
     The prycke thow shalte hytte.”

Mr. Hazlitt’s explanation of _wynke_ is “to close one eye in taking
aim,” and he quotes a passage from Gascoigne in support of it. Whatever
Gascoigne meant by the word (which is very doubtful), it means nothing
of the kind here, and is another proof that Mr. Hazlitt does not think
it so important to understand what he reads as St. Philip did. What the
old man said was, “even if you shut both your eyes, you can’t help
hitting the mark.” So in “Piers Ploughman” (Whitaker’s text),

    “Wynkyng, as it were, wytterly ich saw hyt.”

Again, for our editor’s blunders are as endless as the heads of an
old-fashioned sermon, in the “Schole-House of Women” (Vol. IV. p. 130),
Mr. Hazlitt has a note on the phrase “make it nice,”

    (“And yet alwaies they bible bable
    Of euery matter and make it nice,”)

which reads thus: “To make it pleasant or _snug_. I do not remember to
have seen the word used in this sense very frequently. But Gascoigne has
it in a precisely similar way:--

    ‘The glosse of gorgeous Courtes by thee did please mine eye,
     A stately sight me thought it was to see the braue go by,
     To see their feathers flaunte, to make [marke!] their straunge deuise,
     To lie along in ladies lappes, to lispe, and make it nice.’”

To _make it nice_ means nothing more nor less than to _play the fool_,
or rather, to _make a fool of yourself, faire le niais_. In old English
the French _niais_ and _nice_, from similarity of form and analogy of
meaning, naturally fused together in the word _nice_, which, by an
unusual luck, has been promoted from a derogatory to a respectful sense.
Gascoigne’s _lispe_ might have put Mr. Hazlitt on his guard, if he ever
considered the sense of what he quotes. But he never does, nor of what
he edits either. For example, in the “Smyth and his Dame” we find the
following note: “_Prowe_, or _proffe_, is not at all uncommon as a form
of _profit_. In the ‘Seven Names of a Prison,’ a poem printed in
_Reliquiæ Antiquæ_, we have,--

    ‘Quintum nomen istius foveæ ita probatum,
     A place of _proff_ for man to know bothe frend and foo.’”

Now _proff_ and _prow_ are radically different words. _Proff_ here means
_proof_, and if Mr. Hazlitt had read the stanza which he quotes, he
would have found (as in all the others of the same poem) the meaning
repeated in Latin in the last line, _probacio amicorum_.

But we wish to leave our readers (if not Mr. Hazlitt) in good humor, and
accordingly we have reserved two of his notes as _bonnes bouches_. In
“Adam Bel,” when the outlaws ask pardon of the king,

    “They kneled downe without lettyng
     And each helde vp his hande.”

To this passage (tolerably plain to those not _too_ familiar with “our
early literature”) Mr. Hazlitt appends this solemn note: ‘_To hold up
the hand_ was formerly a sign of respect or concurrence, or a mode of
taking an oath; and thirdly as a signal for mercy. In all these senses
it has been employed from the most ancient times; nor is it yet out of
practice, as many savage nations still testify their respect to a
superior by holding their hand [either _their hands_ or _the hand_, Mr.
Hazlitt!] over their head. _Touching the hat_ appears to be a vestige of
the same custom. In the present passage the three outlaws may be
understood to kneel on approaching the throne, and to hold up each a
hand as a token that they desire to ask the royal clemency or favour. In
the lines which are subjoined it [what?] implies a solemn assent to an
oath:

    ‘This swore the duke and all his men,
     And all the lordes that with him lend,
     And tharto to[33] held they up thaire hand.’”
                            Minot’s Poems, ed. 1825, p. 9.

The admirable Tupper could not have done better than this, even so far
as the mere English of it is concerned. Where all is so fine, we
hesitate to declare a preference, but, on the whole, must give in to the
passage about _touching the hat_, which is as good as “mobbled queen.”
The Americans are still among the “savage nations” who “imply a solemn
assent to an oath” by holding up the hand. Mr. Hazlitt does not seem to
know that the question whether to kiss the book or hold up the hand was
once a serious one in English politics.

But Mr. Hazlitt can do better even than this! Our readers may be
incredulous; but we shall proceed to show that he can. In the
“Schole-House of Women,” among much other equally delicate satire of the
other sex (if we may venture still to call them so), the satirist
undertakes to prove that woman was made, not of the rib of a man, but of
a dog:--

    ‘And yet the rib, as I suppose,
     That God did take out of the man
     A dog vp caught, and a way gose
     Eat it clene; so that as than
     The woork to finish that God began
     Could not be, as we haue said,
     Because the dog the rib connaid.
       A remedy God found as yet;
     Out of the dog he took a rib.”

Mr. Hazlitt has a long note on _way gose_, of which the first sentence
shall suffice us: “The origin of the term way-goose is involved in some
obscurity.” We should think so, to be sure! Let us modernize the
spelling and grammar, and correct the punctuation, and then see how it
looks:--

    “A dog up caught and away goes,
     Eats it up.”

We will ask Mr. Hazlitt to compare the text, as he prints it, with

    “Into the hall he gose.” (Vol. III. p. 67.)

We should have expected a note here on the “hall he-goose.” Not to speak
of the point of the joke, such as it is, a goose that could eat up a
man’s rib could only be matched by one that could swallow such a
note,--or write it!

We have made but a small florilegium from Mr. Hazlitt’s remarkable
volumes. His editorial method seems to have been to print as the Lord
would, till his eye was caught by some word he did not understand, and
then to make the reader comfortable by a note showing that the editor is
as much in the dark as he. We are profoundly thankful for the omission
of a glossary. It would have been a nursery and seminary of blunder. To
expose pretentious charlatanry is sometimes the unpleasant duty of a
reviewer. It is a duty we never seek, and should not have assumed in
this case but for the impertinence with which Mr. Hazlitt has treated
dead and living scholars, the latchets of whose shoes he is not worthy
to unloose, and to express their gratitude to whom is, or ought to be, a
pleasure to all honest lovers of their mother-tongue. If he who has most
to learn be the happiest man, Mr. Hazlitt is indeed to be envied; but we
hope he will learn a great deal before he lays his prentice hands on
Warton’s “History of English Poetry,” a classic in its own way. If he
does not learn before, he will be likely to learn after, and in no
agreeable fashion.




EMERSON THE LECTURER.


It is a singular fact, that Mr. Emerson is the most steadily attractive
lecturer in America. Into that somewhat cold-waterish region adventurers
of the sensational kind come down now and then with a splash, to become
disregarded King Logs before the next season. But Mr. Emerson always
draws. A lecturer now for something like a third of a century, one of
the pioneers of the lecturing system, the charm of his voice, his
manner, and his matter has never lost its power over his earlier
hearers, and continually winds new ones in its enchanting meshes. What
they do not fully understand they take on trust, and listen, saying to
themselves, as the old poet of Sir Philip Sidney,--

    “A sweet, attractive, kind of grace,
      A full assurance given by looks,
     Continual comfort in a face,
      The lineaments of gospel books.”

We call it a singular fact, because we Yankees are thought to be fond of
the spread-eagle style, and nothing can be more remote from that than
his. We are reckoned a practical folk, who would rather hear about a new
air-tight stove than about Plato; yet our favorite teacher’s
practicality is not in the least of the Poor Richard variety. If he have
any Buncombe constituency, it is that unrealized commonwealth of
philosophers which Plotinus proposed to establish; and if he were to
make an almanac, his directions to farmers would be something like
this: “OCTOBER: _Indian Summer_; now is the time to get in your early
Vedas.” What, then, is his secret? Is it not that he out-Yankees us all?
that his range includes us all? that he is equally at home with the
potato-disease and original sin, with pegging shoes and the Over-soul?
that, as we try all trades, so has he tried all cultures? and above all,
that his mysticism gives us a counterpoise to our super-practicality?

There is no man living to whom, as a writer, so many of us feel and
thankfully acknowledge so great an indebtedness for ennobling
impulses,--none whom so many cannot abide. What does he mean? ask these
last. Where is his system? What is the use of it all? What the deuse
have we to do with Brahma? I do not propose to write an essay on Emerson
at this time. I will only say that one may find grandeur and consolation
in a starlit night without caring to ask what it means, save grandeur
and consolation; one may like Montaigne, as some ten generations before
us have done, without thinking him so systematic as some more eminently
tedious (or shall we say tediously eminent?) authors; one may think
roses as good in their way as cabbages, though the latter would make a
better show in the witness-box, if cross-examined as to their
usefulness; and as for Brahma, why, he can take care of himself, and
won’t bite us at any rate.

The bother with Mr. Emerson is, that, though he writes in prose, he is
essentially a poet. If you undertake to paraphrase what he says, and to
reduce it to words of one syllable for infant minds, you will make as
sad work of it as the good monk with his analysis of Homer in the
“Epistolæ Obscurorum Virorum.” We look upon him as one of the few men of
genius whom our age has produced, and there needs no better proof of it
than his masculine faculty of fecundating other minds. Search for his
eloquence in his books and you will perchance miss it, but meanwhile you
will find that it has kindled all your thoughts. For choice and pith of
language he belongs to a better age than ours, and might rub shoulders
with Fuller and Browne,--though he does use that abominable word
_reliable_. His eye for a fine, telling phrase that will carry true is
like that of a backwoodsman for a rifle; and he will dredge you up a
choice word from the mud of Cotton Mather himself. A diction at once so
rich and so homely as his I know not where to match in these days of
writing by the page; it is like homespun cloth-of-gold. The many cannot
miss his meaning, and only the few can find it. It is the open secret of
all true genius. It is wholesome to angle in those profound pools,
though one be rewarded with nothing more than the leap of a fish that
flashes his freckled side in the sun and as suddenly absconds in the
dark and dreamy waters again. There is keen excitement, though there be
no ponderable acquisition. If we carry nothing home in our baskets,
there is ample gain in dilated lungs and stimulated blood. What does he
mean, quotha? He means inspiring hints, a divining-rod to your deeper
nature. No doubt, Emerson, like all original men, has his peculiar
audience, and yet I know none that can hold a promiscuous crowd in
pleased attention so long as he. As in all original men, there is
something for every palate. “Would you know,” says Goethe, “the ripest
cherries? Ask the boys and the blackbirds.”

The announcement that such a pleasure as a new course of lectures by him
is coming, to people as old as I am, is something like those forebodings
of spring that prepare us every year for a familiar novelty, none the
less novel, when it arrives, because it is familiar. We know perfectly
well what we are to expect from Mr. Emerson, and yet what he says always
penetrates and stirs us, as is apt to be the case with genius, in a very
unlooked-for fashion. Perhaps genius is one of the few things which we
gladly allow to repeat itself,--one of the few that multiply rather than
weaken the force of their impression by iteration? Perhaps some of us
hear more than the mere words, are moved by something deeper than the
thoughts? If it be so, we are quite right, for it is thirty years and
more of “plain living and high thinking” that speak to us in this
altogether unique lay-preacher. We have shared in the beneficence of
this varied culture, this fearless impartiality in criticism and
speculation, this masculine sincerity, this sweetness of nature which
rather stimulates than cloys, for a generation long. If ever there was a
standing testimonial to the cumulative power and value of Character,
(and we need it sadly in these days,) we have it in this gracious and
dignified presence. What an antiseptic is a pure life! At sixty-five (or
two years beyond his grand climacteric, as he would prefer to call it)
he has that privilege of soul which abolishes the calendar, and presents
him to us always the unwasted contemporary of his own prime. I do not
know if he seem old to his younger hearers, but we who have known him so
long wonder at the tenacity with which he maintains himself even in the
outposts of youth. I suppose it is not the Emerson of 1868 to whom we
listen. For us the whole life of the man is distilled in the clear drop
of every sentence, and behind each word we divine the force of a noble
character, the weight of a large capital of thinking and being. We do
not go to hear what Emerson says so much as to hear Emerson. Not that we
perceive any falling-off in anything that ever was essential to the
charm of Mr. Emerson’s peculiar style of thought or phrase. The first
lecture, to be sure, was more disjointed even than common. It was as if,
after vainly trying to get his paragraphs into sequence and order, he
had at last tried the desperate expedient of _shuffling_ them. It was
chaos come again, but it was a chaos full of shooting-stars, a jumble of
creative forces. The second lecture, on “Criticism and Poetry,” was
quite up to the level of old times, full of that power of
strangely-subtle association whose indirect approaches startle the mind
into almost painful attention, of those flashes of mutual understanding
between speaker and hearer that are gone ere one can say it lightens.
The vice of Emerson’s criticism seems to be, that while no man is so
sensitive to what is poetical, few men are less sensible than he of what
makes a poem. He values the solid meaning of thought above the subtler
meaning of style. He would prefer Donne, I suspect, to Spenser, and
sometimes mistakes the queer for the original.

