,Hur Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/criticalhistoric01maca_1 CRITICAL, HISTORICAL, AN1> MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS AND POEMS. BT THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAT. VOLUME L ^#OSTON COILlux ;-r: ifc. Rn,;.. THE MIDLAND BOOK COMPANY, CHICAGO. CONTENTS PAOB. >/ Fragments of a Roman Tale. {KnighVs Quarterly Magazine^ June 1823.) ...... 7 On the Royal Society of Literature. {KnighVs Quarterly Magazine^ June 1823.) . ... .20 Scenes from “ Athenian Revels.’’ {KnighVs Quarterly Magazine, January 1824.) • . . . . .27 Criticisms on the Principal Italian Writers. No. I. Dante. (Knighfs Quarterly Magazine, January 1824.) . 47 Criticisms on the Principal Italian Writers. No. II. Petrarch. {Knight*s Quarterly Magazine, April 1824.). 64 Some Account of the Great Lawsuit between the Parishes of St. Dennis and St. George in the Water. (Knight '^ s Quarterly Magazine, April 1824.) . 78 A Conversation between Mr. Abraham Cowley and Mr. John Milton touching the Great Civil War. (^Knight's Quarterly Magazine, August 1824.) ... 86 \/On the Athenian Orators. {KnighVs Quarterly Magazine, August 1824.) 104 A Prophetic Account of a Grand National Epic Poem, to be entitled “The Wellingtoniad,” AND to be Published a.d. 2824. {KnighVs Quarterly Magazine, November 1824.) 117 On Mitford’s History of Greece. {KnighVs Quarterly j Magazine, November 1824.) 126 ^Milton. (Edinburgh Review, August 1825.) • • • 148 Machiavelli. {Edinburgh Review, March 1827.) • • 193 John Dryden. ^(^Edinhurgh Review, January 1828.) . • 231 iv CONTENTS. PAGE. '-4Ii8TORY. (Edinburgh Review, .... 270 Hallam’s Constitutional History. {Edinburgh Review, September 1828.) 310 Mill on Government. (Edinburgh Review, March 1829.) 388 Westminster Reviewer’s Defence of Mill. (Edin- burgh Review, June 1829) 420 Utilitarian Theory of Government. {Edinburgh Re- view, October 1829.) 447 Southey’s Colloquies on Society. (Edinburgh Review, January, 1830.) 475 Mr. Robert Montgomery’s Poems. {Edinburgh Review, April 1830.) 515 Sadler’s Law of Population. {Edinburgh Review, July 1830. ) 533 Southey’s Edition of the Pilgrim’s Progress. (Edin- burgh Review, December 1830.) 558 Sadler’s Refutation Refuted. (Edinburgh Review, January 1831.) . 570 Civil Disabilities of the Jews. (Edinburgh Review, January 1831.) 598 Moore’s Life of Lord Byron. (Edinburgh Review, June 1831. ) 610 Croker’s Edition of Boswell’s Life of Johnson. (Edinburgh Review, September 1831.) . . . .611 Lord Nugent’s Memorials of Hampden. (Edinburgh Review, December 1831.) 682 Rev. Edward Nare’s Memoirs of Lord Burleigh. (Edinburgh Review, April 1832.) . . . . . 731 Etienne Dumont’s Memoirs of Mirabel. (Edinburgh July 1832.) 756 Lord Mahon’s History of the War of the Succession IN Spain. {Edinburgh Raview, January 1838.) • • 782 PREFACE Lord Macadlat always looked forward to a publi- catior of his miscellaneous works, either by himself or by those who should represent him after his death. And latterly he expressly reserved, whenever the ar- rangements as to copyright made it necessary, the right of such publication. The collection which is now published comprehends some of the earliest and some of he latest works which he composed. He was born on 25th October, 1800; commenced residence at Trinity College, Cambridge, in October, 1818 ; was elec^'ed Craven University Scholar in 1821 ; graduated as B. A. in 1822 ; was elected fellow of the college in October, 1824; was called to the bar in February 1826, when he joined the Northern Circuit ; and was elected member for Caine in 1830. After this last event, he did not long continue to practise at the bar. lie went to India in 1834, whence he returned in June, 1838. He was elected member for Edinburgh i 183f , and lost this seat in July, 1847 ; and this (though he was afterwards again elected for that city in July, 1852, without being a candidate) ma}’’ be considered as the last instance of his taking an active part in the contests of public life. These few dates are mentioned for th': purpose of enabling the Vi PREFACE. reader to assign the articles, now and previously pub- lished, to the principal periods into which the author’s life may be divided. The articles published in Knight’s Quarterly Maga- zine were composed during the authors residence at college, as B. A. It may be remarked that the first two of these exhibit the earnestness with which he already endeavored to represent to himself and to others the scenes and persons of past times as in actual existence. Of the Dialogue between Milton and Cowley he spoke, many years after its publication, as that one of his works which he remembered with most satisfaction. Some of the poems now collected have already ap- peared in print; others are supplied by the recollection of friends. The first two are published on account of their having been composed in the author’s childhood. MACAULAY’S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. ESSAYS. FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE. {Knight* s Quarterly Magazine^ June, 1823 .) ****** It was an hour after noon. Ligarius was returning trom the Campus Martins. He strolled through one of the streets which led to the Forum, settling his gown, and cal- culating the odds on the gladiators who were to fence at the appt'oaching Saturnalia. While thus occupied, he over- took Flaminius, who, with a heavy step and melancholy face, was sauntering in the same direction. The light-hearted young man plucked him by the sleeve. ‘‘Good-day, Flaminius. Are you to be of Catiline’s party this evening ? ” “Not I.” “Why so? Your little Tarentine girl will break her heart.” “ No matter. Catiline has the best cooks and the finest V ine in Rome. There are charming women at his parties. But the twelve-line board and the dice-box pay for all. The Gods confound me if I did not lose two millions of ses- terces last night. My villa at Tibur, and all the statues that my father the praetor brought from Ephesus, must go to the auctioneer. That is a high price, you will acknowl- edge, even for Phoenicopters, Chian, and Callinice.” “High indeed, by Pollux.” “ And that is not the worst. I saw several of the lead- ing senators this morning. Strange things are whispered in the higher political circles.” 10 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. lady home. Unfortunately old Quintus Lutatius had come back from liis villa in Campania, in a whim of jealousy. He was not expected for three days. There was a fine tumult. The old fool called for his sword and his slaves, cursed his wife, and swore that he would cut Caesar’s throat.” “ And Caesar ? ” “He laughed, quoted Anacreon, trussed his gown round his left arm, closed with Quintus, flung him down, twisted his sword out of his hand, burst through the attendants, ran a freed-man through the shoulder, and was in the street in an instant.” “ Well done ! Here he comes. Good-day, Caius.” Caesar lifted his head at the salutation. His air of deep abstraction vanished ; and he extended a hand to each of the friends. “ How are you after your last night’s exploit ? ” “ As well as possible,” said Caesar laughing. “ In truth we should rather ask how Quintus Lutatius ^s.” “ He, I understand, is as well as can be expected of a man with a faithless spouse and broken head. His freed- man is most seriously hurt. Poor fellow ! he shall have half of whatever I win to-night. Flaminius, you shall have your revenge at Catiline’s.” “You are very kind. I do not intend to be at Catiline’s till I wish to part with my town-house. My villa is gone iJready.” “ Not at Catiline’s, base spirit ! You are not of his mind, my gallant Ligarius. Dice, Chian, and the loveliest Gieek singing-girl that was ever seen. Think of that, Ligarius. By Venus, she almost made me adore her, by telling me that I talked Greek with the most Attic accent that she had heard in Italy.” “ I doubt she will not say the same of me,” replied Liga- rius. “ I am just as able to decq^her an obelisk as to read a line of Homer.” “ You barbarous Scythian, who had the care of your ed> cation ? ” “ An old fool, — a Greek pedant,* — a Stoic. He told me that pain was no evil, and flogged me as if he thought so. At last one day, in the middle of a lecture, I set fire to his enormous filthy beard, singed his face, and sent him roaring out of the house. There ended my studies. From that time to this I have had as little to do with Greece as the J'RAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE. 11 wine that your poor old friend Lutatius calls his delicious Samian.” “ Well done, Ligarius. I hate a Stoic. I wish Marcus Cato had a beard that you might singe it for him. The fooi talked his two hours in the Senate yesterday, without changing a muscle of his face. He looked as savage and as motionless as the mask in which Roscius acted Alecto. I detest every thing connected with him.” “ Except his sister, Servilia.” “ True. She is a lovely woman.” “ They say that you have told her so, Gains.” “ So I have.” And that she was not angry.” ‘‘ What woman is ? ” “ Ay, — but they say — “No matter what they say. Common fame lies like a Greek rhetorician. You might know so much, Ligarius, without reading the philosophers. But come, I will intro- duce you to little dark-eyed Zoe.” “ I tell you I can speak no Greek.” “ More shame for you. It is high time that you should begin. You will never have such a charming instructress. Of what was your father thinking when he sent for an old Stoic with a long beard to teach you ? There is no language- mistress like a handsome woman. When I was at Athens, I learnt more Greek from a pretty flower-girl in the PeirsBus than from all the Portico and the Academy. She was no Stoic, Heaven knows. But come along to Zoe. I will be your interpreter. Woo her in honest Latin, and I will turn it into elegant Greek between the throws of dice. I can make love and mind my game at once, as Flaminius can tell you.” “ Well, then, to be plain, Caesar, Flaminius has been talk- ing to me about plots, and suspicions, and politicians. I never plagued myself with such things since Sylla’s and Marius’s days ; and then I never could see much difference between the parties. All that I am sure of is, that those who meddle with such affairs are generally stabbed or strangled. And, though I like Greek wdne and handsome women, I do not wish to risk my neck for them. Now, tell me as a friend, Caius ; — is there no danger ? ” “ Danger ! ” repeated Caesar, with a short, fierce, dis- dainful laugh : “ what danger do you apprehend? ” “ That you should best know,” said Flaminius ; “ you 12 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. are far more intimate witli Catiline tlian I. But I advise you to be cautious. The leading men entertain strong sus- Dicions.” Cfesar drew up his figure from its ordinary state of grace- ful relaxation into an attitude of commanding dignity, and re- ])lied in a voice of which the deep and impassioned melody formed a strange contrast to the humorous and affected tone of his ordinary conversation. “ Let them suspect. They suspect because they know what they have deserved. What have they done for Rome ? — What for mankind ? — Ask the citizens. Ask the provinces. Have they had any other ob- ject than to perpetuate their own exclusive power, and to keep us under the yoke of an oligarchical tyranny, which unites in itself the worst evils of every other system, and combines more than Athenian turbulence with more than Persian despotism ? ” “ Good Gods ! Caesar. It is not safe for you to speak, or for us to listen to, such things, at such a crisis.” “ Judge for yourselves what you Avill hear. I will judge for myself what I will speak. I was not twenty years old, when I defied Lucius Sylla, surrounded by the spears of le- gionaries and the daggers of assassins. Do you suppose that I stand in awe of his paltry successors, who have inherited a power which they never could have acquired ; who would imitate his proscriptions, though they have never equalled his conquests ? ” “ Pompey is almost as little to be trifled with as Sylla. I heard a consular senator say that, in consequence of the present alarming state of affairs, he ivould probably be re- called from the command assigned to him by the Manilian law.” Let him come, — the pupil of Sylla’s butcheries, — ^the gleaner of Lucullus’s trophies, — the thief-taker of the Sen- ate.” “ For heaven’s sake, Cains ! — if you knew what the Con- sul said — “ Something about himself, no doubt. Pity that such tab ents should be coupled with such cowardice and coxcombry He is the finest speaker living, — infinitely superior to what Hortensius was, in his best days ; — a charming companion, except when he tells over for the twentieth time all the jokes that he made at Verres’s trial. But he is the despicable tool of a despicable party.” ‘‘Your language, Cains, convinces me that the reports FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE. 13 which have been circulated are not without foundation. I will venture to prophesy that within a few months the re- public will pass through a whole Odyssey of strange adven- tures.” ‘‘ I believe so ; an Odyssey of which Pompey will be the Polyphemus, and Cicero the Siren. would have the state imitate Ulysses : show no mercy to the former ; but contrive, if it can be done, to listen to the enchanting voice of the other, without being seduced by it to destruction.” ‘‘ But whom can your party produce as rivals to these two famous leaders ? ” “ Time will show. I would hope that there may arise a man, whose genius to conquer, to conciliate, and to govern, may unite in one cause an oppressed and divided people ; — may do all that Sylla should have done, and exhibit the magnificent spectacle of a great nation directed by a great mind.” “ And where is such a man to be found ? ” “ Perhaps where you would least expect to find him. Per haps he may be one whose powers have hitherto been con- cealed in domestic or literary retirement. Perhaps he may be one, who, while waiting for some adequate excitement, for some worthy opportunity, squanders on trifles a genius before which may yet be humbled the sword of Pompey and the gown of Cicero. Perhaps he may now be dis- puting with a sophist ; perhaps prattling with a mistress ; perhaps — ” and, as he spoke, he turned away, and re- sumed his lounge, “ strolling in the Forum.” ♦ ****## It was almost midnight. The party had separated. Cat- iline and Cethegus were still conferring in the supper-room, which was, as usual, the highest apartment of the house. It formed a cupola, from which windows opened on the flat roof that surrounded it. To this terrace Zoe had retired. With eyes dimmed \rith fond and melancholy tears, she leaned over the balustrade, to catch the last glimpse of the departing form of Caesar, as it grew more and more indistinct in the moon- light. Had he any thought of her ? Any love for her? He, the favorite of the high-born beauties of Rome, the most eloquent of its nobles ? It could not be. His voice had, indeed, been touchingly soft whenever he addressed her. There had been a fascinating tenderness even in the vivacity of his look and conversation. But such were always the j 14 Macaulay’s miscellanisous writings. marmers of Cfesar towards women. ITe had wreathed a sprig of myrtle in lier liair as she was singing. She took it from her dark ringlets, and kissed it, and wept over it, and thouglit of the sweet legends of her own dear Greece, — of youths and girls, who, pining away in hopeless love, had been transformed into flowers by the compassion of the gods ; and she wished to become a flower, which Caesar might sometimes touch, though he should touch it only to weave a crown for some prouder and happier mistress. She was roused from her musings by the loud step and voice of Cethegus, who was pacing furiously up and down the supper-room. “May all the gods confound me, if Caesar be not the deepest traitor, or the most miserable idiot, that ever inter- meddled with a plot ! ” Zoe shuddered. She drew nearer to the window. She stood concealed from observation by the curtain of fine net- work which hung over the aperture, to exclude the annoying insects of the climate. “And you, too ! ” continued Cethegus, turning fiercely on his accomplice ; “ you to take his part against me — you, who proposed the scheme yourself ! ” “ My dear Cains Cethegus, you will not understand me. I proposed the scheme ; and I will join in executing it. But policy is as necessary to our plans as boldness. I did not wish to startle Caesar — to lose his co-operation — perhaps to send him off with an information against us to Cicero and Catulus. He was so indignant at your suggestion, that all my dissimulation was scarcely sufficient to prevent a total rupture.” “ Indignant ! The gods confound him ! — He prated about humanity, and generosity, and moderation. By Her- cules, I have not heard such a lecture since I wsls withXeno- c hares at Rhodes.” “ Caesar is made up of inconsistences. He has boundless ambition, unquestioned courage, admirable sagacity. Yet I have frequently observed in him a womanish weakness at the sight of pain. I remember that once one of his slaves was taken ill while carrying his litter. He alighted, put the fellow in his place, and walked home in a fall of snow. I wonder that you could be so ill-advised as to talk to him of massacre, and pillage, and conflagration. You might have foreseen that such propositions would disgust a man of his temper.” FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE. I do not know. I have not your self-command, Lucius. I hate such conspirators. What is the use of them ? Wo must have blood-— blood, — hacking and tearing work — bloody work ! ” “ Do not grind your teeth, my dear Caius ; and lay down the carving-knife. By Hercules, you have cut up all the stuffing of the couch.” “ No matter; we shall have couches enough soon, — and down to stuff them with, — and purple to cover them, — and pretty women to loll on them, — unless this fool, and sxuth as he, spoil our plans. I had something else to say. The essenced fop wishes to seduce Zoe from me.” “ Impossible ! You misconstrue the ordinary gallantries which he is in the habit of paying to every handsome face.” “ Curse on his ordinary gallantries, and his verses, and his compliments, and his sprigs of myrtle ! If Caesar should dare — by Hercules, I will tear him to pieces in the middle of the Forum.” “ Trust his destruction to me. We must use his talents and influence — thrust him upon every danger — make him our instrument while we are contending — our peace-offering to the Senate if we fail — our first victim if we succeed.” “ Hark ! what noise was that ? ” Somebody in the terrace ! — lend me your dagger.” Catiline rushed to the window. Zoe was standing in the shade. He stepped out. She darted into the room — passed like a flash of lightning by the startled Cethegus — flew down the stairs — through the court — through the vesti- bule — through the street. Steps, voices, lights, came fast and confusedly behind her ; — but with the speed of love and terror she gained upon her pursuers. She fled through the wilderness of unknown and dusky streets, till she found her- .elf, breathless and exhausted, in the midst of- a crowd of gal- lants, who, with chaplets on their heads, and torches in their hands, were reeling from the portico of a stately mansion. The foremost of the throng was a youth whose slender figure and beautiful countenance seemed hardly consistent with his sex. But the feminine delicacy of his features ren- dered more frightful the mingled sensuality and ferocity of their expression. The libertine audacity of his stare, and the grotesque foppery of his apparel, seemed to indicate at least a partial insanity. Flinging one arm round Zoe, and tearing away her veil with the other, he disclosed to the 16 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings* gaze of his thronging companions the regular features and large dark eyes whicli characterize Athenian beauty. “ Clodius has all the luck to-night,” cried Ligarius. “Not so, by Hercules,” said Marcus Coelius; “the girl is fairly our common prize : we will fling dice for her. The Venus* throw, as it ought to do, shall decide.” “ Let me go — let me go, for Heaven’s sake,” cried Zoe^ struggling with Clodius. “ What a charming Greek accent she has. Come into the house, my little Athenian nightingale.” “ Oh ! what will become of me ? If you have mothers — if you have sisters — ” “ Clodius has a sister,” muttered Ligarius, “ or he is much belied.” “ By Heaven, she is weeping,” said Clodius. “ If she were not evidently a Greek,” said Coelius, “ I should take her for a vestal virgin.” “ And if she were a vestal virgin,” cried Clodius fiercely, “ it should not deter me. This way ; — no struggling — no screaming.” “ Struggling ! screaming ! ” exclaimed a gay and com- manding voice; “You are making very ungentle love, Clodius.” The whole party started. Caesar had mingled with them unperceived. The sound of his voice thrilled through the very heart of Zoe. With a convulsive effort she burst from the grasp of her insolent admirer, flung herself at the feet of Caesar, and clasped his knees. The moon shone full on her agitated and imploring face : her lips moved ; but she uttered no sound. He gazed at her for an instant— raised her — clasped her to his bosom. “ Fear nothing, my sweet Zoe.” Then, with folded arms, and a smile of placid defiance, he placed himself between her and Clodius. Clodius staggered forward, flushed with wine and rage, and uttering alternately a curse and a hiccup. “ By Pollux, this passes a jest. Caesar, how dare you iiisult me thus ? ” “A jest! I am as serious as a Jew on the Sabbath. Insult you ! For such a pair of eyes I would insult the whole consular bench, or I should be as insensible as King Psaramk’s mummy ” • Venus was the Benian temn for the hijghest thfoW on the dice. FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE, 17 ‘‘ Good Gods, Ca 3 sar ! ” said Marcus Ccclius, interposing ; ‘‘ you cannot think it worth while to get into a brawl for a little Greek girl ! ” “ Why not ? The Greek girls have used me as well as those of Rome. Besides, the whole reputation of my gab lantry is at stake. Give up such a lovely woman to that drunken boy! My hereafter would be gone forever. No more perfumed tablets, full of vows and raptures. No more toying with fingers at the Circus. No more evening walks along the Tiber. No more hiding in chests, or junip- ing from windows. I, the favored suitor of half the white stoles in Rome, could never again aspire above a frced- woman. You a man of gallantry, and think of such a thing ! For shame, my dear Coelius ! Do not let Clodia hear of it.” While Ca 3 sar spoke he had been engaged in keeping Clodius at arm’s length. The rage of the frantic libertine increased as the struggle continued, ‘‘ Stand back, as you value your life,” he cried ; “ I will pass.” ‘‘ Not this Avay, sweet Clodius. I have too much regard for you to suffer you to make love at such disadvantage. You smell too much of Falernian at present. Would you stifle your mistress ? By Hercules, you are fit to kiss no- body now, except old Piso, when he is tumbling home in the morning from the vintners.” * Clodius plunged his hand into his bosom, and drew a little dagger, the faithful companion of many desperate ad- ventures. “ Oh, Gods 1 he will be murdered ! ” cried Zoe. The whole throng of revellers was in agitation. The street fluctuated with torches and lifted hands. It was but for a moment. Caesar watched with a steady eye the de- scending hand of Clodius, arrested the blow, seized his an- tagonist by the throat, and flung him against one of the pillars of the portico with such violence that he rolled, stunned and senseless, on the ground. “ He is killed,” cried several voices. Fair self-defence, by Hercules!” said Marcus Coelius. “ Bear witness, you all saw him draw his dagger.” “ He is not dead — ^he breathes,” said Ligarius. “ Carry him into the house ; he is dreadfully bruised.” The rest 6f the party retired with Clodius^ Coelius turned to Ctesaf. ^ * Cie im Fia, 18 MAOAULAY^S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. “By all the Gods, Caius! you have won your lady fairly. A splendid victory! You deserve triumph.” “ What a madman Clodius has become ! ” “ Intolerable. But come and sup with me on the Nones. You have no objection to meet tlie Consul?” “Cicero? None at all. We need not talk politics. Our old dispute about Plato and Epicurus will furnish us with plenty of conversation. So reckon upon me, my dear Marcus, and farewell.” CaBsar and Zoe turned away. As soon as they were be- yond hearing, she began in great agitation : — “ Caesar, you are in danger. I know all. I overheard Catiline and Cethegus. You are engaged in a project which must lead to certain destruction.” “ My beautiful Zoe, I live only for glory and pleasure. For these I have never hesitated to hazard an existence which they alone render valuable to me. In the present case, I can assure you that our scheme presents the fairest hopes of success.” “ So much the worse. You do not know — you do not understand me. I speak not of open peril, but of secret treachery. Catilifte hates you ; — Cethegus hates you ; — your destruction is resolved. If you survive the contest, you perish in the first hour of victory. They detest you for your moderation ; — they are eager for blood and plunder. I have risked my life to bring you this warning ; but that is of little moment. Farewell ! — Be happy.” Caesar stopped her. “ Do you fly from my thanks, dear Zoe?” “ I wish not for your thanks, but for your safety I desire not to defraud Valeria or Servilia of one caress, ex- torted from gratitude or pity. Be my feelings what they may, I have learnt in a fearful school to endure and to sup- press them. I have been taught to abase a proud spirit to the claps and hisses of the vulgar ; — to smile on suitors who united the insults of a despicable pride to the endearments of a loathsome fondness ; — to affect sprightliness with an aching head, and eyes from which tears were ready to gush ; — to feign love with curses on my lips, and madness in my brain. Who feels for me any esteem, — any tenderness ? Who will shed a tear over the nameless grave which will soon shelter from cruelty and scorn the broken heart of the poor Athenian girl ? But you, who alone have addressed her in her degradation with a voice of kindness and respect, FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE. 19 farewell. Sometimes think of me, — not with sorrow ; — no; I could bear your ingratitude, but not your distress. Yet, if it will not i)ain you too much, in distant days, when your lofty hopes and destinies are accomplished, — on the evening of some mighty victory, — in the chariot of some magnificent triumph, — think on one who loved you with that exceeding love which only the miserable can feel. Think that, wher- ever her exhausted frame may have sunk beneath the sen- sibilities of a tortured spirit, — in whatever hovel or what- ever vault she may liave closed her eyes, — whatever strange scenes of horror and pollution may have surrounded her dy- ing bed, your shape was the last that swam before her sight — your voice the last sound that was ringing in her ears. Yet turn your face to me, Caesar. Let me carry away one last look of those features, and then — ” lie turned round. He looked at her. He hid his face on her bosom, and burst into tears. With sobs long and loud, and convulsive as those of a terrified child, he poured forth on her bosom the tribute of impetuous and uncontrollable emotion. He raised his head ; but he in vain struggled to restore composure to the brow which had confronted the frown of Sylla, and the lips vrhich had rivalled the eloquence of Cicero. He several times attempted to speak, but in vain ; and his voice still faltered with tenderness, when, after a pause of several min- utes, he thus addressed her : “ My own dear Zoe, your love has been bestowed on one who, if he cannot merit, can at least appreciate and adore you. Beings of similar loveliness, and similar devotedness of affection, mingled, in all my boyish dreams of greatness, with visions of curule chairs and ivory cars, marshalled le- gions and laurelled fasces. Such I have endeavored to find in the world ; and, in their stead, I have met with self- ishness, with vanity, with frivolity, with falsehood. The life Avliich you have preserved is a boon less valuable thau the affection — “ Oh ! Caesar,” interrupted the blushing Zoe, think only on your own security at present. If you feel as you speak, — ^but you are only mocking me, — or j^erhaps your compas- sion — ” “ By Heaven ! — ^by every oath that is binding — ” “ Alas ! alas ! Caesar, were not all the same oaths sworn yesterday to V aleria ? But I will trust you, at least so far as to partake your present dangers. Flight maybe neces- sary : — form your plans. Be they what they may, there is 20 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. one who, in exile, in poverty, in peril, asks only to wander, to beg, to die with you.” “ My Zoe, I do not anticipate any such necessity. To renounce the conspiracy without renouncing the principles on which it was originally undertaken — to elude the venge- ance of the Senate without losing the confidence of the people — is, indeed, an arduous, but not an impossible, task. I owe It to myself and to my country to make the attempt. There IS still ample time for consideration. At present I am too ha])py in love to think of ambition or danger.” They f ad reached the door of a stately palace. Caesar struck it It was instantly opened by a slave. Zoe found herself in a magnificent hall, surrounded by pillars of green marble, between which were ranged the statues of the long line of Julian nobles. “ Call Endymion,” said Caesar. The confidential freed-man made his appearance, not without a slight smile, which his patron’s good-nature em- boldened him to hazard, at perceiving the beautiful Athenian. “ Arm my slaves, Endymion ; there are reasons for pre- caution. Let them relieve each other on guard during the night. Zoe, my love, my preserver, why are your cheeks so S ale ? Let me kiss some bloom into them. How you trem- le ! Endymion, a flask of Samian and some fruit. Bring them to my apartments. This way, my sweet Zoe.” * *#****#♦ ON THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF LITERATURE. {Knight’s Quarterly Magazine, June, 1823.) This is the age of societies. There is scarcely one Eng- lishman in ten who has not belonged to some association for distributing books, or for prosecuting them ; for sending in- valids to the hospital, or beggars to the treadmill ; for giving plate to the rich or blankets to the poor. To be the most absurd institution among so many institutions is no small distinction ; it seems, however, to belong indisputably to the Royal Society of Literature. At the first establishment of that ridiculous academy, every sensible man predicted that, in spite of regal patronar;o and episcopal management, it ON TlIEi ROYAL SOCIETY OE LITERATURE. 21 would do nothing, or do liariu. And it will scarcely bo de- nied that those expectations have hitherto been fulfilled. I do not attack the founders of the association. Theii characters are respectable ; their motives, I am willing to believe, were laudable. But I feel, and it is the duty of every literary man to feel, a strong jealousy of their proceedings. Their society can be innocent only while it continues to be despicable. Should they ever possess the power to encour- age merit, they must also possess the power to depress it. Which power will be more frequently exercised, let every one who lias studied literary history, let every one who has studied human nature, declare. Envy and faction insinuate themselves into all com- munities. They often disturb the peace, and pervert the decisions, of benevolent and scientific associations. But it is in literary academies that they exert the most extensive and pernicious influence. In the first place, the princi- ples of literary criticism, though equally fixed with those on which the chemist and the surgeon proceed, are by no means equally recognized. Men are rarely able to assign a reason for their approbation or dislike on questions of taste ; and therefore they willingly submit to any guide who boldly asserts his claim to superior discernment. It is more difficult to ascertain and establish the merits of a poem than the powers of a machine or the benefits of a new remedy. Hence it is in literature, that quackery is most easily puffed, and excellence most easily decried. In some degree this argument applies to academies of the fine arts ; and it is fully confirmed by all that I have ever heard of that institution which annually disfigures the walls of Somerset-House with an acre of spoiled canvass. But a literary tribunal is incomparably more dangerous. Other societies, at least, have no tendency to call forth any opinions on those subjects which most agitate and inflame the minds of men. The skeptic and the zealot, the revolu- tionist and the placeman, meet on common ground in a gal- lery of paintings or a laboratory of science. They can praise or censure without reference to the differences which exist between them. In a literary body this can never be the case. Literature is, and always must be, inseparably blended with politics and theology; it is the great engine which moves the feelings of a people on the most momentous questions. It is, therefore, impossible that any society can be formed so impartial as to consider the literary character U2 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. of an individual abstracted from the opinions whicli his writings inculcate. It is not to be hoped, perhaps it is not to be wished, that the feelings of the man should be so com- pletely forgotten in tlie duties of the academician. The consequences are evident. The honors and censures of this Star-chamber of the Muses will be awarded according to the prejudices of the particular sect or faction which may at the time predominate. Whigs would canvass against a Southey, Tories against a Byron. Those who might at first protest against such conduct as unjust would soon adopt it on the plea of retaliation ; and the general good of literature, for which the society was professedly instituted, would be forgotten in the stronger claims of political and religious partiality. Yet even this is not the worst. Should the institution ever acquire any influence, it will afford most pernicious facilities to every malignant coward wdio may desire to blast a reputation which he envies. It will furnish a secure ambuscade, behind which the Maroons of literature may take a certain and deadly aim. The editorial we has often been fatal to rising genius ; thoiigh all the world knows it is only a form of speech, very often employed by a single needy blockhead. The academic we would have a far greater and more ruinous influence. Numbers, while they increased the effect, would diminish the shame, of injustice. The ad- vantages of an open and those of an anonymous attack would be combined ; and the authority of avowal would be united to the security of concealment. The serpents in Virgil, after they had destroyed Laocoon, found an asylum from the vengeance of the enraged people behind the shield of the statue of Minerva. And, in the same manner, every thing that is grovelling and venomous, every thing that can hiss, and every thing that can sting, would take sanctuary in the recesses of this new temple of wisdom. The French academy was, of all such associations, the most widely and the most justly celebrated. It was founded by the greatest of ministers ; it was patronized by successive kings ; it numbered in its lists most of the eminent French writers. Yet, what benefit has literature derived from its labors? What is its history but an uninterrupted record of servile compliances — of paltry artifices — of deadly quar- rels — of perfidious friendships ? Whether governed by the Court, by the Sorbonne, or by the Philosophers, it was always equally powerful for evil, and equally impotent for ON THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF LITERATURE. 23 good. I might speak of the attacks by which it attempted to depress the rising fame of Corneille ; I might speak of the reluctance with which it gave its tardy confirmation to the applauses which the whole civilized world had bestowed on tlie genius of Voltaire. I might prove by overwhelming evidence that, to the latest period of its existence, even under the superintendence of the all-accomplished D’Alembert, it continued to be a scene of the fiercest animosities and the basest intrigues. I might cite Piron’s epigrams, and Mar- montel’s memoirs, and Montesquieu’s letters. But I hasten on to another topic. One of the modes by which our Society proposes to encourage merit is the distribution of prizes. The mur. ifi- cence of the king has enabled it to offer an annual premium of a hundred guineas for the best essay in prose, and an- other of fifty guineas for the best poem, which may be transmitted to it. This is very laughable. In the first place the judges may err. Those imperfections of human in- tellect to which, as the articles of the church tell us, even general councils are subject, may possibly be found even in the Royal Society of Literature. The French Academy, as I have already said, was the most illustrious assembly of the kind, and numbered among its associates men much more distinguished than ever will assemble at Mr. Hatchard’s to rummage the box of the English Society. Yet this famous body gave a poetical prize, for which Voltaire was a can- didate, to a fellow who wrote some verses about the frozen and the burning pole. Yet, granting that the prizes were always awarded to the best composition, that composition, I say without hesita- tion, will always be bad. A prize jioem is like a prize sheep. The object of the competitor for the agricultural premium is to produce an animal fit, not to be eaten, but to be weighed. Accordingly, he pampers his victim into morbid ^nd unnatu- ral fatness ; and, when it is in such a state that it would be sent away in disgust from, any table, he offers it to the judges. The object of the poetical candidate, in like manner, is to produce, not a good poem, but a poem of that exact degree of frigidity or bombast which may appear to his cen- sors to be correct or sublime. Compositions thus constructed will always be worthless. The few excellences Avhich they may contain will have an exotic aspect and flavor. In gen- eral, prize sheep are good for nothing but to make tallow can dies, and prize poems are good for nothing but to light them. 24 Macaulay’s mtscellanp:ous writings. The first subject ])roposc(l by the Society to the poets of England was Dartmoor. I thought that they intended a covert sarcasm at tlieir own projects. Their institution was a literary Dartmoor scheme ; — a plan for forcing into cul- tivation the waste lands of intellect, — for raising poetical produce, by means of bounties, from soil too meagre to have yielded any returns in the natural course of things. The plan for the cultivation of Dartmoor has, I hear, been aban- doned. I hope that this may be an omen of the fate of the Society. In truth, this seems by no means improbable. They have been offering for several years the rewards which the king placed at their disposal, and have not, as far as I can learn, been able to find in their box one composition which they have deemed worthy of publication. At least no publica- tion has taken place. The associates may perhaps be aston- ished at this. But I will attempt to explain it, after the manner of ancient times, by means of an apologue. About four hundred years after the deluge. King Gomer Chephoraod reigned in Babylon. He united all the char- acteristics of an excellent sovereign. He made good laws, won great battles, and white-washed long streets. He was, in consequence, idolized by his people, and panegyrized by many poets and orators. A book was then a serious under- taking. Neither paper nor ary similar material had been invented. Authors were, therefore, under the necessity of inscribing their compositions on massive bricks. Some of these Babylonian records are still preserved in European museums ; but the language in which they are written has never been deciphered. Gomer Chephoraod was so popular that the clay of all the plains around the Euphrates could scarcely furnish brick-kilns enough for his eulogists. It is recorded in particular that Pharonezzar, the Assyrian Pin- dar, published a bridge and four walls in his praise. One day the king was going in state from his palace to the temple of Belus. During this procession it was lawful for any Babylonian to offer any petition or suggestion to his sovereign. As the chariot passed before a vintner’s shop, a large company, apparently half-drunk, sallied forth into the street ; and one of them thus addressed the king : “ Gomer Chephoraod, live forever ! It appears to thy servants that of ail the productions of the earth good wine is the best, and bad wine is the worst. Good wine makes ^ the heart cheerful, the eyes bright, the speech ready* Bad ON THE ROYAL SOCIETY OP LITERATURE. 25 wino confuses tlie head, disorders the stomach, makes us quarrelsome at night, and sick the next morning. Now, therefore, let my lord the king take order that thy servants may drink good wdne.” And how is this to be done ? ” said the good-natured prince. “ Oh, king,” said his monitor, ‘‘ this is most easy. Let the king make a decree, and seal it with his royal signet ; and let it be proclaimed that the king will give ten she- assf s, and ten slaves, and ten changes of raiment, every year, unto the man who shall make ten measures of the best wine. And whosoever wishes for the she-asses, and the slaves, and the raiment, let him send the ten measures of wine to thy servants, and we will drink thereof and judge. So shall there be much good wine in Assyria.” The project pleased Gomer Chephoraod. “Be it so,” said he. The people shouted. The petitioners prostrated themselves in gratitude. The same night heralds were de- spatched to bear the intelligence to the remotest districts of Assyria. After a due interval the wines began to come in ; and the examiners assembled to adjudge the prize. The first vessel was unsealed. Its odor was such that the judges, without tasting it, pronounced unanimous condemnation. The next was opened ; it had a villainous taste of clay. The third was sour and vapid. They proceeded from one cask of execrable liquor to another, till at length, in absolute nausea, they gave up the investigation. The next morning they all assembled at the gate of the king, Avith pale faces and aching heads. They owneA that they could not recommend any competitor as worthy 3f the reward. They swore that the wine was little better than poison, and entreated permission to resign the office of de- ciding between such detestable potions. “ In the name of Belus, how can this have happened ? ” said the king. Merolchazzar, the high-priest, muttered something about the anger of the Gods at the toleration shown to a sect of impious heretics who ate pigeons broiled, “ whereas,” said he, “ our religion commands us to eat them roasted. Now, therefore, oh king,” continued this respectable divine, “ give command to thy men of war, and let them smite the disobedient people with the sword, them, and their wives, and their children, and let their houses, and their flocks, 26 MACAULAY S MISl ELLANEOtTS WRITINGS. and their licrds, he given to tliy servants the priests. Then shall the land yield its increase, and the fruits of the earth shall he no more Masted hy the vengeance of heaven.” ‘‘Nay,” said tlie king, “the ground lies under no gen- eral curse fi’om heaven. The season has been singularly good. The wine which thou didst thyself drink at the ban- quet a few nights ago, oh venerable Merolchazzar, was of this year’s vintage. Dost thou not remember how thou didst praise it ? It was the same night that thou wast inspired by Belus, and didst reel to and fro, and discourse sacred mysteries. These things are too hard for me. I com- prehend them not. The only wine which is bad is that which is sent, to my judges. Who can expound this to us ? ” The king scratched his head. Upon which all the cour- tiers scratched their heads. He then ordered proclamation to be made, that a pur- ple robe and a golden chain should be given to the man who could solve this difficulty. An old philosopher, who had been observed to smile rather disdainfully when the prize had first been instituted, came forward and spoke thus : — “ Gomer Chephoraod, live forever ! Marvel not at that which has happened. It was no miracle, but a natural event. How could it be otherwise ? It is true that much good wine has been made this year. But who would send it in for thy rewards ? Thou knowest Ascobaruch who hath the great vineyards in the north, and Cohahiroth who sendeth wine every year from the south over the Persian Gulf. Their wines are so delicious that ten measures there- of are sold for an hundred talents of silver. Thinkest thou that tliey will exchange them for thy slaves and thine asses? What would thy prize profit any who have vineyards in rich soils ? ” “ Who, then,” said one of the judges, “ are the wretches who sent us this poison ? ” “ Blame them not,” said the sage, “ seeing that you have been the authors of the evil. They are men whose lands are poor, and have never yielded them any returns equal to the prizes which the king pro])osed. Wherefore, knowing that the lords of the fruitful vineyards would not enter into competition with them, they planted vines, some on rocks, and some in light sandy soil, and some in deep clay. Hence their wines are bad. For no culture or reward will make barren land bear good j^ine>s. Know therefore, assuredly. 27 SCENES FROM “ ATHENIAN REVELS.” that your prized have increased the quantity of bad but not of good wine.” There was a long silence. At length the king spoke. ‘‘ Give him the purple robe and the chain of gold. Throw the wines into the Euphrates ; and proclaim that the Royal Society of Wines is dissolved.” SCENES FROM ‘‘ATHENIAN REVELS.” (Knight* s Quarterly Magazim^ January y 1824.) A DRAMA. I. Scene- — A Street in Athene . Enter Callidemus and Speusippub. callidemus. So, you young reprobate ! You must be a man of wit, fonooth, and a man of quality ! You must spend as if you were as rich as Nicias, and prate as if you were as wise as Pericles ! You must dangle after sophists and pretty women ! And I must pay for all ! I must sup on thyme and onions, while you are swallowing thrushes and hares ! I must drink water, that you may play the cottabus * with Chian wine ! I must wander about as ragged as Pauson,t that you may be as fine as Alcibiades ! I must lie on bare boards, with a stone $ for my pillow, and a rotten mat for my coverlid, by the light of a wretched winking lamp, while you are marching in state, with as many torches as one sees at the feast of Ceres, to thunder with your hatchet § at the doors of half the Ionian ladies in Peira3us. || ♦ This game consisted in projecting wine out of cups ; it was a diversion ex- tremely fashionable at Athenian entertainments. t Pauson was an Athenian painter, whose name was synonjrmous with beggary. See Aristophanes ; Plutus, 602. From his poverty, I am inclined to suppose that ho painted historical pictures. i See Aristophanes ; Plutus, 642. § See Theocritus ; Idyll ii. 128. I) This was the most disreputable part of Athens. See Aristophanes ; Pax, 166 28 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings^. SPEUSIPPUS, Why, thou unreasonable old man ! Thou most shame- less of fathers ! — callidemus. Ungrateful wretch ! dare you talk so ? Are you not afraid of the thunders of Jupiter? SPEUSIPPUS. Jupiter thunder ! nonsense ! Anaxagoras says, that thunder is only an explosion produced by — CALLIDEMUS. He does ! Would that it had fallen on his head for his pains SPEUSIPPUS. Nay : talk rationally. CALLIDEMUS. Rationally! You audacious young sophist! I will talk rationally. Do you know that I am your father? What quibble can you make upon that ? SPEUSIPPUS. Do I know that you are my father ? Let us take the question to pieces, as Melesigenes would say. First, then, we must inquire what is knowledge? Secondly, what is a father? Now, knowledge, as Socrates said the other day to Theaetetus,* CALLIDEMUS. Socrates! what! the ragged flat-nosed old dotard, who walks about all day barefoot, and filches cloaks, and dissects gnats, and shoes t fleas with wax ? SPEUSIPPUS. All fiction ! All trumped up by Aristophanes ! CALLIDEMUS. By Pallas, if he is in the habit of putting shoes on his • See Plato*# Theaetetus. t See Aristopliaues ; Nubee, 150. ^ SCElsTES FROM ATHEKIAFT REVELS^’ 29 fleas, he is kinder to them than to himself. But listen to me, boy ; if you go on this way, you will be ruined. There is an argument for you. Go to your Socrates, and your Melesigenes, and tell them to refute that. Suined ! Do you hear ? SPEUSIPPUS. Kuined ! CALLIDENUS. Ay, by Jupiter ! Is such a show as you make to be sup- ported on nothing ? During all the last war, I made not an obol from my farm ; the Peloponnesian locusts came al- most as regularly as the Pleiades ; — corn burnt ; — olives stripped ; — fruit trees cut down ; — wells stopped up ; — and, just when peace came, and I hoped that all would turn out well, you must begin to spend as if you had all the mines of Thasus at command. SPEUSIPPUS. Now, by Neptune, wno delights in horses— CALLIDEMUS. If Neptune delights in horses, he does not resemble me. You must ride at the Panathenaea on a horse fit for the great king : four acres of my best vines went for that folly. You must retrench, or you will have nothing to eat. Does not Anaxagoras mention, among his other discoveries, that when a man has nothing to eat he dies ? SPEUSIPPUS. You are deceived. My friends — CALLIDEMUS. Oh, yes ! your friends will notice you, doubtless, when you are squeezing through the crowd, on a winter’s day, to warm yourself at the fire of the baths ; — or when you are fighting with beggars and beggars’ dogs for the scraps of a sacrifice ; — or when you are glad to earn three wretched obols * by listening all day to lying speeches and crying children. SPEUSIPPUS. There are other «jneans of support. • The stipend of an Athenian Juryman. 30 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. CALLIDEMUS. What ! I suppose you will wander from house to house, like that wretched buffoon Philippus,* and beg everybody who has asked a supper-party to be so kind as to feed you amd laugh at you ; or you will turn sycophant; you will get a bunch of grapes, or a pair of shoes, now and then, by frightening some rich coward with a mock prosecution. Well ! that is a task for which your studies under the sophists may have fitted you. SPEUSIPPUS. You are wide of the mark. CALLIDEMUS. Then what, in the name of Juno, is your scheme? Do you intend to join Orestes, f and rob on the highway? Take care ; beware of the eleven ; J beware of the hemlock. It may be very pleasant to live at other people’s expense ; but not very pleasant, I should think, to hear the pestle give its last bang against the mortar, when the cold dose is ready. Pah !— SPEUSIPPUS. Hemlock ! Orestes ! folly ! — I aim at nobler objects. What say you to politics, — the general assembly ? CALLIDEMUS. You an orator ! — oh no! no ! Cleon was worth twenty such fools as you. You have succeeded, I grant, to his impudence, for which, if there be justice in Tartarus, he is now soaking up to the eyes in his own tan-pickle. But the Paphlagonian had parts. SPEUSIPPUS. And you mean to imply — CALLIDEMUS. Not I. You are a Pericles in embryo, doubtless. Well : and Avhen are you to make your first speech? Oh, Pallas I ♦ Xenophon ; Convivium. t A celebrated highwayman of Attica. See Aristophanes ; Aves, 711 ; and in several other passages. X The police officers of Athens. 31 SCENES FROM ‘‘ ATHENIAN REVELS.” SPEUSIPPUS. I thought of speaking, the other day, on the Sicilian ex- pedition ; but Nicias * got up before me. CALLIDEMUS. Nicias, poor honest man, might just as well have sate Btill ; his speaking did but little good. The loss of your oration is, doubtless, an irreparable public calamity. SPEUSIPPUS. Why, not so ; I intend to introduce it at the next assem- bly ; it will suit any subject. CALLIDEMUS. That is to say, it will suit none. But pray, if it be not too presumptuous a request, indulge me with a specimen. SPEUSIPPUS. Well ; suppose the agora crowded; — an important sub- ject under discussion ; — an ambassador from Argos, or from the great king ; — the tributes from the islands ; — an impeach- ment ; — in short, any thing you please. The crier makes proclamation. — “ Any citizen above fifty years old may speak — any citizen not disqualified may speak.” Then I rise : — a great murmur of curiosity while I am mounting the stand. CALLIDEMUS. Of curiosity ! yes, and of something else too. You will infallibly be dragged down by main force, like poor Glaucon f last year. SPEUSIPPUS. Never fear. I shall begin in this style : “ When I consider, Aihenians, the importance of our city ; — Avhen I consider the extent of its power, the wisdom of its laws, the elegance of its decorations ; — when I consider by what names and by what exploits its annals are adorned ; ■ — when I think on Harmodius and Aristogiton, on Themis- tocles and Miltiades, on Cimon and Pericles; — when I con- template our pre-eminence in arts and letters ; — when I ob- • See Thucydides, vi. 8, t See Xenophon ; Memorabilia, ill. S2 MACAtTLAY’^S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. fierve so many flourisliing states and islands compelled to own the dominion, and purchase the protection, of the City of the Violet Crown * — ” CALLIDEMUS. I shall choke with rage. Oh, all ye gods and goddesses, what sacrilege, what perjury have I ever committed that I should be singled out from among all the citizens of Athens to be the father of this fool ? SPEUSIPPUS. What now ? By Bacchus, old man, I would not advise you to give way to such fits of passion in the streets. If Aristophanes were to see you, you would infallibly be in a comedy next spring. CALLIDEMUS. You have more reason ^o fear Aristophanes than any fool living. Oh, that he could but hear you trying to imitate the slang of Straton t and the lisp of Alcibiades ! t You would be an inexhaustible subject. You would console him for the loss of Cleon. SPEUSIPPUS. No, no. I may perhaps figure at the dramatic represent tations before long ; but in a very different way. CALLIDEMUS. What do you mean ? SPEUSIPPUS. What say you to a tragedy ? CALLIDEMUS. A tragedy of yours ? Even so. SPEUSIPPUS. CALLIDEMUS. Oh, Hercules ! Oh, Bacchus ! This is too much. Here • A favorite epithet of Athens. See Aristophanes ; Acharn. 637. t See Aristophanes; Equites, 1375. t See Aristophanes; VespSB, 44. SCENES FROM “ ATHENIAN REVELS.” 33 is an universal genius ; sophist, — orator, — poet. To what a three-headed monster have I given birth ! a perfect Cerberus of intellect ! And pray what may your piece be about? Or will your tragedy, like your speech, serve equally for any subject? SPEUSIPPUS. I thought of several plots ; — CEdipus, — Eteocles and Polynices, — the war of Troy, the murder of Agamemnon. CALLIDEMUS. And what have you chosen ? SPEUSIPPUS. You know there is a law which permits any modern poet to retouch a play of -^schylus, and bring it forward as his own composition. And, as there is an absurd prejudice, among the vulgar, in favor of his extravagant pieces, I have selected one of them, and altered it. CALLIDEMUS. Which of them ? SPEUSIPPUS. Oh ! that mass of barbarous absurdities, the Prome- theus. But I have framed it anew upon the model of Euri- pides. By Bacchus, 1 shall make Sophocles and Agathon look about them. You would not know the play again. CALLIDEMUS. By Jupiter, I believe not. SPEUSIPPUS. I have omitted the whole of the absurd dialogue between V^wlcan and Strength, at the beginning. CALLIDEMUS. That may be, on the whole, an improvement. The play will then open with that grand soliloquy of Prometheus, when he is chained to the rock. VoL. I.— 3 S4 MACAULAY*S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. ** Oil ! 3^e eternal lieavens ! Ye rushing winds ! Ye fountains of great streams ! Ye ocean waves, That in ten thousand siiarkling dimples wreathe Your azure smiles ! All-generating earth ! All-seeing sun I On yon, on you, I call.” ♦ Well, I allow that will be striking ; I did not think you capable of that idea. Why do you laugh ? srEusippus. Do you seriously suppose that one who has studied the playc of that great man, Euripides, would ever begin a tragedy in such a ranting style ? CALLIDEMUS. What, does not your play open with the speech of Prometheus ? SPEUSIPPUS. No doubt. CALLIDEMUS. Then what, in the name of Bacchus, do you make him Bay? SPEUSIPPUS. You shall hear ; and, if it be not in the very style of Euripides, call me a fool. / CALLIDEMUS. That IS a liberty which I shall venture to take, whether it be or no. But go on. SPEUSIPPUS. Prometheus begins thus : “ Coelus begat Saturn and Briareus, Cottus and Creius and lapetus, Gyges and Hyperion, Phoebe, Tethys, Thea and Rhea and Mnemosyne. Then Saturn wedded Rhea, and begat Pluto and Neptune, Jupiter and Juno.** CALLIDEMUS. Very beautiful, and very natural ; and, as you say, very like Euripides. See ^schylus ; Prometheus. 88. 35 SCENES FROM “ATHENIAN REVELS.” SPEUSIPPUS. Ton are sneering. Really, father, you do not under- stand these things. You had not those advantages in your youth — CALLIDEMUS. Which I have been fool enough to let you have. No ; in my early days, lying had not been dignified into a science, nor politics degraded into a trade. I wrestled, and read Homer’s battles, instead of dressing my hair and reciting lectures in verse out of Euripides. But I have some notion of what a play should be ; I have seen Phrynichus, and lived with -^schylus. I saw the representation of the Persians. SPEUSIPPUS. A wretched play ; it may amuse the fools who row the triremes ; but it is utterly unworthy to be read by any man of taste. CALLIDEMUS. If you had seen it acted ; — the whole theatre frantic with joy, stamping, shouting, laughing, crying. There was CynaB- geirus, the brother of ^schylus, who lost both his arms at Marathon, beating the stumps against his sides with rapture. When the crowd remarked him — But where are you going ? V SPEUSIPPUS. To sup with Alcibiades ; he sails with the expedition for Sicily in a few days ; this is his farewell entertainment. CALLIDEMUS. So much the better ; I should say, so much the worse. That cursed Sicilian expedition ! And you were one of the young fools * who stood clapping and shouting while lie was gulling the rabble, and who drowned poor Nicias’s voice with the uproar. Look to it ; a day of reckoning will come. As to Alcibiades himself— SPEUSIPPUS. What can you say against him ? His enemies themselves acknowledge his merit. • See Thucydides, vi. 13. 86 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. CALLIDEMUS. They acknowledge that he is clever, and handsome, and that he was crowned at the Olympic games. And what other merits do his friends claim for him ? A precious assemWy you will meet at his house, no doubt. SPEUSIPPUS. The first men in Athens, probably. CALLIDEMUS. Whom do you mean by the first men in Athens? SPEUSIPPUS. Callicles.* CALLIDEMUS. A sacrilegious, impious, unfeeling ruffian I SPEUSIPPUS. Hippomachus. CALLIDEMUS. A fool, who can talk of nothing but his travels through Persia ^and Egypt. Go, go. The gods forbid that I should detain you from such choice society. \^Exeunt severally. II. Scene — A Hall in the House of Alcibiades. Alcibiades, Speusippus, Callicles, Hippomachus, Chaed CLEA, and others^ seated round a tahle^ feasting. alcibiades. Bring larger cups. This shall be our gayest revel. It IS probaWy the last — for some of us at least. speusippus. At all events, it will be long before you taste such wine again, Alcibiades. * Callicles plays a conspicuous part in the Gorgias of Plato. SCENES FROM “ ATHENIAN REVELS.” 37 CALLICLES. Nay, there is excellent wine is Sicily. When I was there with Eurymedon’s squadron, I had many a long carouse. Y ou never saw finer grapes than those of ^tna. HIPPOMACnUS. The Greeks do not understand the art of making wine Your Persian is the man. So rich, so fragrant, so sparkling. I will tell you what the Satrap of Caria said to me about that when I supped with him. ALCIBIADES. hi ay, sweet Hippomachus; not a word to-night about satraps, or the great king, or the walls of Babylon, or the Pyramids, or the mummies. Chariclea, why do you look so sad? CHARICLEA. Can I be cheerful when you are going to leave me, Alci- biades ? ALCIBIADES. My life, my sweet soul, it is but for a short time. In a year we conquer Sicily. In another, we humble Carthage.* I will bring back such robes, such neck-laces, elephants’ teeth by thousands, ay, and the elephants themselves, if you wish to see them. Nay, smile, my Chariclea, or I shall talk nonsense to no purpose. HIPPOMACHUS. The largest elephant that I ever saw was in the grounds of Teribazus, near Susa. I wish that I had measured him. ALCIBIADES. I wish that he had trod upon you. Come, come, Chari* clea, we shall soon return, and then — CHARICLEA. Yes ; then, indeed. ALCIBIADES. Yes, then — • See Thucydides, vl. 9Q, 38 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wkiting». Then for revels ; then for dances, Tender whispers, meltin^]^ glances. Peasants, pluck your richest fruits : Minstrels, sound your sweetest flutes: Come in laughing crowds to greet us, Dark-eyed daughters of Miletus ; Bring the myrtles, bring the dice, Floods of Chian, hills of spice. SPEUSIPPU8. Whose lines are those, Alcibiades? ALCIBIADES. My own. Think yon, because I do not shut myself up to meditate, and drink water, and eat herbs, that I cannot write verses? By Apollo, if I did not spend my days in politics, and my nights in revelry, I should have made So- phocles tremble. But now I never go beyond a little song like this, and never invoke any Muse but Chariclea. But come, Speusippus, sing. You are a professed poet. Let us have some of your verses. SPEUSIPPUS. My verses ! How can you talk so ? la professed poet ! ALCIBIADES. Oh, content you, sweet Speusippus. We all know your designs upon the tragic honors. Come, sing. A chorus of your new play. SPEUSIPPUS. Nay, nay— HIPPOMACHUS. When a guest who is asked to sing at a Persian banquet refuses — SPEUSIPPUS. In the name of Bacchus— ALCIBIADES. I am absolute. Sing. SPEUSIPPUS. Well, then, I will sing you a chorus, which, I think, is a tolerable imitation of Euripides. SCENES FROM ‘‘ATHENIAN REVELS,’^ * 6 ^ CHARICLEA. Of Euripides ?— Not a word! ALCIBIADEB. Why so, sweet Chariclea ? CHARICLEA. Would you have me betray my sex? Would you have me forget his Phaedras and Sthenobceas? No; if I ever suffer any lines of that woman-hater, or his imitators, to be sung in my presence, may I* sell herbs like his mother, and wear rags like his Telephus.f ALCIBIADES. Then, sweet Chariclea, since you have silenced Speusip- pus, you shall sing yourself. « CHARICLEA What shall I sing ? ALCIBIADES. Nay, choose for yourself. CHARICLEA. Then I will sing an old Ionian hymn, which is chanted every spring at the feast of Venus, near Miletus. I used to sin^ it in my own country when I was a child ; and — Ah, Alcibiades ! ALCIBIADES. Dear Chariclea, you shall sing something else. This distresses you. CHARICLEA. No: hand me the lyre: — no matter. Vou will hear the song to disadvantage. But if it were sung as I have heard it sung ; — if this were a beautiful morning in spring. The mother of Euripides was a herb-woman. This was a favorite topic of Aristophanes. t The hero of one of the lost plays of Euripides, who appears to have been brought upon the stage in the garb of a beggar. See Aristophanes: Acharn.430, and in other places. 40 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. and if we were stand on a woody promontory, with the sea, and the white sails, and the blue Cyclades beneath us, — and the ]>ortico of a temple peeping through the trees on a huge peak above our heads, — and thousands of people, with myrtles in their hands, thronging up the winding path, their gay dresses and garlands disappearing and emerging by turns as they passed round the angles of the rock, — then perhaps — ALCIBIADES. Now, by Venus herself, sweet lady, where you are we shall lack neither sun, nor flowers, nor spring, nor temple, nor goddess. CHARTCLEA. (SviffS,) Let this sunny hour be given, Venus, unto love and mirth: Smiles like thine are in the heaven; Bloom like thine is on the earth ; And the tinkling of the fountains, And the murmurs of the sea. And the echoes from the mountains, Speak of youth, and hope, and thea By whate’er of soft expression Thou hast taught to lovers^ eyea Faint denial, slow confession. Glowing cheeks and stifled sighs; By the pleasure and the pain. By the follies and the wiles, Pouting fondness, sweet disdain, Happy tears and mournful smiles; Come with music floating o’er thee; Come with violets springing round: Let the Graces dance before thee, All their golden zones unbound; Now in sport their faces hiding. Now, with slender fingers fair, From their laughing eyes dividing The long curls of rose-crowned hair. ALCIBIADES. Sweetly sung ; but mournfully, Chariclea, for which I would chide you, but that I am sad myself. More wine there. I wish to all the gods that I had fairly sailed from Athens. CHARICLEA. And from me, Alcibiades ? SCENES FKOM “ ATHENIAN KEVELS 41 ALCIBIADES. Tes, from you, dear lady. The days which immediately precede separation are the most melancholy of our lives. CHARICLEA. Except those which immediately follow it. ALCIBIADES. No; when I cease to see you, other objects may compel my attention ; but can I be near you without thinking how lovely you are, and how soon I must leave you ? HIPPOMACHUS. Ay; travelling soon puts such thoughts out of men’s heiids. CALLICLES. A battle is the best remedy for them. CHARICLEA. A battle, I should think, might supply their place with others as unpleasant. CALLICLES. No. The preparations are rather disagreeable to a novice. But as soon as the fighting begins, by Jupiter, it is a noble time ; — men trampling, — shields clashing, — spears breaking, — and the pcean roaring louder than alL CHARICLEA. But what if you are killed ? CALLICLES. What indeed ? You must ask Speusippus that questioi , He is a philosopher. ALCIBIADES. Yes, and the greatest of philosophers, if he can answer it. SPEUSIPPUS. Pythagoras is of opinion* 42 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. IIIPPOMACnUS. Pythagoras stole that and all his other opinions from A.sia and Egypt. The transmigration of the soul and the regetable diet are derived from India. I met a Brachmau m Sogdiana — callicles. All nonsense ! chariclea. What think you, Alcibiades ? alcibiades. I think that, if the doctrine be true, your spirit will be transfused into one of the doves who carry * ambrosia to the gods or verses to the mistresses of poets. Do you re- member Anacreon’s lines ? How should you like such an office ? chariclea. If I were to be your dove, Alcibiades, and you would treat me as Anacreon treated his, and let me nestle in your breast and drink from your cup, I would submit even to carry your love-letters to other ladies. callicles. What, in the name of Jupiter, is the use of all these speculations about death ? Socrates once f lectured me upon it the best part of a day. I have hated the sight of him ever since. Such things may suit an old sophist when he is fasting ; but in the midst of wine and music — HIPPOMACHUS. ^ I differ from you. The enlightened Egyptians bring skeletons into their banquets, in order to remind their guests to make the most of their life while they have it. callicles. I want neither skeleton nor sophist to teach me that lesson. More wine, I pray you, and less wisdom. If you must believe something which you never can know, why not t So# tfeo f lQd© ot PlatQ’o Oorgia#. 43 SCENES FROM “ATHENIAN llEVELS.’^ be contented with the long stories about the othe> »vorld which are told us when we are initiated at the Elc asiuian mysteries. CHARICLEA. And what are those stories ? ALCTBIADES. Are not you initiated, Chariclea? CHARICLEA. No; my mother was a Lydian, abarbarifm; and there> fore — ALCIBIADES. I understand. Now the curse of Venus on the fools who> made so hateful a law. Speusippus, does not your friend Euripides | say — “ The land where thou art prosperous is thy country ? Surely we ought to say to every lady “ The land where thou art pretty is thy country/' Besides, to exclude foreign beauties from the chorus of the initiated in the Elysian fields is less cruel to them than to ourselves. Chariclea, you shall be initiated. When? CHARICLEA. Now. ALCIBIADES, Where ? CHARICLEA. Here. ALCIBIADES, Delightful ! CHARICLEA, . . *The^ene which follows is founded upon history. Thucydides tells us, n nis sixth book, that about this time Aleibiades was suspected of having assisted at a mock celebration of these famous mysteries. It was the opinion of the vul- gar among the Athenians that extraordinary privileges were granted in the other world to all who had been initiated. t The right of Euripides to this line is somewhat disputable, See Aristo- phanes ; Plutus, 1152. 44 MACAULAY’S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. sPEusirrus. Bat tliere must be an interval of a year between the purification and the initiation. ALCIBIADES. We will suppose all that. SPEUSIPPUS. And nine days of rigid mortification of the senses. ALCIBIADES. We will suppose that too. I am sure it was supposed, with as little reason, when I was initiated. SPEUSIPPUS. But you are sworn to secrecy. ALCIBIADES. You a sophist, and talk of oaths ! You a pupil of Euri pides, and forget his maxims ? “ My lips have sworn it ; but my mind is free.” • SPEUSIPPUS. But Alcibiades — ALCIBIADES. What ! Are you afraid of Ceres and Proserpine ? SPEUSIPPUS. No — but — but — I — that is I — ^but it is best to be safe — ^1 mean — Suppose there should be something in it. ALCIBIADES. Now, by Mercury, I shall die with laughing. Oh, Speu • sippus, Speusippus ! Go back to your old father. Dig vine- yards, and judge causes, and be a respectable citizen. But never, while you live, again dream of being a philosopher. • See Euripides ; Hyppolytus, 608. For the Jesuitical morality of this line Euripides is bitterly attacked by the comic poet. 46 SCENES FROM ""ATHENIA.N REVELS.” SPEUSIPPUS. Nay, I was only — ALCIBIADES. A pupil of Gorgias and Melesigenes afraid of Tartarus ! In what region of the infernal world do you expect your domicile to be fixed ? Shall you roll a stone like Sisyphus ? Hard exercise, Speusippus ! SPEUSIPPUS* In the name of all the gods — ALCIBIADES. Or shall you sit starved and thirsty in the midst of fruit and wine like Tantalus ? Poor fellow ! I think I see your face as you are springing up to the branches and missing your aim. Oh, Bacchus ! Oh, Mercury ! SPEUSIPPUS. Alcibiades ! ALCIBIADES. Or perhaps you will be food for a vulture, like the huge fellow who was rude to Latona. SPEUSIPPUS. Alcibiades ! ALCIBIADES. Never fear. Minos will not be so cruel. Your elo* quence will triumph over all accusations. The furies will skulk away like disap])ointed sycophants. Only address the judges of hell in the speech which you were prevented from speaking last assembly. “ When I consider ” — is not that the beginning of it ? Come, man, do not be angry. Why do you pace up and down with such long steps? You are ndt in Tartarus yet. You seem to think that you are already stalking like poor Achilles, “ With stride “ Majestic through the plain of Asphodel.” ♦ SPEUSIPPUS. How can you talk so, when you know that I believe all that foolery as little as you do ? * See Homer’s Odyssey, xi. 538. 40 Macaulay’s miscellaneous whitings. ALCIIilADES. Then iniirch. You shall l)c tlic crier.* Callicies, you shall carry the torch. Why do you stare ? CALLICLES. I do not much like the frolic. ALCIBIADES. Kay, surely you are not taken with a fit of piety. If all bo true that is told of you, you have as little reason to think the gods vindictive as any man breathing. If you be not belied, a certain golden goblet which I have seen at your house was once in the temple of Juno at Corcyra. And men say ^hat there was a priestess at Tarentum — CALLICLES. A fig for the gods ! I was thinking about the Archons. You will have an accusation laid against you to-morrow. It is not very pleasant to be tried before the king.f ALCIBIADES. Kever fear : there is not a sycophant in Attica who would dare to breathe a word against me, for the golden $ plane- tree of the great king. HIPPOMACHUS. That plane-tree — ALCIBIADES. Never mind the plane-tree. Come, Callicies, you were not so timid when you plundered the merchantman off Cape Malea. Take up the torch and move. Plippomachus, tell one of the slaves to bring a sow.§ CALLICLES. And what part are you to play ? * The crier and torch-bearer were important functionaries at the celebration of the Eleusinian mysteries, t The name of king was given in the Athenian democracy to the magistrate who exercised those spiritual functions which in the monarchical times had be- longed to the sovereign. His court took cognizance of offences against the re- ligion of the state. t See Herodotus, viii. 28. § A sow was sacriheed to Ceres at the admission to the greater mysteries. CRITICISMS ON THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 47 ALCIBIADES. I shall be hierophant. Herald, to your office. Torch- bearer, advance with the lights. Come forward, fair novice. We will celebrate the rite within. (Exeunt?) CRITICISMS ON THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. {Knight's Quarterly Magazine^ January y 1824.) No. I. DANTE. Fairest of stars, last in the train of night If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crowu’st the smiling mom With thy bright circlet. Milton. In a review of Italian literature, Dante has a double claim to precedency. He was the earliest and the greatest writer ©f his country. He was the first man who fully descried and exhibited the powers of his native dialect. The Latin tongue, which, under the most favorable circumstances, and in the hands of the greatest masters, had still been poor, feeble, and singularly unpoetical, and which had, in the age of Dante, been debased by the admixture of innumerable barbarous words and idioms, was still cultivated with superstitious veneration, and received, in the last stage of corrujition, more honors than it had deserved in the period of its life and vigor. It was the language of the cabinet, of the uni- versity, of the church. It was employed by all who aspired to distinction in the higher walks of poetry. In compassion to the ignorance of his mistress, a cavalier might now and then proclaim his ]3assion in Tuscan or Proven 9 al rhymes. The vulgar might occasionally be edified by a pious allegory ill the popular jargon. But no writer had conceived it possi- ble that the dialect of peasants and market-women should possess sufficient energy and precision for a majestic and durable work. Dante adventured first. He detected the rich treasures of thought and diction which still lay latent in their ore. He refined them into purity. He burnished them, into splendor. He fitted them for every purpose of 48 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writtn(5>(Ii use and magnificence. And lie tliiis acquired the glory, not only of producing the finest narrative poem of modern times, but also of creating a language, distinguished by unrivalled melody, and peculiarly capable of furnishing to lofty and passionate thoughts their appropriate garb of severe and concise expression. To many this may appear a singular panegyric on the Italian tongue. Indeed the great majority of the young gentlemen and young ladies, who, when they are asked whether they read Italian, answer Yes,” never go beyond the stories at the end of their grammar, — The Pastor Fido, — or an act of Artaserse. They could as soon read a Baby- lonian brick as a canto of Dante. Hence it is a general opin- ion among those who know little or nothing of the subject, that this admirable language is adapted only to the effem- inate cant of sonnetteers, musicians and connoisseurs. The fact is, that Dante and Petrarch have been the Oro- raasdes and Arimanes of Italian literature. I wish not to detract from the merits of Petrarch. No one can doubt that his poems exhibit, amidst some imbecility and more affectation, much elegance, ingenuity and tenderness. They present us with a mixture which can only be compared to the whimsical concert described by the humorous poet of Modena : “ S* iidian gli usignuoli, al primo albore, E gli asini can tar versi d’ amore.”* I am not, however, at present speaking of the intrinsic ex- cellencies of his writings, which I shall take another op- portunity to examine, but of the effect which they produce on the literature of Italy. The florid and luxurious charms of his style enticed the poets and the public from the con- templation of nobler and sterner models. In truth, though a rude state of society is that in which great original woiis are most frequently produced, it is also that in which they aie worst appreciated. This may appear paradoxical ; but it is proved by experience, and is consistent with reason. To b(3 without any received canons of taste is good for the few who can create, but bad for the many who can only imitate and judge. Great and active minds cannot remain at rest. In a cultivated age they are too often contented to move on in the beaten path. But where no path exists they will make one. Thus the Iliad, the Odyssey, the Divine Comedy, ap- peared in dark and half barbarous times : and thus of the few CBITICISMS ON THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 49 original works which liave been produced in more polished ages, we owe a large proportion to men in low stations and of uninformed minds. I will instance, in our own language, the Pilgrim’s Progress and Robinson Crusoe. Of all the prose works of fiction which we possess, these are, I will not say the best, but the most peculiar, the most unprecedented, the most inimitable. Had Bunyan and Defoe been educated gentlemen, they would probably have published translations and imitations of French romances ‘‘ by a person of quality.” I am not sure that we should have had Lear if Shakspeare Lad been able to read Sophocles. But these circumstances, while they foster genius, are un- favorable to the science of criticism. Men judge by com- parison. They are unable to estimate the grandeur of an object when there is no standard by Avhich they can measure it. One of the French philosophers (I beg Gerard’s pardon), who accompanied Napoleon to Egypt, tells us that, when he first visited the great Pyramid, he was surj^rised to see it so diminutive. It stood alone in a boundless plain. There was nothing near it from which he could calculate its mag- nitude. But when the camp was pitched beside it, and the tents appeared like diminutive specks around its base, he then perceived the immensity of this mightiest work of man. In the same manner, it is not till a crowd of petty writers has sprung up that the merit of the great master-spirits of liter- ature is understood. We have indeed amjde proof that Dante was highly ad- mired in his own and the following age. I wish that we had equal proof that he was admired for his excellencies. But it is a remarkable corroboration of what has been said, that til is great man seems to have been utterly unable to appreciate liimself. In his treatise De Vidgari Eloquentia^ he talks with satisfaction of what he has done for Italian literature, of the purity and correctness of his style. Cependant^'^ says a favorite * writer of mine, ‘‘ il vUest ni pur^ ni correct^ mais il est createurP Considering the difficulties wuth which Dante liad to struggle, we may perhaps be more inclined than the French critic to allows him this praise. Still it is by no means his highest or most peculiar title to applause. It is scarcely necessary to say that those qualities which escaped the notice of the poet himself were not likely to attract the attention of the commentators. The fact is, that, while the public homage w^as paid to some absurdities with which hk * Sifsmondi ; du Midi V V t>^ — MISCELLAKEOUS WKITIJCG^-, works may be justly charged, and to many more which were falsely imputed to them, — while lecturers were paid to ex- pound and eulogize his physics, his metaphysics, his theology, all bad of their kind, — while annotators labored to detect allegorical meanings of which the author never dreamed, the great powers of his imagination, and the incomparable force of his style, were neither admired nor imitated. Arimanes had prevailed. The Divine Comedy was to that ago what St. Paul’s Cathedral was to Omai. The poor Otaheitean stared listlessly for a moment at the huge cupola, and ran into a toyshop to play with beads. Italy, too, was charmed with literary trinkets, and played with them for four centuries. From the time of Petrarch to the appearance of Alfieri’s tragedies, we may trace in almost every page of Italian literature the influence of those celebrated sonnets which, from the nature both of their beauties and their faults, were peculiarly unfit to be models for general imitation. Almost all the poets of that period, however different in the degree and quality of their talents, are characterized by great ex- aggeration, and, as a necessary consequence, great coldness of sentiment ; by a passion for frivolous and tawdry orna- ment ; and, above all, by an extreme feebleness and dif- fuseness of style. Tasso, Marino, Guarini, Metastasio, and a crowd of writers of inferior merit and celebrity, were spell- bound in the enchanted gardens of a gaudy and meretricious Alcina, who concealed debility and deformity beneath the deceitful semblance of loveliness and health. Ariosto, the great Ariosto himself, like his own Ruggiero, stooped for a time to linger amidst the magic flowers and fountains, and to caress the gay and painted sorceress. But to him, as to his own Ruggiero, had been given the omnipotent ring and the winged courser, which bore him from the paradise of de- cej3tion to the regions of light and nature. The evil of which I speak was not confined to the graver poets. It infected satire, comedy, burlesque. No person can admire more than I do the great master-pieces of wit and humor which Italy has produced. Still I cannot but discern and lament a great deficiency, which is common to them all. I find in them abundance of ingenuity, of droll naivete, of profound and just reflection, of happy expression. Man- ners, characters, opinions, are treated with “ a most learned spirit of human dealing.” But something is still wanting. We read, and we admire, and we yawn. We look in vain for the bacchanalian fury which inspired the comedy of CRITICISMS OK THE TRIKClPAL ITALlAK WRITERS. 51 Athens, for the fierce and witliering scorn whicli animates the invectives of Juvenal and Dryden, or even for tlie com- pact and pointed diction which adds zest to the verses of Pope and Boileau. There is no enthusiasm, no energy, no condensation, nothing which springs from strong feeling, nothing which tends to excite it. Many fine thoughts and fine expressions reward the toil of reading. Still it is a toil. The Secchia Rapita, in some points the best poem of its kind, is painfully diffuse and languid. The Animali Parlanti of Casti is perfectly intolerable. I admire the dexterity of the plot, and the liberality of the opinions. I admit that it is impossible to turn to a page which does not contain something that deserves to be remembered ; but it is at least six times as long as it ought to be. And the garrulous feebleness of the style is a still greater fault than the length of the work. It may be thought that I have gone too far in attributing these evils to the influence of the works and the fame of Petrarch. It cannot, however, be doubted that they have arisen, in a great measure, from a neglect of the style of Dante. This is not more proved by the decline of Italian poetry than by its resuscitation. After the lapse of four hundred and fifty years, there appeared a man capable of appreciating and imitating the father of Tuscan literature — Vittorio Alfieri. Like the prince in the nursery tale, he sought and found the Sleeping Beauty within the recesses which had so long concealed her from mankind. The portal was indeed rusted by time ; — the dust of ages had accumulated on the hangings ; — the furniture was of antique fashion ; — and the gorgeous color of the embroidery had faded. But the living charms which were well worth all the rest re- mained in the bloom of eternal youth, and well rewarded the bold adventurer who roused them from their long slum- ber. In every line of the Philip and the Saul, the greatest poems, I think, of the eighteenth century, we may trace the influence of that mighty genius which has immortalized the ill-starred love of Francesca, and the paternal agonies of Ugo- lino. Alfieri bequeathed the sovereignty of Italian literature to the author of the Aristodemus — a man of genius scarcely inferior to his own, and a still more devoted disciple of the great Florentine. It must be acknowledged that this eminent writer has sometimes pushed too far his idolatry of Dante. To borrow a sprightly illustration from Sir John Denham, he has not only imitated his garb, but borrowed his clothes. He 52 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. often quotes Ills ])lir:is«.\s ; and lie lias, not veiy jinra iously as it a]>|)ears to me, imitated his versilieation. Nevertheless, he has displayed many of the higher excellencies of his master ; and his works may justly insjiire us with a hope that Italian language will long flourish under a new literary dynasty, or rather under the legitimate line, which has at length been restored to a throne long occujiied by s])ecious usurpers. The man to whom the literature of his country owes its Drigin and its revival was born in times singularly adapted to call forth his extraordinary powers. Religious zeal, chiv- alrous love and honor, democratic liberty, are the three most powerful principles that have ever influenced the char- acter of large masses of men. Each of them singly has often excited the greatest enthusiasm, and produced the most important changes. In the time of Dante all the three, often in amalgamation, generally in conflict, agitated the public mind. The preceding generation had witnessed the wrongs and the revenge of the brave, the accomplished, the unfortunate Emperor Frederic the Second, — a poet in an age of schoolmen, — a philosopher in an age of monks, — a statesman in an age of crusaders. During the whole life of the poet, Italy was experiencing the consequences of the memorable struggle which he had maintained against the Church. The finest works of imagination have always been produced in times of political convulsion, as the richest vineyards and the sweetest flowers always grow on tke soil which has been fertilized by the fiery deluge of a volcano. To look no further than the literary history of our own country, can we doubt that Shakspeare was in a great meas- ure produced by the Reformation, and Wordsworth by the French Revolution ? Poets often avoid political transac- tions ; they often effect to despise them. But, whether they perceive it or not, they must be influenced by them. As long as their minds have any point of contact with those of their fellow-men, the electric impulse, at whatever distance it may originate, will be circuitously communicated to them. This will be the case even in large societies, where the division of labor enables many speculative men to observe the face of nature, or to analyze their own minds, at a dis- tance from the seat of political transactions. In the little republic of which Dante was a member the state of things was very different. These small communities are most un mercifully abused by most of our modern jirofessors of the science of government. In such states they tell us> factions CRITICISMS OX THE TRIXCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 63 are always most violent: where both parties are cooped up within a narrow space, political difference necessarily pro- duces ])ersonal malignity. Everyman must be a soldier; every moment may produce a war. No citizen can lie down secure tliat he shall not be roused by the alarm-bell, to repel or avenge an injury. In such petty quarrels Greece squan- dered the blood which might have purchased for her the permanent empire of the world, and Italy wasted the energy and the abilities which would have enabled her to defend her independence against the Pontiffs and the CaBsars. All this is true ; yet there is still a compensation. Man- kind has not derived so much benefit from the empire of Rome as from the city of Athens, nor from the kingdom of France as from the city of Florence. The violence of party feeling may be an evil ; but it calls forth that activity of mind which in some states of society it is desirable to produce at any expense. Universal soldiership maybe an evil; but where every man is a soldier there will be no standing army. And is it no evil that one man in every fifty should be bred to the trade of slaughter; should live only by destroying and by exposing himself to be destroyed ; should fight without enthusiasm and conquer without glory; be sent to a hospital when wounded, and rot on a dunghill when old? Such, over more than two-thirds of Europe, is the fate of soldiers. It was something that the citizen of Milan or Florence fought, not merely in the vague and rhetorical sense in which the words are often used, but in sober truth, for his parents, his children, his lands, his house, his altars. It was something that he marched forth to battle beneath the Carroccio, which had been the object of his childish veneration; that his aged father looked down from the battlements on his exploits ; that his friends and his rivals were the witnesses of his glory. If he fell, he was consigned to no venal or heedless guardians. The same day saw him conveyed within the walls which he had defended. His wounds were dressed by his mother; his confession was whispered to the friendly priest who had heard and absolved the follies of his youth; his last sigh was breathed upon the lips of the lady of his love. Surely there is no sword like that which is beaten out of a ploughshare. Surely this state of things was not unmixedly bad : its evils were alleviated by enthusiasm and by tenderness; and it will at least be ac- knowledged that it was well fitted to nurse poetical genius in an imaginative and observant xiind. 54 MACAULAY’S MlSCELLAX UOUS AVniTIXGS. Nor (lid tlie religious S|)irit of lliC age tend less to this result th;ui its )»ol.ilic;d eircuinstane(\s. h'anaticisin is an evil, but it is not the greatest^ of evils. Jt is good that a people should be roused by any means from a state of utter tor])or ; — that their minds should be diverted from objects merely sensual, to meditations, however erroneous, on the mysteries of the moral and intellectual world ; and Jfrom in- terests which are immediately selfish to those whicli relate to the past, the future, and the remote. These effects have sometimes been produced by the worst superstitions that ever existed; but the Catholic religion, even in the time of its utmost extravagance and atrocity, never wholly lost the spirit of the Great Teacher, whose precepts form the noblest code, as his conduct furnished the purest example, of moral excellence. It is of all religions the most poetical. The ancient superstitions furnished the fancy with beautiful images, but took no hold on the heart. The doctrines of the Reformed Churches have most powerfully influenced the feelings and the conduct of men, but have not presented them with visions of sensible beauty and grandeur. The Roman Catholic Church has united to the awful doctrines of the one what Mr. Coleridge calls the “fair humanities” of the other. It has enriched sculpture and painting with the loveliest and most majestic forms. To the Phidian Jupiter it can oppose the Moses of Michael Angelo; and to the voluptuous beauty of the Queen- of Cyprus, the serene and pensive loveliness of the Virgin Mother. The legends • of its martyrs and its saints may vie in ingenuity and inter- est with the mythological fables of Greece ; its ceremonies and processions were the delight of the vulgar ; the huge fabric of secular power with which it was connected attracted the admiration of the statesman. At the same time, it never lost sight of the most solemn and tremendous doctrines of Christianity, — the incarnate God, — the judgment, — the letribution, — the eternity of happiness or torment. Thus, while, like the ancient religions, it received incalculable sup- port from policy and ceremony, it never wholly became, like those religions, a merely political and ceremonial insti- tution. The beginning of the thirteenth century was, as Machiar- velli has remarked, the era of a great revival of this extra- ordinary system. The policy of Innocent, — the growth of the inquisition and the mendicant orders, — the wars against Che Albigenses, the Pagans of the East, and the unfortunate CRITICISMS ON THE riUNCIPAL ITALIAN AVKITERS. 55 princes of the house of Swabia, agitated Italy during the two following generations. In this point Dante was completely under the influence of his age. He was a man of a turbid and melancholy spirit. In early youth he had entertained a strong and unfortunate passion, which, long after the death of her whom he loved, continued to haunt liim. Dis- sipation, ambition, misfortunes had not effaced it. lie was not only a sincere, but a passionate, believer. The crimes and abuses of the Church of Rome were indeed loathsome to him ; but to all its doctrines and all its rites he adhered with enthusiastic fondness and veneration ; and, at length, driven from his native country, reduced to a situation the most painful to a man of his disposition, condemned to learn by experience that no * food is so bitter as the bread of depen- dence, and no ascent so painful as the staircase of a patron, —his wounded spirit took refuge in visionary devotion. Beatrice, the unforgotten object of his early tenderness, was invested by his imagination with glorious and mys- terious attributes ; she was enthroned among the highest of the celestial hierarchy : Almighty Wisdom had assigned to her the care of the sinful and unhappy wanderer who had loved her with such a perfect love, f By a confusion, like that which often takes place in dreams, he has sometimes lost sight of her human nature, and even of her personal existence, and seems to consider her as one of the attributes of the Deity. But those religious hopes which had released the mind of the sublime enthusiast from the terrors of death had not rendered his speculations on human life more cheerful. This is an inconsistency which may often be observed in men of a similar temperament. He hoped for happiness be- yond the grave : but he felt none on earth. It is from this cause, more than from any other, that his description of Heaven is so far inferior to the Hell or the Purgatory. With the passions and miseries of the suffering spirits he feels a strong sympathy. But among the beatified he ap- pears as one who has nothing in common with them,-?