To be young is surely the best, if the most precarious, gift of life;
yet there are some of us who would hardly consent to be young again, if
it were at the cost of our recollection of Mr. Emerson’s first lectures
during the consulate of Van Buren. We used to walk in from the country
to the Masonic Temple (I think it was), through the crisp winter night,
and listen to that thrilling voice of his, so charged with subtle
meaning and subtle music, as shipwrecked men on a raft to the hail of a
ship that came with unhoped-for food and rescue. Cynics might say what
they liked. Did our own imaginations transfigure dry remainder-biscuit
into ambrosia? At any rate, he brought us _life_, which, on the whole,
is no bad thing. Was it all transcendentalism? magic-lantern pictures on
mist? As you will. Those, then, were just what we wanted. But it was not
so. The delight and the benefit were that he put us in communication
with a larger style of thought, sharpened our wits with a more pungent
phrase, gave us ravishing glimpses of an ideal under the dry husk of our
New England; made us conscious of the supreme and everlasting
originality of whatever bit of soul might be in any of us; freed us, in
short, from the stocks of prose in which we had sat so long that we had
grown wellnigh contented in our cramps. And who that saw the audience
will ever forget it, where every one still capable of fire, or longing
to renew in them the half-forgotten sense of it, was gathered? Those
faces, young and old, agleam with pale intellectual light, eager with
pleased attention, flash upon me once more from the deep recesses of the
years with an exquisite pathos. Ah, beautiful young eyes, brimming with
love and hope, wholly vanished now in that other world we call the Past,
or peering doubtfully through the pensive gloaming of memory, your light
impoverishes these cheaper days! I hear again that rustle of sensation,
as they turned to exchange glances over some pithier thought, some
keener flash of that humor which always played about the horizon of his
mind like heat-lightning, and it seems now like the sad whisper of the
autumn leaves that are whirling around me. But would my picture be
complete if I forgot that ample and vegete countenance of Mr. R---- of
W----,--how, from its regular post at the corner of the front bench, it
turned in ruddy triumph to the profaner audience as if he were the
inexplicably appointed fugleman of appreciation? I was reminded of him
by those hearty cherubs in Titian’s Assumption that look at you as who
should say, “Did you ever see a Madonna like _that_? Did you ever behold
one hundred and fifty pounds of womanhood mount heavenward before like a
rocket?”

To some of us that long-past experience remains as the most marvellous
and fruitful we have ever had. Emerson awakened us, saved us from the
body of this death. It is the sound of the trumpet that the young soul
longs for, careless what breath may fill it. Sidney heard it in the
ballad of “Chevy Chase,” and we in Emerson. Nor did it blow retreat, but
called to us with assurance of victory. Did they say he was
disconnected? So were the stars, that seemed larger to our eyes, still
keen with that excitement, as we walked homeward with prouder stride
over the creaking snow. And were _they_ not knit together by a higher
logic than our mere sense could master? Were we enthusiasts? I hope and
believe we were, and am thankful to the man who made us worth something
for once in our lives. If asked what was left? what we carried home? we
should not have been careful for an answer. It would have been enough if
we had said that something beautiful had passed that way. Or we might
have asked in return what one brought away from a symphony of Beethoven?
Enough that he had set that ferment of wholesome discontent at work in
us. There is one, at least, of those old hearers, so many of whom are
now in the fruition of that intellectual beauty of which Emerson gave
them both the desire and the foretaste, who will always love to
repeat:--

    “Che in la mente m’è fitta, ed or m’accuora
     La cara e buona immagine paterna
     Di voi, quando nel mondo ad ora ad ora
     M’insegnavaste come l’uom s’eterna.”

I am unconsciously thinking, as I write, of the third lecture of the
present course, in which Mr. Emerson gave some delightful reminiscences
of the intellectual influences in whose movement he had shared. It was
like hearing Goethe read some passages of the “ Wahrheit aus seinem
Leben.” Not that there was not a little _Dichtung_, too, here and there,
as the lecturer built up so lofty a pedestal under certain figures as to
lift them into a prominence of obscurity, and seem to masthead them
there. Everybody was asking his neighbor who this or that recondite
great man was, in the faint hope that somebody might once have heard of
him. There are those who call Mr. Emerson cold. Let them revise their
judgment in presence of this loyalty of his that can keep warm for half
a century, that never forgets a friendship, or fails to pay even a
fancied obligation to the uttermost farthing. This substantiation of
shadows was but incidental, and pleasantly characteristic of the man to
those who know and love him. The greater part of the lecture was devoted
to reminiscences of things substantial in themselves. He spoke of
Everett, fresh from Greece and Germany; of Channing; of the translations
of Margaret Fuller, Ripley, and Dwight; of the Dial and Brook Farm. To
what he said of the latter an undertone of good-humored irony gave
special zest. But what every one of his hearers felt was that the
protagonist in the drama was left out. The lecturer was no Æneas to
babble the _quorum magna pars fui_, and, as one of his listeners, I
cannot help wishing to say how each of them was commenting the story as
it went along, and filling up the necessary gaps in it from his own
private store of memories. His younger hearers could not know how much
they owed to the benign impersonality, the quiet scorn of everything
ignoble, the never-sated hunger of self-culture, that were personified
in the man before them. But the older knew how much the country’s
intellectual emancipation was due to the stimulus of his teaching and
example, how constantly he had kept burning the beacon of an ideal life
above our lower region of turmoil. To him more than to all other causes
together did the young martyrs of our civil war owe the sustaining
strength of thoughtful heroism that is so touching in every record of
their lives. Those who are grateful to Mr. Emerson, as many of us are,
for what they feel to be most valuable in their culture, or perhaps I
should say their impulse, are grateful not so much for any direct
teachings of his as for that inspiring lift which only genius can give,
and without which all doctrine is chaff.

This was something like the _caret_ which some of us older boys wished
to fill up on the margin of the master’s lecture. Few men have been so
much to so many, and through so large a range of aptitudes and
temperaments, and this simply because all of us value manhood beyond any
or all other qualities of character. We may suspect in him, here and
there, a certain thinness and vagueness of quality, but let the waters
go over him as they list, this masculine fibre of his will keep its
lively color and its toughness of texture. I have heard some great
speakers and some accomplished orators, but never any that so moved and
persuaded men as he. There is a kind of undertow in that rich baritone
of his that sweeps our minds from their foothold into deeper waters with
a drift we cannot and would not resist. And how artfully (for Emerson is
a long-studied artist in these things) does the deliberate utterance,
that seems waiting for the fit word, appear to admit us partners in the
labor of thought and make us feel as if the glance of humor were a
sudden suggestion, as if the perfect phrase lying written there on the
desk were as unexpected to him as to us! In that closely-filed speech of
his at the Burns centenary dinner every word seemed to have just dropped
down to him from the clouds. He looked far away over the heads of his
hearers, with a vague kind of expectation, as into some private heaven
of invention; and the winged period came at last obedient to his spell.
“My dainty Ariel!” he seemed murmuring to himself as he cast down his
eyes as if in deprecation of the frenzy of approval and caught another
sentence from the Sibylline leaves that lay before him ambushed behind a
dish of fruit and seen only by nearest neighbors. Every sentence brought
down the house, as I never saw one brought down before,--and it is not
so easy to hit Scotsmen with a sentiment that has no hint of native
brogue in it. I watched, for it was an interesting study, how the quick
sympathy ran flashing from face to face down the long tables, like an
electric spark thrilling as it went, and then exploded in a thunder of
plaudits. I watched till tables and faces vanished, for I, too, found
myself caught up in the common enthusiasm, and my excited fancy set me
under the _bema_ listening to him who fulmined over Greece. I can never
help applying to him what Ben Jonson said of Bacon: “There happened in
my time one noble speaker, who was full of gravity in his speaking. His
language was nobly censorious. No man ever spake more neatly, more
pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in
what he uttered. No member of his speech but consisted of his own
graces. His hearers could not cough, or look aside from him, without
loss. He commanded where he spoke.” Those who heard him while their
natures were yet plastic, and their mental nerves trembled under the
slightest breath of divine air, will never cease to feel and say:--

    “Was never eye did see that face,
       Was never ear did hear that tongue,
     Was never mind did mind his grace,
       That ever thought the travail long;
     But eyes, and ears, and every thought,
     Were with his sweet perfections caught.”




POPE.


In 1675 Edward Phillips, the elder of Milton’s nephews, published his
_Theatrum Poetarum_. In his Preface and elsewhere there can be little
doubt that he reflected the æsthetic principles and literary judgments
of his now illustrious uncle, who had died in obscurity the year
before.[34] The great poet who gave to English blank verse the grandeur
and compass of organ-music, and who in his minor poems kept alive the
traditions of Fletcher and Shakespeare, died with no foretaste, and yet
we may believe as confident as ever, of that “immortality of fame” which
he tells his friend Diodati he was “meditating with the help of Heaven”
in his youth. He who may have seen Shakespeare, who doubtless had seen
Fletcher, and who perhaps personally knew Jonson,[35] lived to see that
false school of writers whom he qualified as “good rhymists, but no
poets,” at once the idols and the victims of the taste they had
corrupted. As he saw, not without scorn, how they found universal
hearing, while he slowly won his audience fit though few, did he ever
think of the hero of his own epic at the ear of Eve? It is not
impossible; but however that may be, he sowed in his nephew’s book the
dragon’s teeth of that long war which, after the lapse of a century and
a half, was to end in the expulsion of the usurping dynasty and the
restoration of the ancient and legitimate race whose claim rested on the
grace of God. In the following passage surely the voice is Milton’s,
though the hand be that of Phillips: “Wit, ingenuity, and learning in
verse, even elegancy itself, though that comes nearest, are one thing;
true native poetry is another, in which there is a certain air and
spirit, which, perhaps, the most learned and judicious in other arts do
not perfectly apprehend; much less is it attainable by any art or
study.” The man who speaks of elegancy as coming nearest, certainly
shared, if he was not repeating, the opinions of him who thirty years
before had said that “decorum” (meaning a higher or organic unity) was
“the grand masterpiece to observe” in poetry.[36]

It is upon this text of Phillips (as Chalmers has remarked) that Joseph
Warton bases his classification of poets in the dedication to Young of
the first volume of his essay on the Genius and Writings of Pope,
published in 1756. That was the earliest public and official declaration
of war against the reigning mode, though private hostilities and
reprisals had been going on for some time. Addison’s panegyric of Milton
in the Spectator was a criticism, not the less damaging because
indirect, of the superficial poetry then in vogue. His praise of the old
ballads condemned by innuendo the artificial elaboration of the
drawing-room pastoral by contrasting it with the simple sincerity of
nature. Himself incapable of being natural except in prose, he had an
instinct for the genuine virtues of poetry as sure as that of Gray.
Thomson’s “Winter” (1726) was a direct protest against the literature of
Good Society, going as it did to prove that the noblest society was that
of one’s own mind heightened by the contemplation of outward nature.
What Thomson’s poetical creed was may be surely inferred from his having
modelled his two principal poems on Milton and Spenser, ignoring rhyme
altogether in the “Seasons,” and in the “Castle of Indolence” rejecting
the stiff mould of the couplet. In 1744 came Akenside’s “Pleasures of
Imagination,” whose very title, like a guide-post, points away from the
level highway of commonplace to mountain-paths and less domestic
prospects. The poem was stiff and unwilling, but in its loins lay the
seed of nobler births, and without it the “Lines written at Tintern
Abbey” might never have been. Three years later Collins printed his
little volume of Odes, advocating in theory and exemplifying in practice
the natural supremacy of the imagination (though he called it by its
older name of fancy) as a test to distinguish poetry from verse-making.
The whole Romantic School, in its germ, no doubt, but yet unmistakably
foreshadowed, lies already in the “Ode on the Superstitions of the
Highlands.” He was the first to bring back into poetry something of the
antique fervor, and found again the long-lost secret of being
classically elegant without being pedantically cold. A skilled lover of
music,[37] he rose from the general sing-song of his generation to a
harmony that had been silent since Milton, and in him, to use his own
words,

                  “The force of energy is found,
    And the sense rises on the wings of sound.”