— as one who is incapable of comprehending, not only the degree, but the nature of their enjoyment. We think that we see him standing amidst those smiling and radiant spirits with • “ Til proverai si come sa di sale Lo pane altrui, e come h duro calle Lo faceiidere e ’1 salir per 1’ altrui scale.” Paradiso, canto xvil t L’ aroico mio, © soa della ventura,”— caato iu 56 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. that scov^l of unutterable misery on liis brow, and that curl of bitter disdain on his lips, which all his portraits have preserved and wliich might furnish Chantrey with hints for the head of his j)rojccted Satan. There is no j)oet whose intellectual and moral charactct are so closely connected. The great source, as it appears to me, of the power of the Divine Comedy is the strong belief with which the story seems to be told. In this respect, the only books which approach to its excellence are Gulliver’s Travels and Robinson Crusoe. The solemnity of his asseverations, the consistency and minuteness of his details, the earnestness with which he labors to make the reader understand the exact shape and size of every thing that he describes, give an air of reality to his wildest fictions. P should only weaken this statement by quoting instances of a feeling which pervades the whole work, and to which it owes much of its fascination. This is the real justification of the many passages in his poem which bad critics have con- demned as grotesque. I am concerned to see that Mr. Cary, to whom Dante owes more than ever poet owed to trans- lator, has sanctioned an accusation utterly unworthy of his abilities. His solicitude,” says that gentleman, “ to define all his images in such a manner as to bring them within the circle of our vision, and to subject them to the power of the pencil, renders him little better than grotesque, where Milton has since taught us to expect sublimity.” It is true that Dante has never shrunk from embodying his conceptions in determinate words, that he has even given measure and numbers, where Milton would have left his images to float undefined in a gorgeous haze of language. Both were right. Milton did not profess to have been in heaven or hell. He might therefore reasonably confine himself to mag- nificent generalities. Far different was the office of the lonely traveller, who had wandered through the nation of the dead. Had he described the abode of the rejected Bpirits in language resembling the splendid lines of the English poet, — had he told us of — “ An universe of death, which God by curse Created evil, for evil only good, Where all life dies, death lives, and Nature breeds Perverse all monstrous, all prodigious things. Abominable, unutterable, and worse Than fables yet have feigned, or fear conceived, Gorgons, and hydras, and chimeeras dire,” — thii wotdd doubtlois havg been nobk writing. But wher^ CEITICISMS OX THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 57 would liave been that strong impression of reality, which, in accordance with his ])lan, it should have been liis great object to produce? It was absolutely necessary for him to delineate accurately “ all monstrous, all prodigious things,” — to utter what might to others appear unutterable,” — to relate with the air of truth what fables had never feigned, — to embody what fear had never conceived. And I will frankly confess that the vague sublimity of Milton affects me less than these reviled details of Dante. Wo read Milton ; and we know that we are reading a great poet. When we read Dante, the poet vanishes. We are listening to the man who has returned from “ the valley of the dolor- ous abyss ; ” * — we seem to see the dilated eye of horror, to hear the shuddering accents with which he tells his fearful tale. Considered in this light, the narratives are exactly what they should be, — definite in themselves, but suggesting to the mind ideas of awful and indefinite wonder. They are made up of the images of the earth : — they are told in the language of the earth. — Yet the whole effect is, beyond ex- pression, wild and unearthly. The fact is, that super- natural beings, as long as they are considered merely with reference to their own nature, excite our feelings very feebly. It is wdien the great gulf which separates them from us is passed, when w^e suspect some strange and undefinable rela- tion between the laws of the visible and the invisible world, that they rouse, perhaps, the strongest emotions of which our nature is capjable. IIow many children, and how many men, are afraid of ghosts, who are not afraid of God ! And this, because, though they entertain a much stronger con- viction of the existence of a Deity than of the reality of ap- paritions, they have no apprehension that he will manifest himself to them in any sensible manner. While this is the case, to describe superhuman beings in the language, and to attribute to them the actions, of humanity may be gro- tesque, unphilosophical, inconsistent; but it will be the only mode of working upon the feelings of men, and, there- fore, the only mode suited for poetry. Shakspeare under- stood this well, as he understood every thing that belonged to his art. Who does not sympathize with the rapture of Ariel, flying after sunset on the wings of the bat, or sucking in the cups of flowers with the bee ? Who does not shudder at the caldron of Macbeth ? Where is the philosopher who IS not moved when he thinks of the strange connection be- ♦ “La valle d’ abisso doloroso ’’ — Inferno^ canto iv. 58 MACAULAY MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. tween the infernal spirits and “ tlie sow’s Mood that hath eaten lier nine farrow?” Ihit this diflicult task of rep- resenting su])ernatural beings to our minds, in a manner wliich shall be neither unintelligible to our intellects, nor wholly inconsistent with our ideas of their nature, has never been so well performed as by Dante. I will refer to three instances, which are, perhaps, the most striking — the descrip- tion of the transformations of the serpents and the rolibers, in the twenty-fifth canto of the Inferno, — the passage con- cerning Nimrod, in the thirty-first canto of the same part, — and the magnificent procession in the twenty-ninth canto of the Purgatorio. The metaphors and comparisons of Dante harmonize ad- mirably with that air of strong reality of which I have spoken. They have a very peculiar character. He is per- haps the only poet whose writings would become much less intelligible if all illustrations of this sort were expunged. His similes are frequently rather those of a traveller than of a poet. He employs them not to display his ingenuity by fanciful analogies, — not to delight the reader by affording him a distant and passing glimpse of beautiful images remote from the j^ath in which he is proceeding, — but to give an exact idea of the objects which he is describing, by compar- ing them with others generally known. The boiling pitch in Malebolge was like that in the Venetian arsenal: — the mound on which he travelled along the banks of Phlegethon was like that between Ghent and Bruges, but not so large : — the cavities where the Simoniacal prelates are confined resembled the fonts in the Church of John at Florence. Every reader of Dante will recall many other illustrations of this description, which add to the appearance of sincerity and earnestness from which the narrative derives so much of its interest. Many of his comparisons, again, are intended to give an exact idea of his feelings under particular circumstances. The delicate shades of grief, of fear, of anger, are rarely discriminated with sufficient accuracy in the language of the most refined nations. A rude dialect never abounds in nice distinctions of this kind. Dante therefore employs the most accurate and infinitely the most poetical mode of marking the precise state of his mind. Every person who has experienced the bewildering effect of sudden bad tidings, — the stupefac- tion, — the vague doubt of the truth of our own perceptions which they produce, — v/ill understand the following simile ’ CRITICISMS ON THE rRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 59 — ‘‘I was as he is who dreameth his own harm, — whO; dreaming, wishes that it may be all a dream, so that he desires that which is as though it were not.” This is only one out of a hundred equally striking and expressive similitudes The comparisons of Homer and Milton are magnificent digressions. It scarcely injures their effect to detach them from tlie work. Those of Dante are very different. They derive their beauty from the context, and reflect beauty upon it. Ilis embroidery cannot be taken out without spoiling the whole web. I cannot dismiss this part of the subject with- out advising every person Avho can muster sufticient Italian to read the simile of the sheep, in the third canto of the Pur- gatorio. I think it the most perfect passage of the kind in the world, the most imaginative, the most picturesque, and the most sweetly expressed. No person can have attended to the Divine Comedy without observing how little impression the forms of the ex- ternal world appear to have made on the mind of Dante. His temper and his situation had led him to fix his observation almost exclusively on human nature. The exquisite opening of the eighth * canto of the Purgatorio affords a strong in- stance of this. He leaves to others the earth, the ocean, and the sky. His business is with man. To other writers, evening may be the season of dews and stars and radiant clouds. To Dante it is the hour of fond recollection and passionate devotion, — the hour which melts the heart of the niariner and kindles the love of the pilgrim, — the hour when the toll of the bell seems to mourn for another day which is gone and will return no more. The feeling of the present age has taken a direction diametrically opposite. The magnificence of the physical world, and its influence upon the human mind, have been the favorite themes of our most eminent poets. The herd of blue-stocking ladies and sonneteering gentlemen seem to com Bider a strong sensibility to the ‘‘ splendor of the grass, the * I cannot help observing that Gray’s imitation of that noble line “ Che paia ’1 giorno pianger che si muore,” Is one of the most striking instances of injudicious plagiarism with which T am acquainted. Dante did not put this strong personification at the beginning of his description. The imagination of the reader is so well prepared for it by the pre- vious lines, that it appears perfectly natural and pathetic. Placed as 'Gray has placed it, neither preceded nor followed by any thing that harmonizes with it, it becomes a frigid conceit. Woe to the unskilful rider who ventures on the horses of A ihilles. ot 5’ aAeyetvol dvSpdat ye ^v7}TOt(rL SaixrjixevaL o^eecr^^at, y tj t'ov d^avdrrj tckc 60 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wkitings. glory of tlie flower,” as an ingredient absolutely indispeiv sable in the formation of a poetical mind. They treat with contempt all writers who are unfortunately nec ponere luciim Artifices, nec rus saturum laudare. The orthodox poetical creed is more Catholic. The noblest earthly object of the contemj)lation of man is man himself. The universe, and all its fair and glorious forms, are indeed included in the wide empire of the imagination ; but she has placed her home and her sanctuary amidst the inexhaus- tible varieties and the impenetrable mysteries of the mind. In tiitte parti impera, e qnivi regge ; Quivi e la sua cittade, e V alto seggio.* Othello is perhaps the greatest work in the world. From what does it derive its power? From the clouds? From the ocean ? F rom the mountains ? Or from love strong as death, and jealousy cruel as the grave! What is it that we go forth to see in Hamlet? Is it a reed shaken with the wind? A small celandine? A bed of daffodils? Or is it to contemplate a mighty and w^ayw^ard mind laid bare before us to the inmost recesses? It may perhaps be doubted whether the lakes and the hills are better fitted for the education of a poet than the dusky streets of a huge capital. Indeed who is not tired to death with pure de- scription of scenery ? Is it not the fact, that external objects never strongly excite our feelings but w^hen they are con- templated in reference to man, as illustrating his destiny, or as influencing his character? The most beautiful object in the world, it wdll be allow^ed, is a beautiful w^oman. But who that can analyze his feelings is not sensible that she owes her fascination less to grace of outline and deli- cacy of color, than to a thousand associations w^hich, often unperceived by ourselves, connect those qualities wdth the source of our existence, with the nourishment of our in- fancy, with the passions of our youth, with the hopes of our age, wdth elegance, Avith vivacity, with tenderness, Avith the strongest of natural instincts, with the dearest of social ties ? To those w^ho think thus, the insensibility of the Floren- tine poet to the beauties of nature Avill not appear an un- pardonable deficiency. On mankind no Avriter, Avith the exception of Shakspeare, has looked with a more penetrating eye. I haA^e said that his poetical character had deriA^ed a tinge from his peculiar temper. It is on the sterner and * Iijf erno, canto i. CRITICISMS ON THE miNCIx^AE ITALIAN WRITERS. 61 darker passions that he delights to dwell. All love, except- ing the half mystic passion which he still felt for his buried Beatrice, had palled on the fierce and restless exile. The sad story of Rimini is almost a single excej)tion. I know not whether it has been remarked, that, in one point, misanthropy seems to have affected his mind as it did that of Swift. Nauseous and revolting images seem to have had a fasci- nation for his mind ; and he repeatedly places before his readers, with all the energy of his incomparable style, the most loathsome objects of the sewer and the dissecting-room. There is another peculiarity in the poem of Dante, which, I think, deserves notice. Ancient mythology has hardly ever been successfully interwoven with modern poetry. One class of writers have introduced the fabulous deities merely as allegorical representatives of love, wine, or wisdom. This necessarily renders their works tame and cold. We may sometimes admire their ingenuity ; but with what in- terest can we read of beings of whose personal existence the writer does not suffer us to entertain, for a moment, even a conventional belief? Even Spenser’s allegory is scarcely tolerable, till w”e contrive to forget that Una signifies in- nocence, and consider her merely as an oppressed lady under the protection of a generous knight. Those writers who have, more judiciously, attempted to preserve the personality of the classical divinities have failed from a different cause. They have been imitators, and imitators at a disadvantage. Euripides and Catullus believed in Bacchus and Cybele as little as we do. But they lived among men who did. Their imaginations, if not their opinions, took the color of the age. Hence the glorious inspiration of the Bacchse and the Atys. Our minds are formed by circumstances : and I do not believe that it would be in the power of the greatest modern poet to lash himself up to a degree of enthusiasm adequate to the production of such works. Dante alone, among the poets of later times, has been, in this respect, neither an allegorist nor an imitator ; and, consequently, he alone has introduced the ancient fictions with effect. His Minos, his Charon, his Pluto, are abso- lutely terrific. Nothing can be more beautiful or original than the use which he has made of the river of Lethe. He has never assigned to his mythological characters any func- tions inconsistent with the creed of the Catholic Church, He has related ROthing concerning them which a good 62 MACAULAY’S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. Christian of tliat age might not believe possible;. On this account, there is nothing in these passages that a})pears puerile or pedantic. On the contrary, tliis singular use of classical names suggests to the mind a vague and awful idea of some mysterious revelation, anterior to all recorded his- tory, of whicli the dispersed fragments might have been retained amidst the impostures and superstitions of later religions. Indeed the mythology of the Divine Comedy is of the elder and more colossal mould. It breathes the spirit of Homer and -^schylus, not of Ovid and Claudian. This is the more extraordinary, since Dante seems to have been utterly ignorant of the Greek language ; and his favorite Latin models could only have served to mislead him.. Indeed, it is impossible not to remark his admiration of writers far inferior to himself; and, in particular, his idolatry of Virgil, who, elegant and splendid as he is, has no pretensions to the depth and originality of mind which characterize his Tuscan worshipper. In truth, it may be laid down as an almost universal rule that good poets are bad critics. Their minds are under the tyranny of ten thousand associations imperceptible to others. The worst writer may easily happen to touch a spring which is con- nected in their minds with a long succession of beautiful images. They are like the gigantic slaves of Aladdin, gifted with matchless power, but bound by spells so mighty that when a child whom they could have crushed touched a talis- man, of whose secret he was ignorant, they immediately be- came his vassals. It has more than once happened to me to see minds, graceful and majestic as the Titania of Shak- speare, bewitched by the charms of an ass’s head, bestowing on it the fondest caresses, and crowning it with the sweetest flowers. I need only mention the poems attributed to Ossian. They are utterly worthless, except as an edifying instance of the success of a story without evidence, and of a book wdthout merit. They are a chaos of words which present no image, of images which have no archetype : — they are without form and void ; and darkness is upon the face of them. Yet how many men of genius have panegyrized and imitated them ! The style of Dante is, if not his highest, perhaps his most peculiar excellence. I know nothing with, which it can be compared. The noblest models of Greek composition must yield to it. His words are the fewest and the l)est which it is possible to use. The first expression in whicli he clothes his thoughts is always so energetic and comprehensive that CRITICISMS OK THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 63 amplification would only in j ure the effect. There is probably no writer in any language who has presented so many strong pictures to the mind. Yet there is probably no writer equally concise. This perfection of style is the principal merit of the Paradiso, which, as I have already remarked, is by no means equal in other respects to the two preceding parts of the poem. The force and felicity of the diction, however, irresistibly attract the reader through the theo- logical lectures and the sketches of ecclesiastical biography with which this division of the work too much abounds. It may seem almost absurd to quote particular specimens of an excellence which is diffused over all his hundred cantos. I will, however, instance the third canto of the Inferno, and the sixth of the Purgatorio, as passages incomparable in their kind. The merit of the latter is, perhaps, rather oratorical than poetical ; nor can I recollect any thing in the great Athenian speeches which equals it in force of invective and bitterness of sarcasm. I have heard the most eloquent statesmen of the age remark that, next to Demosthenes, Dante is the writer who ought to be most attentively studied by every man who desires to attain oratorical eminence. But it is time to close this feeble and rambling critique. I cannot refrain, however, from saying a few words upon the translations of the Divine Comedy. Boyd’s is as tedious and languid as the original is rapid and forcible. The strange measure wliich he has chosen, and, for aught I know, invented, is most unfit for such a work. lh\anslations ought never to be written in a verse which requires much com- mand of rhyme. The stanza becomes a bed of Procrustes ; and the thoughts of the unfortunate author are alternately racked and curtailed to fit their new receptacle. The abrupt and yet consecutive style of Dante suffers more than that of any other poet by a version diffuse in style, and divided into paragraphs, for they deserve no other name, of equal length. Nothing can be said in favor of Hay ley’s attempt, but that it is better than Boyd’s. His mind was a tolerable specimen of filagree work, — rather elegant, and very feeble. All that can be said for his best works is that they are neat. All that can be said against his worst is that they are stupid. He might liave translated Metastasio tolerably, But he was utterly unable to do justice to the “ rime e aspre e cliiocce, Come si converrebbe al tristo buco.** * ♦ Iiitoriio, canto xxxii. G4 macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. I turn witli pleasure from tliese wretched j)crrorraai)ce8 to Mr. C.iry’s translation. It is a work which well deserves a separate discussion, and on which, if this article were not already too long, I could dwell with great })leasure. At present I will only say that there is no other version in the world, as far as I know, so faithful, yet that there is no other version whicli so fully proves that the translator is himself a man of poetical genius. Those who are ignorant of the Italian language should read it to become acquainted with the Divine Comedy. Those who are most intimate with Italian literature should read it for its original merits : and I believe that they will find it difficult to determine whether the author deserves most praise for his intimacy with the language of Dante, or for his extraordinary masiery over his own. CRITICISMS ON THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. {Knight's Quarterly Magazine, April, 1824.) No. II. PETRARCH. Et VOS, o lauri, carpam, et te, proxima myrte, Sic positae quouiam suaves miscetis odores. Virgil. It would not be easy to name a writer whose celebrity, when both its extent and its duration are taken into the ac- count, can be considered as equal to that of Petrarch. Four centuries and a half have elapsed since his death. Yet still the inhabitants of every nation throughout the western world are as familiar with his character and his adventures as with the most illustrious names, and the most recent anec- dotes, of their own literary history. This is indeed a rare distinction. His detractors must acknowledge that it could not have been acquired by a poet destitute of merit. His admirers will scarcely maintain that the unassisted merit of Petrarch could have raised him to that eminence which has not yet been attained by Shakspeare, Milton, or Dante,-— CRITICISMS ON THE PIUNCIPAL ITALIAN WRITRRS. 6i> that eminence, of which perhaps no modern writer, except- ing himself and Cervantes, has long retained possession, — an European ’reputation. It is not difficult to discover some of the causes to which this great man has ow’ed a celebrity, which I cannot but think disproportioned to his real claims on the admiration of mankind. In the first place, he is an egotist. Egotism in conversation is universally abhorred. Lovers, and, I be- lieve, lovers alone, pardon it in each other. 'No services, no talents, no j)Owers of pleasing, render it endurable. Grati- tude, admiration, interest, fear, scarcely prevent those who are condemned to listen to it from indicating their disgust and fatigue. The childless uncle, the powerful patron, can scarcely extort this compliance. We leave the inside of the mail ill a storm, and mount the box, rather than hear the history of our companion. The chaplain bites his lips in the presence of the archbishop. The midshipman yawns at the table of the First Lord. Yet, from whatever cause, this practice, the pest of conversation, gives to wu-iting a zest which nothing else can impart. Rousseau made the boldest experiment of this kind; and it fully succeeded. In our owm time Lord Byron, by a series of attempts of the same nature, made himself tlie object of general interest and ad- miration. Wordsworth wu’ote with egotism more intense, but less obvious ; and he has been rewarded with a sect of W’orshippers, comparatively small in number, but far more enthusiastic in ttieir devotion. It is needless to multiply instances. Even now all the w^alks of literature are infested with mendicants for fame, who attempt to excite our interest by exhibiting all the distortions of their intellects, and strip- ping the covering from all the putrid sores of their feelings. Nor are there w’anting many who push their imitation of the beggars whom they resemble a step further, and who find it easier to extort a pittance from the spectator, by* simulating deformity and debility from w hich they are exempt, than by such honest labor as their health and strength enable them to perform. In the mean time the credulous public pities and pampers a nuisance wdnch requires only the tread- mill and the wffiip. This art, often successful when em- ployed by dunces, gives irresistible fascination to w’orks which possess intrinsic merit. W e are always desirous to know something of the character and situation of those whose writings w^e have perused with pleasure. The pas- eages in w’hich Milton has alluded to his own circumstances Yol I — 5 66 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. are j cr]in])s road more frequently, and witli more interest, than any other lines in liis poems. It is amusing to observe with what labor critics have attemj)ted to glean from the j^oems of Homer some hints as to liis situation and ieelings. According to one hy])othesis, he intended to describe Irm- iself under tlie name of Demodocus. Otliers maintain tliat he was tlie identical Phemius whose life Ulysses spared. This propensity of the human mind exjdains, I think, in a great degree, the extensive popularity of a poet whose works are little else than the expression of his personal feelings. In the second place, Petrarch was not only an egotist, but an amatory egotist. The hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows, wdiich he described, were derived from the passion which of all passions exerts the widest influence, and which of all passions borrow^s most from the imagination. lie had also another immense advantage. lie was the first eminent amatory poet who appeared after the great convulsion which had changed, not only the political, but the moral, state of the world. The Greeks, who, in their public institu- tions and their literary tastes, w^ere diametrically opposed to the oriental nations, bore a considerable resemblance to those nations in their domestic habits. Like them, they de- spised the intellects and immured the persons of their w^o- men ; and it was among the least of the frightful evils to wdiich this pernicious system gave birth, that all the accom- plishments of mind, and all the fascinations of manner, which, in a highly-cultivated age, wdll generally be necessary to attach men to their female associates, w'ere monopolized by the Phrynes and the Lamias. The indispensable ingredients of honorable and chivalrous love w^ere nowhere to be found jinited. The matrons and their daughters, confined in the harem, — insipid, uneducated, ignorant of all but the mechan- ical arts, scarcely seen till they w^ere married, — could rarely excite interest; wdiile their brilliant rivals, half graces, half harpies, elegant and informed, but fickle and rapacious, could never inspire respect. The state of society in Rome was, in this point, far hap- pier ; and the Latin literature partook of the superiority. The Roman poets have decidedly surpassed those of Greece in the delineation of the passion of love. There is no sub- ject which they have treated with so much success. Ovid, Catullus, Tibullus, Horace, and Propertius, in spite of all their faults, must be allow-ed to rank high in this department of the art. To these I would add my favorite Plautus ; who ^BITICISMS ON THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 67 though he took his plot from Greece, found, I suspect, the originals of his enchanting female characters at Rome. Still many evils remained ; and, in the decline of the great empire, all that was pernicious in its domestic institu- tions appeared more strongly. Under the influence of governments at once dependent and tyrannical, which pur- chased, by cringingto their enemies, the power of trampling on their subjects, the Romans sunk into the lowest state of effeminacy and debasement. Falsehood, cowardice, sloth, conscious and unrepining degradation, formed the national character. Such a character is totally incompatible with the stronger passion. Love, in particular, which in tlie modern sense of the word, implies protection and devotion on the one side, confidence on the other, respect and fidelity on both, could not exist among the sluggish and heartless slaves who cringed around the thrones of Honorius and Augustulus. At this period the great renovation com- menced. The warriors of the north, destitute as they were of knowledge and humanity, brought with them, from their forests and marshes, those qualities without which humanity is a weakness, and knowledge a curse, — energy — indepen- dence — the dread of shame — the contempt of danger. It would be most interesting to examine the manner in which the admixture of the savage conqueror and the effeminate slaves, after many generations of darkness and agitation, pro- duced the modern European character ; — to trace back, from the first conflict to the final amalgamation, the operation of that mysterious alchemy, which, from hostile and worthless elements, has extracted the pure gold of human nature — to analyze the mass, and to determine the proportion in which the ingredients are mingled. But I will confine myself to the subject to which I have more particularly referred. The nature of the passion of love had undergone a complete change. It still retained, indeed, the fanciful and volup* tuous character which it had possessed among the southern nations of antiquity. But it was tinged with the supersti- tious veneration with which the northern warriors had been accustomed to regard women. Devotion and war had im- parted to it their most solemn and animating feelings. It was sanctified by the blessings of the Church, and decorated with the wreaths of the tournament. Venus, as in the ancient fable, was again rising above the dark and tempes- tuous waves which had so long covered her beauty. But she rose not now, as of old, in exposed and luxurious loveliness. 68 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WIUTINGS. She still wore the cestus of her ancient witchcraft ; hut the diadem of Juno was on her brow, and the aegis of Pallas in her hands. Love might, in fact, be called a new j)assion ; and it is not astonishing that the first poet of eminence who wholly devoted his genius to this theme should have excited an extraordinary sensation. He may be compared to an adventurer who accidentally lands in a rich and unknown island; and who, though he mjfy only set up an ill-shaj^ed cross upon the shore, acquires possession of its treasures, and gives it his name. The claim of Petrarch was indeed somewhat like that of Amerigo Vespucci to the continent which should have derived its appellation from Columbus. The Proven9al poets were unquestionably the masters of the Florentine. But they wrote in an age which could not ap- preciate their merits ; and their imitator lived at the very period when composition in the vernacular language began to attract general attention. Petrarch was in literature what a Valentine is in love. The public preferred him, not because his merits were of a transcendent order, but because he was the first person whom they saw after they awoke from their long sleep. Nor did Petrarch gain less by comparison with his im- mediate successors than with those who had preceded him. Till more than a century after his death Italy produced no poet who could be compared to him. This decay of genius is doubtless to be ascribed, in a great measure, to the influ- ence which his own works had exercised u[on the literature of his country. Yet it has conduced much to his fame. Nothing is more favorable to the reputation of a writer than to be succeeded by a race inferior to himself ; and it is an advantage, from obvious causes, much more frequently en- joyed by those who corrupt the national taste than by those who improve it. Another cause has co-operated with those which I have mentioned to spread the renown of Petrarch. I mean the interest which is inspired by the events of his life — an in- terest which must have been strongly felt by his contem- poraries, since, after an interval of five hundred years, no critic can be wholly exempt from its influence. Among the great men to whom we owe the resuscitation of science he deserves the foremost place ; and his enthusiastic attach- ment to this great cause constitutes his most just and splen- did title to the gratitude of posterity. He was the votary of literature. He loved it with a perfect love. He wor* CRITICISMS ON THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 69 shipped it with an almost fanatical devotion. lie was the missionary, who proclaimed its discoveries to distant coun- tries — the pilgrim, who travelled far and wide to collect its reliques — the hermit, who retired to seclusion to meditate on its beauties — the champion, wdio fought its battles — the conqueror, w^ho, in more than a metaphorical sense, led bar- barism and ignorance in triumph, and received in the cap- itol the laurel which his magnificent victory had earned. Nothing can be conceived more noble or affecting than that ceremony. The superb palaces and porticoes, by which had rolled the ivory chariots of Marius and Caesar, had long mouldered into dust. The laurelled fasces — the golden eagles — the shouting legions — the captives and the pictured cities — were indeed wanting to his victorious procession. The sceptre had passed away from Rome. But she still re- tained the mightier influence of an intellectual empire, and was now to confer the prouder reward of an intellectual triumph. To the man who had extended the dominion of her ancient language — who had erected the trophies of philosophy and imagination in the haunts of ignorance and ferocity — whose captives were the hearts of admiring nations enchained by the influence of his song — whose spoils w^ere the treasures of ancient genius rescued from obscurity and decay — the Eternal City offered the just and glorious tribute of her gratitude. Amidst the ruined monuments of ancient and the infant erections of modern art, he who had restored the broken link between the two ages of human civilization was crowned with the wweath which he had deserved from the moderns who ow^ed to him their refinement — from the ancients who owed to him their fame. Never was a coro- nation so august witnessed by Westminster or by Rheims. When we turn from this glorious spectacle to the j^rivate chamber of the poet, — when we contemplate the struggle of passion and virtue, — the eye dimmed, the cheek furrowed, by the tears of sinful and hopeless desire, — when we reflect on the whole history of his attachment, from the gay fantasy of his youth to the lingering despair of his age, pity and affection mingle with our admiration. Even after death had placed the last seal on his misery, we see him devoting to the cause of the human mind all the strength and energy which love and sorrow had spared. He lived the apostle of litera* ture ; — he fell its martyr : — he was found dead with his head reclined on a book. Those who have studied the life and writings of Petrarch 70 Macaulay’s miscellaneous weitings, with attention, will perhaps be inclined to make some de- ductions from this panegyric. It cannot be denied tliat his merits were disfigured by a most uii})leasant affectation. Ilis zeal for literature communicated a tinge of pedantry to all his feelings and opinions. Ilis love was the love of a sonneteer : — liis patriotism was the patriotism of an antiqua- rian. The interest with whicli we contemplate the works, and study the history, of those who, in former ages, have occupied our country, arises from the associations which connect them with the community in which arc comj)riscd all the objects of our affection and our hope. In the mind of Petrarch these feelings were reversed. He loved Italy, be- cause it abounded with the monuments of the ancient masters of the world. His native city — the fair and glorious Florence — the modern Athens, then in all the bloom and strength of its youth, could not obtain, from the most distinguished of its citizens, any portion of that passionate homage which he paid to the decrepitude of Rome. These and many other blemishes, though they must in candor be acknowledged, can but in a very slight degree diminish the glory of his career. For my own part, I look upon it with so much fond- ness and pleasure that I feel reluctant to turn from it to the consideration of his works, which I by no means contemplate with equal admiration. Nevertheless, I think highly of the poetical powers of Petrarch. He did not possess, indeed, the art of strongly presenting sensible objects to the imagination ; — and this is the more remarkable, because the talent of which I speak is that which peculiarly distinguishes the Italian poets. In the Divine Comedy it is displayed in its highest perfection. It characterizes almost every celebrated poem in tlie language. Perhaps this is to be attributed to the circumstance that paint- ing and sculpture had attained a high degree of excellence in Italy before poetry had been extensively cultivated. Men W'cre debarred from books, but accustomed from childhood to contemplate the admirable works of art, w^hich, even in the thirteenth century, Italy began to produce. Hence their imaginations received so strong a bias that, even in their writings, a taste for graphic delineation is discernible. The progress of things in England has been in all respects differ- ent. The consequence is, that English historical pictures are poems on canvas ; wdiile Italian poems are pictures painted to the mind by means of wmrds. Of tliis national characteristic the writings of Petrarch are almost totally CRITICISMS ON THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 71 destitute. Ills sonnets indeed, from their subject and nature, and liis Latin })oenis, from the restraints which always shackle one who writes in a dead language, cannot fairly be received in evidence. But his Triumphs absolutely required the ex- ercise of this talent, and exhibit no indications of it. Genius, however, he certainly possessed, and genius of a h gh order. His ardent, tender, and magnificent turn of thought, his brilliant fancy, his command of expression, at once forcible and elegant, must be acknowledged. Nature meant him for the prince of lyric writers. But by one fatal present she deprived her other gifts of half their value. He would have been a much greater poet had he been a less clever man. His ingenuity was the bane of his mind. He abandoned the noble and natural style, in which he might have excelled, for the conceits which he produced with a facility at once admirable and disgusting. His muse, like the Roman lady in Livy, was tempted by gaudy ornaments to betray the fast- nesses of her strength, and, like her, was crushed beneath the glittering bribes which had seduced her. The paucity of his thoughts is very remarkable. It is impossible to look without amazement on a mind so fertile in combinations, yet so barren of images. Ilis amatory poetry is wholly made up of a very few topics, disposed in so many orders, and exhibited in so many lights, that it re- minds us of those arithmetical problems about permutations, which so much astonish the unlearned. The French cook, who boasted that he could make fifteen different dishes out of a nettle-top, was not a greater master of his art. The mind of Petrarch was a kaleidoscope. At every turn it pre- sents us with new forms, always fantastic, occasionally beautiful ; and Ave can scarcely believe that all these varieties have been produced by the same worthless fragments of glass. The sameness of his images is, indeed, in some degree, to be attributed to the sameness of his subject. It would be unreasonable to expect perpetual variety from so many hundred compositions, all of the same length, all in the same measure, and all addressed to the same insipid and heartless coquette. I cannot but suspect also that the perverted taste, which is the blemish of his amatory verses, was to be attrib- uted to the influence of Laura, Avho probably, like most critics of her sex, preferred a gaudy to a majestic style. Be this as it may, he no sooner changes his subject than he changes his manner. When he s])eaks of the wrongs and degrada- tion of Italy, devastated by foreign invaders, and but feebly 72 Macaulay’s miscellaxkous avuitings. defended hy Iier ])nsiIl;miinous cliildren, the effeminate lisp of tlie sonneteer is exeinmged for a cry, wild and solemn, and ])iercing as tliat wliicli ]>roclaimed “Sleep no moi’e” to tlie bloody liouse of Cawdor. “Italy seems not to feel her sufferings,” exclaims lier impassioned poet ; “decrej)it, eluggisli, and languid, Avill she sleep forever? Will there be none to awake her ? Oh that 1 had my hands twisted in her hair ! ” * Nor is it with less energy that be denounces against the Mahometan Babylon the vengeance of Europe and of Christ. His magnificent enumeration of the ancient exploits of the Greeks must always excite admiration, and cannot be pe- rused without the deepest interest, at a time wdien the wise and good, bitterly disappointed in so many other countries, are looking wdth breathless anxiety towards the natal land of liberty, — the field of Marathon, — and the deadly pass wdiere the Lion of Lacedeemon turned to bay.f His poems on religious subjects also deserve the highest commendation. At the head of these must be placed the Ode to the Virgin. It is, perhaps, the finest hymn in the world. His devout veneration receives an exquisitely poetical char- acter from the delicate perception of the sex and the loveli- ness of his idol, which we may easily trace throughout the whole composition. I could dwell Avith pleasure on these and similar parts of the Avritings of Petrarch ; but I must return to his amatory poetry : to that he entrusted his fame ; and to that he has principally OAved it. The prevailing defect of his best compositions on this subject is the universal brilliancy Avith which they are lighted up. The natural language of the passions is, indeed, often figurative and fantastic ; and with none is this more the case than Avith that of love. Still there is a limit. The feelings diould, indeed, have their ornamental garb; but, like an elegant Avoman, they should be neither mufiled nor exposed. The drapery should be so arranged, as at once to answer the purposes of modest concealment and judicious display. The decorations should sometimes be employed to hide a defect, and sometimes to heighten a beauty ; but never to conceal, much less to distort, the charms to wLich they are subsidi* Che suoi guai non par che senta ; Vecchia, oziosa, e lenta. Dormira serapre, e non fia chi la svegli ? Leman 1’ avess’ io avvolte entro e capegli.—Canzone xi, Maratona. e le mortali strette Che (iifese il Leon con poca gente.— Canzone y. CRITICISMS ON THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 73 ary. The love of Petrarch, on tlie contrary, arrays itself like a foppish savage, whose nose is bored witli a golden ring, whose skin is painted with grotesque forms and dazzling colors, and whose ears are drawn down his shoulders by the weight of jewels. It is a rule, without any exception, in all kinds of composition, that the principal idea, the predomb nant feeling, should never be confounded with the accom- panying decorations. It should generally be distinguished from them by greater simplicity of expression ; as we rccc'g. nize Napoleon in the pictures of his battles, amidst a crowd of embroidered coats and plumes, by his gray cloak and hia hat without a feather. In the verses of Petrarch it is gener- ally impossible to say what thought is meant to be prominent. All is equally elaborate. The chief wears the same gorgeous and degrading livery with his retinue, and obtains only his share of the indifferent stare which we bestow upon them in common. The poems have no strong lights and shades, no background, no foreground ; — they are like the illuminated figures in an oriental manuscript, — plenty of rich tints and no perspective. Such are the faults of the most celebrated of these compositions. Of those which are universally ac- knowledged to be bad it is scarcely possible to speak with patience. Yet they have much in common with their splen- did companions. They differ from them, as a May-day procession of chimney-sweepers differs from the Field of Cloth of Gold. They have the gaudiness but not the wealth. His muse belongs to that numerous class of females who have no objection to be dirty, while they can be tawdry. When his brilliant conceits are exhausted, he supplies their place with metaphysical quibbles, forced antitheses, bad puns, and execrable charades. In his fifth sonnet he may, I think, be said to have sounded the lowest chasm of the Bathos. Upon the whole, that piece may be safely pronounced to bo the worst attempt at poetry, and the worst attempt at wit, in the world. A strong proof of the truth of these criticisms is, that almost all the sonnets produce exactly the same efect on the mind of the reader. They relate to all the various moods of a lover, from joy to despair : — yet they are perused, as far as my experience and observation have gone, with exactly the same feeling. The fact is, that in none of them are the passion and the ingenuity mixed in just proportions. There is not enough sentiment to dilute the condiments which are em- ployed to season it. The repast which he sets before 74 Macaulay’s misckllankous wuitings. resembles tlie Spanisli entertainment in Dryden’s Mock An- trolo(jer^ at wliicli the relisli of all the dishes and sauces was overpowered by the common flavor of spice. Fish, flesh, fowl, — every thing at table tasted of nothing but red pepper. The writings of Petrarch may indeed suffer undeservedly from one cause to which I must allude, llis imitators have 80 much familiarized the ear of Italy and of Europe to the favorite toj)ics of amorous flattery and lamentation, that wo can scarcely think them original when we find them in the first author; and, even when our understandings have con- vinced us that they were new to him, they are still old to us. This has been the fate of many of the finest passages of the most eminent writers. It is melancholy to trace a noble thought from stage to stage of its profanation : to see it transferred from the first illustrious wearer to his lacqueys, turned, and turned again, and at last hung on a scare-crow. Petrarch has really suffered much from this cause. Yet that he should have so suffered is a sufficient proof that his excellences were not of the highest order. A line may be stolen ; but the pervading spirit of a great poet is not to be surreptitiously obtained by a plagiarist. The continued imitation of twenty-five centuries has left Homer as it found him. If every simile and every turn of Dante had been copied ten thousand times, the Divine Comedy 'would have retained all its freshness. It was easy for the porter in Farquhar to pass for Beau Clincher, by borrowing his lace and his pulvilio. It would have been more difficult to enact Sir Harry Wildair. Before I quit this subject I must defend^ Petrarch from one accusation, which is in the present day frequently brought against him. His sonnets are pronounced by a large sect of critics not to possess certain qualities which they maintain to be indispensable to sonnets, with as much confidence, and as much reason, as their prototypes of old insisted on the unities of the drama. lam an exoteric — utterly unable to ex^^ plain the mysteries of this new poetical faith. I only know that it is a faith, which except a man do keep pure and undefiled, without doubt he shall be called a blockhead. I cannot, however, refrain from asking what is the particular virtue which belongs to fourteen as distinguished from all other numbers. Does it arise from its being a multiple of seven ? Has this principle any reference to the sabbatical ordinance ? Or is it to the order of rhymes that these singular properties are attached ? Unhappily the sonneta of Shak- CRITICISMS ON THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 75 spearo differ as miicli in this respect from those of Petrarch, as from a Spenserian or an octave stanza. Away with this unmeaning jargon ! We liave pulled down the old regime ot criticism. I trust that we shall never tolerate the equally pedantic and irrational despotism, wdiich some of the rev- olutionary leaders would erect upon its ruins. We have not dethroned Aristotle and Bossu for this. These sonnet-fanciers would do well to reflect that, tliough the style of Petrarch may not suit the standard of perfection w^hich they have chosen, they lie under great ob- ligations to these very poems,— that, but for Petrarch, the measure, concerning which they legislate so judiciously, would probably never have attracted notice ; — and that to him they owe the pleasure of admiring, and the glory of composing, pieces, which seem to have been produced by Master Slender, with the assistance of his man Simple. I cannot conclude these remarks without making a few observations on the Latin wTitings of Petrarch. It appears that, both by himself and by his contemporaries, these w^ere far more highly valued than his compositions in the vernac- ular language. Posterity, the supreme court of literary ap peal, has not only reversed the judgment, but, according to its general practice, reversed it with costs, and condemned the unfortunate works to pay, not only for their owm inferi- ority, but also for the injustice of those w^ho had given them an unmerited preference. And it must be owned that, with- out making large allowances for the circumstances under which they were produced, w^e cannot pronounce a very favorable judgment. They must be considered as exotics, transplanted to a foreign climate, and reared in an unfavor- able situation ; and it would be unreasonable to expect from them the health and the vigor wliich we find in the indige- nous plants around them, or which they might themselves have possessed in their native soil. He has but very imper- fectly imitated the style of the Latin authors, and lias not compensated for the deficiency by enriching the ancient lan- guage Avith the graces of modern poetry. The splendor and ingenuity, which we admire, even when we condemn it, in his Italian works, is almost totally wanting, and only illu- minates with rare and occasional glimpses the dreary ob- scurity of the Africa. The eclogues have more animation ; but they can only be called poems by courtesy. They have nothing in common with his writings in his native language excejit the eternal pun about Laura and Daphne. None oi 76 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. these works would have ]»laced him on a level with Vida or Buchanan. Yet, Avhcn we compare him with those who pre- ceded him, when we consider that lie went on the forlorn liope of literature, that he was the first who perceived, and the first wlio attemjited to revive, the finer elegancies of the ancient language of the world, we shall perhaps think more highly of him than of those who could never Lave sur- passed his beauties if they liad not inherited them. He has aspired to emulate the jihilosojihical eloquence oi Cicero, as well as the poetical majesty of Virgil. Ilia essay on the Remedies of Good and Evil Fortune is a singu- lar work, in a colloquial form, and a most scholastic style. It seems to be framed upon the model of the Tusculan Ques- tions, — with what success those who have read it may easily determine. It consists of a series of dialogues : in each of these a person is introduced who has experienced some happy or some adverse event : he gravely states his case ; and a rcasoncr, or rather Reason personified, confutes him ; a task not yeiy difficult, since the disciple defends his position only by pertinaciously repeating it, in almost the same words, at the end of every argument of his antagonist. In this manner Petrarch solves an immense variet}' of cases. Indeed, I doubt w hether it w^ould be possible to name any pleasure or any calamity wffiich does not find a place in this dissertation. He gives excellent advice to a man who is in expectation of discovering the philosopher’s stone ; — to another, who has formed a fine aviaiy ; — to a third, who is delighted with the tricks of a favorite monkey. His lectures to the unfortu- tunate are equally singular. He seems to imagine that a pre- cedent in point is a sufficient consolation for every form of suffering. “ Our towm is taken,” says one complainant ; “ So was Troy,” replies his comforter. “ My wife has eloped,” says another ; “If it has happened to you once, it happened to Menelaus twice.” One poor fellow is in great distress at having discovered that his wife’s son is none of his. “ It is hard,” says he, “ that I should have had the expense of bringing up one who is indifferent to me.” “ You are a man,” returns his monitor, quoting the famous line ot Ter- ence ; “ and nothing that belongs to any other man ought to be indifferent to you.” The physical calamities of life are not omitted ; and there is in particular a disquisition on the advantages of having the itch, which, if not convincing, is certainly very amusing. The invectives on ai unfortunate physician, or rather CRITICISMS ON THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS. 7? Upon the medical science, liave more spirit. Petrarch was thoroughly in earnest on this subject. And tlie bitterness of his feelings occasionally produces, in the midst of his clas- sical and scholastic pedantry, a sentence worthy of the second Philippic. Swift himself might have envied the chapter on the causes of the paleness of physicians. Of his Latin works the Epistles are the most generally known and admired. As compositions they are certainly superior to his essays. But their excellence is only compar* ative. From so large a collection of letters, written by so eminent a man, during so varied and eventful a life, we should have expected a complete and spirited view of the literature, the manners, and the politics of the age. A travel- ler — a poet — a scholar — a lover — a courtier — a recluse — he might have perpetuated, in an imperishable record, the form and pressure of the age and body of the time. Those who read his correspondence, in the hope of finding such informa- tion as this, will be utterly disappointed. It contains noth- ing characteristic of the period or of the individual. It is a series, not of letters, but of themes ; and, as it is not gener- ally known, might be very safely employed at public schools as a magazine of common-places. Whether he write on poli- tics to the Emperor and the Doge, or send advice and con- solation to a private friend, every line is crowded with exam- ples and quotations, and sounds big with Anaxagoras and Scipio. Such wa« the interest excited by the character of Petrarch, and such the admiration which was felt for his epis- tolary style, that it was with difficulty that his letters reached the place of their destination. The poet describes, with pretended regret and real complacency, the importu- nity of the curious, who often opened, and sometimes stole, these favorite compositions. It is a remarkable fact that, of all his epistles, the least affected are those which are ad- dressed to the dead and the unborn. Nothing can be more absurd than his whim of composing grave letters of expos- tulation and commendation to Cicero and Seneca ; yet these strange performances are written in a far more natural man- ner than his communications to his living correspondents. But of all his Latin works the preference must be given to the Epistle to Posterity ; a simple, noble, and pathetic com- position, most honorable both to his taste and his heart. If we can make allowance for some of the affected humility of an author, we shall perhaps think that no literary man has left a more pleasing memorial of himself. 78 MACAULAY’h miscellaneous WlilTINGS. Til conclusion, wc may pronounce tliat the worlcs of Pe^ra»’ch were below both liis genius and bis celebrity; and that tlie circuiinstances under which he wrote were as ad- verse to the develo])inent of his jiowersas they were favora- ble to the extension of his fame SOME ACCOUNT OF THE GREAT LAWSUIT Bh:TWEE]Sr THE PARISPIES OF ST. DENNIS AND ST. GEORGE IN THE WATER. (KnighVs Quarterly Magazine^ Aprils 1824.) PART I. The parish of St. Dennis is one of the most pleasant parts of the country in which it is situated. It is fertile, well wooded, well watered, and of an excellent air. For many generations the manor had been holden in tail-male by a worshipful family, who have always taken precedence of their neighbors at the races and the sessions. In ancient times the affairs of this parish Tvere admin- istered by a Court-Baron, in which the freeholders were judges ; and the rates were levied by select vestries of the inhabitant householders. But at length these good customs fell into disuse. The Lords of the Manor, indeed, still held courts for form’s sake ; but they or their stewards had the whole management of affairs. They demanded services, duties, and customs to Vv^hich they had no just title. Nay, they w^ould often bring actions against their neighbors for their own ])rivate advantage, and then send in the bill to the parish. No objection was made, during many years, to these pro- ceedings, so that the rates became heavier and heavier; nor was any person exempted from these demands, except the footmen and gamekeepers of the squire and the rector of the parish. They indeed were never checked in any excess. They would come to an honest laborer’s cottage, eat his pancakes, tuck his fowls into their pockets, and cane the poor man himself. If he went up to the great house to complain, it ST. DENNIS AND ST. GEORGE IN THE WATER. 79 was hard to get the speech of Sir Lewis ; and, indeed, his only chance of being righted was to coax the squire’s pretty housekeeper, Avho could do what she pleased with her master. If he ventured to intrude upon the Lord of the Manor without this precaution, he gained nothing by his pains. Sir Lewis, indeed, would at first receive him with a civil face ; for, to give him his due, he could be a fine gentleman when he pleased. “ Good-day, my friend,” he would say, “what situation have you in my family?” “Bless }our honor ! ” says the poor fellow, “ I am not one of your honor’s servants ; I rent a small piece of ground, your honor.” “ Then, you dog,” quoth the squire, “ what do you mean by coming here ? Has a gentleman nothing to do but to hear the complaints of clowns ? Here ! Philip, James, Dick, toss this fellow in a blanket ; or duck him, and set him in the stocks to dry.” One of these precious Lords of the Manor enclosed a deer- park ; and, in order to stock it, he seized all the pretty pet fawns that his tenants had brought up ; without paying them a farthing, or asking their leave. It was a sad day for the parish of St. Dennis. Indeed, I do not believe that all his oppressive exactions and long bills enraged the poor tenants so much as this cruel measure. Yet for a long time, in spite of all these inconveniences, St. Dennis’s was a very pleasant place. The people could not refrain from capering if they heard the sound of a fiddle. And, if they were inclined to be riotous. Sir Lewis had only to send for Punch, or the dancing dogs, and all was quiet again. But this could not last for ever ; they began to think more and more of their condition ; and, at last, a club of foul-mouthed, good-for-nothing rascals was held at the sign of the Devil, for the purpose of abusing the squire and the parson. The doctor, to own the truth, was old and indolent, extremely fat and greedy. He had not preached a tolerable sermon for a long time. The squire was still worse ; so that, partly by truth and partly by falsehood, the club set the whole parish against their supe- riors. The boys scrawled caricatures of the clergymen upon the church-door, and shot at the landlord with pop-guns as he rode a hunting. It was even whispered about that the Lord of the Manor had no right to his estate, and that, if he were compelled to produce the original title-deeds, it would be found that he only held the estate ia trust for the in*nabitants of the parish. 80 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. In the mean time tlio s(|uirc was ])rcssc(l more and more for money. The j)arish could j>ay no more. Tlic rector refused to lend a farthing. The Jews were clamorous for their money ; and the landlord had no other resource than to call together the inhabitants of the parish, and to request their assistance. They now attacked him furiously about their grievances, and insisted that he should relinquisli his op})ressive powers. They insisted that his footmem should be kept in order, that the parson should pay his share of the rates, that the children of the parish should be allowed to fish in the trout-stream, and to gather blackberries in the hedges. They at last went so far as to demand that he should acknowledge that he held his estate only in trust for them. His distress compelled him to submit. They, in return, agreed to set him free from his pecuniary difficul- ties, and to suffer him to inhabit the manor-house ; and only annoyed him from time to time by singing impudent ballads under his window. The neighboring gentlefolks did not look on these pro- ceedings with much complacency. It is true that Sir Lewis and his ancestors had plagued them with lawsuits, and affronted them at county-meetings. Still they preferred the insolence of a gentleman to that of the rabble, and felt some uneasiness lest the example should infect their own tenants. A large party of them met at the house of Lord CaBsar Germain. Lord CaBsar was the proudest man in the county. His family was very ancient and illustrious, though not par- ticularly opulent. He had invited most of his wealthy neighbors. There was Mrs. Kitty North, the relict of poor Squire Peter, respecting whom the coroner’s jury had found a verdict of accidental death, but whose fate had nevertheless excited strange whispers in the neigliborhood. There was Squire Don, the owner of the great West Indian property, who was not so rich as he had formerly been, but still retained his pride, and kept up his customary ])om)) ; so that he had plenty of plate but no breeches. There was Squire Von Blunderbussen, who had succeeded to the estates of his uncle, old Colonel Frederic Von Blunder- bussen, of the hussars. The colonel was a very singular old fellow ; he used to learn a page of Chambaud’s gram- mar, and to translate Telemaque, every morning, and he kept six French masters to teach him to parleyvoo. Never- thelessj he was a shrewd clever man, and improved his ST. DENNIS AND ST. GEORGE IN TUK WATEE» 81 estate with so mucli care, sometimes by lionest and some- times by dishonest means, tliat he left a very pretty prop- erty to his nephew. Lord CaDsar poured out a glass of Tokay for Mrs. Kitty. Your health, my dear madam, I never saw you look more charming. Pray, what think you of these doings at St. Pennis’s ? ” ‘‘ Fine doings ! indeed ! ” interrupted Yon Blunderbussen ; I wish that we had my old uncle alive, he would have had some of them up to the halberts. He knew how to use a cat-o’-n in e-tails. If things go on in this way, a gentleman will not be able to horsewhip an imimdent farmer, or to say a civil word to a milkmaid.” ‘‘ Indeed, it’s very true. Sir,” said Mrs. Kitty ; ‘‘ their insolence is intolerable. Look at me, for instance : — a poor lone woman ! — My dear Peter dead ! I loved him : — so I did ; and, when he died, I was so hysterical you cannot think. And now I cannot lean on the arm of a decent footman, or take a walk with a tall grenadier behind me, just to protect me from audacious vagabonds, but they must have their nau- seous suspicions ; — odious creatures ! ” — “This must be stopped,” replied Lord Ca3sar. “We ought to contribute to support my poor brother-in-law against these rascals. I will write to Squire Guelf on this subject by this night’s post. His name is always at the head of our county subscriptions.” If the people of St. Dennis’s had been angry before, they were well-nigh mad when they heard of this conversation. The whole parish ran to the manor-house. Sir Lewis’s Swiss porter shut the door against them ; but they broke in ♦ and knocked him on the head for his impudence. They then seized the squire, hooted at him, pelted him, ducked him, and carried him to the watch-house. They twmed the rector into the street, burnt his wig and band, and sold the church-plate by auction. They put up a painted Jezebel in the pulpit to preach. They scratched out the texts which were Avritten round the church, and scribbled profane scraps of songs and plays in their ]dace. They set the organ play- ing to pot-house tunes. Instead of being decently asked in church, they were married over a broom-stick. But, of all their whims, the use of the new patent steel-traps was the most remarkable. This trap was constructed on a completely new principle. It consisted of a cleaver hung in % frame like a window ; 82 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wfjtings. wlien any poor wretcli got in, down it came with a tremen- dous din, and took off his liead in a twinkling. They got tlic squire into one of these machines. In order to prevent any of liis partisans from getting footing in the parisli, they placed traps at every corner. It was impossible to walk through the highway at broad noon without tumbling into one or other of them. No man could go about liis business in security. Yet so great was the hatred which the inhabi- tants entertained for the old family, that a few decent honest people, who begged them to take down the steel-traps, and to j)ut up humane man-traps in their room, were very roughly handled for their good-nature. In the mean time the neighboring gentry undertook a suit against the parish on the behalf of Sir Lewis’s heir, and applied to Squire Guelf for his assistance. Everybody knows that Squire Guelf is more closely tied up than any gentleman in the shire. He could, therefore, lend them no help ; but he referred them to the Vestry of the Parish of St. George in the Water. These good people had long borne a grudge against their neighbors on the other side of the stream ; and some mutual trespasses had lately occurred which increased their hostility. There was an’ honest Irishman, a great favorite among them, who used to entertain them with raree-shows, and to exhibit a magic lantern to the children on winter evenings, lie had gone quite mad upon this subject. Sometimes he would call out in the middle of the street — “ Take care of that corner, neighbors ; for the love of Heaven, keep clear of that post, there is a patent steel-trap concealed there- abouts.” Sometimes he would be disturbed by frightful dreams ; then he would get up at dead of night, open his window and cry “ fire,” till the parish was roused, and the engines sent out. The pulpit of the Parish of St. George seemed likely to fall; I believe that the only reason was that the parson had grown too fat and heavy ; but nothing would persuade this honest man but that it was a scheme of the people at St. Dennis’s, and that they had sawed through the pillars in order to break the rector’s neck. Once he went about with a knife in his pocket, and told all the persons whom he met that it had been sharpened by the knife-grinder of the next parish to cut their throats. These extravagancies had a great effect on the people ; and the more so because they were espoused by Squire Guelf ’s steward, who was the most influential person in the parish^ ST. DENNIS AND ST. GEORGE IN THE WATER. 83 lie was a very fair-s])okcii man, very attentive to tlio main chance, and the idol of the old Avonien, because he never played at skittles or danced with the girls ; and, indeed, never took any recreation but that of drinking on Saturdaj nights with his friend Harry, the Scotch pedler. His sup- porters called him Sweet William ; his enemies the Bot- tomless Pit. The people of St. Dennis’s, however, had their advo- cates. There was Frank, the richest farmer in the parish, whose great-grandfather had been knocked on the head many years before, in a squabble between the parish and a former landlord. There was Dick, the merry-andrew, rather light- fingered and riotous, but a clwer droll fellow. Above all, ‘there was Charley, the publican, a jolly, fat, honest lad, a great favorite with the women, who, if he had not been rather too fond of ale and chuck-farthing, would have been the best fellow in the neighborhood. ‘‘ My boys,” said Charley, ‘‘ this is exceedingly well for Madam North; — not that I would speak uncivilly of her; she put up my picture in her best room, bless her for it ! But, I say, this is very well for her, and for Lord Caesar, and Squire Don, and Colonel Von ; — but what affair is it of yours or mine ? It is not to be wondered at, that gentlemen should wish to keep poor people out of their own. But it is strange, indeed, that they should expect the poor themselves to com- bine against their own interests. If the folks at St. Dennis’s should attack us vre have the law and our cudgels to protect us. But why, in the name of wonder, are we to attack them ? When old Sir Charles, who was Lord of the Manor formerly, and the parson, who was presented by him to the living, tried to bully the vestry, did not we knock their heads to- gether, and go to meeting to hear Jeremiah Ringletub preach ? And did the Squire Don, or the great Sir Lewis, that lived at that time, or the Germains, say a word against us for it ? Mind your own business, my lads: law is not to be had foi nothing ; and we, you may be sure, shall have to pay the whole bill.” Nevertheless the people of St. George’s were resolved on law. They cried out most lustily, Squire Guelf for ever! Sweet William for ever! No steel traps ! ” Squire Guelf took all the rascally footmen who had worn old Sir Lewis’s livery into his service. They were fed in the kitchen on the very best of every thing, though they had no settlement. Many people, and paupers iu particular, 84 MACAULAY^S MISCELLANEOUS AVKITINGS. pruinblcMl :it tlirso jn-occH'diiigs. The stcMard, however, de- vised a way to kca'p tlieiii (juiet. There had lived in this j)arisli for many years an old gentleman, named Sir Habeas Cor])us. He was said by some to be of Saxon, by some of Norman, extraction. Some maintained that he was not born till after the time of Sir Charles, to whom we have before ^Taded. Others are of opin- ion that he was a legitimate son vif old Lady Magna Charla, although he was long concealed and kept out of his birthright. Certain it is that he was a very benevolent person. When- ever any poor fellow was taken on grounds which he thought insufficient, he used to attend on his behalf and bail him ; and thus he had become so popular, that to take direct measures against him was out of the question. The stew\ard, accordingly, brought a dozen physicians to examine Sir Habeas. After consultation, they reported that he was in a very bad way, and ought not, on any account, to be allowed to stir out for several months. Fortified with this authority, the parish officers put him to bed, closed his windows, and barred his doors. They paid him every at- tention, and from time to time issued bulletins of his health. The steAvard never spoke of him without declaring that he was the best gentleman in the world ; but excellent care was taken that he should never stir out of doors. When this obstacle was removed, the Squire and the steward kept the parish in excellent order ; fiogged this man, sent that man to the stocks, and pushed forward the lawsuit with a noble disregard of expense. They were, however, wanting either in skill or in fortune. And every thing went against them after their antagonists had begun to employ Solicitor Nap. Who does not know the name of Solicitor Nap? At what alehouse is not his behavior discussed ? In what print- shop is not his picture seen? Yet how little truth has been said about him ! Some people hold that he used to give laudanum by pints to his sick clerks for his amusement. Others, whose number has very much increased since he was killed by the gaol distemper, conceive that he w^as the very model of honor and good-nature. I shall try to tell the truth about him. He was assuredly an excellent solicitor. In his way he never w^as surpassed. As soon a>s the parish began to em- ploy him, their cause took a turn. In a very little time they were successful 5 and Nap became rich. He now set up ioi ST. DEXXIS AND ST. GEORGE IN THE WATER. 85 a gentleman ; took possession of the old manor-house ; got into the commission of the peace, and affected to be on a par wiih the best of the country. He governed the vestries as absolutely as the old family had done. Yet, to give him his due, he managed things with far more discretion than either Sir Lewis or the riofers who had pulled the Lords of the Manor down. He kept his servants in tolerable order. He removed the steel traps from the highways and the corners of the streets. He still left a few indeed in the more ex- posed parts of his premises; and set up a board announcing that traps and spring guns were set in his grounds. He brought the poor parson back to the parish ; and, though lie did not enable him to keep a fine house and a coach as formerly, he settled him in a snug little cottage, and allowed him a pleasant pad-nag. He whitewashed the church again ; and put the stocks, which had be , much wanted of late, into good repair. Willi the neighboring gentry, however, he was no fa- vorite. He was crafty and litigious. He cared nothing for right, if he could raise a point of law against them. He pounded their cattle, broke their hedges, and seduced their tenants from them. He almost ruined Lord Caesar with actions, in every one of which he was successful. Von Blunderbusen went to law with him for an alleged trespass, but was cast, and almost ruined by the costs of suit. He next took a fancy to the seat of Squire Don, who was, to say the truth, little better than an idiot. He asked the poor dupe to dinner, and then threatened to have him tossed in a blanket unless he would make over his estates to him. The poor Squire signed and sealed a deed by which the property was assigned to Joe, a brother of Nap’s, in trust for and to the use of Nap himself. Tlie tenants, however, stood out. They maintained that the estate was entailed, and refused to pay rents to the new landlord ; and in this refusal they were stoutly supported by the people in St. George’s. About the same time Nap took it into his head to match with quality, and nothing would serve him but one of the Miss Germains. Lord Caesar swore like a trooper ; but there was no help for it. Nap had twice put executions in his principal residence, and had refused to discharge the latter of th<3 two, till he had extorted a bond from his Lordship, which compelled him to comply. B6 MACAULAY S MISCLLLA^hKUUS WKITINGS. A CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. ABRAHAM COWH.EY AND MR. JOHN MILTON, TOUCHING THE GREAT CIVIL WAR. SET DOWN BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE AHDDLE TEMPLE. (KnighVs Quarterly Magazine, August, 1824.) “ Referre serinoiies Deonim et Magna modis tenuare parvis.” Horace. I HAVE thought it good to set down in writing a memorable debate, wherein I was a listener, and two men of pregnant narts and great reputation discoursers ; hoping that my friends vill not be displeased to have a record both of the strange !yimes through which I have lived, and of the famous men with whom I have conversed. It chanced, in the warm and beautiful spring of the year 1665, a little before the saddest summer that ever London saw, that I went to the Bowling Green at Piccadilly, whither, at that time, the best gentry made continual resort. There I met Mr. Cowley, who had lately left Barnelms. There was then a house preparing for him at Chertsey ; and, till it should be finished, he had come up for a short time to London, that he might urge a suit to his Grace of Buckingham touching certain lands of her Majesty’s, whereof he requested a lease. I had the honor to be familiarly acquainted with that ivorthy gentleman and most excellent poet, whose death hath been deplored with as general a consent of all Powers that delight in the woods, or in verse, or in love, as was of old that of Daphnis or of Gallus. After some talk, which it is not material to set down at large, concerning his suit and his vexations at the court, where indeed his honesty did him more harm than his parts could do liim good, I entreated him to dine with me at my lodging in the Temple, which he most courteously promised. And, that so eminent a guest might not lack a better enter- tainment than cooks or vintners can provide, I sent to the house of Mr. John Milton, in the Artillery-Walk, to beg that he would also be my guest. For, though he had been secre- A CONVERSATION TOUCHING THE GREAT CIVIL WAR. 87 tary, first to the Council of State, and, after that, to the Protector, and Mr. Cowley had held the same post under the Lord St. Albans in his banishment, I hoped, not- withstanding, that they would think themselves rather united by their common art than divided by their different factions. And so indeed it proved. For, while we sat at table, they talked freely of many men and things, as well ancient as modern, with much civility. Nay, Mr. Milton, who seldom tasted wine, both because of his singular tem- perance and because of his gout, did more than once pledge Mr. Cowley, who was indeed no hermit in diet. At last, being heated, Mr. Milton begged that I would open the windows, “Nay,” said I, “if you desire fresh air and cool- ness, what should hinder us, as the evening is fair, from sailing for an hour on the river ? ” To this they both cheer- fully consented ; and forth we walked, Mr. Cowley and I leading Mr. Milton between us, to the Temple Stairs. There we took a boat ; and thence we were rowed up the river. The wind was pleasant ; the evening fine ; the sky, the earth and the water beautiful to look upon. But Mr. Cow- ley and I hold our peace, and said nothing of the gay sights around us, lest we should too feelingly remind Mr. Milton of his calamity ; whereof, however, he needed no monitor, for soon he said sadly, “ Ah, Mr. Cowley, you are a happy man. What would I now give but for one more look at the sun, and the waters, and the gardens of this fair city ! ” “ I know not,” said Mr. Cowley, “ whether we ought not rather to envy you for that which makes you to envy others : and that specially in this place, where all eyes which are not closed in blindness ought to become fountains of tears. What can we look upon which is not a memorial of change and sorrow, of fair things vanished, and evil things done ? When I see the gate of Whitehall, and the stately pillars of the Banqueting House, I cannot choose but think of what I have there seen in former days, masques, and pageants, and dances, and smiles, and the waving of graceful heads and the bounding of delicate feet. And then I turn to thoughts of other things, which even to remember makes me to Mush and weep ; — of the great black scaffold, and the axe and block, which were placed before those very windows ; and the voice seems to sound in mine ears, the lawless and ter- rible voice, which cried out that the head of a king was the head of a traitor. There stands Westminster Hall, which 88 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. who can look upon, ami not treinhle to tliink liow tiuxe, and change, and death confound tlic councils of tlic wise, and heat down tlie wca])ons of the mighty? How liave I seen it surrounded witli tens of tliousands of petitioners crying for justice and privilege ! I low have I lieard it sliake with fierce and proud words, which made the hearts of the people burn within them ! Then it is blockaded by dragoons, and cleared by pikemen. And they who have conquered their master go forth trembling at the word of their servant. And yet a little while, and the usurper comes forth from it, in his robe of ermine, with the golden staff in one hand and the Bible in the other, amidst the roaring of the guns and the shouting of the people. And yet again a little while, and the doors are thronged with multitudes in black, and the hearse and the plumes come forth ; and the tyrant is borne, in more than royal pomp, to a royal sepulchre. A few days more, and his head is fixed to rot on the pinnacles of that very hall were he sat on a throne in his life, and lay in state after his death. When I think on all these things, to look round me makes me sad at heart. True it is that God hath restored to us our old laws, and the rightful line of our kings. Yet, how I know not, but it seems to me that some- thing is wanting — that our court hath not the old gravity, nor our people the old loyalty. These evil times, like the great deluge, have overwhelmed and confused all earthly things. And even as those waters, though at last they abated, yet, as the learned write, destroyed all trace of the garden of Eden, so that its place hath never since been found, so hath this opening of all the flood-gates of political evil effaced all marks of the ancient political paradise.” “ Sir, by your favor,” said Mr. Milton, “ though, from many circumstances both of body and of fortune, I might plead fairer excuses for despondency than yourself, I yet look not so sadly either on the past or on the future. That a deluge hath passed over this our nation, I deny not. But I hold it not to be such a deluge as that of which you speak but rather a blessed flood, like those of the Nile, which iv. its overflow doth indeed wash away ancient landmarks, and confound boundaries, and sweep away dwellings, yea, doth give birth to many foul and dangerous reptiles. Yet hence is the fulness of the granary, the beauty of the garden, the nurture of all living things. “ I remember well, Mr. Cowley, what you have said con- eerning things in your DisoQurse of the Government A CONVERSATION TOUCHING THE GREAT CIVIL WAR. 89 of Oliver Cromwell, wliicli my friend Elwood read to me last year. Truly, for elegance and rhetoric, that essay is to be compared with the finest tractates of Isocrates and Cicero. But neither that nor any other book, nor any events, which with most men have, more than any book, weight and au- thority, have altered my opinion, that, of all assemblies that ever were in this world, the best and the most useful was our Long Parliament. I speak not this as wishing to pro- voke debate; which neither yet do I decline.” Mr. Cowley was, as I could see, a little nettled. Yet, as he was a man of a kind disposition and a most refined cour- tesy, lie put a force upon himself, and answered with more vehemence and quickness indeed than was his wont, yet not uncivilly. Surely, Mr. Milton, you speak not as you think. I am indeed one of those who believe that God hath re- served to himself the censure of kings, and that their crimes and oppressions are not to be resisted by the hands of their subjects. Yet can I easily find excuse for the violence of such as are stung to madness by grievous tyranny. But what shall we say for these men ? Which of their just de- mands was not granted ? Which even of their cruel and unreasonable requisitions, so as it were not inconsistent with all law and order, was refused? Had they not sent Strafford to the block and Laud to tlie Tower ? Had they not destroyed the Courts of the High Commission and the Star Chamber? Had they not reversed the proceedings confirmed by the voices of the judges of England, in the matter of ship-money? Had they not taken from the king his ancient and most lawful power touching the order of knighthood. Had they not provided that, after their disso- lution, triennial parliaments should be holden, and that their own powder should continue till of their great condescension they should be pleased to resign it themselves ? What more could they ask? Was it not enough that they had taken from their king all his oppressive powers, and many tliat were most salutary ? Was it not enough that they had filled his council-board with his enemies, and his prisons with his adherents ? Was it not enough that they had raised a furious multitude, to shout and swagger daily under the very windows of his royal palace ? Was it not enough that they had taken from him the most blessed prerogative of princely mercy ; that, complaining of intolerance themselves, they had denied all toleration to others ; that they had urged, against forms, scruples childish as those of any formalist; 90 Macaulay's mtscellanuous writings. that they had ])crscciitcd llio least reiniiaiit of llie j)0])ish rites with tlie liereest bitterness of llie ])0[)isli spii’it? Must tliey besides all this have full ])Ower to coiiimaiid liis armies, and to massacre his friends ? “For military command, it was never known in any monarchy, nay, in any well ordered republic, that it was com- mitted to the debates of a large and unsettled assembly. For their other requisition, that he should give up to their ’Cngeance all who had defended the rights of his crown, his .ionor must have been ruined if he had complied. Is it not therefore plain that they desired these things only in order that, byrefusing, his Majesty might give them a pretence for war ? “ Men have often risen up against fraud, against cruelty, against rapine. But when before was it known that con- cessions were met with importunities, graciousness with in- sults, the open palm of bounty with the clenched fist of mal- ice ? Was it like trusty delegates of the Commons of Eng- land, and faithful stewards of their liberty and their wealth, to engage them for such causes in civil war, which both to liberty and to wealth is of all things the most hostile. Evil indeed must be the disease which is not more tolerable than such a medicine. Those who, even to save a nation from tyrants, excite it to civil war, do in general but minister to it the same miserable kind of relief wherewith the wizards of Pharaoh mocked the Egyptian. We read that, when Moses had turned their waters into blood, those impious magicians, intending, not benefit to the thirsting people, but vain and emulous ostentation of their own art, did themselves also change into blood the water which the plague had spared. Such sad comfort do those who stir up war minister to the oppressed. But here where was the op- pression ? What was the favor which had not been granted ? what was the evil which had not been removed ? What further could they desire ? ” “These questions,” said Mr. Milton, austerely, “have in- deed often deceived the ignorant; but that Mr. Cowley should have been so beguiled, I marvel. You ask what more the Parliament could desire ? I will answer you in one word, security. What are votes, and statutes, and reso- lutions ? They have no eyes to see, no hands to strike and avenge. They must have some safeguard from without. Many things, therefore, which m themselves were peradven- ture hurtful, was this Parliament constrained to ask, lest A CONVERSATION TOUCHING THE GREAT CIVIL WAR. 91 otherwise good laws and precious rights should be wdthout defence. Nor did they want a great and signal example of this danger. I need not remind you that, many years before, the two Houses had presented to the king the Petition of Right, wherein were set down all the most valuable privi- leges of the people of this realm. Did not Charles accept it? Did he not declare it to be law? Was it not as fully enacted as ever were any of those bills of the Long Parlia- ment concerning wdiich you spoke ? And were those privi- leges therefore enjoyed more fully by the people ? No : th.e king did from that time redouble his oppressions as if to avenge himself for the shame of having been compelled to renounce them. Then were our estates laid under shameful impositions, our houses ransacked, our bodies imprisoned, riien was the steel of the hangman blunted wdth mangling the ears of harmless men. xhen our very minds wmre fet- tered, and the M’on entered into our souls. Then we wmre compelled to hide our hatred, our sorrow, and our scorn, to laugh with h'dden faces at the mummery of Laud, to curse under our Meath the tyranny of Wentworth. Of old time it was wmll and nobly said, by one of our kings, that an Eng- lishman o’lght to be free as his thoughts. Our prince re- versed the maxim ; he strove to make our thoughts as much slaves ag ourselves. To sneer at a Romish pageant, to miscall a lord’.? crest, were crimes for which there wms no mercy. These were all the fruits which we gathered from those ex- cellent laws of the former Parliament, from these solemn promises of the king. Were we to be deceived again ? Were we again to give subsidies, and receive nothing but prom- ises ? Were we again to make w^holesome statutes, and then leave them to be broken daily and hourly, until the oppres- sor should have squandered another supply, and should be ready for another perjury ? Yon ask what they could desire which he had not already granted. Let me ask of you an- other qu^^stion. What pledge could he give which he had not already violated? From the first year of his reign, whenever he had need of the purses of his Commons to sup- port the revels of Buckingham or the processions of Laud, he had assured them that, as he was a gentleman and a king, he would sacredly preserve their rights. He had pawned tho^a solemn pledges, and pawned them again and again ; bu^ when had he redeemed them ? ‘ Upon my faith,’ — ‘ Upon Tny sacred word,’— ‘ Upon the honor of a prince,’ — cme sc easily from his lipSj and dwelt so short a time on hia 92 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. mind, that they were as little to be trusted as the ‘ By these hilts’ of an Alsatian dicer. “ Therefore it is that I jiraise this Parliament for what else I might have condemned. If what he had granted liad been granted graciously and readily, if what lie had before ])romised had been faithfully observed, they could not be defended. It was because he had never yielded the worst abuse without a long struggle, and seldom without a large bribe ; it was because he had no sooner disentangled himself from his troubles than he forgot his promises ; and, more like a villainous huckster than a great king, kept both the prerogative and the large price which had been paid to him to forego it ; it was because of these things that it was necessary and just to bind with forcible restraints one who could be bound neither by law nor honor. Nay, even while he was making those very concessions of which you speak, he betrayed his deadly hatred against the people and their friends. Not only did he, contrary to all that ever was deemed lawful in England, order that members of the Commons House of Parliament should be impeached of high treason at the bar of the Lords ; thereby violating both the trial by jury and the privileges of the House ; but, not con- tent with breaking the law by his ministers, he w^ent himself armed to assail it. In the birth-place and sanctuary of free- dom, in the House itself, nay, in the very chair of the speaker, placed for the protection of free speech and privilege, he sat, rolling his eyes round the benches, searching for those whose blood he desired, a’^.d singling out his epposers to the slaughter. This most fou. outrage fails. Then again for the old arts. Then come gracious messages. Then come cour- teous speeches. Then is again mortgaged his often forfeited honor. He will never again violate the laws. He will re- spect their rights as if they were his own. He pledges the dignity of his crown ; that crown which had been committed to him for the weal of his people, and which he never named, but that he might the more easily delude and oppress them. “ The power of the sword, I grant you, was not one to be permanently possessed by parliament. Neither did that parliament demand it as a permanent possession. They asked it only for temporary security. Nor can I see on what conditions they could safely make peace with that false and wicked king, save such as w^ould dej^rive him of all power to injure. ‘‘For civil war, that it is an evil I dispute not. But A CONVERSATION TOUCHING THE GREAT CIVIL WAR. 93 that it is the greatest of evils, that I stoutly deny. It doth indeed appear to the misjudging to be a worse calamity than bad government, because its miseries are collected to- gether within a short space and time, and may easily at one view be taken in and perceived. But the misfortunes of nations ruled by tyrants, being distributed over many cen- turies and many ])laces, as they are of greater weight and nuriiber, so are they of less display. When the Devil of tyranny hath gone into the body politic he departs not but with struggles, and foaming, and great convulsions. Shall he, therefore, vex it forever, lest, in going out, he for a mo- ment tear and rend it ? Truly this argument touching the evils of war would better become my friend Elwood, or some other of the people called Quakers, than a courtier and a cavalier. It applies no more to this war than to all others, as well foreign as domestic, and, in this war, no more to the Houses than to the king ; nay, not so much, since he by a little sincerity and moderation might have rendered that needless Avhich their duty to God and man then en- forced them to do.” “ Pardon me, Mr. Milton,” said Mr. Cowley ; ‘‘ I grieve to hear you speak thus of that good king. Most unhappy in- deed he was, in that he reigned at a time when the spirit of the then living generation was for freedom, and the prece- dents of former ages for prerogative. His case was like to that of Christopher Columbus, when he sailed forth on an unknown ocean, and found that the compass, whereby he shaped his course, had shifted from the north pole whereto before it had constantly pointed. So it was v/ith Charles. His compass varied; and therefore he could not tack aright. If he had been an absolute king he would doubtless, like Titus Vespasian, have been called the delight of the human race. If he had been a Doge of Venice, or a Stadtholder of Holland, he would never have outstepped the laws. But he lived when our government had neither clear definitions nor strong sanctions. Let, therefore, his faults be ascribed to the time. Of his virtues the praise is his own. “Never was there a more gracious prince, or a more proper gentleman. In every pleasure he was temperate, in conversation mild and grave, in friendship constant, to ins servants liberal, to his queen faithful and loving, in battle brave, in sorrow and captivity resolved, in death nn^st Christian and forgiving. “For his oppressions, let us look at the former history 94 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. of this realm. James was never accounted a tyrant. Eliza- beth is esteemed to have been the mother of her j)cople. Were they less arbitrary? Did they never lay hands on the purses of tlieir subjects but by Act of Parliament? Did they never confine insolent and disobedient men but in due course of law? Was the court of Star Chamber less active ? Were the ears of libellers more safe ? I pray you, let not King Charles be thus dealt with. It was enough that in his life he was tried for an alleged breach of laws which none ever lieard named till they were discovered for his destruction. Let not his fame be treated as was his sacred and anointed body. Let not his memory be tried by principles found out ex post facto. Let us not judge by the spirit of one generation a man whose disposition had been formed by the temper and fashion of another.” ‘‘ Nay, but conceive me, Mr. Cowley,” said Mr. Milton ; inasmuch as, at the beginning of his reign, he imitated those who had governed before him, I blame him not. To expect that kings will, of their own free choice, abridge their prerogative, were argument of but slender wisdom. Whatever, therefore, lawless, unjust, or cruel, he either did or permitted during the first years of his reign, I pass by. But for what was done after that he had solemnly given his consent to the Petition of Right, where shall we find de- fence ? Let it be supposed, which yet I concede not, that the tyranny of his father and of Queen Elizabeth had been no less rigorous than was his. But had his father, had that queen, sworn, like him, to abstain from those rigors ? Had they, like him, for good and valuable consideration, aliened their hurtful prerogatives ? Surely not : from whatever ex- cuse you can plead for him he had wholly excluded himself. The borders of countries, we know, are mostly the seats of perpetual wars and tumults. It was the same with the un- defined frontiers, which of old separated privilege and pre- rogative. They were the debatable land of our polity. It was no marvel if, both on the one side and on the other, inroads were often made. But, when treaties have been concluded, spaces measured, lines drawn, landmarks set up, that which before might pass for innocent error or just re- prisal becomes robbery, perjury, deadly sin. He knew not, you say, which of his powers were founded on ancient law, and which only on vicious example. But had lie not read the Petition of Riglit ? Had not proclamation been made from his throne : Soit fait comme il est desire f A conversation touching the great civil war. 95 ‘‘ For his private virtues they are beside tlie question. Remember you not,” and Mr. Milton smiled, but somewhat sternly, “ what Dr. Cains saith in the Merry Wives of Shak- speare ? ‘ What shall the honest man do in my closet ? There is no honest man that shall come in my closet.’ Even so say I. There is no good man who shall make us his slaves. If he break his word to his people, is it a sufficient defence that he keeps it to his companions ? If he oppress and extort all day, shall he be held blameless because he prayeth at night and morning? If he be insatiable in plun- der and revenge, shall we pass it by because in meat and drink he is temperate ? If he have lived like a tyrant, shall all be forgotten because he hath died like a martyr? ‘‘He was a man, as I think, who had so much semblance of virtues as might make his vices most dangerous. He was not a tyrant after our wonted English model. The second Richard, the second and fourth Edwards, and the eighth Harry, were men profuse, gay, boisterous ; lovers of women and of wane, of no outward sanctity or gravity. Charles was a ruler after the Italian fashion ; grave, demure, of a solemn carriage, and a sober diet ; as constant at prayers as a priest, as heedless of oaths as an atheist.” Mr. Cowley answered somewhat sharply : “ I am sorry, sir, to hear you speak thus. I had hoped that the vehemence of spirit wliich was caused by these violent times had now abated. Yet, sure, Mr. Milton, whatever you may think of the character of King Charles, you will not still justify his murder.” “ Sir,” said Mr. Milton, “ I must have been of a hard and strange nature, if the vehemence which was imputed to me in my younger days had not been diminished by the afflictions wherewith it hath pleased Almighty God to chasten my age. I will not now defend all that I may heretofore have w^ritten. But this I say, that I perceive not wherefore a king should be exempted from all punishment. Is it just that where most is given least should be required? Or politic that where there is the greatest power to injure there should be no danger to restrain ? But, you will say, there is no such law. Such a law there is. There is the law of self-preservation written by God himself on our hearts. There is the primal compact and bond of society, not graven on stone, nor sealed with wax, nor put down on parchment, nor set forth in any express form of words by men Avhen of old they came together ; but implied in the very act that they so 96 Macaulay’s miscellaneous ivritings. came togetlier, ])re-su|)|)osc(l in all Hul>»e(|uent law, not to be re})ealc‘(l by any authority, not invalidvted by being omitted ill any code ; iiiasmucli as from thence are all codes and all authority. “Neither do I well see wherefore you cavaliers, and in- deed, many of us whom you merrily call Round-heads, dis- tinguish between those Avho fought against King Charles, and s))ccially after the second commission given to Sir Thomas Fairfax, and those who condemned him to death. Sure, if Ids person were inviolable, it was as wicked to lift the sword against it at Naseby as the axe at AVhitehall. If his life might justly be taken, why not in course of trial as well as by right of war ? “Thus much in general as touching the rigid. But, for the execution of King Charles in particular, I will not now undertake to defend it. Death is inflicted, not that the cul- prit may die, but tho,t the State may be thereby advantaged. And, from all that t know, I think that the death of King Charles hath more hindered than advanced the liberties of England. “First, he left an heir. lie was in captivity. The heir was in freedom. lie was odious to the Scots. The heir was favored by them. To kill the captive, therefore, whereby the heir, in Ihe a])prehension of all royalists, became forth- with king — what was it, in truth, but to set their captive free, and to give him besides other great advantages ? “ Next, it was a deed most odious to the people, and not only to your party, but to many among ourselves ; and, as it is perilous for any government to outrage the public opin- ion, so most was it perilous for a government which had from that opinion alone its birth, its nurture, and its de- fence. “ Yet doth not this properly belong to our dispute ; nor can these faults be justly charged upon that most renowned parliament. For, as you know, the high court of justice was not established until the House had been purged of such members as were adverse to the army, and brought wholly under the control of the chief officers.” “ And who,” said Mr. Cowley, “ levied that army ? Who commissioned those officers? Was not the fate of the Com- mons as justly deserved as was that of Diomedes, who was devoured by those horses whom he had himself taught to ^ feed on the flesh and blood of men ? How could they hope that ethers would respect laws which they had themselves A CONVEKSATION TOUCHING THE GREAT CIVIL AVAIL D? insulted ; that swords Avhicli liad been draAvn against the prerogath^es of the king would be put u]) at an ordinance of the Commons? It Avas believed, of old, that there Avere some devils easily raised but never to be laid ; insomuch that, if a magician called them up, he should be forced to find them always some employment ; for, tliough they would do all kis bidding, yet, if he left them but for one moment without some Avork of evil to perform, they Avould turn their claws against himself. Such a fiend is an army. They Avho evoke it cannot dismiss it. They are at once its masters and its slaves. Let them not fail to find for it task after task of blood and rapine. Let them not leave it for a moment in repose, lest it tear tliem in pieces. ‘‘ Thus Avas it Avith that famous assembly. They formed a force Avhich they could neitlier govern nor resist. They made it ])OAverful. They made it fanatical. As if military insolence Avere not of itself sufficiently dangerous, they heightened it Avith spiritual pride, — they encouraged their soldiers to rave from the tops of tubs against th^ men of Belial, till e\^ery trooper thought himself a prophet. They taught them to abuse popery, till every drummer fancied that he was as infallible as a pope. ‘‘ Then it Avas that religion changed her nature. She Avas no longer the parent of arts and letters, of Avholesome knoAvl- edge, of innocent pleasures, of blessed liousehold smiles. In their place came sour faces, whining A^oices, the chattering of fools, the yells of madmen. Then men fasted from meat and drink, Avho fasted not from bribes and blood. Then men froAvned at stage-plays, Avho smiled at massacres. Then men preached against painted faces, Avho felt no remorse for their OAvn most ]>ainted Ih^es. Religion had l^een a pole-star to Gght and to guide. It Avas noAV more like to that ominous star in the book of the Apocalypse, which fell from heaA^en upon the fountains and rivers and changed them into worm- wood ; for even so did it descend from its high and celestial dwelling-place to plague this earth, and to turn into bitter- ness all that was SAv^eet, and into poison all that was nour- ishing. “ Therefore it Avas not strange that such things should folio Av. They who had closed the barriers of London against the king could not defend them against their OA\m creatures. They who had so stoutly cried for privilege, Avhen that prince, most unadAusedly no doubt, came among them to demand their members, durst not Avag their fingers when Oliver VoL. I.