But beside his own direct services in the reformation of our poetry, we
owe him a still greater debt as the inspirer of Gray, whose “Progress of
Poesy,” in reach, variety, and loftiness of poise, overflies all other
English lyrics like an eagle. In spite of the dulness of contemporary
ears, preoccupied with the continuous hum of the popular hurdy-gurdy,
it was the prevailing blast of Gray’s trumpet that more than anything
else called men back to the legitimate standard.[38] Another poet, Dyer,
whose “Fleece” was published in 1753, both in the choice of his subject
and his treatment of it gives further proof of the tendency among the
younger generation to revert to simpler and purer models. Plainly
enough, Thomson had been his chief model, though there are also traces
of a careful study of Milton.

Pope had died in 1744, at the height of his renown, the acknowledged
monarch of letters, as supreme as Voltaire when the excitement and
exposure of his coronation-ceremonies at Paris hastened his end a
generation later. His fame, like Voltaire’s, was European, and the style
which he had carried to perfection was paramount throughout the
cultivated world. The new edition of the “Dunciad,” with the Fourth Book
added, published the year before his death, though the substitution of
Cibber for Theobald made the poem incoherent, had yet increased his
reputation and confirmed the sway of the school whose recognized head he
was, by the poignancy of its satire, the lucidity of its wit, and the
resounding, if somewhat uniform march, of its numbers. He had been
translated into other languages living and dead. Voltaire had long
before pronounced him “the best poet of England, and at present of all
the world.”[39] It was the apotheosis of clearness, point, and technical
skill, of the ease that comes of practice, not of the fulness of
original power. And yet, as we have seen, while he was in the very
plenitude of his power, there was already a widespread discontent, a
feeling that what “comes nearest,” as Phillips calls it, may yet be
infinitely far from giving those profounder and incalculable
satisfactions of which the soul is capable in poetry. A movement was
gathering strength which prompted

              “The age to quit their clogs
    By the known rules of virtuous liberty.”

Nor was it wholly confined to England. Symptoms of a similar reaction
began to show themselves on the Continent, notably in the translation
of Milton (1732) and the publication of the _Nibelungen Lied_ (1757) by
Bodmer, and the imitations of Thomson in France. Was it possible, then,
that there was anything better than good sense, elegant diction, and the
highest polish of style? Could there be an intellectual appetite which
antithesis failed to satisfy? If the horse would only have faith enough
in his green spectacles, surely the straw would acquire, not only the
flavor, but the nutritious properties of fresh grass. The horse was
foolish enough to starve, but the public is wiser. It is surprising how
patiently it will go on, for generation after generation, transmuting
dry stubble into verdure in this fashion.

The school which Boileau founded was critical and not creative. It was
limited, not only in its essence, but by the capabilities of the French
language and by the natural bent of the French mind, which finds a
predominant satisfaction in phrases if elegantly turned, and can make a
despotism, political or æsthetic, palatable with the pepper of epigram.
The style of Louis XIV. did what his armies failed to do. It overran and
subjugated Europe. It struck the literature of imagination with palsy,
and it is droll enough to see Voltaire, after he had got some knowledge
of Shakespeare, continually endeavoring to reassure himself about the
poetry of the _grand siècle_, and all the time asking himself, “Why, in
the name of all the gods at once, is this _not_ the real thing?” He
seems to have felt that there was a dreadful mistake somewhere, when
poetry must be called upon to prove itself inspired, above all when it
must demonstrate that it is interesting, all appearances to the contrary
notwithstanding. Difficulty, according to Voltaire, is the tenth Muse,
but how if there were difficulty in reading as well as writing? it was
something, at any rate, which an increasing number of persons were
perverse enough to feel in attempting the productions of a
pseudo-classicism, the classicism of red heels and periwigs. Even poor
old Dennis himself had arrived at a kind of muddled notion that artifice
was not precisely art, that there were depths in human nature which the
most perfectly manufactured line of five feet could not sound, and
passionate elations that could not be tuned to the lullaby seesaw of the
couplet. The satisfactions of a conventional taste were very well in
their own way, but were they, after all, the highest of which men were
capable who had obscurely divined the Greeks, and who had seen Hamlet,
Lear, and Othello upon the stage? Was not poetry, then, something which
delivered us from the dungeon of actual life, instead of basely
reconciling us with it?

A century earlier the school of the _cultists_ had established a
dominion, ephemeral, as it soon appeared, but absolute while it lasted.
Du Bartas, who may, perhaps, as fairly as any, lay claim to its
paternity,[40] had been called divine, and similar honors had been paid
in turn to Gongora, Lilly, and Marini, who were in the strictest sense
contemporaneous. The infection of mere fashion will hardly account
satisfactorily for a vogue so sudden and so widely extended. It may well
be suspected that there was some latent cause, something at work more
potent than the fascinating mannerism of any single author in the rapid
and almost simultaneous diffusion of this purely cutaneous eruption. It
is not improbable that, in the revival of letters, men whose native
tongues had not yet attained the precision and grace only to be acquired
by long literary usage, should have learned from a study of the Latin
poets to value the form above the substance, and to seek in mere words
a conjuring property which belongs to them only when they catch life and
meaning from profound thought or powerful emotion. Yet this very
devotion to expression at the expense of everything else, though its
excesses were fatal to the innovators who preached and practised it, may
not have been without good results in refining language and fitting it
for the higher uses to which it was destined. The _cultists_ went down
before the implacable good sense of French criticism, but the defect of
this criticism was that it ignored imagination altogether, and sent
Nature about her business as an impertinent baggage whose household loom
competed unlawfully with the machine-made fabrics, so exquisitely
uniform in pattern, of the royal manufactories. There is more than a
fanciful analogy between the style which Pope brought into vogue and
that which for a time bewitched all ears in the latter half of the
sixteenth century. As the master had made it an axiom to avoid what was
mean or low, so the disciples endeavored to escape from what was common.
This they contrived by the ready expedient of the periphrasis. They
called everything something else. A boot with them was

    “The shining leather that encased the limb”;

coffee became

    “The fragrant juice of Mocha’s berry brown”;

and they were as liberal of epithets as a royal christening of proper
names. Two in every verse, one to balance the other, was the smallest
allowance. Here are four successive verses from “The Vanity of Human
Wishes”:--

    “The _encumbered_ oar scarce leaves the _dreaded_ coast
     Through _purple_ billows and a _floating_ host.
     The _bold_ Bavarian in a _luckless_ hour
     Tries the _dread_ summits of _Cæsarian_ power.”

This fashion perished also by its own excess, but the criticism which
laid at the door of the master all the faults of his pupils was unjust.
It was defective, moreover, in overlooking how much of what we call
natural is an artificial product, above all in forgetting that Pope had
one of the prime qualities of a great poet in exactly answering the
intellectual needs of the age in which he lived, and in reflecting its
lineaments. He did in some not inadequate sense hold the mirror up to
nature. His poetry is not a mountain-tarn, like that of Wordsworth; it
is not in sympathy with the higher moods of the mind; yet it continues
entertaining, in spite of all changes of mode. It was a mirror in a
drawing-room, but it gave back a faithful image of society, powdered and
rouged, to be sure, and intent on trifles, yet still as human in its own
way as the heroes of Homer in theirs.

For the popularity of Pope, as for that of Marini and his sect,
circumstances had prepared the way. English literature for half a
century after the Restoration showed the marks both of a moral reaction
and of an artistic vassalage to France. From the compulsory saintship
and cropped hair of the Puritans men rushed or sneaked, as their
temperaments dictated, to the opposite cant of sensuality and a
wilderness of periwig. Charles II. had brought back with him from exile
French manners, French morals, and above all French taste. Misfortune
makes a shallow mind sceptical. It had made the king so; and this, at a
time when court patronage was the main sinew of authorship, was fatal to
the higher qualities of literature. That Charles should have preferred
the stately decorums of the French school, and should have mistaken its
polished mannerism for style, was natural enough. But there was
something also in the texture of the average British mind which prepared
it for this subjugation from the other side of the Channel. No observer
of men can have failed to notice the clumsy respect which the
understanding pays to elegance of manner and _savoir-faire_, nor what an
awkward sense of inferiority it feels in the presence of an accomplished
worldliness. The code of society is stronger with most persons than that
of Sinai, and many a man who would not scruple to thrust his fingers in
his neighbor’s pocket would forego green peas rather than use his knife
as a shovel. The submission with which the greater number surrender
their natural likings for the acquired taste of what for the moment is
called the World is a highly curious phenomenon, and, however
destructive of originality, is the main safeguard of society and nurse
of civility. Any one who has witnessed the torments of an honest citizen
in a foreign gallery before some hideous martyrdom which he feels it his
duty to admire, though it be hateful to him as nightmare, may well doubt
whether the gridiron of the saint were hotter than that of the sinner.
It is only a great mind or a strong character that knows how to respect
its own provincialism and can dare to be in fashion with itself. The
bewildered clown with his “Am I Giles? or am I not?” was but a type of
the average man who finds himself uniformed, drilled, and keeping step,
whether he will or no, with the company into which destiny or chance has
drafted him, and which is marching him inexorably away from everything
that made him comfortable.

The insularity of England, while it fostered pride and reserve, entailed
also that sensitiveness to ridicule which haunts pride like an evil
genius. “The English,” says Barclay, writing half a century before the
Restoration, “have for the most part grave minds and withdrawn, as it
were, into themselves for counsel; they wonderfully admire themselves
and the manners, genius, and spirit of their own nation. In salutation
or in writing they endure not (unless haply imbued with foreign
manners) to descend to those words of imaginary servitude which the
refinement (_blandities_) of ages hath invented.”[41] Yet their fondness
of foreign fashions had long been the butt of native satirists. Every
one remembers Portia’s merry picture of the English lord: “How oddly he
is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in
France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behavior everywhere.” But while
she laughs at his bungling efforts to make himself a cosmopolite in
externals, she hints at the persistency of his inward Anglicism: “He
hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian.” In matters of taste the
Anglo-Saxon mind seems always to have felt a painful distrust of itself,
which it betrays either in an affectation of burly contempt or in a
pretence of admiration equally insincere. The young lords who were to
make the future court of Charles II. no doubt found in Paris an elegance
beside which the homely bluntness of native manners seemed rustic and
underbred. They frequented a theatre where propriety was absolute upon
the stage, though license had its full swing behind the scenes. They
brought home with them to England debauched morals and that urbane
discipline of manners which is so agreeable a substitute for discipline
of mind. The word “genteel” came back with them, an outward symptom of
the inward change. In the last generation, the men whose great aim was
success in the Other World had wrought a political revolution; now,
those whose ideal was prosperity in This World were to have their turn
and to accomplish with their lighter weapons as great a change. Before
the end of the seventeenth century John Bull was pretty well persuaded,
in a bewildered kind of way, that he had been vulgar, and especially
that his efforts in literature showed marks of native vigor, indeed, but
of a vigor clownish and uncouth. He began to be ashamed of the
provincialism which had given strength, if also something of limitation,
to his character.

Waller, who spent a whole summer in polishing the life out of ten lines
to be written in the Tasso of the Duchess of York, expresses the
prevailing belief as regarded poetry in the prologue to his
“improvement” of the “Maid’s Tragedy” of Beaumont and Fletcher. He made
the play _reasonable_, as it was called, and there is a pleasant satire
in the fact that it was refused a license because there was an immoral
king in it. On the throne, to be sure,--but on the stage! Forbid it,
decency!

    “Above our neighbors’ our conceptions are,
     But faultless writing is the effect of care;
     Our lines reformed, and not composed in haste,
     Polished like marble, would like marble last.

           *       *       *       *       *

     Were we but less indulgent to our fau’ts,
     And patience had to cultivate our thoughts,
     Our Muse would flourish, and a nobler rage
     Would honor this than did the Grecian stage.”

It is a curious comment on these verses in favor of careful writing,
that Waller should have failed even to express his own meaning either
clearly or with propriety. He talks of “cultivating our thoughts,” when
he means “pruning our style”; he confounds the Muse with the laurel, or
at any rate makes her a plant, and then goes on with perfect equanimity
to tell us that a nobler “rage” (that is, madness) than that of Greece
would follow the horticultural devices he recommends. It never seems to
have occurred to Waller that it is the substance of what you polish, and
not the polish itself, that insures duration. Dryden, in his
rough-and-ready way, has hinted at this in his verses to Congreve on
the “Double Dealer.” He begins by stating the received theory about the
improvement of English literature under the new _régime_, but the thin
ice of sophistry over which Waller had glided smoothly gives way under
his greater weight, and he finds himself in deep water ere he is aware.

    “Well, then, the promised hour has come at last,
     The present age in wit obscures the past;
     Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ,
     Conquering with force of arm[42] and dint of wit.
     Theirs was the giant race before the Flood;
     And thus when Charles returned our Empire stood;
     Like Janus he the stubborn soil manured,
     With rules of husbandry the rankness cured,
     Tamed us to manners when the stage was rude,
     And boisterous English wit with art endued;
     Our age was cultivated thus at length,
     But what we gained in skill we lost in strength;
     Our builders were with want of genius curst,
     The second temple was not like the first.”

There would seem to be a manifest reminiscence of Waller’s verse in the
half-scornful emphasis which Dryden lays on “cultivated.” Perhaps he was
at first led to give greater weight to correctness and to the restraint
of arbitrary rules from a consciousness that he had a tendency to
hyperbole and extravagance. But he afterwards became convinced that the
heightening of discourse by passion was a very different thing from the
exaggeration which heaps phrase on phrase, and that genius, like beauty,
can always plead its privilege. Dryden, by his powerful example, by the
charm of his verse which combines vigor and fluency in a measure perhaps
never reached by any other of our poets, and above all because it is
never long before the sunshine of his cheerful good sense breaks through
the clouds of rhetoric, and gilds the clipped hedges over which his
thought clambers like an unpruned vine,--Dryden, one of the most truly
English of English authors, did more than all others combined to bring
about the triumphs of French standards in taste and French principles in
criticism. But he was always like a deserter who cannot feel happy in
the victories of the alien arms, and who would go back if he could to
the camp where he naturally belonged. Between 1660 and 1700 more French
words, I believe, were directly transplanted into our language than in
the century and a half since. What was of more consequence, French ideas
came with them, shaping the form, and through that modifying the spirit,
of our literature.

Voltaire, though he came later, was steeped in the theories of art which
had been inherited as traditions of classicism from the preceding
generation. He had lived in England, and, I have no doubt, gives us a
very good notion of the tone which was prevalent there in his time, an
English version of the criticism imported from France. He tells us that
Mr. Addison was the first Englishman who had written a _reasonable_
tragedy. And in spite of the growling of poor old Dennis, whose sandy
pedantry was not without an oasis of refreshing sound judgment here and
there, this was the opinion of most persons at that day, except, it may
be suspected, the judicious and modest Mr. Addison himself. Voltaire
says of the English tragedians,--and it will be noticed that he is only
putting, in another way, the opinion of Dryden,--“Their productions,
almost all barbarous, without polish, order, or probability, have
astonishing gleams in the midst of their night; ... it seems sometimes
that nature is not made in England as it is elsewhere.” _Eh bien_, the
inference is that we must try and make it so! The world must be uniform
in order to be comfortable, and what fashion so becoming as the one we
have invented in Paris? It is not a little amusing that when Voltaire
played master of ceremonies to introduce the _bizarre_ Shakespeare among
his countrymen, that other kind of nature made a profounder impression
on them than quite pleased him. So he turned about presently and called
his whilome _protége_ a buffoon.

The condition of the English mind at the close of the seventeenth
century was such as to make it particularly sensitive to the magnetism
which streamed to it from Paris. The loyalty of everybody both in
politics and religion had been put out of joint. A generation of
materialists, by the natural rebound which inevitably follows
over-tension, was to balance the ultra-spiritualism of the Puritans. As
always when a political revolution has been wrought by moral agencies,
the plunder had fallen mainly to the share of the greedy, selfish, and
unscrupulous, whose disgusting cant had given a taint of hypocrisy to
piety itself. Religion, from a burning conviction of the soul, had grown
to be with both parties a political badge, as little typical of the
inward man as the scallop of a pilgrim. Sincerity is impossible, unless
it pervade the whole being, and the pretence of it saps the very
foundation of character. There seems to have been an universal
scepticism, and in its worst form, that is, with an outward conformity
in the interest of decorum and order. There was an unbelief that did not
believe even in itself.

The difference between the leading minds of the former age and that
which was supplanting it went to the very roots of the soul. Milton was
willing to peril the success of his crowning work by making the poetry
of it a stalking-horse for his theological convictions. What was that
Fame

            “Which the clear spirit doth raise
    To scorn delights and live laborious days,”

to the crown of a good preacher who sets

                        “The hearts of men on fire
    To scorn the sordid world and unto heaven aspire”?

Dean Swift, who aspired to the mitre, could write a book whose moral, if
it had any, was that one religion was as good as another, since all were
political devices, and accepted a cure of souls when it was more than
doubtful whether he believed that his fellow-creatures had any souls to
be saved, or, if they had, whether they were worth saving. The answer
which Pulci’s Margutte makes to Morgante, when asked if he believed in
Christ or Mahomet, would have expressed well enough the creed of the
majority of that generation:--

                            “To tell thee truly,
    My faith in black’s no greater than in azure,
      But I believe in capons, roast-meat, bouilli,
    And in good wine my faith’s beyond all measure.”[43]

It was a carnival of intellect without faith, when men could be
Protestant or Catholic, both at once, or by turns, or neither, as suited
their interest, when they could swear one allegiance and keep on safe
terms with the other, when prime ministers and commanders-in-chief could
be intelligencers of the Pretender, nay, when even Algernon Sidney
himself could be a pensioner of France. What morality there was, was the
morality of appearances, of the side that is turned toward men and not
toward God. The very shamelessness of Congreve is refreshing in that age
of sham.

It was impossible that anything truly great, that is, great on the moral
and emotional as well as the intellectual side, should be produced by
such a generation. But something intellectually great could be and was.
The French mind, always stronger in perceptive and analytic than in
imaginative qualities, loving precision, grace, and finesse, prone to
attribute an almost magical power to the scientific regulation whether
of politics or religion, had brought wit and fancy and the elegant arts
of society to as great perfection as was possible by the _a priori_
method. Its ideal in literature was to conjure passion within the magic
circle of courtliness, or to combine the appearance of careless ease and
gayety of thought with intellectual exactness of statement. The eternal
watchfulness of a wit that never slept had made it distrustful of the
natural emotions and the unconventional expression of them, and its
first question about a sentiment was, Will it be _safe_? about a phrase,
Will it pass with the Academy? The effect of its example on English
literature would appear chiefly in neatness and facility of turn, in
point and epigrammatic compactness of phrase, and these in conveying
conventional sentiments and emotions, in appealing to good society
rather than to human nature. Its influence would be greatest where its
success had been most marked, in what was called moral poetry, whose
chosen province was manners, and in which satire, with its avenging
scourge, took the place of that profounder art whose office it was to
purify, not the manners, but the source of them in the soul, by pity and
terror. The mistake of the whole school of French criticism, it seems to
me, lay in its tendency to confound what was common with what was
vulgar, in a too exclusive deference to authority at the expense of all
free movement of the mind.

There are certain defects of taste which correct themselves by their own
extravagance. Language, I suspect, is more apt to be reformed by the
charm of some master of it, like Milton, than by any amount of precept.
The influence of second-rate writers for evil is at best ephemeral, for
true style, the joint result of culture and natural aptitude, is always
in fashion, as fine manners always are, in whatever clothes. Perhaps
some reform was needed when Quarles, who had no mean gift of poesy,
could write,

    “My passion has no April in her eyes:
     I cannot spend in mists; I cannot mizzle;
     My fluent brains are too severe to drizzle
     Slight drops.”[44]

Good taste is an excellent thing when it confines itself to its own
rightful province of the proprieties, but when it attempts to correct
those profound instincts out of whose judgments the higher principles of
æsthetics have been formulated, its success is a disaster. During the
era when the French theory of poetry was supreme, we notice a decline
from imagination to fancy, from passion to wit, from metaphor, which
fuses image and thought in one, to simile, which sets one beside the
other, from the supreme code of the natural sympathies to the parochial
by-laws of etiquette. The imagination instinctively Platonizes, and it
is the essence of poetry that it should be unconventional, that the soul
of it should subordinate the outward parts; while the artificial method
proceeds from a principle the reverse of this, making the spirit lackey
the form.

Waller preaches up this new doctrine in the epilogue to the “Maid’s
Tragedy”:--

    “Nor is’t less strange such mighty wits as those
     Should use a style in tragedy like prose;
     Well-sounding verse, where princes tread the stage,
     Should speak their virtue and describe their rage.”

That it should be beneath the dignity of princes to speak in anything
but rhyme can only be paralleled by Mr. Puff’s law that a heroine can go
decorously mad only in white satin. Waller, I suppose, though with so
loose a thinker one cannot be positive, uses “describe” in its Latin
sense of limitation. Fancy Othello or Lear confined to this go-cart!
Phillips touches the true point when he says, “And the truth is, the use
of measure alone, without any rime at all, would give more scope and
liberty both to style and fancy than can possibly be observed in
rime.”[45] But let us test Waller’s method by an example or two. His
monarch made _reasonable_, thus discourses:--

    “Courage our greatest failings does supply,
     And makes all good, or handsomely we die.
     Life is a thing of common use; by heaven
     As well to insects as to monarchs given;
     But for the crown, ’t is a more sacred thing;
     I’ll dying lose it, or I’ll live a king.
     Come, Diphilus, we must together walk
     And of a matter of importance talk.”
                                      [_Exeunt._

Blank verse, where the sentiment is trivial as here, merely removes
prose to a proper ideal distance, where it is in keeping with more
impassioned parts, but commonplace set to this rocking-horse jog
irritates the nerves. There is nothing here to remind us of the older
tragic style but the _exeunt_ at the close. Its pithy conciseness and
the relief which it brings us from his majesty’s prosing give it an
almost poetical savor. Aspatia’s reflections upon suicide (or
“suppressing our breath,” as she calls it), in the same play, will make
few readers regret that Shakespeare was left to his own unassisted
barbarism when he wrote Hamlet’s soliloquy on the same topic:--

    “’T was in compassion of our woe
       That nature first made poisons grow,
     For hopeless wretches such as I
     Kindly providing means to die:
     As mothers do their children keep,
     So Nature feeds and makes us sleep.
     The indisposed she does invite
     To go to bed before ’tis night.”

Correctness in this case is but a synonyme of monotony, and words are
chosen for the number of their syllables, for their rubbishy value to
fill-in, instead of being forced upon the poet by the meaning which
occupies the mind. Language becomes useful for its diluting properties,
rather than as the medium by means of which the thought or fancy
precipitate themselves in crystals upon a connecting thread of purpose.
Let us read a few verses from Beaumont and Fletcher, that we may feel
fully the difference between the rude and the reformed styles. This also
shall be a speech of Aspatia’s. Antiphila, one of her maidens, is
working the story of Theseus and Ariadne in tapestry, for the older
masters loved a picturesque background and knew the value of fanciful
accessaries. Aspatia thinks the face of Ariadne not sad enough:--

                        “Do it by me,
    Do it again by me, the lost Aspatia,
    And you shall find all true but the wild island.
    Suppose I stand upon the seabeach now,
    Mine arms thus, and my hair blown with the wind,
    Wild as that desert; and let all about me
    Be teachers of my story. Do my face
    (If ever thou hadst feeling of a sorrow)
    Thus, thus, Antiphila; strive to make me look
    Like sorrow’s monument; and the trees about me
    Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
    Groan with continual surges; and behind me
    Make all a desolation.”

What instinctive felicity of versification! what sobbing breaks and
passionate repetitions are here!

We see what the direction of the new tendency was, but it would be an
inadequate or a dishonest criticism that should hold Pope responsible
for the narrow compass of the instrument which was his legacy from his
immediate predecessors, any more than for the wearisome thrumming-over
of his tune by those who came after him and who had caught his technical
skill without his genius. The question properly stated is, How much was
it possible to make of the material supplied by the age in which he
lived? and how much did he make of it? Thus far, among the great English
poets who preceded him, we have seen actual life represented by Chaucer,
imaginative life by Spenser, ideal life by Shakespeare, the interior
life by Milton. But as everything aspires to a rhythmical utterance of
itself, so conventional life, itself a new phenomenon, was waiting for
its poet. It found or made a most fitting one in Pope. He stands for
exactness of intellectual expression, for perfect propriety of phrase (I
speak of him at his best), and is a striking instance how much success
and permanence of reputation depend on conscientious finish as well as
on native endowment. Butler asks,--

    “Then why should those who pick and choose
     The best of all the best compose,
     And join it by Mosaic art,
     In graceful order, part to part,
     To make the whole in beauty suit,
     Not merit as complete repute
     As those who, with less art and pain,
     Can do it with their native brain?”

Butler knew very well that precisely what stamps a man as an artist is
this power of finding out what _is_ “the best of all the best.”