— 7 98 MArAULAY’s MlSfTHlLL ANEOTTR WRTTTNOR. f]Il(‘(l tlicirhiill witli 8olledge that there shall be no deluge.” “ This is true,” said Mr. Cowley : “ yet these admoni- tions are not less needful to subjects than to sovereigns.” “ Surely,” said Mr. Milton ; “ and, that I may end this long debate with a few words in which we shall both agree, I hold that, as freedom is the only safeguard of govern- aients, so are order and moderation generally necessary to preserve freedom. Even the vainest opinions of men are not to be outraged by those who propose to themselves the happiness of men for their end, and who must work with the passions of men for their means. The blind reverence for things ancient is indeed so foolish that it might make a wise man laugh, if it were not also sometimes so mischiev. hJ4 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wuitings. oiis tliat it would ratlier make a good man weep. Yet, Riiice it may not be wliolly cured, it must be discreetly iudidged; and therefore those who would amend evil laws shouhl consider rather how much it may be safe to spare, than how much it may be possible to change. Have you not heard that men who have been shut up for many years in dungeons shrink if they see the light, and fall down if their irons be struck off. And so, when nations have long been in the house of bondage, the chains which have crip})led them are necessary to support them, the darkness which hath weakened their sight is necessary to |)reserve it. Therefore release them not too rashly, lest they curse their freedom and pine for their prison. ‘‘I think, indeed, that the renowned Parliament, of which we have talked so much, did show, until it became subject to the soldiers, a singular and admirable moderation, in such times scarcely to be hoped, and most worthy to be an exam- ple to all that shall come after. But on this argument I have said enough : and I will therefore only pray to Almighty God that those who shall, in future times, stand forth in defence of our liberties, as well civil as religious, may adorn the good cause by mercy, pruience, and soberness, to the glory of His name and the liapj^iness and honor of the Eng- lish people.” And so ended that discourse ; and not long after we were set on shore again at the Temple-gardens, and there parted company ; and the same evening I took notes of what liad been said, which I have here more fully set down, from regard both to the fame of the men, and the importance of the subject-matter. ON THE ATHENIAN ORATORS. {KnighVs Quarterly Magaziney August y 1824.) To the famous orators repair, lliose ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal, and fiilmined over Greece To Macedon and Artaxerxes’ throne. Milton. The celebrity of the great classical writers is confined within no limits, except those which separate civilized from ON THE ATHENIAN ORATORS. 105 savage man. Their works are tlie common property of every polished nation. They have furnished subjects for the painter, and models for the poet. In the minds of the educated classes throughout Europe, their names are in- dissolubly associated with the endearing recollections of childhood, — the old school room, — the dog-eared grammar, . — the first prize, — the tears so often shed and so quickly dried. So great is the veneration with which they are regarded, that even the editors and commentators who per- I'orm the lowest menial offices to their memory, are con- sidered, like the equerries and chamberlains of sovereign princes, as entitled to a high rank in the table of literary precedence. It is, therefore, somewhat singular that thei productions should so rarely have been examined on ju^ and philosophical principles of criticism. The ancient writers themselves afford us but little assis ance. When they particularize, they are commonly trivia 4vhen they would generalize, they become indistinct, exception must, indeed, be made in favor of Aristotl Both in analysis and in combination, that great man vii without a rival. No philosopher has ever possessed, in an equal degree, the talent either of separating established sys- tems into their primary elements, or of connecting detached phenomena in harmonious systems. He was the great fashioner of the intellectual chaos; he changed^its darkness into light, and its discord into order. He brought to literary researches the same vigor and amplitude of mind to which both physical and metaphysical science are so greatly in- debted. His fundamental principles of criticism are excel- lent. To cite only a single instance ; — the doctrine which he established, that poetry is an imitative art, when justly un- derstood, is to the critic what the compass is to the naviga- tor. With it he may venture upon the most extensive ex- cursions. Without it he must creep cautiously along the coast, or lose himself in a trackless expanse, and trust, at best, to the guidance of an occasional star. It is a discovery wdiich changes a caprice into a science. The general propositions of Aristotle are valuable. But the merit of the superstructure bears no proportion to that of the foundation. This is partly to be ascribed to the character of the philosopher, who, though qualified to do all that could be done by the resolving and combining powers of the understanding, seems not to have possessed much of sensibility or imagination, Partly, also, it may be attributed too MACAU I.Ay’b MISCELI.ANEOUS WRITINGS. to tlie deficiency of materials. The great works of genius wdiich then existed were not either sufficiently numerous or sufficiently varied to enable any man to form a perfect code of literature. To require that a critic should conceive classes of composition which had never existed, and then investigate their principles, would be as unreasonable as the demand of Nebuchadnezzar, who expected his magicians first to tell him his dream and then to interpret it. With all his deficiencies, Aristotle was the most en- lightened and profound critic of antiquity. Dionysius was far from possessing the same exquisite subtlety, or the same Mst comprehension. But he had access to a much greater imber of specimens; and he had devoted himself, as it pears, more exclusively to the study of elegant literature, is peculiar judgments are of more value than his general 'nciples. He is only the historian of literature. Aristotle ts ])hilosopher. Quintilian applied to general literature the same principles which he had been accustomed to judge of the declam a- ions of his pupils. He looks for nothing but rhetoric, and rhetoric not of the highest order. He speaks coldly of the incomparable works of -dEschylus. He admires, beyond expression, those inexhaustible mines of common-places, the plays of Euripides. He bestows a few vague words on the poetical charxicter of Homer. He then proceeds to consider him merely as an orator. An orator Homer doubtless was, and a great orator. But surely nothing is more remarkable, in his admirable work, than the art with which his oratorical powers are made subservient to the purposes of poetry. Nor can I think Quintilian a great critic in his own province. Just as are many of his remarks, beautiful as are many of his Illustrations, we can perpetually detect in his thoughts that flavor which the soil of despotism generally communicates to all the fruits of genius. Eloquence was, in this time, little more than a condiment which served to stimulate in a despot the jaded appetite for panegyric, an amusement for the travelled nobles and the blue-stocking matrons of Rome. It IS, therefore, with him, rather a sport than a war ; it is a contest of foils, not of swords. He appears to think more of the grace of the attitude than of the direction and vigor of the thrust. It must be acknowledged, in justice to Quin- tilian, that this is an error to which Cicero has too often given the sanction, both of his precept and of his exam])le. Longinus seems %q have had great sensibility, but little ON THE ATHENIAN ORATORS* 107 discrimination. lie gives us eloquent sentences, but no princij)les. It was happily said that Montesquieu ought to have changed tlic name of his book from U JE sprit des Lois to O' Esprit sur les Lois. In the same manner the philos- opher of Palmyra ought to have entitled his famous work, not “ Longinus on the Sublime,” but “ The Sublimities of Longinus.” The origin of the sublime is one of the most curious and interesting subjects of inquiry that can oc- cupy the attention of a critic. In our owm country it has been discussed, with great ability, and, I think, with very little success, by Burke and Dugald Stuart. Longinus dis- penses himself from all investigations of this nature, by telling his friend Terentianus that he already knows every thing that can be said upon the question. It is to be re- gretted that Terentianus did not impart some of his knowl- edge to his instructor : for from Longinus we learn only that suWimity means height — or elevation.* This name, so commodiously vague, is applied indifferently to the noble prayer of Ajax in the Iliad, and to a passage of Plato about the human body, as full of conceits as an ode of Cowley. Having no fixed standard, Longinus is right only by accident. He is rather a fancier than a critic. Modern writers have been prevented by many causes from supplying the deficiencies of their classical predecessors. At the time of the revival of literature, no man could, with- out great and painful labor, acquire an accurate and elegant knowledge of the ancient languages. And, unfortunately, those grammatical and philological studies, without which it was impossible to understand the great works of Athenian and Roman genius, have a tendency to contract the views and deaden the sensibility of those w^ho follow them with extreme assiduity. A powerful mind, which has been long employed in such studies, may be" compared to the gigant'.o fipirp. in the Arabian tale, who was persuaded to contract himself to small dimensions in order to enter within the en- chanted vessel, and when his prison had been closed upon him., found himself unable to escape from the narrow boun- daries to the measure of which he had reduced his stature. When the means have long been the objects of application, they are naturally substituted for the end. It was said, by Eugene of Savoy, that the greatest generals have commonly been those who have been at once raised to command, and introduced to the great operations of war, without being • ’A/fpoTijs Ka\ Tis t\6y(iiv iarl rd 108 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. t'mjiloyed in llie petty calculations and manoeuvres which employed the time of an inferior officer. In literature the j)rinciple is ecpially sound. The great tactics of criticism will, in general, be best understood by those who have not had inuch })i*actice in drilling syllables and particles. I remember to have observed among tlie French Anas a ludicrous instance of this. A scholar, doubtless of great learning, recommends the study of some long Latin treatise, of which I now forget the name, on the religion, manners, government and language of the early Greeks. “ For there,” says he, “ you will learn every thing of importance that is contained in the Iliad and Odyssey, without the trouble of reading two such tedious books.” Alas ! it had not occurred to the poor gentleman that all the knowledge to which he attached so much value was useful only as it illustrated the great poems which he despised, and w^ould be as worth- less for any other purpose as the mythology of Caffraria, or the vocabulary of Otaheite. Of those scholars who have disdained to confine themselves to verbal criticism few have been successful. The ancient languages have, generally, a magical influence on their facul- ties. They were fools called into a circle by Greek invo- cations.” The Iliad and JEneid w^ere to them not book«, but curiosities, or rather reliques. They no more admired those Avorks for their merits than a good Catholic venerates the house of the Virgin at Loretto for its architectu>*e. Whatever Avas classical Avas good. Homer Avas a great poet ; and so AA^as Callimachus. The epistles of Cicero were fine; and so Avere those of Phalaris. Even with respect to ques- tions of evidence they fell into the same error. The author- ity of all narrations, Avritten in Greek or Latin, was the same Avith them. It never crossed their minds that the lapse of five hundred years, or the distance of five hundred leagues, could affect the accuracy of a narration; — tliat Livy could be a less A^eracious historian than Polybius; — or that Plutarch could knoAv less about the friends of Xenophon than Xenophon himself. Deceived by the distance of time, they seem to consider all the Classics as contemporaries; just as I liaA^e known people in England, deceived by the distance of place, take it for granted that all persons who live in India are neighbors, and ask an inhabitant of Bom- bay about the health of an acquaintance at Calcutta. It is to be hoped that no barbarian deluge will ever again pass over Europe. But, should such a calamity happen, ON THE ATHENIAN ORATOES. 109 It seems not improbable that some future Rollir or Gil- lies will compile a history of England from Miss Porter’s Scottish Chiefs, Miss Lee’s Recess, and Sir Nathaniel Wraxall’s Memoirs. It is surely time that ancient literature should be ex^ amined in a different manner, without pedantical preposses- sions, but with a just allowance, at the same time, for the difference of circumstances and manners. I am far froni pretending to the knowledge or ability which such a task would require. All that I mean to offer is a collection of desultory remarks upon a most interesting portion of Greek literature. It may be doubted whether any compositions which have ever been produced in the world are equally perfect in their kind with the great Athenian orations. Genius is subject to the same laws which regulate the production of cotton and molasses. The supply adjusts itself to the demand. The quantity may be diminished by restrictions, and multiplied by bounties. The singular excellence to which eloquence attained at Athens is to be mainly attributed to the influence which it exerted there. In turbulent times, under a con- stitution purely democratic, among a people educated exactly to that point at which men are most susceptible of strong and sudden impressions, acute, but not sound reasoners, warm in their feelings, unfixed in their principles, and passionate admirers of fine composition, oratory re- ceived such encouragement as it has never since obtained. The taste and knowledge of the Athenian people was a favorite object of the contemptuous derision of Samuel Johnson ; a man who knew nothing of Greek literature be- yond the common school-books, and Avho seems to have brought to what he had read scarcely more than the discern- ment of a common school-boy. He used to assert, with that arrogant absurdity which, in spite of his great abilities and virtues, renders him, perhaps, the most ridiculous character in literary history, that Demosthenes spoke to a people of brutes ; — to a barbarous people ; — that there could have been no civilization before the invention of printing. Johnson was a keen but a very narrow-minded observer of mankind. He perpetually confounded their general nature with their particular circumstances. He knew London intimately. The sagacity of his remarks on its society is perfectly astonishing. But Fleet Street was the world to him. He saw that Londoners who did not read were profoundly no Macaulay’s miscellane(Jtus wiiiTiNcs. ii^Cnoraiit ; and 1 k‘ inferred tliat a (^reek, wdio liad few or no hooks, 111 list have licaai as uninformed as one of Mr. Thrale’s (Iraynu'n. Tliere seems to be, on the contrary, every reason to be- lieve tliat, in general intelligence, tlie Athenian j>opulace far surpassed the lower orders of any community that lias ever existed. It must be considered, that to be a citizen was to be a legislator, — a soldier, — a judge, — one upon wliose voice iniglit depend tlie fate of the wealthiest tributary state, of the most eminent public man. The lowest offices, both of agriculture and of trade, were, in common, performed by slaves. The commonwealth supjdied its meanest members with the support of life, the opportunity of leisure, and the means of amusement. Books were indeed few : but they were excellent; and they were accurately known. It is not by turning over libraries, but by repeatedly perusing and intently contemplating a few great models, that the mind is best disciplined. A man of letters must nov/ read much that he soon forgets, and much from which he learns nothing worthy to be remembered. The best works employ, in general, but a small portion of his time. Demosthenes is said to have transcribed six times the history of Thucydides. If he had been a young politician of the present age, he might in the same space of time have skimmed innumerable newspapers and pamphlets. I do not condemn that desul- tory mode of study which the state of things, in our day, renders a matter of necessity. But I may be allowed to doubt whether the changes on which the admirers of modern institutions delight to dwell have improved our condition so much in reality as in appearance. Rumford, it is said, pro- posed to the elector of Bavaria a scheme for feeding his soldiers at a much cheaper rate than formerly. His plan was simply to compel them to masticate their food thoroughly. A small quantity, thus eaten, would, according to that famous projector, afford more sustenance than a large meal hastily devoured. I do not know how Rumford^a ( )roposition was received ; but to the mind, I believe, it will )e found more nutritious to digest a page than to devour a volume. Books, however, were the least part of the education of an Athenian citizen. Let us, for a moment, transport our- selves, in thought, to that glorious city. Let us imagine that we are entering its gates, in the time of its power and glory. A crowd is assembled round a portico. All are gazing with ON THE ATHENIAN ORATORS. Ill delight at the entablature ; for Phidias is putting up the frieze. We turn into another street ; a rhapsodist is recit- ing there : men, Av^omen, children are thronging round him : the tears are running down their cheeks : their eyes are .fixed ; their very breath is still ; for he is telling how Priam lell at the feet of Achilles, and kissed those hands, — the terrible, — the murderous, — which had slain so many of his sons.* We enter the public place ; there is a ring of youths, all leaning forward, with sparkling eyes, and gestures of expectation. Socrates is pitted against the famous atheist, from Ionia, and has just brought him to a contradiction in terms. But we are interrupted. The herald is crying — “ Room for the Prytanes.” The general assembly is to meet. The people are SAvarming in on every side. Proc- lamation is made — “ Who wishes to speak.” There is a shout, and a clapping of hands ; Pericles is mounting the stand. Then for a jday of Sojihocles; and away to sup Avith Aspasia. I knoAV of no modern university which has so excellent a system of education. Knowledge thus acquired and opinions thus formed were, indeed, likely to be, in some respects, defecth^e. Proposi- tions Avhich are advanced in discourse generally result from a partial AueAV of the question, and cannot be kept under examination long enough to be corrected. Men of great conversational poAvers almost universally practise a sort of lively sophistry and exaggeration, Avhich deceives, for the moment, both themselves and their auditors. Thus we see doctrines, Avhicli cannot bear a close inspection, triumph per- petually in draAving-rooms, in debating societies, and even in legislath^e or judicial assemblies. To the conversational education of the Athenians I am inclined to attribute the great looseness of reasoning Avhich is remarkable in most of tlieir scientific writings. Even the most illogical of modern writers would stand perfectly aghast at the puerile fallacies Avhich seem to have deluded some of the greatest men of antiquity. Sir Thomas Lethbridge Avould stare at the political economy of Xenophon ; and the author of Soirees de Peter shourg would be ashamed of some of the metaphysi- cal arguments of Plato. But the A’ery circumstances which retarded the growth of science Avere peculiarly favorable to the culth^ation of eloquence . From the early habit of taking a share in animated discussion the intelligent student • ■ — — Ktu Kvae 112 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. would derive that readiness of resource, that copiousness of language, and that knowledge of the temj)er and under- standing of an audience, which are far more valuable to an orator than the greatest logical powers. Horace has prettily compared poems to those paintings of which the effect varies as the spectator changes his stand. The same remark applies with at least equal justice to speeches. They must be read with the temper of those to whom they were addressed, or they must necessarily appear to offend against the laws of taste and reason ; as the finest picture, seen in a light different from that for which it was designed, will appear fit only for a sign. This is perpetually forgotten by those who criticise oratory. Because they are reading at leisure, pausing at every line, reconsidering every argument, they forget that the hearers were hurried from point to point too rapidly to detect the fallacies through which they were conducted ; that they had no time to dis- entangle sophisms, or to notice slight inaccuracies of expres- sion; that elaborate excellence, either of reasoning or of language, would have been absolutely thrown away. To recur to the analogy of the sister art, these connoisseurs examine a panorama through a microscope, and quarrel with a scene-painter because he does not give to his work the exquisite finish of Gerard Dow. Oratory is to be estimated on principles different from those which are applied to other productions. Truth is the object of philosophy and history. Truth is the object even of those works which are peculiarly called works of fiction, but which, in fact, bear the same relation to history which algebra bears to arithmetic. The merit of poetry, in its wildest forms, still consists in its truth, — truth conveyed to the understanding, not directly by the words, but circui- tously by means of imaginative associations, which serve as its conductors. The object of oratory alone is not truth, but persuasion. The admiration of the multitude does not make Moore a greater poet than Coleridge, or Beattie a greater philosopher than Berkeley. But the criterion of eloquence is different. speaker who exhausts the whole philosophy of a question, who displays every grace of style, yet produces no effect on his audience, may be a great essayist, a great statesman, a great master of composition ; but he is not an oratoA If he miss the mark, it makes no differeuoe whether have taken aim too high or too low- ON THE ATHENIAN ORATORS. 113 The effect of the great freedom of the press in England has been, in a great measure, to destroy this distinction, and to leave among us little of what I call Oratory Proper. Our legislators, our candidates, on great occasions even our advocates, address themselves less to the audience than to tlie reporters. They think less of the few hearers than of the innumerable readers. At Athens the case was different ; there the only object of the speaker was immediate convic- tion and persuasion. He, therefore, who would justly ap- preciate the merit of the Grecian orators should place him- self, as nearly as possible, in the situation of their auditors : he should divest himself of his modern feelings and acquire- ments, and make the prejudices and interests of the Athenian citizen his own. He who studies their w’orks in this spirit will find that many of those things which, to an Elnglish reader, appear to be blemishes, — the frequent viola- tion of those excellent rules of evidence by which our courts of law are regulated, — the introduction of extraneous matter, — the reference to considerations of political expediency in judicial investigations, — the assertions, without proof, — the passionate entreaties, — the furious invectives, — are really proofs of the prudence and address of the speakers. Ho must not dwell maliciously on arguments or phrases, but acquiesce in his first impressions. It requires repeated perusal and reflection to decide rightly on any other portion of literature. But with respect to works of which the merit depends on their instantaneous effect the most hasty judg- ment is likely to be best. The history of eloquence at Athens is remarkable. From a very early period great speakers had flourished there. Pisistratus and Themistocles are said to have owed much of their influence to their talents for debate. We learn, with more certainty, that Pericles was distinguished by extra- ordinary oratorical powers. The substance of some of his eeches is transmitted to us by Thucydides; and that excellent writer has doubtless faithfully reported the general line of his arguments. But the manner, which in oratory is of at least as much consequence as the matter, was of no importance to his narration. It is evident that he has not attempted to preserve it. Throughout his work, every speech on every subject, whatever may have been the char- acter or the dialect of the speaker, is in exactly the same form. The grave king of Sparta, the furious demagogue of Athens, tho general cmcouraging his army, the captive sup^ You I.— 8 114 Macaulay’s miscellankous writings. |)licatiiig for liis life, all are represented as speakers 5n one unvaried style, — a style moreover wholly unfit for oratorical purposes. Ilis mode of reasoning is singularly elliptical, — in reality most consecutive, — yet in appearance often in- coherent. Ilis meaning, in itself sufficiently ])erplexing, is compressed into tlie fewest possible words. Ilis great fond- ness for antithetical expression has not a little conduced to this effect. Every one must have observed how much more the sense is condensed in the verses of Pope and his imita- tors, who never ventured to continue the same clause from couplet to couplet, than in those of poets who allow them- selves that license. Every artificial division, Avhich is strongly marked, and which frequently recurs, has the same tendency. The natural and perspicuous expression which spontaneously rises to the mind will often refuse to accom- modate itself to such a form. It is necessary either to expand it into weakness, or to compress it into almost im- penetrable density. The latter is generally the choice of an able man, and was assuredly the choice of Thucydides. It is scarcely necessary to say that such speeches could never have been delivered. They are perhaj)s among the most difficult passages in the Greek language, and would probably have been scarcely more intelligible to an Athenian auditor than to a modern reader. Their obscurity was acknowledged by Cicero, who was as intimate with the literature and language of Greece as the most accomplished of its natives, and who seems to have held a respectable rank among the Greek authors. Their difficulty to a modern reader lies, not in the words, but in the reasoning. A dictionary is of far less use in studying them than a clear head and a close attention to the context. They are valu- able to the scholar as displaying, beyond almost any other compositions, the powers of the finest of languages : they are valuable to the philosopher as illustrating the morals and manners of a most interesting age : they abound in just thought and energetic expression. But they do not enable us to form any accurate opinion on the merks of the early Greek orators. Though it cannot be doubted that, before the Persian wars, Athens had produced eminent speakers, yet the period during wliich eloquence most flourishcvl among her citizens w^as by no means that of her greatest power and glory. It commenced at the close of the Peloponnesian war. In fact, the steps by wbieb Atbsaiau oratory appi cached to its ON THE ATHENIAN ORATORS. 115 fiiiislied excenenco seem to have been almost contempo- raneous witli those by which the Atlieiiiaii character and the Athenian em})ire sunk to degradation. At the time when the little commonwealth achieved those victories which twenty-five eventful centuries have left unequalled, eloquence was in its infancy. The deliverers of Greece became its plunderers and oppressors. Unmeasured exaction, atrocious vengeance, the madness of the multitude, the tyranny of the great, filled the Cyclades with tears, and blood, and mourning. The sword unpeopled whole islands in a day. The plough passed over the ruins of famous cities. The imperial republic sent forth her children by thousands to pine in the quarries of Syracuse, or to feed the vultures of ^gospotami. She was at length reduced by famine and slaughter to humble herself before her enemies, and to ])ur- chase existence by the sacrifice of her emiDire and her laws. During these disastrous and gloomy years, oratory was advancing towards its highest excellence. And it was when the moral, the political, and the military character of the people was most utterly degraded, it was when the viceroy of a Macedonian sovereign gave law to Greece, that the courts of Athens witnessed the most splendid contest of eloquence that the world has ever known. The causes of this phenomenon it is not, I think, diffi- cult to assign. The division of labor operates on the pro- ductions of the orator as it does on those of the mechanic. It was remarked by the ancients that the Pentathlete, who divided his attention between several exercises, though he could not vie with a boxer in the use of the cestus, or with one who had confined his attention to running in the con- test of the stadium, yet enjoyed far greater general vigor and health than either. It is the same with the mind. The superiority in technical skill is often more than compensated by the inferiority in general intelligence. And this is pecu- liarly the case in politics. States have always been best goverpe d by men who have taken a wide vi aw of p utdi^c^ affairs, a j id who have rathe r a gen eral acquai ntance ..with many sciences than a perfe ct mastm'y; of The union of the politiclil and mllitary'd^'lKmen in Greece contributed not a little to the splendor of its early history. After their separation more skilful generals and greater speakers ap- peared ; but the breed of statesmen dwindled and became almost extinct. Themistocles or Pericles would have been no match for Demosthenes in the assembly, or for Iphicratea 116 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. in the field. But surely they were incom jiariihly better fitted than either for the supreme direction of affairs. There is indeed a remarkable coincidence between the progress of the art of war, and that of the art of oratory, among the Greeks. They both advanced to perfection by contemporaneous steps, and from similar causes. The early sj>eakers, like the early warriors of Greece, were merely a militia. It was found that in both employments practice and discipline gave superiority.* Each pursuit, therefore, became first an art, and then a trade. In proportion as the professors of each became more expert in their particular craft, they became less respectable in their general character. Their skill had been obtained at too great expense to bo employed only from disinterested views. Thus, the soldiers forgot that they were citizens, and the orators that they were statesmen. I know not to what Demosthenes and his famous contemporaries can be so justly compared as to those mercenary troops who, in their time, overran Greece; or those who, from similar causes, were some centuries ago the scourge of the Italian republics, — perfectly acquainted with every part of their profession, irresistible in the field, powerful to defend or to destroy, but defending without love, and destroying without hatred. We may despise the characters of these political Condottieri ; but it is impos- sible to examine the system of their tactics without being amazed at its perfection. I had intended to proceed to this examination, and to consider separately the remains of Lysias, of uEschines, of Demosthenes, and of Isocrates, who, though strictly speaking he was rather a pamphleteer than an orator, deserves, on many accounts, a place in such a disquisition. The length ♦ It has often occurred to me, that to the circumstances mentioned in the text is to be referred one of the most remarkable events in Grecian history ; I mean the silent but rapid downfall of the Lacedaemonian power. Soon after the termi- nation ot the Peloponnesian war, the strength of Lacedaemon began to decline. Its military discipline, its social institutions, were the same. Agesilaus, during whose reign the change took place, was the ablest of its kings. Yet the Spartan armies were frequently defeated in pitched battles.— an occurrence considered impossible in the earliei‘ages of Greece. They are allowed to have fdhght most l)ravely ; yet they' were no longer attended by the success to which they had formerly been accustomed. No solution of these circumstances is offered, as far as I know, by any ancient author. The real cause, I conceive, was this. The Lacedaemonians, alone among the Greeks, formed a permanent standing army. While the citizens of other commonwealths were engaged in agriculture and trade, they had no employment whatever but the study of military discipline. Hence, during the Persian and Peloponnesian wars, they had that advantage over their neighbors which regular troops always possess over militia. This ad- vantage they lost, when other states began, at a later period, to employ merce- nary forces, who were probably as superior *;o them iu the art of war as they had hitherto been to their antagonists. A pnOPBTETlC ACCOUKT OP Al^ EPIC POEM. 117 of my prolegomena and digressions compels me to postpone this part of the subject to another occasion. A Magazine is certainly a delightful invention for a very idle or a very busy man. He is not compelled to complete his plan or to adhere to his subject. He may ramble as far as he is inclined, and stop as soon as he is tired. No one takes the trouble to recollect his contradictory opinions or his unre- deemed pledges. He may be as superficial, as inconsistent, and as careless as he chooses. Magazines laesemble those little angels, who, according to the pretty Rabbinical tradi- tion, are generated e\ery morning by the brook which rolls over the flowers of Paradise, — whose life is a song, — who warble till sunset, and then sink back without regret into nothingness. Such spirits have nothing to do with the de- tecting spear of Itliuriel or the victorious sword of Michael It is enough for them to please and be forgotten. A PROPHETIC ACCOUNT OF .A GRAND NATION- AL EPIC POEM, TO BE ENTITLED “THE WELLINGTONIAD ” AND TO BE PUBLISHED A. D. 2824. {KnighVs Quarterly Magazine^ November, 1824 .) How I became a prophet it is not very important to the reader to know. Nevertheless I feel all the anxiety wnich, under similar circumstances, troubled the sensitive mind of Sidrophel; and, like him, am eager to vindicate myself from the suspicion of having practised forbidden arts, or held intercourse with beings of another world. I solemnly de- clare, therefore, that I never saw a ghost, like Lord Lyttle- ton ; consulted a gypsy, like Josephine ; or heard my name pronouced by an absent person, like Dr. Johnson. Though it is now almost as usual for gentlemen to appear at the mo- ment of their death to their friends as to call on them during tlieir life, none of my acquaintance have been so polite as to pay me that customary attention. I have derived my knowledge neither from the dead nor from the living; neither from the lines of a hand, nor from the grounds of a tea-cup ; neither from the stars of the firmament, nor from 118 Macaulay’s misckllankous \yuitixgs. tlio IioikIs of tlio al)yss. T liavo never, like llu' Wesley tjimily, heard “ that inii^hty l(‘aart of lu‘aven’s sons,” scratching in my cup- board. I have never been enticed to sign any of those de- lusive bonds wliicli have been the ruin of so many poor creatures; and, having always been an indifferent horse- man, I liave been careful not to venture myself on a broora- Ft ick. My insight into futurity, like that of George Fox the piaker, and that of our great and philosophic poet, Lord Byron, is derived from simple presentiment. This is a far less artificial jirocess than those which are employed by some others. Yet my predictions wall, I believe, be found more correct than their’s, or, at all events, as Sir Benjamin Backbite says in the play, more circumstantial.” I ])rophesy, then, that, in tlie year 2824, according to our present reckoning, a grand national Epic Poem, worthy to be compared with the Iliad, the .^neid, or the Jerusalem, will be published in London. Men naturally take an interest in the adventures ot every eminent writer. I will, therefore, gratify the laudable curi- osity, which, on this occasion, will doubtless be universal, by prefixing to my account of the poem a concise memoir of the poet. Richard Quongti wdll be born at Westminster on the 1st of July, 2786. He will be the younger son of the younger branch of one of the most respectable families in England. He will be lineally descended from Quongti, the famous Chinese liberal, who, after the failure of the heroic attempt of his party to obtain a constitution from the Emperor Fim Fam, will take refuge in England, in the twenty-third century. Here his descendants will obtain considerable note ; and one branch of the family will be raised to the peerage. Richard, however, though destined to exalt his family to distinction far nobler than any which wealth or titles can bestow, will be born to a very scanty fortune. He will dis- play in his early youth such striking talents as will attract the notice of Viscount Quongti, his third cousin, then secre- tary of State for the Staem Department. At the expense of this eminent nobleman, he will be sent to prosecute his studies at the university of Tombuctoo. To that illustrious seat of the muses all the ingenuous youth of every country will then be attracted by the high scientific character of \ PROPHETIC ACCOUNT OF AN EPIC POEM. ilc9 P\ ofessor Quashaboo, and the eminent literary attainments of Professor Kissey Kickey. In spite of this formidable com- petition, however, Quongti will acquire the highest honors in every department of knowledge, and will obtain the esteem of his associates by his amiable and unaffected man- ners. The guardians of the young Duke of Carrington, premier peer of England, and the last remaining scion of th« ancient and illustrious house of Smith, will be desirous to secure so able an instructor for their v^ard. With the Duke, Quongti will perform the grand tour, and visit the polished courts of Sydney and Capetown. After prevailing on his pupil, with great difficulty, to subdue a violent and imprudent passion which he had conceived for a Hottentot lacty, of great beauty and accomplishments indeed, but of dubious character, he will travel with him to the United States of America. But that tremendous war which will be fatal to American liberty wdll, at that time, be raging through the whole federation. At New York the travellers will hear of the final defeat and death of the illustrious champion of freedom, Jonathan Iligginbottom, and of the elevation of Ebenezer Ilogsflesh to the perpetual Presidency. They will not choose to proceed in a journey which would expose them to the insults of that brutal soldiery, whose cruelty and rapacity will have devastated Mexico and Colom- bia, and now, at length, enslaved their own country. On their return to England, a. d. 2810, the death of the Duke will compel his preceptor to seek for a subsistence by literary labors. His fame will be raised by many small productions of considerable merit ; and he will at last obtain a permanent place in the highest class of writers by his great epic poem. This celebrated Tvork will become, with unexampled ra- pidity, a popular favorite. Tlie sale will be so beneficial to the author that, instead of going about the dirty streets on his velocipede, he will be enabled to set up his balloon. The character of this noble poem will be so finely and justly given in the Tombuctoo Review for April, 2825, that I cannot refrain from translating the passage. The author will be our poet’s old preceptor. Professor Kissey Kickey. “In pathos, in splendor of language, in sweetness oi versification, Mr. Quongti has long been considered as un- rivalled. In his exquisite poem on the OrnithoryneJms Par* adoxus all these qualities are displayed in their greatest per- fection, How exquisitely does that work arrest and em- 120 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. body tlie mulefined and va^iie shadows which flit over an imaginative mind. The cold worldling may net comprehend it; but it will find a response in the bosom of every youthful poet, of every enthusiastic lover who lias seen an Orni- thorynchus Paradoxus by moonliglit. But we were yet to learn that he possessed the comprehension, the judgment, and the fertility of mind indispensable to the epic ])oet. “It is difficult to conceive a plot more perfect than that of the ‘ Wellingtoniad.’ It is most faithful to the manners of the age to which it relates. It preserves exactly all the historical circumstances, and interweaves them most artfully with all the speciosa miracula of supernatural agency.” Thus far the learned Professor of Humanity in the uni- versity of Tombuctoo. I fear that the critics of our time will form an opinion diametrically opposite as to these very points. Some will, I fear, be disgusted by the machinery, which is derived from the mythology of ancient Greece. I can only say that in the twenty-ninth century, that machin- ery will be universally in use among poets ; and that Quongti will use it, partly in conformity with the general practice, and partly from a veneration, perhaps excessive, for the great remains of classical antiquity, which AVill then, as now, be assiduously read by every man of education ; though Tom Moore’s songs will be forgotten, and only three copies of Lord Byron’s works will exist : one in the possession of King George the Nineteenth, one in the Duke of Carrington’s collection, and one in the library of the British Museum. Finally, should any good people be concerned to hear that Pagan fictions will so long retain their influence over litera- ture, let them reflect that, as the Bishop of St. David’s says, in his “Proofs of the Inspiration of the Sibylline Verses,” read at the last meeting of the Royal Society of Literature, “ at all events, a Pagan is not a Papist.” Some readers of the present day may think that Quongti is by no means entitled to the compliments which his Negro critic pays him on his adherence to the historical circum- stances of the time in which he has chosen his subject ; that, where he introduces any trait of our manners, it is in the wrong place, and that he confounds the customs of our age v/ith those of much more remote periods. I can only say that the charge is infinitely more applicable to Homer, Virgil and Tasso. If, therefore, the reader should detect, in the follow- ing abstract of the plot, any little deviation from strict his- torical accuracy, let him reflect, for a moment, whether A PROPHBTIC ACCOUNT OP AN EPIC POEML 121 Agamemnon would not liave found as mucli to censure in the Iliad, — Ilido in the ^neid, — or Godfrey in the Jerusalem. Let him not suffer his opinions to depend on circumstances which cannot possibly affect the truth or falsehood of the representation. If it be impossible for a single man to kill hundreds in battle, the impossibility is not diminished by distance of time. If it be as certain that Rinaldo never dis- enchanted a forest in Palestine as it is that the Duke of Wellington never disenchanted the forest of Soignies, can we, as rational men, tolerate the one story and ridicule the other ? Of this, at least, I am certain, that 'vvhatever excuse we have for admiring the plots of those famous poems our children will have for extolling that of the “ Wellingtoniad.” I shall proceed to give a sketch of the narrative. The subject is “ The Reign of the Hundred Days.” BOOK I. The poem commences, in form, with a solemn proposition of the subject. Then the muse is invoked to give the poet accurate information as to the causes of so terrible a com- motion. The answer to this question, being, it is to be sup- posed, the joint production of the poet and the muse, ascribes the event to circumstances which have hitherto eluded all the research of political writers, namely, the influence of the god Mars, who, we are told, had some forty years before usurped the con j ugal rights of old Carlo Buonaparte, and given birth to Napoleon. By his incitement it was that the emperor with his devoted companions was now on the sea, returning to his ancient dominions. The gods were at present, fortunately for the adventurer, feasting with the Ethiopians, whose en- tertainments, according to the ancient custom described by Homer, they annually attended, with the same sort of con- descending gluttony which now carries the cabinet to Guild- hall on the 9th of November. Neptune was, in consequence, absent, and unable to prevent the enemy of his favorite island from crossing his element. Boreas, however, who had his abode on the banks of the Russian ocean, and who, like Thetis in the Iliad, was not of sufficient quality to have an invitation to Ethiopia, resolves to destroy the armament; which brings war and danger to his beloved Alexander. He accordingly raises a storm which is most powerfully described. Napoleon bewails the inglorious fate for which he seems to be reserved. “ Ob ! thrice happy,” says he, “ those who were 122 Macaulay’s AnscELLANEOus writings. frozen to dcaili at Krasnoi, or slau^litenMl at Leipzig. Oh, Kutiisoff, l)ravest of th(‘ Kiissians, wh(M’efore was I not per- mitted to fall l>y the victoi ious swanal?^’ Jle then offers a prayer to -^olus, and vows to him a sacrifice of a black ram. In consequence, the god recalls his turbulent subject; the sea is calmed ; and the ship anchors in the port of Frejus. No/- ])oleon and Bertrand, who is always called the faithful Ber- trand, land to explore the country ; Mars meets them dis- guised as a lancer of the guard, wearing the cross of the legion of honor. He advises them to ajiply for necessaries of all kinds to the governor, shows them the way, and disappears with a strong smell of gunpowder. Napoleon makes a pa- thetic speech, and enters the governor’s house. Here he sees hanging up a fine print of the battle of Austerlitz, him- self in the foreground giving his orders. This puts him in high spirits ; he advances and salutes the governor, who re- ceives him most loyally, gives him an entertainment, and, according to the usage of all epic hosts, insists, after dinner, on a full narration of all that has happened to him since the battle of Leipzig. BOOK II. Napoleon carries his narrative from the battle of Leipzig to his abdication. But, as we shall have a great quantity of fighting on our hands, I think it best to omit the details. BOOK III. Napoleon describes his sojourn at Elba, and his return , how he was driven by stress of weather to Sardinia, and fought with the harpies there; how he was then carried southward to Sicily, where he generously took on board an English sailor, whom a man of war had unhappily left there, and who was in imminent danger of being devoured by the Cyclops ; how he landed in the bay of Naples, saw the Sibyl, and descended to Tartarus ; how he held a long and pathetic conversation with Poniatowski, whom he found wandering unburied on the banks of Styx ; how he swore to give him a splendid funeral ; how he had also an affec- tionate interview with Desaix ; how Moreau and Sir Ralph Abercrombie fled at the sight of him. He relates that he then re-embarked, and met with nothing of importance till the commencement of the storm v/ith which the poem opens. A prophetic; account of an epic poem. 123 BOOK IV. The scene changes to Paris. Fame, in the garb of an express, brings intelligence of the landing of Napoleon. The king performs a sacrifice : but the entrails are unfavorable ; and the victim is without a heart. He prepares to encounter the invader. A young captain of the guard, — the son of Marie Antoinette by Apollo, — in the shape of a fiddler, rushes in to tell him that Napoleon is approaching with a vast army. The royal forces are drawn out for battle. Full catalogues are given of the regiments on both sides; their colonels, lieutenant-colonels, and uniform. BOOK V* The king comes forward and defies Napoleon to single combat. Napoleon accepts it. Sacrifices are offered. The ground is measured by Ney and Macdonald. The com- batants advance. Louis snaps his pistol in vain. The bullet of Napoleon, on the contrary, carries off the tip of the king’s ear. Napoleon then rushes on him sword in hand. But Louis snatches up a stone, such as ten men of those degenerate days will be unable to move, and hurls it at his antagonist. Mars averts it. Napoleon then seizes Louis, and is about to strike a fatal blow, when Bacchus intervenes, like Venus in the third book of the Iliad, bears off the king in a thick cloud, and seats him in an hotel at Lille, with a bottle of Maraschino and a basin of soup before him. Both armies instantly proclaim Napoleon emperor. BOOK VI. Nettune, returned from his Ethiopian revels, sees with rage the events which have taken place in Europe. He flies to the cave of Alecto, and drags out the fiend, commanding her to excite universal hostility against Napoleon. Tlje Fury repairs to Lord Castlereagh ; and, as, when she visited Turnus, she assumed the form of an old woman, she here a]> pears in the kindred shape of Mr. Vansittart, and in an impas- sioned address exhorts his lordship to war. His lordship, like Turnus, treats this unwonted monitor wdth great disrespect, tells him that he is an old doting fool, and advises him to look after the ways ane means, and leave questions of peace and war to his betters. ‘T le Fury then displays all her terrors. The neat pov^dered hair bristles up into snakes; 124 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. the black stockings appear clotted with blood ; and, bran dishing a torch, she announces her name and mission. Lord Castku-eagli, seized with fury, flies instantly to the Parliar ment, and recommends war with a torrent of eloquent in- vective. All the members instantly clamor for vengeance, seize their arms which are hanging round the walls of the house, and rush forth to prepare for instant hostilities. BOOK VII. In this book intelligence arrives at London of the flight of the Duchess d’Angouleme from France. It is stated that this heroine, armed from head to foot, defended Bordeaux against the adherents of Napoleon, and that she fought hand to hand with Clausel, and beat him down with an enormous stone. Deserted by her followers, she at last, like Turnus, plunged, armed as she was, into the Garonne, and swam to an English ship which lay off the coast. This in- telligence yet more inflames the English to war. A yet bolder flight than any which has been mentioned follows. The Duke of Wellington goes to take leave of the duchess ; and a scene passes quite equal to the famous inter- view of Hector and Andromache. Lord Douro is frightened at his father’s feather, but begs for his epaulette. BOOK VIIL Neptune, trembling for the eveiiC of the war, implores Venus, who, as the offspring of his element, naturally vener- ates him, to procure from Vulcan a deadly sword and a pair of unerring pistols for the duke. They are accordingly made, and superbly decorated. The sheath of the sword, like the shield of Acliilles, is carved, in exquisitely fine miniature, with scenes from the common life of the period ; a dance at Almack’s, a boxing match at the Fives-court, a lord mayor’s procession, and a man hanging. All these are fully and elegantly described. The duke thus armed hastens to Brussels. BOOK IX The duke is received at Brussels by the King of the Netherlands with great magnificence. He is informed of the approach of the armies of all the confederate kings. The poet, however, with a laudable zeal for the glory of his A PROPHETIC ACCOUNT OP AN EPIC POEM. 125 country, completely passes over the exploits of the Austrians in Italy, and the discussions of the congress. England and France, Wellington and Napoleon, almost exclusively occupy his attention. Several days are spent at Brussels in revelry. The English heroes astonish their allies by exhibiting splen- did games, similar to those which draw the flower of the British aristocracy to Newmarket and Moulsey Hurst, and which will be considered by our descendants with as much veneration as the Olympian and Isthmian contests by clas- sical students of the present time. In the combat of the cestus, Shaw, the life-guardsman, vanquishes the Prince of Orange, and obtains a bull as a prize. In the horse-race, the Duke of Wellington and Lord Uxbridge ride against each other ; the duke is victorious, and is rewarded with twelve opera-girls. On the last day of the festivities, a splendid dance takes place, at which all the heroes attend. BOOK X. Mars, seeing the English army thus inactive, hastens to rouse Napoleon, who, conducted by Night and Silence, un- expectedly attacks the Prussians. The slaughter is immense. Napoleon kills many whose histories and families are hap- pily particularized. He slays Herman, the craniologist, who dwelt by the linden-shadowed Elbe, and measured with his eye the skulls of all who walked through the streets of Berlin. Alas ! his own skull is now cleft by the Corsican sword. Four pupils of the University of Jena advance to- gether to encounter the emperor ; at four blows he destroys them all. Blucher rushes to arrest the devastation ; Napo- leon strikes him to the ground, and is on the point of killing him, but Gneisenau, Ziethen, Bulow, and all the other heroes of the Prussian army, gather round him, and bear the vener- able chief to a distance from the field. The slaughter is continued till night. In the mean time Neptune has de- spatched Fame to bear the intelligence to the duke, who is dancing at Brussels. The whole army is put in motion. The Duke of Brunswick’s horse speaks to admonish him of his danger, but in vain. BOOK XI. PiCTON, the Duke of Brunswick, and the Prince of Orange, engage Ney at Quatre Bras. Ney kills the Duke of Brunswick, and strips him, sending his belt to Napoleon. 126 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. The Englisli full hack on Waterloo. Jupiter calls a council of the gods, and commands tliat none shall interfere on either side. Mars and Neptune make very eloquent speeches. The battle of Waterloo commences. Napoleon kills Picton and Delaney. Ney engages Ponsonby and kills him. The Prince of Orange is wounded by Soult. Lord Uxbridge flies to check the carnage. He is severely wound- ed by Napoleon, and only saved by the assistance of Lord Hill. In the mean time the duke makes a tremendous car- nage among the French. He encounters General Duhesme and vanquishes him, but spares his life. He kills Toubert, who kept the gaming-house in the Palais Royal, and Maroiiet, who loved to spend whole nights in drinking champagne. Clerval, who had been hooted from the stage, and had then become a captain in the Imperial Guard, wished that he had still continued to face the more harm- less enmity of the Parisian pit. But Larrey, the son of Escu- lapius, whom his father had instructed in all the secrets of his art, and who was surgeon-general of the French army, embraced the knees of the destroyer, and conjured him not to give death to one whose office it was to give life. The duke raised him, and bade him live. But we must hasten to the close. Napoleon rushes to encounter Wellington. Both armies stand in mute amaze. The heroes fire their pistols ; that of Napoleon misses, but that of Wellington, formed by the hand of Vulcan, and primed by the Cyclops, wounds the emperor in the thigh, lie flies, and takes refuge among his troops. The flight be- comes promiscuous. The arrival of the Prussians, from a motive of patriotism, the poet completely passes over. BOOK XII. Things are now hastening to the catastrophe. Napoleon flies to London, and, seating himself on the hearth of the regent, embraces the household gods, and conjures him, by the venerable age of George III., and by the opening per- fections of the Princess Charlotte, to spare him. The prince is inclined to do so ; when, looking on his breast, he sees there the belt of the Duke of Brunswick. He instantly drawls his sword, and is about to stab the destroyer of his kinsman. Piety and hospitality, however, restrain his hand. He takes a middle course, and condemns Napoleon to be ex- posed on a desert island. Tlie King of France re-entera Paris ; and the poem concludes. ON MITFOKd’s aiSTOKT OF GKBffiCB. 12t ON MITFORD’S HISTORY OF GREECE. ( KnighVs Quarterly Magazine j Novemher, 1824. ) This is a book which enjoys a great and increasing popn larity : but, while it has attracted a considerable share of the public attention, it has been little noticed by the critics. Mr. jVIitford has almost succeeded in mounting, unperceived by those whose office it is to watch such aspirants, to a high place among historians. He has taken a seat on the dais without being challenged by a single seneschal. To oppose the pro- gress of his fame is now almost a hopeless enterprise. Had he been reviewed with candid severity, when he had pub- lished only his first volume, his work would either have de- served its reputation, or would never have obtained it. ‘‘ Then,” as Indra says of Keliama, ‘‘ then was the time to strike.” The time was neglected ; and the consequence is that Mr. Mitford, like Kehama, has laid his victorious hand on the literary Amreeta, and seems about to taste the pre- cious elixir of immortality. I shall venture to emulate the courage of the honest Glendoveer — “ When now He saw the Amreeta in Kehama’s hand, An impulse that defied all self-command, 111 tiiat extremity, Stung him, and lie resolved to seize the cup, And dare the Uajah’s force in Seeva’s sight. Forward he sprung to tempt the unequal fray.” In plain words, I shall offer a few considerations, which may tend to reduce an overpraised writer to his proper level. The principal characteristic of this historian, the origin Df his excellencies and his defects, is a love of singularity. He has no notion of going with a multitude to do either good or evil. An exploded opinion, or an unpopular person, has an irresistible charm for liim. The same perverseness may be traced in his diction. His style would never have been elegant; but it might at least have been manly and perspicu- ous ; and nothing but the most elaborate care could possb bly have made it so bad as it is. It is distinguished by harsh phrases, strange collocations, occasional solecisms, fre- quent obscurity, and. above all, by a peculiar oddity, which 128 Macaulay’s misckllaneous ^vIlITINGS. can no more be described tlian it can l)e overlooked. Nor is tills all. ]\Ir. JMitford ])i(j[ues himself on spelling better than any of his neighbors ; and this not only in ancient names, which he mangles in deiiance both of custom and of reason, but in the most ordinary words of the English lan- guage. It is, in itself, a matter perfectly indifferent whether we call a foreigner by the name which he bears in his own language, or by that which corresponds to it in ours ; whether we say Lorenzo de Medici, or Lawrence de Medici, Jean Cbauvin, or John Calvin. In such cases established usage is considered as law by all writers except Mr. Mitford. If he were always consistent with himself, he might be excused for sometimes disagreeing with his neighbors ; but he pro- ceeds on no principle but that of being unlike the rest of the world. Every child has heard of Linnaeus ; therefore Mr. Mitford calls him Linne : Rousseau is known all over Eu- rope as Jean Jacques ; therefore Mr. Mitford bestows on him the strange appellation of John James. Had Mr. Mitford undertaken a history of any other country than Greece, this propensity Avould have rendered his work useless and absurd. His occasional remarks on the affairs of ancient Rome and of modern Europe are full of errors : but he Avrites of times with respect to Avhich almost every other writer has been in the wrong ; and, therefore, by resolutely deviating from his predecessors, he is often in the right. Almost ail the modern historians of Greece have shown the grossest ignorance of the most obvious phenomena cf human nature. In their representations the generals and statesmen of antiquity are absolutely divested of all individ- uality. They are personifications ; they are passions, talents, opinions, virtues, vices, but not men. Inconsistency is a thing of which these writers have no notion. That a man may have been liberal in his youth and avaricious in his age, .cruel to one enemy and merciful to another, is to them ut- terly inconceivable. If the facts be undeniable, they sup- pose some strange and deep design, in order to explain whai, ;as every one who has observed his OAvn mind knows, needs no explanation at all. This is a mode of Avriting very ac- ceptable to the multitude Avho have ahvays been accustomed to make gods and daemons out of men very little better or worse than themselves ; but it appears contemptible to all who have watched llie changes of human character — to all who have observed the influence of time, of circumstances, OK MITFORD’S HISTORY OF GRFECE. 129 and of associates, on mankind — to all who liave seen a hero in the gout, a democrat in tlie churcli, a j>edant in love, or a philosojDher in liquor. This j)ractice of painting in nothing but black and white is un 2 )ardonablo even in the drama. It is the great fault of Altieri ; and how much it injures the effect of his compositions will be obvious to every one who will compare liis Rosmunda with the Lady Macbeth of Shakspeare. The one is a wicked woman ; the other is a fiend. Her only feeling is hatred ; all her words are curses. We are at once shocked and fatigued by the spectacle of such raving cruelty, excited by no j)rovocation, repeatedly changing its object, and constant in nothing but in its inex- tinguishable thirst for blood. In history this error is far more disgraceful. Indeed, there is no fault which so completely ruins a narrative in the opinion of a judicious reader. We know that the line of demarcation between good and bad men is so faintly marked as often to elude the most careful investigation of those who have the best opportunities for judging. Public men, above all, are surrounded with so many temptations and difficulties that some doubt must almost always hang over their real dispositions and intentions. The lives of Pym, Cromwell, Monk, Clarendon, Marlborough, Burnet, Wal|3ole, are well knowm to us. We are acquainted with their actions, their speeches, their waitings ; we have abun- dance of letters and well-authen icated anecdotes relating to them : yet what candid man will venture very positively to say wffiich of them were honest and which of them were dishonest men. It ajipears easier to j^ronounce decidedly upon the great characters of antiquity, not because we have greater means of discovering truth, but simply because we have less means of detecting errors. The modern historians of Greece have forgotten this. Their heroes and villains are as consistent in all their sayings and doings as the cardinal virtues and the deadly sins in an allegory. We should as soon expect a good action from giant Slay-good in Bunyan as from Dionysius ; and a crime of Epaminondas would seem as incongruous as a faux-j^as of the grave and comely damsel, called Discretion, who answered the bell at the door of the house Beautiful. This error was partly the effect of the high estimation in which the later ancient writers have been held by modern scholars. Those French and English authors who have treated of the affairs of Greece have generally turned with VoL. I.— 9 _ 13C macaulay\s miscellaneous writings. contempt from the simple and natural narrations of Thucy- dides and X(‘U(>phon to the extravagant re])resentations of Plutarch, Diodorus, Curtins, and other romancers of the same class, — men wlio described military o])crations without ever having handled a sword, and applied to the seditions of little republics speculations formed by observation on an empire which covered half the known world. Of liberty they knew nothing. It was to them a great mystery, — a superhuman enjoyment. They ranted about liberty and pa- triotism, from the same cause which leads monks to talk more ardently than other men about love and woman. A wise man values political liberty because it secures the persons and the ])ossessions of citizens ; because it tends to prevent the extravagance of rulers, and the corruption of judges ; because it gives birth to useful sciences and elegant arts; because it excites the industry and increases the comforts of all classes of society. These theorists imagined that it possessed some- thing eternally and intrinsically good, distinct from the blessings which it generally produced. They considered it not as a means but as an end ; an end to be attained at any cost. Their favorite heroes are those who have sacrificed, for the mere name of freedom, the prosperity — the security — the justice — from which freedom derives its value. There is another remarkable characteristic of these writers, in which their modern worshippers have carefully imitated them, — a great fondness for good stories. The most established facts, dates, and characters are never suf- fered to come into competition with a splendid saying, or a romantic exploit. The early historians have left us natural and simple descriptions of the great events which they wit- nessed, and the great resell with whom they associated. When we read the account which Plutarch and llollin have given of the same period, we scarcely know our old acquaint- ance again ; we are utterly comfounded by the melo-dra- matic effect of the narration, and the sublime coxcombry of the characters. Tliese are the principal errors into which the predecessors of Mr. Mitford have fallen ; and from most of these he is free. Ilis faults are of a completely different description. It is to be hoped that the students of history may now be saved, like Dorax in Dryden’s play, by swallowing two con- flicted poisons, each of which may serve as an antidote to the other. The first and most important difference between Mr. Mit* ON MITFORd’s history of GREECE. 131 ford and those who have preceded him is in his narration. Here tlie advantage lies, for the most part, on his side. His principle is to follow the contemporary historians, to look with doubt on all statements which are not in seme degree confirmed by them, and absolutely to reject all which are contradicted by them. While he retains the guidance of some writer in whom he can place confidence, he goes on ex- cellently. When he loses it, he falls to the level, or perhaps below the level, of the writers whom he so much despises : he is as absurd as they, and very much duller. It is really amusing to observe how he proceeds with his narration when he has no better authority than poor Diodorus. He is compelled to relate something; yet he believes nothing. He accom])anics every fact with a long statement of ob- jections. His account of the administration of Dionysius is in no sense a history. It ought to be entitled — “ Historic doubts as to certain events, alleged to have taken place in Sicily.” This skepticism, however, like that of some great legal characters almost as sceptical as himself, vanishes whenever his political partialities interfere. He is a vehement ad- mirer of tyranny and oligarchy, and considers no evidence as feeble which can be brought forward in favor of those forms of government. Democracy he hates with a perfect hatred, a hatred which, in the first volume of his history, appears only in his episodes and reflections, but which, in those parts where he has less reverence for his guides, and can venture to take his own way, completely distorts even his narration. In taking up these opinions, I have no doubt that Mr. Mitford was influenced by the same love of singularity which led him to spell island without an and to place two dots over the last letter of idea. In truth, preceding his- torians have erred so monstrously on the other side that even the worst parts of Mr. Mitford’s book may be useful as a cor- rective. For a young gentleman who talks much about his country, tyrannicide, and Epaminondas, this work, diluted in a sufficient quantity of Rollin and Barthelemi, may be a very useful remedy. The errors of both parties arise from an ignorance or a neglect of the fundamental principles of political science. Tlie writers on one side imagine popular government to be always a blessing ; Mr. Mitford omits no opportunity of assuring us that it is always a curse. The fact is, that good 132 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. government, Jike a good coat, is tliat wliich fits tlie body for wliich it is designed. A man wlio, ii])on abstract princi- ples, ])rononnces a constitution to be good, without an exact knowledge of the jieople Avho are to be governed by it, pidges as absurdly as a tailor who should measure the llelvidere Apollo for the clothes of all his customers. The demagogues who wished to see Portugal a republic, and the wise critics wdio revile the Virginians for not having insti- tuted a peerage, appear equally ridiculous to all men of «cnse and candor. That is the best government which desires to make the jieople happy, and knows how to make them happy. Nei- ther the inclination nor the knowledge will suffice alone ; and it is difficult to find them together. Pure democracy, and pure democracy alone, satisfies the former condition of this great problem. That the governors may be solicitous only for the interests of tlie governed, it is necessary that the interests of the governors and the gov- erned should be the same. This cannot be often the case where power is intrusted to one or to a few. The privi- leged part of the community will doubtless derive a certain degree of advantage from the general prosperity of the state ; but they will derive a greater from oppression and exaction. The king will desire an useless war for his glory, or a parc-aux-cerfs for his pleasure. The nobles will de- mand monopolies and lettres-de-cdchet. In proportion as the number of governors is increased the evil is diminished. There are fewer to contribute, and more to receive. The vfividend wffiich each can obtain of the public plunder be- comes less and less tempting. But the interests of the sub- jects and the rulers never absolutely coincide till the sub- jects themselves become the rulers, that is, till the gov- ernment be either immediately or mediately democratical. But this is not enough. “Will without power,” said the sagacious Casimir Milor Beefington, “is like children playing at soldiers.” The people wall always be desirous to promote their own interests ; but it may be doubted, whether, in any community, they were ever sufficiently edu-p cated to understand them. Even in this island, where the multitude have long been better informed that in any other part of Europe, the rights of the many have generally been asserted against themselves by the patriotism of the few. Free trade, one of the greatest blessings w hich a government can confer on a people, is in almost every country unpopu^ ON MITFORd’s history of GREECE. 183 lar. It may be well doubted, whether a liberal policy with regard to our commercial relations would find any support from a parliament elected by universal suffrage. The re- publicans on the other side of the Atlantic have recently adopted regulations, of which the consequences will, before long, show us, “ How Nations sink, by darling schemes opi/ressed, When vengeance listens to the fool’s request." The people are to be governed for their own good ; and, that they may be governed for their own good, they must not be governed by their own ignorance. There are coun- tries in which it would be as absurd to establish popular gov- ernment as to abolish all the restraints in a school, or to untie all the strait-waistcoats in a mad-house. Hence it may be concluded that the happiest state of society is that in which supreme power resides in the whole body of a well-informed people. This is an imaginary, per- haps an unattainable, state of things. Yet, in some measure, we may approximate to it; and he alone deserves the name of a great statesman, whose principle it is to extend the power of the people in proportion to the extent of their knowledge, and to give them every facility for obtaining such a degree of knowledge as may render it safe to trust them with absolute power. In the mean time, it is danger- ous to praise or condemn constitutions in the abstract; since, from the despotism of St. Petersburg to the democracy of Washington, there is scarcely a form of government which might not, at least in some hypothetical case, be the best possible. If, however, there be any form of government which in all ages and all nations has always been, and must always be pernicious, it is certainly that which Mr. Mitford, on his usual principle of being wiser that all the rest of the world, has taken under his especial patronage — pure oligarchy. This is closely, and indeed inseparably, connected with an- l^ther of his eccentric tastes, a marked partiality for Lace- daemon, and a dislike of Athens. Mr. Mitford’s book has, I suspect, rendered these sentiments in some degree popular ; and I shall, therefore, examine them at some length. The shades in the Athenian character strike the eye more ra])idly than those in the Lacedaemonian : not because they are darker, but because they are on a brighter ground. The law of ostracism is an instance of this. Nothing can 134 MACAULAY'S MISC?]LLAMEOUS WRITINGS. be conceived more odious than the practice of punishing a citizen, simply and j)rofessedly, for liis eminence ; — and notliing in the institutions of Athens is more frequently or more justly censured. Lacedaemon was free from this. And why ? Lacedueruon did not need it. Oligarchy is an ostracism of itself, — an ostracism not occasional, but per- manent, — not dubious, but certain. Her Jaws prevented the development of merit, instead of attacking its maturity. They did not cut down the })lanb in its high and palmy state, but cursed the soil with eternal sterility. In spite of the law of ostracism, Athens produced, within a hundred and lifty years, the greatest public men that ever existed. Whom had Sparta to ostracise ? She produced, at most, four emi- nent men, Brasidas, Gylippus, Lysander, and Agesilaus. Of these, not one rose to distinction within her jurisdiction. It was only w^hcn they escaped from the region within which the influence of aristocracy withered everything good and noble, it was only when they ceased to be Lacedaemonians, that they became great men. Brasidas, among the cities of Thrace, was strictly a democratical leader, the favorite minister and general of the people. The same may be said of Gylippus, at Syracuse. Lysander, in the Hellespont, and Agesilaus, in Asia, were liberated for a time from the hate- ful restraints imposed by the constitution of Lycurgus. Both acquired fame abroad : and both returned to be watched and depressed at home. This is not peculiar to Sparta. Oligarchy, wherever it has existed, has al^vays stunted the growth of genius. Thus it was at Rome, till about a century before the Christam era: we read of abun- dance of consuls and dictators who won battles, and en- joyed triumphs ; but we look in vain for a single man of the first order of intellect, — for a Pericles, a Demosthenes, or a Hannibal. The Gracchi formed a strong democratical party ; Marius revived it ; the foundations of the old aristocracy were shaken ; and two generations fertLe in really great men appeared. Venice is a still more remarkable instance: in her his- tory we see nothing but the state ; aristocracy had destroyed every seed of genius and virtue. Her dominion was like herself, lofty and magnificent, but founded on filth and weeds. God forbid that there should ever again exist a powerful and civilized state, which, after existing through thirteen hundred eventful years, shall not bequeath to man- kind the memory of one great name or one generous action. ON MITFORD’.^ HISTOUY of GREECE. 13D Many writers, anviMr. Mitford among the number, liave admired the stability cf the Spartan institutions; in fact, there is little to admire, and less to approve. Oligarchy is th*t weakest and most stable of governments ; and it is sta- ble because it is weak. It has a sort of valetudinarian lon- gevity ; it lives in the balance of Sanctorius ; it takes no ex- eicise ; it exposes itself to no accident ; it is seized with an hy]>ochondriac alarm at every new sensation; it trembles at evei-y breath ; it lets blood for every inflammation : and thus, without ever enjoying a day of health or pleasure, drags on its existence to a doting and debilitated old age. The Spartans purchased for their government a pro- longation of its existence by the sacrifice of happiness at home and dignity abroad. They cringed to the powerful ; they trampled on the weak ; they massacred their Helots ; they betrayed their allies ; they contrived to be a day too late for the battle of Marathon ; they attempted to avoid the battle of Salamis ; they suffered the Athenians, to whom they owed their lives and liberties, to be a second time driven from their country by the Persians, that they might finish their own fortifications on the Isthmus; they at- tempted to take advantage of the distress to which exer- tions in their cause had reduced their preservers, in order to make them their slaves ; they strove to prevent those who had abandoned their walls to defend them, from re- building them to defend themselves ; they commenced the Peloponnesian "war in violation of tlieir engagements with Athens; they abandoned it in violation of their engage- ments with their allies ; they gave up to the sword wdiole cities wdiich had placed themselves under their protection ; they bartered, for advantages confined to themselves, the uUterest, the freedom, and the lives of those who had served them most faithfully ; they took with equal complacency, ai d equal infamy, the stripes of Elis and the bribes of Per- sia ; they never showed either resentment or gratitude ; they abstained from no injury ; and they revenged none. Above all, they looked on a citizen who served them w^ell as their deadliest enemy. These are the arts which protract the ex- istence of governments. Nor were the domestic institutions of Lacedaemon less hateful or less contemptible than her foreign policy. A perpetual interference with every part of the system of human life, a constant struggle against nature and reason, characterized all her laws. To violate even prejudices 136 MACAULAY^S MISOELLAT^EOUS WHITINGS. which liavc taken ^e,” is absolutely impossible. What mercenary warrior of the time exposed liis life to greater or more constant perils ? Was there a single soldier at Cha3ronea who had more cause to tremble for his safety than the orator, who, in case of defeat, could scarcely hoj)e for mercy from the peo])le whom he had misled or the prince whom he had oi)})osed? Were not the ordinary fluctuations of popular feeling enough to deter any coward from engaging in political conflicts ? Isoc- rates, whom Mr. Mitford extols, because he constantly em- ployed all the flowers of his school-boy rhetoric to decorate oligarchy and tyranny, avoided the judicial and political meetings of Athens from mere timidity, and seems to have hated democracy only because he durst not look a popular assembly in the face. Demosthenes was a man of a feeble constitution : his nerves were weak ; but his spirit was high ; and the energy and enthusiasm of his feelings supported him through life and in death. So much for Demosthenes. Now for the orator of aris- tocracy. I do not wish to abuse J5schines. He may have been an honest man. He was certainly a great man ; and I feel a reverence, of which Mr. Mitford seems to have no notion, for great men of every party. But, when Mr. Mit- ford says that the private character of ^schines was with- out stain, does he remember what ^schines has himself confessed in his speech against Timarchus ? I can make ah lowances as well as Mr. Mitford for persons who lived under a different system of laws and morals; but let them be made impartially. If Demosthenes is to be attacked on account of some childish improprieties, proved only by the assertion of an antagonist, what shall we say of those maturer vices which tliat antagonist has himself acknowledged ? “ Against the private character of ^schines,” says Mr. Mitford, “ Demos- thenes seems not to have had an insinuation to oppose.” Has Mr. Mitford ever read the speech of Demosthenes on the Embassy ? Or can he have forgotten, what was never forgotten by any one else who ever read it, the story which Demosthenes relates with such terrible energy of language concerning the drunken brutality of his rival ? True or false, here is something more than an insinuation ; and nothing can vindicate the historian, who has overlooked it, from the ON mTFOKD’S HISTORY OF GREECE. 143 charge of negligence or of partiality. But ^schines denied the story. And did not Demosthenes also deny the story respecting his childish nickname, which Mr. Mitford has nevertheless told wdthout any qualification ? But the judges, or some part of them, showed, by their clamor, their dis- belief of the relation of Demosthenes. And did not the judges, w^ho tried the cause between Demosthenes and his guardians, indicate, in a much clearer manner, their approba- tion of the prosecution ? But Demosthenes w as a demagogue, and is to be slandered, ^schines was an aristocrat, and is to be panegyrized. Is this a history, or a party pamphlet ? These passages, all selected from a single page of Mr. Mitford’s wmrk, may give some notion to those readers, who have not the means of comparing his statements with the original authorities, of his extreme partiality and carelessness. Indeed, whenever this historian mentions Demosthenes, he violates all law\s of candor and even of decency; he weighs no authorities ; he makes no allowances ; he forgets the best authenticated facts in the history of the times, and the most generally recognized principles of human nature. The op- position of the great orator to the policy of Philip he rep- resents as neither more nor less than deliberate villainy^ I hold almost the same opinion with Mr. Mitford respecting the character and the views of that great and accomplished prince. But am I, therefore, to pronounce Demosthenes profligate and insincere ? Surely not. Do w^e not perpetu- ally see men of the greatest talents and the purest intentions misled by national or factious prejudices? The most re- spectable people in England were, little more than forty years ago, in the habit of uttering the bitterest abuse against Washington and Franklin. It is certainly to be regretted that men should err so grossly in their estimate of character. But no person who knows anything of human nature will impute such errors to depravity. Mr. Mitford is not more consistent with himself than with reason. Though he is the advocate of all oligarchies, he is also a warm admirer of all kings, and of all citizens who raised themselves to that species of sovereignty which the Greeks denominated tyranny. If monarchy, as Mr. Mitford holds, be in itself a blessing, democracy must be a better form of government than aristocracy, which is always opposed to the supremacy, and even to the eminence, of individuals. Or th'j oth^r hand, it is but one step that separates the gogue and the sovereign. 144 Macaulay’s misoelt.aneous writings. If this article had not extended itself to so great a length, I should offer a few ol)scrvations on some other peculiarities of this writer, — his general preference of the Barbarians to the Greeks, — his predilection for Persians, Carthaginians, Thracians, for all nations, in short, except that great and enlightened nation of which he is the historian. But I will confine myself to a single topic. Mr. Mitford has remarked, with truth and spirit, that ‘‘ any history perfectly written, but especially a Grecian his- tory perfectly written, should l3e a political institute for ail nations.” It has not occurred to him that a Grecian history, perfectly written, should also be a complete record of the rise and progress of poetry, philosophy, and the arts. Here his work is extremely deficient. Indeed, though it may seem a strange thing to say of a gentleman who has published so many quartos, Mr. Mitford seems to entertain a feeling, bordering on contempt, for literary and speculative pursuits. The talents of action almost exclusively attract his notice ; and he talks with very complacent disdain of “ the idle learned.” Homer, indeed, he admires ; but principally, I am afraid, because he is convinced that Homer could neither read nor write. He could not avoid speaking of Socrates ; but he has been far more solicitous to trace his death to political causes, and to deduce from it consequences unfa- vorable to Athens, and to popular governments, than to throw light on the character and doctrines of the wonderful ma “ From whose mouth issued forth Mellifluous streams that watered all the schools Of Academics, old and new, with those Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect Epicurean and the Stoic severe.’* This, indeed, is a deficiency by no means peculiar to Mr. Mitford. Most people seem to imagine that a detail of public occurrences — the operations of sieges — the changes of administrations — the treaties — the conspiracies — the rebellions — is a complete history. Differences of definition are logically unimportant ; but practically they sometimes produce the most momentous effects. Thus it has been in the present case. Historians have, almost without exception, confined themselves to the public transactions of states, and have left to the negligent administration of writers of fic- tion a province at least equally extensive and valuable. All wise statesmen have agreed to consider the prosperity ON MITFORD^S HISTORY OF GREECE. 145 or adversity of nations as made up of the happiness or misery of individuals, and to reject as chimerical all notions of a public interest of the community, distinct from the interest of the component parts. It is therefore strange that those whose office it is to supply statesmen with examples and warnings should omit, as too mean for the dignity of history, circumstances which exert the most extensive influence on the state of society. In general, the under current of human jfo flows steadily on, unruffled by the storms which agitate ffie surface. The happiness of the many commonly de- pends on causes independent of victories or defeats, of re- V'olutions or restorations, — causes which can be regulated by no laws, and which are recorded in no archives. These causes are the things which it is of main importance to us to know, not how the Lacedaemonian phalanx was broken at Leuctra — not whether Alexander died of poison or by dis- ease. History without these, is a shell without a kernel ; and such is almost all the history which is extant in the world. Paltry skirmishes and plots are reported with absurd and useless minuteness ; but improvements the most essential to the comfort of human life extend themselves over the world, and introduce themselves into every cottage, before any annalist can condescend, from the dignity of writing about generals and ambassadors, to take the least notice of them. Thus the progress of the most salutary inventions and discoveries is buried in impenetrable mystery ; mankind are deprived of a most useful species of knowledge, and their benefactors of their honest fame. In the meantime every child knows by heart the dates and adventures of a long line of barbarian kings. The history of nations, in the sense in which I use the word, is often best studied in works -lot professedly historical. Thucydides, as far as he goes, IS an excellent writer ; yet he affords us far less knowledge of the most important particulars relating to Athens than Piato or Aristophanes. The little treatise of Xenophon on Domestic Economy contains more historical information than all the seven books of his Hellenics. The same may be said of the Sac; x ‘ of Horace, of the Letters of Cicero, of the novels of Le Sage, of the memoirs of Marmontel. Many others might be mentioned ; but these sufficiently illustrate my meaning. I would hope that there may yet appear a writer who may despise the present narrow limits, and assert the rights of history over every part of her natural domain* Should such a Yqu I,~10 I 146 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wuitings. writer ong.'i^o in tliat enterprise in wliich I cannot but con- sider Mr. Mitford as having failed, he will record, indeed, all that is interesting and important in military and political transactions ; but he will not think anything too trivial for the gravity of history wliicli is not too trivial to promote or diminish the ha])piness of man. He will portray in vivid colors the domestic society, the manners, the amusements, the conversation of tlie Greeks. He will not disdain to dis- cuss the state of agriculture, of the mechanical arts, and of the conveniences of life. The progress of painting, of sculpture, and of architecture, will form an important part of his plan. But, above all, his attention will be given to the history of that splendid literature from which has sprung all the strength, the wisdom, the freedom, and the glory, oi the western world. Of the indifference which Mr. Mitford shows on thi» subject I will not speak; fori cannot speak with fairness. It is a subject on which I love to forget the accuracy of a judge, in the veneration of a worshipper and the gratitude of a child. If we consider merely the subtlety of disquisition, the force of imagination, the perfect energy and elegance of expression, which characterize the great works of Athenian genius, we must pronounce them intrinsically most valuable ; but what shall we say when we reflect that from hence have sprung, directly or indirectly, all the noblest creations of the human intellect ; that from hence were the vast accomplish- ments, and the brilliant fancy of Cicero ; the withering fire of Juvenal ; the plastic imagination of Dante ; the humor of Cervantes ; the comprehension of Bacon ; the wit of Butler ; the supreme and universal excellence of Shakspeare ? All the triumphs of truth and genius over prejudice and power, in every country and in every age, have been the triumphs of Athens. Wherever a few great minds have made a stand against violence and fraud, in the cause of liberty and reason, there has been her spirit in the midst of them ; inspiring, encouraging, consoling ; — by the lonely lamp of Erasmus ; by the restless bed of Pascal ; in the tri- bune of Mirabeau ; in the cell of Galileo ; on the scaSold of Sidney. But who shall estimate her influence on private happiness ? Who shall say how many thousands have been made wiser, happier, and better, by those pursuits in which she has taught mankind to engage ; to how many the studies which took their rise from her have been wealth in poverty, —liberty in bondage,— health in sickness,— society in solb ON MlTFOliD S HISTORY OF GREECE. 147 v;iide? Pier ])Ower is indeed manifested at the bar, In the senate, in the field of battle, in the schools of philosophy. But these are not her glory. Wherever literature consoles sorrow, or assuages pain, — wherever it brings gladness to eyes which fail with wakefulness and tears, and ache for the dark house and the long sleep, — there is exhibited, in its noblest form, the immortal influence of Athens. The dervise, in the Arabian tale, did not hesitate to abandon to his comrade the camels with their load of jewels and gold, while he retained the casket of that mysterious juice which enabled him to behold at one glance all the hidden riches of the universe. Surely it is no exaggeration to say that no external advantage is to be compared with that purification of the intellectual eye which gives us to contem])late the infinite wealth of the mental world, all the hoarded treasures of its primeval dynasties, all the shape- less ore of its yet unexplored mines. This is the gift of Athens to man. Her freedom and her power have for more than twenty centuries been annihilated ; her people have degenerated into timid slaves ; her language into a barbar- ous jargon ; her temples have been given up to the success- ive depredations of Romans, Turks, and Scotchmen ; but her intellectual empire is imperishable. And when those who have rivalled her greatness shall have shared her fate ; w^hen civilization and knowledge shall have fixed their abode in distant continents ; when the sceptre shall have passed away from England ; when, perhaps, travellers from distant regions shall in vain labor to decipher on some mouldering pedestal the name of our proudest chief ; shall hear savage hymns chaunted to some misshapen idol, over the ruined dome of our proudest temple ; and shall see a single naked fisherman wash his nets in the river of the ten thousand masts ; — her influence and her glory will still survive, — fresh in eternal youth, exempt from mutability and decay, immor- tal as the intellectual principle from which they derived their origin, and over which they exercised their control. 148 Macaulay’s miscellaneous aveitings. MILTON.^ {Edinburgh Review, August, 1825.) Towards the close of the year 1823, Mr. Lemon, deputy keeper of the state papers, in the course of his researches among the presses of his office, met with a large Latin man- uscript. With it were found corrected copies of the foreign despatches written by Milton, while he filled the office of Secretary, and several papers relating to the Popish Trials and the Rye-house Plot. The whole was wrapped up in an envelope, superscribed To Mr, Skinner,, Merchant, On ex- amination, the large manuscript proved to be the long lost Essay on the Doctrines of Christianity, which, according to Wood and Toland, Milton finished after the Restoration, and deposited with Cyriac Skinner. Skinner, it is well known, held the same political opinions with his illustrious friend. It is therefore probable, as Mr. Lemon conjectures, that he may have fallen under the suspicions of the govern- ment during that persecution of the Whigs which followed the dissolution of the Oxford parliament, and that, in con- sequence of a general seizure of his papers, this work may have been brought to the office in which it has been found. But whatever the adventures of the manuscript may have been, no doubt can exist that it is a genuine relic of the great poet. Mr. Sumner, who was commanded by his Majesty to edit and translate the treatise, has acquitted himself of his task in a manner honorable to his talents and to his char- acter. His version is not indeed very easy or elegant ; but it is entitled to the praise of clearness and fidelity. His notes abound with interesting quotations, and have the rare merit of really elucidating the text. The preface is evidently the work of a sensible and candid man, firm in his own religious opinions, and tolerant towards those of others. The book itself will not add much to the fame of Milton It is, like all his Latin works, well written, though not ex- actly in the style of the prize essays of Oxford and Cam- ♦ Jonnis Miltoni Angli, de Doctrind Christiand lihri duo posthumi. A Treatise on Christian Doctrine, compiled from the Holy Scriptures alone. By John Milton, translated from the Original by Charles R. Sumner, M.A., &c. &c. 1825. MILTON. 149 bridge. There is no elaborate imitation of classical antiq- uity, no scrupulous purity, none of the ceremonial cleanness which characterizes the diction of our academical Phari- sees. The author does not attempt to polish and brighten his composition into the Ciceronian gloss and brilliancy. He does not in short sacrifice sense and spirit to pedantic refinements. The nature of his subject compelled him to use many words “ That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.