I confess that I come to the treatment of Pope with diffidence. I was
brought up in the old superstition that he was the greatest poet that
ever lived; and when I came to find that I had instincts of my own, and
my mind was brought in contact with the apostles of a more esoteric
doctrine of poetry, I felt that ardent desire for smashing the idols I
had been brought up to worship, without any regard to their artistic
beauty, which characterizes youthful zeal. What was it to me that Pope
was called a master of style? I felt, as Addison says in his Freeholder
when answering an argument in favor of the Pretender because he could
speak English and George I. could not, “that I did not wish to be
tyrannized over in the best English that ever was spoken.” The young
demand thoughts that find an echo in their real and not their acquired
nature, and care very little about the dress they are put in. It is
later that we learn to like the conventional, as we do olives. There was
a time when I could not read Pope, but disliked him on principle as old
Roger Ascham seems to have felt about Italy when he says, “I was once in
Italy myself, but I thank God my abode there was only nine days.”

But Pope fills a very important place in the history of English poetry,
and must be studied by every one who would come to a clear knowledge of
it. I have since read over every line that Pope ever wrote, and every
letter written by or to him, and that more than once. If I have not come
to the conclusion that he is the greatest of poets, I believe that I am
at least in a condition to allow him every merit that is fairly his. I
have said that Pope as a literary man represents precision and grace of
expression; but as a poet he represents something more,--nothing less,
namely, than one of those eternal controversies of taste which will last
as long as the imagination and understanding divide men between them. It
is not a matter to be settled by any amount of argument or
demonstration. There are born Popists or Wordsworthians, Lockists or
Kantists, and there is nothing more to be said of the matter.

Wordsworth was not in a condition to do Pope justice. A man brought up
in sublime mountain solitudes, and whose nature was a solitude more vast
than they, walking an earth which quivered with the throe of the French
Revolution, the child of an era of profound mental and moral movement,
it could not be expected that he should be in sympathy with the poet of
artificial life. Moreover, he was the apostle of imagination, and came
at a time when the school which Pope founded had degenerated into a mob
of mannerists who wrote with ease, and who with their congenial critics
united at once to decry poetry which brought in the dangerous innovation
of having a soul in it.

But however it may be with poets, it is very certain that a reader is
happiest whose mind is broad enough to enjoy the natural school for its
nature, and the artificial for its artificiality, provided they be only
good of their kind. At any rate, we must allow that the man who can
produce one perfect work is either a great genius or a very lucky one;
and so far as we who read are concerned, it is of secondary importance
which. And Pope has done this in the “Rape of the Lock.” For wit, fancy,
invention, and keeping, it has never been surpassed. I do not say there
is in it poetry of the highest order, or that Pope is a poet whom any
one would choose as the companion of his best hours. There is no
inspiration in it, no trumpet-call, but for pure entertainment it is
unmatched. There are two kinds of genius. The first and highest may be
said to speak out of the eternal to the present, and must compel its age
to understand _it_; the second understands its age, and tells it what it
wishes to be told. Let us find strength and inspiration in the one,
amusement and instruction in the other, and be honestly thankful for
both.

The very earliest of Pope’s productions give indications of that sense
and discretion, as well as wit, which afterward so eminently
distinguished him. The facility of expression is remarkable, and we find
also that perfect balance of metre, which he afterward carried so far as
to be wearisome. His pastorals were written in his sixteenth year, and
their publication immediately brought him into notice. The following
four verses from his first pastoral are quite characteristic in their
antithetic balance:--

    “You that, too wise for pride, too good for power,
     Enjoy the glory to be great no more,
     And carrying with you all the world can boast,
     To all the world illustriously are lost!”

The sentiment is affected, and reminds one of that future period of
Pope’s Correspondence with his Friends, when Swift, his heart corroding
with disappointed ambition at Dublin, Bolingbroke raising delusive
turnips at his farm, and Pope pretending not to feel the lampoons which
imbittered his life, played together the solemn farce of affecting
indifference to the world by which it would have agonized them to be
forgotten, and wrote letters addressed to each other, but really
intended for that posterity whose opinion they assumed to despise.

In these pastorals there is an entire want of nature. For example in
that on the death of Mrs. Tempest:--

    “Her fate is whispered by the gentle breeze
     And told in sighs to all the trembling trees;
     The trembling trees, in every plain and wood,
     Her fate remurmur to the silver flood:
     The silver flood, so lately calm, appears
     Swelled with new passion, and o’erflows with tears;
     The winds and trees and floods her death deplore
     Daphne, our grief! our glory now no more!”

All this is as perfectly professional as the mourning of an undertaker.
Still worse, Pope materializes and makes too palpably objective that
sympathy which our grief forces upon outward nature. Milton, before
making the echoes mourn for Lycidas, puts our feelings in tune, as it
were, and hints at his own imagination as the source of this emotion in
inanimate things,--

    “But, O the heavy change now thou art gone!”

In “Windsor Forest” we find the same thing again:--

    “Here his first lays majestic Denham sung,
     There the last numbers flowed from Cowley’s tongue;
     O early lost, what tears the river shed
     When the sad pomp along his banks was led!
     His drooping swans on every note expire,
     And on his willows hung each muse’s lyre!”

In the same poem he indulges the absurd conceit that,

    “Beasts urged by us, their fellow-beasts pursue,
     And learn of man each other to undo”;

and in the succeeding verses gives some striking instances of that
artificial diction, so inappropriate to poems descriptive of natural
objects and ordinary life, which brought verse-making to such a depth of
absurdity in the course of the century.

    “With slaughtering guns, the unwearied fowler roves
     Where frosts have whitened all the naked groves;
     Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o’ershade,
     And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery glade;
     He lifts the tube and levels with his eye,
     Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky:
     Oft as in airy rings they skim the heath,
     The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden death;
     Oft as the mounting larks their notes prepare,
     They fall and leave their little lives in air.”

Now one would imagine that the _tube_ of the fowler was a telescope
instead of a gun. And think of the larks preparing their notes like a
country choir! Yet even here there are admirable lines,--

    “Oft as in airy rings they skim the heath,”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “They fall and leave their little lives in air,”

for example.

In Pope’s next poem, the “Essay on Criticism,” the wit and poet become
apparent. It is full of clear thoughts, compactly expressed. In this
poem, written when Pope was only twenty-one, occur some of those lines
which have become proverbial; such as

    “A little learning is a dangerous thing”;

    “For fools rush in where angels fear to tread”;

    “True wit is Nature to advantage dressed,
     What oft was thought, but ne’er so well expressed.”

    “For each ill author is as bad a friend.”

In all of these we notice that terseness in which (regard being had to
his especial range of thought) Pope has never been equalled. One cannot
help being struck also with the singular _discretion_ which the poem
gives evidence of. I do not know where to look for another author in
whom it appeared so early, and, considering the vivacity of his mind and
the constantly besetting temptation of his wit, it is still more
wonderful. In his boyish correspondence with poor old Wycherley, one
would suppose him to be the man and Wycherley the youth. Pope’s
understanding was no less vigorous (when not the dupe of his nerves)
than his fancy was lightsome and sprightly.

I come now to what in itself would be enough to have immortalized him as
a poet, the “Rape of the Lock,” in which, indeed, he appears more purely
as poet than in any other of his productions. Elsewhere he has shown
more force, more wit, more reach of thought, but nowhere such a truly
artistic combination of elegance and fancy. His genius has here found
its true direction, and the very same artificiality, which in his
pastorals was unpleasing, heightens the effect, and adds to the general
keeping. As truly as Shakespeare is the poet of man, as God made him,
dealing with great passions and innate motives, so truly is Pope the
poet of society, the delineator of manners, the exposer of those
motives which may be called _acquired_, whose spring is in institutions
and habits of purely worldly origin.

The “Rape of the Lock” was written in Pope’s twenty-fourth year, and the
machinery of the Sylphs was added at the suggestion of Dr. Garth,--a
circumstance for which we can feel a more unmixed gratitude to him than
for writing the “Dispensary.” The idea was taken from that entertaining
book “The Count de Gabalis,” in which Fouquè afterward found the hint
for his “Undine”; but the little sprites as they appear in the poem are
purely the creation of Pope’s fancy.

The theory of the poem is excellent. The heroic is out of the question
in fine society. It is perfectly true that almost every door we pass in
the street closes upon its private tragedy, but the moment a _great_
passion enters a man he passes at once out of the artificial into the
human. So long as he continues artificial, the sublime is a conscious
absurdity to him. The mock-heroic then is the only way in which the
petty actions and sufferings of the fine world can be epically treated,
and the contrast continually suggested with subjects of larger scope and
more dignified treatment, makes no small part of the pleasure and
sharpens the point of the wit. The invocation is admirable:--

    “Say, what strange motive, Goddess, could compel,
     A well-bred lord to assault a gentle belle?
     O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,
     Could make a gentle belle reject a lord?”

The keynote of the poem is here struck, and we are able to put ourselves
in tune with it. It is not a parody of the heroic style, but only a
setting it in satirical juxtaposition with cares and events and modes of
thought with which it is in comical antipathy, and while _it_ is not
degraded, _they_ are shown in their triviality. The “clouded cane,” as
compared with the Homeric spear, indicates the difference of scale, the
lower plane of emotions and passions. The opening of the action, too, is
equally good:--

    “Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray,
     And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day,
     Now lapdogs give themselves the rousing shake,
     And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake;
     Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the ground,
     And the pressed watch returned a silver sound.”

The mythology of the Sylphs is full of the most fanciful wit; indeed,
wit infused with fancy is Pope’s peculiar merit. The Sylph is addressing
Belinda:--

    “Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly,
     The light militia of the lower sky;
     These, though unseen, are ever on the wing,
     Hang o’er the box and hover round the ring.
     As now your own our beings were of old,
     And once enclosed in woman’s beauteous mould;
     Think not, when woman’s transient breath is fled,
     That all her vanities at once are dead;
     Succeeding vanities she still regards,
     And, though she plays no more, o’erlooks the cards.
     For when the fair in all their pride expire,
     To their first elements their souls retire;
     The sprites of fiery termagants in flame
     Mount up and take a salamander’s name;
     Soft yielding nymphs to water glide away
     And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea;
     The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome,
     In search of mischief still on earth to roam;
     The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair
     And sport and flutter in the fields of air.”

And the contrivance by which Belinda is awakened is also perfectly in
keeping with all the rest of the machinery:--

    “He said: when Shock, who thought she slept too long,
     Leaped up and waked his mistress with his tongue;
     ’Twas then, Belinda, if report say true,
     Thy eyes first opened on a _billet-doux_.”

Throughout this poem the satiric wit of Pope peeps out in the
pleasantest little smiling ways, as where, in describing the
toilet-table, he says:--

    “Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
     Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, _billet-doux_.”

Or when, after the fatal lock has been severed,

    “Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes,
     And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies,
     Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast
     When husbands or when lapdogs breathe their last
     Or when rich china-vessels, fallen from high,
     In glittering dust and painted fragments lie!”

And so, when the conflict begins:--

    “Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air;
     Weighs the men’s wits against the ladies’ hair;
     The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;
     At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.”

But more than the wit and fancy, I think, the perfect keeping of the
poem deserves admiration. Except a touch of grossness, here and there,
there is the most pleasing harmony in all the conceptions and images.
The punishments which he assigns to the sylphs who neglect their duty
are charmingly appropriate and ingenious:--

    “Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,
     His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,
     Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o’ertake his sins;
     Be stopped in vials or transfixed with pins,
     Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie,
     Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin’s eye;
     Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain,
     While clogged he beats his silver wings in vain;
     Or alum styptics with contracting power,
     Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled flower;
     Or as Ixion fixed the wretch shall feel
     The giddy motion of the whirling wheel,
     In fumes of burning chocolate, shall glow,
     And tremble at the sea that froths below!”

The speech of Thalestris, too, with its droll climax, is equally good:--

    “Methinks already I your tears survey,
     Already hear the horrid things they say,
     Already see you a degraded toast,
     And all your honor in a whisper lost!
     How shall I then your helpless fame defend?
     ’Twill then be infamy to seem your friend!
     And shall this prize, the inestimable prize,
     Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes,
     And heightened by the diamond’s circling rays,
     On that rapacious hand forever blaze?
     Sooner shall grass in Hydepark Circus grow,
     And wits take lodging in the sound of Bow,
     Sooner let earth, air, sea, in chaos fall,
     Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all!”

So also Belinda’s account of the morning omens:--

    “’Twas this the morning omens seemed to tell;
     Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;
     The tottering china shook without a wind;
     Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind.”

The idea of the goddess of Spleen, and of her palace, where

    “The dreaded East is all the wind that blows,”

was a very happy one. In short, the whole poem more truly deserves the
name of a creation than anything Pope ever wrote. The action is confined
to a world of his own, the supernatural agency is wholly of his own
contrivance, and nothing is allowed to overstep the limitations of the
subject. It ranks by itself as one of the purest works of human fancy;
whether that fancy be strictly poetical or not is another matter. If we
compare it with the “Midsummer-night’s Dream,” an uncomfortable doubt is
suggested. The perfection of form in the “Rape of the Lock” is to me
conclusive evidence that in it the natural genius of Pope found fuller
and freer expression than in any other of his poems. The others are
aggregates of brilliant passages rather than harmonious wholes.

It is a droll illustration of the inconsistencies of human nature, a
more profound satire than Pope himself ever wrote, that his fame should
chiefly rest upon the “Essay on Man.” It has been praised and admired by
men of the most opposite beliefs, and men of no belief at all. Bishops
and free-thinkers have met here on a common ground of sympathetic
approval. And, indeed, there is no particular faith in it. It is a droll
medley of inconsistent opinions. It proves only two things beyond a
question,--that Pope was not a great thinker; and that wherever he found
a thought, no matter what, he could express it so tersely, so clearly,
and with such smoothness of versification as to give it an everlasting
currency. Hobbes’s unwieldy Leviathan, left stranded there on the shore
of the last age, and nauseous with the stench of its selfishness,--from
this Pope distilled a fragrant oil with which to fill the brilliant
lamps of his philosophy,--lamps like those in the tombs of alchemists,
that go out the moment the healthy air is let in upon them. The only
positive doctrines in the poem are the selfishness of Hobbes set to
music, and the Pantheism of Spinoza brought down from mysticism to
commonplace. Nothing can be more absurd than many of the dogmas taught
in this “Essay on Man.” For example, Pope affirms explicitly that
instinct is something better than reason:--

    “See him from Nature rising slow to art,
     To copy instinct then was reason’s part;
     Thus, then, to man the voice of nature spake;--
     Go, from the creatures thy instructions take;
     Learn from the beasts what food the thickets yield;
     Learn from the birds the physic of the field;
     The arts of building from the bee receive;
     Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave;
     Learn of the little nautilus to sail,
     Spread the thin oar, or catch the driving gale.”

I say nothing of the quiet way in which the general term “nature” is
substituted for God, but how unutterably void of reasonableness is the
theory that Nature would have left her highest product, man, destitute
of that instinct with which she had endowed her other creatures! As if
reason were not the most sublimated form of instinct. The accuracy on
which Pope prided himself, and for which he is commended, was not
accuracy of thought so much as of expression. And he cannot always even
claim this merit, but only that of correct rhyme, as in one of the
passages I have already quoted from the “Rape of the Lock” he talks of
_casting_ shrieks to heaven,--a performance of some difficulty, except
when _cast_ is needed to rhyme with _last_.

But the supposition is that in the “Essay on Man” Pope did not himself
know what he was writing. He was only the condenser and epigrammatizer
of Bolingbroke,--a very fitting St. John for such a gospel. Or, if he
_did_ know, we can account for the contradictions by supposing that he
threw in some of the commonplace moralities to conceal his real drift.
Johnson asserts that Bolingbroke in private laughed at Pope’s having
been made the mouthpiece of opinions which he did not hold. But this is
hardly probable when we consider the relations between them. It is
giving Pope altogether too little credit for intelligence to suppose
that he did not understand the principles of his intimate friend. The
caution with which he at first concealed the authorship would argue that
he had doubts as to the reception of the poem. When it was attacked on
the score of infidelity, he gladly accepted Warburton’s championship,
and assumed whatever pious interpretation he contrived to thrust upon
it. The beginning of the poem is familiar to everybody:--

    “Awake, my St. John, leave all meaner things
     To low ambition and the pride of kings;
     Let us (since life can little more supply
     Than just to look about us and to die)
     Expatiate free o’er all this scene of man,
     A mighty maze,--but not without a plan”;

To expatiate _o’er_ a mighty maze is rather loose writing but the last
verse, as it stood in the original editions, was,

    “A mighty maze of walks without a plan”;

and perhaps this came nearer Pope’s real opinion than the verse he
substituted for it. Warburton is careful not to mention _this_ variation
in his notes. The poem is everywhere as remarkable for its confusion of
logic as it often is for ease of verse and grace of expression. An
instance of both occurs in a passage frequently quoted:--

    “Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate;
     All but the page prescribed, their present state;
     From brutes what men, from men what spirits know,
     Or who would suffer being here below?
     The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
     Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
     Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food,
     And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
     O, blindness to the future kindly given
     That each may fill the circle meant by heaven!
     Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
     A hero perish or a sparrow fall,
     Atoms or systems into ruin hurled,
     And now a bubble burst, and now a world!”

Now, if “heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate,” why should
not the lamb “skip and play,” if he had the reason of man? Why, because
he would then be able to read the book of fate. But if man himself
cannot, why, then, could the lamb with the reason of man? For, if the
lamb had the reason of man, the book of fate would still be hidden, so
far as himself was concerned. If the inferences we can draw from
appearances are equivalent to a knowledge of destiny, the knowing enough
to take an umbrella in cloudy weather might be called so. There is a
manifest confusion between what we know about ourselves and about other
people; the whole point of the passage being that we are always
mercifully blinded to _our own_ future, however much reason we may
possess. There is also inaccuracy as well as inelegance in saying,

                              “Heaven,
    _Who_ sees with equal eye, as God of all,
    A hero perish or a sparrow fall.”

To the last verse Warburton, desirous of reconciling his author with
Scripture, appends a note referring to Matthew x. 29: “Are not two
sparrows sold for one farthing? and one of them shall not fall to the
ground without your Father.” It would not have been safe to have
referred to the thirty-first verse: “Fear ye not, therefore, _ye are of
more value_ than many sparrows.”

To my feeling, one of the most beautiful passages in the whole poem is
that familiar one:--

    “Lo, the poor Indian whose untutored mind
     Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind,
     His soul proud science never taught to stray
     Far as the solar walk or milky way:
     Yet simple Nature to his hope has given
     Behind the cloud-topt hill a humbler heaven;
     Some safer world in depth of woods embraced,
     Some happier island in the watery waste,
     Where slaves once more their native land behold,
     No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
     To _be_ contents his natural desire,
     He asks no angel’s wing, no seraph’s fire,
     But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
     His faithful dog shall bear him company.”

But this comes in as a corollary to what went just before:--

    “Hope springs eternal in the human breast,
     Man never is but always to be blest;
     The soul, uneasy, and confined from home,
     Rests and expatiates in a life to come.”

Then follows immediately the passage about the poor Indian, who, after
all, it seems, is contented with merely _being_, and whose soul,
therefore, is an exception to the general rule. And what have the “solar
walk” (as he calls it) and “milky way” to do with the affair? Does our
hope of heaven depend on our knowledge of astronomy? Or does he mean
that science and faith are necessarily hostile? And, after being told
that it is the “untutored mind” of the savage which “sees God in clouds
and hears him in the wind,” we are rather surprised to find that the
lesson the poet intends to teach is that

    “All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
     Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.
     That, changed through all, and yet in all the same,
     Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame,
     Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
     Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees.”

So that we are no better off than the untutored Indian, after the poet
has tutored us. Dr. Warburton makes a rather lame attempt to ward off
the charge of Spinozism from this last passage. He would have found it
harder to show that the acknowledgment of any divine revelation would
not overturn the greater part of its teachings. If Pope intended by his
poem all that the bishop takes for granted in his commentary, we must
deny him what is usually claimed as his first merit,--clearness. If he
did _not_, we grant him clearness as a writer at the expense of
sincerity as a man. Perhaps a more charitable solution of the difficulty
would be, that Pope’s precision of thought was no match for the fluency
of his verse.

Lord Byron goes so far as to say, in speaking of Pope, that he who
executes the best, no matter what his department, will rank the highest.
I think there are enough indications in these letters of Byron’s,
however, that they were written rather more against Wordsworth than for
Pope. The rule he lays down would make Voltaire a greater poet, in some
respects, than Shakespeare. Byron cites Petrarch as an example; yet if
Petrarch had put nothing more into his sonnets than _execution_, there
are plenty of Italian sonneteers who would be his match. But, in point
of fact, the department chooses the man and not the man the department,
and it has a great deal to do with our estimate of him. Is the
department of Milton no higher than that of Butler? Byron took especial
care not to write in the style he commended. But I think Pope has
received quite as much credit in respect even of execution as he
deserves. Surely execution is not confined to versification alone. What
can be worse than this?

    “At length Erasmus, that great, injured name,
     (The glory of the priesthood and the shame,)
     Stemmed the wild torrent of a barbarous age,
     And drove those holy vandals off the stage.”

It would have been hard for Pope to have found a prettier piece of
confusion in any of the small authors he laughed at than this image of a
great, injured name stemming a torrent and driving vandals off the
stage. And in the following verses the image is helplessly confused:--

    “Kind self-conceit to some her glass applies,
     Which no one looks in with another’s eyes,
     But, as the flatterer or dependant paint,
     Beholds himself a patriot, chief, or saint.”

The use of the word “applies” is perfectly un-English; and it seems that
people who look in this remarkable glass see their pictures and not
their reflections. Often, also, when Pope attempts the sublime, his
epithets become curiously unpoetical, as where he says, in the Dunciad,

    “As, one by one, at dread Medea’s strain,
     The sickening stars fade off _the ethereal plain_.”

And not seldom he is satisfied with the music of the verse without much
regard to fitness of imagery; in the “Essay on Man,” for example:--

    “Passions, like elements, though born to fight,
     Yet, mixed and softened, in his work unite;
     These ’tis enough to temper and employ;
     But what composes man can man destroy?
     Suffice that Reason keep to Nature’s road,
     Subject, compound them, follow her and God.
     Love, Hope, and Joy, fair Pleasure’s smiling train,
     Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of Pain,
     These, mixed with Art, and to due bounds confined,
     Make and maintain the balance of the mind.”

Here reason is represented as an apothecary compounding pills of
“pleasure’s smiling train” and the “family of pain.” And in the Moral
Essays,

    “Know God and Nature only are the same;
     In man the judgment shoots at flying game,
     A bird of passage, gone as soon as found,
     Now in the moon, perhaps, now under ground.”

The “judgment shooting at flying game” is an odd image enough; but I
think a bird of passage, now in the moon and now under ground, could be
found nowhere--out of Goldsmith’s Natural History, perhaps. An
epigrammatic expression will also tempt him into saying something
without basis in truth, as where he ranks together “Macedonia’s madman
and the Swede,” and says that neither of them “looked forward farther
than his nose,” a slang phrase which may apply well enough to Charles
XII., but certainly not to the pupil of Aristotle, who showed himself
capable of a large political forethought. So, too, the rhyme, if
correct, is a sufficient apology for want of propriety in phrase, as
where he makes “Socrates _bleed_.”

But it is in his Moral Essays and parts of his Satires that Pope
deserves the praise which he himself desired:--

                        “Happily to steer
    From grave to gay, from lively to severe,
    Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease,
    Intent to reason, or polite to please.”

Here Pope must be allowed to have established a style of his own, in
which he is without a rival. One can open upon wit and epigram at any
page.

    “Behold, if Fortune or a mistress frowns,
     Some plunge in business, other shave their crowns;
     To ease the soul of one oppressive weight,
     This quits an empire, that embroils a state;
     The same adust complexion has impelled,
     Charles to the convent, Philip to the field.”

Indeed, I think one gets a little tired of the invariable _this_ set off
by the inevitable _that_, and wishes antithesis would let him have a
little quiet now and then. In the first couplet, too, the conditional
“frown” would have been more elegant. But taken as detached passages,
how admirably the different characters are drawn, so admirably that half
the verses have become proverbial. This of Addison will bear reading
again:--

    “Peace to all such: but were there one whose fires
     True genius kindles and fair fame inspires;
     Blest with each talent and each art to please,
     And born to write, converse, and live with ease;
     Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
     Bear like the Turk no brother near the throne,
     View him with scornful yet with jealous eyes,
     And hate for arts that caused himself to rise,
     Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
     And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
     Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike,
     Just hint a fault and hesitate dislike,
     Alike reserved to blame or to commend,
     A timorous foe and a suspicious friend;
     Dreading e’en fools, by flatterers besieged,
     And _so_ obliging that he ne’er obliged;
     Like Cato give his little Senate laws,
     And sit attentive to his own applause,
     While wits and templars every sentence raise,
     And wonder with a foolish face of praise;--
     Who but must laugh if such a man there be?
     Who would not weep if Atticus were he?”