** But he writes with as much ease and freedom as if Latin were his mother tongue ; and, where he is least happy, his failure seems to arise from the carelessness of a native, not from the ignorance of a foreigner. We may apply to him what Denham with great felicity says of Cowley. He wears the garb, but not the clothes of the ancients. Throughout the volume are discernible the traces of a powerful and independent mind, emancipated from the in- fluence of authority, and devoted to the search of truth. Milton professes to form his system from the Bible alone ; and his digest of scriptural texts is certainly among the best that have appeared. But he is not always so happy in his inferences as in his citations. Some of the heterodox doctrines which he avows seemed to have excited considerable amazement, particularly his Arianism, and his theory on the subject of polygamy. Yet we can scarcely conceive that any person could have read the Paradise Lost without suspecting him of the former ; nor do we think that any reader, acquainted with the his- tory of his life, ought to be much startled at the latter. The opinions which he has expressed respecting the nature of the Deity, the eternity of matter, and the observation of the Sabbath, might, we think, have caused more just sur- prise. But we will not go into the discussion of these points. The book, were it far more orthodox or far more heretical than it is, would not much edify or corrupt the present gen- eration. The men of our time are not to be converted or perverted by quartos. A few more days, and this essay will follow the Defensio PopuU^ to the dust and silence of the upper shelf. The name of its author, and the remark- able circumstances attending its publication, will secure to it a certain degree of attention. For a month or two it will occupy a few minutes of chat in every drawing-room, and a 150 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. few columns in every magazine ; and it will then, to borrow the elegant language of the })lay-bills, be withdrawn, tc make room for the forthcoming novelties. We wish how^ever to avail ourselves of the interest, transient as it may be, which this work has excited. The dexterous Capuchins never choose to preach on the life and miracles of a saint, till they liave awakened the devotional feelings of tlieir auditors by exhibiting some relic of him, a thread of i.is garment, a lock of his hair, or a drop of his blood. On ilie same principle, w^e intend to take advantage of the late interesting discovery, and, w^hile this memorial of a great and good man is still in the hands of all, to say something of his moral and intellectual qualities. Nor, we are convinced, wdll the severest of our readers blame us if, on an occasion like the present, Ave turn for a short time from the topics of the day, to commemorate, in all love and reverence, the genius and virtues of John Milton, the poet, the statesman, the philosopher, the glory of English literature, the champion and the martyr of English liberty It is by his poetry that Milton is best known ; and it is of his poetry that Ave Avish first to speak. By the general suffrage of the civilized world, his place has been assigned among the greatest masters of the art. His detractors, however, though outA-oted, have not been silenced. There are many critics, and some of great name, who contrive in the same breath to extol the poems and to decry the poet. The AA^orks they acknoAvledge, considered in themselves, may be classed among the noblest productions of the human mind But they Avill not alloAV the author to rank wdth those great men Avho, born in the infancy of civilization, supplied, by their OAvn powers, the want of instruction, and, though destitute of models themseh^es, bequeathed to posterity models which defy imitation. Milton, it is said, inherited Avhat his predecessors created ; he lived in an enlightened age ; he receh^ed a finished education ; and we must there- fore, if AA^e AA^ould form a just estimate of his powers, make ou’ge deductions in consideration of these advantages. W e A^enture to say, on the contrary, paradoxical as the remark may appear, that no poet has ever had to strug- gle with more unfaA^orable circumstances than Milton. He doubted, as he has himself owned, w^hether he had not been born “ an age too late.” For this notion Johnson has thought fit to make him the butt of much clumsy ridicule. The poet, we believe, understood the nature of his art better than the MILTOIi. 151 critic. He knew that his poetical genius derived no advan« tage from the civilization which surrounded him, or from the learning which he had acquired ; and he looked back with something like regret to the ruder age of simple words and vivid impressions. We think that, as civilization advances, poetry almost necessarily declines. Therefore, though we fervently admire those great works of imagination which have appeared in dark ages, we do not admire them the more because they have appeared in dark ages. On the contrary, we hold that the most wonderful and splendid proof of genius is a great poem produced in a civilized age. We cannot understana why those Avho believe in that most orthodox article of liter- ary faith, that the earliest poets are generally the best, should wonder at the rule as if it were the exception. Surely the uniformity of the pha3nomenon indicates a corresponding uniformity in the cause. The fact is, that common observers reason from the progress of the experimental science to that of the imitative arts. The improvement of the former is gradual and slow. Ages are spent in collecting materials, ages more in sep- arating and combining them. Even when a system has been formed, there is still something to add, to alter, or to reject. Every generation enjoys the use of a vast hoard bequeathed to it by antiquity, and transmits that hoard, augmented by fresh acquisitions, to future ages. In these pursuits, therefore, the first speculators lie under great disadvantages, and, even when they fail, are entitled to praise. Their pupils, with far inferior intellectual powers, speedily surpass them in actual attainments. Every girl who has read Mrs. Marcet’s little dialogues on Political Economy could teach Montague or Walpole many lessons in finance. Any intelligent man may now, by resolutely applying himself for a few years to mathematics, learn more than the great Newton knew after half a century of study and meditation. But it is not thus with music, with painting, or with sculpture. Still less is it thus with poetry. The progress of refinement rarely supplies these arts with better objects of imitation. It may indeed improve the instruments which are necessary to the mechanical operations of the musician, the sculptor, and the painter. But language, the machine of the poet, is best fitted for his purpose in its rudest state. Nations, like individuals, first perceive, and then abstract. They advance from particular images to geneml terms. 152 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. TTence llic vocabulary of an cnliglitcned society is philo- Bopliical, tliat of a half-civilized people is ])oetical. This change in the language of men is ])artly the cause and partly the effect of a corresponding change in the na- ture of their intellectual o})crations, of a change hy which science gains and poetry loses. Generalization is necessary to the advancement of knowledge ; hut particularly is indis- pensable to the creations of the imagination. In proportion as men know more and think more, they look less at indi- viduals and more at classes. They therefore make better theories and Averse poems. They give us vague phrases instead of images, and personified qualities instead of men. They may be better able to analyze human nature than their predecessors. But analysis is not the business of the poet. His office is to portray, not to dissect. lie may believe in a moral sense, like Shaftesbury ; he may refer all human actions to self-interest, like Ilelvetius ; or ho may never think about the matter at all. His creed on such subjects will no more influence his poetry, properly so called, then the notions Avhich a painter may have conceh^ed respecting the lacrymal glands, or the circulation of the blood, Avill affect the tears of his Niobe, or the blushes of his Aurora. If Shakspeare had Avritten a book on the motives of human actions, it is by no means certain that it Avould have been a good one. It is extremely improbable that it would have contained half so much able reasoning on the subject as is to be found in the Fable of the Bees. But could MandeAulle haA^e created an lago ? Well as he knew hoAv to resoh^e characters into their elements, would he liaA^e been able to combine those elements in such a manner as to make up a man, a real, living, indi- Audual man ? Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind, if any thing which gives so much pleasure ought to be called unsoundness. By poetry we mean not all writing in verse, nor eA^en all good writing in Averse. Our definition excludes many metrical compositions Avdiich, on other grounds, deserA^e the highest praise. By poetry we mean the art of employing words in such a manner as to produce an illusion on the imagination, the art of doing by means of words what the painter does by means of colors. Thus the greatest of poets has described it, in lines universally admired for the vigor and felicity oi their diction, and still more valuable on account of the just iiotion which they convey of the art in which he excelled » MILTOK. 153 “As imagiDation bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.’’ These are the fruits of the ‘‘ fine frenzy ” which he as- cribes to the poet, — a fine frenzy doubtless, but still a frenzy. Truth, indeed, is essential to poetry ; but it is the truth of madness. The reasonings are just ; but the prem- ises are false. After the first suppositions have been made, every thing ought to be consistent ; but those first suppo- sitions require a degree of credulity which almost amounts to a partial and temporary derangement of the intellect. Hence of all people cliildren are the most imaginative. They abandon themselves without reserve to every illusion. Every image which is strongly presented to their mental eye pro- duces on them the effect of reality. No man, whatever his sensibility may be, is ever affected by Hamlet or Lear, as a little girl is affected by the story of poor Red Riding-hood. She knows that it is all false, that wolves cannot speak, that there arc no wolves in England. Yet in spite of her knowl- edge she believes ; she weeps ; she trembles ; she dares not go into a dark room lest she should feel the teeth of the monster at her throat. Such is the despotism of the im- agination over uncultivated minds. In a rude state of society men are children with a greater variety of ideas. It is therefore in such a state of society that we may expect to find the poetical temperament in its highest perfection. In an enlightened age there will be much intelligence, much science, much pliilosophy, abun- dance of just classification and subtle analysis, abundance of Avit and eloquence, adundance of Akerses, and even of good ones ; but little poetry. Men Arill judge and compare ; but they will not create. They will talk about the old poets, and comment on them, and to a certain degree enjoy them. But they will scarcely be able to conceive the effect which poetry produced on their ruder ancestors, the agony, the ecstasy, the plenitude of belief. The Greek Rhapsodists, according to Plato, could scarce recite Homer without falling into convulsions. The Mohawk hardly feels the scalping knife while he shouts his death-song. The power which the ancient bards of Wales and Germany exercised over their auditors seems to modern readers almost miraculous. Such feelings are very rare in a civilized community, and most 154 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. rare among lliose wlio ])articij)ate most in its improvements. They linger longest among tlie peasantry. Poetry produces an illusion on the eye of the mind, as a magic lantern produces an illusion on tlie eye of the body And, as the magic lantern acts best in a dark room, poetry effects its purpose most completely in a dark age. As the light of knowledge breaks in ui^oii its exhibitions, as the outlines of certainty become more and more definite, and the shades of probability more and more distinct, the hues and lineaments of the phantoms which the poet calls up grew fainter and fainter. We cannot unite the incompati- ble advantages of reality and deception, the clear discern- ment of truth and the exquisite enjoyment of fiction. He who, in an enlightened and literary society, aspires to be a great poet, must first become a little child. He must take to pieces the whole web of his mind. He must unlearn much of that knowledge which has perhaps constituted hith- erto his chief title to superiority. His very talents will be a hindrance to him. His difficulties will be proportioned to his proficiency in the pursuits which are fashionable among his contemporaries ; and that proficiency, will in general be proportioned to the vigor and activity of his mind. And it is well if, after all his sacrifices and exertions, his works do not resemble a lisping man or a modern ruin. We have seen in our own time great talents, intense labor, and long meditation, employed in this struggle against the spirit of the age, and employed, we will not say, absolutely in vain, but with dubious success and feeble ajqdause. If these reasonings be just, no poet has ever triumphed over greater difficulties than Milton. He received a learned education; he was a profound and elegant classical scholar; he had studied all the mysteries of Rabbinical literature ; he was intimately acquainted with every language of modern Plurope, from which either pleasure or information Avas then to be derived. He Avas perhaps the only great poet of later times Avho has been distinguished by the excellence of his Latin Averse. The genius of Petrarch Avas scarcely of the first order ; and his poems in the ancient language, though much praised by those Avho have never read them, are Avretched compositions. CoAvley, with all his admirable A\dt and ingenuity, had little imagination ; nor indeed do we think his classical diction comparable to that of Milton. The au- thority of Johnson is against us on this point. But Johnson had studied the bad Avriters of the middle ages till he had MILTON. 155 become utterly insensible to the Augustan elegance, and was as ill qualified to judge between two Latin styles as a habitual drunkard to set up for a wine-taster. Versification in a dead language is an exotic, a far-fetched, costly, sickly, imitation of that which elsewhere may bo found in Iiealthful and spontaneous perfection. The soils on which this rarity flourishes are in general as ill-suited to the production of vigorous native poetry as the flower-pots of a hot-house to the growth of oaks. That the author of the Paradise Lost should have written the Epistle to Manso was truly wonderful. Never before were such marked origin- ality and such exquisite mimicry found together. Indeed in all the Latin poems of Milton the artificial manner in- dispensable to such works is admirably preserved, vdiile, at the same time, his genius gives to them a peculiar charm, an air of nobleness and freedom, wdiich distinguishes them from all other writings of the same class. They remind us of the amusements of those angelic warriors who composed the cohort of Gabriel : “ About him exercised heroic games The unarmed youth of heaven. But o’er their heads Celestial armory, shield, helm, and spear. Hung high, with diamond flaming and with gold. ” We cannot look upon the sportive exercises for which the genius of Milton ungirds itself, without catching a glimpse of the gorgeous and terrible panoply which it is accustomed to wear. The strength of his imagination triumphed over every obstacle. So intense and ardent was the fire of his mind, that it not only was not suffocated beneath the w^eight of fuel, but penetrated the whole superincumbent mass wdth its own heart and radiance. It is not our intention to attempt any thing like a com- plete examination of the poetry of Milton. The public has long been agreed as to the merit of the most remarkable passages, the incomparable harmony of the numbers, and the excellence of that style, w^hich no rival has been able to equal, and no parodist to degrade, which displays in their highest perfection the idiomistic powers of the English tongue, and to w^hich every ancient and every modern lan- guage has contributed something of grace, of energy, or of music. Ill the vast field of criticism on wdiich w^e are enter- ing innumerable reapers have already put their sickles. Yet the harvest is so abundant that the negligent search of a straggling gleaner may be rewarded with a sheaf. 156 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wiutings. The most striking cliaracteristic of tlie ])oetry of Milton is the extreme remoteness of llie associations hy means of which it acts on the reader. Its effect is j)roduccd, not so much by what it expresses, as by what it suggests ; not so much by the ideas which it directly conveys, as by other ideas whicli are connected with them. lie electrifies the mind through conductors. The most unimaginative man must understand the Iliad. Homer gives him no choice, and requires from him no exertion, but takes the whole u])on himself, and sets the images in so clear a light, that it is im- possible to be blind to them. The 'works of Milton cannot be comprehended or enjoyed, unless the mind of the reader co-operate with that of the Avriter. He docs not paint a finished picture, or j)lay for a mere passive listener. He sketches, and leaves others to fill up the outline. He strikes the-key-note, and expects his hearer to make out the melody. We often hear of the magical influence of poetry. The expression in general means nothing: but, applied to the Avritings of Milton, it is most appropriate. His poetry acts like an incantation. Its merit lies less in its obvious meaning than in its occult poAver. There Avould seem, at first sight, to be no more in his A\"ords than in other words. But they are words of enchantment. No sooner are they pronounced, than the past is present and the distant near. New forms of beauty start at once into existence, and all the burial-places of the memory give up their dead: Change the structure of the sentence ; substitute one synonyme for another, and the whole effect is destroyed. The spell loses its power ; and he Avho should then hope to conjure with it Avould find himself as much mistaken as Cassini in the Arabian tale, when he stood crying, “ Open Wheat,” “ Open Barley,” to the door which obeyed no sound but “Open Sesame.” The miserable failure of Dryden in his attempt to translate into his own diction some part of the Paradise Lost, is a remarkable instance of this. In support of these observations we may remark, that scarcely any passages in the poems of Milton are more gen- erally known or more frequently repeated than those which are little more than muster-rolls of names. They are not always more appropriate or more melodious than other names. But they are charmed names. Every one of them is the first link in a long chain of associated ideas. Like the dwelling-place of our infancy revisited in manhood, like the song of our country .heard in a strange land, they produce MILTON. 157 upon us an effect wholly independent of their intrinsic value. One transports us back to a remote period of history Another places us among the novel scenes and manners of a distant region. A third evokes all the dear classical recol- lections of childhood, the school-room, the dog-eared Virgil, the holiday, and the prize. A fourth brings before us the splendid phantoms of chivalrous romance, the trophied lists, the embroidered housings, the quaint devices, the haunted forests, the enchanted gardens, the achievements of enam- ored knights, and the smiles of rescued princesses. In none of the works of Milton is his peculiar manner more happily displayed than in Allegro and the Penseroso. It is impossible to conceive that the mechanism of language can be brought to a more exquisite degree of perfection. These poems differ from others, as atar of roses differs from ordinary rose water, the close packed essence from the thin diluted mixture. They are indeed not so much poems, as collections of hints, from each of which the reader is to make out a poem for himself. Every epithet is a text for a stanza. The Comus and the Samson Agonistes are works which, though of very different merit, offer some marked points of resemblance. Both arc lyric poems in the form of plays. There are perhaps no two kinds of composition so essen- tially dissimilar as the drama and the ode. The business of the dramatist is to keep himself out of sight, and to let nothing appear but his characters. As soon as he attracts notice to his personal feelings, the illusion is broken. The effect is as unpleasant as that which is produced on the stage by the voice of a prompter or the entrance of a scene- shifter. Hence it was, that the tragedies of Byron were his least successful performances. They resemble those paste- board pictures invented by the friend of children, Mr. New- bury, in which a single movable head goes round twenty different bodies, so that the same face looks out upon us successively, from the uniform of a hussar, the furs of a judge, and the rags of a beggar. In all the characters, patriots and tyrants, haters and lovers, the frown and sneer of Harold were discernible in an instant. But this species of egotism, though fatal to the drama, is the inspiration of the ode. It is the part of the lyric poet to abandon him- self, without reserve, to his own emotion. Between these hostile elements many great men have endeavored to effect an amalgamation, but never with com* plete ^uqcess, The Greek Drama, on the model of which 158 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. the Samson was written, sprang from the Orle. The - ha- logiie was ingrafted on tlie chorus, and naturally partoo/c of its character. The genius of the greatest of tlie Athenian dramatists co-o])erated witli the circumstances under which tragedy made its first a]>])earancc. ^schylus was, fjead and lieart, a lyric poet. In his time, the Greeks had f«Tr more intercourse with the East tlian in the days of Ilomer , and tliey had not yet acquired that immense superiority in war, m science, and in the arts, which, in the following gen- eration, led them to treat the Asiatics with contempt. From the narrative of Herodotus it should seem lhat they still looked up, with the disciples, to Egypt and Assyria. At this period, accordingly it was natural that the litera- ture of Greece should be tinctured with the Oriental style. And that style, we think, is discernible in the works of Pin- dar and u^schylus. The latter often reminds us of the Hebrew writers. The book of Job, indeed, in conduct and diction, bears a considerable resemblance to some of his dramas. Considered as plays, his works are absurd ; consid- ered as choruses, they are above all praise. If, for instance, we examine the address of Clytemnestra to Agamemnon on his return, or the description of the seven Argive chiefs, by the principles of dramatic writing, we shall instantly condemn them as monstrous. But if we forget the charac- ters, and think only of the poetry, we shall admit that it has never been surpassed in energy and magnificence. Sophocles made the Greek drama as dramatic as was consistent with its original form. His portraits of men have a sort of simi- larity ; but it is the similarity not of a painting, but of a bas-relief. It suggests a resemblance ; but it does not pro- duce an illusion. Euripides attempted to carry the reform further. Bat it was a task far beyond his poAvers, perhaps beyond any poAvers. Instead of correcting AA^hat was bad, he destroyed Avhat Avas excellent. He substituted crutches fr>r stilts, bad sermons for good odes. Milton, it is well known, admired Euripides highly, much more highly than, in our opinion, Euripides deserved Indeed the caresses which this partiality leads our country- man to bestow on “ sad Electra’s poet,” sometimes remind us of the beautiful Queen of Fairy-land kissing the long ears of Bottom. At all events, there can be no doubt that this veneration for the Athenian, Avhether just or not, was inju- rious to the Samson Agonistes. Had Milton taken ^schy- lus for his model, he would have given himself up to the lyri« MILTO^Q. 159 inspiration, and poured out profusely all the treasures of his mind, witliout bestowing a thouglit on those dramatic proprieties which the nature of the work rendered it impos- sible to preserve. In the attempt to reconcile things in their own nature inconsistent, he has failed, as every one else must have failed. We cannot identify ourselves with the characters, as in a good play. We cannot identify ourselves with the poet, as in a good ode. The conflicting ingredients, like an acid and an alkali mixed, neutralize each other. We are by no means insensible to the merits of this cele- brated piece, to the severe dignity of the style, the graceful and pathetic solemnity of the opening speech, or the wild and barbaric melody Avhich gives so striking an effect to the choral passages. But we think it, we confess, the least successful effort of the genius of Milton. The Comus is framed on the model of the Italian Masque, as the Samson is framed on the model of the Greek Tragedy. It is certainly the noblest performance of the kind which exists in any language. It is as far superior to the Faithful Shepherdess, as the Faithful Shepherdess is to the Aminta, or the Aminta to the Pastor Fido. It was w^ell for Milton that he had here no Euripides to mislead him. He understood and loved the literature of modern Italy. But he did not feel for it the same veneration which he entertained for the remains of Athenian and Roman poetry, consecrated by so many lofty and endearing recob lections. The faults, moreover, of his Italian predecessors were of a kind to wliich his mind had a deadly antipathy. He could stoop to a plain style, sometimes even to a bald style ; but false brilliancy was his utter aversion. His muse bad no objection to a russet attire; but she turned with disgust from the finery of Guarini, as tawdry and as paltry as the rags of a chimney-sweeper on May-day. Whatever ornaments she w^ears are of massive gold, not only dazzling to the sight, but capable of standing the severest test of the crucible. Milton attended in the Comus to the distinction which he afterwards neglected in the Samson. He made his Masque what it ought to be, essentially lyrical, and dramatic only in semblance. He has not attempted a fruitless strug- gle against a defect inherent in the nature of that species of composition ; and he has therefore succeeded, wherever suc- cess was not impossible. The speeches must be read as ma- jestic soliloquies ; and he yv^ho so reads them will be enrap- ICO MACAULAY S MISCELLANEOUS WHITINGS. tiirod with llicir eloquence, tlieir sulilimity, and their music. The internij)tions of tlie dialogue, liowever, iin})Ose a con- straint uj)on the writer, and break the illusion of the reader. The finest passages are those wliicli are lyric in form as well as in spirit. “ I should much commend,” says the excellent Sir Henry Wotteri in a letter to Milton, “the tragical part if tlie lyrical did not ravish me with a certain Dorique delicacy in your songs and odes, whereunto, I must plainly confess to you, I liave seen yet nothing parallel in our language.” The criticism was just. It is when Milton es- capes from the shackles of the dialogue, when he is dis- charged from the labor of uniting two incongruous styles, when he is at liberty to indulge his choral raptures without reserve, that he rises even above himself. Then, like his own good Genius bursting from the earthly form and weeds of Thyrsis, he stands forth in celestial freedom and beauty ; he seems to cry exultingly, “ Now my task is smoothly done, I can fly or I can run,” to skim the earth, to soar above the clouds, to bathe in the Elysian dew of the rainbow, and to inhale the balmy smells of Hard and cassia, which the musky winds of the zephyr scatter through the cedared alleys of the Hesperides. There are several of the minor poems of Milton on which we would willingly make a few remarks. Still more willingly would we enter into a detailed examination of that admirable poem, the Paradise Regained, which, strangely enough, is scarcely ever mentioned except as an instance of the blindness of the parental affection which men of letters bear towards the offspring of their intellects. That Milton was mistaken in preferring this work, excellent as it is, to the Paradise Lost, we readily admit. But we are sure that the superiority of the Paradise Lost to the Paradise Re- gained is not more decided, than the superiority of the Paradise Regained to every poem which has since made its appearance. Our limits, however, prevent us from discuss- ing the point at length. We hasten on to that extraordi- nary production which the general suffrage of critics has placed in the highest class of human compositions. The only poem of modern times which can be compared with the Paradise Lost is the Divine Comedy. The subject of Milton, in some points, resembled that of Dante ; but he has treated it in a widely different manner. We cannot, we MILTON. 161 think, better illustrate our opinion respecting our own great poet, than by contrasting him with the father of Tuscan literature. The poetry of Milton differs from that of Dante, as the hieroglyphics of Egypt differed from the picture-writing of Mexico. The images which Dante employs speak for tlicm- selves ; they stand simply for what they are. Those of Mil ion have a signification which is often discernible only to the initiated. Their value depends less on what they directly represent than on what they remotely suggest. However strange, however grotesque, may be the appearance which Dante undertakes to describe, he never shrinks from describ- ing it. lie gives us the shape, the color, the sound, the smell, the taste ; he counts the numbers ; he measures the size. His similes are the illustrations of a traveller. Unlike those of other poets, and especially of Milton, they are in- troduced in a plain, business-like manner ; not for the sake of any beauty in the objects from which they are drawn ; not for the sake of any ornament which they may impart to the poem ; but simply in order to make the meaning of the writer as clear to the reader as it is to himself. The ruins of the precipice which led from the sixth to the seventh circle of hell were like those of the rock which fell into the Adige on the south of Trent. The cataract of Phlegethon was like that of Aqua Cheta at the monastery of St. Bene- dict. The place where the heretics were confined in burn- ing tombs resembled the vast cemetery of Arles. Now let us compare with the exact details of Dante the dim intimations of Milton. We will cite a few examples. The English poet has never thought of taking the measure of Satan. He gives us merely a vague idea of vast bulk. In one passage the fiend lies stretched out huge in length, fioating many a rood, equal in size to the earth-born ene- mies of Jove, or to the sea-monster which the mariner mis- takes for an island. When he addresses himself to battle against the guardian angels, he stands like Teneriffe or At- las : his stature reaches the sky. Contrast with these de- scriptions the lines in which Dante has described the gigantic spectre of Nimrod. “ His face seemed to me as long and as broad as the ball of St. Peters at Rome ; and his other limbs were in proportion ; so that the bank, which concealed him from the waist downwards, nevertheless showed so much of him, that three tall Germans would in vain have tempted to reach to his hair.” We are sensible that we do VoL. I.— 11 lt)2 jjacaulay’s miscellaneous wpjtinos. no justice to tlie admirable style of the Florentine poet. But Mr. Cary’s translation is not at hand ; and our version, however rude, is sutlieient to illustrate our meaning. Once more, compare the lazar-house in the eleventh book of the Paradise Lost with the last ward of Malebolge in Dante. Milton avoids the loathsome details, and takes re- fuge in indistinct but solemn and tremendous imagery, Despair hurrying from couch to couch to mock the wretches with his attendance. Death shaking his dart over them, but, in spite of supplications, delaying to strike. What says Dante? “ There was such a moan there as there would be if all the sick who, between July and September, are in the hospitals of Valdichiana, and of the Tuscan swamps, and of Sardinia, were in one pit together ; and such a stench was issuing forth as is w^ont to issue from decayed limbs.” We will not take upon ourselves the invidious office of settling precedency between two such writers. Each in his own department is incomparable ; and each, w^e may re- mark, has wdsely, or fortunately, taken a subject adapted to Q-xhibit his peculiar talent to the greatest advantage. The Divine Comedy is a personal narrative. Dante is the eye- witness and ear-witn(‘ss of that which he relates. lie is the very man who has heard the tormented spirits crying out for the second death, who has read the dusky characters on tlie portal within which there is no hope, who has hidden his face from the terrors of the Gorgon, wffio has fled from the liooks and the seething pitch of Barbariccia and Drag- hignazzo. TTis own hands have grasped the shaggy sides of Lucifer. His own feet have climbed the mountain of expia- tion. His own brow has been marked by the purifying angel. The reader would tlirow aside such a tale in incredu- aDus disgust, unless it were told with the strongest air of veracity, with a sobriety even in its horrors, with the great- est precision and multiplicity in its details. The narrative of Milton in this respect differs from that of Dante, as the adventures of Amadis differ from those of Gulliver. The author of Amadis would have made his book ridiculous if he had introduced those minute particulars wdiich give such a charm to the work of Swift, the nautical observations, the affected delicacy about names, the official documents tran- scribed at full length, and all the unmeaning gossip and scandal ^f the court, sjiringing out of nothing, and tending to nothing. We are not shocked at being told that a man who lived, nobody knows when^ saw many very strange MILTON. 163 eights, and we can easily abandon ourselves to the illusion of the romance. But when Lemuel Gulliver, surgeon, resi- dent at llotherhithe, tells us of pygmies and giants, dying islands, and philosophizing horses, nothing but such circum- stantial touches could produce for a single moment a decep tion on the imagination. Of all the poets who have introduced into their Avorks the agency of supernatural beings, Milton has succeeded best. Here Dante decidedly yields to him ; and as this :s a point on which many rash and ill-considered judgments liave been jironounced, Ave feel inclined to d\\mll on it a little longer. The most fatal error Avhich a poet can possi- bly commit in the management of his machinery, is that of attempting to philosophize too much. Milton has been often censured for ascribing to spirits many functions of which spirits must be incapable. But these objections, though sanc- tioned by eminent names, originate, we venture to say, in profound ignorance of tlie art of poetry. What is spirit ? What are our OAvn minds, the portion of spirit Avith which Ave are best acquainted ? W e observe certain phoenomena. We cannot explain them into material causes. We therefore infer that there exists something Avhich is not material. But of this something Ave have no idea. We can define it only by negatives. We can reason about it only by symbols. We use the Avord : but Ave haAm no image of the thing ; and the business of poetry is with images, and not Avith words. The poet uses Avords indeed ; but they are merely the instruments of his art, not its ob- jects. They are the materials which he is to dispose in such a manner as to present a picture to the mental eye. And if they are not so disposed, they are no more entitled to be called poetry than a bale of canvas and a box of colors to be called a painting. Logicians may reason about abstractions. But the great mass of men must have images. The strong tendency c.f the multitude in all ages and nations to idolatry can be ex- plained on no other principle. The first inhabitants of Greece, there is reason to believe, Avorshipped one invisible Deity. But the necessity of having something more definite to adore produced, in a feAV centuries, the innumerable crowd of Gods and Goddesses. In like manner the ancient Persians thought it impious to exhibit the Creator under a human form. Yet CA^en these transferred to the Sun the worship which, in speculation, they considered due only to 164 macactlay’s miscellaneous writings. the Supreme Mind. The TTistory of tlie Jews is the record of a continued struggle between ])ure Tlieisni, supported by the most terrible sanctions, and tlie strangely fascinating de- sire of having some visible and tangible ol)ject of adoration. Perhaps none of the secondary causes which Gibbon has as- signed for the raj)idity with which Christianity sj>read over the world, while Judaism scarcely ever accpiired a proselyte, operated more i)owerfully than this feeling. God, the un- created, the incomprehensible, .the invisible, attracted few worshippers. A philosopher might admire so noble a con- ception : but the crowd turned away in disgust from words which presented no image to their minds. It was before Deity embodied in a human form, walking among men, j)ar- taking of their infirmities, leaning on their bosoms, w^eeping over their graves, slumbering in the manger, bleeding on the cross, that the prejudices of the Synagogue, and the doubts of the Academy, and the pride of the portico, and the fasces of the Lictor, and the swords of thirty legions, w’^ere humbled in the dust. Soon after Christianity had achieved its triumph, the principle which had assisted it be- gan to corrupt it. It became a new Paganism. Patron saints assumed the offices of household gods. St. George took the place of Mars. St. Elmo consoled the mariner for the loss of Castor and Pollux. The Virgin Mother and Cecilia suc- ceeded to Venus and the Muses. The fascination of sex and loveliness was again joined to that of celestial dignity; and the homage of chivalry was blended with that of religion. Reformers have often made a stand against these feelings ; but never with more then apparent and partial success. The men who demolished the images in Cathedrals have not always been able to demolish those which Avere enshrined in their minds. It Avould not be difficult to shoAV that in poli- tics the same rule holds good. Doctrines, we are afraid, must generally be embodied before they can excite a strong public feeling. The multitude is more easily interested for the most unmeaning badge, or the most insignificant name, than for the most important principle. From these considerations, Ave infer that no poet, Avho should affect that metaphysical accuracy for the want of which Milton has been blamed, would escape a disgraceful failure. Still, however, there Avas another extreme, Avhich, though far less dangerous, Aras also to be aA^oided. The im- aginations of men are in a great measure under the control cf their opinions. The most exquisite art of poetical color- MILTON. 165 ing can produce no illusion, when it is employed to rep resent that which is at once perceived to be incongruous and absurd. Milton wrote in an age of philosophers and theo iogians. It was necessary, therefore, for him to abstain from giving such a shock to their understandings as might break the charm which it was his object to throw over their imag- inations. This is the real explanation of the indistinctness and inconsistency with which he has often been reproached. Dr. Johnson acknowledges that it was absolutely necessary that the spirit should be clothed w ith material forms. “ But,” says he, ‘‘ the poet should have secured the consistency of his system by keeping immateriality out of sight, and seduc- ing the reader to drop it from his thoughts.” This is easily said ; but what if Milton could not seduce his readers to drop immateriality from their thoughts ? What if the con- trary opinion had taken so fully possession of the minds of men as to leave no room even for the half belief which poetry requires ? Such w^e suspect to have been the case. It was impossible for the poet to adopt altogether the mate- rial or the immaterial system. He therefore took his stand on the debatable ground. He left the whole in ambiguity. He has, doubtless, by so doing, laid himself open to the charge of inconsistency. But, though philosophically in the wrong, we cannot but believe that he w^as poetically in the right. This task, which almost any other writer would have found impracticable, was easy to him. The peculiar art which he possessed of communicating his meaning circuit- ously through a long succession of associated ideas, and of intimating more than he expressed, enabled him to disguise those incongruities which he could not avoid. Poetry which relates to the beings of another world ought to be at once mysterious and picturesque. That of Milton is so. That of Dante is picturesque indeed beyond any that was ever written. Its effect approaches to that produced by the pencil or the chisel. But it is picturesque to the exclusion of all mystery. This is a fault on the right side, a fault in- separable from the plan of Dante’s poem, which, as we have already observed, rendered the utmost accuracy of descrip- tion necessary. Still it is a fault. The supernatural agents excite an interest ; but it is not the interest which is proper to supernatural agents. We feel that w^e could talk to the ghosts and daemons wdthout any emotion of unearthly aw^e. We could, like Don Juan, ask them to supper, and eat heartily in their company, Dante’s angels are good men 166 Macaulay’s miscellaneous avuitings. witli Avings. Ills devils are spiteful ugly executioners. His dead men arc merely living men in strange situations. The scene Avhicli passes between the ])Oct and Farinata is justly celebrated. Still, Farinata in the burning tomb is exactly Avhat Farinata would liave ])ccn at an auto da fe. Nothing can be more touching than the first intervicAV of Dante and Beatrice. Yet Avhat is it, but a lovely Avoman chiding, with SAveet austere composure, the lover for avIiosc affection she is grateful, but A\dAOse vices she re])robates ? The feelings Avhich give the passage its charm would suit the streets of Florence as Avell as the summit of the Mount of Purgatory. The spirits of Milton are unlike those of almost all other Avriters. His fiends, in ])articular, are Avonderful creations. They are not metaphysical abstractions. They are not Avicked men. Tliey are not ugly beasts. Tlicy have no horns, no tails, none of the fee-faw-fum of Tasso and Klop- stock. They have just enough in common Avith human nature to be intelligible to human beings. Their characters are, like their forms, marked by a certain dim resemblance to those of men, but exaggerated to gigantic dimensions, and veiled in mysterious gloom. Perhaps the gods and daemons of Hilschylus may best bear a comparison Avith the angels and devils of Milton. The style of the Athenian had, as we have remarked, some- thing of the Oriental character ; and the same peculiarity may be traced in his mythology. It has nothing of the amenity and elegance Avhich Ave generally find in the super- stitions of Greece. All is rugged, barbaric, and colossal. The legends of ^schylus seem to liarmonize less with the fragrant groves and graceful porticoes in which his country- men paid their vows to the God of Light and Goddess of Desire, than Avith those huge and grotesque labyrinths of eternal granite in Avhich Egypt enshrined her mystic Osiris, or in which Hindostan still boAvs down to her seven-headed idols. His favorite gods are those of the elder generation, the sons of heaven and earth, compared with whom Jupiter himself was a stripling and an upstart, the gigantic Titans, and the inexorable Furies. Foremost among his creations of this class stands Prometheus, half fiend, half redeemer, the friend of man, the sullen and implacable enemy of heaA^en. Prometheus bears undoubtedly a considerable re- semblance to the Satan of Milton. In both we find the same imjLatience of control, the same ferocity, the same un- conquerable pride. In both characters also are mingled, MILTON. 167 though m very different proportions, some kind and gener- ous feelings. Prometheus, however, is hardly superhuman enough, lie talks too much of his chains and his uneasy posture : he is rather too much depressed and agitated. Ilis resolution seems to depend on the knowledge which he pos- sesses that he holds the fate of his torturer in his hands, and that the hour of Ills release will surely come. But Satan is a creature of another sphere. The might of his intellec- tual nature is victorious over the extremity of pain. Amidst agonies Avhich cannot be conceived without horror, he de- liberates, resolves, and even exults. Against the sword ol Michael, against the thunder of Jehovah, against the flam- ing lake, and tlie marl burning with solid Are, against the prospect of an eternity of unintermitted misery, his spirit bears up unbroken, resting on its own innate energies, re- quiring no support from anything external, nor even from hope itself. To return for a moment to the parallel wdiich we have been attempting to draw between Milton and Dante, we would add that the poetry of these great men has in a con siderable degree taken its character from their moral quali- ties. They are not egotists. They rarely obtrude their idiosyncrasies on their readers. They have nothing in common with those modern beggars for fame, who extorts a pittance from the compassion of the inexperienced by exposing the nakedness and sores of their minds. Yet it Avould be diflicult to name two writers whose works have been more completely, though undesignedly, colored by their personal feelings. The character of Milton was peculiarly distinguished by loftiness of spirit ; that of Dante by intensity of feeling. In every line of the Divine Comedy we discern the asperity which is produced by pride struggling with misery. There is perhaps no work in the world so deeply and uniformly eorrowful. The melancholy of Dante was no fantastic ca* ])rice. It was not, as far as at this distance of time can be judged, the effect of external circumstances. It was from within. Neither love nor glory, neither the conflicts of earth nor the hope of heaven could dispel it. It tui ned every consolation and every pleasure into its own nature. It resembled that noxious Sardinian soil of which the in- tense bitterness is said to have been perceptible even in its honey. His mind was, in the noble language of the Hebrew poet, “a land of darkness, as darkness itself, and where the 168 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS AVIUTINGB. light was as darkness.” The gloom of Ids characters dis- colors all the ])assions of men, and all the face of nature^ and tinges with its own livid hue the dowers of Paradise and the glories of the eternal throne. All the portraits of 1 im are singularly characteristic. No person can look on the features, noble even to ruggedness, the dark furrows of the cheek, the haggard and woful stare of the eye, the sullen and contemptuous curve of the lip, and doubt that they be- long to a man too proud and too sensitive to be happy. Milton was, like Dante, a statesman and a lover ; and, like Dante, he had been unfortunate in ambition and in love. He had survived his health and his sight, the com- forts of his home, and the prosperity of his party. Of the great men by whom he had been distinguished at his en- trance into life, some had been taken away from the evil to come ; some had carried into foreign climates their uncon- querable hatred of opiiression ; some were pining in dun- geons ; and some had poured forth their blood on scaffolds. Venal and licentious scribblers, wdth just sufficient talent to clothe the thoughts of a pandar in the style of a bellman, were now the favorite writers of the Sovereign and of the public. It was a loathsome herd, which could be compared to nothing so fitly as to the rabble of Comus, grotesque monsters, half bestial, half human, dropping with wdne, bloated with gluttony, and reeling in obscene dances. Amidst these that fair "Muse was placed, like the chaste lady of the Masque, lofty, spotless, and serene, to be chattered at, and pointed at, and grinned at, by the whole rout of Satyrs and Goblins. If ever despondency and asperity could be excused in any man, they might have been excused in Milton. But the strength of his mind overcame every calamity. Neither blindness, nor gout, nor age, nor penury, nor domestic afflictions, nor political disappointments, nor abuse, nor proscription, nor neglect, had power to disturb his sedate and majestic patience. His spirits do not seem to have been high, but they were singularly equable. His temper w^as serious, perhaps stern ; but it was a temper which no sufferings could render sullen or fretful. Such as it was when, on the eve of great events, he returned from his travels, in the prime of health and manly beauty, loaded with literary distinctions, and glowing with patriotic hopes, such it continued to be when, after having experienced every calamity which is incident to our nature, old, poor^ sightless and disgraced, he retired to his hovel to die. MILTON. 169 Hence it was that, though he wrote the Paradise Lost at a time of life when images of beauty and tenderness are in general beginning to fade, even from those minds in which they have not been effaced by anxiety and disappointment, lie adorned it with all that is most lovely and delightful i» the physical and in the moral world. Neither Theocritus nor Ariosto had a finer or a more healthful sense of the pleasam ness of external objects, or loved better to luxuriate amidst sunbeams and flowers, the songs of nightingales, the juici> of summer fruits, and the coolness of shady fountains. Hu conception of love unites all the voluptuousness of th#< Ormntal harem, and all the gallantry of the chivalric tourna meiit, with all the pure and quiet affection of an English fireside. His poetry reminds us of the miracles of Alpine scenery. Nooks and dells, beautiful as fairy land, are em- bosomed in its most rugged and gigantic elevations. The roses and myrtles bloom unchilled on the verge of the avalanche. Traces, indeed, of the peculiar character of Milton may be found in all his works ; but it is most strongly displayed in the Sonnets. Those remarkable poems have been under- valued Dy critics who have not understood their nature. They have no epigrammatic point. There is none of the ingenuity of Filicaja in the thought, none of the hard and brilliant enamel of Petrarch in the style. They are simple but majestic records of the feelings of the poet ; as little tricked out for the public eye as his diary would have been. A victory, an expected attack upon the city, a momentary fit of depression or exultation, a jest thrown out against one of his books, a dream which for a short time restored to him that beautiful face over which the grave had closed for ever, led him to musings, which, without effort, shaped themselves into verse. The unity of sentiment and severity of style which characterize these little pieces remind us of the Greek Anthology, or perhaps still more of the Collects of the English Liturgy. The noble poem on the Massacres of Piedmont is strictly a Collect in verse. The Sonnets are more or less striking according as the occasions which gave birth to them are more or less interest- ing. But they are, almost without exception, dignified by a sobriety and greatness of mind to which we know not wher« to look for a parallel. It would, indeed, be scarcely safe t< draw any decided inferences as to the character of a writer from passages directly egotistical But the qualities whicl 170 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. we have ascribed to Milton, though ])erhaps most strongly marked in those parts of liis works which treat of his j)ersonal feelings, are distinguishable in every ])age, and imj)art to all his writings, prose and j)oetry, English, Latin, and Italiaii, a sti*ong family likeness. Ills piOdic conduct was sucli as was to be expected from a man of a spirit so high and of an intellect so ])Owerful. lie lived at one of the most memorable eras in the liistory of mankind, at the very crisis of the great conflict between Ororaasdes and Arimanes, liberty and despotism, reason and prejudice. That great battle was fought for no single generation, for no single land. The destinies of the human race were staked on the same cast with the freedom of the English people. Then were first proclaimed those mighty ju'inciples which have since worked their way into the depths of the American forests, which have roused Greece from the slavery and degradation of two thousand years, and which, from one^ end of Europe to the other, have kindled an unquenchable fire in the hearts of the oppressed, and loosed the knees of the opj)ressors with an unwonted fear. Of those principles, then struggling for their infant exist- ence, Milton was the most devoted and eloquent literary champion. We need not say how much we admire his public conduct. But we cannot disguise from ourselves that a large portion of his countrymen still think it unjustifiable. The civil war, indeed, has been more discussed, and is less understood, than any event in English history. The friends of liberty labored under the disadvantage of Avhich the lion in the fable complained so bitterly. Though they were the conquerors, their enemies were the painters. As a body, the Roundheads had done their utmost to decry and ruin literature ; and literature was even with them, as, in the long run, it always is with its enemies. The best book on their side of the question is the charming narrative of Mrs, Hutchinson. May’s History of the Parliament is good ; but it breaks off at the most interesting crisis of the struggle. The performance of Ludlow is foolish and violent ; and most of the later writers who have espoused the same cause, Oldmixon for instance, and Catherine Macaulay, have, to say the least, been more distinguished by zeal than either by candor or by skill. On the other side are the most author- itative and the most po])ular historical works in our lan- guage, that of Clarendon, and that of Hume. The fqrmet MILTON. 171 18 not only ably written and full of valuable information, but liaH also an air of dignity and sincerity which makes even the prejudices and errors with whicli it abounds re- spectable. H«nie, from whose fascinating narrative the great mass of the reading public are still contented to take their opinions, hated religion so much tliat he hated liberty for liaving been allied with religion, and has pleaded the cause of tyranny with the dexterity of an advocate while affecting the impartiality of a judge. The public conduct of Milton must be approved or con- demned according as the resistance of the people to Charles the First shall appear to be justifiable or criminal. We shall therefore make no apology for dedicating a few pages to the discussion of that interesting and most important ques- tion. We shall not argue it on general grounds. We shall not recur to those primary principles from which the claim of any government to the obedience of its subjects is to be deduced. We are entitled to that vantage ground ; but we will relinquish it. We are, on this point, so confident of superiority, that we are not unwilling to imitate the osten- tatious generosity of those ancient knights, who vowed to joust without helmet or shield against all enemies, and to give their antagonists the advantage of sun and wind. We will take the naked constitutional question. We confidently affirm, that every reason which can be urged in favor of the Eevolution of 1688 may be urged with at least equal force in favor of what is called the Great Eebellion. In one respect, only, we think can the warmest admir- ers of diaries venture to say that he was a better sovereign than his son. He was not, in name and profession, a Papist ; we say in name and profession, because bolh Charles himself and his creature Laud, while they abjured the innocent badges of Popery, retained all its worst vices, a complete subjection of reason to authority, a weak prefer- ence of form to substance, a childish passion for mummeries, an idolatrous veneration for the priestly character, and, above all, a merciless intolerance. This, however, we waive. We will concede that Charles was a good Protestant , but we say that his Protestantism does not make the slightest distinction between his case and that of James. The principles of the Eevolution have often been grossly misrepresented, and never more than in the course of the present year. There is a certain class of men who, Avhile they profess to hold in reverence the great names and great 172 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. actions of former times, never look at tliem for any other purpose than in order to find in them some excuse for existing abuses. In every venerable j)recedent they pass by what is essential, and take only what is accidental : they keep out of sight what is beneficial, and liold up to public imitation all that is defective. If, in any part of any great example, there be any thing unsound, these flesh-flies detect it with an unerring instinct, and dart upon it with a ravenous delight. If some good end has been attained in spite of them, they feel, with their prototype, that “ Their labor must be to pervert that end, And out of good still to find means of evil." To the blessings which England has derived from the Revolution these people are utterly insensible. The expul- sion of a tyrant, the solemn recognition of popular rights, liberty, security, toleration, all go for nothing with them. One sect there was, which, from unfortunate temporary causes, it w\as thought necessary to keep under close restraint. One ])art of the empire there was so unhappily circumstanced, that at that time its misery was necessary to our happiness, and its slavery to our freedom. These are the parts of the Revolution which the politicians of whom we speak, love to contemplate, and which seem to them not indeed to vin- dicate, but in some degree to palliate, the good which it has produced. Talk to them of Naples, of Spain, or of South America. They stand forth zealots for the doctrine of Divine Right which has now come back to us, like a thief from transportation, under the alias of Legitimacy. But mention the miseries of Ireland. Then William is a hero. Then Somers and Shrewsbury are great men. Then the Revolution is a glorious era. The very same persons who, in this country, never omit an opportunity of reviving every wretched Jacobite slander respecting the Whigs of that period, have no sooner crossed St. George’s Channel, than they begin to All their bumpers to the glorious and immortal memory. They may truly boast that they look not at men, but at measures. So that evil be done, they care not who does it ; the arbitary Charles, or the liberal William, Ferdinand the Catholic, or Frederic the Protestant. On such occasions their deadliest opponents may reckon upon their candid construction. The bold assertions of these people have of late impressed a large portion of the public with an opinion that James the Second was expelled simply MILTOIT. 173 because he was a Catliolic, and that the Revolution was essentially a Protestant Revolution. But this certainly was not the case ; nor can any person who has acquired more knowledge of the history of those times thar is to be found in Goldsmith’s Abridgment believe that, if James had held his own religious opinions without wishing to make proselytes, or if, wishing even to make proselytes, he had contented himself with exerting only his constitutional influence for that purpose, the Prince of Orange would ever have been invited over. Our ancestors, we suppose, knew their own meaning; and, if we may be- lieve them, their hostility was primarily not to popery, but to tyranny. They did not drive out a tyrant because he was a Catholic ; but they excluded Catholics from the crown, because they thought them likely to be tyrants. The ground on which they, in their famous resolution, declared the throne vacant, was this, that James had broken the fundamental laws of the kingdom.” Everyman, therefore, who approves of the Revolution of 1688 must hold that the breach of fundamental laws on the part of the sovereign justifies resistance. The question, then, is this: Had Charles the First broken the fundamental laws of England ? No person can answer in the negative, unless he refuses credit, not merely to all the accusations brought against Charles by his opponents, but to the narratives of the warm- est Royalists, and to the confessions of tho King himself. If there be any truth in any historian of any party who has related the events of that reign, the conduct of Charles, from his accession to the meeting of the Long Parliament, had been a continued course of oppression and treachery. Let those who applaud the Revolution, and condemn the Rebel- lion, mention one act of James the Second to which a par- allel is not to be found in the history of his father. Let them lay their fingers on a single article in the Declaration of Right, presented by the two Houses to William and Mary, which Charles is not acknowledged to have violated. He had, according to the testimony of his own friends, usurped the functions of the legislature, raised taxes with- out the consent of parliament, and quartered troops on the people in the most illegal and vexatious manner. Not a single session of parliament had passed without some uncon- stitutional attack on the freedom of debate ; the right of petition was grossly violated ; arbitrary judgments, exorbi- tant fines, and un^varranted imprisonments, were grievances 174 Macaulay’s miscellaneous aviutings. of daily oeciirrenco. If tliese tilings do not justify resist- ance, the He volution was treason ; if they (lo, the Great Rebellion was laudable. Rut, it is said, why not adopt milder measures? Why, after the King liad consented to so many reforms, and re- nounced so many oppressive prerogatives, did the parlia- ment continue to rise in their demands at the risk of provok- ing a civil war? The ship-money had been given u]). The Star Chamber had been abolished. Provision had been made for the frequent convocation and secure deliberation of }>arliaments. Why not pursue an end confessedly good by peaceable and regular means? We recur again to the analogy of the Revolution. Wliy Avas James driven from the throne ? Why was he not retained upon conditions? He too had offered to call a free parliament and to submit U its decision all the matters in dispute. Yet Ave are in the habit of praising our forefathers, Avho preferred a revolu- tion, a disputed succession, a dynasty of strangers, twenty years of foreign and intestine Avar, a standing army, and a national debt, to the rule, however restricted, of a tried and proved tyrant. The Long Parliament acted on the same principle and is entitled to the same praise. They could not trust the King. He had no doubt passed salutary laAvs ; but Avhat assurance Avas there that he would not break them ? He had renounced oppressive prerogatives } but AvliQre Avas the security that he Avould not resume them ? The nation had to deal Avith a man whom no tie could bind, a man Avho made and broke promises with equal facility, a man Avhose honor had been a hundred times paAvned, and never redeemed. Here, indeed, the Long Parliament stands on still stronger ground than the Convention of 1688. Ko action of James can be compared to the conduct of Charles with respect to the Petition of Right. The Lords and Commons present him Avith a bill in Avhich the constitutional limits of his poAver are marked out. He hesitates ; he evades ; at last he bargains to give his assent for five subsidies. The bill receives his solemn assent; the subsidies are voted; but no sooner is the tyrant relieved, than he returns at once to all the arbitrary measures which he had bound himself to aban- don, and violates all the clauses of the very Act which he had been paid to pass. For more than ten years the people had seen the rights which Avere theirs by a double claim, by immemorial inheri- MILTON. 175 taiico and by recent purchase, infringed by the perfidious king who had recognized them. At length circumstances compelled Charles to summon another parliament : another chance was given to our fathers : were they to throw it away as they had thrown away the former? Were they again to be cozened by le lloi le veut? Were they again to advance their money on pledges which had been forfeited over and over again? Were they to lay a second Petition of Riglit at the foot of the throne, to grant another lavish aid ir. exchange for another unmeaning ceremony, and then to take their departure, till, after ten years more of fraud aiul oppression, their prince should again require a supply, and again repay it with a perjury ? They were compelled to choose whether they would trust a tyrant or conquer him. We tliink that they chose wisely and nobly. The advocates of Charles, like the advocates of other malefactors against whom overwhelming evidence is pro- duced, generally decline all controversy about the facts, and content themselves witli calling testimony to character. He had so many private virtues ! And had James the Second no private virtues? Was Oliver Cromwell, his bitterest enemies themselves being j udges, destitute of private virtues ? And what, after all, are the virtues ascribed to Charles ? A religious zeal, not more sincere than that of his son, and fully as weak and narrow-minded, and a few of the ordinary household decencies Avhich half the tombstones in England claim for those who lie beneath them. A good father ! A good husband ! Ample apologies indeed for fifteen years of persecution, tyranny and falseliood ! We charge him with having broken his coronation oath ; and we are told that he kept his marriage vow! We' ac- cuse him of having given up his people to the mer<^iless in- flictions of the most hot-headed and hard-hesTXecl of pre- lates ; and the defence is, that he took hU nttle son on his knee and kissed him ! We ccn^’^'r^; nini for having violated the articles of the Petition?, oi Right, after having, for good and valuable consideration, promised to observe them ; and we are inW'’^'r-l that he was accustomed to hear prayers at six o’clocK in the morning! It is to such considerations as these, together wuth his Vandyke dress, his handsome face, oud his peaked beard, that he owes, we verily believe, most "his popularity with the present generation. For ourselves, we own that we do not understand the common phrase, a good man, but a bad king. We can m \ i 6 Macaulay’s miscellaneous mmutings. easily conceive a good man and an unnatural father, or a good man and a treacherous friend. We cannot, in estima* ting the character of an individual, leave out of our consid- eration his conduct in the most important of all human relations ; and if in that relation we hnd him to have been selfish, cruel, and deceitful, we shall take the liberty to call him a bad man, in spite of all his temperance at table, and all his regularity at chapel. We cannot refrain from adding a few words respecting a topic on which the defenders of Charles are fond of dwell ing. If, they say, he governed his people ill, he at least governed them after the example of his predecessors. If he violated their privileges, it was because those privileges had not been accurately defined. 'No act of oppression has ever been imputed to him which has not a parallel in the annals of the Tudors. This point Hume has labored, with an art which is as discreditable in a historical work as it would be admirable in a forensic address. The answer is short, clear, and decisive. Charles had assented to the Petition of Right. He had renounced the oppressive powers said to have been exercised by his predecessors, and he had renounced them for money. He was not entitled to set up his antiquated claims against his own recent release. These arguments are so obvious, that it may seem super- fluous to dwell upon them. But those who have observed how much the events of that time are misrepresented and misunderstood will not blame us for stating the case simply. It is a case of which the simplest statement is the strongest. The enemies of the Parliament, indeed, rarely choose to take issue on the great points of the question. They ccl- tent themselves with exposing some of the crimes and follies to which public commotions necessarily give birth. They bewail the unmerited fate of Strafford. They execrate the lawless violence of the army. They laugh at the Scriptural names of the preachers. Major-generals fleecing their dis- tricts ; soldiers revelling on the spoils of a ruined peasan- try ; upstartSj enriched by the public plunder taking posses- sion of the hospitable firesides and hereditary trees of the old gentry ; boys smashing the beautiful windows of cathe- drals; Quakers riding naked through the market-place; Pifth-moriarchy men shouting for King Jesus; agitators lecturing from the tops of tubs on the fate of Agag ; all these, they tell us, were the offspring of the Great Rebellion* Be it so* We are not careful to aaswcr in this matter^ MILTON. 177 These charges, were tliey infinitely more important, would not alter our opinion of an event which alone has made us to differ from the slaves who crouch beneath despotic scep- tres. Many evils, no doubt, were produced by the civil war. They were the price of our liberty. Has the acquisi- tion been worth the sacrifice ? It is the nature of the Devil of tyranny to tear and rend the body which he leaves. Are the miseries of continued possession less horrible than the struggles of the tremendous exorcism ? If it were possible that a people brought up under an in- tolerant and arbitrary system could subvert that system without acts of cruelty and folly, half the objections to des- potic power would be removed. We should, in that case, be compelled to acknowledge that it at least produces no pernicious effects on the intellectual and moral character of a nation. We deplore the outrages which accompany revo- lutions. But the more violent the outrages, the more assured we feel that a revolution was necessary. The violence of those outrages will always be proportioned to the ferocity and ignorance of the people ; and the ferocity and ignorance of the people will be proportioned to the oppression and degradation under which they have been accustomed to live. Thus it was in our civil war. The heads of the church and state reaped only that which they had sown. The govern- ment had prohibited free discussion : it had done its best to keep the people unacquainted with their duties and their rights. The retribution was just and natural. If our rulers suffered from popular ignorance, it was because they had themselves taken away the key of knowledge. If they were assailed with blind fury, it was because they had exacted an equally blind submission. It is the character of such revolutions that we always see the worst of them at first. Till men have been some time free, they know not how to use their freedom. The natives of wine countries are generally sober. In climates where wine is a rarity intemperance abounds. A newly liberated people may be compared to a northern army en- camped on the Rhine or the Xeres. It is said that, when soldiers in such a situation first find themselves able to in- dulge without restraint in such a rare and expensive luxury, nothing is to be seen but intoxication. Soon, however, })leiity teaches discretion ; and, after wine has been for a few months their daily tare, tliey become more temperate than they had ever been in their own country* In the same 178 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. manner, tlie final and permanent fruits of liberty are wis- dom, moderation, and mercy. Its immediate effects are of- ten atrocious crimes, conflicting errors, skepticism on points the most clear, dogmatism on ])oints the m<'st mysterious. It is just at this crisis tliat its enemies love to exhibit it They pull down the scaffolding from the half-finished edifice : they point to the flying dust, the falling bricks, the comfortless rooms, the frightful irregularity of the whole appearance ; and then ask in scorn wliere tlie promised splendor anersons who, on the fifth of November, thank God for wonderfully conducting his ser- vant William, and for making all opposition fall before him Tintil he became our King and Governor, can, on the thir- tieth of January, contrive to be afraid that the blood of tho Royal Martyr may be visited on themselves and their chil- dren. We disapprove, w^e repeat, of the execution of Charles; not because the constitution exempts the King from respon- sibility, for we know that all such maxims, how^ever excel- lent, have their exceptions ; nor because w e feel any pecu- liar interest in his character, for we think that his sentence describes him wdth perfect justice as “ a tyrant, a traitor, a murderer, and a public enemy ; ” but because w^e are con- vinced that the measure was most injurious to the cause of freedom. He whom it removed was a captive and a hostage : his heir, to w hom the allegiance of every Royalist was instant- ly transferred, was at large. The Presbyterians could never have been perfectly reconciled to the father : they had no such rooted enmity to the son. The great body of the peo- ple, also, contemplated that proceeding with feelings w^hich, however unreasonable, no government could safely venture to outrage. But though we think the conduct of the Regicides blame- able, that of Milton appears to us in a v^ery different light. The deed was done. It could not be undone. The evil w^as incurred ; and the object was to render it as small as possible. We censure the chiefs of the army for not yielding to the popular opinion ; but we cannot censure Milton for wishing to change that opinion. The very feeling which would have restrained us from committing the act w ould have led us, after it had been committed, to defend it against the ravings dI servility and superstition. For the sake of public liberty, we wish that the thing had not been done, while the people disapproved of it. But, for the sake of public liberty, we should also have wished the people to approve of it w^hen it was done. If any thing more were w’^anting to the justifica- tion of Milton, the book of Salmasius w^ould furnish it. That miserable performance is now with justice considered only as a beacon to word-catchers, w ho wish to become statesmen. The celebrity of the man w ho refuted it, the “^neae magni dextra,” gives it all its fame w ith the present generation. MILTOIf. 181 In that age tlie state of things was different. It was not then fully understood how vast an interval separates the mere classical scholar from the political philosopher. Nor can it be doubted that a treatise which, bearing the name of so eminent a critic, attacked the fundamental principles of all free governments, must, if suffered to remain unan- swered, have produced a most pernicious effect on the pul> lie mind. We wish to add a few words relative to another subject, on which the enemies of Milton delight to dwell, his con- duct during the administration of the Protector. That an enthusiastic votary of liberty should accept office under a military usurper seems, no doubt, at first sight, extraordi- nary. But all the circumstances in which the country was then placed were extraordinary. The ambition of Oliver V, as of no vulgar kind. He never seems to have coveted despotic power. He at first fought sincerely and manfully for the Parliament, and never deserted it, till it had deserted its duty. If he dissolved it by force, it was not till he found that the few members who remained after so many deaths, secessions, and expulsions, were desirous to appropriate to themselves a power which they held only in trust, and to in- flict upon England the curse of a Venetian oligarchy. But even when thus placed by violence at the head of affairs, he did not assume unlimited power. He gave the country a constitution far more perfect than any which had at that time been known in the world. He reformed the represen- tative system in a manner which has extorted praise even from Lord Clarendon. For himself he demanded indeed the first place in the commonwealth ; but with powers scarcely so great as those of a Dutch stadtholder, or an American president. He gave the Parliament a voice in the appoint- ment of ministers, and left to it the whole legislative author- ity, not oven reserving to himself a veto on its enactments ; and he did not require that the chief magistracy should bo hereditary in his family. Thus far, Ave think, if the circum- stances of the time and the opportunities which he had of aggrandizing himself be fairly considered, he Avill not lose by comparison with Washington or Bolivar. Had his mod- eration been met with corresponding moderation, there is no reason to think that he would have overstepped the line whi(*h he liad traced for himself. But Avhen he found that his parliaments questioned tlie authority under Avhicli they met, and that he Avas in danger of being deprived of the 182 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. restricted power wliicli was absolutely necessary to his per- sonal safety, then, it must he acknowledged, he adopted a more arbitrary j)olicy. Yet, though we believe that the intentions of Cromwell were at first honest, though we believe that he was driven from the noble course which he had marked out for himself by the almost irresistible force of circumstances, though we admire, in common with all men oi all parties, the ability and energy of his splendid administration, we are not pleading for arbitrary and lawless power, even in his hands. We know that a good constitution is infinitely better than the best despot. But we suspect, that at the time of which we speak the violance of religious and political enmities rendered a stable and happy settlement next to impossible. The choice lay, not between Cromwell and liberty, but between Crom- well and the Stuarts. That Milton chose well, no man can doubt who fairly compares the events of the protector- ate with those of the thirty years which succeeded it, the darkest and most disgraceful in the English annals. Crom- well was evidently laying, though in an irregular manner, the foundations of an admirable system. Never before had religious liberty and the freedom of discussion been enjoyed in a greater degree. Never had the national honor been better upheld abroad, or the seat of justice better filled at home. And it was rarely that any opposition which stopped short of open rebellion provoked tfie resentment of the liberal and magnanimous usurper. The institutions which lie had established, as set down in the Instrument of Gov- ernment, and the Ilumble Petition and Advice, were excel- lent. Ilis practice, it is true, too often departed from the theory of these institutions. But, had he lived a few years longer, it is probable that his institutions would have sur- vived him, and that his arbitrary practice would have died with him. His power had not been consecrated by ancient |)i ejudices. It was upheld only by his great personal quali- lies. Little, therefore, was to be dreaded from a second j)rotector, unless he was also a second Oliver Cromwell. The events ivhich followed his decease are the most com- plete vindication of those who exerted themselves to uphold his authority. Ilis death dissolved the whole frame of society. The army rose against the parliament, the different corps of the army against each other. Sect raved against sect. Party plotted against party. The Presbyterians, in their eagerness to be revenged on the Independents, sacri- MILTON. 183 deed their own liberty, and deserted all their old principles. Without casting one glance on the past, or requiring one stipulation for the future, tliey threw down their freedom at the feet of the most frivolous and heartless of tyrants. Then came those days, never to bo recalled without a blush, the days of servitude without loyalty and sensuality without love, of dwarfish talents and gigantic vices, the paradise of cold hearts and narrow minds, the golde-n age of the coward, the bigot, and the slave. The King crii ged to his rival that he might trample on his people, sank into a viceroy of France, and pocketed, with complacent infamy, her degrading insults, and her more degrading gold. The caresses of harlots, and the jests of buff^oons, regidated the policy of the state. The government had just ability enough to deceive, and just religion enough to persecute. The prin- ciples of liberty were the scoff of every grinning courtier, and the Anathema Maranatha of every fawning dean. In every high place, worship was paid to Charles and James, Belial and Moloch ; and England propitiated those obscene and cruel idols with the blood of her best and bravest children. Crime succeeded to crime, and disgrace to disgrace, till the race accursed of God and man was a second time driven forth, to w’ander on the face of the earth, and to be a by- word and a shaking of the head to the nations. Most of the remarks AvLicli we have hitherto made on the public character of Milton, apply to him only as one of a large body. We shall proceed to notice some of the pe- culiarities which distinguished him from his contemporaries. And, for that purpose, it is necessary to take a short survey of the parties into which the political world was at tliat time divided. W e must premise, that our observations are in- tended to apply only to those who adhered, from a sincere preference, to one or to the other side. In days of public commotion, every faction, like an Oriental army, is attended by a crowd of camp-followers, an useless and heartless rabble, who prowl round its line of march in the hope of picking up something under its protection, but desert it in the day of battle, and often join to exterminate it after a defeat. Eng^ land, at the time of which we are treating, abounded with fickle and selfish politicians, who transferred their support to every government as it rose, who kissed the hand of the King in 1640, and spat in his face in 1649, who shouted with equal glee when Cromwell was inaugurated in Westminster Hall, and when he waja dug up to be hanged at Tyburn, who 184 Macaulay’s miscellaneous whitings. dined on calves’ heads, or stuck up oak-branches, as circum- stances altered, without the slightest sliaine or rej)ugnance. These we leave out of the account. We take our estimate of parties from those who really deserved to be called par- tisans. We would speak first of the Puritans, the most remark- able body of men, perhaps, which the world has ever pro- duced. The odious and ridiculous parts of their character lie on the surface. lie that runs may read them ; nor have there been wanting attentive and malicious observers to point them out. For many years after the Restoration, they were the theme of unmeasured invective and derision. They were exposed to the utmost licentiousness of the press and of the stage, at the time when the press and the stage were most licentious. They were not men of letters ; they were as a body, unpopular ; they could not defend them- selves ; and the public would not take them under its pro- tection. They were therefore abandoned, without reserve, to the tender mercies of the satirists and dramatists. The ostentatious simplicity of their dress, their sour aspect, their nasal twang, their stiff posture, their long graces, their Hebrew names, the Scriptural phrases which they introduced on every occasion, their contempt of human learning, their detestation of polite amusements, w^ere in- deed fair game for the laughers. But it is not from the laughers alone that the philosophy of history is to be learnt. And he who approaches this subject should carefully guard against the influence of that potent ridicule which has already misled so many excellent writers. “ Ecco il fonte del riso, ed ecco il rio Che mortali perigli in se contiene : Hor qui tener a fren nostro desio, Ed esser cauti raolto a noi conviene.*' Those who roused the people to resistance, who directed their measures through a long series of eventful years, who formed, out of the most unpromising materials, the finest army that Europe had ever seen, who trampled down King, Church, and Aristocracy, who, in the short intervals of do- mestic sedition and rebellion, made the name of England terrible to every nation on the face of the earth, were no vulgar fanatics. Most of their absurdities were mere external badges, like the signs of freemasonry, or the dresses of friars. We regret that these badges were not more attractive. We regret that a body to whose courage au4 talents mankind has MILTON. 185 owed inestimable obligations had not the lofty elegance which distinguished some of tlie adherents of Charles the First, or the easy good-breeding for which the court of Charles the Second was celebrated. But, if Ave must make our choice, we shall, like Bassanio in the play, turn from the specious caskets which contain only the Death’s head and the Fool’s head, and fix on the plain leaden chest which conceals the treasure. The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal interests. Not content Avdth acknowl- edging, in general terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great Be- ing, for whose poAver nothing Avas too vast, for whose in- spection nothing Avas too minute. To knoAV him, to serve him, to enjoy him, Avas with them the great end of existence. They rejected Avith contempt the ceremonious homage which other sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on his intoler- able brightness, and to commune Avith him face to face. Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The difference betAveen the greatest and the meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, when compared with the bound- less interval Avhich separated the whole race from him on Avliom tjieir oAvn eyes were constantly fixed. They recog- nized no title to superiority but his favor ; and, confident of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities of the Avorld. If they Avere unacquainted with the Avorks of philosophers and poets, they Avere deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names were not found in the registers of heralds, they were recorded in the Book of Life. If their steps Avere not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge OA^er them. Their palaces Avere houses not made with hands ; their dia- dems crowns of glory Avhich should never fade away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests they looked doAvn Avith contempt : for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language, nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them Avas a being to Avhose fate a mysterious and terrible importance belonged, on whose slightest action the spirits of light and darkness looked with anxious in- 18G Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. terest, wlio liad been destined, before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity whicli sliould continue when heaven and earth sliould have passed away. Events whicli short-sighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes, had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen, and flourished, and decayed. For his sake the Almighty had proclaimed his will by the pen of the Evangelist, and the liarp of the prophet, lie had been wrested by no com- mon deliverer from the grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had risen, that all nature had shuddered at the suffer- ings of her expiring God. Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men, the one all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion, the other proud, calm, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust before his Maker : but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement, he prayed with convulsions, and groans, and tears. He was half-maddened by glorious m- terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from dreams of everlasting fire. Like Vane, he thought himself intrusted with the sceptre of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried in the bitterness of his csoul that God had hid his face from him. But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempes- tuous workings of the soul had left no perceptible trace be- liind them. People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate or in the field of battle. These fana- tics brought to civil and military affairs a coolness of judg- ment and an immutability of purpose which some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious zeal, but which were in fact the necessary effects of it. The intensity of their feelings on one subject made them tranquil on every other. One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred, ambition and fear. Death had lost its ter- rors and ])leasure its charms. They had their smiles and their tears, their ra])tures and their sorrows, but not for the things of this world. Enthusiasm had made them Stoics, MILTON. 187 had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion and pre- judice, and raised them above the influence of danger and of corruption. It sometimes might lead them to pursue un wise ends, but never to choose unwise means. They went through the world, like Sir Artegal’s iron man Talus with his flail, crushing and trampling down oppressors, mingling with human beings, but having neither part or lot in human infir- mities, insensible to fatigue, to pleasure, and to pain, not to be pierced by any weapon, not to be withstood by any bar- rier. Such Ave believe to have been the character of the Puri- tans We perceive the absurdity of their manners. We dislike the sullen gloom of their domestic habits. We ac- knowledge that the tone of their minds was often injured by straining after things too high for mortal reach : and Ave knoAV that, in spite of their hatred of Popery, they too often fell into the Avorst Auces of that bad system, intoler- ance and extravagant austerity, that they had their anchor- ites and their crusades, their Dunstans and their De Mon- forts, their Dominies and their Escobars. Yet, when all circumstances are taken into consideration, we do not hesi- tate to pronounce them a brave, a wise, an honest, and an useful body. The Puritans espoused the cause of civil liberty mainly because it Avas the cause of religion. There was another party, by no means numerous, but distinguished by learning and ability, which acted with them on very different princi- ples. We speak of those whom Cromwell was accustomed to call the Heathens, men who were, in the phraseology of that time, doubting Thomases or careless GalliosAvith regard to religious subjects, but passionate worshippers of freedom. Heated by the study of ancient literature, they set up their country as their idol, and proposed to themselves the heroes of Plutarch as their examples. They seem to have borne some resemblance to the Brissotines of the French Revolu tion. But it is not very easy to draw the line of distinction between them and their dcA'out associates, whose tone and manner they sometin^es found it convenient to affect, and sometimes, it is probable, imperceptibly adopted. We now come to the Royalists. We shall attempt to speak of them, as we haA^e spoken of their antagonists, Avith perfect candor. We sliall not charge upon a Avhole party the profligacy and baseness of the .horse-boys, gamblers and bravoes, whom the hope of license and plunder attracted 188 MACAULAY^S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. from all the dens of Whitefriars to the standard of Charles, and who disgraced their associates by excesses which, under the stricter discipline of the Parliamentary armies, were never tolerated. We will select a more favorable specimen. Thinking as we do that the cause of the King was the cause of bigotry and tyranny, we yet cannot refrain ^rom looking with complacency on the character of the honest old cava- liers. We feel a national pride in comparing them witli the instruments which the despots of other countries are com- pelled to employ, with the mutes who throng their ante chambers, and the Janissaries who mount guard at their gates. Our royalist countrymen were not heartless, dang- ling courtiers, bowing at every step, and simpering at every word. They were not mere machines for destruction, dressed up in uniforms caned into skill, intoxicated into valor, defending without love, destroying without liatred. There was a freedom in their subserviency, a nobleness in their very degradation. The sentiment of individual inde- pendence was strong within them. They were indeed mis- led, but by no base or selfish motive. Compassion and romantic honor, the prejudices of childhood, and the vener- able names of history, threw over them a spell potent as that of Duessa ; and, like the Red-Cross Knight, they thought tha.t they were doing battle for an injured beauty, while they defended a false and loathsome sorceress. In truth they scarcely entered at all into the merits of the political question. It was not for a treacherous king or an intolerant church that they fo^ight, but for the old banner which had waved in so many battles over the heads of their fathers, and for the altars at which they had received the hands of their brides. Though nothing could be more erroneous than their political opinions, they possessed, in a far greater degree than their adversaries, those qualities which are the grace of private life. With many of the vices of the Round Table, they had also many of its virtues, courtesy, generos- ity> veracity, tenderness, and respect for women. They had far more both of profound and of polite learning than the Puritans. Their manners were more engaging, their tempers more amiable, their tastes more elegant, and their households more cheerful. Milton did not strictly belong to any of the classes which we have described. He was not a Puritan. He was not a freethinker. He was not a Royalist. In his character the noblest qualities of every party were combined in harmo* MILTON. 189 nious unio/i. From the Parliament and fi. 'm the Court, from the conventicle and from the Gothic cloister, from the gloomy and sepulchral circles of the Roumlheads, and from the Christmas revel of the hospitable Cavalier, bis nature selected and drew t9 itself whatever was great and good, while it rejected all the base and pernicious ingredients by which those finer elements were defiled. Like the Puritans, he lived “ As ever in his great task-master’s eye.*’ Like them, he kept his mind continually fixed on an Al- mighty Judge and an eternal reward. And hence he acquired their contempt of external circumstances, their for- titude, their tranquillity, their inflexible resolution. But not the coolest sceptic or the most profane scoffer was more perfectly free from the contagion of their frantic delusions, their savage manners, their ludicrous jargon, their scorn )f science, and their aversion to pleasure. Hating tyranny with a perfect hatred, he had nevertheless all the estimable and ornamental qualities which were almost entirely monop- olized by the party of the tyrant. There was none who had a stronger sense of the value of literature, a finer relish for every elegant amusement, or a more chivalrous delicacy of honor and love. Though his opinions were democratic, his tastes and his associations were such as harmonize best with monarchy and aristocracy. He was under the influence of all the feelings by which the gallant Cavaliers were misled. But of those feelings he was the master and not the slave. Like the hero of Homer, he enjoyed all the pleasures of fascination ; but he was not fascinated. He listened to the song of the Syrens ; yet he glided by without being seduced to their fatal shore. He tasted the cup of Circe ; but he bore about him a sure antidote against the effects of its bewitching sweetness. The allusions which captivated his imagination never impaired his reasoning powers. The statesman was proof against the splendor, the solemnity, and the romance which enchanted the poet. Any person who will contrast the sentiments expressed in his treatises on Prelacy with the exquisite lines on ecclesiastical architec- ture and music in the Penseroso, which was published about the same time, will understand our meaning. This is an inconsistency wLich, more than any thing else, raises his character in our estimation, because it shows how many private tastes and feelings he sacrificed, in order to do wluit he considered his duty to mankind. It is the very struggk 190 MACAULAVs miscellaneous AVKITINGS. of the nohlc Othello. Ills heart relenhs : but his hand is firm. He does nought in hate, but all in honor. He kisses the beautiful deceiver before he destroys her. That from which the public character of Milton derives its great and peculiar splendor, still remains to be men- tioned. If he exerted himself to overthrow a forsworn king and a persecuting hierarchy, he exerted himself in conjunc- tion with others. But the glory of the battle which ho fought for the species of freedom which is the most valu- able, and which was then the least understood, the freedom of the human mind, is all his own. Thousands and tens of thousands among his contemporaries raised their voices against Ship-money and the Star-chamber. But there were few indeed who discerned the more fearful evils of moral and intellectual slavery, and the benefits which would result from the liberty of the press and the unfettered exercise of private judgment. These Avere the objects Avhich Milton justly conceived to be the most important. lie was desir- ous that the people should think for themselves as well as tax themselves, and should be emancipated from the do- minion of prejudice as well as from that of Charles. He knew that those who, with the best intentions, OA^erlooked these schemes of reform, and contented themselves Avith pulling doAvn the King and imprisoning the malignants, acted like the heedless brothers in his OAvn poem, Avho, in their eagerness to disperse the train of the sorcerer, neglected the means of liberating the capti\"e. They thought only oi conquering Avhen they should have thought of disenchanting. Oh, he mistook ! Ye should have snatched his wand And bound him fast. AVithout the rod reversed, And backward mutters of dissevering power, We cannot free the lady that sits here Bound in strong fetters fixed and motionless.’* To reverse the rod, to spell the charm backward, to break the ties which bound a stupefied people to the seat of enchantment, was the noble aim of Milton. To this all his public conduct Avas directed. For this he joined the Presbyterians ; for this he forsook them. He fought their perilous battle ; but he turned aAvay with disdain from their insolent triumph. He saAV that they, like those whom they had vanquished, were hostile to the liberty of thought. Ho therefore joined the Independents, and called upon Crom- well to break the secular cliain, and to save free conscience from the paw of the Presbyterian wolf. With a view to MILTON. 