With the exception of the somewhat technical image in the second verse
of Fame blowing the fire of genius, which too much puts us in mind of
the frontispieces of the day, surely nothing better of its kind was ever
written. How applicable it was to Addison I shall consider in another
place. As an accurate intellectual observer and describer of personal
weaknesses, Pope stands by himself in English verse.

In his epistle on the characters of women, no one who has ever known a
noble woman, nay, I should almost say no one who ever had a mother or
sister, will find much to please him. The climax of his praise rather
degrades than elevates.

    “O, blest in temper, whose unclouded ray
     Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day,
     She who can love a sister’s charms, or hear
     Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear,
     She who ne’er answers till a husband cools,
     Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules,
     Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,
     Yet has her humor most when she obeys;
     Lets fops or fortune fly which way they will,
     Disdains all loss of tickets or codille,
     Spleen, vapors, or smallpox, above them all
     And mistress of herself, though china fall.”

The last line is very witty and pointed,--but consider what an ideal of
womanly nobleness he must have had, who praises his heroine for not
being jealous of her daughter. Addison, in commending Pope’s “Essay on
Criticism,” says, speaking of us “who live in the latter ages of the
world”: “We have little else to do left us but to represent the _common
sense_ of mankind, in more strong, more beautiful, or more uncommon
lights.” I think he has here touched exactly the point of Pope’s merit,
and, in doing so, tacitly excludes him from the position of poet, in
the highest sense. Take two of Jeremy Taylor’s prose sentences about the
Countess of Carbery, the lady in Milton’s “Comus”: “The religion of this
excellent lady was of another constitution: it took root downward in
humility, and brought forth fruit upward in the substantial graces of a
Christian, in charity and justice, in chastity and modesty, in fair
friendships and sweetness of society.... And though she had the greatest
judgment, and the greatest experience of things and persons I ever yet
knew in a person of her youth and sex and circumstances, yet, as if she
knew nothing of it, she had the meanest opinion of herself, and like a
fair taper, when she shined to all the room, yet round about her station
she had cast a shadow and a cloud, and she shined to everybody but
herself.” _This_ is poetry, though not in verse. The plays of the elder
dramatists are not without examples of weak and vile women, but they are
not without noble ones either. Take these verses of Chapman, for
example:--

    “Let no man value at a little price
     A virtuous woman’s counsel: her winged spirit
     Is feathered oftentimes with noble words
     And, like her beauty, ravishing and pure;
     The weaker body, still the stronger soul.
     O, what a treasure is a virtuous wife,
     Discreet and loving. Not one gift on earth
     Makes a man’s life so nighly bound to heaven.
     She gives him double forces to endure
     And to enjoy, being one with him,
     Feeling his joys and griefs with equal sense:
     If he fetch sighs, she draws her breath as short;
     If he lament, she melts herself in tears;
     If he be glad, she triumphs; if he stir,
     She moves his way, in all things his sweet ape,
     Himself divinely varied without change.
     All store without her leaves a man but poor,
     And with her poverty is exceeding store.”

Pope in the character I have read was drawing his ideal woman, for he
says at the end that she shall be his muse. The sentiments are those of
a _bourgeois_ and of the back parlor, more than of the poet and the
muse’s bower. A man’s mind is known by the company it keeps.

Now it is very possible that the women of Pope’s time were as bad as
they could be; but if God made poets for anything, it was to keep alive
the traditions of the pure, the holy, and the beautiful. I grant the
influence of the age, but there is a sense in which the poet is of no
age, and Beauty, driven from every other home, will never be an outcast
and a wanderer, while there is a poet’s nature left, will never fail of
the tribute at least of a song. It seems to me that Pope had a sense of
the neat rather than of the beautiful. His nature delighted more in
detecting the blemish than in enjoying the charm.

However great his merit in expression, I think it impossible that a true
poet could have written such a satire as the Dunciad, which is even
nastier than it is witty. It is filthy even in a filthy age, and Swift
himself could not have gone beyond some parts of it. One’s mind needs to
be sprinkled with some disinfecting fluid after reading it. I do not
remember that any other poet ever made poverty a crime. And it is wholly
without discrimination. De Foe is set in the pillory forever; and George
Wither, the author of that charming poem, “Fair Virtue,” classed among
the dunces. And was it not in this age that loose Dick Steele paid his
wife the finest compliment ever paid to woman, when he said “that to
love her was a liberal education”?

Even in the “Rape of the Lock,” the fancy is that of a wit rather than
of a poet. It might not be just to compare his Sylphs with the Fairies
of Shakespeare; but contrast the kind of fancy shown in the poem with
that of Drayton’s Nymphidia, for example. I will give one stanza of it,
describing the palace of the Fairy:--

    “The walls of spider’s legs were made,
     Well mortised, and finely laid;
     (He was the master of his trade
     It curiously that builded:)
     The windows of the eyes of cats,
     And, for the roof, instead of slats
     ’Tis covered with the skins of bats,
     With moonshine that are gilded.”

In the last line the eye and fancy of a poet are recognized.

Personally we know more about Pope than about any of our poets. He kept
no secrets about himself. If he did not let the cat out of the bag, he
always contrived to give her tail a wrench so that we might know she was
there. In spite of the savageness of his satires, his natural
disposition seems to have been an amiable one, and his character as an
author was as purely factitious as his style. Dr. Johnson appears to
have suspected his sincerity; but artifice more than insincerity lay at
the basis of his character. I think that there was very little real
malice in him, and that his “evil was wrought from want of thought.”
When Dennis was old and poor, he wrote a prologue for a play to be acted
for his benefit. Except Addison, he numbered among his friends the most
illustrious men of his time.

The correspondence of Pope is, on the whole, less interesting than that
of any other eminent English poet, except that of Southey, and their
letters have the same fault of being labored compositions. Southey’s
are, on the whole, the more agreeable of the two, for they inspire one
(as Pope’s certainly do not) with a sincere respect for the character of
the writer. Pope’s are altogether too full of the proclamation of his
own virtues to be pleasant reading. It is plain that they were mostly
addressed to the public, perhaps even to posterity. But letters, however
carefully drilled to be circumspect, are sure to blab, and those of Pope
leave in the reader’s mind an unpleasant feeling of circumspection,--of
an attempt to look as an eminent literary character should rather than
as the man really was. They have the unnatural constraint of a man in
full dress sitting for his portrait and endeavoring to look his best. We
never catch him, if he can help it, at unawares. Among all Pope’s
correspondents, Swift shows in the most dignified and, one is tempted to
say, the most amiable light. It is creditable to the Dean that the
letters which Pope addressed to him are by far the most simple and
straightforward of any that he wrote. No sham could encounter those
terrible eyes in Dublin without wincing. I think, on the whole, that a
revision of judgment would substitute “discomforting consciousness of
the public” for “insincerity” in judging Pope’s character by his
letters. He could not shake off the habits of the author, and never, or
almost never, in prose, acquired that knack of seeming carelessness that
makes Walpole’s elaborate compositions such agreeable reading. Pope
would seem to have kept a commonplace-book of phrases proper to this or
that occasion; and he transfers a compliment, a fine moral sentiment,
nay, even sometimes a burst of passionate ardor, from one correspondent
to another, with the most cold-blooded impartiality. Were it not for
this curious economy of his, no one could read his letters to Lady
Wortley Montague without a conviction that they were written by a lover.
Indeed, I think nothing short of the _spretæ injuria formæ_ will account
for (though it will not excuse) the savage vindictiveness he felt and
showed towards her. It may be suspected also that the bitterness of
caste added gall to his resentment. His enemy wore that impenetrable
armor of superior rank which rendered her indifference to his shafts the
more provoking that it was unaffected. Even for us his satire loses its
sting when we reflect that it is not in human nature for a woman to have
had two such utterly irreconcilable characters as those of Lady Mary
before and after her quarrel with the poet. In any view of Pope’s
conduct in this affair, there is an ill savor in his attempting to
degrade a woman whom he had once made sacred with his love. Spenser
touches the right chord when he says of the Rosalind who had rejected
him,

    “Not, then, to her, that scornéd thing so base,
     But to myself the blame, that lookt so high;
     Yet so much grace let her vouchsafe to grant
     To simple swain, sith her I may not love,
     Yet that I may her honor paravant
     And praise her worth, though far my wit above;
     Such grace shall be some guerdon of the grief
     And long affliction which I have endured.”

In his correspondence with Aaron Hill, Pope, pushed to the wall, appears
positively mean. He vainly endeavors to show that his personalities had
all been written in the interests of literature and morality, and from
no selfish motive. But it is hard to believe that Theobald would have
been deemed worthy of his disgustful pre-eminence but for the manifest
superiority of his edition of Shakespeare, or that Addison would have
been so adroitly disfigured unless through wounded self-love. It is easy
to conceive the resentful shame which Pope must have felt when Addison
so almost contemptuously disavowed all complicity in his volunteer
defence of _Cato_ in a brutal assault on Dennis. Pope had done a mean
thing to propitiate a man whose critical judgment he dreaded; and the
great man, instead of thanking him, had resented his interference as
impertinent. In the whole portrait of Atticus one cannot help feeling
that Pope’s satire is not founded on knowledge, but rather on what his
own sensitive suspicion divined of the opinions of one whose expressed
preferences in poetry implied a condemnation of the very grounds of the
satirist’s own popularity. We shall not so easily give up the purest and
most dignified figure of that somewhat vulgar generation, who ranks with
Sidney and Spenser, as one of the few perfect gentlemen in our literary
annals. A man who could command the unswerving loyalty of honest and
impulsive Dick Steele could not have been a coward or a backbiter. The
only justification alleged by Pope was of the flimsiest kind, namely,
that Addison regretted the introduction of the sylphs in the second
edition of the “Rape of the Lock,” saying that the poem was _merum sal_
before. Let any one ask himself how he likes an author’s emendations of
any poem to which his ear had adapted itself in its former shape, and he
will hardly think it needful to charge Addison with any mean motive for
his conservatism in this matter. One or two of Pope’s letters are so
good as to make us regret that he did not oftener don the dressing-gown
and slippers in his correspondence. One in particular, to Lord
Burlington, describing a journey on horseback to Oxford with Lintot the
bookseller, is full of a lightsome humor worthy of Cowper, almost worthy
of Gray.

Joseph Warton, in summing up at the end of his essay on the genius and
writings of Pope, says that the largest part of his works “is of the
_didactic_, _moral_, and _satiric_; and, consequently, not of the most
_poetic_ species of _poetry_; whence it is manifest that _good sense_
and _judgment_ were his characteristical excellences rather than _fancy_
and _invention_.” It is plain that in any strict definition there can be
only one kind of poetry, and that what Warton really meant to say was
that Pope was not a poet at all. This, I think, is shown by what
Johnson says in his “Life of Pope,” though he does not name Warton. The
dispute on this point went on with occasional lulls for more than a
half-century after Warton’s death. It was renewed with peculiar acrimony
when the Rev. W. L. Bowles diffused and confused Warton’s critical
opinions in his own peculiarly helpless way in editing a new edition of
Pope in 1806. Bowles entirely mistook the functions of an editor, and
maladroitly entangled his judgment of the poetry with his estimate of
the author’s character.[46] Thirteen years later, Campbell, in his
“Specimens,” controverted Mr. Bowles’s estimate of Pope’s character and
position, both as man and poet. Mr. Bowles replied in a letter to
Campbell on what he called “the invariable principles of poetry.” This
letter was in turn somewhat sharply criticised by Gilchrist in the
Quarterly Review. Mr. Bowles made an angry and unmannerly retort, among
other things charging Gilchrist with the crime of being a tradesman’s
son, whereupon the affair became what they call on the frontier a free
fight, in which Gilchrist, Roscoe, the elder Disraeli, and Byron took
part with equal relish, though with various fortune. The last shot, in
what had grown into a thirty years’ war, between the partisans of what
was called the Old School of poetry and those of the New, was fired by
Bowles in 1826. Bowles, in losing his temper, lost also what little
logic he had. and though, in a vague way, æsthetically right, contrived
always to be argumentatively wrong. Anger made worse confusion in a
brain never very clear, and he had neither the scholarship nor the
critical faculty for a vigorous exposition of his own thesis. Never was
wilder hitting than his, and he laid himself open to dreadful
punishment, especially from Byron, whose two letters are masterpieces of
polemic prose. Bowles most happily exemplified in his own pamphlets what
was really the turning-point of the whole controversy (though all the
combatants more or less lost sight of it or never saw it), namely, that
without clearness and terseness there could be no good writing, whether
in prose or verse; in other words that, while precision of phrase
presupposes lucidity of thought, yet good writing is an art as well as a
gift. Byron alone saw clearly that here was the true knot of the
question, though, as his object was mainly mischief, he was not careful
to loosen it. The sincerity of Byron’s admiration of Pope has been, it
seems to me, too hastily doubted. What he admired in him was that
patience in careful finish which he felt to be wanting in himself and in
most of his contemporaries. Pope’s assailants went so far as to make a
defect of what, rightly considered, was a distinguished merit, though
the amount of it was exaggerated. The weak point in the case was that
his nicety concerned itself wholly about the phrase, leaving the thought
to be as faulty as it would, and that it seldom extended beyond the
couplet, often not beyond a single verse. His serious poetry, therefore,
at its best, is a succession of loosely strung epigrams, and no poet
more often than he makes the second line of the couplet a mere
trainbearer to the first. His more ambitious works may be defined as
careless thinking carefully versified. Lessing was one of the first to
see this, and accordingly he tells us that “his great, I will not say
greatest, merit lay in what we call the mechanic of poetry.”[47]
Lessing, with his usual insight, parenthetically qualifies his
statement; for where Pope, as in the “Rape of the Lock,” found a subject
exactly level with his genius, he was able to make what, taken for all
in all, is the most perfect poem in the language.