1^1 the same great object, he attacked the licensing system, in that sublime treatise which every statesman should wear as a sign upon his hand and as frontlets between his eyes. Ilis attacks were, in general, directed less against j>articular abuses than against those deeply-seated errors on which almost all abuses are founded, the servile worship of eminem men and the irrational dread of innovation. That he might shake the foundations of these debasing sentiments more effectually, he always selected for himself the boldest literary services. lie never came up in the rear when the outworks had been carried and the breach entered. He pressed into the forlorn hope. At the beginning of the changes, he wrote with incomparable energy and eloquence against the bishops. But, when his opinion seemed likely to prevail, he passed on to other subjects, and abandoned prelacy to the crowd of Avriters Avho now hastened to insult a falling party. There is no more hazardous enterprise than that of bearing the torch of truth into those dark and infected recesses in which no light has ever shone. But it was the choice and the pleasure of Milton to penetrate the noisome vapors, and to brave the terrible explosion. Those Avho most disapprove of his opinions must I’espect the hardihood Avith Avhich he maintained them. He, in general, left to others the credit of expounding and defending the popular parts of his religious and political creed. He took his OAvn stand upon those which the great body of his countrymen reprobated as criminal, or derided as paradoxical. He stood up for diAmrce and regicide. He attacked the preAmiling systems of education. Ilis radiant and beneficent career resembled that of the god of light and fertility. “ Nitor in ndversum ; nec me, qui csetera, vincit Impetus, et raxndo contraries evehor orbi.” It is to be regretted that the prose Avritings of Milton should, in our time, be so little read. As compositions, they deserve the attention of every man Avdio Avishes to become acquainted Avith the full power of the English language. They abound Avith passages compared Avitli which the finest declamations of Burke sink into insignificance. They are a perfect field of cloth of gold. The style is stiff Avith gorgeous embroidery. Not even in the earlier books of the Paradise Lost has the great poet ever risen higher than in those parts of his controversial works in which his feelings, excited by conflict, find a vent in bursts of devotional and lyric rapture. 192 MACAULAY^S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. It is, to borroAV his own majestic language, “ a seven-fold chorus of liallclujalis and harping syinjdionies.” Y.^e had intended to look more closely at these perform- a^vces, to analyze the peculiarities of the diction, to dwell at some length on the sublime wisdom of the Areopagitica and the nervous rhetoric of the Iconoclast, and to point out some of those magnificent passages wdiich occur in the Treatis:' of Reformation, and the Animadversions on the Remonstrant. But the length to which our remarks have already extended renders this impossible. We must conclude. And yet w^e can scarcely tear our- selves away from the subject. The days immediately fol- lowing the publication of this relic of Milton appear to be peculiarly set apart, and consecrated ;:o his memory. And we shall scarcely be censured if, on this his festival, Ave be found lingering near his shrine, hoAV worthless soever may be the offering which we bring to it. While this book lies on our table, we seem to be contemporaries of the Avriter. We are transported a hundred and fifty years back. We can almost fancy that we are visiting him in his small lodg- ing ; that we see him sitting at the old organ beneath the faded green hangings ; that Ave can catch the quick twinkle of his eyes, rolling in vain to find the day ; that we are read- ing in the lines of his noble countenance the proud and mourn- ful history of his glory and his affliction. We image to ourselves the breathless silence in Avhich we should listen to his slightest Avord, the passionate veneration with Avhich Ave should kneel to kiss his hand and weep upon it, the earnest- ness with Avhich wc should endeavor to console him, if indeed such a spirit could need consolation, for the neglect of an age unworthy of his talents and his virtues, the eager- ness with which we should contest Avith his daughters, or with his Quaker friend Elwood, the privilege of reading Homer to him, or of taking down the immortal accents which flowed from his bps. These are perhaps foolish feelings. Yet Ave cannot be ashamed of them ; nor shall Ave be sorry if Avhat we have written shall in any degree excite them in other minds We are not much in the habit of idolizing either the living or the dead. And we think that there is no more certain indication of a Aveak and ill-regulated intellect than that propensity which, for want of a better name, we will ven ture to cliristcn Boswellism. But there arc a fcAV characters whicli haA'C stood the closest scrutiny and the severest tests, MACHIAYELLI. 193 which liave been tried in the furnace and have proved pure, which have been weighed in the balance and have not been found wanting, which have been declared sterling by the general consent of mankind, and which are visibly stamped with the image and superscription of the Most High. These great men we trust that we know how to prize ; and of these was Milton. The sight of his books, the sound of his name, are pleasant to us. His thoughts re- ferable those celestial fruits and flowers which the Virgin Martyr of Massinger sent dowm from the gardens of Para- -lise to the earth, and v/hich were distinguished from the productions of other soils, not only by superior bloom and sweetness, but by miraculous efficacy to invigorate and to heal. They are powerful, not only to delight, but to elevate and purify. Nor do we envy the man who can study either the life or the writings of the great poet and patriot, with- out aspiring to emulate, not indeed the sublime works with which his genius has enriched our literature, but the zeal with which he labored for the public good, the fortitude with which he endured every private calamity, the lofty disdain with which he looked down on temptations and dangers, the deadly hatred which he bore to bigots and tyrants, and the faith which he so sternly kept with his country and with his fame. MACHIAYELLI.* {Edinburgh RevieWy March, 1827.) Those who have attended to this practice of our literary tribunal are well aware that, by means of certain legal fictions similar to those of Westminster Hall, we are fre- quently enabled to take cognizance of cases lying beyond the sphere of our original jurisdiction. We need hardly say, therefore, that in the present instance M. Perier is merely a Richard Roe, who will not be mentioned in any subse- quent stage of the proceedings, and whose name is used for the sole purpose of bringing Machiavelli into court. • (Euvres computes de Machiavel, traduites par J, V, Peoieb. Paris j Xo40« VoL. I.— 13 194 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wkitinos. We doubt wlietlier any name in literary history be so generally odious as that of the man whose character and writings we novv^ ])ropose to consider. The terms in which he is commonly described would seem to import that lie was the Tempter, the Evil Principle, the discoverer of ambi lion and revenge, the original inventor of perjury, and that, before the puWication of his fatal Prince, there had never been a hypocrite, a tyrant, or a traitor, a simulated virt ue, or a convenient crime. One writer gravely assures us that Maurice of Saxony learned all his fraudulent policy from that execrable volume. Another remarks that since it was translated into Turkish, the Sultans have been more ad- dicted than formerly to the custom of strangling their brothers. Lord Lyttelton charges the poor Florentine with the nmnifold treasons of the house of Guise, and with the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Several authors have hinted that the Gunpowder Plot is to be primarily attributed to his doctrines, and seem to think that his effigy ought to be substituted for that of Guy Faux, in those processions by which the ingenious youth of England annually commemo- rate the preservation of the Three Estates. The Church of Rome has pronounced his works accursed things. Nor have our own countrymen been backward in testifying their opin- ion of his merits. Out of his surname they have coined an epithet for a knave, and out of his Christian name a syn- onyme for the Devil.* It is indeed scarcely p»ossible for any person, not well acquainted with tlie history and literature of Italy, to read without horror and amazement the celebrated treatise which has brought so much obloquy on the name of Machiavelli. Such a display of wickedness, naked yet not ashamed, such cool, judicious, scientific atrocity, seemed rather to belong to a fiend than to the most depraved of men. Principles which the most hardened ruffian would scarcely hint to his most trusted accomplice, or avow, without the disguise of i)Ome palliating sophism, even to his own mind, are professed vvithout the slightest circumlocution, and Assumed as the fundamental axioms of all political science. It is not strange that ordinary readers should regard the author of such a book as the most depraved and shameless of human brings. Wise men, however, have always beep Nick MacMavel no'^et a trick, Tho’ he gave his i'arr.e to car old Nick. Hiulibrasy Part III. Canto T. But. wo believe, there is a schism on this subject among the antiquarian^. MACUIAVELLI. 195 inclined to look with great suspicion on the angels and dae- mons of the multitude : and in the present instance, sev- eral circumstances have led even superficial observers to question the justice of the vulgar decision. It is notorious that Machiavelli was, through life, a zealous republican. In the same year in wliich he composed his manual of King- craft, he suffered imprisonment and torture in the cause of public liberty. It seems inconceivable that the martyr of freedom should have designedly acted as the apostle of tyr- anny. Several eminent writers have, therefore, endeavored to detect in this unfortunate performance some concealed meaning more consistent with the character and conduct of the author than that which appears at the first glance. One hypothesis is that Machiavelli intended to practise on the young Lorenzo de Medici a fraud similar to that which Sunderland is said to have employed against our James the Second, and that he urged his pupil to violent and perfidious measures, as the surest means of accelerating the moment of deliverance and revenge. Another supposi- tion which Lord Bacon seems to countenance, is that the treatise was merely a piece of grave irony, intended to warn nations against the arts of ambitious men. It would be easy to show that neither of these solutions is consistent with many passages in The Prince itself. But the most de- cisive refutation is that which is furnished by the other works of Machiavelli. In all the writings which he gave to the public, and in all those which the research of editors has, in the course of three centuries, discovered, in his Com- edies, designed for the entertainment of the multitude, in his Comments on Livy, intended for the perusal of the most enthusiastic patriots of Florence, in his History, inscribed to one of the most amiable and estimable of the Popes, in his public dispatches, in his private memoranda, the same obliquity of moral principle for which The Prince is so severely censured is more or less discernible. We doubt whether it would be possible to find, in all the many volume^? of his compositions, a single expression indicating that dis- simulation and treachery had ever struck him as discredit- able. After this, it may seem ridiculous to say that we are ac- quainted with few writings which exhibit so much elevation of sentiment, so pure and warm a zeal for the public good, or so just a view of the duties and rights of citizens, as those of Machiavelli. Yet so it is. And even from The Prince 196 MACAULAY’S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. itself we could select many passages in support of this re- mark. To a reader of our age and country this inconsis- tency is, at first, ])erfectly bewildering. The whole man seems to be an enigma, a grotesque assemblage of incongru- ous qualities, selfishness and generosity, cruelty and benev- olence, craft and simplicity, abject villainy and romantic heroism. One sentence is such as a veteran diplomatist would scarcely write in cipher for the direction of his most confidential spy ; the next seems to be extracted from a theme composed by an ardent school-boy on the death of Leonidas. An act of dexterous perfidy, and an act of patriotic self-devotion, call forth the same kind and the same degree of respectful admiration. The moral sensibility of the writer seems at once to be morbidly obtuse and mor- bidly acute. Two characters altogether dissimilar are united in him. They are not merely joined, but interwoven. They are the warp and the woof of his mind ; and their combina- tion, like that of the variegated threads in shot silk, gives to the whole texture a glancing and ever-changing appear- ance. The explanation might have been easy, if he had been a very weak or a very affected man. But he was evidently neither the one nor the other. Ilis works prove, beyond all contradiction, that his understanding was strong, liis taste pure, and his sense of the ridiculous exquisitely keen. This is strange : and yet the strangest is behind. There is no reason whatever to think, that those amongst whom he lived saw any thing shocking or incongruous in his writings. Abundant proofs remain of the high estimation in w'hich both his works and his person were held by the most re- spectable among his contemporaries. Clement the Seventh patronized the publication of those very books which the Council of Trent, in the following generation, pronounced unfit for the perusal of Christians. Some members of the democratical party censured the Secretary for dedicating The Prince to a patron who bore the unpopular name of Medici. But to those immoral doctrines which have since called forth such severe reprehensions no exception appears to have been taken. The cry against them was first raised beyond the Alps, and seems to have been heard with amaze- ment in Italy. The earliest assailant, as far as we are aware, was a countryman of our own. Cardinal Pole. The author of the Anti-Machiavelli w^as a French Protestant. It is, therefore, in the state of moral feeling among the MACniAVELLI. 197 Italians of those times that we must seek for the real ex planation of what seems most mysterious in the life and writings of this remarkable man. As this is a subject wliich suggests many interesting considerations, both political and metaphysical, we shall make no apology for discussing it at some length. During the gloomy and disastrous centuries which fol- lowed the downfall of the Roman Empire, Italy had ]>re- served, in a far greater degree than any other part of West- ern Europe, the traces of ancient civilization. The night which descended upon her was the night of an Arctic sum- mer. The dawn began to reappear before the last reflection of the preceding sunset had faded from the horizon. It was in the time of the French Merovingians and of the Saxon Heptarchy that ignorance and ferocity seemed to have done their worst. Yet even then the Neapolitan provinces, rec- ognizing the authority of the Eastern Empire, preserved something of Eastern knowledge and refinement. Rome, protected by the sacred character of her Pontiffs, enjoyed at least comparative security and repose. Even in those regions where the sanguinary Lombards had fixed their monarchy, there was incomparably more of wealth, of in- formation, of physical comfort, and of social order, than could be found in Gaul, Britain, or Germany. That which most distinguished Italy from the neighbor- ing countries was the importance which the population of the towns, at a very early period, began to acquire. Some cities had been founded in wild and remote situations, by fugitives who had escaped from the rage of the barbarians. Such Avere Venice and Genoa, which preserved their free- dom by their obscurity, till they became able to preserve it by their power. Other cities seem to have retained, under all the changing dynasties of invaders, under Odoacer and Theodoric, Narses and Alboin, the municipal institutions which had been conferred on them by the liberal policy of the Great Republic. In provinces which the central gov- ernment was too feeble either to protect or to oppress, these institutions gradually acquired stability and vigor. The citizens, defended by their walls, and governed by their own magistrates and their OAvn by-laws, enjoyed a considerable share of republican independence. Thus a strong demo- cratic spirit was called into action. The Carlovingian sover- eigns Avere too imbecile to subdue it. The generous policy of Otho encouraged it. It might perhaps have been sup- 198 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WEITINGfl. pressed by a close coulitioii between the Church and the Em- pire. It was fostered and invigorated by their disputes. In the twelfth century it attained its full vigor, and, after a long and doubtful conflict, triumplied over the abilities and courage of the Swabian Princes. The assistance of the Ecclesiastical ])ower had greatly contributed to the success of the Guelfs. That success would, however, liave been a doubtful good, if its only effect had been to substitute amoral for apolitical servitus were every where ])Iying for battles and f ieges. In the time of Demosthenes, it was scarcely possible to ])ersuade or compel the Athenians to enlist for foreign service. The laws of Lycurgus prohibited trade and manu- factures. The Sj)artans, therefore, continued to form a national force long after their neighbors had begun to hire soldiers. But their military spirit declined with their sin- gular institutions. In the second century before Christ, Greece contained only one nation of warriors, the savage highlanders of ^tolia, who were some generations behind their countrymen in civilization and intelligence. All the causes which produced these efects among the Greeks acted still more strongly on the modern Italians. Instead of a power like Sparta, in its nature w^arlike, they liad amongst them an ecclesiastical state, in its nature pacific. Where there are numerous slaves, every freeman is induced by the strongest motives to familiarize himself with the use of arms. The commonwealths of Italy did not, like those of Greece, swarm with thousands of these household enemies. Lastly, the mode in wLich military operations were con- ducted during the prosperous times of Italy was peculiarly unfavorable to the formation of an efficient militia. Men covered with iron from head to foot, armed with ponderous lances, and mounted on horses of the largest breed, were considered as composing the strength of an army. The infantry was regarded as ^'nmuai’atively wortkless. and was ic f3ecame really so. These tactics mamtameu ineir ground for centuries in most parts of Europe. That foot soldiers could Avithstand the charge of heavy cavalry was thought utterly impossible, till, toAvards the close of the fifteenth century, the rude mountaineers of SAvitzerland dissoh^ed the spell, and astounded the most experienced generals by receiving the dreaded shock on an impenetrable forest of pikes. The use of the Grecian spear, the Roman sword, or the modern bayonet, might be acquired with comparatWe ease. But nothing short of the daily exercise of years could train the man at arms to support his ponderous panoply, and manage his unwdeldy Aveapon. Throughout Europe this most important branch of Avar became a separate profession. Beyond the Alps, indeed, though a profession, it was not generally a trade. It Avas the duty and the amusement of MACniAVELLT. 205 ft large class of country gentlemen. It was tlie service by wliicli triey lield their lands, and the diversion by wJiich, in the absence of mental resources, tliey beguiled thcir leisiira But in the Northern States of Italy, as we liave already re- marked, the growing ])ower of the cities, where it had not exterminated this order of men, had completely changed their habits. Here, therefore, the practice of employing mercenaries became universal, at a time when it was almost unknown in other countries. When war becomes the trade of a separate class, the least dangerous course left to a government is to form that class into a standing army. It is scarcely possible, that men can pass their lives in the service of one state, without feeling some interest in its greatness. Its victories are their victories. Its defeats are their defeats. Tlie contract loses something of its mercantile character. The services of the soldier are considered as the effects of patriotic zeal, his pay as the tribute of national gratitude. To betray the power which employs him, to bo even remiss in its service, are in his eyes the most atrocious and degrading of crimes. When the princes and commonwealths of Italy began to use hired troops, their wisest course would have been to form separate military establishments. Unhappily tins was not done. The mercenary warriors of the Peninsula, instead of being attached to the service of different powers, were regarded as the common property of all. The connection between the state and its defenders was reduced to the most simple and naked traffic. Tlie adventurer brought his horse, his weapons, his strength, and Ids experience, into the mar- ket. Whether the King of Naples or the Duke of Milan, the Pope or the Signory of Florence, struck the bargain, was to him a matter of perfect indifference. He was for the highest wages and the longest term. When the cam- paign for which he had contracted was finished, there was neither law nor punctilio to prevent him from instantly turning his arms against his late masters. The soldier was altogether disjoined from the citizen and from the subject. The natural consequences followed. Left to the conduct of men who neither loved those whom they defended, nor hated those whom they opposed, who were often bound by stronger ties to the army against which they fought than to the state which they served, who lost by the termination of the conflict, and gained by its prolongation, war com* pletely changed its character. Every man came into the 206 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. field of battle iirij)rossed with the knowledge that, in a few days, he might be taking tlie ]>ayof the jx)wer as- siOMS is tlie best style. This ])riu(*ij)le, rightly understood, does not debar the poet from any grace of composition. There is no style in Vv liich some man may not, under some circumstances, express himsel^> There is therefore no style which the drama rejects, none which it does not occasionally require. It is in the dis* ceriiment of })lace, of time, and of person, that the inferioi artists fail. The fantastic rhapsody of Mercutio, the elab« orate declamation of Antony, are, where Shakspeare has placed them, natural and pleasing. But Dryden would have made Mercutio challenge Tybalt in hyperboles as fanci ful as those in which he describes the chariot of Mab. Cor- neille would have represented Antony as scolding and coax- ing Cleopatra with all the measured rhetoric of a funeral oration. No writers have injured the Comedy of England so deeply as Congreve and Sheridan. Both were men of splen- did wit and ])olished taste. Unhappily, they made all their characters in their own likeness. Their works bear the same relation to the legitimate drama, which a transparency bears to a painting. There are no delicate touches, no hues imperceptibly fading into each other: the whole is lighted up with an universal glare. Outlines and tints are forgot- ten in the common blaze which illuminates all. The flow- ers and fruits of the intellect abound ; but it is the abun- dance of a jungle, not of a garden, unwholesome, bewildering, 'profitable from its very plenty, rank from its very fra- grance. jLvery fop, every boor, every valet, is a man of wit. The very butts and dupes. Tattle, Witwould, Puff, Acres, outshine the whole Hotel of Rambouillet. To prove the whole system of this school erroneous, it is only ne- cessary to apply the test which dissolved the enchanted Florimel, to place the true by the false Thalia, to contrast the most clebrated characters which have been drawn by the writers of whom we speak with the Bastard in King John, or the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet. It was not surely from want of wit that Shakspeare adopted so different a manner. Benedick and Beatrice throw Mirabel and Millamant into the shade. All the good sayings of the facetious houses of Absolute and Surface might have been clipped from the rmgle character of Falstaff without being missed. It would have been easy for that fertile mind to have given Bardolph 214 MACAULAY MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. and Shallow ns much wit as Prince ITal, and to have made Dogberry and Verges retort on each other in sparkling epigrams. Ibit he knew that such indiscriminate prodigality was, to use his own admirable language, “from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold, as it were, the mirror up to Nature.” This digression will enable our readers to understand what we mean when we say that in the Mandragola, Machi- avelli has proved that he completely understood the nature of the dramatic art, and possessed talents which would have enabled him to excel in it. By the correct and vigorous delineation of human nature, it produces interest without a pleasing or skilful plot, and laughter without the least am- bition of wit. The lover, not a very delicate or generous loi er, and his adviser the parasite, are drawn with spirit. The hypocritical confessor is an admirable portrait. He is, if we mistake not, the original of Father Dominic, the best comic character of Dryden. But old Nicias is the glory of the piece. We cannot call to mind any thing tlftit resembles him. The follies which Moli^re ridicules are those of affec- tation, not those of fatuity. Coxcombs and pedants, not ab- solute simpletons, are his game. Shakspeare has indeed a vast assortment of fools ; but the precise species of which we speak is not, if we remember right, to be found there. Shallow is a fool. But his animal spirits supply, to a certain degree, the place of cleverness. His talk is to that of Sir John what soda water is to champagne. It has the efferves- cence though not the body or the flavor. Slender and Sir Andrew Aguecheek are fools, troubled with an uneasy con- sciousness of their folly, which, in the latter produces meek- ness and docility, and in the former, awkwardness, obstinacy, and confusion. Cloten is an arrogant fool, Osric a foppish fool, Ajax a savage fool ; but Nicias is, as Thersites says of Patroclus, a fool positive. His mind is occupied by no strong feeling ; it takes every character, and retains none ; its aspect is diversified, not by passions, but by faint and transitory semblances of passion, a mock joy, a mock fear, a mock love, a mock pride, which chase each other like shadows over its surface, and vanish as soon as they appear. He is just idiot enough to be an object, not of pHy or horror, but of ridicule. He bears some resemblance to ] oor Calandrino, whose mis- haps, as recounted by Boccaccio, have made all Europe merry for more than four centuries. He perhaps resembles still more closely Simon da Villa, to whom Bruno and Buf MACHIAVELLI. 215 almacco promised the love of the Countess Civillari. Nicias is, like Simon, of a learned profession ; and the dignity with which he wears the doctoral fur, renders his absurdities infinitely more grotesque. The old Tuscan is the very lan- guage for such a being. Its peculiar simplicity gives even to the most forcible reasoning and the most brilliant wit an infantine air, generally delightful, but to a foreign reader sometimes a little ludicrous. Heroes and statesmen seem to lisp when they use it. It becomes Nicias incomparably, and renders all his silliness infinitely more silly. We may add, that the verses with which the Mandragola is interspersed, appear to us to be the most spirited and correct of all that Machiavelli his written in metre. He seems to have entertained the same opinion ; for he has in- troduced some of them in other places. The contemporaries of the author were not blind to the merits of this striking piece. It was acted at Florence with the greatest success. Leo the Tenth was among its admirers, and by his order it was represented at Rome.^ The Clizia is an imitation of the Casina of Plautus, which is itself an imitation of the lost xXrjpoufiivot of Diphilus. Plau- tus was, unquestionably, one of the best Latin writers ; but the Casina is by no means one of his best plays ; nor is it one which offers great facilities to an imitator. The story is as alien from modern habits of life, as the manner in which it is developed from the modern fashion of compo- sition. The lover remains in the country and the heroine in her chamber during the whole action, leaving their fate to be decided by a foolish father, a cunning mother and two knavish servants. Machiavelli has executed his task with judgment and taste. He has accommodated the plot to a different state of society, and has very dexterously connected it with the history of his own times. The relation of the trick put on the doting old lover is exquisitely humorous It is far superior to the corresponding passage in the Latin comedy, and scarcely yields to the account which Falstaff gives of his ducking. Two other comedies without titles, the one in prose, the other in verse, appear among the works of Machiavelli. The former is very short, lively enough, but of no great value. The latter we can scarcely believe to be genuine. Neither ♦ Nothing can be more evident than that Paulus Jovius designates the Man- dragola under the name of the Nicias. We should not have noticed what is so perfectly obvious, were it not that this natural and palpable misnomer has led the sagacious and inaustrious Bayle into a gross error* 216 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. its merits nor its defects remind us of tlic rei)uted author. It was first ])riiited in 1796, from a manuscri|)t discovered in the celebrated library of the Strozzi. Its genuineness, if we have been rightly informed, is established soh'ly by the comparison of hands. Our susj)icions are strengthened by the circumstance, that the same manuscrij)t contained a description of the plague of 1527, which has also, in con- sequence, been added to the works of Machiavelli. Of tliis last composition, the strongest external evidc!icc would scarcely induce us to believe him guilty. Nothing Avas ever written more detestable in matter and manner. The nar- rations, the reflections, the jokes, the lamentations, are all the very worst of their respective kinds, at once trite and affected, threadbare tinsel from the Rag Fairs and Monmouth Streets of literature. A foolisli schoolboy might write such a piece, and, after he had written it think it much finer than the incomparable introduction of the Decameron. But that a shrewd statesman, Avhose earliest works are characterized by manliness of thought and language, should, at near sixty years of age, descend to such puerility, is utterly incon- ceivable. The little novel of Belphegor is pleasantly conceived, and pleasantly told. But the extravagance of the satire in some measure injures its effect. Machiavelli was unhappily mar- ried ; and his wish to avenge his own cause and that of his bretlii’en in misfortune, carried him beyond even the license of fiction. Jonson seems to have combined some hints taken from this tale, Avith others from Boccaccio, in the plot of The Devil is an Ass, a play which, though not the most highly fin- ished of his compositions, is perhaps that Avhich exhibits the strongest proofs of genius. The political correspondence of MachiaA^elli, first pub- lished in 1767, is unquestionably genuine, and highly valuable. The unhappy circumstances in Avhich his country was placed during the greater part of his public life gave extraordinary encouragement to diplomatic talents. From the moment that Charles the Eighth descended from the Alps, the Avhole char- acter of Italian politics was changed. The gOA^ernments of the Peninsula ceased to form an independent system. Drawn from their old orbit by the attraction of the larger bodies Avdiich now approached them, they bcame mere satellites of France and Spain. All their disputes, internal and external, were decided by foreign influence. The contests of opposite factions were carried on, not as formerly in the senate-house MACniAVELLI. 217 or in the market-place, but in the ante-chambers of Louis and Ferdinand. Under these circumstances, tlie j)rosperity of the Italian States depended far more on the ability of their foreign agents than on the conduct of those who were intrusted with the domestic administT ation. The ambassador had to dis- charge functions far more delicate than transmitting orders of knighthood, introducing tourists, or presenting his brethren with the homage of his high consideration. He was an advo- cate to whose management the dearest interests of his clients were intrusted, a spy clothed with an inviolable character. In- stead of consulting, by a reserved manner and ambiguous style, the dignity of those whom he represented, he was to plunge into all the intrigues of the court at which he resided, to dis- cover and flatter every weakness of the prince, and of the favorite who governed the prince, and of the lacquey who governed the favorite. He was to compliment the mistress and bribe the confessor, to. panegyrize or supplicate, to laugh or weep, to accommodate himself to every caprice, to lull every suspicion, to treasure every hint, to be every thing, to observe every thing, to endure every thing. High as the art of political intrigue had been carried in Italy, these were times which required it all. On tliese arduous errands Machiavelli was frequently employed. He was sent to treat with the King of the Romans and with the Duke of Valentinois. He was twice ambassador at the Court of Rome, and thrice at that of France. In these missions, and in several others of inferior importance, he acquitted himself with great dexterity. His despatches form one of the most amusing and instructive collections extant. The narratives are clear and agreeably written ; the remarks on men and things clever and judicious. The conversations are reported in a spirited and characteristic manner. We find ourselves introduced into the presence of the men who, during twenty eventful years, swayed the destinies of Europe. Their Avit and their folly, their fretfulness and their merriment, are exposed to us. We are admitted to overhear their chat, and to watch their familiar gestures. It is interesting and curious to recognize, in circumstances which elude the notice of historians, the feeble violence and shallow cunning of Louis the Twelfth ; the bustling insignifi- cance of Maximilian, cursed with an impotent pruriency for renown, rash yet timid, obstinate yet fickle, always in a hurry, yet always too late ; the fierce and haughty energy which gave dignity to the eccentricities of Julius; the soft and ‘218 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. graceful maimers wliich masked tlie insatiable ambition and the im])lacable liatred of Ca3sar Borgia. We have mentioned Cicsar Borgia. It is impossible not to pause for a moment on the name of a man in whom the political morality of Italy was so strongly personified, par tially blended with the sterner lineaments of the Spanish character. On two important occasions Machiavelli was admitted to his society ; once, at the moment when Caesar’s cplendid villainy achieved its most signal triumj)h, when he caught in one snare and crushed at one blow all his most formidable rivals; and again when, exhausted by disease and overwhelmed by misfortunes, which no human prudence could have averted, he was the prisoner of the deadliest enemy of his house. These interviews between the greatest specu- latives and the greatest practical statesmen of the age arc fully described in the Correspondence, and form perhaps the most interesting part of it. From some passages in The I’rince, and perhaps also from some indistinct traditions, several writers have supposed a connection between those remarkable men much closer than ever existed. The Envoy has even been accused of prompting the crimes of the artful and merciless tyrant. But from the official documents it is clear that their intercourse, though ostensibly amicable, was in reality hostile. It cannot be doubted, however, that the imagination of Machiavelli was strongly impressed, and his speculations on government colored, by the observations wdiich he made on the singular character and equally singular fortunes of a man who under such disadvantages had achieved such exploits ; who, when sensuality, varied through innu- merable forms, could no longer stimulate his sated mind, found a more powerful and durable excitement in the intense thirst of empire and revenge ; who emerged from the sloth and luxury of the Homan puiqdc the first prince and general of the age ; who, trained in an un warlike profession, formed a gallant army out of the dregs of an unwarlike people ; who, after acquiring sovereignty by destroying his enemies, ac- quired popularity by destroying his tools ; who had begun to employ for the most salutary ends the power which he had attained by the most atrocious means ; who tolerated within the sphere of his iron despotism no plunderer or oppressor but himself ; and who fell at last amidst the mingled curses and regrets of a people of whom his genius had been the wonder, and might have been the salvation. Some of those crimes of Borgia which to us appear the most odious would MACniAVELLI. 219 not, from causes which we have already considered, have struck an Italian of the fifteenth century with equal horror Patriotic feeling also might induce Machiavelli to look with some indulgence and regret on the memory of the only leader who could have defended the indepen lence of Italy against the confederate spoilers of Cambray. On this subject Machiavelli felt most strongly. Indeed the expulsion of the foreign tyrants, and the restoration of that golden age which had preceded the irruption of Charles the Eighth, were projects which, at that time, fascinated all the master-spirits of Italy. The magnificent vision delighted the great but ill-regulated mind of J ulius. It divided with manuscripts and sauces, painters and falcons, the attention of the frivolous Leo. It prompted the generous treason of Morone. In imparted a transient energy to the feeble mind and body of the last Sforza. It excited for one moment an honest ambition in the false heart of Pescara. Ferocity and insolence were not among the vices of the national character. To the discriminating cruelties of politicians, committed for great ends on select victims, the moral code of the Italians was too indulgent. But though they might have recourse to barbarity as an expedient, th^y did not require it as a stimulant. They turned with loathing from the atrocity of the strangers who seemed to love blood for its own sake, who, not content with subjugating, were impatient to destroy, who found a fiendish pleasure in razing magnificent cities, cutting the throats of enemies w^ho cried for quarter, or suffocating an unarmed population by thousands in the cav- erns to w'hich it had fled for safety. Such were the cruel- ties which daily excited th terror and disgust of a people among whom, till lately, the worst that a soldier had to fear in a pitched battle was the loss of his horse and the ex- pense of his ransom. Th swinis" intemperance of Switzer- land, the wolfish avarice of Spain, the gross licentiousness of the French, indulged in viol tion of hospitality, of decency, ci love itself, the wanton inhumanity which was common to all the invaders, had mad them objects of deadly hatred to the inhabitants of the Peninsula. The wealth which had been accumulated during centuries of prosperity and repose was rapidly melting away. The intellectual superiority of the oppressed people onl} rendered them more keenly sensible of their political degradation. Literature and taste, indeed, still disguised with a flush of hectic loveliness and brilliancy the ravages of an incurable decay. The iron had not yet 220 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. entered into the soul. The time was not yet come wlicn eloquence was to he gagged, and reason to bo lioodwinked, when the liarp of tlie poet was to be liung on the willows of Arno, and the right hand of the painter to forget its cun- ning. Yet a discerning eye might even then have seen that genius and learning would not long survive the state of things from which they had sprung, and that the great men whose talents gave lustre to that melancholy period had been formed under the influence of happier days, and would leave no sue* cessors behind them. The times which shine with the greatest splendor in literary history are not always those to which the human mind is most indebted. Of this we may be con- vinced, by comparing the generation which follows them with that wliich had preceded them. The first fruits which are reaped under a bad system often spring from seed sown under a good one. Thus it was, in some measure, with the Augustan age. Thus it was with the age of Raphael and Ariosto, of Aldus and Vida. Machiavelli deeply regretted the misfortunes of his coun- try, and clearly discerned the cause and the remedy. It was the military system of the Italian people which had extinguished their valor and discipline, and left their wealth an easy prey to every foreign plunderer. The Secretary projected a scheme alike honorable to his heart and to his intellect, for abolishing the use of mercenary troops, and for organizing a national militia. The exertions which he made to effect this great object ought alone to rescue his name from obloquy. Though his situation and his habits were pacific, he studied with intense assiduity the theory of war. He made himself master of all its details. The Florentine government entered into his views. A council of war was appointed. Levies were decreed. The indefatigable minister flew from place to ])lace in order to superintend the execution of his design. The times were, in some respects, favorable to the experi- ment. The system of military tactics had undergone a great revolution. The cavalry was no longer considered as forming the strength of an army. The hours which a citizen could spare from his ordinary emplo^mients, though by no means sufficient to familiarize him with the exercise of a man-at-arms, might render him an useful foot-soldier. The dread of a foreign yoke, of ])] under, massacre, and confla- gration, might have conquered that repugnance to military pur‘«uits which both the industry and the idleness of great MACiriAVELLT. 221 towDS commonly generate. For a time the scheme promised well. The new troops acquitted tliemselves resj)ectably in the field. Machiavelli looked with parental ra])ture on the success of his plan, and began to hope that tlie arms of Italy might once more be formidable to the barbarians of the Tagus and the Rhine. But tlie tide of misfortune came on before the barriers which should have withstood it were prepared. F or a time, indeed, Florence m ight be considered peculiarly fortunate. Famine and sword and pestilence had devasted the fertile plains and stately cities of the Po. All the curses denounced of old against Tyre seemed to have fallen on Venice. Her merchants already stood afar off, lamenting for their great city. The time seemed near when the sea-weed should overgrow lier silent Rialto, and tlie fisherman wash his nets in her deserted arsenal. Naples had been four times conquered and reconquered by tyrants equally indifferent to its welfare, and equally greedy for its spoils. Florence, as yet, had only to endure degradation and extortion, to submit to the mandates of foreign powers, to buy over and over again, at an enormous price, what was already justly her own, to return thanks for being wronged, and to ask pardon for being in the right. She was at length deprived of the blessings even of this infamous and servile repose. Her military and political institutions were swept away together. The Medici returned, in the train of for- eign invaders, from their long exile. The policy of Machia- velli was abandoned ; and his public services were requited with poverty, imprisonment, and torture. The fallen statesman still clung to his project with una- bated ardor. With the view of vindicating it from some popular objections and of refuting some prevailing errors on the subject of military science, he wrote his seven books on the Art of W ar. This excellent w^ork is in the form of a dialogue. The opinions of the writer are put into the mouth of Fabriz-O Colonna, a powerful nobleman of the Ecclesias- tical State, and an officer of distinguished merit in the service of the King of Spain. Colonna visits Florence on his way from Lombardy to his own domains. He is invited to meet some friends at the house of Cosimo Rucellai, an amiable and accomplished young man, whose early death Machiavelli feelingly deplores. After partaking of an ele- gant entertainment, they retire from the heat into the most shady recesses of the garden. Fabrizio is struck by the eight of some uncommon plants. Cosimo says that, though 222 MACAULAY’S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. rare, in modern days, they are frequently mentioned by the classical autliors, and tliat liis grandfather, like many other Italians, amused liimself with j)ractising the ancient methods of gardening. Fabrizio expresses his regret that tliose who, in later times, affected tlie manners of the old Romans eliould select for imitation the most trifling pursuits. This leads cO a conversation on tlie decline of military discipline and on the best means of restoring it. The institution of the Florentine militia is ably defended ; and several im- provements are suggested in the details. The Swiss and the Spaniards were, at that time, regarded as the best soldiers in Europe. Tlie Swiss battalion con- sisted of pikemen, and bore a close resemblance to the Greek phalanx. The Spaniards, like the soldiers of Rome, were armed with the sword and the shield. The victories of Flamininus and ^milius over the Macedonian kings seem to prove the superiority of the weapons used by the legions. The same experiment had been recently tried with the same result at the battle of Ravenna, one of those tremendous days into which human folly and wickedness compress the whole devastation a famine or a plague. In that memor- able conflict, the infantry of Arragon, the old companions of Gonsalv , deserted by all their allies, hewed a passage through the thickest of the imperial pikes, and effected an unbroken retreat, in the face f the gendarmerie of De Foix, and the renowned artillery of Este. Fabrizio, or rather Machiavelli, proposes to combine the two systems, to arm the foremost lines with the pike for the purpose of repulsing cavalry, and those in the rear with the sword, as being a weapon better adapted for every other purpose. Throughout the work, the author exjDresses the highest admiration of the military science^ of the ancient Romans, and the greatest contempt for the maxims which had been in vogue amongst the Italian commanders of the preceding generation. He prefers infantry to cavalry, and fortified camps to fortified towns. He is inclined to substitute rapid movements and decisive engagements for the languid and dilatory operations of his countrymen. He attaches very little importance to the invention'of gunpowder. Indeed he seems to think that it ought scarcely to produce any change in the mode of arming or of disposing troops. The general testimony of historians, it must be allowed, seems to prove that the ill- constructed and ill-served artillery* of those times, though useful in a siege, was of little value on the field of battle. MACniAVELLI. 223 Of the tactics of Macliiavelli we will not venture to give an o])inion : but we are certain that liis book is most able and interesting. As a commentary on the history of liis times, it is invaluable. The ingenuity, the grace, and tlie perspicuity of the style, and the eloquence and animation of particular passages, must give pleasure even to readers who take no interest in the subject. The Prince and the Discourses on Livy were written after the fall of the Republican Government. The former w^as dedicated to the Young Lorenzo de’ Medici. This cir- cumstance seems to have disgusted the contemporaries of the writer far more than the doctrines wdiich have rendered the name of the w^ork odious in later times. It was con- sidered as an indication of political apostasy. The fact however seems to have been that Macliiavelli, despairing of the liberty of Florence, was inclined to support any govern- ment which might preserve her independence. The inter- val Avhich separated a democracy and a despotism, Soderini and Lorenzo, seemed to vanish w^hen compared with the difference between the former and the present tate of Italy, between the security, the opulence, and the repose wdiich she had enjoyed under its native rulers, and the misery in w^hich she had been plunged since the fatal year in which the first foreign tyrant had descended from tlie Alps. The nobje and pathetic exhortation with which The Prince con- cludes shows how strongly the writer felt upon this subject. The Prince traces the progress an bitious man, the Discourses the prog ss f an ambitious people. The same principles on which, in th former work, the elevation of an individual is explained, are applied in die latter, to the longer duration and mor lomplex interest of a society. To a modern statesman the form if the Discourses may appear to be puerile. In truth Livy is not an historian on wdiom implicit reliance can be placed, even in cases where he must liave possessed considerable means of information. And the first Decade, to which Machiavelli has confined himself, is scarcely entitled to more credit than our Chronicle of British Kings who reigned before the Roman invasion. But the commentator is indebted to Livy for little more than a few texts which he might as easily have extracted from the Vulgate or the Decameron. The whole train of thought is original. On the peculiar immorality wdiich has rendered The Prince ur.jiopular, and which is almost equally discerni- 224 macaulay\s miscellaneous writings. ble in tlie Discoiirsos, we liavc already given oiir opinion at lengtli. We liave atteinj>ted to sliow tliat it Lelonged rather to tlie age tlian to tlie man, tliat it Avasa jiartial taint, and by no means imjilicd general depravity. We cannot however deny that it is a great blemisli, and that it consider- ably diminishes the pleasure which, in otlicr respects, tliose works must afford to every intelligent mind. It is, indeed, impossible to conceive a more healthful and vigorous constitution of the understanding than that which these Avorks indicate. The qualities of the active and the contemplative statesman a])pear to haA^e been blended in the mind of the Avriter into a rare and exquisite harmony. His skill in the details of business had not been acquired at the expense of his general jioAvers. It had not rendered his mind less comprehensive ; but it had served to correct his speculations, and to impart to them that Auvid and practical character which so widely distinguishes them from the vague theories of most political philosophers. Every man Avho has seen the world knoAvs that nothing is so useless as a general maxim. If it be very moral and very true, it may serve for a co])y to a charity-boy. If, like those of Jiouchefoucault, it be sparkling and wliimsical, it may make an excellent motto for an essay. But fcAV indeed of the many Avise apophthegms Avhich haA^e been uttered, from the time of the Seven Sages of Greece to that of Poor Richard, have prevented a single foolish action. We give the highest and the most peculiar praise to the precepts of MachiaA^elli Avhen Ave say that they may frequently be of real use in regulating conduct, not so much because they are more just or more profound than those which might be culled from other authors, as because they can be more readily applied to the problems of real life. There are errors in these Avorks. But they are errors which a writer, situated like Machiavelli, could scarcely avoid. They arise, for the most part, from a single defect which appears to us to pervade his whole system. In his political scheme, the means had been mor deeply considered than the ends. The great principle, that societies and laAvs exist only for the purpose of increasing the sura of private happiness, is not recognized Avith sufficient clearness. The good of the body, distinct from the good of the members, and sometimes hardly compatible Avith the good of the mem- bers, seems to be the object Avhich he proposes to himself. Of all political fallacies, this has perhaps had the widest an} MACHIAVELti. 225 the most mischievous operation. The state of society in the little commonwealths of Greece, the close connection and mutual dependence of the citizens, and the severity of the laws of war, tended to encourage an opinion which, under such circumstances, could hardly be called erroneous. The interests of every individual were inseparably bound up with those of the state. An invasion destroyed his corn-fields and vineyards, drove him from his home, and compelled him to encounter all tlie hardships of a military life. A treaty of peace restored him to security and comfort. A victoi’y doubled the number of his slaves. A defeat perhaps made him a slave himself. When Pericles, in the Peloponnesian war, told the Athenians, that, if their country triumphed, their private losses would speedily be repaired, but that, J their arms failed of success, every individual amongst them would probably be ruined, he spoke no more than the truth. He spoke to men whom the tribute of vanquished cities sup- plied with food and clothing, with the luxury of the bath and the amusements of the theatre, on whom the greatness of their country conferred rank, and before whom the mem- bers of less prosperous communities trembled ; to men who, in case of a change in the public fortunes, would, at least, be deprived of every comfort and every distinction which they enjoyed. To be butchered on the smoking ruins of their city, to be dragged in chains to a slave-market, to see one child torn from them to dig in the quarries of Sicily, and another to guard the harems of Persepolis, these were the frequent and probable consequences of national calami- ty s. Hence, among the Greeks, patriotism became a govern- ing principle, or rather an ungovernable passion. Their legislators and their philosophers took it for granted that, in providing for the strength and greatness of the state, they sufficiently provided for the happiness of the people. The writers of the Roman empire lived under despots, into whose dominion a hundred nations were melted down, and whose gardens would have covered the little commonwealths of Phlius and Plata3a. Yet they continued to employ the same language, and to cant about the duty of sacrificing every thing to a country to which they owed nothing. Causes similar to those which had influenced the disposi- tion of the Greeks operated powerfully on the less vigorous and daring character of the Italians. The Italians, like the Greeks, were members of small communities. Every man was deeply interested in the welfare of the society to whyf;|i VoL. L—ip JS'ACAULilY’s MISCELLANEOUS WRITINOS. •Z2(5 he beloiiG^ed, a ])artaker in its wealtli and its poverty, in its glory and its shame. In the age of Machiavelli this was peculiarly the case. Public events had })roduced an im- mense sum of misery to private citizens. The Northern in- vaders had brought want to their boards, infamy to their beds, fire to their roofs, and the knife to tlieir throats. It was natural that a man who lived in times like these should overi*ate the importance of those measures by which a na- tion is rendered formidable to its neighbors, and undervalue those which make it prosperous within itself. Nothing is more remarkable in the political treatises Machiavelli than the fairness of mind which they indicate. It ap])ears Avhere the author is in the wrong, almost I'.s strongly as Avhere he is in the right. He never advances a false opinion because it is new or splendid, because he can clothe it ill a happy phrase, or defend it by an ingenious sophism. Ilis errors are at once explained by a reference to the circumstances in which he was placed. They evi dently were not sought out ; they lay in his way, and could scarcely be avoided. Such mistakes must necessarily be committed by early speculators in every science. In this respect it is amusing to conyDare The Prince and the Discourses with the Spirit of Laws. Montesquieu en joys, perhaps, a wider celebrity than any political writer of modern Europe. Something he doubtless owes to his merit, but much more to his fortune. lie had the good luck of a Valentine. He caught the eye of the French nation, at the moment when it was waking from the long sleep of political and religious bigotry; and, in consequence, he became a favorite. The English, at that time, considered a F ren . h- man who talked about constitutional checks and funda- mental laws as a prodigy not less astonishing than tho learned pig or the musical infant. Specious but shallow, Btudious of effect, indifferent to truth, eager to build a sys- tem, but careless of collecting those materials out of winch alone a sound and durable system can be built, the lively President constructed theories as rapidly and as slightly as card-houses, no sooner projected than completed, no sooner completed than blown away, no sooner blown away than forgotten. Machiavelli errs only because his experience, ac- quired in a very peculiar state of society, could not always enable him to calculate the effect of institutions differing trom those of which he had observed the operation. Mon- tefi^quieu errs, because he has a fine thing to say, and is re MACniAVELLI. 227 solved to say it. If the phaenomena which 1/e before liiin will not suit liis purpose, all history must be ransacked. If nothing established by authentic testimony can be racked or chipped to suit his Procrustean hypothesis, he puts up with some monstrous fable about Siam, or Bantam, or Ja- pan, told by writers compared with whom Lucian and Gul- liver were veracious, liars by a double right, as travellers and as Jesuits. Propriety of thought and propriety of diction are com- monly found together. Obscurity and affectation are the two greatest faults of style. Obscurity of expression gener- ally springs from confusion of ideas ; and the same wish to dazzle at any cost which produces affectation in the manner of a writer, is likely to produce sophistry in his reasonings. The judicious and candid mind of Machiavelli shows itself in his luminous, manly, and polished language. The style of Montesquieu, on the other hand, indicates in every page a lively and ingenious, but an unsound mind. Every trick of expression, from the mysterious conciseness of an oracle to the flippancy of a Parisian coxcomb, is employed to dis- guise the fallacy of some positions, and the triteness of others. Absurdities are brightened into epigrams ; truisms are darkened into enigmas. It is with difficulty that the strongest eye can sustain the glare with which some parts ai*e illuminated, or penetrate the shade in which others are concealed. The political works of Machiavelli derive a peculiar in- terest from the mournful earnestness which he manifests whenever he touches on topics connected with the calami- ties of his native land. It is difficult to conceive any situation more painful than that of a great man, condemned to watch the lingering agony of an exhausted country, to tend it dur- ing the alternate fits of stupefaction and raving which pre- cede its dissolution, and to see the symptoms of vitality dis» appear one by one, till nothing is left but coldness, darkness, and corruption. To this joyless and thankless duty was Machiavelli called. In the energetic language of the proph- et, 1 e was ‘‘ mad for the sight of his eyes wffiich he saw,” disunion in the council, effeminacy in the camp, liberty ex- tinguished, commerce decaying, national honor sullied, an enlightened and flourishing people given over to the ferocity of ignorant savages. Though his opinions had not escaped the contagion of that political immorality which was com- uoii among his countrymenj his natural disposition seems 228 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wiutings. to have been rather stern and impetuous than pliant and artful. When the misery and degradation of Florence and the foul outrage which he had himself sustained recur to his mind, the smooth craft of his profession and his nation is exchanged for tlie honest bitterness of scorn and anger. Fie speaks like one sick of the calamitous times and abject people among whom his lot is cast. He pines for the strength and glory of ancient Home, for the fasces of Igni- tus and the sword of Scipio, the gravity of the curule chair, and the bloody pomp of the triumphal sacrifice. He seems to be transported back to the days when eight hundred thousand Italian warriors sprung to arms at tlie rumor of a Gallic invasion. He breathes all the spirit of those intrepid and haughty senators who forgot the dearest ties of natuio in the claims of public duty, who looked with disdain on the elephants and on the gold of Pyrrhus, and listened with unaltered composure to the tremendous tidings of Cannae. Like an ancient temple deformed by the barbarous architect- ure of a later age, his character acquires an interest from the very circumstances which debase it. "i'he original pro- portions are rendered more striking by the contrast which they present to the mean and incongruous additions. The influence of the sentiments which we have described was not apparent in his writings alone. His enthusiasm, barred from the career which it would have selected for it- self, seems to have found a vent in desperate levity. He enjoyed a vindictive pleasure in outraging the opinions of a society which he despised. He became careless of the de- cencies which were expected from a man so highly distin- guished in the literary and political world. The sarcastic bitterness of his conversation disgusted those who were more inclined to accuse his licentiousness than their own degen- eracy, and who were unable to conceive the strength of those emotions which are concealed by the jests of the wretched, and by the follies of the wise. The historical works of Machiavelli still remain to be considered. The life of Castruccio Castracani will occupy us for a very short time, and would scarcely have demanded our notice, had it not attracted a much greater share of public attention than it deserves. Few books, indeed, could be more interesting than a careful and judicious account, from such a pen, of the illustrious Prince of LuCca, the most eminent of those Italian chiefs, Avholike Pisistratus and Gelon, acquired a j)ower felt rather chan seen, and rest MACHTAVELLI. 229 ing, not on law or on prescription, but on the public fav^oi and on tlieir great personal qualities. Such a work would exhibit to us the real nature of that species of sovereignty, so singular and so often misunderstood, which the Greeks denominated tyranny, and which, modified in some degree by the feudal system, reappeared in the commonwealths of Lombardy and Tuscany. But this little composition of Machiavelli is in no sense a history. It has no pretensions to fidelity. It is a trifle, and not a very successful trifle. It is scarcely more authentic than the novel of Belphegor, and is very much duller. The last great work of this illustrious man was the his* tory of his native city. It was written by command of the Pope, who, as chief of the house of Medici, was at that time sovereign of Florence. The characters of Cosmo, of Piero, and of Lorenzo, are, however, treated with a freedom and impartiality equally honorable to the writer and to the patron. The miseries and humiliations of dependence, the bread which is more bitter than every other food, the stairs Avhich are more painful than every other ascent, had not broken the spirit of Machiavelli. The most corrupting post in a corrupting profession had not depraved the generous heart of Clement. Tlie History does not appear to be the fruit of much industry or research. It is unquestionably inaccurate. But it is elegant, lively, and picturesque, beyond any other in the Italian language. The reader, we believe, carries away fi*om it a more vivid and a more faithful impression of the national character and manners than from more correct accounts. The truth is, that the book belongs rather to ancient than to modern literature. It is in the style, not of Davila and Clarendon, but of Herodotus and Tacitus. The classical histories may almost be called romances founded in fact. The relation is, no doubt, in all its principal points, strictly true. But the numerous little incidents which heighten the interest, the words, tho gestures, the looks, are evidently furnished by the imagination of the author. The fashion of later times is different. A more exact narrative is given by the writer. It may be doubted whether more exact notions are conveyed to the reader. The best portraits are perhaps those in which there is a slight mixture of cari- cature, and we are not certain, that the best histories are not those in which a little of tlie exaggeration of fictitious narrative is Judiciously employed. Something is lost in 230 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wiutingb. accuracy ; but mucli is gained in effect. The fainter lines are neglected ; but the great characteristic features are im- printed on tlie mind for ever. The History terminates with the death of Lorenzo de’ Medici. Machiavclli had, it seems, intended to continue his narrative to a later period. But his death prevented the execution of liis design ; and the melancholy task of record- ing the desolation and shame of Italy devolved on Guicci ardini. Machiavelli lived long enough to see the commencement of the last struggle for Florentine liberty. Soon after his death monarchy was finally established, not such a monarchy as that of which Cosmo had laid the foundations deep in the institutions and feelings of Ins countrymen, and which Lorenzo had embellished Avith the trophies of every science and every art ; but a loathsome tyranny, proud and mean, cruel and feeble, bigotted and lascivious. The character of M.4.chiavelli Avas hateful to the noAV masters of Italy ; and those parts of his theory Avhich Avere in strict accordance Avith their oAvn daily practice afforded a pretext for blacken- ing his memory. His Avorks were misrepresented by the learned, misconstrued by the ignorant, censured by the church, abused Avith all the rancor of simulated Aurtue, by the tools of a base goA^ernment, and the priests of a baser isupersiition. The name of the man whose genius had illuminated all the dark places of policy, and to whose patriotic Avisdom an oppressed people had oAved their last chance of emancipation and revenge, passed into a proverb of infamy. For more than tAvo hundred years his bones lay undistinguished. At length, an English nobleman paid the last honors to tlie greatest statesman of Florence. In the church of Santa Croce a monument was erected to his mem- ory, AAdiich is contemplated Avith rcA^erence by all who can distinguish the Aurtues of a great mind through the corrup- tions of a degenerate age, and which will be approached with still deeper homage when the object to Avdiich liis public life Avas devoted shall be attained, when the foreign yoke sh.all be broken, AAdien a second Procida shall aA^enge the Avrongs of Na}:)les, when a happier Rienzi shall restore the good estate of Rome, when the streets of Florence and Bologna shall again resound with their ancient war-cry^ Popolo ; popolo ; muoiano i tiranni / J’OHN DUYDEN. 231 JOHN DRYDEN .♦ {Edinburgh Revieio^ January j 1828 .' Ttte public voice has assigned to Dryden the first place in the second rank of our poets, — no mean station in a table of intellectual precedency so rich in illustrious names. It is allowed that, even of the few who were his superiors in genius, none has exercised a more extensive or permanent influence on tlie national habits of thought and expression. Ilis life was commensurate with the period during which a great revolution in the public taste was effected ; and in that revolution he played the part of Cromwell. By um scrupulously taking the lead in its wildest excesses, he ob- tained the absolute guidance of it. By trampling on laws, he acquired the authority of a legislator. By signalizing himself as the most daring and irreverent of rebels, he raised himself to the dignity of a recognized prince. He com- menced hk career by the most frantic outrages. He ter- minated it in the repose of established sovereignty, — the author of a new code, the root of a new dynasty. Of Dryden, however, as of almost every man who has been distinguished either in the literary or in the political world, it may be said that the course which he pursued, and the effect which he produced, depended less on his personal qualities than on the circumstances in which he was jflaced. Those who have read history with discrimination know the fallacy of those panegyrics and invectives which represent in- dividuals as effecting great moral and intellectual revolu- tions, subverting established systems, and imprinting a new character on their age. The difference between one man and another is by no means so great as the superstitious crowd supposes. But the same feelings which in ancient Rome produced the apotheosis of a popular emperor, and in modern Rome the canonization of a devout prelate, led men to cherish an illusion which furnishes them with something to adore. By a law of association, from the operation of which even minds the most strictly regulated by reason are * The Poetical Worlcs ef John Dryden. In 2 volumes. CTuiveraitsr Edition. London, J826. Macaulay’s mtscellankotts wuiTiisraS. not wliolly exempt, misery disj^osos ns to liatrcd, and happi- ness to love, altlioin;]! there may ])c no ])ersoii to ^v]lom our misery or our liap])iness can 1)0 ascrilxMl. The ])cevislmes3 of an invalid vents itself even on those who alleviate liis pain. The ^ood luimor of a man elated hy success often dis])lays itself towards enemies. In tlie same manner, tlio feelings of j)leasure and admiration, to which the contem- plation of great events gives birth, make an object where they do not find it. Thus, nations descend to the absurdities of Egyptian idolatry, and worshi]) stocks and reptiles — Sachcverells and Wilkeses. They even fall j)rostrate before a deity to which they have themselves given the foiTii which commands their veneration, and which, unless fashioned by them, would have remained a shapeless block. They ])er- suade themselves that they are the creatures of wdiat they have themselves created. For, in fact, it is the age that forms the man, not the man that forms the age. Great minds do indeed re-act on the society which has made them what they are ; but they only pay with interest what tliey have received. We extol Bacon and sneer at Aquinas. But, if their situations had been changed. Bacon might have been the Angelical Doctor, the most subtle Aristotelian of the schools; the Dominican might have led forth the sciences from their house of bondage. If Luther had been born in the tenth century, he would have effected no refor- mation. If he had never been born at all, it is evident that the sixteenth century could not have elapsed without a great schism in the church. Voltaire, in the days of Louis the Fourteenth, would probably have been, like most of the literary men of that time, a zealous Jansenist, eminent among the defenders of efficacious grace, a bitter assailant of the lax morality of the Jesuits and the unreasonable decisions of the Sorbonne. If Pascal had entered on his literary career when intelligence was more general, and abuses at the game time more flagrant, when the church was polluted by the Iscariot Dubois, the court disgraced by the orgies of Canillac, and the nation sacrifleed to the juggles of Law, if he had lived to see a dynasty of harlots, an empty treasury and a crowded harem, an army formidable only to those whom it should have protected, a priesthood just religious enough to be intolerant, he might possibly, like every man of genius in France, have imbibed extravagant prejudices against monarchy and Christianity. The wit which blasted the sophisms of Escobar- — the impassioned eloquence which JOHN DRYDETfl’. 233 defended the sisters of Port Royal — the intellectual hardi* hood wliich was not beaten down even by Papal authority — might have raised him to the Patriarchate of the Philoso- phical Church. It was long disputed whether the honor of inventing the method of Fluxions belonged to Newton or to Leibnitz. It is now generally allowed that these great men made the same discovery at the same time. Mathematical science, indeed, had then reached such a point that, if neither of them had ever existed, the principle must inevitably have occurred to some person within a few years. So in our own lime the doctrine of rent, now universally received by poli- tical economists, was propounded, almost at the same mo- ment, by two writers unconnected with each other. Pre- ceding speculators had long been blundering round about it ; and it could not possibly have been missed much longer by the most heedless inquirer. We are inclined to think that, with respect to every great addition which has been made to the stock of human knowledge, the case has been similar ; that without Copernicus we should have been Coper- nicans, — that without Columbus America would have been discovered, — that without Locke we should have possessed a just theory of the origin of human ideas. Society indeed has its great men and its little men, as the earth has its mountains and its valleys. But the inequalities of intellect, like the inequalities of the surface of our globe, bear so small a proportion to the mass, that, in calculating its great revo- lutions, they may safely be neglected. The sun illuminates the hills, while it is still below the horizon ; and truth is discovered by the highest minds a little before it becomes manifest to the multitude. This is the extent of their superiority. They are the first to catch and reflect a light, which, without their assistance, must, in a short time, be visible to those who lie far beneath them. The same remark will apply equally to the fine arts. The laws on which depend the progress and decline of poetry, painting, and sculpture, operate with little less cer- tainty than those which regulate the periodical returns of heat and cold, of fertility and barrenness. Those who seem to lead the public taste are, in general, merely outrunning it in the direction which it is spontaneously pursuing. With- out a just apprehension of the laws to which we have alluded, the merits and defects of Dryden can be but imperfectly understood. We will, therefore, state what we conceive them to be* 234 Macaulay’s misceli.aneous writings. Tiie ages in wliicli tlie master-pieces of imagination have been produced liave by no means been those in which taste has been most correct. It seems tliat the creative faculty, and tlie critical faculty, cannot exist together in tlieir liigh- ost perfection. The causes of this phenomenon it is not difficult to assign. It is ^.rue that the man who is best able to take a machine to pieces, and who most clearly comprehends the manner in which all its wheels and springs conduce to its general effect, will be tlie man most competent to form another machine of similar power. In all the branches of physical and moral science which admit of perfect analysis, he who can resolve will be able to combine. But the analysis which criticism can effect of poetry is necessarily imperfect. One element must for ever elude its researches ; and that is the very element by which jioetry is poetry. In the description of nature, for example, a judicious reader will easily detect an incongruous image. But he will find it impossible to explain in what consists the art of a writer who, in a few w^ords, brings some spot before him so vividly that he shall know it as if he had lived there from childhood; wdiile another, employing the same materials, the same verdure, the same water, and the same flowers, committing no inac- curacy, introducing nothing which can be positively pro- nounced superfluous, omitting nothing which can be posi- tively pronounced necessary, shall produce no more effect than an advertisement of a capital residence and a desirable pleasure-ground. To take another example : the great features of the character of Hotspur are obvious to the most superficial reader. We at once perceive that his courage is splendid, his thirst of glory intense, his animal spirits high, his temper careless, arbitrary, and petulant ; that he indulges his own humor Avithout caring whose feelings he may wound, or Avhose enmity he may provoke by his levity Thus far criticism will go. But something is still wanting A man might have all those qualities and every otliei quality which the most minute examiner can introduce into his catalogue of the virtues and faults of Hotspur, and yet he would not be Hotspur. Almost everything that we have said of him applies equally to Falconbridge. Yet in the mouth of Falconbridge most of his speeches Avould seem out of place. In real life this perpetually occurs. We are sensible of wide differences between men whom, if we wmra required to describe them^ we should describe in almost the JOQN DRYDElSr. 235 game tormfi. Tf wo were attempting to draw elaborate characters of them, we should scarcely be able to point out any strong distinction ; yet we approach them with feelings altogether dissimilar. We cannot conceive of them as using the expressions or tlie gestures of each other. Let us suppose that a zoologist should attempt to give an account of some animal, a porcupine for instance, to people who had never seen it. The porcupine, he might say, is of the genus mammalia, and the order glires. There are whiskers on its face ; it is two feet long ; it has four toes before, five behind, two fore teeth, and eight grinders. Its body is covered with hair and quills. And, when all this had been said, would any one of the auditors have formed a just idea of a porcupine ? Would any two of them have formed the same idea? There might exist innumerable races of animals, possessing all the characteristics which have been mentioned, yet altogether unlike to each other. What the description of our naturalist is to a real porcupine, the remarks of criti- cism are to the images of poetry. What it so imperfectly decomposes it cannot perfectly re-construct. It is evidently as impossible to produce an Othello or a Macbeth by re- versing an analytical process so defective, as it would be for an anatomist to form a living man out of the fragments of his dissecting-room. In both cases the vital principle eludes the finest instruments, and vanishes in the very in- stant in which its seat is touched. Hence those who, trust- ing to their critical skill, attempt to write poems give us, not images of things, but catalogues of qualities. Their characters are allegories ; not good men and bad men, but cardinal virtues and deadly sins. We seem to have fallen among the acquaintances of our old friend Christian ; some- times we meet Mistrust and Timorous; sometimes ’ Mr. Ilategood and Mr. Love-lust; and then again Prudence, Piety, and Charity. That critical discernment is not sufiicient to make men poets, is generally allowed. Why it should keep them from becoming poets, is not perhaps equally evident : but the fact is, that poetry requires not an examining but a believing frame of mind. Those feel it most, and write it best, who forget that it is a work of art; to whom its imitations, like the realities from which they are taken, are subjects, not for connoisseurship, but for tears and laughter, resentment and affection ; wlio are too much under the influence of the illu- sion to admire the genius which has produced it; who aro 236 Macaulay’s miscellankous writings. (GO mnch fri^litcnod forUlyfises in tho cave of Polypliemufi (o care wliether the ])un about Ontis be good or bad ; wlio forget that sucli a ])erson as Shakspeare ever existed, while tliey weep and curse with Lear. It is l)y giving faith to the creations of the imagination that a man becomes a poet. It is by treating those creations as deceptions, and byresolving them, as nearly as possible, into their elements, that he becomes a critic. In the moment in which the skill of the artist is perceived, the spell of the art is broken. These considerations account for the absurdities into which the greatest wudters have fallen, when they have at- tempted to give general rules for composition, or to pro- nounce judgment on the works of others. They are unac- customed to analyze what they feel ; they, therefore, per- petually refer their emotions to causes wdiich have not in the slightest degree tended to produce them. They feel pleasure in reading a book. They never consider that this pleasure may be the effect of ideas which some unmeaning expression, striking on the first link of a chain of associa- tions, may have called up in their own minds — that they have themselves furnished to the author the beauties which they admire. Cervantes is the delight of all classes of readers. Every school-boy thumbs to pieces the most wretched translations of his romance, and knows the lantern jaws of the Knight » Errant, and the broad cheeks of the Squire, as well as the faces of his own playfellows. The most experienced and fastidious judges are amazed at the perfection of that art wdiich extracts inextinguishable laughter from the greatest of human calamities wdthout once violating the reverence due .to it ; at that discriminating delicacy of touch which makes a character exquisitely ridiculous, without impairing its w^orth, its grace, or its dignity. In Don Quixote are several dissertations on the principles of poetic and dramatic writing. Ko passages in the whole work exhibit stronger marks of labor and attention ; and no passages in any work wdth which we are acquainted are more worthless and puerile. In our time they would scarcely obtain admittance into the literary department of the Morning Post. Every reader of the Divine Comedy must be struck by the venera- tion which Dante expresses for w riters far inferior to him- self. He will not lift up his eyes from the ground in the presence of Brunetto, all whose w^orks are not worth the worst of his own hundred cantos. He does not venture to JOIIX DUVDEX* 237 walk in the same line witli the bombastic Statius. Ilis ad- miration of Virgil is absolute idolatry. If indeed it had been excited by the elegant, splendid, and harmonious dic- tion of the Roman poet, it would not have been altogether unreasonable ; but it is rather as an authority on all points of philosophy, than as a work of imagination, that he values the ^neid. Tlie most trivial passages he regards as oracles of the highest authority, and of the most recondite meaning. He describes his conductor as the sea of all wisdom — the sun which heals every disordered sight. As he judged of Virgil, the Italians of the fourteenth century judged of him ; they were proud of him ; they praised him ; they struck medals bearing his head ; they quarrelled for the honor of possessing his remains ; they maintained professors to expound his writings. But what they admired was not that mighty imagination which called a new world into existence, and made all its sights and sounds familiar to the eye and ear of the mind. They said little of those awful and lovely creations on which later critics delight to dwell — Farinata lifting his haughty and tranquil brow from his couch of everlasting fire — the lion-like repose of Sordello — or the light which shone from the celestial smile of Beatrice. They extolled their great poet for his smattering of ancient literature and history ; for his logic and his divinity ; for his absurd physics, and his more absurd metaphysics ; for every thing but that in which he preeminently excelledo Like the fool in the story, who ruined his dwelling by dig- ging for gold, which, as he had dreamed, was concealed under its foundations, they laid waste one of the noblest works of human genius, by seeking in it for buried treasures of wisdom which existed only in their own wild reveries. The finest passages were little valued till they had been debased into some monstrous allegory. Louder applause was given to the lecture on fate and free-will, or to the ridiculous astronomical theories, than to those tremendous lines which disclose the secrets of the tower of hunger, or to that half-told tale of guilty love, so passionate and so full of tears. We do not mean to say that the contemporaries of Dante read with less emotion than their descendants of Uglino groping among the wasted corpses of his children, or of Francesca starting at the tremulous kiss and dropping the fatal volume. Far from it. We believe that they admired these things less than ourselves, but that they felt them 2B8 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS, more. We slioiild ])ei*li<‘i])S say tliat tliey felttliem too much to admire tliem. Tlie })ro<^ress of a nation from barbarism to civilization })roduces a change similar to that which takes place during the progress of an individual from infancy to mature age. What man docs not remember with regret tlie first time that lie read Robinson Crusoe ? Then, indeed, he Avas mable to appreciate the jiowers of the Avriter; or, rather, lie neither kneAV nor cared Avhether the book had a writer at all. He ])robably thought it not half so fine as some rant of Macpherson about dark-browed Foldatli, and Avhite-bosonied Strinadona. He noAV A^alues Fingal and Temora only as shoAving Avith hoAV little evidence a story may be believed, and Avith how little merit a book may bo popular. Of the romance of Defoe he entertains the highest opinion. lie perceives the hand of a master in ten thousand touches AAdiich formerly he passed by Avithout notice. But, thougli he understands the merits of the narrative better than formerly, he is far less interested by it. Xury and Friday, and pretty Poll, the boat with the shoulder-of-mutton sail, and the canoe Avhich could not be brought down to the water edge, the tent AAuth its hedge and ladders, the preserve of kids, and the den Avhere the goat died, can never again be to him the realities which they Avere. The days Avhen his favorite volume set him upon making wheei-barroAVS and chairs, upon digging caves and fencing huts in the garden, can never return. Such is the law of our nature. Our Judgment ripens; our imagination decays. We cannot at once enjoy the flowers or the spring of life and the fruits of its autumn, the i^leasures of close investigation and those of agreeable error. We cannot sit at once in the front of the stage and behind the scenes. We cannot be under the illusion of the spectacle, Avhile Ave are watching the move- ments of the ropes and pulleys Avhich dispose it. The chapter in Avhicli Fielding describes the behavior of Partridge at the theatre affords so complete an illustration of our proposition, that we cannot refrain from quoting some parts of it. “ Partridge gave that credit to Mr. Garrick which he had denied to Jones, and fed into so violent a trembling that his knees knocked against each otlier. Jones asked him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage ? — ‘ Oh, la, sir/ said he, ‘ I perceive now it is what :^ou told me. I am not afraid of anything, for I know it is but a play : and if it was really a ghost, it could do one no liarm at such a distance and in so much company ; and yet, if I was frightened, I am not the only per- son.’ — ‘Why, who,’ cries Jones, ‘dost thou take to be such a coward here besides thyself ? ’ — ‘ Nay, you may call me a coward if you will ; but if that JOHN DRYDEN. 239 little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any man fright- ened in my life.’ * * * He sat with his eyes fixed partly on tlie ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open ; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet, succeeding likewise in him. * * * “ Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of which Jones asked him which of the players he liked best. To this he an- swered, with some appearance of indignation at the question, ‘The King, \Tithout doubt.’ — ‘ Indeed, Mr. Partridge,^ says Mrs. Miller, ‘ you are not of the same opinion with the town ; for they are all agreed that Hamlet is acted by the best player who was ever on the stage. ’ ‘ He the best player ! ’ cries Prirtridge, with a contemptuous sneer ; ‘ why I could act as well as he my- self. I am sure, if I had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, any man, that is, any good man that had such a mother, w^ould have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me ; but indeed, madam, though I never was at a play in London, yeti have seen acting before in the country, and the King, for my money ; he speaks all his w^ords distinctly, and half as loud again as the other. Anybody may see he is an actor.’ ” In this excellent passage Partridge is represented as a very bad theatrical critic. But none of those who laugh at him possess the tithe of his sensibility to theatrical excel- lence. He admires in the wrong place ; but he trembles in the right place. It is indeed because he is so much excited by the acting of Garrick, that he ranks him below the strut- ting, mouthing performer, who personates the King. So, we have heard it said that, in some parts of Spain and Por- tugal, an actor who should represent a depraved character finely, instead of calling down the applauses of the audience, is hissed and pelted without mercy. It would be the same in England, if we, for one moment, thought that Shylock or lago was standing before us. While the dramatic art w^as in its infancy at Athens, it produced similar effects on the ardent and imaginative spectators. It is said that they blamed ^schylus for frightening them into fits with his Furies. Herodotus tells us that, when Phrynichus pro- duced his tragedy on the fall of Miletus, they fined him in a penalty of a thousand drachmas for torturing their feel- ings by so pathetic an exhibition. They did not regard him as a gi*eat artist, but merely as a man w^ho had given them pain. Whin they woke from the distressing illusion, they treated the author of it as they would have treated a me&- ^enger who should have brought them fatal and alarming tidings which turned out to be false. In the same manner, a child screams with terror at the sight of a person in an ugly mask. He has perhaps seen the mask put on. But his imagirmtion is too strong ior his reason ; and he entreats that iu may be taken oft. 21U Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. We should act in the same manner if the grief and hor- ror prodiKied in us by works of the imagination amounted to real torture. But in us these emotions are comparatively languid. They rarely affect our ap])etite or our sleep. Tliey leave us sufficiently at ease to trace them to tlieir causes, and to estimate tlie powers which produce them. Our attention is speedly diverted from the images whicli call forth our tears to the art by which those images have bce« selected and combined. We applaud the genius of the writer. We applaud our own sagacity and sensibility ; and we are comforted. Yet, though we think that in the progress of nations to- wards refinement the reasoning powers are improved at the expense of the imagination, we acknowledge that to this rule there are many apparent exceptions. W e are not, how- ever, quite satisfied that they are more than apparent. Men reasoned better, for example, in the time of Elizabeth than in the time of Egbert ; and they also wrote better poetry. But we must distinguish between poetry as a mental act, and poetry as a species of composition. If we take it in the latter sense, its excellence depends, not solely on the vigor of the imagination, but partly also on the instruments which the imagination employs. Within certain limits, therefore, poetry may be improving while the poetical faculty is decaying. The vividness of the picture pl'esented to the reader is not necessarily proportioned to the vivid- ness of the prototype which exists in the mind of the waiter. In the other arts we see this clearly. Should a man, gifted by nature with all the genius of Canova, attempt to carve a statue without instruction as to the management of his chisel, or attention to the anatomy of the human body, he wou.d produce something compared with wliich the Highlander at the door of -a snuff shop would deserve admiration. If an uninitiated Raphael were to attempt a painting, it would be a mere daub ; indeed, the connoisseurs say that the early vmrks of Raphael are little better. Yet, who can attribute this to want of imagination? Who can doubt that the youth of that great artist was passed amidst an ideal world of beautiful and majestic forms ? Or, who vn'll attribute the difference which appears between his first rude essays and his magnificent Transfiguration to a change in the con- stitution of his mind ? In poetry, as in painting and sculp- ture, it is necessary that the imitator should be well ao quainied with that which he undertakes to imitate> and ex« JOHN DRYDEN. 24J pert in the mechanical part of his art. Genius will not furnish him with a vocabulary : it will not teach him what word most exactly corresponds to his idea, and will most fully convey it to others : it will not make him a great de- scriptive poet, till he has looked with attention on the face of nature ; or a great dramatist, till he has felt and witnessed much of the inlluence of the passions. Information and experience arc, therefore, necessary ; not for the purpose of strengthening the imagination, which is never so strong as in people incapable of reasoning — savages, children, mad- men, and dreamers ; but for the purpose of enabling the artist to communicate his conceptions to others. In a barbarous age the imagination exercises a despotic power. So strong is the perception of what is unreal that it often overpowers all the passions of the mind and all the sensations of the body. At first, indeed, the phantasm re- mains undivulged, a hidden treasure, a wordless poetry, an invisible painting, a silent music, a dream of which the pains and pleasures exist to the dreamer alone, a bitterness which the heart only knoweth, a joy with which a stranger inter- meddleth not. The machinery, by which ideas are to be conveyed from one person to another, is as yet rude and de- fective. Between mind and mind there is a great gulf. The imitative arts do not exist, or are in their lowest state. But the actions of men amply prove that the faculty which gives birth to those arts is morbidly active. It is not yet the in- spiration of poets and sculptors ; but it is the amusement of the day, the terror of the night, the fertile source of wild superstitions. It turns the clouds into gigantic shapes, and the winds into doleful A^oices. The belief which springs from it is more absolute and undoubting than any which can be derived from evidence. It resembles the faith which we repose in our OAvn sensations. Thus, the Arab, Avhen covered with wounds, saw nothing but the dark eyes and the green kerchief of a beckoning Houri. The Northern warrior laughed in the pangs of death when he thought of the mead of Valhalla. The first works of the imagination are, as we have said, poor and rude, not from the want of genius, but from the want of materials. Phidias could have done nothing with an old tree and a fish-bone, or Homer with the language of Ncav Holland. Yet the effect of these early performances, imperfect as they must necessarily be, is immensci All deficiencies are 242 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. fiiipplied by llie susceptibility of those to wliom they are ad. dressed. We all know what j)leasure a wooden doll, wliich may be bought for six])ence, will afford to a little girl. She will require no other company. She will nurse it, dress it, and talk to it all day. No grown-up man takes half so much delight in one of the incomparable babies of Chantrey. In the same manner, savages are more affected by the rude compositions of their bards than nations more advanced in civilization by the greatest master-pieces of poetry. In process of time, the instruments by which the im- agination works are brought to perfection. Men have not more imagination than their rude ancestors. We strongly sus])ect that they have much less. But they produce better works of imagination. Thus, up to a certain period, the dim- inution of the poetical powers is faf more than compensated by the improvement of all the appliances and means of which those powers stand in need. Then comes the short j^eriod of splendid and consummate excellence. And then, from causes against which it is vain to struggle, j)oetry begins to decline. The progress of language, which was at first favorable, be- comes fatal to it, and, instead of compensating for the decay of the imagination, accelerates that decay, and renders it more obvious. When the adventurer in the Arabian tale anointed one of his eyes with the contents of the magical box, all the riches of the earth, however widely dispersed, however sacredly concealed, became visible to him. But, when he tried the experiment on both eyes, he was struck with blind- ness. What the enchanted elixir was to the sight of the body, language is to the sight of the imagination. At first it calls up a world of glorious illusions ; but, when it be- comes too copious, it altogether destroys the visual power. As the development of the mind proceeds, symbols, in- stead of being employed to convey images, are substituted for them. Civilized men think as they trade, not in kind, but by means of a circulating medium. In these circum- stances, the sciences improve rapidly, and criticism among the rest ; but poetry, in the highest sense of the word, dis- appears. Then comes the dotage of the fine arts, a second childhood, as feeble as the former, and far more hopeless. This is the age of critical poetry, of jDoetry by courtesy, of poetry to which the memory, the judgment, and the wit con- tribute far more than the imagination. We readily allow that many works of this description are excellent : we wdll not contend with those who think them more valuable than JOHN DRYDEN. 243 the poems of an earlier period. We only maintain that they belong to different species of composition, and are produced by a different faculty. It is some consolation to reflect that this critical school of poetry improves as the science of criticism improves ; and that the science of criticism, like every other science, is constantly tending towards perfection. As experiments are multiplied, principles are better understood. In some countries, in our own, for example, there has been an interval between the downfall of the creative school and the rise of the critical, a period during which imagination has been in its decrepitude, and taste in its in- fancy. Such a revolutionary interregnum as tliis will be deformed by every species of extravagance. The first victory of good taste is over the bombast and conceits which deform such times as these. But criticism is still in a very imperfect state. What is accidental is for a long tme confounded with what is essential. General theories are drawn from detached facts. How many hours the action of a play may be allowed to occupy, — how many similes an Epic Poet may introduce into his first book, — whether a i3iece, which is acknowledged to have a begin- ning and an end, may not be without a middje, and other questions as puerile as these, formerly occupied the atten- tion of men of letters in France, and even in this country. Poets, in such circumstances as these, exhibit all the narrow- ness and feebleness of the criticism by which their manner has been fashioned. From outrageous absurdity they are preserved indeed by theii* timidity. But they perpetually sacrifice nature and reason to arbitrary canons of taste. In their eagerness to avoid the mala prohibita of a foolish code, they are perpetually rusliing on the mala m se. Their great predecessors, it is true, were as bad critics as them- selves, or perhaps worse : but those predecessors, as we fiave attempted to show, w^ere inspired by a faculty in- de])endent of criticism, and, therefore, wrote well while they hidged ill. - In time men begin to take more rational and comprehen- sive vieAvs of literature. The analysis of poetry, which, as we have remarked, must at best be imperfect, approaches nearer and nearer to exactness. The merits of the wondei- ful models of former times are justly appreciated. The frigid productions of a later age are rated at no more than their proper value. Pleasing and ingenious imitations of 244 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wuitings. the manner of tiie great masters appear. Poetry has a partial revival, a Saint Martin’s Summer, whiclt, after a period of dreariness and decay, agi-eeably reminds us of the splendor of its June. A second harvest is gathered in ; though, growing on a spent soil, it has not the heart of the former. Thus, in the present age, Monti has successfully imitated the style of Dante ; and something of the Eliza- bethan inspiration has been caught by several eminent coun- trymen of our own. But never will Italy produce another Inferno, or England another Hamlet. We look on the beau- ties of the modern imitations with feelings similar to those with which we see flowers disposed in vases, to ornament the drawing-rooms of a capital. We doubtless regard them with pleasure, with greater pleasure, perhaps, because, in the midst of a place ungenial to them, they remind us of the distant spots on which they flourish in spontaneous ex- uberance. But we miss the sap, the freshness and the bloom. Or, if we may borrow another illustration from Queen Sche- herezade, we would compare the writers of this school to the jewellers who were employed to complete the unfinished window of the palace of Aladdin. Whatever skill or cost could do was done. Palace and bazaar were ransacked for pre- cious stones. "Yet the artists, with all their dexterity, with all their assiduity, and with all their vast means, were un- able to produce anything comparable to the wonders which a spirit of a higher order had wrought in a single night. The history of every literature with which we are ac- quainted confirms, we think, the principles which we have laid down. In Greece we see the imaginative school of poe- try gradually fading into the critical, ^schylus and Pin- dar were succeeded by Sophocles, Sophocles by Euripides, Euripides by the Alexandrian v^ersifiers. Of these last, Theocritus alone has left compositions which deserve to be read. The splendor and grotesque fairyland of the Old Comedy, rich with such gorgeous hues, peopled with such fantastic shapes, and vocal alternately with the sweetest peals of music and the loudest bursts of elvish, laughter, disappeared for ever. The master-pieces of the New Coni- ody are known to us by Latin translations of extraordi- nary merit. From these translations, and from the expres- sions of the ancient critics, it is clear that the original com- positions were distinguished by grace and sweetness, that they sparkled with wit, and abounded with pleasing sen- timent ; but that the creative power was gone. Julius JOHN DKVDEN. 246 (/a3sar called Terence a half Menander, — a sure proof that Menander was not a quarter Aristophanes. The literature of the Romans was merely a contin nation of the literature of the Greeks. The pupils started from the point at which their masters had, in the course of many generations, arrived. They thus almost wholly missed the period of original invention. The only Latin ])oets whose writings exhibit much vigor of imagination are Lucretius an 1 Catullus. The Augustan age produced nothing equal to their liner passages. In France, that licensed jester, whose jingling cap and motley coat concealed more genius than ever mustered in the saloon of Ninon or of Madame Geoffrin, was succeeded by writers as decorous and as tiresome as gentlemen-ushers. Tlie poetry of Italy and of Spain has undergone the same change, lint nowhere has the revolution been moi’e complete and violent than in England. The same person, who, when a boy, had clapped his thrilling hands at the first representation of the Tempest might, without attaining to a marvellous longevity, have livjd to read the earlier woi ks of Prior and Addison. The change, we believe, must, sooner or later, have taken place. But its progress was ac- celerated, and its character modified, by the political occur- rences of the times, and particularly by two events, the closing of the theatres under the commonwealth, and the restoration of the House of Stuart. We have said that the critical and poetical faculties are not only distinct, but almost incompatible. The state of our literature during the reigns of Elizabeth and James the First is a strong confirmation of this remark. The greatest works of imagination that the world has ever seen were produced at that period. The national taste, in the mean time, was to the last degree detestable. Alliterations, puns, antithetical forms of expression lavishly employed where no corresponding opposition existed between the thoughts oxj)ressed, strained allegories, pedantic allusions, everything, in short, quaint and affected, in matter and manner, made up what was then considered as fine writing. The elo- quence of the bar, the pulpit, and the council-board, was deformed by conceits which would have disgraced the rhyming shepherds of an Italian academy. The king quib- bled on the throne. We might, indeed, console ourselves by reflecting that his majesty was a fool. But the chancel- lor quibbled in concert from the wool-sack; and the cham MACAULAY'B JriSCKLLAXEOUS WKITTNGB. Ufj collor was Francis l^acon. Tt is needless to mention Sidney and the wliole tribe of Fupliiiists ; for 8iiaks])eare liini- self, the greatest ])oet that ever lived, falls into the same fault whenever lie means to be ])articularly fine. While ho abandons himself to the impulse of his imagination, liis com])Ositions are not only the sweetest and tlie most sub- lime, but also the most faultless, that the world has ever ocen. Ibit, as soon as his critical jiowers come into play, he inks to the level of Cowley; or rather lie does ill what CowU‘y did well. All that is bad in his works is bad elab- orately, and of malice aforethought. The only thing want- ing to make them perfect was, that he should never have troubled himself with thinking whether they were good cr not. Like the angels in Milton, he sinks “with coin- pulsion and laborious flight.” Ilis natural tendency is up- wards. That lie may soar, it is only necessary that ho should not struggle to fall. lie resembles an American Cacique, who possessing in unmeasured abundance the metals wdiich in polished societies are esteemed the most precious, was utterly unconscious of their value, and gave up treasures more valuable than the imperial crowns of other countries, to secure some gaudy and far-fetched but worthless bauble, a jdated button, or a necklace of colored glass. We have attempted to show that, as knowledge is ex- tended and as the reason developes itself, the imitative arts decay. We should, therefore, expect that the corruption of poetry would commence in the educated classes of soci- ety. And tliis, in fact, is almost constantly the case. The few great works of imagination which ap])ears in a critical age are, almost without excej^tion, the works of uneducated men. Thus, at a time when persons of quality translated French romances, and when the universities celebrated royal deaths in verses about tritons and fauns, a preaching tmker produced the Pilgrim’s Progress. And thus a ploughman startled a generation which had thought ITayley and Beattie groat poets, with the adventures of Tam O’Shanter. Evcii hi the latter part of the reign of Elizabeth the fashionable poetry had degenerated. It retained few vestiges of the imagination of earlier times. It had not yet been subjected to the rules of good taste. Affectation liad completely tainted madrigals and sonnets. The grotesque conceits and the tuneless numbers of Douiie wore, in the time of James, the favorite models of composition at Whitehall and at the JOHN DRYDEN. 247 Temple. But, though tlic literature of the Court was in its decay, the literature of the people was in its perfection. The Muses had taken sanctuary in the theatres, the haunts of a class whose taste was not better than that of the Right TIonorables and singular good Lords who admired metaphys- ical love-verses, but whose imagination retained all its fresh- ness and vigor ; whose censure and approbation might be erroneously bestowed, but whose tears and laughter were never in the wrong. The infection which had tainted lyric and didactic poetry had but slightly and partially touched the drama. While the noble and the learned were compar- ing eyes to burning-glasses, and tears to terrestrial globes, coyness to an enthymeme, absence to a pair of com- passes, and an unrequited passion to the fortieth remainder- man in an entail, Juliet leaning from the balcony, and Miranda smiling over the chess-board, sent home many spectators, as kind and simple-hearted as the master and mistress of Fletcher’s Ralpho, to cry themselves to sleep. No species of fiction is so delightful to us as the old English drama. Even its inferior productions possess a charm not to be found in any other kind of poetry. It is the most lucid mirror that ever was held up to nature. The creations of the great dramatists of Athens produce the effect of magnificent sculptures, conceived by a mighty im- agination, polished with the utmost delicacy, embodying ideas of ineffable majesty and beauty, but cold, pale, and rigid, with no bloom on the cheek, and no speculation in the eye. In all the draperies, the figures, and the faces, in the lovers and the tyrants, the Bacchanals and the Furies, there is the same marble chillness and deadness. Most of the characters of the French stage resemble the waxen gentle- men and ladies in the window of a perfumer, rouged, curled, and bedizened, but fixed in such stiff attitudes, and staring wfith eyes expressive of such utter unmeaningness, that they cannot produce an illusion for a single moment. In the English plays alone is to be found the warmth, the mellow- ness, and the reality of painting. We know the minds of the men and women, as we know the faces of the men and women of Vandyke. The excellence of these works is in a great measure the result of two peculiarities, which the critics of the French school consider as defects, — from the mixture of tragedy and comedy, and from the length and extent of the action The former is necessary to render the drama a just repro 24b Macaulay’s mscELLANEOUs writings. sentation of a world in wliicli llic lauglicrs and the weepers are perpetually jostling each other, — in Avhich every event has its s(*rious and ludicrous side. The latter enables us to form an intimate accpiaintance with characters with which we could not possibly become familiar during the few hours to which the unities restrict the poet. In this resf)ect, the works of Shakspeare, in j)articular, arc miracles of art. In a piece, which may be read aloud in three hours, we see a char- acter gradually unfold all its recesses to us. We see it change with the change of circumstances. The petulant youth rises into the politic and warlike sovereign. The profuse and courteous philanthropist sours into a hater and scorner of his kind. The tyrant is altered, by the chastening of affliction, into a pensive moralist. The veteran general, distinguished by coolness, sagacity, and self-command, sinks under a conflict between love strong as death, and jealousy cruel as the grave. The brave and loyal subject passes, step by step, to the ex- tremities of human depravity. We trace his j)rogress, from the first dawnings of unlawful ambition to the cynical melan- choly of his impenitent remorse. Yet, in these pieces, there are no unnatural transitions. Nothing is omitted : nothing is crowded. Great as are the changes, narrow as is the com- pass within which they are exhibited, they shock us as little as the gradual alterations of those familiar faces which we see CA^ery evening and every morning. The magical skill of the poet resembles that of the Dervise in the Spectator, who condensed all the eA^ents of seA^en years into the single mo- ment during Avhich the king held his head under the Avater. It is deserving of remark, that, at the time of Avhich we speak, the plays eA-en of men not eminently distinguished by genius, — such, for example, as J onson, — Avere far superior to the best works of imagination in other departments. Therefore, though we conceive that, from causes Avhich we liaA'O already investigated, our poetry must necessarily have declined, Ave think that, unless its fate had been accelerated by external attacks, it might have enjoyed an euthanasia, that genius might haA^e been kept alive by the drama till its place could, in some degree, be supplied by taste, — that there would have been scarcely any interval betAveen the age of sublime invention and that of agreeable imitation. The works of Shakspeare, which Avere not appreciated with any degree of justice before the middle of the eighteenth cen- tury, might then have been the recognized standards of ex- cellence during the latter part of the seventeenth ; and he JOHN DRYDEN. 249 and the great Elizabethan writers miglit have been almost immediately succeeded by a generation of poets similar to those Avho adorn our own times. But the Puritans drove imagination from its last asylum. Tliey prohibited theatrical representations, and stigmatized the whole race of dramatists as enemies of morality and re- ligion. Much that is objectionable may be found in the writers whom they reprobated; but whether they took the best measures for stopping the evil appears to us very doubt- ful, and must, we tliink, have appeared doubtful to them- selves, when, after the lapse of a few years, they saw the unclean spirit whom they had cast out return to his old haunts, with seven others fouler than himself. By the extinction of the drama, the fashionable school of poetry, — a school wdtliout truth of sentiment or harmony of versification, — without the powers of an earlier, or the correctness of a later age, — was left to enjoy undisputed as- cendency. A vicious ingenuity, a morbid quickness to per- ceive resemblances and analogies between things apparently lieterogeneous, constituted almost its only claim to admira- tion. Suckling was dead. Milton was absorbed in political and theological controversy. If Waller differed from the Cowleian sect of writers, he differed for the worse. He had as little poetry as they, and much less wit ; nor is the languor of his verses less offensive than the ruggedness of theirs. In Dedham alone the faint dawn of a better manner was discernible. But, low as was the state of our poetry during the civil wat and the Protectorate, a still deeper fall was at hand. Hitherto our literature had been idiomatic. In mind as in situation we had been islanders. The revolutions in our taste, like the revolutions in our government, had been settled without the interference of strangers. Had this state of things continued, the same just principles of reasoning which, about this time, were applied with unprecedented success to every part of philosophy would soon have conducted our ancestors to a sounder code of criticism. There were already strong signs of improve- ment. Our prose had at length worked itself clear from those quaint conceits which still deformed almost every metrical composition. The parliamentary debates, and the diplomatic correspondence of that eventful period, had con- tributed much to this reform. In such bustling times, it was absolutely necessary to speak and write to the purpose. The fSO Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. absurdities of Puritanism liad, porliaps, done more. At the time wdien tliat odious style, which deforms the writings of Hall and of Lord Bacon, was almost universal, liad ap- peared that stupendous work, the Englisli Bible, — a book which, if everything else in our language should perish, would alone suffice to show the whole extent of its beauty and ])owcr. The respect which the translators felt for tlio original prevented them from adding any of the hideous decorations then in fashion. The ground-work of the ver- sion, indeed, was of an earlier age. The familiarity with wdiich the Puritans, on almost every occasion, used the Scriptural phrases was no doubt very ridiculous; but it produced good effects. It was a cant ; but it drove out a cant far more offensive. The highest kind of poetry i3, in a great measure, inde- pendent of those circumstances which regulate the style of composition in prose. But with that inferior species of poetry Avhicli succeeds to it the case is widely different. In a few years, the good sense and good taste which had weeded out affectation from moral and political treatises 3vould, in the natural course of things, have effected a similar reform in the sonnet and the ode. The rigor of the victorious sec- taries had relaxed. A dominant religion is never ascetic. The Government connived at theatrical representations. The influence of Shakspeare was once more felt. But darker days were ap23roaching. A foreign yoke was to be imposed on our literature. Charles, surrounded by the com- panions of his long exile, returned to govern a nation which ought never to have cast him out or never to have received liim back. Every year wdiich he had passed among strangers had rendered him more unfit to rule his countrymen. In France he had seen the refractory magistracy humbled, and royal prerogative, though exercised by a foreign priest in the name of a child, victorious over all opposition. This spectacle naturally gratified a prince to whose family the opposition of Parliaments had been so fatal. Politeness was his solitary good quality. The insults wffiich he had suffered in Scotland had taught him to prize it. The effemi- nacy and apathy of his disposition fitted him to excel in it. The elegance and vivacity of the French manners fascinated him. With the political maxims and the social habits of his favorite people, he adopted their taste in composition, and, wdien seated on the throne, soon rendered it fashionable, j)urtly by direct patronage, but still more by that contempt- JOHN DKYDEN. 251 aole policy which, for a time, made England the last of the nations, and raised Louis the Fourteenth to a height of [)Ower and fame, such as no French sovereign had ever be- fore attained. It Avas to please Charles that rhyme was first introduced into our plays. Thus, a rising blow, which would at any time have been mortal, was dealt to the English Drama, tlien just recovering from its languishing condition. Tv/o dclos^ table manners, the indigenous and the imported, were now in a state of alternate conflict and amalgamation. The bom* bastic meanness of the new style was blended with the in genious absurdity of the old; and the mixture produced something which the world had never before seen, and which, we hope, it will never see again, — something, by the side of which the worst nonsense of all other ages appears to advantage, — something, which those wLio have attempted to caricature it have, against their will, been forced to flatter, — of which the tragedy of Bayes is a very favorable speci- men. What Lord Dorset observed to Edw^ard Howard might have been addressed to almost all his contempora- ries : — “ As skilful divers to the bo ttom fall Swifter than those who cannot swim at all ; So, in this way of writing without thinking, Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking/* From this reproach some clever men of the world must be excepted, and among them Dorset himself. Though by no means great poets, or even good versifiers, they always wrote with meaning, and sometimes with wit. Nothing in- deed more strongly shows to wdiat a miserable state litera- ture had fallen, than the immense superiority which the oc- casional rhymes, carelessly thrown on paper by men of this class, possess over the elaborate productions of almost all the professed authors. The reigning taste w^as so bad, that the success of a writer was in inverse proportion to his la- bor, and to his desire of excellence. An exception must be made for Butler, w'ho had as much Avit and learning as Cow- ley, and who know, what CoAvley never knew, how to use them. A great command of good homely English distin- guishes him still more from the other writers of the time. As for Gondibert, those may criticise it who can read it. Imagination was extinct. Taste Avas depraved. Poetry, driven from palaces, colleges, and theatres, had found an asylum in the obscure dwelling Avhere a Great Man, born out 25‘J MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WUITINGS. of due season, in disgrace, penury, pain, and blindness, still kept uncontaminatcd a character and a genius worthy of a better age. Everything about Milton is wonderful ; but nothing is so wonderful as tliat, in an age so unfavorable to poetry, he should have produced tlie greatest of modern epic poems. Wo are not sure that this is not in some degree to be at- tributed to his want of sight. The imagination is notori- ously most active when the external world is shut out. In sleep its illusions are perfect. They produce all the effect of realities. In darkness its visions are always more distinct than in the light. Every person who amuses himself with what is called building castles in the air must have experi- enced this. We know artists who, before they attempt to draw a face from memory, close their eyes, that they may recall a more perfect image of the features and the expres- sion. We are therefore inclined to believe that the genius of Milton may have been preserved from the influence of times so unfavorable to it by his infirmity. Be this as it may, his works at first enjoyed a very small share of popu- larity. To be neglected by his contemporaries was the pen- alty which he paid for surpassing them. His great poem was not generally studied or admired till writers far inferior to him had, by obsequiously cringing to the public taste, acquired sufficient favor to reform it. Of these, Dryden was the most eminent. Amidst the crowd of authors who, during the earlier years of Charles the Second, courted notoriety by every species of absurdity and affectation, he speedily became conspicuous. No man exercised so much influence on the age. The reason is ob- vious. On no man did the age exercise so much influence. He was perhaps the greatest of those whom we have desig- nated as the critical poets ; and his literary career exhibited on a reduced scale, the whole history of the school to which he belonged, — the rudeness and extravagance of its infancy, — the propriety, the grace, the dignified good sense, the temperate splendor of its maturity. His imagination was torpid, till it was awakened by his judgment. He began with quaint parallels and empty mouthing. He gradually acquired the energy of the satirist, the gravity of the moral- ist, the rapture of the lyric poet. The revolution through which English literature lias been passing, from the time of Cowley to that of Scott, may be seen in miniature within the compass of his volumes. JOHN DKYDEN. 253 His life divides itself into two parts. There is some de- batable ground on the common frontier ; but the line may be drawn with tolerable accuracy. The year 1678 is that on which we should be inclined to fix as the date of a great change in his manner. During the preceding period ap- peared some of his courtly panegyrics, — his Annus Mirabilis and most of his plays ; indeed all his rhyming tragedies. To the subsequent period belong his best dramas, — All for Love, The Spanish Friar, and Sebastian, — liis satires, his translations, his didactic poems, his fables, and his odes. Of the small pieces which were presented to chancellors and princes it wquld scarcely be fair to speak. The great- est advantage which the Fine Arts derive from the exten- sion of knowledge, is, that the patronage of individuals be- comes unnecessary. Some writers still affect to regret the age of patronage. None but bad writers have reason to re- gret it. It is always an age of general ignorance. Where ten thousand readers are eager for the appearance of ' a book, a small contribution from each makes up asplendid remunera- tion for the author. Where literature is a luxury, confined to few, each of them must pay high. If the Empress Cath- erine, for example, wanted an epic poem, she must have wholly supported the poet; — ^just as, in a remote country village, a man who wants a muttonchop is sometimes forced to take the whole sheep ; — a thing which never happens where the demand is large. But men who pay largely for the gratification of their taste will expect to have it united with some gratification to their vanity. Flattery is carried to a shameless extent ; and the habit of flattery almost in- evitably introduces a false taste into composition. Its lan- guage is made up of hyperbolical common-places, — offensive from their triteness,— still more offensive from their extrav- agance. In no school is the trick of overstepping the mod- esty of nature so speedily acquired. The writer, accustomed to find exaggeration acceptable and necessary on one sub- ject, uses it on all. It is not strange, therefore, that the early panegyrical verses of Dryden should be made up of meanness and bombast. They abound with the conceits which his immediate predecessors had brought into fashion. But his language and his versification were already far su- perior to theirs. The Annus Mirabilis shows great command of expres- sion, and a fine ear for heroic rhyme. Here its merits end. Not only has it no claim to be called poetry, but it seems to be ! 254 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. tlic work of a man wlio could never, by any possibility, write poetry. Its affected similes are the best part of it. Gaudy weeds present a more encouraging spectacle than utter bar- renness. There is scarcely a single stanza in this long work to whicli tlie imagination seems to have contributed any- thing. It is produced, not by creation, but by construction. It is made up, not of pictures, but of inferences. We will give a single instance, and certainly a favorable instance, — a quatrain which Johnson has praised. Dryden is describ- ing the sea-fight with the Dutch. — “ Amidst whole heaps of spices lights a ball ; And now their odors armed against them fly. Some preciously by shattered porcelain fall, And some by aromatic splinters die.” The poet should place his readers, as nearly as possible, in the situation of the sufferers or the spectators. Ilis narra- tion ought to produce feelings similar to those which would be excited by the event itself. Is this the case here ? Who, in a sea-fight, ever thought of the price of the china which beats out the brains of a sailor ; or of the odor of the splin- ter which shatters his leg ? It is not by an act of the imagi- nation, at once calling up the scene before the interior eye, but by painful meditation, — by turning the subject round and round, — ^by tracing out facts into remote consequences, — that these incongruous topics are introduced into the description. Homer, it is true, perpetually uses epithets which are not peculiarly appropriate. Achilles is the swift- footed, when he is sitting still. Ulysses is the much-endur- ing, when he has nothing to endure. Every spear casts a long shadow, every ox has crooked horns, and every woman a high bosom, though these particulars may be quite beside the purpose. In our old ballads a similar practice prevails. The gold is always red, and the ladies always gay, though nothing whatever may depend on the hue of the gold, or the temper of the ladies. But these adjectives are mere cus- tomary additions. They merge in the substantives to which they are attached. If they at all color the idea, it is with a tinge so slight as in no respect to alter the general effect. In the passage which we have quoted from Dryden the case is very different. Preciously and aromatic divert our whole attention to themselves, and dissolve the image of the battle in a moment. The whole poem reminds us of Lucan, and of the worst parts of Lucan, — the sea-fight in the Buy of Marseilles, for example. The description of the two neets JOHN DRYDEK. 255 during the night is perhaps the only passage which ought to be exeni])ted from this censure. If it was from the Annus Mirabilis that Milton formed his opinion, when he pro- nounced Dryden a good rhymer but no poet, he certainly judged correctly. But Dryden was, as we have said, one of those writers in whom the period of imagination does not precede, but follow, the period of observation and reflection. Ills plays, his rhyming plays in particular, are admirable subjects for those who wish to study the morbid anatomy of the drama. He was utterly destitute of the power of exhibiting real human beings. Even in the far inferior talent of composing characters out of those elements into which the imperfect process of our reason can resolve them, he was very deficient. His men are not even good personi- fications ; they are not well-assorted assemblages of quali- ties. Now and then, indeed, he seizes a very coarse and marked distinction, and gives us, not a likeness, but a strong caricature, in which a single peculiarity is protruded, and everything else neglected ; like the Marquis of Granby at an inn-door, whom we know by nothing but his baldness; or Wilkes, who is Y'ilkes only in his squint. These are the best specimens of his skill. For most of his pictures seem, like Turkey carpets, to have been expressly designed not to resemble anything in the heavens above, in the earth be- neath, or in the waters under the ®arth. The latter manner he practises most frequently in his tragedies, the former in his comedies. The comic charac- ters are, without mixture, loathsome and despicable. The men of Etherege and Vanbrugh are bad enough. Those of Smollett are perhaps worse. But they do not approach to the Seladons, the Wildbloods, the Woodalls, and the Rho- dophils of Dryden. The vices of these last are set off by a certain fierce hard impudence, to which we know nothing comparable. Their love is the appetite of beasts ; their friendship the confederacy of knaves. The ladies seem to have been expressly created to form helps meet for such gentlemen. In deceving and insulting their old fathers they do not perhaps exceed the license which, by immemorial prescription, has been allowed to heroines. But they also cheat at cards, rob strong boxes, put up their favors to auction, betray their friends, abuse tlieir rivals in the style of Billingsgate, and invite their lovers in the language of the Piazza. These, it must bo remembered, are not the valets and waiting-v/omen, the Mascarilles and Nerines, but 256 MACAULAY S MISCELLANEOUS WKITINGS. the recognized lieroes and lieroines, wlio appear as the rep resentatives of good society, and who, at the end of the fifth act, marry and live very haj)}>ily ever after. The sen- suality, baseness, and malice < ^ their natures is unredeemed by any quality of a different description, — by any touch of kindness^ — or even by any honest burst of hearty hatred and revenge. We are in a w rid here there is no humanity, no veracity, no sense of shame, — a world for which any good-natured man would gladly take in exchange the so- ciety of Milton’s devils. But, as soon as we enter the re- gions of Tragedy, we find a great change. There is no lack of fine sentiment there. Metastasio is surpassed in his own department. Scuderi is out-scuderied. We are introduced to people whose proceedings we can trace to no motive, — \ of whose feelings we can form no more idea than of a sixth : sense. We have left a race of creatures, whose love is as | delicate and affectionate as the passion which an alderman feels for a turtle. We find ourselves among beings, whose ^ love is a purely disinterested emotion, — a loyalty extending | to passive obedience, — a religion, like that of the Quietists, ^ unsupported by any sanction of hope or fear. We see \ nothing but despotism without power, and sacrifices with- j out comj^ensation. J We will give a few instances. In Aurengzebe, Arimant, J governor of Agra, falls in love with his prisoner Indamora. j She rejects his suit with scorn ; but assures him that she \ shall make great use of her power over him. He threatens | to be angry. She answers, very coolly : | “ Do not : your anger, like your love, is vain : 1 Whene’er I please, you must be pleased again. 1 Knowing what power I have your will to bend, | I’ll use it ; for 1 need just such a friend.” | This is no idle menace. She soon* brings a letter addressed J to his rival, — orders him to read it, — asks him whether he j thinks it sufficiently tender, — and finally commands him to | carry it himself. Such tyranny as this, it may be thought, | would justify resistance. Arimant does indeed venture to ^ remonstrate ; ^ This fatal paper rather let me tear, Than, like BeUerophon, my sentence bear.” 1 The answer of the lady is incomparable : — “You may ; but ’twill not be your best advice ; ’Twill only give me pains of writing twice. You know you must obey me, soon or late. Why should you vainly struggle with your fate ? ” i JOHN DRYDEN. 257 Poor Arimant seems to be of the same opinion. He mutters sometliing about fate and free-will, and walks oft with the billet-doux. J[n the Indian Emperor, Montezuma presents Almeria with a garland as a token of his love, and offers to make her his queen. She replies : “ I take this garland, not as given by you ; But as my merit’s and my beauty’s due ; As for the crown which you, my slave, possess, To share it with you would but make me less.** In return for such proofs of tenderness as these, her admirer consents to murder his two sons and a benefactor to whom he feels the warmest gratitude. Lyndaraxa, in the Conquest of Granada, assumes the same lofty tone with Abdelmelech. He complains that she smiles upon his rival. “ Lynd. And when did I my power so far resign, Tliat you should regulate each look of mine? Abdel. Tlien, when you gave your love, you gave that power. Lynd. *Twas during pleasure — 'tis revoked this hour. Abdel: I’ll hate you, and this visit is my last. Lynd. Do, if you can : you know I hold you fast.** That these passages violate all historical propriety, that sentiments to which nothing similar was ever even affected except by the cavaliers of Europe, are transferred to Mexico and Agra, is a light accusation. We have no objection to a conventional world, an Illyrian puritan, or a Bohemian sea- port. While the faces are good, we care little about the back-ground. Sir Joshua Reynolds says that the curtains and hangings in a historical painting ought to be, not velvet or cotton, but merely drapery. The same principle should be applied to poetry and romance. The truth of character is the first object ; the truth of place and time is to be con- sidered only in the second jdace. Puff himself could tell the actor to turn out his toes, and remind him that Keeper Hatton was a great dancer. We wish that, in our time, a writer of a very different order from Puff had not too often forgotten human nature in the niceties of upholstery, milli- nery, and cookery. We blame Dry den, not because the persons of his dramas are not Moors or Americans, but because they are not men and women ; — not because love, such as he represents it, could not exist in a harem or in a wigwam, but because it could not exist anywhere. As is the love of his heroes, such are all their other emotions, All their qualities, their VoL. 1,-17 258 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wuitingr. courage, their generosity, their pride, are on the same co lossal scale. Justice and j)rudence are virtues whicli can exist only in a moderate degree, and which cliange their nature and their name if pushed to excess. Of justice ?lnd prudence, therefore, Dryden leaves his favorites destitute, lie did not care to give them what he could not give with- ,^ut measure. The tyrants and ruffians are merely the he- roes altered by a few touches, similar to those which trans- formed the honest face of Sir Roger de Coverley into the Saracen’s head. Through the grin and frown the original features are still perceptible. It is in the tragi-comedies that these absurdities strike us most. The two races of men, or ratlier the angels and the baboons, are there presented to us together. We meet in one scene with nothing but gross, selfish, unblushing, lying libertines of both sexes, who, as a punishment, we suppose, for their depravity, are condemned to talk nothing but prose. But, as soon as we meet with people who speak in verse, we know that we are in society which would have enraptured the Cathos and Madelon of Molidre, in society for which Oroondates Avould have too little of the lover, and Clelia too much of the coquette. As Dry den was unable to render his plays interesting by means of that which is the joeculiar and appropriate ex- cellence of the drama, it was necessary that he should find some substitute for it. In his comedies he supplied its place, sometimes by wit, but more frequently by intrigue, by disguises, mistakes of persons, dialogues at cross purposes, hair-breadth escapes, perplexing concealments, and surprising disclosures. He thus succeeded at least in making these pieces very amusing. In his tragedies he trusted, and not altogether without reason, to his diction and his versification. It was on this account, in all probability, that he so eagerly adopted, and so reluctantly abandoned, the practice of rhyming in his plays. What is unnatural appears less unnatural in that species of verse than in lines Avhich approach more nearly to common conversation ; and in the management of the heroic couplet Dryden has never been equalled. It is unnecessary to urge any arguments against a fashion now universally condemned. But it is worthy of observation, that, though Dryden was deficient in that talent which blank verse ex- hibits to the greatest advantage, and was certainly the best vritei* of heroic, rhyme in our language, yet the plays which JOHN HRYDEN. 259 have, from the time of their first appearance, been considered as his best, are in blank verse. No experiment can be more decisive. It must be allowed that the worst even of the rhyming tragedies contains good descrijjtion and magnificent rhet- oric. But, even when we forget that they are plays, and, passing by their dramatic improprieties, consider them with reference to the language, we are perpetually disgusted by passages which it is difficult to conceive how any author could have written, or any audience have tolerated, rants in which the raving violence of the manner forms a strange contrast with the abject tameness of the thought. The author laid the whole fault on the audience, and declared that, when he wrote them, he considered them bad enough to please. This defence is unworthy of a man of genius, and, after all, is no defence. Otway pleased without rant ; and so might Dryden have done, if he had possessed the powers of Otway. The fact is, that he had a tendency to bombast, which, though subsequently corrected by time and thought, was never wholly removed, and which showed it- self in performances not designed to j)lease the rude mob of the theatre. Some indulgent critics have represented this failing as an indication of genius, as the profusion of unlimited wealth, the wantonness of exuberant vigor. To us it seems to bear a nearer affinity to the tawdriness of poverty, or the spasms and convulsions of weakness. Dryden surely had not more imagination than Homer, Dante, or Milton, who never fall into this vice. The swelling diction of ^schylus and Isaiah resembles that of Almanzor and Maximin no more than the tumidity of a muscle resembles the tumidity of aboil. The former is symptomatic of health and strength, the latter of debility and disease. If ever Shakspeare rants, it is not when his imagination is hurrying him along, but when he ia hurrying his imagination along, — when his mind is for a mo- ment jaded, — when, as was said of Euripides, he resembles a lion, who excites his own fury by lashing himself with his tail. What happened to Shakspeare from the occasional suspension of his powers happened to Dryden from constant impotence. He, like his confederate Lee, had judgment enough to appreciate the great poets of the preceding age, but not judgment enough to shun competition with them. He felt and admired their wild and daring sublimity. That it belonged to another age than that in which he lived and ‘j60 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. required other talents than those which he possessed, that, in aspiring to emulate it, he was waisting, in a hopeless at- tempt, powers which might render him pre-eminent in a different career, was a lesson which he did not learn till late. As those knavish enthusiasts, the French prophets, courted inspiration by mimicking the Avrithings, swoonings, and gaspings which they considered as its symptoms, he at- tempted, by affecting fits of poetical fury, to bring on a real r aroxysm ; and, like them, he got nothing but his distortions )r his pains. Horace A^ery happily compares those who, in his time, imitated Pindar to the youth who attempted to fly to heaven on Avaxen wings, and who experienced so fatal and ignomin- ious a fall. His OAvn admirable good sense preserved him from this error, and taught him to cultivate a style in Avhich excellence was within his reach. Dryden had not the same self-knowledge. He saw that the greatest poets were never so successful as Avhen they rushed beyond the ordinary bounds, and that some inexplicable good fortune preserved them from tripping even when they staggered on the brink of nonsense. He did not perceive that they were guided and sustained by a poAver denied to himself. They wrote from the dictation of the imagination ; and they found a re- sponse in the imaginations of others. He, on the contrary, sat doAvn to work himself, by reflection and argument, into a deliberate Avildness, a rational frenzy. In looking over the admirable designs Avhich accompany the Faust, we ha\^e ahvays been much struck by one which represents the wizard and the tempter riding at full speed. The demon sits on his furious horse as heedlessly as if he were reposing on a chair. That he should keep his saddle in such a posture, would seem impossible to any wdio did not know that he was secure in the privileges of a superhu- man nature. The attitude of Faust, on the contrary, is the perfection of horsemanship. Poets of the first order might safely write as desperately as Mephistophiles rode. But Dryden, though admitted to communion Avith higher spirits, though armed Avith a portion of their poAver, and intrusted with some of their secrets, was of another race. What they might securely A^enture to do, it was madness in him to at- tempt. It was necessary that taste and critical science should supply his deficiencies. We will gh"e a fcAV examples. Nothing can be finer than the description of Hector at the Grecian wall jnnN DRTDEN. 2G1 o 5‘ ap* €(T^op€ aC8Lixo^ *'E«Ta>p, Nuo^rf^ep N^as di'd y\avpdq‘ dpaSos 6’ dAi'ao’TO? €Tv\^ri, What daring expressions! Yet how significant ! How picturesque ! Hector seems to rise up in his strength and fury. The gloom of night in his frown, — the fire burning in his eyes, — the javelins and the blazing armor, — the mighty rush through the gates and down the battlements, — the trampling and the infinite roar of the multitude, — every- thing is with us ; everything is real. Dryden has described a very similar event in Maximin, and has done his best to be sublime, as follows : — “ There with a forest of their darts he strove, And stood like Capaneus defying Jove ; With his broad sword the boldest beating down, Till Fate grew pale, lest he should win the town, And turned the iron leaves of its dark book To make new dooms, or mend what it mistook.*' How exquisite is the imagery of the fairy songs in the Tempest and in the Midsummer Night’s Dream ; Ariel /iding through the twilight on the bat, or sucking in the bells of flowers with the bee ; or the little bower-women of Titania, driving the spiders from the couch of the Queen ! Dryden truly said, that “ Shakspeare’s magic could not copied be : Within that circle none durst walk but he.** It would have been well if he had not himself dared to step within the enchanted line, and drawn on himself a fate similar to that which, according to the old superstition, pun- ished such presumptuous interference. The following lines are parts of the song of his fairies : — Merry, merry, merry, we sail from the East, Half-tippled at a rainbow feast. In the bright moonshine, while winds whistle loud, Tivy, tivy, tivy, we mount and we fly, All racking along in a downy white cloud ; And lest our leap from the sky prove too far, We slide on the back of a new falling star, And drop from above In a jelly of love.” These are very favorable instances. Those who wish for a bad one may read the dying speeches of Maximin, and may compare them with the last scenes of Othello and Lear. 262 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wkitinos. If Drydeii had died before tlic expiration of the first of the periods into wliich we liave divided his literary life, he would liave left a reputation, at best, little higher than that of Lee or Davenant. lie would have been known only to men of letters ; and by them he would have been mentioned as a writer who tlirew away, on subjects wliich he was incom- petent to treat, powers Avhich, judiciously emjdoyed, might have raised him to eminence ; whose diction and Avliose numbers had sometimes veiy higli merit; but all Avhose works were blemislied by a false taste, and by errors of gross negligence. A few of his prologues and epilogues might perhaj)s still have been remembered and quoted. In these little pieces he early showed all the powers which afterwards rendered him the greatest of modern satirists. But, during the latter part of his life, he gradually abandoned the drama. Ills plays appeared at longer intervals. He renounced rhyme in tragedy. Ilis language became less turgid — his characters less exaggerated. lie did not indeed produce correct representations of human nature ; but he ceased to daub such monstrous chimeras as those which abound in his earlier pieces. Here and there passages occur worthy of the best ages of the British stage. The style which the drama requires changes with every -change of character and situation. He who can vary his manner to suit the variation is the great dramatist ; but he who excels in one manner only will, when that manner happens to be appropriate, appear to be a great dramatist ; as the hands of a watch which does not go point right once in the twelve hours. Sometimes there is a scene of solemn debate. This a mere rhetorician may write as well as the greatest trage- dian that ever lived. We confess that to us the speech of Sempronius in Cato seems very nearly as good as Shakspeare could have made it. But when the senate breaks up, and we find that the lovers and their mistresses, the hero, the vidain, and the deputy-villain, all continue to harangue in the same style, we perceive the difference between a man who can write a play and a man who can write a speech. In the same manner, wit, a talent for description, or a tal- ent for narration, may, for a time, pass for dramatic genius. Dryden was an incomparable reasoner in verse. He was con- scious of his power ; he was jn’oud of it ; and the authors of tlie Rehearsal justly charged him with abusing it. His war- riors and princesses are fond of discussing points of amorous uasuistry, such as would have delighted a Parliament of JOHN DRYDEN. 263 Love. They frequently go still deeper, and speculate on philosophical necessity and the origin of evil. Tliere were, liowever, some occasions which absolutely required this peculiar talent. Then Dryden was indeed at home. All his best scenes are of this description. They are all between men ; for the heroes of Dryden, like many other gentlemen, can never talk sense when ladies are in company. They are all intended to exhibit the empire of reason over violent passion. We have two interlocutors, the one eager and impassioned, the other high, cool, and judi- cious. The composed and rational character gradually ac- quires the ascendancy. His fierce companion is first in- flamed to rage by his reproaches, then overawed by his equa^ nimity, convinced by his arguments, and soothed by his per- suasions. This is the case in the scene between Hector and Troilus, in that between Antony and Ventidius, and in that between Sebastian andDorax. Hothing of the same kind in ShaksjDeare is equal to them, except the quarrel between Brutus and Cassius, which is worth them all three. Some years before his death, Dryden altogether ceased to write for the stage. He had turned his powers in a new direction, with success the most splendid and decisive. Ilis taste had gradually awakened his creative faculties. The first rank in poetry was beyond his reach ; but he chal- lenged and secured the most honorable place in the second. His imagination resembled the wings of an ostrich. It ena- bled him to run, though not to soar. When he attempted the highest fiiglits, he became ridiculous ; but, while he remained in a lower region, he outstripped all competitors. All his natural and all his acquired powers fitted him to found a good critical school of poetry. Indeed he carried his reforms too far for his age. After his death, our litera- ture retrograded : and a century was necessary to bring it back to the point at which he left it. The general sound- ness and healthfulness of his mental constitution, his infor- mation of vast superficies though of small volume, his wit scarcely inferior to that of the most distinguished followers of Donne, his eloquence, grave, deliberate, and commanding, could not save him from disgraceful failure as a rival of Shakspeare, but raised him far above the level of Boileau. His command of language was immense. With him died the secret of the old poetical diction of England, — the art of producing rich effects by familiar words. In the follow- ing century, it was as completely lost as the Gothic method 2G4 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. of painting glass, and was but poorly supjdied by the labo- rious and tesselated imitations of Mason and Gray. On the other hand, he was the first writer under whose skilful man- agement the scientific vocabulary fell into natural and pleasing verse. In this department, he succeeded as com- pletely as his contemporary Gibbons succeeded in the similar enterprise of carving the most delicate flowers from heart of oak. The toughest and most knotty parts of lan- guage became ductile at his touch. Ilis versification in the same manner, while it gave the first model of that neatness and precision which the following generation esteemed so highly, exhibited, at the same time, the last examples of nobleness, freedom, variety of pause, and cadence. His tragedies in rhyme, however worthless in themselves, had at least served the purpose of nonsense-verses ; they had taught him all the arts of melody which the heroic couplet admits. For bombast, his prevailing vice, his new sub- jects gave little opportunity ; his better taste gradually dis- carded it. He possessed, as we have said, in a pre-eminent degree, the power of reasoning in verse ; and this power was now peculiarly useful to him. His logic is by no means uniformly sound. On points of criticism, he always reasons ingeni- ously ; and, when he is disposed to be honest, coiTectly. But the theological and political questions which he under- took to treat in verse were precisely those which he under- stood least. His arguments, therefore, are often worthless. But the manner in which they are stated is beyond all praise. The style is transparent. The topics follow each other in the happiest order. The objections are drawn up in such a manner that the whole fire of the reply may be brought to bear on them. Tlie circumlocutions which are substituted for technical phrases are clear, neat, and exact. The illus- trations at once adorn and elucidate the reasoning. The sparkling epigrams of Cowley, and the simple garrulity of the burlesque poets of Italy, are alternately employed, in the happiest manner, to give effect to what is obvious, or clearness to what is obscure. His literary creed was catholic, even to latitudinarianism ; not from any want of acuteness, but from a disposition to be easily satisfied. He was quick to discern the smallest glimpse of merit ; he was indulgent even to gross improprieties, when accompanied by any redeeming talent. When he sai l a severe thing, it was to serve a temporary purpose,-— JOHN DRYDEN. 265 to support an argument or to tease a rival. Never was so able a critic so free from fastidiousness. He loved the old poets, especially Shakspeare. He admired the ingenuity which Donne and Cowley had so wildly abused. He did i 'ustice, amidst the general silence, to the memory of Milton, le praised to the skies the school-boy lines of Addison. Always looking on the fair side of every object, he admired extravagance on account of the invention which he supposed it to indicate ; he excused affectation in favor of wit ; he tolerated even tameness for the sake of the correctness which was its concomitant. It was probably to this turn of mind, rather than to the more disgraceful causes which Johnson has assigned, that we are to attribute the exaggeration Avhich disfigures the pane- gyrics of Dryden. No writer, it must be owned, has car- ried the flattery of dedication to a greater length. But this was not, we suspect, merely interested servility : it was the overflowing of a mind singularly disposed to admiration, — of a mind which diminished vices, and magnified virtues and obligations. The most adulatory of his addresses is that in which he dedicates the State of Innocence to Mary of Modena. Johnson thinks it strange that any man should use such language without self-detestation. But he has not remarked that to the very same work is prefixed an eulogium on Milton, which certainly could not have been acceptable at the court of Charles the Second. Many years later, when Whig principles were in a great measure triumphant. Sprat refused to admit a monument of John Philips into West- minster Abbey — because, in the epitaph, the name of Milton incidentally occurred. The walls of his church, he declared, should not be polluted by the name of a republican ! Dryden was attached, both by principle and interest, to the Court. But nothing could deaden his sensibility to excellence. We are unwilling to accuse him severely, because the same dis- position, which prompted him to pay so generous a tribute to the memory of a poet whom his patron detested, hurried him into extravagance when he described a princess distin- guished by the splendor of her beauty and the graciousness of her manners. This is an amiable temper ; but it is not the temper of great men. Where there is elevation of character there will be fastidiousness. It is only in novels and on tomb- stones that we meet with people who are indulgent to the faults of others, and unmerciful to their own ; and Dryden, at 26G Macaulay’s miscellaneous wkitings. all events, was not one of these j)ara< 2 jons. Ilis charity was extended most liberally to others ; but it certainly began at home. In taste he was by no means deficient. His critical works are, beyond all comparison, superior to any which had, till then, ap])eared in England. They were generally in- tended as apologies for his own ]>oenis, rather than as exposi- tions of general principles ; he, therefore, often attempts to deceive the reader by sopliistry which could scarcely have deceived himself. His dicta are the dicta, not of a judge, but of an advocate ; — often of an advocate in an unsound cause. Yet, in the very act of misrepresenting the laws of composition, he shows how well he understands them. But he was perpetually acting against his better knowledge. His sins were sins against light. He trusted that what was bad would be pardoned for the sake of Avhat was good. What was good he took pains to make better. He was not, like most persons who rise to’ eminence, dissatisfied even with his best jDroductions. He had set uj) no unattainable standard of perfection, the contemplation of which might at once improve and mortify him. His path was not at- tended by an unapproachable mirage of excellence, for ever receding, and for ever pursued. He was not disgusted by the negligence of others ; and he extended the same toleration to himself. His mind was of a slovenly character, — fond of splendor, but indifferent to neatness. Hence most of his writings exhibit the sluttish magnificence of a Russian noble, all A^ermin and diamonds, dirty linen and inestimable sables. Those faults which spring from affectation, time and thought in a great measure removed from his poems. But his care- lessness he retained to the last. If towards the close of his life he less frequently Avent Avrong from negligence, it was only because long habits of composition rendered it more easy to go right. In his best pieces we find false rhymes, — triplets, in which the third line appears to be a mere intruder, and, while it breaks the music, adds nothing to the meaning, — gigantic Alexandrines of fourteen and sixteen syllables, and truncated verses for which he never troubled himself to find a termination or a partner. Such are the beauties and the faults which may be found in profusion throughout the later works of Dryden. A more just and complete estimate of his natural and acquired poAvers, — of the merits of his style and of its blemishes, — may be formed from the Hind and Panther, than from any of his other writings. As a didactic poem, it is far superiof JOHN DRYDEN. 267 to the Religlo Laici. The satirical parts, particularly the character of Burnet, are scarcely inferior to the best pas- sages in Absalom and Achitophel. There are, moreover, oc- casional touches of a tenderness which affects us more, because it is decent, rational, and manly, and reminds us of the best scenes in his tragedies. His versification sinks and swells in happy unison with the subject ; and his wealth of language seems to be unlimited. Yet, the carelessness with wliich he has constructed his plot, and the innumerable incon- sistencies into which he is every moment falling, detract much from the pleasure which such various excellence affords. In Absalom and Achitophel he hit upon a new and rich vein which he worked with signal success. The ancient satir- ists were the subjects of a despotic government. They were compelled to abstain from political topics, and to confine their attention to the frailties of private life. They might, indeed, sometimes venture to take liberties with public men, “ Quorum Flaminia tegitur cinis atque Latina.’* Thus Juvenal immortalized the obsequious senators who met to decide the fate of the memorable turbot. His fourth satire frequently reminds us of the great political poem of Dryden ; but it was not written till Domitian had fallen : and it wants something of the peculiar flavor which belongs to contem- porary invective alone. His anger has stood so long that, though the body is not impaired, the effervescence, the first cream, is gone. Boileau lay under similar restraints ; and, if he had been free from all restraint, would have been no match for our countryman. The advantages which Dryden derived from the nature of his subject he improved to the very utmost. His manner is almost perfect. The style of Horace and Boileau is fit only for light subjects. The Frenchman did indeed attempt to turn the theological reasonings of the Provincial Letters into verse, but with very indifferent success. The glitter of Pope is cold. The ardor of Persius is Avithout brilliancy. Magnificent versification and ingenious combinations rarely harmonize with the expression of deep feeling. In Juvenal and Dryden alone we have the sparkle and the heat to- gether. Those great satirists succeeded in communicating the fervor of their feelings to materials the most incombus- tible, and kindled the whole mass into a blaze, at once daz- zling and destructive. We cannot, indeed, think, without regret, of the part which so eminent a writer as Dryden 268 Macaulay's miscellaneous whitings. took in tlie disputes of that period. There was, no doubt, niadiiess and wickedness on botli sides. But there was liberty on tlie one, and despotism on the other. On tliis point, liowever, we will not dwell. At Talavera the English and French troops for a moment suspended their conflict, to drink of a stream which flowed between them. The shells were passed across from enemy to enemy without appre- hension or molestation. We, in the same manner, would rather assist our political adversaries to drink with us of that fountain of intellectual pleasure, which should be the common refreshment of both parties, than disturb and pol lute it with the havock of unseasonable hostilities. Macflecnoe is inferior to Absalom and Achitophel, only in the subject. In the execution it is even superior. But the greatest work of Dryden was the last, the Ode on Saint Cecilia’s day. It is the master-piece of the second class of poetry, and ranks but just below the gi'eat models of the first. It reminds us of the Pedasus of Achilles — os, Kal ea>t eire^ eTTTrois a^avaroioi- By comparing it with the impotent ravings of the heroic tragedies, we may measure the progress which the mind of Dryden had made. He had learned to avoid a too auda- cious competition with higher natures, to keep at a distance from the verge of bombast or nonsense, to venture on no expression Avhich did not convey a distinct idea to his own mind. There is none of that darkness visible ” style of which he had formerly affected, and in which the greatest poets only can succeed. Everything is definite, significant, and picturesque.' His early writings resembled the gigantic works of those Chinese gardeners who attempt to rival nature herself, to form cataracts of terrific height and sound, to raise precipitous ridges of mountains, and to imitate in artificial plantations the vastness and the gloom of some primeval forest. This manner he abandoned ; nor did he ever adopt the Dutch taste which Pope affected, the trim parterres, and the rectangular walks. He rather resembled our Kents and Browns, who imitating the great features of landscape without emulating them, consulting the genius of the place, assisting nature and carefully disguising their art, produced, not a Chamouni or a Niagara, but a Stowe or a Hagley. We are, on the whole, inclined to regret that Dryden did not accomplish his purpose of writing an epic poem. It JOHN DRYDEN. S«9 certainly would not have been a work of the highest rank. It would not have rivalled the Iliad, the Odyssey, or the Paradise Lost ; but it would have been superior to the pro- ductions of Apollonius, Lucan, or Statius, and not inferior to the Jerusalem Delivered. It would probably have been a vigorous narrative, animated with something of the spirit of the old romances, enriched with much splendid description, and interspersed with fine declamations and disquisitions. The danger of Dryden would have been from aiming too high ; from dwelling too much, for example, on his angels of kingdoms, and attempting a competition with that great writer who in his own time had so incomparably succeeded in representing to us the sights and sounds of another world. To Milton, and to Milton alone, belonged the secrets of the great deep, the beach of sulphur, the ocean of fire, the pal- aces of the fallen dominations, glimmering through the ever- lasting shade, the silent wilderness of verdure and fragrance where armed angels kept watch over the sleep of the first lovers, the portico of diamond, the sea of jasper, the sap- phire pavement empurpled with celestial roses, and the in- finite ranks of the Cherubim, blazing with adamant and gold. The council, the tournament, the procession, the crowded cathedral, the camp, the guard-room, the chase, were the proper scenes for Dryden. But we have not space to pass in review all the works which Dryden wrote. We, therefore, will not speculate longer on those which he might possibly have written. He may, on the whole, be pronounced to have been a man pos- sessed of splendid talents, which he often abused, and of a sound judgment, the admonitions of which he often neg- lected ; a man who succeeded only in an inferior department of his art, but who, in that department, succeeded pre-emi- nently ; and who, with a more independent spirit, a more anxious desire of excellence, and more respect for himself, sv'ould, in his own walk, have attained to absolute perfeo- uon. 270 Macaulay’s miscellaneous vmutings. HISTORY* {Edinburgh Review^ 1828 . ) To write history respectably — that is. to ahhreviate (3^ spatches, and make extracts from spceclies, to intersperse in due proportion epitliets of praise and abhorrence, to draw up antithetical characters of great men, setting forth how many contradictory virtues and vices they united, and abounding in withs and withouts — all this is very easy. But to be a really great historian is perhaps th rarest of intellectual distinctions. Many scientific works are, in their kind, absolutely perfect. There are poems which we should be inclined to designate as faultless, or as disfig- ured only by blemishes which pass unnoticed in the general blaze of excellence. There are speeches, some speeches of Demosthenes particularly, in which it would be imposs^de to alter a word without altering it for the worse. But we are acquainted with no history which approaches to our notion of what a history ought to be — with no history which does not widely depart, either on the right hand or on the left, from the exact line. The cause may easily be assigned. This province of literature is a debatable land. It lies on the confines of two distinct territories. It is under the jurisdiction of two hos- tile powers ; and, like other districts similarly situated, it is ill-defined, ill-cultivated, and ill-regulated. Instead of being equally shared between its two rulers, the Reason and the Imagination, it falls alternately under the sole and absolute dominion of each. It is sometimes fiction. It is sometimes theory. History, it has been said, is philosophy teaching by ex- amples. Unhappily, what the philosophy gains in sound- ness and depth the examples generally lose in vividness. A perfect historian must possess an imagination sufiiciently powerful to make his narrative affecting and picturesque. Yet he must control it so absolutely as to content himself with the materials which he finds, and to refrain from supply- ing deficiencies by additions of his own. He must be a pro- • TM Romance of Uistory, England, By Henry Neele. London, 1828. HISTORY. 271 found and ingenious reasoner. Yet he must possess sufficient self-command to abstain from casting his facts in the mould of his hypothesis. Those who can justly estimate these almost insuperable difficulties will not think it strange that every writer should have failed, either in the narrative or in the speculative department of history. It may be laid down as a general rule, though subject to considerable qualifications and exceptions, that history begins in novel and ends in essay. Of the romantic historians He- rodotus is the earliest and the best. His animation, his sim- ple-hearted tenderness, his wonderful talent for description and dialogue, and the pure sweet flow of his language, place him at the head of narrators. He reminds us of a delight- ful child. There is a grace beyond the reach of affectation in his awkwardness, a malice in his innocence, an intelligence in his nonsense, an insinuating eloquence in his lisp. We know of no writer who makes such interest for himself and his book in the heart of the reader. At the distance of three- and-twenty centuries, we feel for him the same sort of pity- ing fondness which Fontaine and Gay are said to have in- spired in society. He has written an incomparable book. He has written something better perhaps than the best his- tory ; but he has not written a good history ; he is, from the first to the last chapter, an inventor. We do not here refer merely to those gross fictions with which he has been re- proached by the critics of .later times. W e speak of that col- oring which is equally diffused over his whole narrative, and which perpetually leaves the most sagacious reader in doubt what to reject and what to receive. The most authentic parts of his work bear the same relation to his wildest legends which. Henr^ the Fifth bears to the Tempest. There was an expedition undertaken by Xerxes against Greece ; and there was an invasion of France. There was a battle at Platsea ; and there was a battle at Agincourt. Cambridge and Exe- ter, the Constable and the Dauphin, were persons as real as Demaratus and Pausanias. The harangue of the Archbishop on the Salic Law and the Book of Numbers differs much less from the orations which have in all ages proceeded from the right reverend bench than the speeches of Mardonius and Artabanus from those which were delivered at the council-board of Susa. Shakspeare gives us enumerations of armies, and returns of kiWed and wounded, which are not^ we suspect, much less accurate than those of Herodotus There are passages m Herodotus nearly as long as acts of Shak 272 Macaulay’s miscellaneous whitings. speare, in which everytliing is told dramatically, and in which the narrative serves only the purpose of stage-directions. It is possible, no doubt, that the substance of some real conver- sations may have been reported to the historian. But events, which, if they ever happened, happened in ages and nations so remote that the particulars could never have been known to him, are related with the greatest minuteness of detail. We have all that Candaules said to Gyges, and all that passed between Astyages and Harpagus. We are, therefore, unable to judge whether, in the account which he gives of transac- tions respecting which he might possibly have been well in- formed, we can trust to any thing beyond the naked outline ; whether, for example, the answer of Gelon to the ambas- sadors of the Grecian confederacy, or the expressions which passed between Aristides and Themistocles at their famous interview, have been correctly transmitted to us. The great events, are, no doubt, faithfully related. So, probably, are many of the slighter circumstances ; but which of them it is impossible to ascertain. The fictions are so much like the facts, and the facts so much like the fictions, that, with respect to many most interesting particulars, our belief is neither given nor withheld, but remains in an uneasy and interminable state of abeyance. We know that there is truth ; but we cannot exactly decide where it lies. The faults of Herodotus are the faults of a simple and imaginative mind. Children and servants are remarkably Herodotean in their style of narration. They tell every- thing dramatically. Their says hes and says shes are pro- verbial. Every person who has had to settle their dis- putes knows that, even when they have no intention to deceive, their reports of conversation always require to be carefully sifted. If an educated man were giving an account of the late change of administration, he would say — “ Lord Goderich resigned ; and the King, in consequence, sent for the Duke of Wellington.” A porter tells the story as if he had been hid behind the curtains of the royal bed at Windsor: “So Lord Goderich says, ‘I cannot manage this business ; I must go out.’ So the King says, — says he, ‘ Well, then, I must send for the Duke of Wellington — that’s all.’ ” This is in the very manner of the father of history. Herodotus wrote as it was natural that he should write. He wrote for a nation susceptible, curious, lively, insatiably desirous of novelty and excitement ; for a nation in which the fine arts had attained their highest excellencei but in HISTORY. 273 which philosophy was still in its infancy. His countrymen had but recently begun to cultivate prose composition. Public transactions had generally been recorded in verse. The first historians might, therefore, indulge without fear of censure in the license allowed to their predecessors the bards. Books were few. The events of former times were learned from popular ballads ; the manners of foreign countries from the reports of travellers. It is well known that the mystery which overhangs what is distant, either in space or time, frequently prevents us from censuring as unnatural what we perceive to be impossible. We stare at a dragoon who has killed three French cuirassiers, as a prodigy ; yet we read, without the least disgust, how Godfrey slew his thousands, and Rinaldo his ten thousands. Within the last hundred years, stories about China and Bantam, which ought not to have imposed on an old nurse, were gravely laid down as foundations of political theories by eminent philosophers. What the time of the Crusades is to us, the generation of Croesus and Solon was to the Greeks of the time of He- rodotus. Babylon was to them what Pekin was to the French academicians of the last century. For such a people was the book of Herodotus composed ; and, if we may trust to a report, not sanctioned indeed by writers of high authority, but in itself not improbable, it was composed, not to be read, but to be heard. It was not to the slow circulation of a few copies, which the rich only could possess, that the aspiring author looked for his re- ward. The great Olympian festival, — the solemnity which collected multitudes, proud of the Grecian name, from the wildest mountains of Doris, and the remotest colonies of Italy and Libya, — was to witness his triumph. The inter- est of the narrative, and the beauty of the style, were aided by the imposing effect of recitation, — ^by the splendor of the spectacle,— by the powerful influence of sympathy. A critic who could have asked for authorities in the midst of such a scene must have been of a cold and skeptical nature ; and few such critics were there. As was the historian, such were the auditors, — inquisitive, credulous, easily moved by religious awe or patriotic enthusiasm. They were the very men to hear with delight of strange beasts, and birds, and irees, — of dwarfs, and giants, and cannibals, — of gods, whose very names it was impiety to utter, — of ancient dynasties, which had left behind them monuments surpassing all the works of later times, — of towns like provinces, rivers 274 macaulay’b miscellaneous writings. like seas, — of stupendous walls, and temples, and pyramids. — of the rites which the Maei performed at daybreak on the tops of the mountains, — of tlie secrets inscribed on the eternal obelisks of Memphis. With espial delight they would have listened to the graceful romance of their own country. They now heard of the exact accomjdishment of obscure predictions, of the punishment of crimes over which the justice of heaven had seemed to slumber, — of dreams, omens, warnings from the dead, — of princesses, for whom the noble suitors contended in every generous exercise of strength and skill, — of infants, strangely preserved from the dagger of the assassin, to fulfil high destinies. As the narrative approached their own times, the interest became still more absorbing. The chronicler had now to tell the story of that great conflict from which Europe dates its intellectual and political supremacy, — a story which, even at this distance of time, is the most marvellous and the most touching in the annals of the human race, — a story abound- ing with all that is wild and wonderful, with all that is pathetic and animating ; with the gigantic caprices of infinite Avealth and despotic power — with the mightier miracles of wisdom, of virtue, and of courage. He told them of rivers dried up in a day, — of provinces famished for a meal, — of a passage for ships hewn through the mountains, — of a road for armies spread upon the waves, — of monarchies and com- mon Avealths swept away, — of anxiety, of terror, of confusion, of despair ! — and then of proud and stubborn hearts tried in that extremity of evil, and not found wanting, — of resistance long maintained against desperate odds, — of lives dearly sold, Avhen resistance could be maintained no more, — of sig- nal deli\' erance, and of unsparing revenge. Whatever gaA^e a stronger air of reality to a narrative so well calculated to inflame the passions, and to flatter national pride, Avas cer- tain to be favorably receh^ed . Between the time at which Herodotus is said to have composed his history, and the close of the Peloponnesian war, about forty years elapsed, — forty years, crowded Avith great military and political events. The circumstances ol that period produced a great effect on the Grecian character ; and nowhere Avas this effect so remarkable as in the illustri- ous democracy of Athens. An Athenian, indeed, even in the time of Herodotus, Avould scarcely liave written a book so romantic and garrulous as that of Herodotus. As civiliza' tion advanced, the citizens of that famous republic became IIISTOKV. 21 ^ still less visionary, and still less simple-hearted. They as- pired to know where their ancestors ha dbeen content to doubt ; they began to doubt where their ancestors had thought it their duty to believe. Aristophanes is fond of alluding to this change in the temper of his countrymen. The father and son, in the Clouds, are evidently representa^ lives of the generations to which they respectively belonged. Nothing more clearly illustrates the nature of this moral revolution than the change Avhich passed ui3on tragedy. The wild sublimity of ^schylus became the scoff of every young Phidippides. Lectures on abstruse points of philoso- phy, the fine distinctions of casuistry, and the dazzling fence of rhetoric, were substituted for poetry. The language lost something of that infantine sweetness which had character ized it. It became less like the ancient Tuscan, and more like the modern French. The fashionable logic of the Greeks, was, indeed, far from strict. Logic never can be strict where books are scarce, and where information is conveyed orally. We are all aware how frequently fallacies, which, when set down on paper, are at once detected, pass for unanswerable arguments when dexterously and volubly urged in Parliament, at the bar, or in private conversation. The reason is evident. W e cannot inspect them closely enough to perceive their inac- curacy. We cannot readily compare them with each other. We lose sight of one part of the subject before another, which ought to be received in connection with it, comes before us ; and, as there is no immutable record of what has been admitted and of what has been denied, direct con- tradictions pass muster wil^i little difficulty. Almost all the education of a Greek consisted in talking and listening. His opinions on government were picked up in the debates of the assembly. If he wished to study metaphysics, instead of shutting himself up with a book, he walked down to the market-place to look for a sophist. So completely were men formed to these habits, that even writing acquired a conver- sational air. The philosophers adopted the form of dialogue, as the most natural mode of communicating knowledge. Their reasonings have the merits and the defects which belong to that species of composition, and are characterized rather by quickness and subtilty than by depth and precision. Truth is exhibited in parts, and by glimpses. Innumerable clever hints are given ; but no sound and durable system is erected. The argumentum ad hominem^ a kind of ar 276 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. guraent most efficacious in debate, but utterly useless for the investigation of general princijiles, is among tlieir fa- vorite resources. Hence, though nothing can be more admir- able than the skill which Socrates displays in the conversation which Plato has reported or invented, his victories, for the most part, seem to us unprofitable. A trophy is set up ; but no new province is added to the dominions of the human mind. Still, where thousands of keen and ready intellects were constantly employed in speculating on the qualities of ac- tions and on the principles of government, it was impossi- ble that history should retain its old character. It became less gossiping and less picturesque ; but much more accu- rate, and somewhat more scientific. The history of Thucydides differs from that of Herodotus as a portrait differs from the representation of an imaginary scene; as the Burke or Fox of Reynolds differs from his Ugolino or his Beaufort. In the former case, the archetype is given : in the latter, it is created. The faculties which are required for the latter purpose are of a higher and rarer order than those which suffice for the former, and indeed necessarily comprise them. He who is able to paint what he sees with the eye of the mind will surely be able to paint what he sees with the eye of the body. He who can invent a story, and tell it well, will also be able to tell, in an inter- esting manner, a story which he has not invented. If, in practice, some of the best writers of fiction have been among the worst writers of history, it has been because one of theii talents had merged in another so completely that it could not be severed ; because, having long been habituated to in- vent and narrate at the same time, they found it impossible to narrate without inventing. Some capricious and discontented arists have affected to consider portrait-painting as unworthy of a man of genius. Some critics have spoken in the same contemptuous mannei of history. Johnson puts the case thus : The historian tells either what is false or what is true : in the former case he is no historian : in the latter he has no opportunity for dis- playing his abilities : for truth is one ; and all who tell the truth must tell it alike. It is not difficult to elude both the horns of this dilemma. W e will recur to the analogous art of portrait-painting. Any man with eyes and hands may be taught to take a likeness. The process, up to a certain point, is merely mechanical. If HISTORY. 277 this were all, a man of talents might justly despise the oc- cupation. But we could mention portraits which are re- semblances, — but not mere resemblances ; faithful, — but much more than faithful; portraits which condense into one point of time, and exhibit, at a single glance, the whole history of turbid and eventful lives — in which the eye seems to scrutinize us, and the mouth to command us — in which the brow menaces, and the lip almost quivers with scorn — in which every wrinkle is a comment on some im- portant transaction. The account which Thucydides has given of the retreat from Syracuse is, among narratives, what Vandykes Lord Strafford is among paintings. Diversity, it is said, implies error : truth is one, and ad- mits of no degrees. Wo answer, that this principle holds good only in abstract reasonings. When we talk of the truth of imitation in the fine arts, Ave mean an imperfect and a graduated truth. No picture is exactly like the original; nor is a picture good in proportion as it is like the original. When Sir Thomas Lawrence paints a handsome peeress, he does not contemplate her through a powerful microscope, and transfer to the canvas the pores of the skin, the blood vessels of the eye, and all the other beauties Avhich Gulliver discovered in the Brobdignaggian maids of honor. If he were to do this, the effect would not merely be unpleasant, but, unless the scale of the picture Avere proportionably en- larged, would be absolutely false. And, after all, a micro- scope of greater poAver than that which he had employed Avould convict him of innumerable omissions. The same may be said of history. Perfectly and absolutely true it cannot be : for, to be perfectly and absolutely true, it ought to record all the slightest particulars of the slightest trans- actions — all the things done and all the Avords uttered dur- ing the time of wdiich it treats. The omission of any cir- cumstance, hoAvever insignificant, would be a defect. If history Avere written thus, the Bodleian library would not contain the occurrences of a week. What is told in the fullest and most accurate annals bears an infinitely small proportion to Avhat is suppressed. The difference between the copious work of Clarendon and the account of the civil wars in the abridgment of Goldsmith vanishes when com- pared with the immense mass of facts respecting which both are equally silent. No picture, then, and no history, can present us with the whole truth : but those are the best pictures and the best 278 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. histories wliich exhibit sucli parts of the truth as most nearly produce the effeft of tlie whole, lie who is deficient in the art of selection may, l)y showing nothing but the truth, pro* duce all the effect of the grossest falsehood. It perpetually happens that one writer tells less truth than another, merely because he tells more truths. In the imitative arts we con- stantly see this. There are lines in the human face, and ob- jects in landscape, which stand in such relations to each other, that they ought either to be all introduced into a painting together or all omitted together. A sketch into which none of them enters may be excellent ; but, if some are given and others left out, though there are more points of likeness, there is less likeness. An outline scrawled with Si pen, which seizes the marked features of a countenance, will give a much stronger idea of it than a bad painting in oils. Yet the w^orst painting in oils that ever hung at Som- erset House resembles the original in many more particulars. A bust of white marble may give an excellent idea of a blooming face. Color the lips and cheeks of the bust, leav- ing the hair and eyes unaltered, and the similarity, instead of being more striking, will be less so. History has its foreground and its background : and it is principally in the management of its perspective that one artist differs from another. Some events must be repre- sented on a large scale, others diminished ; the great major- ity will be lost in the dimness of the horizon ; and a general idea of their joint effect will be given by a few slight touches. In this respect no writer has ever equalled Thucydides. He was a perfect master of the art of gradual diminution. His history is sometimes as concise as a chronological chart ; yet it is always perspicuous. It is sometimes as minute as one of Lovelace’s letters ; yet it is never prolix. He never fails to contract and to expand it in the right place. Thucydides borrowed from Herodotus the practice of putting speeches of his own into the mouths of his charac- ters. In Herodotus this usage is scarcely censurable. It ia of a piece vdth his whole manner. But it is altogether in- congruous in the work of his successor, and violates, not only the accuracy of history, but the decencies of fiction. When once we enter into the spirit of Herodotus, we find no inconsistency. 1 he conventional probability of his drama is preserved from the beginning to the end. The deliberate orations, and the familiar dialogues are in strict keeping with HISTORY. 279 each other. But the speeches of Thucydides are neither preceded nor followed by anything with which they harmo- nize. They give to the whole book something of the grotesque character of those Chinese pleasure-grounds in which per- pendicular rocks of granite start up in the midst of a soft green plain. Invention is shocking where truth is in such close juxtaposition with it. Thucydides honestly tells us that some of these discourses are purely fictitious. He may have reported the substance of others correctly. But it is clear from the internal evi- dence that he has preserved no more than the supstance. His own peculiar habits of thought and expression are every- where discernible. Individual and national peculiarities are seldom to be traced in the sentiments, and never in the diction. The oratory of the Corinthians and Thebans is not less Attic, either in mj^tter or in manner, than that of the Athenians. The style of Cleon is as pure, as austere, as terse, and as significant, as that of Pericles. In spite of this great fault, it must be allowed that Thucy- dides has surpassed all his rivals in the art of historical nar - ration, in the art of producing an effect on the imagination, by skilful selection and disposition, without indulging in the license of invention. But narration, though an impor- tant part of the business of a historian, is not the whole. To append a moral to a work of fiction is either useless or super- fluous. A fiction may give a more impressive effect to what is already known ; but it can teach nothing new. If it pre- sents to us characters and trains of events to which our ex- perience furnishes us with nothing similar, instead of deriving instruction from it, we pronounce it unnatural. We do not form our opinions from it ; but we try it by our precon- ceived opinions. Fiction, therefore, is essentially imitative. Its merit consists in its resemblance to a model with which we are already familiar, or to which at least we can instantly refer. Hence it is that the anecdotes which interest us most strongly in authentic narrative are offensive when intro^ duced into novels ; that what is called the romantic part of history is in fact the least romantic. It is delightful aa history, because it contradicts our previous notions of hu- man nature, and of the connection of causes and effects. It is, on that very account, shocking and incongruous in fiction. In fiction, the principles arc given, to find the facts ; in history, the facts are given, to find the principles ; and the writer who does not explain the phenomena as well aa 280 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wkitings. state them performs only one lialf of liis oftice. Facts are the mere dross of liistory. It is from tlic abstract trull* which interpenetrates them, and lies latent among tliem like gold in the ore, that tlie mass derives its wliole value : and the precious particles are generally combined with the baser in such a manner that the separation is a task of the utmost difficulty. Here Thucydides is deficient : the deficiency, indeed, is not discreditable to him. It was the inevitable effect of cir- cumstances. It was in the nature of things necessary that, in some part of its progress through political science, the human mind should reach that point which it attained in his time. Knowledge advances by steps, and not by leaps. The axioms of an English debating club would have been startling and mysterious paradoxes to the most enlightened statesmen of Athens. But it would as absurd to speak contemptuously of the Athenian on this account as to ridi- cule Strabo for not having given us an account of Chili, or to talk of Ptolemy as we talk of Sir Richard Phillips. Stillj when we wish for solid geographical information, we must prefer the solemn coxcombry of Pinkerton to the noble work of Strabo. If we wanted instruction respecting the solar system, we should consult the silliest girl from a board- ing school, rather than Ptolemy. Thucydides was undoubtedly a sagacious and reflecting man. This clearly appears from the ability with which he discusses practical questions. But the talent of deciding on the circumstances of a particular case is often possessed in the highest perfection by persons destitute of the power of generalization. Men skilled in the military tactics of civil- ized nations have been amazed at the far-sightedness and penetration which a Mohawk displays in concerting his stratagems, or in discerning those of his enemies. In Eng- land, no class possesses so much of that peculiar ability v/hich is required for constructing ingenious schemes, and for obviating remote difficulties, as the thieves and the thief- takers. Women have more of this dexterity than men. Lawyers have more of it than statesmen : statesmen have more )f it than philosophers. Monk had more of it than Harrington and his club. Walpole had more of it than Adam Smith or Beccaria. Indeed, the species of discipline by which this dexterity is acquired tends to contract the mind, and to render it incapable of abstract reasoning. The Grecian stata^on ai the age of Thucydides were HISTORY. 281 distinguislied by their practical sagacity, tlieii insight into motives, their skill in devising means for the attainment of their ends. A state of society in which the rich were con- stantly planning the oppression of the poor, and the poor the spoliation of the rich, in which the ties of party had su- perseded those of country, in which revolutions and counter revolutions were events of daily occurrence, was naturally prolific in desperate and crafty political adventurers. This was the very school in which men were likely to acquire the dissimulation of Mazarin, the judicious temerity of Riche- lieu, the penetration, the exquisite tact, the almost instinct- ive presentiment of approaching events which gave so mucli authority to the counsel of Shaftesbury that ‘‘ it was as if a man had inquired of the oracle of God.” In this school Thucydides studied ; and his wisdom is that which such a school would naturally afford. He judges better of circumstances than of principles. The more a question is narrowed, the better he reasons upon it. His work suggests many most important considerations respecting the first principles of government and morals, the growth of factions, the organization of armies, and the mutual relations of com- munities. Yet all his general observations on these subjects are very superficial. His most judicious remarks differ from the remarks of a really philosophical historian, as a sum correctly cast up by a book-keeper from a general ex- pression discovered by an algebraist. The former is useful only in a single transaction ; the latter may be applied to an infinite number of cases. This opinion will, we fear, be considered as heterodox. For, not to speak of the illusion which the sight of a Greek type, or the sound of a Greek diphthong, often produces, there are some peculiarities in the manner of Thucydides which in no small degree have tended to secure to him the reputa- tion of profundity. His book is evidently the book of a man and a statesmen ; and in this respect presents a remark- able contrast to the delightful childishness of Herodotus. Throughout it there is an air of matured power, of grave and melancholy reflection, of impartiality and habitual self-com- mand. His feelings are rarely indulged, and speedily re- pressed. Vulgar prejudices of every kind, and particularly vulgar superstitions, he treats with a cold and sober disdain peculiar to himself. His style is weighty, condensed, anti- thetical, and not unfre'quently obscure. But, when we look at his political philosophy, without regard to these circum'' •282 MACAULAY S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. stances, we find him to have been what indeed it would have been a miracle if he had not been, simply an Athenian of the (iftli century before Christ. Xenophon is commonly placed, but we think without much reason, in the same rank with Herodotus and Thucy- dides. lie resembles them, indeed, in the purity and swcet- iiGso of his style ; but, in spirit, lie rather resembles that later school of historians, whose works seem to be fables composed for a moral, and who, in their eagerness tc givo us warnings and examples, forget to give us men and womoii. The Life of Cyrus, whether we look upon it as a histoiy or as a romance, seems to us a very wretched per- formance. The expedition of the Ten Thousand, and the Ilistov}- of Grecian Affairs, are certainly pleasant reading ; but they indicate no great power of mind. In truth, Xeno- phon, though his taste was elegant, his disposition amiable, and his intercourse with the world extensive, had, we suspect, rather a v:eak head. Such was evidently the opin- ion of that extraordinary man to whom he early attached him- self, and for whose memory he entertained an idolatrous veneration. He came in only for the niilk with which Soc- rates nourished his babes in philosophy. A few saws of morality, and a few of the simplest doctrines of natural re- ligion, weie enough for the good young man. The strong meat, the bold speculations on physical and metaphysical science, were reserved for auditors of a different description. Even the lawless habits of a captain of mercenary troops could not change the tendency which the character of Xeno- phon early acquired. To the last, he seems to have retained a sort of heathen Puritanism. The sentiments of piety and virtue which abound in his works are those of a well-mean- ing man, somewhat timid and narrow-minded, devout from constitution rather than from rational conviction. He was as superstitious as Herodotus, but in a Avay far more offen- sive. The very peculiarities which charm us in an infant, the toothless mumbling, the stammering, the tottering, the helplessness, the causeless tears and laughter, are disgusting in old age. In the same manner, the absurdity which precedes a period of general intelligence is often pleasing ; that which follows it is contemj^tible. The nonsense of Herodotus is that of a baby. The nonsense of Xenophon is that of a dotard. His stories about di earns, omens, and [)i*ophecies, present a strange contrast to the passages in which the shrewd and incredulous Thucydides mentions the mSTOBY. 