It will hardly be questioned that the man who writes what is still
piquant and rememberable, a century and a quarter after his death, was a
man of genius. But there are two modes of uttering such things as cleave
to the memory of mankind. They may be said or sung. I do not think that
Pope’s verse anywhere sings, but it should seem that the abiding
presence of fancy in his best work forbids his exclusion from the rank
of poet. The atmosphere in which he habitually dwelt was an essentially
prosaic one, the language habitual to him was that of conversation and
society, so that he lacked the help of that fresher dialect which seems
like inspiration in the elder poets. His range of associations was of
that narrow kind which is always vulgar, whether it be found in the
village or the court. Certainly he has not the force and majesty of
Dryden in his better moods, but he has a grace, a finesse, an art of
being pungent, a sensitiveness to impressions, that would incline us to
rank him with Voltaire (whom in many ways he so much resembles), as an
author with whom the gift of writing was primary, and that of verse
secondary. No other poet that I remember ever wrote prose which is so
purely prose as his; and yet, in any impartial criticism, the “Rape of
the Lock” sets him even as a poet far above many men more largely
endowed with poetic feeling and insight than he.

A great deal must be allowed to Pope for the age in which he lived, and
not a little, I think, for the influence of Swift. In his own province
he still stands unapproachably alone. If to be the greatest satirist of
individual men, rather than of human nature, if to be the highest
expression which the life of the court and the ball-room has ever found
in verse, if to have added more phrases to our language than any other
but Shakespeare, if to have charmed four generations make a man a great
poet,--then he is one. He was the chief founder of an artificial style
of writing, which in his hands was living and powerful, because he used
it to express artificial modes of thinking and an artificial state of
society. Measured by any high standard of imagination, he will be found
wanting; tried by any test of wit, he is unrivalled.


THE END.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

The evening lamps looks=> The evening lamp looks {pg 51}

Que s’oblida e s laissa cazer=> Que s’oblida es laissa cazer {pg 347}


FOOTNOTES:

[1] The screech-owl, whose cry, despite his ill name, is one of the
sweetest sounds in nature, softens his voice in the same way with the
most beguiling mockery of distance.

[2] They made their appearance again this summer (1870).

[3] One of Mr. Lincoln’s neatest strokes of humor was his treatment of
this gentleman when a laudable curiosity induced him to be presented to
the President of the Broken Bubble. Mr. Lincoln persisted in calling
him Mr. Partington. Surely the refinement of good-breeding could go no
further. Giving the young man his real name (already notorious in the
newspapers) would have made his visit an insult. Had Henri IV. done
this, it would have been famous.

[4] The Life of Josiah Quincy by his son.

[5] Apropos of his Frederick the Great.

[6] Mr. Emerson, in the Biographical Sketch prefixed to the
“Excursions.”

[7] _Publications of the Chaucer Society._ London. 1869-70.

_Étude sur G. Chaucer considéré comme imitateur des Trouvères._ Par E.
G. SANDRAS, Agrégé de l’Université. Paris: Auguste Dusand. 1859. 8vo.
pp. 298.

_Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury-Geschichten, uebersetzt in den
Versmassen der Urschrift, und durch Einleitung und Anmerkungen
erläutert._ Von WILHELM HERTZBERG. Hildburghausen. 1866. 12mo. pp. 674.

_Chaucer in Seinen Beziehungen zur italienischen Literatur.
Inaugural-Dissertation zur Erlangung der Doctorwürde._ Von ALFONS
KISSNER. Bonn. 1867. 8vo pp. 81.

[8] Tyrwhitt doubted the authenticity of “The Flower and the Leaf” and
“The Cuckoo and the Nightingale.” To these Mr. Bradshaw (and there can
be no higher authority) would add “The Court of Love,” the “Dream,”
the “Praise of Woman,” the “Romaunt of the Rose,” and several of the
shorter poems. To these doubtful productions there is strong ground,
both moral and æsthetic, for adding the “Parson’s Tale.”

[9] Fauriel, _Histoire de la Gaule Meridionale_, Vol. I. _passim_.

[10] Allegat ergo pro se lingua _Oil_ quod propter sui faciliorem et
delectabiliorem vulgaritatem, quicquid redactum sive inventum est
ad vulgare prosaicum, suum est; videlicet biblia cum Trojanorum,
Romanorumque gestibus compilata et Arturi regis ambages pulcherrimæ et
quamplures aliæ historiæ ac doctrinæ. That Dante by _prosaicum_ did
not mean prose, but a more inartificial verse, _numeros lege solutos_,
is clear. Cf. Wolf, Ueber die Lais, pp. 92 _seq._ and notes. It has
not, I think, been remarked that Dante borrows his _faciliorem el
delectabiliorem_ from the _plus diletable et comune_ of his master
Brunetto Latini.

[11]

    “My ears no sweeter music know
     Than hauberk’s clank with saddlebow,
     The noise, the cries, the tumult blown
     From trumpet and from clarion.”


[12] Compare Floripar in _Fierabras_ with Nausikäa, for example.

[13] If internal evidence may be trusted, the _Lai de l’Espine_ is not
hers.

[14] _Sir Eger and Sir Grine_ in the Percy Folio. The passage quoted is
from Ellis.

[15] I think he tried one now and then, like “eyen _columbine_.”

[16] Commonly printed _hath_.

[17] Froissart’s description of the book of traités amoureux et de
moralité, which he had had engrossed for presentation to Richard II. in
1394, is enough to bring tears to the eyes of a modern author. “Et lui
plut très grandement; et plaire bien lui devoit car il é’tait enluminé,
écrit et historié et couvert de vermeil velours à dis cloux d’argent
dorés d’or, et roses d’or au milieu, et à deux grands fremaulx dorés et
richement ouvrés au milieu de rosiers d’or.” How lovingly he lingers
over it, hooking it together with _et_ after _et_! But two centuries
earlier, while the _jongleurs_ were still in full song, poems were also
read aloud.

    “Pur remembrer des ancessours
     Les faits et les dits et les mours,
     Deit l’en les livres et les gestes
     Et les estoires _lire a festes_.”--_Roman du Rou._

But Chaucer wrote for the private reading of the closet.

[18] One of the very worst, be it said in passing.

[19] Whence came, pray, the Elizabethan _commandëment_, _chapëlain_,
_surëly_, and a score of others? Whence the Scottish _bonny_, and so
many English words of Romance derivation ending in _y_?

[20] Poésies de Marie de France, Tome I. p. 168.

[21] Le Roman de la Rose, Tome II. p. 890.

[22] Rutebeuf, Tome I. pp. 203 seqq. 304 seqq.

[23] From the “Craft of Lovers,” attributed by Ritson to Lydgate, but
too bad even for him.

[24] Here the received texts give “So pray I _to_ God.” Cf. “But Reason
said him.” T. & C.

[25] Corrected from Kissner, p. 18.

[26] Compare this with the Mumbo-Jumbo Revenge in Collins’s Ode.

[27] London: John Russell Smith. 1856-64.

[28] Literary Remains, Vol. I. pp. 259, 260.

[29] Chapman himself was evidently pleased with this, for he cites it
as a sample of his version.

[30] Early Popular Poetry. Edited by W. Carew Hazlitt.

[31] The careless Ritson would have printed this _twynkling_.

[32] For example:--

    “And in the arber was a tre
     A fairer in the world might none be,”

should certainly read,

    “None fairer in the world might be.”


[33] The _to_ is, we need not say, an addition of Mr. Hazlitt’s. What
faith can we put in the text of a man who so often copies even his
quotations inaccurately?

[34] This was Thomas Warton’s opinion.

[35] Milton, a London boy, was in his eighth, seventeenth, and
twenty-ninth years, respectively, when Shakespeare (1616), Fletcher
(1625), and B. Jonson (1637) died.

[36] In his Tractate on Education.

[37] Milton, Collins, and Gray, our three great masters of harmony were
all musicians.

[38] Wordsworth, who recognized forerunners in Thomson, Collins, Dyer,
and Burns, and who chimes in with the popular superstition about
Chatterton, is always somewhat niggardly in his appreciation of Gray.
Yet he owed him not a little. Without Gray’s tune in his ears, his own
noblest Ode would have missed the varied modulation which is one of its
main charms. Where he forgets Gray, his verse sinks to something like
the measure of a jig. Perhaps the suggestion of one of his own finest
lines,

    (“The light that never was on land or sea,”)

was due to Gray’s

    “Orient hues unborrowed of the sun.”

I believe it has not been noticed that among the verses in Gray’s
“Sonnet on the Death of West,” which Wordsworth condemns as of no
value, the second--

    “And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fires”--

is one of Gray’s happy reminiscences from a poet in some respects
greater than either of them:--

    Jamque _rubrum_ tremulis jubar _ignibus erigere alte_
    Cum cœptat natura.
                         LUCRET., iv. 404, 405.

Gray’s taste was a sensitive divining-rod of the sources whether of
pleasing or profound emotion in poetry. Though he prized pomp, he did
not undervalue simplicity of subject or treatment, if only the witch
Imagination had cast her spell there. Wordsworth loved solitude in his
appreciations as well as in his daily life, and was the readier to find
merit in obscurity, because it gave him the pleasure of being a first
discoverer all by himself. Thus he addresses a sonnet to John Dyer. But
Gray was one of “the pure and powerful minds” who had discovered Dyer
during his lifetime, when the discovery of poets is more difficult. In
1753 he writes to Walpole: “Mr. Dyer has more poetry in his imagination
than almost any of our number, but rough and injudicious.” Dyer has one
fine verse,--

    “On the dark level of adversity.”


[39] MS. letter of Voltaire, cited by Warburton in his edition of Pope,
Vol. IV. p. 38, note. The date is 15th October, 1726. I do not find it
in Voltaire’s Correspondence.

[40] Its taste for verbal affectations is to be found in the _Roman de
la Rose_, and (yet more absurdly forced) in Gauthier de Coinsy; but in
Du Bartas the research of effect not seldom subjugates the thought as
well as the phrase.

[41] _Barclaii Satyricon_, p. 382. Barclay had lived in France.

[42] Usually printed _arms_, but Dryden certainly wrote _arm_, to
correspond with _dint_, which he used in its old meaning of a downright
blow.

[43] Morgante, xviii. 115.

[44] Elegie on Doctor Wilson. But if Quarles had been led astray by the
vices of Donne’s manner, he had good company in Herbert and Vaughan.
In common with them, too, he had that luck of simpleness which is even
more delightful than wit. In the same poem he says,--

    “Go, glorious soul, and lay thy temples down
     In Abram’s bosom, _in the sacred down_
     _Of soft eternity_.”


[45] Preface to the _Theatrum_.

[46] Bowles’s Sonnets, wellnigh forgotten now, did more than his
controversial writings for the cause he advocated. Their influence
upon the coming generation was great (greater than we can well account
for) and beneficial. Coleridge tells us that he made forty copies of
them while at Christ’s Hospital. Wordsworth’s prefaces first made
imagination the true test of poetry, in its more modern sense. But they
drew little notice till later.

[47] Briefe die neueste Litteratur betreffend, 1759, II. Brief. See
also his more elaborate criticism of the “Essay on Man” (Pope ein
Metaphysiker), 1755.











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