283 popular superstitions. It is not quite clear that Xenophon was honest in his credulity ; his fanaticism was in some degree politic. He would have made an excellent member of the Apostolic Camarilla. An alarmist by nature, an aristo- crat by party, he carried to an unreasonable excess his hor- ror of popular turbulence. The quiet atrocity of Sparta did not shock him in the same manner ; for he hated tumult more than crimes. . lie was desirous to find restraints which might curb the passions of the multitude ; and he absurdly fancied that he had found them in a religion without evi- dences or sanction, precepts or example, in a frigid system of Theopliilanthropy, supported by nursery tales. Polybius and Arrian have given us authentic accounts of facts ; and here their merit ends. They were not men of comprehensive mi^j^s ; they had not the art of telling a story in an interesting manner. They have in t^onsequence been thrown into the shade by writers who, though less studious of truth than themselves, understood far better the art of jDi’oducing effect, — by Livy and Quintus Curtius. Yet Polybius and Arrian deserve high praise when com- pared with the writers of that school of which Plutarch may be considered as the head. For the historians of this class we must confess that we entertain a peculiar aversion. They seem to have been pedants, who, though destitute of those valuable qualities which arc frequently found in con- junction with jDedantry, thought themselves great philoso- phers and great i^oliticians. They not only mislead their readers in every page, as to particular facts, but they ap|3ear to have altogether misconceived the whole character of the times of which they write. They were inhabitants of an empire bounded by the Atlantic Ocean and the Euphrates, by the ice of Scythia and the sands of Mauritania ; com- posed of nations whose manners, whose languages, whose religion, Tvhose countenances and complexions, were widely different; governed by one mighty despotism, which had risen on the ruins of a thousand commonwealths and king- doms. Of liberty, such as it is in small democracies, of pa- triotism, such as it is in small independent communities of any kind, they had and they could have, no experimental knowledge. But they had read of men who exerted them- selves in the cause of their country with an energy un- known in later times, who had violated the dearest of do- mestic charities, or voluntarily devoted themselves to death, for the public good ; and they wondered at the degeneracy 284 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. of their contemporaries. It never occurred to them that the feelings which they so greatly admired sprung from local and occasional causes ; that they will always grow up spontaneously in small societies ; and that, in large empires, though they may be forced into existence for a short time by peculiar circumstances, they cannot be general or per- manent. It is impossible that any man should feel for a fortress on a remote frontier as he feels for his own house ; that he should grieve for a defeat in which ten thousand people whom he never saw have fallen as he grieves for a defeat which has half unpeo]3led the street in w hich he lives ; that he should leave his home for a military expedition in order to preserve the balance of pow er, as cheerfully as he w^ould leave it to repel invaders who had begun to burn all the corn fields in his neighborhood. # The wrifers of w^hom w^e speak should have considered this. They should have considered that in patriotism, such as it existed amongst the Greeks, there w’^as nothing es- sentially and eternally good ; that an exclusive attachment to a particular society, though a natural, and, under certain restrictions, a most useful sentiment, implies no extraordi- nary attainments in wdsdom or virtue ; that, w here it has existed in an intense degree, it has turned states into gangs of robbers whom their mutual fidelity has rendered more dangerous, has given a character of peculiar atrocity to war, and has generated that w^orst of all political evils, the tyranny of nations over nations. Enthusiastically attached to the name of liberty, these liistorians troubled themselves little about its definition. The Spartans, tormented by ten thousand absurd restraints, unable to please themselves in the choice of their wdves, their suppers, or their company, compelled to assume a peculiar manner, and to talk in a peculiar style, gloried in their liberty. The aristocracy of Rome repeatedly made liberty a plea for cutting off the favorites of the people. In almost all the little commonwealths of antiquity, liberty was used as a pretext for measures directed against every- thing which makes liberty valuable, for measures which stifled discussion, corrupted the administration of justice, and discouraged the accumulation of property. The wudters, whose works w^eare considering, confounded the sound with the substance, and the means w ith the end. Their imagina- tions w^ere inflamed by mystery. They conceived of liberty as monks conceive of love, as cockneys conceive of the happi- HISTORY. 286 ness and innocence of rural life, as novel-reading sc.mpstresses conceive of Alinack’s and Grosvenor Square, accomplished Marquesses and handsome Colonels of the Guards. In the relation of events, and the delineation of characters, tliey have paid little attention to facts, to the costume of the times of whicli they pretend to treat, or to the general prin- ciples of human nature. They have been faithful only to their own puerile and extravagant doctrines. Generals and statesmen are metamorphosed into magnanimous coxcombs, from whose fulsome virtues we turn away with disgust. The fine sayings and exploits of their heroes remind us of the insufferable perfections of Sir Charles Grandison, and affect us with a nausea similar to that which we feel when an actor, in one of Morton’s or Kotzebue’s plays, lays his hand on his heart, advances to the ground-lights, and mouths a moral sentence for the edification of the gods. These writers, men who knew not what it was to have a country, men who had never enjoyed political rights, brought into fashion an offensive cant about patriotism and zeal for freedom. What the English Puritans did for the language of Christianity, what Scuderi did for the language of love, they did for the language of public spirit. By habitual exaggeration they made it mean. By monotonous emphasis they made it feeble. They abused it till it became scarcely possible to use it with effect. Their ordinary rules of morality are deduced from ex- treme cases. The common regimen which they prescribe for society is made up of those desperate remedies which only its most desperate distempers require. They look with peculiar complacency on actions which even those who approve them consider as exceptions to laws of almost universal application — which bear so close an affinity to the most atrocious crimes that, even where it may be unjust to censure them, it is unsafe to praise them. It is not strange, therefore, that some flagitious instances of perfidy and cruelty should have been passed unchallenged in such com- pany, that grave moralists, with no personal interest at stake, should have extolled, in the highest terms, deeds of which the atrocity appalled even the infuriated factions in whose cause they were perpetrated. The part which Timoleon took in the assassination of his brother shocked many of his own partisans. The recollection of it preyed long on hia own mind. But it was reserved for historians who lived some centuries later to discover that his conduct was a 28 G MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. glorious display of virtue, and to lament that, from the frailty of Iniman nature, a man who could perform so great an exploit could rej>ent of it. The writings of these men, and of their modern imitators^ have produced effects which deserve some notice. The Eng- lish have been so long accustomed to political speculation, and have enjoyed so large a measure of practical liberty, that such works have produced little effect on their minds. We have classical associations and great names of our own which we can confidently oppose to the most splendid of ancient times. Senate has not to our ears a sound so venerable as Parliament. We respect the Great Charter more than the laws of Solon. The Capitol and the Forum impress us with less awe than our own Westminster Hall ^ and Westminster Abbey, the place where the great men of \ twenty generations have contended, the place where they sleep I together ! The list of warriors and statesmen by whom our \ constitution was founded or preserved, from De Montfort i down to Fox, may well stand a comparison with the Fasti | of Rome. The dying thanksgiving of Sydney is as noble as > the libation which Thrasea poured to Liberating Jove : and ^ Ave think with far less pleasure of Cato tearing out his en- i trails than of Russell saying, as he turned away from his wife, that tlie bitterness of death was past. Even those parts of our history over which, on some accounts, we would gladly throAV a veil, may be proudly opposed to those on which the moralists of antiquity loved most to dwell. The enemy of English liberty was not murdered by men whom he had pardoned and loaded with benefits. He was not stabbed in the back by those who smiled and cringed before ^ liis face. He was vanquished on fields of stricken battle ; he was arraigned, sentenced, and executed in the face of heaven and earth. Our liberty is neither Greek nor Roman ; but 3 essentially English. It has a character of its own, — a t character which has taken a tinge from the sentiments of the chivalrous ages, and which accords with the pecu- ^ liarities of our manners and of our insular situation. It has a language, too, of its own, and a language singularly idio- 1 matic, full of meaning to ourselves, scarcely intelligible to j strangers. ^ Here, therefore, the effect of books such as those Avhich ^ we have been considering has been harmless. They have, | indeed, given currency to many very erroneous opinions W^ith respect to ancient bistory. They have heated the ^ HISTORY. 287 imaginations of boys. They have misled the judgment and corrupted the taste of some men of letters, such as Akenside and Sir William Jones. But on persons engaged in public affairs they have had very little influence, llie foundations of our constitution were laid by men who knew nothing of the Greeks but that they denied the orthodox procession and cheated tlie Crusaders ; and nothing of Rome, but that the Pope lived there. Those who followed, contented them^ selves with improving on the original plan. They found models at home ; and therefore they did not look for them abroad. But, when enlightened men on the Continent began to think about political reformation, having no patterns before their eyes in their domestic history, they naturally had recourse to those remains of antiquity, the study of which is considered throughout Europe as an important part of education. The historians of whom we have been speak- ing had been members of large communities, and subjects of absolute sovereigns. Hence it is, as we have already said, that they commit such gross errors in speaking of the little republics of antiquity. Their works were now read in the spirit in which they had been written. They were read by men placed in circumstances closely resembling their own, unacquainted with the real nature of liberty, but inclined to believe everything good which could be told respecting it. How powerfully these books impressed these speculative reformers, is well known to all who have paid any attention to the French literature of the last century. But, perhaps, the writer on whom they produced the greatest effect was Vittorio Alfieri. In some of liis plays, particularly in Virginia, Timoleon, and Brutus the Younger, he has even caricatured the extravagance of his masters. It was not strange that the blind, thus led by the blind, should stumble. The transactions of the French Revolution in some measure, took their character from these works Without the assistance of these works, indeed, a revolution would have taken place, — a revolution productive of much good and much evil, tremendous but short-lived, evil dearly purchased, but durable good. But it would not have been exactly such a revolution. The style, the accessories, would have been in many respects different. There would have been less of bombast in language, less of affectation in manner, less of solemn trifling and ostentatious simplicity. The acts of legislative assemblies, and the correspondence of diplomatists, would not have been disgraced by rants 288 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. worthy only of :i college declamation. The government of a great and nolisiicd nation would not have rendered itself ridiculous by attenij)ting to revive the usages of a worid which had long passed away, or rather of a world which had never existed except in the description of a fantastic school of writers. These second-hand imitations resembled the originals about as much as the classical feast with which the Doctor in Peregrine Pickle turned the stomachs of all his guests resembled one of the suppers of Lucullus in the Hall of Apollo. These were mere follies. But the spirit excited by these writers produced more serious effects. The greater part of the crimes which disgraced the revolution sprung indeed from the relaxation of law, from popular ignorance, from the remembrance of past oppression, from the fear of foreign conquest, from rapacity, from ambition, from party-spirit. But many atrocious proceedings must, doubtless, be ascribed to heated imagination, to perverted principle, to a distaste for what was vulgar in morals, and a passion for what was startling and dubious. Mr. Burke has touched on this subject with great felicity of expression : “ The gradation of their republic,” says he, “ is laid in moral paradoxes. All those instances to be found in history, whether real or fabulous, of a doubtful public spirit, at which morality is perplexed, reason is staggered, and from which affrighted nature recoils, are their chosen and almost sole examples for the instruction of their youth.” This evil, we believe, is to be directly ascribed to the influence of the historians whom we have mentioned, and their modern imitators. Livy had some faults in common with these writers. But on the whole he must be considered as forming a class by himself : no historian with whom we are acquainted has shown so complete an indifference to truth. He seems to have cared only about the picturesque effect of his book, and the honor of his country. On the other hand, we do not know, in the whole range of literature, an instance of a bad thing so well done. The painting of the narrative is beyond description vivid and graceful. The abundance of interesting sentiments and splendid imagery in the speeches is almost miraculous. His mind is a soil which is never overteemed, a fountain which never seems to trickle. It pours forth profusely ; yet it gives no sign of exhaustion. It was probably to this exuberance of thought and language, always fresh, always sweet, always pure, no sooner yielded msTORY. 289 than repaired, that the critics applied that expression which has been so much discussed, lactea uhertas. All the merits and all the defects of Livy take a coloring from the character of his nation. lie was a writer peculiarly Roman ; the proud citizen of a commonwealth which had indeed lost the reality of liberty, but which still sacredly preserved its forms — in fact the subject of an arbitrary prince, but in his own estimation one of the masters of the world, with a hundred kings below him, and only the gods above him. He, therefore, looked back on former times with feelings far different from those which were naturally entertained by his Greek contemporaries, and which at a later period became general among men of letters throughout the Roman Empire. He contemplated the past with interest and delight, not because it furnished a contrast to the present, but because it had led to the present. He recurred to it, not to lose in proud recollections the sense of national degradation, but to trace the progress of national glory. It is true that his veneration for antiquity produced on him some of the effects which it produced on those who arrived at it by a very different road. He has something of their ex- aggeration, something of their cant, something of theii fondness for anomalies and lusus naturm in morality. Yet even here we perceive a difference. They talk rapturously of patriotism and liberty in the abstract. He does not seem to think any country but Rome deserving of love : nor is it for liberty as liberty^but for liberty as a part of the Roman institutions, that he is zealous. Of the concise and elegant accounts of the campaigns of Caesar little can be said. They are incomparable models for military despatches. But histories they are not, and do not pretend to be. The ancient critics place Sallust in the same rank with Livy ; and unquestionably the small portion of his works which has come down to us is calculated to give a high opinion of his talents. But his style is not very pleasant ; and his most powerful Avork, the account of the Conspiracy of Catiline, has rather the air of a clever party pamphlet than that of a history. It abounds Avith strange incon- sistencies, which, unexplained as they are, necessarily excite doubts as to the fairness of the narrative. It is true, that many circumstances now forgotten may have been familial to his contemporaries, and may have rendered passages clear to them Avhich to us appear dubious and perplexing. 260 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wettings. But a great liistorian should renicinher tliat he writes for distant generations, foi- men wlio will ]>ereeive tlie ap])areiit contradictions, and will j)Ossess no means of reconciling tliern. We can only vindicate the hdelity of Sallust at tlic expense of his skill. But in fact all tlie information which we have from contemporaries respecting this famous plot is liable to the same objection, and is read by discerning men with the same incredulity. It is all on one side. No answer has reached our times. Yet, on the showing of the accusers, the accused seem entitled to acquittal. Catiline, we are told, intrigued with a Vestal virgin, and murdered his own son. II is house was a den of gamblers and debauchees. No young man could cross his threshold without danger to his fortune and reputation. Yet this is the man wdth whom Cicero was willing to coalesce in a contest for the first magis- tracy of the republic ; and whom he described, long after the fatal termination of the conspiracy, as an accomplished' hypocrite, by wdiom he had himself been deceived, and who had acted with consummate skill the character of a good citizen and a good friend. We are told that the plot was the most wicked and desperate ever known, and, almost in the same breath, that the great body of the people, and many of the nobles, favored it ; that the richest citizens of Rome were eager for the spoliation of all property, and its highest functionaries for the destruction of all order ; that Crassus, " Caesar, the Praetor Lentulus, one of the consuls of the year, one of the consuls elect, were proved m' suspected to be engaged in a scheme for subverting institutions to which they owed the highest honors, and introducing universal anarchy. We are told that a government, which knew all this, suffered the conspirator, whose rank, talents, and cour- age, rendered him most dangerous, to quit Rome without molestation. We are told that bondmen and gladiators were to be armed against the citizens. Yet we find that Catiline rejected the slaves who crowded to enlist in his army, lost, as Sallust himself expresses it, “ he should seem to identify their cause with that of the citizens.” Finally, we are told that the magistrate, who was universally allowed to have saved all classes of his countrymen from conflagration and massacre, rendered himself so unpopular by his conduct that a marked insult was offered to him at the expiration of his office, and a severe punishment inflicted on him shortly after. Sallust tells us, wL ^t, iiulc^ed, the letters and speecnes of HISTORY. 291 Cicero sufficiently prove, that some persons considered the locking and atrocious part of the plot as mere inventions of the government, designed to excuse its unconstitutional measures. We must confess ourselves to be of that opinion. There was, undoubtedly, a strong party desirous to change tlie administration. While Pompey held the command of an army, they could not effect their purpose without pre- paring means for repelling force, if necessary, by force. In all this there is nothing different from the ordinary practice of Roman factions. The other charges brought against the conspirators are so inconsistent and improbable, that we give no credit whatever to them. If our readers think this skepticism unreasonable, let them turn to the contemporary accounts of the Popish plot. Let them look over the votes of Parliament, and the speeches of the king ; the charges of Scroggs, and the harangues of the managers employed against Strafford. A person who should form his judgment from these pieces alone would believe that London was set on fire by the Papists, and that Sir Edmondbury Godfrey was murdered for liis religion. Yet these stories are now altogether exploded. They have been abandoned by states- men to aldermen, by aldermen to clergymen, by clergymen to old women, and by old women to Sir Harcourt Lees. Of the Latin historians, Tacitus was certainly the great- est. His style, indeed, is not only faulty in itself, but is, in some respects, peculiarly unfit for historical composition. He carries his love of effect far beyond the limits of modera- tion. He tells a fine story finely : but he cannot tell a plain story plainly. He stimulates till stimulants lose their power. Thucydides, as we have already observed, relates ordinary transactions with the unpretending clearness and succinct- ness of a gazette. His great powers of painting he reserves for events of which the slightest details are interesting. The simplicity of the setting gives additional lustre to tho brilliants. There are passages in the narrative of Tacitus superior to the best which can be quoted from Thucydides. But they are not enchased and relieved with the same skill. They are far more striking when extracted from tho body of the work to which they belong than when they oc- cur in their place, and are read in connection with what precedes and follows. In the delineation of character, Tacitus is unrivalled among historians, and has very few superiors among drania^ tists and novelists. By the delineation of character, we do 292 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. not mean the practice of drawing up epigrammatic cata- logues of good and bad qualities, and appending them to the names of eminent men. No writer, indeed, has done this more skilfully than Tacitus ; but this is not liis peculiar glory. All the persons who occupy a large space in his works have an individuality of character which seems to pervade all their words and actions. We know them as if we had lived with them. Claudius, Nero, Otho, both the Agrippinas, are master-pieces. But Tiberius is a still higher miracle of art. The historian undertook to make us inti- mately acquainted with a man singularly dark and .user a* table, — with a man whose real disposition long remained swathed up in intricate folds of factitious virtues, and over whose actions the hypocrisy of his youth, and the seclusion of his old age, threw a singular mystery. He was to exhibit the specious qualities of the tyrant in a light which might render them transparent, and enable us at once to perceive the covering and the vices which it concealed. He was to trace the gradations by which the first magistrate of a republic, a senator mingling freely in debate, a noble asso- ciating with his brother nobles, was transformed into an Asiatic sultan ; he was to exhibit a character, distinguished by courage, self-command, and profound policy, yet defiled by all “ th’ extravagancy And crazy ribaldry of fancy.” He was to mark the gradual effect of advancing age and approaching death on this strange compound of strength and weakness ; to exhibit the old sovereign of the world sinking into a dotage which, though it rendered his appetites eccentric, and his temper savage, never impaired the powers of his stern and penetrating mind — conscious of failing strength, raging with capricious sensuality, yet to the last the keenest of observers, the most artful of dissemblers, and the most terrible of masters. The task was one of extreme difficulty. The execution is almost perfect. The talent which is required to write history thus bears a considerable affinity to the talent of a great dramatist. There is one obvious distinction. The dramatist creates ; the historian only disposes. The difference is not in the mode of execution, but in the mode of conception. Shak- speare is guided by a model which exists in his imagination ; Tacitus, by a model furnished from without. Hamlet is to Tiberius what the Laocoon is to the Newton of Roubilliac HISTORY. 293 In this part of his art Tacitus certainly had neither equal nor second among the ancient historians. Herodotus, though he wrote in a dramatic form, had little of dramatic genius. The frequent dialogues which he introduces give vivacity and movement to the narrative, but are not striking- ly characteristic. Xenophon is fond of telling his read:;rs, at considerable length, what he thought of the persons whose adventures he relates. But he does not show them the men, and enable them to judge for themselves. The heroes of Livy are the most insipid of all beings, real or imaginary, the heroes of Plutarch always excepted. Indeed, the manner of Plutarch in this respect reminds us of the cookery of those continental inns, the horror of English travellers, in which a certain nondescript broth is kept constantly boiling, and copiously poured, without distinction, over every dish as it comes up to table. Thucydides, though at a wide inter- val, comes next to Tacitus. His Pericles, his Nicias, his Cleon, his Brasidas, are happily discriminated. The lines are few, the coloring faint ; but the general air and expres- sion is caught. W e begin, like the priest in Don Quixote’s library, to be tired with taking down books one after another for separate judgment, and feel inclined to pass sentence on them in masses. We shall therefore, instead of pointing out the defects and merits of the different modern historians, state generally in what particulars they have surpassed their pre- decessors, and in what we conceive them to have failed. They have certainly been, in one sense, far more strict in their adherence to truth than most of the Greek and Roman writers. They do not think themselves entitled to render their narrative interesting by introducing descrip- tions, conversations, and harangues which have no existence bat in their own imagination. This improvement was grad- ually introduced. History commenced among the modern nations of Europe, as it had commenced among the Greeks, in romance. Froissart was our Herodotus. Italy was to Europe what Athens was to Greece. In Italy, therefore, a more accurate and manly mode of narration was early in- troduced. Machiavelli and Guicciardini, in imitation of Livy and Thucydides, composed speeches for their historical personages. But, as the classical enthusiasm which distin- guished the age of Lorenzo and Leo gradually subsided, this absurd practice was abandoned. In France, we fear, it still, in some degree, keeps its ground. In our own coun 294 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WKITING8, try, a, writer who should venture on it would be laughed to scorn. Whether the historians of the last two centuries tell more truth than tliose of antiquity, may perhaps be doubted. But it is quite certain that they tell fewer false- hoods. In the philosoj)hy of history, the moderus have very far surpassed the ancients. It is not, indeed, strange that the Greeks and Romans should not have carried the science o. government, or any other experimental science, so far as it has been carried in our time ; for the experimental sciences are generally in a state of progression. They were better understood in the seventeenth century than in the sixteenth, and in the eighteenth century than in the seventeenth. But this constant improvement, this natural growth of knowl- edge, will not altogether account for the immense superiority of the modern writers. The difference is a difference not in degree but of kind. It is not merely that new principal's have been discovered, but that new” faculties seem to be exerted. It is not that at one time the human intellect should have made but small progress, and at another time have advanced far ; but that at one time it should have been stationary, and at another time constantly proceeding. In taste and imagination, in the graces of style, in the arts of persuasion, in the magnificence of public works, the ancients were at least our equals. They reasoned as justly as ourselves on subjects which required pure demonstration. But in the moral sciences they made scarcely any advance. During the long period which elapsed between the fifth cen- tury before the Christian era and the fifth century after it little perceptible progress was made. All the metaphysical discoveries of all the philosophers, from the time of Socrates to the northern invasion, are not to be compared in impor- tance with those which have been made in England every fifty years since the time of Elizabeth. There is not the least reason to believe that the principles of government, legislation, and political economy, were better understood in the time of Augustus Caesar than in the time of Pericles. In our* own country, the sound doctrines of trade and juris- prudence have been, within the lifetime of a single genera- tion, dimly hinted, boldly propounded, defended, systema* tized, adopted by all reflecting men of all parties, quoted in legislative assemblies, incorporated into laws and treaties. To what is this change to be attributed ? Partly, no doubt, to the discovery of printings a discovery which has HISTORY. 295 not only diffused knowledge widely, but, as we have already observed, has also introduced into reasoning a precision un- known in those ancient communities, in whicli information was, for the most part, conveyed orally. There was, wo suspect, anotlier cause, less obvious, but still more powerful. The spirit of the two most famous nations of antiquity was remarkably exclusive. In the time of Homer the Greeks had not begun to consider themselves as a distinct race. They still looked with something of childish wonder and awe on the riches and wisdom of Sidon and Egypt. From what causes, and by what gradations, their feelings underwent a change, it is not easy to determine. Their his- tory, from the Trojan to the Persian war, is covered with an obscurity broken only by dim and 'scattered gleams of truth. But it is certain that a great alteration took place. They regarded themselves as a separate people. They had common religious rites, and common principles of public law, in which foreigners liad no part. In all their political systems, monarchical, aristocratical, and democratical, there was a strong family likeness. After the retreat of Xerxes and the fall of Mardonius, national pride rendered the sep- aration between the Greeks and the barbarians complete. The conquerors considered themselves men of a superior breed, men who, in their intercourse with neighboring na- tions, were to teach, and not to learn. They looked for nothing out of themselves. They borrowed nothing. They translated nothing. W e cannot call to mind a single expres- sion of any Greek writer earlier than the age of Augustus, indicating an opinion that anything worth reading could be written in any language except his own. The feelings which sprung from national glory were not altogether extinguished by national degradation. They were fondly ch irished through ages of slavery and shame. The literature of Rome herself was regarded with contempt by those who had fled be- fore her arms, and who bowed beneath her fasces. Voltaire ?ays, in one of his six thousand pamphlets, that he was the first person who told the French that England had produced eminent men besides the Duke of Marlborough. Down a very late period, the Greeks seem to have stood in need ot similar information with respect to their masters. With Paulus ^milius, Sylla, and Caesar they were well acquainted. But the notions which they entertained respecting Cicero and Virgil were, probably, not unlike those which Boileau in ay have formed about Shakspeare. Dionysius lived in 29G Macaulay’s miscellaneous whitings. the most splendid age of Latin poetry and eloquence. lie was a critic, and, after the maniu'r of his age, an ahlc critic, lie studied the language of Uoinc, associated with its learned men, and compiled its history. Yet he seems to have thought its literature valuable only for the purpose of illus- trating its antiquities. Ilis reading appears to have been confined to its public records, and to a few old annalists. Once, and but once, if we remember rightly, he quotes En- nius, to solve a question of etymology. lie has written much on the art of oratory : yet he has not mentioned the name of Cicero. The Romans submitted to the pretensions of a race which they dcsjjised. Their epic poet, while he claimed for them pre-eminence in the arts of government and war, acknowl- edged their inferiority in taste, eloquence, and science. Men of letters affected to understand the Greek language better than their own. Pomponius preferred the honor of becom- ing an Athenian, by intellectual naturalization, to all the distinctions which were to be acquired in the political con- tests of Rome. His great friend composed Greek poems and memoirs. It is w- ell known that Petrarch considered that beautiful language in which his sonnets are written, as a barbarous jargon, and entrusted his fame to those wretched Latin hexameters which, during the last four centuries, have scarcely found four readers. Many eminent Romans appeal to have felt the same contempt for their native tongue as compared with the Greek. The prejudice continued to a very late period. Julian w^as as partial to the Greek lan- guage as Frederic the Great to the French: and it seems that he could not express himself with elegance in the dia- lect of the state which he ruled. Even those Latin writers who did not carry this affecta- tion so far looked on Greece as the only fount of knowledge. From Greece they derived the measures of their poetry, and, indeed, all of poetry that can be imported. From Greece they borrow^ed the principles and the vocabulary of their philosophy. To the literature of other nations they do not seem to haA^e paid the slightest attention. The sa- cred books of the Hebrews, for example, books which, con- sidered merely as human compositions, are invaluable to the critic, the antiquarian, and the philosopher, seem to have been utterly unnoticed by them. The peculiarities of Judaism, and the ra]>id groAvth of Christianity, attracted their notice. They made Avar against the Jews. They HISTORY. 297 made laws against the Cliristians. But they never opened the books of Moses Juvenal quotes the Pentateuch with censure. The author of the treatise on “ the Sublime” quotes it with praise : but both of them quote it erroneously. When we consider wliat sublime poetry, what curious his- tory, what striking and peculiar views of the Divine nature and of the social duties of men, arc to be found in the Jew- ish scriptures, when we consider that two sects on which the attention of the government was constantly fixed ap- pealed to those scri})turcs as the rule of their faith and practice, this indifference is astonishing. The fact seems to be, that tlie Greeks admired only tliemselves, and that the Romans admired only themselves and the Greeks. Literary men turned away Avith disgust from modes of thought and expression so Avidely different from all that they had been accustomed to admire. The effect was narrowness and sameness of thought. Their minds, if we may so express ourselves, bred in and in, and were accordingly cursed with barrenness and degeneracy. No extraneous beauty or vigor was engrafted on the decaying stock. By an exclusive atten. tion to one class of phenomena, by an exclusive taste for one species of excellence, the human intellect was stunted. Oc- casional coincidences Avere turned into general rules. Pre. judices Avere confounded AAuth instincts. On man, as he was found in a particular state of society — on government, as it had existed in a particular corner of the world, many just observations were made ; but of man as man, or government as government, little Avas known. Philosophy remained stationary. Slight changes, sometimes for the Avorse and sometimes for the better, were made in the superstructure. But nobody thought of examining the foundations. The vast despotism of the Ceesars, gradually effacing all national peculiarities, and assimilating the remotest ]3rov- inces of the empire to each other, augmented the evil. At the close of the third century after Christ, tlie prospects of mankind Avere fearfully dreary. A system of etiquette, as pompously frivolous as that of the Escurial, had been es- tablished. A soA^ereign almost iuAdsible ; a croAvd of digni- taries minutely distinguished by badges and titles ; rhetori- cians who said nothing but what had been said ten thousand times ; schools in which nothing was taught but what had been knoAvn for ages : such was the machinery provided for the government and instruction of the most enlightened part of the human race. That great community was then in 1 298 ma^^aulay’s miscellaneous \vkitingf5. clanger of experiencing a calamity far more terrible than any of the quick, inilammatory, (lestn>ying maladies, to which nations are liable, — a tottering, drivelling, })aralytic longevity, the immortality of the Struldbriigs, a Chinese civilization. It would be easy to indicate many points ot resemblance between the subjects of Diocletian and the people of that Celestial Empircj, Avhere, during many centu- rieS; nothing has been learned or unlearned ; where gov- ernment, Avhere education, where the whole system of life, is a ceremony ; where knowledge forgets to increase and multiply, and, like the talent buried in the earth, or the pound wrapped up in the napkin, ex]^erience8 neither waste nor augmentation. The torpor was broken by two great revolutions, the one moral, the other political, the one from within, the other from without. The victory of Christianity over Paganism, considered with relation to this subject only, was of great importance. It overthrew the old system of morals ; and Avith it much of the old system of metaphysics. It furnished the orator Avith new topics of declamation, and the logician Avith new points of controversy. Above all, it introduced a iiGAV principle, of which the operation was constantly felt in GA^ery part of society. It stirred the stagnant mass from the inmost depths. It excited all the passions of a stormy de- mocracy in the quiet and listless population of an overgrown empire. The fear of heresy did what the sense of oppres- sion could not do ; it changed men, accustomed to be turned OA^er like sheep from tyrant to tyrant, into devoted partisans and obstinate rebels. The tones of an eloquence which had been silent for ages resounded from the pulpit of Gregory. A spirit which had been extinguished on the plains of Philippi revived in Athanasius and Ambrose. Yet even this remedy was not sufficiently violent for the disease. It did not prevent the empire of Constantinople from relapsing, after a short paroxysm of excitement, into a state of stupefaction, to Avhich history furnishes scarcely any parallel. We there find that a polished society, a society in which a most intricate and elaborate system of jurisprudence was established, in which the arts of luxury Avere well un- derstood, in Avhich the Avorks of the great ancient Avritera Avere preserved and studied, existed for nearly a thousand years Avithout making one great discovery in science, or producing one book which is read by any but curious inquir- ers, There were tumults, too and controversies, and wars HISTORY* in abundance : and these things, bad as they are in theni- Belves, liave generally been favorable to the progress of the intellect. But here they torniented without stimulating. The waters were troubled ; but no healing influence de- scended. The agitations resembled the grinnings and writh- ings of a galvanized corpse, not the struggles of an athletic man. From this miserable state the Western Empire was saved by the fiercest and most destroying visitation with which God has ever chastened his creatures — the invasion of the Northern nations. Such a cure was required for such a distemper. The fire of London, it has been observed, was a blessing. It burned down the city; but it burned out the plague. The same may be said of the tremendous devastation of the Roman dominions. It annihilated the noisome recesses in which lurked the seeds of great moral maladies ; it cleared an atmosphere fatal to the health and vigor of the human mind. It cost Europe a thousand years of barbarism to escape the fate of China. At length the terrible purification was accomplished ; and the second civilization of mankind commenced, under circumstances which afforded a strong security that it would never retrograde and never pause. Europe was now a gi*eat federal community. Her numerous states were united by the easy ties of international law and a common religion. Their institutions, their languages, their manners, their tastes in literature, their modes of education, were widely different. Their connection was close enough to allow of mutual observation and improvement, yet not so close as to destroy the idioms of national opinion and feeling. The balance of moral and intellectual influence thus es- tablished between the nations of Europe is far more impor- tant than the balance of political power. Indeed, we are inclined to think that the latter is valuable principally be- cause it tends to maintain the former. The civilized world has thus been preserved from an uniformity of character fatal to all improvement. Every part of it has been illumi- nated with light reflected from every other. Competition has produced activity where monopoly would have produced sluggishness. The number of experiments in moral science which the speculator has an opportunity of witnessing has been increased beyond all calculation. Society and human nature, instead of being seen in a single point of view, are presented to him under ten thousand different aspects. By 300 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. observing tlio manners of surrounding nations, by studying their literature, by conij)aring it with tliat of his own coun- try and of tlie ancient re])ublics, he is enabled to correct those errors into whicli the most acute men must fall when they reason from a single species to a genus. lie learns to distinguish what is local from what is universal ; what ia transitory from what is eternal ; to discriminate between exceptions and rules ; to trace the operation of disturbing causes ; to separate those general principles which are al- ways true and everywdiere applicable from the accidental circumstances with which, in every community, they are blended, and with which, in an isolated community, they are confounded by the most philosophical mind. Hence it is that, in generalization, the writers of modern times have far surpassed those of antiquity. The historiana of our own country are unequalled in depth and precision of reason ; and, even in the works of our mere compilers, we often meet with speculations beyond the reach of Thucy- • — dides or Tacitus. But it must, at the same time, be admitted that they have characteristic faults, so closely connected v>dth their characteristic merits, and of such magnitude, that it may well be doubted whether, on the whole, this department of literature has gained or lost during the last two-and-twenty centuries. The best historians of later times have been seduced from truth, not by their imagination, but by their reason. They far excel their predecessors in the art of deducing general principles from facts. But unhappily they have fallen into the error of distorting facts to suit general prin- ciples. They arrive at a theory from looking at some of the phenomena; and the remaining phenomena they strain or curtail to suit the theory. For this purpose it is not neces- sary that they should assert what is absolutely false ; for all questions in morals and politics are questions of comparison and degree. Any proposition which does not involve a contradiction in terms may by possibility be true ; and, if all the circumstances which raise a probability in its favor be stated and enforced, and those which lead to an opposite conclusion be omitted or lightly passed over, it may appear to be demonstrated. In every human character and trans- action there is a mixture of good and evil : a little exagger- ation, a little suppression, a judicious use of epithets, a watchful and searching skepticism vdth respect to the evi HISTORY, SOI flence on one si^e, ft convenient credulity with res])ect to every re[)ort or tradition on the other, may easily make a eaint of Laud, or a tyrant of Henry the Fourtli. This species of misrepresentation abounds in the most valuable works of modern historians. Herodotus tells his story like a slovenly witness, who, heated by partialities and prejudices, unacquainted with the established rules of evi- dence, and uninstructed as to the obligations of his oath, confounds what he imagines with what he has seen and hoard, and brings out facts, reports, conjectures, and fancies, in one mass. Hume is an accomplished advocate. With- out positively asserting much more than he can prove, he gives prominence to all the circumstances which support his case ; he glides lightly over those which are unfavorable to it ; his own witnesses are applauded and encouraged ; the statements which seem to throw discredit on them are con- troverted ; the contradictions into which they fall are ex- plained away ; a clear and connected abstract of their evidence is given. Everything that is offered on the other side is scrutinized with the utmost severity ; every suspi- cious circumstance is a ground for comment and invective ; what cannot be denied is extenuated, or passed by without notice ; concessions even are sometimes made : but this in- sidious candor only increases the effect of the vast mass of sophistry. We have mentioned Hume as the ablest and most popu- lar writer of his class ; but the charge which we have brought against him is one to which all our most distin- guished historians are in some degree obnoxious. Gibbon, in particular, deserves A^ery severe censure. Of all the nu- merous culprits, however, none is more deeply guilty than Mr. Mitford. We willingly acknowledge the obligations v/hich are due to his talents and industry. The modern historians of Greece had been in the habit of writing as if the world had learned nothing new during the last sixteen hundred years. Instead of illustrating the events which they narrated by the philosophy of a more enlightened age, they judged of antiquity by itself alone. They seemed to think that notions, long driven from every other cornr3r of literature, had a prescriptive right to occupy this last fast- ness. They considered all the ancient historians as equally authentic. They scarcely made any distinction between him who related eA^ents at which he had himself been pres« ent and him who five hundred years after composed a phi- 302 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. losopliic romance for a society whicli liacl in tlie interval undergone a coin])lete cliangc. It was all Greek, and all true ! The centuries which separated Plutarcli from '^riiucy- dides seemed as iiotliing to men who lived in an age so re- mote. The distance of time jiroduced an error similar to tliat which is sometimes })roduced by distance of place. There are many good ladies who think that all the people in India live together, and who charge a friend setting out for Calcutta with kind messages to Bombay. To Rollin and Barthelenii, in the sam.e manner, all the classics were contemporaries. Mr. Mitford certainly introduced great improvements ; lie showed us that men w^ho wrote in Greek and Latin sometimes told lies ; he showed us that ancient history might be related in such a manner as to fuinisb not only allusions to school boys, but important lesoons to statesmen. From that love of theatrical effect and nigk-flowm sentiment which had poisoned almost every other work on the same subject his book is perfectly free. Eat his passion for a the- ory as false, and far more ungenerous, led him substantially to violate truth in every page. Statements unfavorable to de- mocracy are made with unhesitatirg confidence, and with the utmost bitterness of language. Every charge brought against a monarch or an aristocracy is sifted with the utmost care. If it cannot be denied, some palliating supposition is suggested; or we are at least reminded that some circum- stances now unknown may have justified what at present appears unjustifiable. Two events are reported by the same author in the same sentence ; their truth rests on the same testimony ; but the one supports the darling hypothesis, and the other seems inconsistent with it. The one is taken and the other is left. The practice of distorting narrative into a conformity v/ith theory is a vice not so unfavorable as at first sight it Enay appear to the interests of political science. We have compared the writers w^ho indulge in it to advocates ; and w’e may add, that their conflicting fallacies, like those of ad- vocates, correct each other. It has always been held, in the most enlightened nations, that a tribunal will decide a judicial question most fairly when it has heard two able men argue, as unfairly as possible, on the two opposite sides of it ; and w^e are inclined to think that this opinion is just. Sometimes, it is true, superior eloquence and dexterity will make the worse appear the better reason ; but it is at least certain niSTORY. 303 that the jinlge will be compelled to contemplate the case under two different aspects. It is certain that no important consideration will altogether escaj^e notice. This is at present the state of history. The poet laureate appears for the Church of England, Lingard for the Cliurch of Rome. Brodie has moved to set aside the verdicts ob- tained by Hume ; and the cause in which Mitford succeeded IS, we understand, about to be reheard. In the midst of tliese disputes, however, history proper, if we may use tho term, is disappearing. The high, grave, impartial summing up of Thucydides is nowhere to be found. While our historians are practising all the arts of contro- versy, they miserably neglect the art of narration, the art of interesting the affections and presenting pictures to the im- agination. That a writer may produce these effects with- out violating truth is sufficiently proved by many excellent biographical works. The immense popularity which well- written books of this kind have acquired deserves the seri- ous consideration of historians. Voltaire’s Charles the Twelfth, Marmontel’s Memoirs, Boswell’s Life of Johnson, Southey’s account of Kelson, are perused with delight by the most frivolous and indolent. Whenever any tolerable book of the same description makes it appearance, the cir- culating libraries are mobbed; the hook societies are in commotion ; the new novel lies uncut ; the magazines and newspapers fill their columns with extracts. In the mean time histories of great empires, written by men of eminent ability, lie unread on the shelves of ostentatious libraries. The writers of history seem to entertain an aristocratical contempt for the writers of memoirs. They think it beneath the dignity of men who describe the revolutions of nations to dwell on the details which constitute the charm of biography. They have imposed on themselves a code of conventional decencies as absurd as that which has been the bane of the French drama. The most characteristic and interesting circumstances are omitted or softened down, because, as we are told, they are too trivial for the majesty of history. Tlie majesty of history seems to resemble the majesty of the poor King of Spain, who died a martyr tc ceremony because tlie proper dignitaries were not at hand to render liim assistance. That history would be more amusing if this etiquette were relaxed will, we suppose, be acknowledged. But would it b© less dignified or less useful? What do we r>04 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wkitings. mean when we say tliat one j)ast event is important and another insignificant? No past event lias any intrinsic im- portance. The knowledge of it is valuable only as it leads us to form just calculations with resjiect to the future. A history which does not serve this purpose, though it may be filled with battles, treaties, and commotions, is as useless as the series of turnpike tickets collected by Sir Mattliew Mite. Let us suppose that Lord Clarendon, instead of filling hundreds of folio pages with copies of state papers, in which the same assertions and contradictions are repeated till the reader is overpowered with weariness, had condescended to be the Boswell of the Long Parliament. Let us suppose that he had exhibited to us the wise and lofty self-govern- ment of Hampden, leading while he seemed to follow, and propounding unanswerable arguments in the strongest forms with the modest air of an inquirer anxious for information : the delusions which misled the noble spirit of Vane; the course fanaticism which concealed the yet loftier genius of Cromwell, destined to control a mutinous army and a factious people, to abase the flag of Holland, to arrest the victorious arms of Sweden, and to hold the balance firm between the rival monarchies of France and Spain. Let us suppose that he had made his Cavaliers and Roundheads talk in their own style ; that he had reported some of the ribaldry of Rupert’s pages, and some of the cant of Harrison and Fleetwood. Would not his work in that case have been more interesting ? W ould it not have been more ac- curate ? A history in which every particular incident may be true may on the w^hole be false. The circumstances which have most influence on the happiness of mankind, the changes of manners and morals, the transition of communities from poverty to wealth, from knowledge to ignorance, from fero- city to humanity — these are, for the most part, noiseless revolutions. Their progress is rarely indicated by what historians are pleased to call important events. They are not achieved by armies, or enacted by senates. They are sanctioned by no treaties and recorded in no archives. They are carried on in every school, in every church, behind ten thousand counters, at ten thousand firesides. The upper current of society presents no certain criterion by which we can judge of the direction in which the under current flows. We read of defeats and victories. But we know that nations may be miserable amidst victories and prosperous niSTORY, 305 amidst defeats. We read of the fall of wise ministers and of the rise of profligate favorites. But we must remember how small a proportion the good or evil effected by a single states- man can bear to the good or evil of a great social system. Bishop Watson compares a geologist to a gnat mounted on an elephant, and laying down theories as to the whole in- ternal structure of the vast animal, from the phenomena of the hide. The comparison is unjust to the geologists ; but It is very applicable to those historians who write as if the body politic were homogeneous, who look only on the sur- face of affairs, and never think of the mighty and various organization which lies deep below. In the works of such writers as these, England, at the close of the Seven Years’ War, is in the highest state of prosperity : at the close of the American war she is in a mis- erable and degraded condition ; as if the people were not on the whole as rich, as well governed, and as well educated at the latter period as at the former. We have read books called Histories of England, under the reign of George the Second, in w^hich the rise of Methodism is not even men- tioned. A hundred years hence this breed of authors wiTl, we hope, be extinct. If it should still exist, the late ministe- rial interregnum will be described in terms which will seem to imply that all government was at an end ; that the social contract was annulled ; and that the hand of every man was against his neighbor, until the wisdom and virtue of the new cabinet educed order out of the chaos of anarchy. We are quite certain that misconceptions as gross prevailed at this moment respecting many important parts of our annals. The effect of historical reading is analogous, in many respects, to that produced by foreign travel. The student, like the tourist, is transported into a new state of society. He sees new fashions. He hears new modes of expression. His mind is enlarged by contemplating the wide diversities of laws, of morals, and of manners. But men may travel far, and return with minds as contracted as if they had never stirred from their own market-town. In the same manner men may know the dates of many battles and the genealo- gies of many royal houses, and yet be no wiser. Most people look at past times as princes look at foreign countries. More than one illustrious stranger has landed on our island amidst the shouts of a mob, has dined with the king, has hunted with the master of the stag-hounds, has seen the guards reviewed, and a knight of the parter installed, has cantered VqIi* I, —20 S06 macaulay’b miscellaneous writings. along Regent street, lias visited St. Paul’s, and noted down its dimensions ; and lias then dejiarted, thinking that he lias seen England. He has, in fact, seen a few jmblic buildings, public men, and public ceremonies. Put of the vast and complex system of society, ot’ the line shades of national char- acter, of the practical operation of government and laws, he knows nothing, lie who would understand these things rightly must not confine his observations to palaces and solemn days. He must see ordinary men as they appear in their ordinary business and in their ordinary pleasures. lie must mingle in the crowds of the exchange and the coffee- house. lie must obtain admittance to tlie convivial table and the domestic hearth. He must bear with vulgar ex- pressions, He must not shrink from exploring even the re- treats of misery. He who Avishes to understand the condi- tion of mankind in former ages must proceed on the same principle. If he attends only to ])ublic transactions, to wars, congresses, and debates, his studies will be as unprofitable as the travels of those imperial, royal, and serene sovereigns who form their judgment of our island from liaving gone in state to a few fine sights, and from having held formal con- ferences with a few great officers. The perfect historian is he in Avhose work the character and spirit of an age is exhibited in miniature. He relates no fact, he attributes no expression to his characters, which is not authenticated by sufficient testimony. But, by judi- cious selection, rejection, and arrangement, he gives to truth those attractions which have been usur|3ed by fiction. In his narrative a due subordination is observed : some trans- actions are prominent ; others retire. But the scale on which he represents them is increased or diminished, not ac- cording to the dignity of the persons concerned in them, but according to the degree in Avhich they elucidate the con- dition of society and the nature of man. He shows us the court, the camp, and the senate. But he shows us also the nation. He considers no anecdote, no peculiarity of manner, no familiar saying, as too insignificant for his notice which is not too insignificant to illustrate the operation of laws, of leligion, and of education, and to mark the progress of the numan mind. Men Avill not merely be described, but will be made intimately known to us. The changes of manners will be indicated, not merely by a few general phrases or a few extracts from statistical documents, but by appropriate images presented in every line* HISTORY. 307 If a man siicli as we are sui)posing, slionld write tlie history of Eiiglaiul, lie would assuredly not omit the battles, the sieges, the negotiations, the seditions, the ministerial changes. But with these he would intersperse the details which are the charm of historical romances. At Lincoln Cathedral there is a beautiful painted window, which was made by an apprentice out of the pieces of glass which had been rejected by his master. It is so far superior to every other in the church, that, according to the tradition, the van- quished artist killed himself from mortification. Sir Waite? Scott, in the same manner, has used those fragments of truth which historians have scornfully thrown behind them in a manner which may well excite their envy. lie has constructed out of their gleanings works which, even con- sidered as histories, are scarcely less valuable than theirs. But a truly great historian would reclaim those materials which the novelist has appropriated. The history of the government, and the history of the people, would be exhib- ited in that mode in wdiich alone they can be exhibited justly, in inseparable conjunction and intermixture. We should not then have to look for the wars and votes of the Puritans m Clarendon, and for their phraseology in Old Mortality ; for one half of King James in Hume, and for the other half in the Fortunes of Nigel. Tlie early part of our imaginary history would be rich wdth coloring from romance, ballad, and chronicle. We should find ourselves in the company of kniglits such as those of Froissart, and of pilgrims such as those who rode with Chaucer from the Tabard. Society would bo showm from the highest to tlie lowest, — from the royal cloth of state to the den of the outlaw ; from the throne of the legate, to the chimney-corner where tlie begging friar re- galed himself. Palmers, minstrels, crusaders, — the stately monastery, with the good cheer in its refectory and the high-mass in its chapel, — the manor-house, Avith its hunting and liawking, — the tournament, with the heralds and ladies, the trumpets and the cloth of gold, — would give truth and life to the representation. We should perceive, in a thou- sand slight touches, the importance of the privileged burgher, and the fierce and haughty spirit which swelled under the collar of the* degi’aded villain. The revival of letters would not merely be described in a few magnificent periods. We should discern, in innumerable particulars, the fermentation of mind, the eager ap])etite for knowledge; 308 MACAVLAV’s MISCilLLAXKOL'S AVlilTlXGS* whicli distinguished t\ie sixtecntli from tlie fifteen tli cen- tury. In tlie Reformation we sliould see, not merely a scliism Avliich clianged tlie ecclesiastical constitution of Eng- land and the mutual relations of the European ])owers, but a moral war which raged in every family, which set the father against the son, and the son against the father, the mother against the daughter, and the daughter against the mother. Henry would be painted with the skill of Tacitus. We should have the change of his character from his pro- fuse and joyous youth to his savage and imperious old age. We should perceive the gradual progress of selfish and tyrannical passions in a mind not naturally insensible or un- generous ; and to the last we should detect some remains of that open and noble temper which endeared him to a j people whom he oppressed, struggling with the hardness of ] despotism and the irritability of disease. We should see i Elizabeth in all her weakness and in all her strength, sur- ) rounded by the handsome favorites whom she never trusted, and the wise old statesmen whom she never dismissed, uni- - ting in herself the most contradictory qualities of both her : parents, — the coquetry, the caprice, the petty malice of i Anne, — the haughty and resolute spirit of Henry. We have no hesitation in saying that a great artist might pro- i duce a portrait of this remarkable woman at least as strik- ing as that in the novel of Kenilworth, without employing a single trait not authenticated by ample testimony. In j the mean time, we should see arts cultivated, wealth ao ! cumulated, the conveniences of life improved. We should | see the keeps, where nobles, insecure themselves, spread in- ; security around them, gradually giving place to the halls of peaceful opulence, to the oriels of Longleat, and the stately pinnacles of Burleigh. We should see towns extended, deserts cultivated, the hamlets of fishermen turned into wealthy havens, the meal of the peasant improved, and his .1 but more commodiously furnished. We should' see those ap inions and feelings which produced the great struggle ^ against the house of Stuart slowly growing up in the bosom of private families, before they manifested themselves in , parliamentary debates. Then would come the civil war. ' Those skirmishes on which Clarendon dwells so minutely j would be told, as Thucydides would have told them, with i perspicuous conciseness, d'hey are merely connecting links% ^ But the great characteristics of the age, the loyal enthu- ; »iasm of the brave Englisli gentry, the tierce licentiousness j ItiStORTf. 309 of the swearing, dicing, drunken reprobates, whose excesses disgrace the royal cause, — the austerity of the Presbyterian Sabbaths in tlie city, the extravagance of the independent preachers in tlie camp, the precise garb, the severe counte- nance, the petty scruples, the affected accent, the absurd names and phrases which marked the Puritans, — the valor, the policy, the public spirit, which lurked beneath these un- graceful disguises, — the dreams of the raving Fifth-mon- archy-man, the dreams, scarcely less wild, of the philosophic republican, — all these would enter into the representation, and render it at once more exact and more striking. The instruction derived from history thus written would be of a vivid and practical character. It would be received by the imagination as well as by the reason. It would be not merely traced on the mind, but branded into it. Many truths, too, would be learned, which can be learned in no other manner. As the history of States is generally written, the greatest and most momentous revolutions seem to come upon them like supernatural inflictions, without warning or cause. But the fact is, that such revolutions are almost always the consequences of moral changes, which have gradually passed on the mass of the community, and which ordinarily proceed far before their progress is indicated by any public measure. An intimate knowledge of the domes- tic history of nations is therefore absolutely necessary to the prognosis of political events. A narrative, defective in this respect, is as useless as a medical treatise which should pass by all the symptoms attendant on the early stage of a dis- ease and mention only what occurs when the patient is be- yond the reach of remedies. A historian, such as we have been attempting to describe, would indeed be an intellectual prodigy. In his mind, powers scarcely compatible with each other must be tem- pered into an exquisite harmony. We shall sooner see an- other Shakspeare or another Homer. The highest excel* lence to which any single faculty can be brought would ba less surprising than such a happy and delicate combination of qualities. Yet the contemplation of imaginary models is not an unpleasant or useless employment of the mind. It cannot indeed produce perfection ; but It produces improve- ment, and nourishes that generous and liberal fastidiousness which is not inconsistent with the strongest sensibility to merit, and which, while it exalts our conceptions of, the ar does ^ot render us uniust to the artist. 610 Macaulay’s miscellankouh waitings. HALLAM* yEdinhurgh Review ^ September ^ History, at least in its state of ideal perfection, is a •.ompound of poetry and philosophy. It impresses general cruths on the mind by a vivid representation of particular characters and incidents. But, in fact, the two hostile ele- ments of which it consists have never been known to form a perfect amalgamation ; and at length, in our own time, they have been completely and professedly separated. Good histories, in the proper sense of tlie word, Ave have not. But we have good historical romances, and good historical essays. The imagination and the reason, if we may use a legal metaphor, have made partition of a province of liter- ature of which they were formerly seized per my etper tout ^ and now they hold their respective portions in severalty, in- stead of holding the whole in common. To make the past present, to bring the distant near^ to place us in the society of a great man on an eminence which overlooks the field of a mighty battle, to invest with the reality of human flesh and blood beings whom we are too much inclined to consider as personified qualities in an allegory, to call up our ancestors before us with all their peculiarities of language, manners, and garb, to show us over their houses, to seat us at their tables, to rummage their old-fashioned wardrobes, to explain the uses of their ponderous furniture, these parts of the duty which properly belongs to the historian have been appropriated by the his- torical novelist. On the other hand, to extract the philos- ophy of history, to direct our judgment of events and men^ to trace the connection of causes and effects, and to draw from the occurrences of former times general lessons of moral and political wisdom, has become the business of a distinct class of writers. Of the two kinds of composition into Avhich history has been thus divided, the one may be compared to a map, the other to a painted landscaj^e. The picture, though it places * The Constitutional History of England, from the Accession of Henry Vll to the Death of George 11. By Henry Hallam. In 2 toIs. 1827. HALL AM. Cil the country before us, does not enable us to ascertain with accuracy the dimensions, the distances, and the angles. The map is not a work of imitative art. It presents no scene to tlie imagination ; but it gives us exact information as to the bearings of the various points, and is a more useful compan- ion to the traveller or the general than the painted land- scape could be, though it were the grandest that ever Rosa peopled with outlaws, or the sweetest over which Claude ever poured the mellow effulgence of a setting sun. It is remarkable that the practice of separating the two ingredients of which history is composed has become prev- alent on the Continent as well as in this country. Italy has already produced a historical novel, of high merit and of still higher promise. In France, the practice has been carried to a length somewhat whimsical. M. Sisinondi publishes a grave and stately history of the Merovingian Kings, very valuable, and a little tedious. He then sends forth as a companion to it a novel, in which he attempts to give a lively representation of characters and manners. This course, as it seems to us, has all the disadvantages of a division of labor, and none of its advantages. We under- stand the Expediency of keeping the functions of cook and coachman distinct. The dinner will be better dressed, and the horses better managed. But where the two situations are united, as in the Maitre Jacques of Moliere, we do not see that the matter is much mended by the solemn form with which the pluralist passes from one of his employments to the other. We manage these things better in England. Sir Wal- ter Scott gives us a novel ; Mr. Hallam a critical and argu- mentative history. Both are occupied with ihe same mat- ter. But the former looks at it with the eye of a sculptor. Ilis intention is to give an express and lively image of its external form. The latter is an anatomist. His task is to dissect the subject to its inmost recesses, and to lay bare be- fore us all the springs of motion and all the causes of decay. Mr. Hallam is, on the whole, far better qualified than any other writer of our time for the ofiice which he has un- dertaken. He has great industry and great acuteness. His knowledge is extensive, various, and profound. His mind is equally distinguished by the amplitude of its grasp, and by the delicacy of its tact. His speculations have none of that vagueness which is the common fault of political phi- iosoptyi On the cpntrary, they are strikingly practical, 812 macauiay’s miscellaneous writings. and teach us not only tlie general rule, hut tlie mode of ay>- plying it to solve particular cases. In this res]>ect they often remind us of the Discourses of Machiavelli. The style is sometimes open to the charge of harshness. We have also here and there remarked a little of that un- pleasant trick, which Gibbon brought into fashion, tlie trick, ' we mean, of telling a story by implication and allusion. \ Mr. Hallam, however, has an excuse which Gibbon had not. J Ilis work is designed for readers who are already acquainted | with the ordinary books on English history, and who car | therefore unriddle these litttle enigmas without difficulty The manner of the book is, on the whole, not unworthy oi the matter. The language, even where most faulty, is ^ weighty and massive, and indicates strong sense in every line. It often rises to an eloquence, not florid or impas- sioned, but high, grave, and sober; such as W’ould become ; a State paper, or a judgment delivered by a great magistrate, a Somers or a D’Aguesseau. n this respect the character of Mr. Hallam’s mind cor- responds strikingly with that of his style. His work is emi- nently judicial. Its whole spirit is tliat of the bench, not that of the bar. He sums up Avith a calm, steady impartial- ity, turning neither to the right nor to the left, glossing over nothing, exaggerating nothing, while the advocates on both sides are alternately biting their lips to hear their con- flicting misstatements and sophisms exposed. On a general survey, we do not scruple to pronounce the Constitutional History the most impartial book that we ever read. We think it the more incumbent on us to bear this testimony strongly at first setting out, because, in the course, of our remarks, we shall think it right to dwell principally on those parts of it from which we dissent. There is one peculiarity about Mr. Hallam which, while it adds to the value of his writings, will, we fear, take away something from their popularity. He is less of a worshipper than any historian whom we can call to mind. Every political sect has its esoteric and its exoteric school, its abstract doc- trines for the initiated, its visible symbols, its imposing forms, its mythological fables for the vulgar. It assists the i devotion of those who are unable to raise themselves to the contemplation of pure truth by all the deAuces of Pagan or ■ Papal superstition. It has its altars and its deified heroes, ■ its relics and pilgrimages, its canonized martyrs and con- ; feseors, its festivals and its legendary miracles. Our pious ■ HALLAM. SIS ancestors, we are told, deserted the High Altar of Canter- bury, to lay all their obligations on the shrine of St. Thomas. In the same manner the great and comfortable doctrines of the Tory creed, those })articularly which relate to restrictions on worship and on trade, are adored by squires and rectors in Pitt Clubs, under the name of a minister who was as bad a representative of the system which has been christened after him as Becket of the spirit of the Gospel. On the other hand, the cause for which Hampden bled on the field and Sydney on the scaffold is enthusiastically toasted by many an honest radical who would be puzzled to explain the difference between Ship-money and the Habeas Corpus Act. It may be added that, as in religion, so in politics, few even of those who are enlightened enough to comprehend the meaning latent under the emblems of their faith can resist the contagion of the popular superstition. Often, when they flatter themselves that they are merely feigning a compliance with the prejudices of the vulgar, they are themselves under the influence of those very prejudices. It probably was not altogether on grounds of expediency that Socrates taught his followers to honor the gods whom the State honored, and bequeathed a cock to Esculapius with his dying breath. So there is often a portion of willing credulity and enthusiasm in the veneration which the most discerning men pay to their political idols. From the very nature of man it must be so. The faculty by which we in- separably associate ideas which have often been presented to us in conjunction is not under the absolute control of the will. It may be quickened into morbid activity. It may be reasoned into sluggishness. But in a certain degree it will always exist. The almost absolute mastery which Mr. Hallam has obtained over feelings of this class is perfectly astonishing to us, and will, we believe, be not only astonishing but offensive to many of his readers. It must particularly disgust those people who, in their speculations on politics, are not reasoners but fanciers ; whose opinions, even when sincere, are not produced, according to the ordinary law of intellectual births, by induction or inference, but are equiv- ocally generated by the heat of fervid tempers out of the overflowing of tumid imaginations. A man of this class is always in extremes. He cannot be a friend to liberty with- out calling for a community of goods, or a friend to order without taking under his protection the foulest excesses of tyranny, His admiration oscillates between the most 314 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. wortliless of rebels and the most worthless of oppressors, between Marten, tlie dispjrace of the High Court of Justice, and Laud, the disgrace of the Star Chamber. lie can for- give any thing but tem])erance and im])artiality. lie has a certain sympathy with the violence of his opponents, as well as with that of his associates. In every furious partizan he «ees cither his present self or his former self, the pensioner tliat is, or the Jacobin that has been. But he is unable to comprehend a writer who, steadily attached to principles, is indifferent about names and badges, and who judges of characters with equable severity, not altogether untinctured with cynicism, but free from the slightest touch of passion, party spirit, or caprice. We should probably like Mr. Hallam’s book more if, instead of pointing out with strict fidelity the bright points and the dark spots of both parties, he had exerted himself to whitewash the one and to blacken the other. But we should certainly prize it far less. Eulogy and invective may be had for the asking. But for cold rigid justice, the one weight and the one measure, we know not where else we can look. No portion of our annals has been more perplexed and misrepresented by writers of different parties than the his- tory of the Reformation. In this labyrinth of falsehood and sophistry, the guidance of Mr. Ilallam is peculiarly valuable. It is impossible not to admire the even-handed justice with Avhich he deals out castigation to right and left on the rival persecutors. It is vehemently maintained by some wudters of the present day that Elizabeth persecuted neither Papists nor Puritans as such, and that the severe measures which she oc- casionally adopted were dictated, not by religious intolerance, but by political necessity. Even the excellent account of chose times wLich Mr. Ilallam has given has not altogether imposed silence on the authors of this fallacy. The title of the Queen, they say, was annulled by the Pope; her throne was given to another ; her subjects were incited to rebellion; her life was menaced; every Catholic was bound in con- science to be a traitor ; it was therefore against traitors, not against Catholics, that the penal laws were enacted. In order that our readers may be fully competent to ap- preciate the merits of this defence, we will state, as concisely as uossible, the substance of some of these laws. As soon as Elizabeth ascended the throne, and before HALLAM. 315 the least hostility to her government had been shown by the Catholic population, an act passed prohibiting the cele- bration of the rites of the Romish Church, on pain of forfeit ure for the first offence, of a year’s imprisonment for the second, and of perpetual imprisonment for the third. A law was next made in 1562, enacting, that all who had ever graduated at the Universities or received holy orders, all lawyers, and all magistrates, should take the oath of supremacy when tendered to them, on pain of forfeiture and imprisonment during the royal pleasure. After the lapse of three months, the oath might again be tendered to them ; and, if it were again refused, the recusant was guilty of high treason. A prospective law, however severe, framed to ex- clude Catholics from the liberal professions, would have been mercy itself compared with this odious act. It is a retrospective statute ; it is a retrospective penal statute ; it is a retrospective penal statute against a large class. We will not positively affirm that a law of this description must al- ways, and under all circumstances, be unjustifiable. But the presumption against it is most violent ; nor do we re- member any crisis, either in our own history, or in the history of any other country, which would have rendered such a provision necessary. In the present case, what cir- cumstances called for extraordinary rigor? There might be disaffection among the Catholics. The prohibition of their worship would naturally produce it. But it is from their situation, not from their conduct, from the wrongs which they had suffered, not from those which they had committed, that the existence of discontent among them must be inferred. There were libels, no doubt, and j^roph- ecies, and rumors, and suspicions, strange grounds for a law inflicting capital penalties, ex post facto^ on a large body of men. Eight years later, the bull of Pius deposing Elizabeth produ ?ed a third law. This law, to which alone, as we con- ceive, .he defence now under our consideration can apply, provides that, if any Catholic shall convert a Protestant to the Romish Church, they shall both suffer death as for high treason. We believe that we might safely content ourselves with stating the fact, and leaving it to the judgment of every plain Englishman. Recent controversies have, however, given so much importance to this subject, that we will offer a few remarks on it. 316 Macaulay’s miscellaneous whitings. In the first place, the arguments whicli are urged in favoi of Elizabetli apply with much greater force to the case of her sister Mary. The Catliolics did not, at the time of Elizabeth’s accession, rise in arms to scat a Pretender on her throne. But before Mary had given, or could give, provocation, the most distinguished Protestants attempted to set aside her rights in favor of the Lady Jane. That at- tempt, and the subsequent insurrection of Wyatt, furnished at least as good a plea for tlie burning of Protestants, as the conspiracies against Elizabeth furnish for the hanging and embowelling of Papists. The fact is that both pleas are worthless alike. If mch arguments are to pass current, it will be easy to ])rove that there was never such a thing as religious persecution since ; the creation. For there never was a religious persecution ■ in which some odious crime was not, justly or unjustly, said i to be obviously deducible from the doctrines of the persecuted j party. We might say that the CaBsars did not persecute \ the Christians; that they only punished men who were ; charged, rightly or wrongly, with burning Rome, and with committing the foulest abominations in secret assemblies ; ■ and that the refusal to throw frankincense on the altar of Jupiter was not the crime but only evidence of the crime. We might say that the massacre of St. Bartholomew was | intended to extirpate, not a religious sect, but a political party. For, beyond all doubt, the proceedings of the Hugue- nots, from the conspiracy of Amboise to the battle of Moncon- ^ tour, had given much more trouble to the French monarchy ^ than the Catholics have ever given to the English monarchy since the Reformation ; and that too with much less excuse. ■; The true distinction is perfectly obvious. To punish a ; man because he has committed a crime, or because he is ; believed, though unjustly, to have committed a crime, is not ' persecution. To punish a m tin, because we infer from the nature of some doctrine which he holds, or from the conduct ^ of other persons who hold the same doctrines with him, that ) he will commit a crime, is persecution, and is, in every case, foolish and wicked. ^ When Elizabeth put Ballard and Babington to death, i shs was not persecuting. Nor should we have accused her government of persecution for passing any law, however severe, against overt acts of sedition. But to argue that, be- cause a man is a Catholic, he must think it right to murder , a heretical sovereign, and that because he thinks it right he HALL4.M 317 w^ill attempt to do it, and then, to found on this conclusion a law for punishing him as if he had done it, is plain per- secution. If, indeed, all men reasoned in the same manner on the same data, and always did what they thought it their duty to do, this mode of dispensing punishment might be ex- tremely judicious. But as people who agree about pre- mises often disagree about conclusions, and as no man in the world acts up to his own standard of right, there are two enormous gaps in the logic by which alone penalties for opinions can be defended. The doctrine of reprobation, in the judgment of many very able men, follows by syllogistic necessity from the doctrine of election. Others conceive that the Antinomian heresy directly follows from the doc- trine of reprobation ; and it is very generally thought that licentiousness and cruelty of the worst descri]3tion are likely to be the fruits, as they often have been the fruits, of An- tinomian opinions. This chain of reasoning, we think, is as perfect in all its parts as that which makes out a Papist to be necessarily a traitor. Yet it would be rather a strong measure to hang all the Calvinists, on the ground that, if they were spared, they would infallibly commit all the atro- cities of Matthias and Knipperdoling. For, reason the matter as we may, experience shows us that a man may be- lieve in election without believing in reprobation, that he may believe in reprobation without being an Antinomian, and that he may be an Antinomian without being a bad citizen. Man, in short, is so inconsistent a creature that it is impossible to reason from his belief to his conduct, or from one part of his belief to another. We do not believe that every Englishman who was rec- onciled to the Catholic Church would, as a necessary con- sequence, have thought himself justified in deposing or assassinating Elizabeth. It is not sufficient to say that the convert must have acknowledged the authority of the Pope, and that the Pope had issued a bull against the Queen. We know through what strange loopholes the human mind contrives to escape, when it wishes to avoid a disagreeable inference from an admitted proposition. We know how long the Jansenists contrived to believe the Pope infallible in matters of doctrine, and at the same time to believe doc-^ trines which h.e pronounced to be heretical. Let it pass, however, tliat every Catholic in tlie kingdom tliought that Elizabeth might be lawfully murdered. Still the old maxim, 318 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. that what is the business of everybody is tlie business of no- body, is particularly likely to hold good in a case in which a cruel death is the almost inevitable consequence of making any attempt. Of the ten thousand clergymen of the Church of England, there is scarcely one who would not say that a man who should leave his country and friends to preach the Gospel among savages, and who should, after laboring indefatigably without any hope of reward, terminate his life by martyr- dom, would deserve the warmest admiration. Yet we doubt whether ten of the ten thousand ever thought of going on such an expedition. Why should we suppose that conscientious motives, feeble as they are constantly found to be in a good cause, should be omnipotent for evil ? Doubt- less there was many a jolly Popish priest in the old manor- houses of the northern counties, who would have admitted, in theory, the deposing power of the Pope, but who would not have been ambitious to be stretched on the rack, even though it were to be used, according to the benevolent pro- viso of Lord Burleigh, “ as charitably as such a thing can be,” or to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, even though, by that rare indulgence which the Queen, of her special grace, certain knowledge, and mere motion, sometimes ex- tended to very mitigated cases, he were allowed a fairtime to choke before the hangman began to grabble in his en- trails. But the laws passed against the Puritans had not even the wretched excuse which we have been considering. In this case, the cruelty was equal, the danger infinitely less. In fact, the danger was created solely by the cruelty. But it is superfluous to press the argument. By no artifice of ingenuity can the stigma of persecution, the worst blemish of the English Church, be effaced or patched over. Hei doctrines, we well know, do not tend to intolerance. She admits the possibility of salvation out of her own pale. But this circumstance, in itself honorable to her, aggravates the sin and the shame of those who persecuted in her name, Dominic and De Montfort did not, at least, murder and torture for differences of opinion which they considered as trifling. It was to stop an infection which, as they believed, hurried to certain perdition every soul which it seized, that they employed their fire and steel. The measures of the English government with respect to the Papists and Puritans sprang from a widely different principle. If those who deny HAI-money and in abolishing the Star-Chamber. Tlie Commons informed the King that their members should be forthcoming to answer any charge legally brought against them. The Lords refused to assume the unconstitu- tional office with Avhich he attempted to invest them. And what Av as then his conduct? He went, attended by hun- dreds of armed men, to seize the objects of Lis hatred in the House itself. The party opposed to him more than insinu- ated that his purpose was of the most atrocious kind. We will not condemn him merely on their suspicions. We will not hold him ansAverable for the sanguinary expressions of the loose brawlers Avho composed his train. We will judge of his act by itself alone. And we say, without hesitation, that it is impossible to acquit him of having meditated vio- lence, and violence Avhich might probably end in blood. He knew that the legality of his proceedings Avas denied. He must have knoAvn that some of the accused members Avere men not likely to submit peaceably to an illegal arrest. There was every reason to expect that he would find them in their places, that they would refuse to obey his summons, and that the House would support them in their refusal. What course would then have been left to him? Unless Ave suppose that he Avent on this expedition for the sole pur- pose of making himself ridiculous, we must believe that he Avould haA^e had recourse to force. There would haA^e been a scuffie ; and it might not, under such circumstances, have been in his power, even if it had been in his inclination, to 840 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WUITINQS* prevent a scufiie from ending in a massacre. Fortunately for his fame, unfortunately j)erliaj)S for Avliat lie prized far more, tlie interests of his liatred and liis ambition, the affair ended differently. The birds, as he said, were flown, and his plan was disconcerted. Posterity is not extreme to mark ftbortive crimes ; and thus the King’s advocates have found it easy to represent a step which, but for a trivial accident, might have lilled England with mourning and dismay, as a mere error of judgment, wild and foolish, but perfectly in- nocent. Such was not, however, at the time, the oj^inion of any party. The most zealous Royalists were so much disgusted and ashamed that they suspended their opposition to the popular party, and, silently at least, concurred in measures of precaution so strong as almost to amount to resistance. From that day, whatever of confidence and loyal attach- ment had survived the misrule of seventeen years was, in the great body of the people, extinguished, and extinguished for ever. As soon as the outrage had failed, the hypocrisy recommenced. Down to the very eve of this flagitious at- tempt, Charles had been talking of his respect for the privi- leges of Parliament and the liberties of his people. He began again in the same style on the morrow ; but it was too late. To trust him now would have been, not moderation, but insanity. What common security would suffice against a Prince who was evidently watching his season with that cold and patient hatred which, in the long run, tires out every other passion ? It is certainly from no admiration of Charles that Mr. Hallam disapproves of the conduct of the Houses in resort- ing to arms. But he thinks that any attempt on the part of that Prince to establish a despotism would have been as strongly opposed by his adherents as by his enemies, and that therefore the Constitution might be considered as out of danger, or, at least, that it had more to apprehend from the war than from the King. On this subject Mr. Hallam dilates at length, and with conspicuous ability. We will offer a few considerations which lead us to incline to a dif- erent opinion. The Constitution of England was only one of a large family. In all the monarchies of Western Europe, during the middle ages, there existed restraints on the royal author- ity, fundamental laws, and renresentative assemblies. In the fifteenth century, me government of Castile seems to JSALLA^. S41 have t^ecn as free as that of our own country. That of Ar- ragon Avas beyond all question more so. In France, the sovereign was more absolute. Yet, even in France, the States-General alone could constitutionally impose taxes; and, at the very time when the authority of those assemblies was beginning to languish, the Parliament of Paris received such an accession of strength as enabled it, in some measure, to perform the functions of a legislative assembly. Sweden and Denmark had constitutions of a similar description. Let us overleap two or three hundred years, and com template Europe at the commencement of the eighteenth century. Every free constitution, save one, had gone down. That of England had weathered the danger, and was riding in full security. In Denmark and SAveden, the kings had availed themselves of the disputes Avhich raged between the nobles and the commons, to unite all the powers of gOA^ern- ment in their oavu hands. In France the institution of the States was only mentioned by laAvyers as a part of the an- cient theory of their goA^ernment. It slept a deep sleep^ destined to be broken by a tremendous waking. No person remembered the sit* igs of the three orders, or expected ever to see them renewed. Louis the Fourteenth had im- posed on his parliament a patient silence of sixty years. His grandson, after the War of the Spanish Succession, as- similated the constitution of Arragon to that of Castile, and extinguished the las^ feeble remains of liberty in the Penin- sula. In England, on the other hand, the Parliament was infinitely more poAverful than it had ever been. Not only was its legislative authority fully established ; but its right to interfere, by adAuce almost equivalent to command, in every department of the executive government, was recog- nized. The appointment of ministers, the relations with foreign powers, the conduct of a war or a negotiation, de- pended less on the pleasure of the Prince than on that ol the tAvo Houses. What then made us to differ? Why was it that, in that epidemic malady of constitutions, ours escaped the destroy- ing influence ; or rather that, at the very crisis of the disease a favorable turn took place in England, and in England alone ? It was not surely without a cause that so many kindred systems of government, having flourished togethei so long, languished and expired at almost the same time. It is the fashion to say, that flu progress of civilization is favorable to liberty. The maxim, though in some sense 342 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wtiitinos. true, must bo limited by many qualifications and exceptions. Wherever a ]>oor and rude nation, in wliicli the form of government is a limited monarchy, receives a great accession of wealth and knovvdedge, it is in imminent danger of falling under arbitrary power. In such a state of society as that which existed all over Eiirojie during tlie middle ages, very slight checks sufficed to keep the sovereign in order. Ilis means of conmption and intimidation were A^ery scanty. He had little money, little patronage, no military establishment. Ilis armies re- sembled juries. They Avere draAvn out of the mass of the people : they soon returned to it again : and the character Avhich Avas habitual, prevailed over that which was occa- sional. A campaign of forty days Avas too short, the discipline of a national militia too lax, to efface from their minds the feelings of chdl life. As they carried to the camp tlie sen- timents and interests of the farm and the shop, so they carried back to the farm and the shop the military accom- plishments Avhich they had acquired in the camp. At homo the soldier learned how to a alue his rights, abroad how to defend them. Such a military force as this was a far stronger restraint on the regal poAver than any legislative assembly. The army, noAV the most formidable instrument of the executive power, Avas then the most formidable check on that power. Resistance to an established government, in modern times so difficult and perilous an enterprise, was, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the simplest and easiest matter in the world. Indeed, it was far too simple and easy. An in- surrection was got up then almost as easily as a petition is got up now. In a popular cause, or even in an unpopular cause favored by a few great nobles, a force of ten thousand armed men was raised in a week. If the King Avere, like oui EdAvard the Second and Richard the Second, generally odious, he could not procure a single bow or halbert. He feL at once and without an effort. In such times a sover- eign like Louis the Fifteenth or the Emperor Paul, would have been pulled down before his misgovernment had lasted for a month. We find that all the fame and influence of our Edward the Third could not save his Madame de Pom- padour from the effects of the public hatred. Hume and many other writers have hastily concluded that, in the fifteenth century, the English Parliament was altogether servile, because it recognized, without opposition, HALLAM 343 every successful usurper. That it was not servile its con- duct on many occasions of inferior importance is sufficient to prove. But surely it was not strange that the majority of the nobles, and of the deputies chosen by the commons, should approve of revolutions which tlic nobles and com- mons had effected. The Parliament did not blindly follow the event of war, but participated in those changes of pub- lic sentiment on which the war depended. The legal check was secondary and auxiliary to that which the nation lield in its own hands. There have always been monarchies in Asia, in which the royal authority has been tempered by fundamental laws, though no legislative body exists to watch over them. The guarantee is the opinion of a community of which every individual is a soldier. Thus, the king of Cabul, as Mr. Elphinstone informs us, cannot augment the land revenue, or interfere with the jurisdiction of the ordi- nary tribunals. In the European kingdoms of this description there were representative assembles. But it was not necessary that those assemblies should meet very frequently, that they should interfere with all the operations of the executive government, that they should watch with jealousy, and re- sent with prompt indignation, every violation of the laws which the sovereign might commit. They were so strong that they might safely be careless. He was so feeble that he might safely be suffered to encroach. If he ventured too far, chastisement and ruin were at hand. In fact, the people generally suffered more from his weakness than from his authority. The tyranny of wealthy and powerful sub- jects was the characteristic evil of the times. The royal prerogatives were not even sufficient for the defence of property and the maintenance of police. The progress of civilization introduced a great change. War became a science, and, as a necessary consequence, a trade. The great body of the people grew every day more reluctant to undergo the inconveniences of military service, and better able to pay others for undergoing them. A new class of men, therefore, dependent on the Crown alone, natural enemies of those popular rights which are to them as the dew to the fleece of Gideon, slaves among freemen, freemen among slaves, grew into importance. That physi- cal force which, in the dark ages, had belonged to the no- bles and the commons, and had, far more than any charter or any assembly, been the safeguard of their privileges, MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS was transferred entire to tlie King. Monarchy gained in two ways. Tlie sovereign was strengthened, the subjects weak- ened. The great mass of the ])opulation, destitute of all military discipline and organization, ceased to exercise any influence by force on political transactions. There have, indeed, during the last hundred and fifty years, been many popular insurrections in Euroi)c: but all have failed, except those in which the regular army has been induced to join the disaffected. Those legal checks which, while the sovereign remained dependent on his subjects, had been adequate to the pur- pose for which they were designed, were now found want- ing. The dikes which had been sufficient while the waters were low were not high enough to keep out the spring-tide. The deluge passed over them; and, according to the exquis- ite illustration of Butler, the formal boundaries wdiich had excluded it, now held it in. The old constitutions fared like the old shields and coats of mail. They w^ere the de- fences of a rude age : and they did well enough against the weapons of a rude age. But new and more formidable means of destruction were invented. The ancient panoply became useless ; and it was thrown aside to rust in lumber- rooms, or exhibited only as part of an idle pageant. Thus absolute monarchy was established on the Con- tinent. England escaped ; but si. 3 escaped very narrowly. Happily our insular situation, and the pacific policy of James, rendered standing armies unnecessary here, till they had been for some time kept up in the neighboring king- doms. Our public men had therefore an opportunity of watching the effects produced by this momentous change on governments Tvhicli bore a close analogy to that estab- lished in England. Everywhere they saw the power of the monarch increasing, the resistance of assemblies which were no longer supported by a national force gradually be- coming more and more feeble, and at length altogether ceasing. The friends and the enemies of liberty perceived with equal clearness the causes of this general decay. It is the favorite theme of Strafford. ETe advises the King to procure from the Judges a recognition of his right to raise an army at his pleasure. ‘‘ This place well fortified,” says he, “ forever vindicates the monarchy at home from under the conditions and restraints of subjects.” We firmly be- lieve that he was in the right. Nay ; we believe that, even if no deliberate scheme of arbitrary government had been HALLAM. 345 form^^d by the sovereign and liis ministers, tlicrc was great reason to a])])reliend a natural extinction of the Constitution. If, for example, Charles had played tlie part of Gustavufe Adolidiiis, if he had carried on a popular war for the defence of the Protestant cause in Germany, if he had gratified the national pride by a series of victories, if he had formq^I an army of forty or fifty thousand devoted soldiers, we do not see wliat chance the nation would have had of escaping from despotism. The Judges would have given as strong a decision in favor of camp-money as they gave in favor of ship-money. If they had been scrupulous, it would havo made little difference. An individual who resisted would have been treated as Charles treated Eliot, and as Strafford wished to treat Hampden. The Parliament might have been summoned once in twenty years, to congratulate a King on his accession, or to give solemnity to some great measure of state. Such had been the fate of legislative assemblies as powerful, as much respected, as high-spirited, as the English Lords and Commons. The two Houses, surrounded by the ruins of so many free constitutions overthrown or sapped by the new military sys- tem, were required to intrust the command of an army and the con duct of the Irish war to a King who had proposed to himself the destruction of liberty as the great end of his pol- icy. We are decidedly of opinion that it would have been fatal to comply. Many of those who took the side of the King on this question would have cursed their own loyalty, if they had seen him return from war at the head of twenty thousand troops, accustomed to carnage and free quarters in Ireland. We think, with Mr. Ilallam, that many of the Royalist nobility and gentry were true friends to the Constitution, and that, but for the solemn protestations by which the King bound liimself to govern according to the law for the future, they never would have Joined his standard. But surely they un- derrated the public danger. Falkland is commonly selected as the most respectable specimen of thic class. He was .iideed a man of great talents and of great virtues, but, we apprehend, infinitely too fastidious for public life. He did not perceive that, in sucli times as those on which his lot had fallen, the duty of a state;::uaii is to choose the better cause and to stand by it, in spite of those excesses by which every cause, however good in itself, will be disgraced. The present evil always seemed to him the worst. He was always going 846 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. backward and forward : but it sliould be remembered to liis honor tliat it was always from the stronger to tlie weaker side lliat lie deserted. While Charles was. op])ressing the people, Falkland was a resolute champion of liberty. He attacked Strafford. He even concurred in strong measures against Episcopacy. But the violence of his party annoyed liiuf, and drove him to the other party, to be equally annoyed there. Dreading the success of the cause which he had espoused, disgusted by the courtiers of Oxford, as he had been disgusted by the patriots of Westminster, yet bound by honor not to abandon the cause for which he was in arms? he pined away, ne^^lected liis person, went about moaning for peace, and at last rushed desperately on death, as the best refuge in such miserable times. If he had lived through the scenes that followed, we have little doubt that he would have condemned himself to share the exile and beggary of the royal family ; that ho would then have re- turned to oppose all their measures ; that he would have been sent to the Tower by the Commons as a stiller of the Popish Plot, and by the King as an accomplice in the Rye-House Plot ; and that, if he had escaped being hanged, first by Scroggs, and then by Jefferies, lie would, after manfully op- posing James the Second through years of tyranny, have been seized with a fit of compassion at the very moment of the Revolution, have voted for a regency, and died a non- juror. We do not dispute that the royal party contained many excellent men and excellent citizens. But this we say, that they did not discern tliose times. The peculiar glory of the Houses of Parliament is that, in the great plague and mortal- ity of constitutions, they took their stand between the living and the dead. At the very crisis of our destiny, at the very moment when the fate which had passed on every other nation was about to pass on England, they arrested the danger. Those who conceive that the parliamentary leaders were desirous merely to maintain the old constitution, and those who rejiresent them as conspiring to subvert it, are equally in error. The old constitution, as we have attempted to sjiow, could not be maintained. The progress of time, the increase of wealth, the diffusion of knowledge, the great change in the European system of war, rendered it impos- sible that any of the monarchies of the middle ages should continue to exist on the old footing. The prerogative of the crown was constantly advancing. If the privileges of the HALLAM. 347 peo])]o were to remain absolutely stationary, they would relatively retrograde. The monarchical and democraticai parts of the government were placed in a situation not unlike that of the two brothers in the Fairy Queen, one of whom saw the soil of his inheritance daily washed away by the tide and joined to that of his rival. The portions had ut £rst been fairly meted out. By a natural and constant Uaiisfer, the one had been extended ; the other had dwindled to nothing. A new partition, or a compensation, was ne- r, cssary to restore the original equality. It was now, therefore, absolutely necessary to violate the formal part of the constitution, in order to preserve its spirit This miglit have been done, as it was done at the Revolution, by expelling the reigning family, and calling to the throne princes who, relying solely on an elective title, would find it necessary to respect the privileges and follow the advice of the assemblies to which they owed everything, to pass every bill which the Legislature strongly pressed upon them, and to fill the offices of state with men in whom the Legislature confided. But, as the two Houses did not choose to change the dynasty, it was necessary that they should do directly what at the Revolution was done indirectly. Nothing is more usual than to hear it said that, if the Houses had con- tented themselves with making such a reform in the govern- ment under Charles as was afterwards made under William, they would have had the highest claim to national gratitude ; and that in their violence they overshot the mark. But how was it possible to make such a settlement under Charles? Charles was not, like William and the princes of the Hano- verian line, bound by community of interests and dangers to the Parliament. It was therefore necessary that he should be bound by treaty and statute. Mr. Hallam reprobates, in language which has a little surprised us, the nineteen propositions into which the Par- liament digested its scheme. Is it possible to doubt that, if James the Second had remained in the island, and had been Buffered, as he probably would in that case have been suffered, to keep his crown, conditions to the full as hard would have been imposed on him ? On the other hand, we fully admit that, if the Long Parliament had pronounced the departure of Charles from London an abdication, and had called Essex or Northurnberland to the throne, the new prince might ■ have safely been suffered t-o reign without such restrictions. His situation would have b*'en a sufficien'^ guarantee. 348 macaclay's miscellaneous writings. In tlie nineteen propositions we sec very little to blame except the articles against the Catholics. These, however, were in the spirt of tliat age ; and to some sturdy churclimen in our own, they may seem to palliate even the good which the Long Parliament effected. The regulation with respect to new creations of Peers is the only other article about which we entertain any doubt. One of the propositions is that the judges shall hold their offices during good behavior. To this surely no exception will be taken. The right of direct- ing the education and mariage of the princes was most prop- erly claimed by the Parliament, on the same ground on which, after the Revolution, it was enacted, that no king, on pain of forfeting his throne, should espouse a Papist. Unless we condemn the statesmen of the Revolution, who conceived that England could not safely be governed by a sovereign married to a Catholic queen, we can scarcely condemn the Long Parliament because, having a sovereign so situated, they thought it necessary to place him under strict restraints. The influence of Henrietta Maria had already been deeply felt in political affairs. In the regulation of her family, in the education and marriage of her children, it was still more likely to be felt. There might be another Catholic queen ; possibly, a Catholic king. Little as we are disposed to join in the vulgar clamor on this subject, we think that such an event ought to be, if possible, averted ; and this could only be done, if Charles was to be left on the throne, by placing his domestic arrangements under the control of Parliament. A veto on the appointment of ministers was demanded. But this veto Parliament has virtually possessed ever since the Revolution. It is no doubt very far better that this power of the Legislature should be exercised, when any great occasion calls for interference, than that «at every change the Commons should have to signify their approbation or disapprobation in form. But, unless a new family had been placed on the throne, we do not see how this power could have been exercised as it is now exercised. We again re- peat, that no restraints which could be imposed on the princes who reigned after the Revolution could have added to the security which their title afforded. They were compelled to court their parliaments. But from Charles nothing was to be expected which was not set down in the bond. It was not stipulated that the King should give up his negative on acts of Parlianent. But the Commons had cer- tainly shown a strong disposition to exact this security also. HALL AM. 849 “ Such a doctrine,” says Mr. ITallara, “ was in this country as repugnant to the whole history of our laws, as it was incompatible with the subsistence of the monarchy in any thing more than a nominal pre-eminence.” Now this article has been as completely carried into effect by the Revolution as if it nad been formally inserted in the Bill of Rights and the Act of Settlement. We are surprised, we confess, that Mr. Hallam should attach so much importance to a preroga- tive which has not been exercised for a hundred and thirty years, which probably will never be exercised again, and which can scarcely, in any conceivable case, be exercised for a salutary purpose. But the great security, the security without which eveiy other Tvould have been insufficient, was the power of the sword. This both parties thoroughly understood. The Parliament insisted on having the command of the militia and the direction of the Irish war. ‘‘By God, not for an hour ! ” exclaimed the King. “ Keep the militia,” said the Queen, after the defeat of the royal party : “ Keep the militia ; that will bring back everything.” That, by the old constitution, no military authority was lodged in the Parliament, Mr. Hallam has clearly shown. That it is a species of authority which ought not to be permanently lodged in large and divided assemblies, must, we think, in fairness be conceded. Opposition, publicity, long discus- sion, frequent compromises ; these are the characters of the proceedings of such assemblies. Unity, secrecy, deci- sion, are the qualities which military arrangements require. There were, therefore, serious objections to the proposition of the Houses on this subject. But, on the other hand, to trust such a king, at such a crisis, with the very weapon which, in hands less dangerous, had destroyed so many free constitutions, would have been the extreme of rashness. The jealousy with which the oligarchy of Venice and the States of Holland regarded their generals and arniies in duced them perpetually to interfere in matters of which they were incompetent to judge. This policy secured them against military usurpation, but placed them under great disadvantages in war. The uncontrolled power which the King of France exercised over his troops enabled him to conquer his enemies, but enabled him also to oppress his people. Was there any intermediate course? None, we confess, altogether free from objection. But on the whole, conceive that the best measure w - uld have been that 850 Macaulay’s miscellaneous ^vkitings. wliicli the ParlijiTucnt over and over proposed, namely, that for a limited time the j)Ower of the sword should be left to the two Houses, and that it should revert to the Crown when the constitution should be firmly established, and when the new securities of freedom should be so far strengthened by prescriptioo that it would be difficult to employ even a standing army for the purpose of subverting them. Mr. Hallam thinks that the disjmte might easily have been compromised, by enacting that the King should have no power to keep a standing army on foot without the eon- sent of Parliament. He reasons as if the question had been merely theoretical, and as if at that time no army had been wanted. “The kingdom,” he says, “might have well dis- pensed, in that age, wdth any military organization.” Now, we think that Mr. Hallam overlooks the most important circumstances in the whole case. Ireland was actually in rebellion ; and a great expedition would obviously be ne- cessary to reduce that kingdom to obedience. The Houses had therefore to consider not an abstract question of law, but an urgent practical question, directly involving the safety of the state. They had to consider the expediency of immediately giving a great army to a King who was at least as desirous to put down the Parliament cf England as to conquer the insurgents of Ireland. Of course Ave do not mean to defend all the measures of the Houses. Far from it. There never was a perfect man. It w^ould, therefore, be the height of absurdity to expect a perfect party or a perfect assembly. For large bodies are far more likely to err than individuals. The passions are inflamed by sympathy ; the fear of punishment and the sense of shame are diminished by partition. Every day w^e see men do for their faction what they would die rather than do for themselves. Scarcely any private quarrel ever happens, in AAffiich the right and wrong ai-e so exquisitely divided that all the right lies on one side, and all the. Avrong on the other. But here was a schism which separated a great nation into tAvo j^arties. Of these parties, each was composed of smaller parties. Each contained many members, who differed far less from their moderate opponents than from their Auolent allies. Each reckoned among its supporters many Avho Av^ere deter- mined in their choice by some accident of birth, of connec- tion, or of local situation. Each of them attracted to itself in multitudes those fierce and turbid spirits, to whom the HALLAM. 351 clouds and whirlwinds of the political hurricane are the tttmos})liere of life. A party, like a camp, lias its sutlers and camp-followers, as well as its soldiers. In its progress it collects round it a vast retinue, composed of people who thrive by its custom or are amused by its display, who may be sometimes reckoned, in an ostentatious enumeration, as forming a ])art of it, but who give no aid to its operations, and take but a languid interest in its success, who relax its discipline and dishonor its flag by their irregularities, and who, after a disaster, are perfectly ready to cut the throats and rifle the baggage of their companions. Thus it is in every great division; and thus it was in our CIA il Avar. On both sides there Avas, undoubtedly, enough of crime and enough of error to disgust any man who did not reflect that the whole history of the species is made up of little except crimes and errors. Misanthropy is not the temper Avhich qualifies a man to act in great affairs, or to judge of them. “ Of the Parliament,” says Mr. Hallam, ‘‘ it may be said, I think, Avith not greater severity than truth, that scarce two or three public acts of justice, humanity, or generosity, and A^ery feAV of political Avisdom or courage, are recorded of them, from their quarrel Avith the King, to their expulsion by CromAvell.” Those who may agree Avith us in the opinion Avhich we haA^e expressed as to the original demands of the Parliament Avill scarcely concur in this strong censure. The propositions Avhich the Houses made at Oxford, at Uxbridge, and at NeAA^castle, were in strict accordance Avith these de- mands. In the darkest period of the Avar, they showed no disposition to concede any vital pi-inciple. In the fulness of their success, they sliOAved no disposition to encroach be- yond these limits. In this respect Ave cannot but think that they showed justice and generosity, as well as political wis- dom and courage. The Parliament Avas certainly far from faultless. We fully agree with Mr. Hallam in reprobating their treatment of Laud. For the individual, indeed, Ave entertain a more unmitigated contempt than for any other character in our history. The fondness Avith Avhich a portion of the church regards his memory, can be compared only to that perver- sity of affection which sometimes leads a mother to select the monster or the idiot of the family as the object of her especial 'faA'or. Mr. Ilallrim has incidentally obserA^ed, that, in the correspondence cf Laud Avith Strafford, there are no B52 MACAUT,Ay’s MISCELLANl!OUS W^RIT^GS. indications of a sense of duty towards God or man. The admirers of the Archl)isl)op liave, in consequence, inflicted upon tlie public a crowd of extracts designed to ])rove the contrary. Now, in all those passages, we see nothing which a prelate as wicked as Pope Alexander or Cardinal Dubois might not liave written. Those passages indicate no sense of duty to God or man, but simply a strong interest in tlie t irosperity and dignity of the order to which the writer be- onged ; an interest Avhich, Avhen kept within certain limits, does not deserve censure, but which can never be considered as a virtue. Laud is anxious to accommodate satisfactorily the disputes in the University of Dublin. lie regrets to hear that a church is used as a stable, and that the benefices of Ireland are very poor. lie is desirous that, however small a congregation may be, service should be regularly performed. He expresses a wish that the judges of the court before which questions of tithe arc generally brought should be selected with a view to the interests of the clergy. All this may be very proper ; and it may be very proper that an alderman should stand up for the tolls of his borough, and an East India director for the charter of liis Company. But it is ridiculous to say that these things indicate piety and benevolence. No })rimate, though he w^ere the most abandoned of mankind, could wish to see the body, with the influence of wUich his own influence was identical, degraded in the public estimation by internal dissensions, by the ruin- ous state of its edifices, and by the slovenly performance of its rites. We willingly acknowledge that the particular letters in question have very little harm in them ; a compli- ment wdiich cannot often be paid either to the writings or to the actions of Laud. Bad as the Archbishop was, however, he was not a traitor within the statute. Nor was he by any means so formidable as to be a proper subject for a retrospective ordinance of the legislature. His mind had not expansion enough to comprehend a great scheme, good or bad. His oppressive acts were not, like those of the Earl of Strafford, parts of an extensive system. They were the luxuries in which a mean and irritable disposition indulges itself from day to day, the excesses natural to a little mind in a great place. The severest punishment which the tw^o Houses could have inflicted on him would have been to set him at liberty and send liim to Oxford. There he might have staid, tortured by his ow n diabolical temper, hungering for Puritans to pillory HAIXAM. 853 and mangle, plaguing the Cavaliers, for want of somebody else to plague, with his ])eevishness and absurdity, perform- ing grimaces and antics in the cathedral, continuing that incomparable diary, which we never see without forgetting the vices of his heart in the imbecility of his intellect, minut- ing down his dreams, counting the drops of blood which fell from his nose, watching the direction of the salt, and listen- ing for the note of the screech-owls. Contemptuous mercy was the only vengeance which it became the Parliament to take on such a ridiculous old bigot. The Houses, it must be acknowledged, committed great errors in the conduct of the war, or rather one great error, which brought their affairs into a condition requiring the most perilous expedients. The parliamentary leaders tof what may be called the first generation, Essex, Manchester, Northumberland, Hollis, even Pym, all the most eminent men, in short, Hampden excepted, were inclined to half measures. They dreaded a decisive victory almost as much as a decisive overthrow. They wished to bring the King into a situation which might render it necessary for him to grant their just and wise demands, but not to subvert the constitution or to change the dynasty. They were afraid of serving the purposes of those fierce and determined enemies of monarchy, who now began to show themselves in the lower ranks of the party. The war was, therefore, con- ducted in a languid and inefficient manner. A resolute leader might have brought it to a close in a month. At the end of three campaigns, however, the event was still dubi- ous ; and that it had not been decidedly unfavorable to the cause of liberty was principally owing to the skill and energy which the more violent Koundheads had displayed in subordinate situations. The conduct of Fairfax and Cromwell at Marston had exhibited a remarkable contrast to that of Essex at Edgehill, and to that of Waller at Lans- downe. If there be any truth established by the universal expe- rience of the nations, it is this, that to cairy the spirit of peace into war is a weak and cruel policy c The time of negotiation is the time for deliberation and delay. But when an extreme case calls for that remedy which is in its own nature most violent, and which, in such cases, is a rem- edy only because it is violent, it is idle to think of miti- gating and diluting. Languid war can do nothing which negotiation or submission will not do better : and to act on VoLo I —23 — 354 Macaulay’s miscella^;(£0U8 writings. any otlicr ])rinci])lc is, not to save blood and money, Init to squander them. This the j)ar]ianientary leaders found. The third year of hostilities was drawing to a close ; and they had not con- quered the King. They liad not obtained even those ad vantages which they had expected from a policy obviously erroneous in a military point of view. They had wished to husband their resources. They now found that in enterprises like theirs, parsimony is the worst profusion. They had hoped to effect a reconciliation. The event taught them that the best way to conciliate is to bring the work of destruc- tion to a speedy termination. By their moderation many lives and much property had been wasted. The angry passions which, if the contest had been shoi’t, would liave died away almost as soon as they appeared, had fixed them- selves in the form of deep and lasting hatred. A military caste had grown up. Those who had been induced to take up arms by the patriotic feelings of citizens had begun to entertain the j)rofessional feelings of soldiers. Above all, the leaders of the party had forfeited its confidence. If they had, by their valor and abilities, gained a complete victory, their influence might have been sufficient to prevent their associates from abusing it. It was now necessary to choose more resolute and uncompromising commanders. Unhap- pily the illustrious man who alone united in himself all the talents and virtues which the crisis required, who alone could have saved his country from the present dangers without plunging her into others, who alone could have united all the friends of liberty in obedience to his com- manding genius and his A enerable name, was no more. Something might still be done. The Houses might still avert the worst of all evils, the triumphant return of an im- ])erious and unprincipled master. They might still preserve London from all the horrors of rapine, massacre, and lust. But their hopes of a victory as spotless as their cause, of a reconciliation which might knit together the hearts of all honest Englishmen for the defence of the public good, of durable tranquillity, of temperate freedom, were buried in the grave of Hampden. The self-denying ordinance was passed, and the army was remodelled. These measures were undoubtedly full of danger. But all that was left to the Parliament was to take the less of two dangers. And we think that, even if they could have accurately foreseen all that followed, their deci- UALLAM. 355 eion ought to have been the same. Under any circumstances, we should have preferred Cromwell to Charles. But there could be no comparison between Cromwell and Charles vic- torious, Charles restored, Charles enabled to feed fat all the hungry grudges of liis smiling rancor and his cringing pride. The next visit of his Majesty to his faithful Com- mons would liave been more serious than that with which be last honored them ; more serious than that Avhich their own General ]3aid them some years after The King would scarce have been content with praying that the Lord would deliver him from Vane, or with pulling Marten by the cloak. If, by fatal mismanagement, nothing was left to England but a choice of tyrants, the last tyrant whom she should have chosen was Charles. From the apprehension of this worst evil the Houses were soon delivered by their new leaders. The armies of Charles were everywhere routed, his fastnesses stormed, his party humbled and subjugated. The King himself fell into the hands of the Parliament ; and both the King and the Parliament soon fell into the hands of the army. The fate of both the captives was the same. Both were treated alternately with respect and with insult- At length the natural life of one, and the political life of the other, were terminated by violence ; and the power for which both had struggled was united in a single hand. Men naturally sym- pathized with the calamities of individuals ; but they are inclined to look on a fallen party with contempt rather than with pity. Thus misfortune turned the greatest of Parlia- ments into the despised Rump, and the worst of Kings into the Blessed Martyr. Mr. Hallam decidedly condemns the execution of Charles ; and in all that he says on that subject we heartily agree. We fully concur with him in thinking that a great social schism, such as the civil war, is not to be confounded with an ordinary treason, and that the vanquished ought to bo treated according to the rules, not of municipal, but of in«^ ternational law. In this case the distinction is of the less importance, because both international and municipal law Avere in favor of Charles. He was a prisoner of war by the former, a King by the latter. By neither was he a traitor. If he had been successful, and had put his leading opponents to death, he would have deserved severe censure ; and this without reference to the justice or injustice of his cause. Vet the opponents of Charles, it must be admitted, wer© 856 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. technically guilty of treason, lie might have sent them to the scaffold without violating any established principle of jurisprudence. lie would not have been compelled to over- turn the whole constitution in order to reach them. Here his own case differed Avidely from theirs. Not only was his condemnation in itself a measure which only the strong- est necessity could vindicate ; but it could not be procured without taking several previous stej)S, every one of Avhich would have required the strongest necessity to vindicate it. It could not be procured without dissolving the government by military force, without establishing precedents of the most dangerous description, without creating difficulties v/hich the next ten years w^ere spent in removing, without pulling down institutions Avhich it soon became necessary to reconstruct, and setting up others Avhich almost every man was soon impatient to destroy. It Avas necessary to strike the House of Lords out of the constitution, to exclude members of the House of Commons by force, to make a new crime, a new tribunal, a new mode of procedure. The Avhole legislative and judicial systems were trampled doAvn for the purpose of taking a single head. Not only those parts of the constitution which the republicans were desirous to de- stroy, but those which they wished to retain and exalt, were deeply injured by these transactions. High Courts of Jus- tice began to usurp the functions of juries. The remaining delegates of the people Avere soon driven from their seats by the same military violence which had enabled them to ex- clude their colleagues. If Charles had been the last of his line, there would haA^e been an intelligible reason for putting him to death. But the blow Avhich terminated his life at once transferred the allegiance of every Royalist to an heir, and an heir who Avas at liberty. To kill the indiAudual was, under such circum- stances, not to destroy, but to release the King. We detest the character of Charles ; but a man ought not to be removed by a law ex post facto ^ even constitutionally procured, merely because he is detestable. He must also bo very dangerous. We can scarcely conceive that any dauger which a state can apprehend from any individual could jus- tify the violent measures which were necessary to procure a sentence against Charles. But in fact the danger amounted to nothing. There was indeed danger from the attachment of a large party to his office. But this danger his execution only increased. His personal influence was little indeed- HALLAM. 857 He liJid lost the confidence of every party. Clmrchnien, Catholics, Picsbyterians, Independents, his eneinieL', liis triends, liis tools, English, Scotch, Irish, all divisions and subdivisions of his people had been deceived by him. His most attached councillors turned away with shame and an- gui:h from his false and hollow policy, plot interwined witli plot, mine sprung beneath mine, agents disowned, prom- ises evaded, one pledge given in private, another in public. “Oh, Mr. Secretary,” says Clarendon, in a letter to Nicholas, “ those stratagems have given me more sad hours than all the misfortunes in war which have befallen the King, and look like the effects of God’s anger towards us.” The abilities c Charles were not formidable. His taste in the fine arts was indeed exquisite ; and few modern sov- ereigns have written or spoken better. But he was not fit for active life. In negotiation he was always trying to dupe others, and duping only himself. As a soldier, he was feeble, dilatory, and miserably wanting, not in personal courage, but in the presence of mind which his station required. His delay at Gloucester saved the parliamentary party from de- struction. At Naseby, in the very crisis of his fortune, his want of self-possession spread a fatal panic through his army. The story which Clarendon tells of that affair reminds us of the excuses by which Bessus and Bobadil explain their cud- gellings. A Scotch nobleman, it seems, begged the King not to run upon his death, took hold of his bridle, and turned his horse round. No man who had much value for his life would have tried to perform the some friendly office on that day for Oliver Cromwell. One thing, and one alone, could make Charles dangerous, a violent death. His tyranny could not break the high spirit of the English people. His arms could not conquer, his arts could not deceive them ; but his humiliation and his execu- tion melted them into a generous compassion. Men who die on a scaffold for political offences almost always die well. The eyes of thousands are fixed upon them. Enemies and admires are watching their demeanor. Every tone of voice, every change of color, is to go down to posterity. Escape is impossible. Supplication is vain. In such a situation, pride and despair have often been known to nerve the weak- est minds with fortitude adequate to the occasion. Charles died patiently and bravely ; not more patiently or bravely, in- deed, than many other victims of political rage ; not more patiently or bravely than his own Judges, who were not only 358 macaoLay’s miscellaneous writings. killed, but tortured ; or tliaii Vane, who liad always been con- sidered as a timid man. However, the King’s conduct dur- ing his trial and at his execution made a j)rodigious impres- sion. His subjects began to love his memory as heartily as they had hated his person ; and posterity has estimated hia character from his death rather tlian from his life. To represent Charles as a martyr in the cause of Episcopacy is absurd. Those who put him to death cared as little for the Assembly of Divines as for the Convocation, and would, in all probability, only have hated him the more if he had agreed to set up the Presbyterian discipline. Indeed, in spite of the opinion of Mr. Hallam, we are inclined to think that the attachment of Charles to the Church of England was altogether political. Human nature is, we admit, so capri- cious that there may be a single sensitive point in a conscience which everywhere else is callous. A man without truth or humanity may have some strange scruples about a trifle. There was one devout warrior in the royal cam|:> whose piety bore a great resemblance to that which is ascribed to the King. We mean Colonel Turner. That gallant Cavalier was hanged, after the Restoration, for a flagitious burglary. At the gallows he told tlie crowd that his mind received great consolation from one reflection : he had always taken off his hat when he went into a church. The character of Charles would scarcely rise in our estimation, if we believed that he was pricked in conscience after the manner of this worthy loyalist, and that violating all the first rules of Christian morality, he was sincerely scrupulous about church-govern- ment. But we acquit him of such weakness. In 1641, he deliberately confirmed the Scotch Declaration which stated that the government of the church by archbishops and bishops was contrary to the word of God. In 1645, he appears to have offered to set up Popery in Ireland. That a King who had established the Presbyterian religion in one kingdom, and who was willing to establish the Catholic religion in another should have insurmountable scruples about the ecclesiastical constitution of the third, is altogether incred- ible. He himself says in his letters that he looks on Episcopacy as a stronger support of monarchical power than even the army. From causes which we have already con- sidered, tlie Established Church had been, since the Refor- mation, the great bulwark of the prerogative. Charles wished, therefore, to preserve it. He thought himself necessary both to tho Parliament and to the army. He did not foresee, till HALLAM. 35D too late, that, by paltering with tlie Presbyterians, he should put both them and himself into tlie ])ower of a fiercer ond more daring party. If he liad foreseen it, we sus])ect that the royal blood which still cries to Heaven, every thirtieth of January, for judgments only to be averted by salt-fish and egg-sauce, would never have been shed. One who had swal- lowed tlie Scotch Declaration would scarcely strain at the Covenant. The death of Charles and the strong measures which led to it raised Cromwell to a height of power fatal to the infant Commonwealth. No men occupy so splendid a place in his- tory as those who have founded monarchies on the ruins of republican institutions. Their glory, if not of the purest, is assuredly of the most seductive and dazzling kind. In na- tions broken to the curb, in nations long accustomed to be transferred from one tyrant to another, a man without eminent qualities may easily gain supreme power. The de- fection of a troop of guards, a conspiracy of eunuchs, a pop- ular tumult, might place an indolent senator or a brutal sol- dier on the throne of the Roman world. Similar revolutions have often occurred in the despotic states of Asia. But a community which has heard the voiee of truth and experi- enced the pleasures of liberty, in which the merits of statesmen and of systems are freely canvassed, in which obedience is paid, not to persons but to laws, in which magistrates are regarded, not as the lords, but as the servants of the public, in which the excitement of party is a necessary of life, in which political warfare is reduced to a system of taetics ; such a community is not easily reduced to servitude. Beasts of l)urden may easily be maiiaged by a new master. But will the wild ass submit to tlie bonds? Will the unicorn serve and abide by the crib ? Will leviathan hold out his nostrils to the hook? The mythological conqueror of the East, whose enchantments reduced wild beasts to the tameness of domestic cattle, and who harnessed lions and tigers to fiis chariot, is but an imperfect type of those extraordinary minds which have thrown a spell on the fierce spirits of na- tions unaccustomed to control, and have compelled raging factions to obey their reins and swell their triumph. The enterprise, be it good or bad, is one which requires a truly . great man. It demands courage, activity, energy, wisdom, firmness, conspicuous virtues or vices so splendid and al* having as to resemble virtues. Those who have succeeded in this arduous undertaking 360 Macaulay's miscellaneous wuitimgs- form a very small and a very remarkable class. Parents of tyranny, heirs of freedom, kings among citizens, citizens among kings, they unite in tliemselves the characteristics of the system which sj)rings from them, and those of the sys- tem from which they have sjirung. Their reigns shine with a double light, the last and dearest rays of departing free- dom mingled with the first and brightest glories of empire in its dawn. The high qualities of such a prince lend to despotism itself a charm drawn from the liberty under which they were formed, and which they have destroyed. He resembles an European who settles within the Tropics, and carries thither the strength and the energetic habits acquired in regions more propitious to the constitution. He differs as Vvidely from princes nursed in the purple of imperial cradles, as the companions of Gama from their dwarfish and imbecile progeny which, born in a climate unfavorable to its growth and beauty, degenerates more and more, at every descent, from the qualities of the original conquerors. In this class three men stand pre-eminent, Caesar, Crom- well, and Bonaparte. The highest place in this remarkable triumvirate belongs undoubtedly to Caesar. He united the talents of Bonaparte to those of Cromwell ; and he ])os- sessed also, what neither Cromwell nor Bonaparte possessed, learning, taste, wit, eloquence, the sentiments and the man- ners of an accomplished gentleman. Between Cromwell and Napoleon Mr. Hallam has insti- tuted a parallel, scarcely less ingenious than that which Burke has drawm between Richard Coeur de Lien and Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. In this parallel, however, and indeed thoughout his work, we think that he hardly gives Cromwell fair measure. ‘‘ Cromwell, ” says he,‘‘ far unlike his antitype, never showed any signs of a legislative mind, or any desire to place his renown on that noblest basis, the amelioration of social institutions.” The difference in this respect, we conceive was not in the character of the men, but in the characters of the revolutions by means of which they rose to power. The civil war in England had been undertaken to defend and restore ; the republicans of France set themselves to destroy. In England, the principles ol the common law had never been disturbed, and most even of its forms had been held sacred. In France, the law and its ministers had been swept away together. In France, therefore, legislation necessarily became the first business of the first settle! government which rose on the ruins of the HALLAM. 361 old system. The admirers of Inigo Jones have always maintained that his works are inferior to those of Sir Christopher Wren, only because the great fire of London gave Wren such a field for the display of his powers as no architect in the history of the world ever possessed. Simi- lar allowance must be made .for Cromwell. If he erected little that was new, it was because there had been no general devastation to clear a space for him. As it was, he reformed the representative system in a most judicious, manner. lie rendered the administration of justice uniform thoughcut the island. We will quote a passage from his speech to the Parliament in September, 1656, which contains, we think, simple and rude as the diction is, stronger indication of a legislative mind, than are to be found in the whole range of orations delivered on such occasions before or since. ‘‘ There is one general grievance in the nation. It is the law. I think, I may say it, I have as eminent judges in this land as have been had, or that the nation has had for these many years. Truly, I could be particular as to the executive part, to the administration ; but that would trouble you. But the truth of it is, there are wicked and abominable laws that will be in your power to alter. To hang a man for six- pence, threepence, I know not what, — to hang for a trifle, and pardon murder, is in the ministration of the law through the ill framing of it. I have known in my experience abominable murders quitted ; and to see men lose their lives for petty matters ! This is a thing that God will reckon for; and I wish it may not lie upon this nation a day longer than you have an opportunity to gire a remedy; and I hope I shall cheerfully join with you in it.” Mr. Hallain truly says that, though it is impossible to rank Cromwell with Napoleon as a general, yet ‘‘ his ex- ploits were as much above the level of his contemporaries, and more the effects of an original uneducated capacity.” Bonaparte was trained in the best military schools ; the army which he led to Italy was one of the finest that ever existed. Cromwell passed his youth and the prime of his manhood in a civil situation. He never looked on war till he was more than forty years old. He had first to form himself and then to form his troops. Out of raw levies he created an army, the bravest and the best disciplined, the most orderly in peace, and the most terrible in war, that Europe had seen. He called this body into existence. He led it to conquest. He never fought a battle without gain*^ 862 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. ing it. lie never gained a battle witliout annihilating the force oj)|)osed to liiin. V^et liis victories were not the higli- est glory of his military system. Tlie respect wliich his troo])S paid to ]>roperty, tlieir attachmewt to the laws and religion of their country, their submission to tlie civil power, tlieir temperance, their intelligence, their industry, are witliout parallel. It Avas after the Restoration that tlie spirit which their great leader had infused into them was most signally displayed. At the command of the established government, an established government which had no means of enforcing obedience, fifty thousand soldiers, whose liacks no enemy had ever seen, eitlier in domestic or in continental Avar, laid doAvn their arms, and retired into the mass of the peo])le, thenceforAvard to be distinguished only by superior diligence, sobriety, and regularity in the pursuits of peace, from the other members of the community which they had saved. In the general spirit and character of his adminstration, Ave think CromAvell far superior to Napoleon. “ In civil government,” says Mr. Hallam, “ there can be no adequate parallel between one who had sucked only the dregs of a be- sotted fanaticism, and one to whom the stores of reason and ])hilosophy were open. ” These expressions, it seems to us, coiiA^ey the highest eulogium on our great countryman. Reason and philosophy did not teach the conqueror of Europe to command his passions, or to pursue, as a first ob- ject, the happiness of his people. They did not prevent liim from risking his fame and his power in a frantic con- test against the princijDles of human nature and the laAvs of the physical Avorld, against the rage of the winter and the liberty of the sea. They did not exempt him from the in- fluence of that most pernicious of superstitions, a presump- tuous fatalism. They did not preserve him from the ine- briation of prosperity, or restrain him from indecent queru- lousness in adversity. On the other hand, the fanaticism of Cromwell never urged him on impracticable undertakings, or confused his perception of the public good. Our coun- tryman, inferior to Bonaparte in invention, was far superior to him in wisdom. The French Emperor is among conquer- ors AA'hat Voltaire is among writers, a miraculous child. Ilis splendid genius was frequently clouded by fits of humor as absurdly perverse as those of the pet of the nursery, who quarrels with his food, and dashes his playthings to pieces. Cromwell was emphatically a man. He possessed, in an HALLAM. 363 eminent degree, that masculine and full-grown robustness of mind, that equally diffused intellectual health, Avhich, it our national ])artiality does not mislead us, has peculiarly characterized the great men of England. Never was any ruler so consi)icuously born for sovereignty. The cup which Ins intoxicated almost all others sobered him. His spirit, restless from its own buoyancy in a lower sphere, reposed in majestic placidity as soon as it had reached the level con- genial to it. He had nothing in common with that large cla*;s of men who distinguish themselves in subordinate posts, and whose incapacity becomes obvious as soon as the public voice summons them to take the lead. Rapidly as his fortunes grew, his mind expanded more rapidly still. In- significant as a priA^ate citizen, he was a great general ; he was a still greater prince. Napoleon had a theatrical man- ner, in which the coarseness of a revolutionary guard-room was blended with the ceremony of the old Court of Ver- sailles. Cromwell, by the confession even of his enemies, exhibited in his demeanor the simple and natural nobleness of a man neither ashamed of his origin nor vain of his eleva- tion, of a man who had found his proper place in society, and who felt secure that he was competent to fill it. Easy, even to familiarity, where his own dignity Avas concerned, he was punctilious only for his country. His own character he left to take care of itself ; he left it to be defended by his Auctories in Avar, and his reforms in peace. But he Avas a jealous and implacable guardian of the public honor. He suffered a crazy Quaker to insult him in the gallery of Whitehall, and reA^enged himself only by liberating him and giving him a dinner. But he w^as prepared to risk the chances of Avar to avenge the blood of a private Englishman. No sovereign ever carried to the throne so large a portion of the best qualities of the middling orders, so strong a sym- pathy Avith the feelings and interests of his people. He Avas sometimes driven to arbitrary measures; but he had a high, stout, honest, English heart. Hence it was that he loved to surround his throne with such men as Hale and Blake. Hence it was that he allowed so large a share of political liberty to his subjects, and that, even Avhen an opposition dangerous to his poAver and to his person almost compelled him to gOA^ern by the SAVord, he-Avas still anxious to leave a germ from Avhich, at a more favorable season, free institutions might spring. We firmly belie\^e that, if his first Parlia- ment had not commenced its debates by disputing his title. 864 Macaulay's misckllankous wnirmos. his government would have been as mild at home as it was energetic and able abroad. Ife Avas a soldier . he had risen by Avar. Had his ambition been of an impure or selfish kind, it would have been easy for him to plunge his country inle continental hostilities on a large scale, and to dazzle the restless factions which he ruled, by the splendor of his vic- tories. Some of his enemies have sneeringly remarked, that in the successes obtained under his administration he had no personal share ; as if a man avIio had raised himself from obscurity to empire solely by his military talents could have any unAvorthy reason for shrinking from military enter- prise. This reproach is his highest glory. In the suc- cess of the English navy he could have no selfish interest. Its triumphs added nothing to his fame ; its increase added nothing to his means of overaAving his enemies; its great leader was not his friend. Yet he took a peculiar pleasure in encouraging that noble service which, of all the instru- ments employed by an English government, is the most impotent for mischief, and the most powerful for good. His administration was glorious, but Avith no Auilgar glory. It was not one of those periods of overstrained and convulsive exertion Avhich necessarily produce debility and langor. Its energy Avas natural, healthful, temperate. He placed Eng- land at the head of the Protestant interest, and in the first rank of Christian powers. He taught every nation to value her friendship and to dread her enmity. But he did not squander her resources in a A^ain attempt to iiiA^est her with that supremacy which no poAver, in the modern system of Europe, can safely affect, or can long retain. This noble and sober Avisdom had its reward. If he did not carry the banners of the Commonwealth in triumph to distant capitals, if he did not adorn Whitehall with the spoils of the Stadthouse and the Louvre, if he did not portion out Flanders and Germany into principalities for his kinsmen and his generals, he did not, on the other hand, see his country overrun by the armies of nations which his ambition had provoked. He did not drag out the last years of his life an exile and a prisoner, in an unhealthy climate and under an ungenerous gaoler, raging with the impotent desire of vengeance, and brooding over visions of departed glory. He went down to his grave in the fulness of power and fame ; and he left to his son an authority Avhich any man of ordi- nary firmness and prudence Avould have retained. But for the weakness of that foolish Ishbosheth, the opin flALLAM. S65 ions which we have been expressing would, we believe, now have formed the orthodox creed of good Englishmen. We night now be writing under the govermnent of his Highness Oliver the Fifth or Richard the Fourth, Protector, by the grace of God, of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland, and Ireland, and the dominions thereto belonging. The form of the great founder of the dynasty, on horseback, as when he led the charge at Naseby, or on foot, as when he took the mace from tlie table of the Commons, would adorn our squares and overlook our public offices from Charing- Cross ; and sermons in his praise would be duly preached on his lucky day, the third of September, by court-chaplains, guiltless of the abomination of the surplice. JBut, though his memory has not been taken under the patronage of any party, though every device has been used to blacken it, though to praise him would long have been a punishable crime, truth and merit at last prevail. Cowards who had trembled at the very sound of his name, tools of office who, like Downing, had been proud of tne honor of lacqueying his coach, might insult him in loyal speeches and addresses. Venal jDoets might transfer to the King the same eulogies, little the worse for wear, which they had bestowed on the Protector. A fickle multitude might crowd to shout and scoff round the gibbeted remains of the greatest Prince and Soldier of the age. But when the Dutch cannon etartled an effeminate tyrant in his own palace, when the conquests which had been won by the armies of Cromwell were sold to pamper the harlots of Charles, when Englishmen were sent to fight under foreign banners, against the inde- pendence of Europe and the Protestant religion, many honest hearts swelled in secret at the thought of one who had never suffered his country to be ill used by any but himself. It must indeed have been difficult for any English- man to see the salaried Viceroy of France, at the most im- portant crisis of his fate, sauntering through Tiis harem, yawning and talking nonsense over a dispatch, or beslob- bering his brother and his courtiers in a fit of maudlin affec- tion, without a respectful and tender remembrance of him before whose genius the young pride of Lewis and the veteran craft of Mazarin had stood rebuked, who had humbled Spain on the land and Holland on the sea, and Avhose imperial voice had arrested the sails of the Lybian pirates and the persecuting fires of Rome. Even to the presei t day his character, ilioiigh constantly attacked, and 860 macaitlay’s miscell.\ni:ous avritings. Beared y ever defended, is popular Avitli the great body ot our eountrynien. The most hlamealde aet of Ids life was tlie exeeutioii of Charles. We have already strongly eondemned that pro- ceeding* but we by no means eonsider it as one which attaches any peculiar stigma of infamy to the names of those who participated in it. It was an unjust and injudicious display of violent ]>arty spirit; Init it was not a cruel or por- Hdious measure. It had all those features which distinguish tlie errors of magnanimous and intrepid spirits from base and malignant crimes. From the moment that Cromwell is dead and buried, we go on in almost perfect harmony with Mr. Hallam to the end of his book. The times which followed the Restoration peculiarly require that unsparing impartiality which is his most distinguishing virtue. No part of our history, during the last three centuries, presents a spectacle of such general dreariness. The whole breed of our statesmen seems to have degenerated, and their moral and intellectual littleness strikes us with the more disgust, because we see it placed in immediate contrast with the high and majestic qualities of the race which they succeeded. In the great civil war, even the bad cause had been rendered respectable and amiable by the purity and elevation of mind which many of its friend^^ displayed. Under Charles the Second, the best and nobles\> of ends was disgraced by means the most cruel and sordid The rage of faction succeeded to the love of liberty. Loyalty died away into servility. We look in vain among the leading politicians of either side for steadiness of principle, or even for that vulgar fidelity to party which, in our time, it is esteemed infamous, to violate. The inconsistency, per- fidy, and baseness, which the, leaders constantly practised, which their followers defended, and which the great body of the people regarded, as it seems, wdth little disapprobation, appear in the present age almost incredible. In the age of Charles the First, they would, we believe, have exc'ited as much astonishment. Man, however, is always the same. And when so marked a difference appears between two generations, it is certain that the solution may be found in their respective circum- stances. The principal statesmen of the reign of Charles the Second were trained during the civil war and the revolu- tions which followed it. Such a period is eminently favor- able to the growth of quick and active talents. It forms a HALLAM. 367 class of men, shrewd, vigilant, inventive; of men wlioso dexterity triiimplis over the most perplexing combinations of circumstances, whose presaging instinct no sign of the times can elude. But it is an unpropitious season for the firm and masculine virtues. The statesman who enters on his career at such a time, can form no permanent connec- tions, can make no accurate observations on the higher parts of political science. Before he can attach himself to a party, it is scattered. Before he can study the nature of a govern- ment, it is overturned. The oath of abjuration comes close on the oath of allegiance. The association which was sub- scribed yesterday is burned by the hangman to-day. In the midst of the constant eddy and change, self-preservation becomes the first object of the adventurer. It is a task too hard for the strongest head to keep itself from becoming giddy in the eternal whirl. Public spirit is out of the question. A laxity of principle, without which no public man can be eminent or even safe, becomes too common to be scandalous ; and the whole nation looks coolly on instances of apostacy which would startle the foulest turncoat of more settled times. The history of France since the Revolution affords some striking illustrations of these remarks. The same man was a servant of the Republic, of Bonaparte, of Louis the Eigh- teenth, of Bonaparte again after his return from Elba, of Louis again after his return from Ghent. Yet all these manifold treasons by no means seemed to destroy his influ- ence, or even to fix any peculiar stain of infamy on his character. We, to be sure, did not know what to make of him; but his countrymen did not seem to be shocked; and in truth they had little right to be shocked : for there wa? scarcely one Frenchman distinguished in the state or in the army, who had not, according to the best of his talents and opportunities, emulated the example. It was natural, too, that this should be the case. The rapidity and violence with which change followed change in the affairs of France towards the close of the last century had taken away the reproach of inconsistency, unfixed the principles of public men, and produced in many minds a general skepticism and • indifference about principles of government. No Englishman who has studied attentively the reign of Charles the Second will think himself entitled to indulgence in any feelings of national superiority over the DictionnairQ des GirowUcm. Shaftesbury was surely a far less respect. Macaulay’s mtsckllankous wkitings. 3l>8 able man than Talleyrand ; and it would be injustice even to Fouch6 to compare him with Lauderdale. Nothing, indeed, can more clearly show how low the standard of political morality had fallen in this country than the fortunes of the two British statesmen whom we have named. The government wanted a ruffian to carry on the most atrocious system of misgovernment with which any nation was ever cursed, to extirpate Presbyterianism by fire and sword, by the drowning of women, by the frightful torture of the boot. And they found him among the chiefs of the rebellion and the subscribers of the Covenant. The opposition looked for a chief to head them in the most desperate attacks ever made, under the forms of the Constitution, on any English administration: and they selected the minister who had the deepest share in the worst acts of the Court, the soul of the Cabal, the counsellor who had shut u]3 the Exchequer and urged on the Dutch war. The whole political drama was of the same cast. No unity of plan, no decent propriety of character and costume, could be found in that wild and monstrous harlequinade. The whole was made up of ex- travagant transformations and burlesque contrasts ; Atheists turned Puritans; Puritans turned Atheists; republicans de- fending the divine right of Kings; prostitute courtiers clamoring for the liberties of the people ; judges inflaming the rage of mobs ; patriots pocketing bribes from foreign powers ; a Popish prince torturing Presbyterians into Epis- copacy in one part of the island; Presbyterians cutting off the heads of Popish noblemen and gentlemen in the other. Public opinion has its natural flux and reflux. After a violent burst, there is commonly a reaction. But vicissi- tudes so extraordinary as those which marked the reign of Charles the Second can only be explained by supposing an utter want of principle in the political world. On neither side was there fidelity enough to face a reverse. Those honorable retreats from power which, in later days, parties have often made, with loss, but still in good order, in firm union, with unbroken spirit and formidable means of annoy- ance, were utterly unknown. As soon as a check took place a total rout followed : arms and colors were thrown away. The vanquished troops, like the Italian mercenaries of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, enlisted on the very field of battle, in the service of the conquerers. In a nation proud of its sturdy justice and plain good sense, no party could be found to take a firm middle stand between the nALLAM. 369 worst of oppositions and tl\e worst of courts. Wlien, on charges as wild as Motlicr Goose’s tales, on the testimony of wretches who proclaimed themselves to be spies and traitors, and whom everybody now believes to have been also liars and murderers, the offal of jails and brothels, the leavings of the hangman’s whij) and shears, Catholics guilty of noth- ing but their religion were led like sheep to the Protestant shambles, where were the loyal Tory gentry and the pas- sively obedient clergy? And where, when the time of retri- bution came, when laws were strained and juries packed to destroy the leaders of the Whigs, when charters were invaded, when Jefferies and Kirke were making Somerset- shire what Lauderdale and Graham had made Scotland, where were the ten thousand brisk boys of Shaftesbury, the members of ignoramus juries, the Avearers of the Polish medal? All-powerful to destroy others, unable to save themselves, the members of the tAvo parties oppressed and Avere oppressed, murdered, and were murdered, in their turn. No lucid inter A\al occurred betAveen the frantic paroxysms of tAvo contradictory illusions. To the freqnent changes of the government during the twenty years which had preceded the Restoration, this unsteadiness is in a great measure to be attributed. Other causes had also been at Avork. Even if the country had been governed by the house of Cromwell or by the remains of the Long Parliament, the extreme austerity of the Puri- tans Avould necessarily have produced a revulsion. Towards the close of the Protectorate many signs indicated that a time of license Avas at hand. But the restoration of Charles the Second rendered the change wonderfully rapid and Auolent. Profligacy became a test of orthodoxy and loyalty, a qualification for rank and office. A deep and general taint infected the morals of the most influential classes, and spread Itself through every proAunce of letters. Poetry inflamed the passions ; philosophy undermined the principles ; divinity itself, inculcating an abject reverence for the Court, gave additional effect to the licentious example of the Court. We look in vain for those qualities Avhich lend a charm to the errors of high and ardent natures, for the generosity, the tenderness, the chivalrous delicacy, which ennoble appe- tites into passions, and impart to vice itself a portion of the majesty of Aurtue. The excesses of that age remind us of the humors of a gang of footpads, revelling with their favorite beauties of a flash-house, In the fashionable liber- Yoi.. 370 MACAULAY'S MISCELLAJSEOUS WKITINQS. tmisin tliere is a lianl, cold ferocity, an impudence, a low- ness, a dirtiness, wliicli can be ])aralleled only among the lieroes and heroines of that filthy and heartless literature which encouraged it. One nobleman of great abilities wanders about as a Merry-Andrew. Another harangues the mob stark naked from a window. A third lays an ambush to cudgel a man Avho has offended him. A knot of gentle- men of high rank and influence combine to ])ush their fortunes at court by circulating stories intended to ruin an innocent girl, stories which had no foundation, and which, if they had been true, would never have ]>asssd the lips of a man of honor. A dead child is found in the palace, the offspring of some maid of honor by some courtier, or j)er- haps by Charles himself. The whole flight of pandars and buffoons pounce upon it, and carry it in triumph to the royal laboratory, where his Majesty, after a brutal jest, dis- sects it for the amusement of the assembly, and probably of its father among the rest. The favorite Duchess stamps about Whitehall, cursing and swearing. The ministers employ their time at the council-board in making mouths at each other and taking off each other’s gestures for the amusement of the King. The Peers at a conference begin to pommel each other and to tear collars and periwigs. A speaker in the House of Commons gives offence to the Court. He is waylaid by a gang of bullies, and his nose is cut to the bone. The ignominous dissoluteness, or rather, if we may venture to designate it by the only proper word, blackguardism of feeling and manners, could not but spread from private to public life. The cynical sneers, the epicu- rean sophistry, which had driven honor and virtue from one part of the character, extended their influence over every other. The second generation of the statesmen of this reign were worthy pupils of the schools in which they had been trained, of the gaming-table of Grammont, and the tiring, room of Kell. In no other age could such a trifler as Buck- ingham have exercised any political influence. In no other age could the path to power and glory have been thrown o|3en to the manifold infamies of Churchill. The history of Churchill shows, more clearly perhaps than that of any other individual, the malignity and extent of the corruption which had eaten into the heart of the pub- lic morality. An English gentleman of good family attaches himself to a Prince who has seduced his sister, and accepts rank and wealth as the price of her shame and his own. HALLAM. 371 He then repays by ingratitude the benefits which he has purchased by ignominy, betrays Ids patron in a mariner which tl)e best cause cannot excuse, and commits an act, not only oi private treachery, but of distinct ndlitary deser- tion. To his conduct at the crisis of the fate of James, no Bervice in modern times has, as far as we remember, fur- nished any parallel. The conduct of Ney, scandalous enough no doubt, is the very fastidiousness of honor in ^om])arison of it. The perfidy of Arnold approaches it most nearly. In our age and country no talents, no services, no party attachments, could bear any man up under such moun- tains of infamy. Yet, even before Churchill had ])erformed those great actions which in some degree redeem Ids charac- ter with posterity, the load lay very lightly on him. .He nad others in abundance to keep him in countenance. Go- dolpldn, Orford, Dauby, the trimmer Halifax, the renegade Sunderland, were all men of the same class. Where such was the political morality of the noble and the wealthy, it may easily t)e conceived that those profi's- sions which, even in the best times, arc peculiarly liable lo corruption, were in a frightful state. Such a bench anc such a bar England has never seen. Jones, Scroggs, Jeffer- ies, North, Wright, Sawyer, Williams, are to this day the spots and blemishes of our legal chronicles. Differing in constitution, and in situation, whether blustering or cringing, whether persecuting Protostants or Catholics, they were equally unprincipled and inhuman. The part which the Church played was not equally atrocious; but it must have been exquisitely diverting to a scoffer. Never were principles so loudly professed, and so shamelessly abandoned. The Royal prerogative had been magnified to the skies in theo- logical works. The doctrine of passive obedience had been preached from innumerable pulpits. The University of Ox» ford had sentenced the works of the most moderate constitu- tionalists to the flames. The accession of a Catholic King, the frightful cruelties committed in the west of England, never shook the steady loyalty of the clergy. But did they serve the King for nought ? He laid his hands on them, and they cursed him to his face. He touched the revenue of a college and the liberty of some prelates ; and the whole profession set up a yell worthy of Hugh Peters himself. Oxford sent her plate to an invader with more alacrity than she had shown when Charles the First requested it. Nothing was said about the wickedness of resistance till resistance had done 872 MACAULAV’s MISCli:LLANt®l?S WRITINGS. its work, till the anointed vicegerent of Heaven had heen driven away, and till it had hecome plain that lie would never he restored, or would he restored at least under strict limitations. The clergy went hack, it must he owned, to their old theory, as soon as they found that it would do them no harm. It is principally to the general baseness and profligacy of the times that Clarendon is indebted for his high reputa^ lion. He was, in every respect, a man unfit for his age, at once too good for it and too bad for it. He seemed to he one of the ministers of Elizabeth, transplanted at once to a state of society widely different from that in which the abil- ities of such ministers had been serviceable. In the sixteenth century, the lloyal prerogative had scarcely been called in question. A Minister who held it high w^as in no danger, so long as he used it well. That attachment to the Crown, that extreme jealousy of popular encroachments, that love, half religious, half political, for the Church, which, from the beginning of the second session of the Long Parliament, showed itself in Clarendon, and wLich his sufferings, his long residence in France, and his high station in the govern- ment, served to strengthen, would, a hundred years earlier, have secured to him the favor of his sovereign v/ithout ren- dering him odious to the people. His probity, his correct- ness in private life, his decency of deportment, and his general ability, would not have nnisbecome a colleague of Walsingham and Burleigh. But, in the times on which he was cast, his errors and his virtues were alike out of place. He imprisoned men without trial. He was accused of rais- ing unlawful contributions on the people for the support of the army. The abolition of the act wdiich ensured the fre- quent holding of Parliaments was one of his favorite objects. He seems to have meditated the revival of the Star Chamber and the High Commission Court. His zeal for the preroga- tive made him unpopular ; but it could not secure to him the favor of a master far more desirous of ease and pleasure than of power. Charles w^ould rather have lived in exile and privacy, with abundance of money, a crowd of mimics to amuse him, and a score of mistresses, than have purchased the absolute dominion of the world by the privations and exertions to which Clarendon was constantly urging him. A councillor who was always bringing him papers and giving him advice, and who stoutly refused to compliment Lady Castlcmaine and to carry luessages to Mistress Stewart, soon IIALLAM. 8T3 became more hateful to him than ever Cromwell had been. Thus, considered by the people as an oppressor, by the Court as a censor, the Minister fell from his high office with a ruin more violent and destructive than could ever have been his fate, if lie had eitlier respected the principles of the Constitution or flattered the vices of the King. Mr. Hallamhas formed, we think, a most correct estimate of the character and administration of Clarendon. But he scarcely makes a sufficient allowance for the wear and tear which honesty almost necessarily sustains in the friction of political life, and which, in times so rough as those through which Clarendon passed, must be very considerable. When these are fairly estimated, we think that his integrity may be allowed to pass muster. A high-minded man he certainly was not, either in public or in private affairs. His own ac- count of his conduct in the affair of his daughter is the most extraordinary passage in autobiography. We except noth- ing even in the Confessions of Rousseau. Several writers have taken a perverted and absurd pride in representing themselves as detestable ; but no other ever labored hard to make himself despicable and ridiculous. In one important particular Clarendon showed as little regard to the honor of his country as he had shown to that of his family. He accepted a subsidy from France for the relief of Portugal. But this method of obtaining money was afterwards prac- tised to a much greater extent, and for objects much less respectable, both by the Court and by the Opposition. These pecuniary transactions are commonly considered as the most disgraceful part of the history of those times ; and they were no doubt highly reprehensible. Yet, in jus- tice to the Whigs and to Charles himself^ w^e must admit that they were not so shameful or atrocious as at the present day they appear. The effect of violent animosities bst ween parties has always been an indifference to the general welfare and honor of the State. A politician, where factions run high, is interested not for the whole people, but lor his own section of it. The rest are, in his view, strangers, enemies, or rather pirates. The strongest aversion which he can feel to any foreign power is the ardor of friendship, when com- pared with the loathing which he entertains towards those domestic foes with whom he is cooped up in narrow space, with whom he lives in a constant interchange of petty in- juries and insults, and from whom, in the day of their suc- cess, he has to expect severities far beyond any that a con 374 MACAUTAy’s miscellaneous AVIllTINGS. qneror from a distant country would inflict. Thus, In Greece, it was a point of honor for a man to cleave to his party against his own country. No aristocratical citizen of Samos or Corcyra would have hesitated to call in the aid of Lacedaemon. The multitude, on the contrary, looked every- where to Athens. In the Italian states of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, f'-om the same cause, no man was so much a Pisan or a Florentine as a Ghibeline or a Guelf. It may be doubted whether there was a single individual who would have scrupled to raise his party from a state of de- pression, by opening the gates of his native city to a French or an Arragonese force. The Reformation, dividing almost every European country into two parts, produced similar effects. The Catholic was too strong for the Englishman, the Huguenot for the Frenchman. The Protestant states- men of Scotland and France called in the aid of Elizabeth ; and the Papists of the League brought a Spanish army into the very heart of France. The commotions to which the French Revolution gave rise were followed by the same consequences. The Republicans in every part of Europe were eager to see the armies of the National Convention and the Directory appear among them, and exalted in de- feats which distressed and humbled those whom they con- sidered as their worst enemies, their own rulers. The princes and nobles of France, on the other hand, did their utmost to bring foreign invaders to Paris. A very short time has elapsed since the Apostolical party in Spain in- voked, too successfully, the support of strangers. The great contest which raged in England during the seventeenth century extinguished, not indeed in the body of the people, but in those classes which were most actively engaged in politics, almost all national feelings. Charles the Second and many of his courtiers had passed a large part of* their lives in banishment, living on the bounty of foreign treasuries, soliciting foreign aid to re-establish mon- archy in their native country. The King’s own brother had fought in Flanders, under the banners of Spain, against the English armies. The oppressed Cavaliers in England con- stantly looked to the Louvre and the Escurial for deliver- ance and revenge. Clarendon censures the continental gov- ernments with great bitterness for not interfering in our in- ternal dissensions. It is not strange, therefore, that amidst the furious contests which followed the Restoration, the violence of party feeling should produce effects which would HALLAM. 375 probably have attended it even in an age less distinguished by laxity of principle and indelicacy of sentiment. It was not Till a natural death had terminated the paralytic old age of the Jacobite party that the evil was completely at an end. The Whigs long looked to Holland, the High Tories to France. The former concluded the Barrier Treaty; the latter entreated the Court of Versailles to send an expe- dition to England. Many men who, however erroneous their political notions might be, were unquestionably honor- able in private life, accepted money without scruple from the foreign powers favorable to the Pretender. Never was there less of national feeling among the higher orders than during the reign of Charles the Second. Idiat Prince, on the one side, thought it better to be the deputy of an absolute king than the King of a free people. Alger- non Sydney, on the other hand, would gladly have aided France in all her ambitious schemes, and have seen Eng- land reduced to the condition of a province, in the wild hope that a foreign despot would assist him to establish his dar- ling republic. The King took the money of France to assist him in the enterprise which he meditated against the liberty of his subjects, with as little scruple as Frederic of Prussia or Alexander of Russia accepted our subsidies in time of war. The leaders of the Opposition no more thought themselves disgraced by the presents of Louis, than a gen- tleman of our own time thinks himself disgraced by the libeiality of powerful and wealthy members of his party who pay his election bill. The money which the King re- ceived from France had been largely employed to corrupt members of Parliament. The enemies of the court might think it fair, or even absolutely necessary, to encounter bribery with bribery. Thus they took the French gratuities, the needy among them for their own use, the rich probably for the general purposes of the party, without any scruple. If we compare their conduct not with that of English states- men in our own time, but with that of persons in those foreign countries which are now situated as England then was, we shall probably see reason to abate something of the severity of censure with which it has been the fashion to visit these proceedings. Yet, when every allowance is made, the transaction is sufficiently offensive. It is satisfac- tory to find that Lord Russell stands free from any imputa^ tion of personal participation in the spoil. An age so miser- ably poor in all the moral qualities which render public 376 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. characters resj)cctal)lc can ill spare tlie credit w'liicli it de- rives from a man, not indeed conspicuous for talents or knowledge, but honest even in Ins errors, resj)cctal)le in every relation of life, rationally })ious, steadily and j)lacidly brave. The great improvement which took })lace in our breed of public men is principally to be ascribed to the Kevolu- tion. Yet that memorable event, in a great measure, took its character from the very vices whicb it was the means of reforming. It was assuredly a happy revolution and a useful revolution ; but it was not, what it has often been called, a glorious revolution. William, and William alone, derived glory from it. The transaction was, in almost every part, discreditable to England. That a tyrant who had violated the fundamental laws of the country, who had attacked the rights of its greatest corporations, who had begun to ]ierse- cute the established religion of the state, who had never re- spected the law either in his superstition or in his revenge, could not be pulled down without the aid of a foreign army, is a circumstance not very grateful to our national pride. Yet this is the least degrading part of the story. The shameless insincerity of the great and noble, the Avarm assurances of general support which James received, doAvn to the moment of general desertion, indicate a meanness of spirit and a loose- ness of morality most disgraceful to the age. That the enterprise succeeded, at least that it succeeded Avithout bloodshed or commotion, Avas principally OAving to an act of ungrateful perfidy, such as no soldier had CA^er before committed, and to those monstrous fictions respecting the birth of the Prince of Wales which persons of the highest rank were not ashamed to circulate. In all the proceedings of the Convention, in the conference particularly, Ave see that littleness of mind which is the chief characteristic of the times. The resolutions on which the tAvo Houses at last agreed Avere as bad as any resolutions for so excellent a purpose could be. Their feeble and contradictory language Avas evidently intended to save the credit of the Tories, Avho were ashamed to name Avhat they were not ashamed to do. Through the Avhole transaction no commanding talents Avere displayed by any Englishman ; no extraordinary risks Avere run ; no sacrifices were made for the delwerance of the nation, except the sacrifice Avhich Churchill made of honor, and Anne of natural affection. It was in some sense fortunate, as we have already said, SALLAM. 377 for the Church of England, that the Reformation in this country was effected by men who cared little about religion. And, in the same manner, it was fortunate for our civil gov- ernment that the Revolution was in a great measure effected by men who cared little about their political principles. At such a crisis, splendid talents and strong passions might have done more harm than good. There was far greater reason to fear that too much would be attempted, and that violent movements would produce an equally violent reac- tion, than that too little would be done in the way of change. But narrowness of intellect and flexibility of principle, though they may be serviceable, can never be respectable. If in the Revolution itself there was little that can properly be called glorious, there v/as still less in the events which followed. In a church which had as one man de- clared the doctrine of resistance unchristian, only four hun- dred persons refused to take the oath of allegiance to a gov- ernment founded on resistance. In the preceding genera- tion, both the Episcopal and the Presbyterian clergy, rather than concede points of conscience not more important, had resigned their livings by thousands. The churchmen, at the time of the Revolution, justified their conduct by all those profligate sophisms which are called Jesuitical, and which are commonly reckoned among the peculiar sins of Popery, but which in fact are every- where the anodynes employed by minds rather subtle than strong, to quiet those internal twinges which they cannot but feel and which they will not obey. As the oath taken by the clergy was in the teeth of their principles, so was their conduct in the teeth of their oath. Their con- stant machinations against the Government to which they had sworn fidelity brought a reproach on their order and on Christianity itself. A distinguished prelate has not scrupled to say that the rapid increase of infidelity at that time was principally produced by the disgust which the faithless conduct of his brethren excited in men not suffi- ciently candid or judicious to discern the beauties of the system amidst the vices of its ministers. But the reproach was not confined to the Church. In every political party, in the Cabinet itself, duplicity and perfidy abounded. The very men whom William loaded with benefits and in whom he reposed most confidence, with his seals of office in their hands, kept up a correspondence with the exiled family. Orford, Leeds, and Shrewsbury were 8VS Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. of this odious troachory. Even Devonshire is not ah together free from sus{)icion. It may well ])o conceived that, at such a time, such a nature as that of Marlborougli would riot in the very luxury of })aseiiess. Jlis former treason, thoroughly furnished with all that makes infamy exquisite, placed him under the disadvantage which attends every artist from the time that he produces a masterpiece. Yet his second great stroke may excite wonder, even in those who appreciate all the merit of the first. Lest his admirers should be able to say that at the time of the Revolution he had be- trayed his King from any other than selfish motives, he proceeded to betray his country. Ho sent intelligence to the French court of a secret expedition intended to attack Brest. The consequence was that the expedition failed, and that eight hundred British soldiers lost their lives from the abandoned villainy of a British general. Yet this man has been canonized by so many eminent writers that to speak of him as he deserves may seem scarcely decent. The reign of William the Third, as Mr. Hallam happily says, was the Nadir of the national prosperity. It was also the Nadir of the national character. It was the time when the rank harvest of vices sown during thirty years of licen- tiousness and confusion was gathered in ; but it was also the seed-time of great virtues. The press was emancipated from the censorship soon after the Revolution ; and the Government immediately fell under the censorship of the press. Statesmen had a scrutiny to endure which was every day becoming more and more severe. The extreme violence of opinions abated. The Whigs learned moderation in office ; the Tories learned the principles of liberty in opposition. The parties almost con- stantly approximated, often met, sometimes crossed each other. There were occasional bursts of violence ; but, from the time of the Revolution, those bursts were constantly becoming less and less terrible. The severity with which the Tories, at the close of the reign of Anne, treated some of those who had directed public aSairs during the war of the Grand Alliance, and the retaliatory measures of the Whigs, after the accession of the House of Hanover, cannot be justified ; but they were by no means in the style of the infuriated parties, whose alternate murders had disgraced our history towards the close of the reign of Charles the Second. At the fall of Walpole far greater moderation was displayed. And from that time it has been the practice, a HALLAM. 379 practice not strictly according to the theory of our Constitu tion, but still most salutary, to consider the loss of office, and the public disapprobation, as punishments sufficient for errors in the administration not imputable to personal corruption. Nothing, we believe, has contributed more than this lenity to raise the character of public men. Ambition is of itself a game sufficiently hazardous and sufficiently deep to inflame the passions without adding property, life, and liberty to the stake. Where the play runs so desperately high as in the seventeenth century, honor is at an end. Statesmen, instead of being as they should be, at once mild and steady, are at once ferocious and inconsistent. The axe is for ever before their eyes. A popular outcry sometimes unnerves them, and sometimes makes them desperate ; it drives them to un- worthy compliances, or to measures of vengeance as cruel as those which they have reason to expect. A Minister in our times need not fear either to be firm or to be merciful. Our old policy in this respect was as absurd as that of the king in the Eastern tale who proclaimed that any physician who pleased might come to court and prescribe for his diseases, but that if the remedies failed the adventurer should lose his head. It is easy to conceive how many able men would re- fuse to undertake the cure on such conditions ; how much the sense of extreme danger would confuse the perceptions, and cloud the intellect, of the practitioner, at the very crisis which most called for self-possession, and how strong his temptation would b6, if he found that he had committed a blunder, to escape the consequences of it by poisoning his patient. But in fact it would have been impossible, since the Rev- olution, to punish any Minister for the general course of his policy, with the slightest semblance of justice; for since that time no Minister has been able to pursue any general course of policy without the approbation of the Parliament. The most important effects of that great change were, as Mr. Hal- 1am has most truly said and most ably shown, those which it indirectly produced. Thenceforward it became the interest of the executive government to protect those very doctrines which an executive government is in general inclined to persecute. The sovereign, the ministers, the courtiers, at last even the universities and the clergy, were changed into advocates of the right of resistance. In the theory of the Whigs, in the situation of the Tories in the common interest of all public men, the Parliamentary constitution of the coun- 380 MACAULAY^S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. try found perfect security. The power of the House of Com mons, in particular, lias been steadily on the increase. Sincfj supplies have been granted for short terms and appropriated to particular services, the approbation of that House has been as necessary in practice to the executive administration as it lias always been in theory to taxes and to laws. Mr. Hallam appears to have begun with the reign of Henry the Seventh, as the period at which what is called modern history, in contradistinction to the history of the middle ages, is generally supposed to commence. He lias shopped at the accession of George the Third, ‘‘ from unwillingness,” as he says, “ to excite the prejudices of modern politics, espe- cially those connected with personal character.” These two eras, we think, deserved the distinction on other grounds. Our remote posterity, when looking back on our history in that comprehensive manner in which remote posterity alone can, without much danger of error, look back on it, will prob- ably observe those points with peculiar interest. They are, if we mistake not, the beginning and the end of an entire and separate chapter in our annals. The period which lies between them is a perfect cycle, a great year of the public mind. In the reign of Henry the Seventh, all the political dif- ferences which had agitated England since the Norman conquest seemed to be set at rest. The long and fierce struggle between the Crown and the Barons had terminated. The grievances which had produced the rebellions of Tyler and Cade had disappeared. Villainage was scarcely known. The two royal houses, whose conflicting claims had long convulsed the kingdom, were at length united. The claim- ants whose pretensions, just or unjust, had disturbed the new settlement, were overthroAvn. In religion there was no open dissent, and probably A^ery little secret heresy. The old subject of contention, in short, had vanished; those which Avere to succeed had not yet appeared. Soon, hoAvcA^er, new principles Avere announced ; princi- ples which were destined to keep England during two cen- turies and a half in a state of commotion. The Reformation divided the people into two great parties. The Protestants were victorious. They again subdivided themselves. Po- litical factions were engrafted on theological sects. The V itual animosities of the tAvo parties gradually emerged hico the light of public life. First came conflicts in Parlia^ ment; then ci\dl war} then revolutions upon resolutions, HALLAM. 381 each attended hy its appurtenance of proscriptions, and per seditions, and tests ; each followed by severe measures on the ]>art of tlie conquerors ; each exciting a deadly and festering liatred in the conquered. During the reign of George the Second, things were evidently tending to repose. At the close of that reign, the nation had completed the gi-eat revolution which commenced in the early part of the sixteenth century, and was again at rest. The fury of sects had died away. The Catholics themselves practically en- joyed toleration ; and more than toleration they did not yet venture even to desire. Jacobitism was a mere name. No- body was left to fight for that wretched cause, and very few to drink for it. The Constitution, purchased so dearly, was on every side extolled and Avorshipped. Even those dis- tinctions of party Av-hich must almost always be found in a free state could scarcely be traced. The tAvo great bodies Avhich, from the time of the Revolution, had been gradually tend- ing to approximation, were noAV united in emulous support of that splendid Administration which smote to the dust both the branches of the House of Bourbon. The great battle for our ecclesiastical and civil polity had been fought and won. The wounds had been healed. The victors and the vanquished Avere rejoicing together. Every person ac- quainted with the political writers of the last generation will recollect the terms in which they generally speak of that time. It was a glimpse of a golden age of union and glory, a short interval of rest, which had been preceded by centuries of agitation, and which centuries of agitation were destined to follow. Hoav soon faction again began to ferment is well known. In the Letters of Junius, in Burke’s Thoughts on the Cause of the Discontents, and in many other Avritings of less merit, the violent dissensions AA^hich speedily convulsed the country are imputed to the system of favoritism which George the Third introduced, to the influence of Bute, or to the profligacy of those who called themselves the King’s friends. With all deference to the eminent writers to whom we have referred, we may A^enture to say that they lived too near the events of which they treated to judge correctly. The schism Avhich Avas then appearing in the nation, and Avhich has been from that time almost constantly widening, had little in common Avith those schisms Avhich had divided 't <^urlng the reigns of the Tudors and the Stuarts. The ^ymptoms of popular feeling, indeed, Avill ahvays be in a 882 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. great measure the same; but tlie principle wliicli excited that feeling was here new. The support which was given to Wilkes, the clamor for reform during the American war, the disaffected conduct of large classes of people at the time of the Frencli Revolution, no more resembled the opposi- tion which had been offered to the government of Charles the Second, than that opposition resembled the contest be- tween the Roses. In the political as in the natural body, a sensation is often referred to a part widely different from that in which it really resides. A man whose leg is cut off fancies that he feels a pain in his toe. And in the same manner the people, in the earlier part of the late reign, sincerely attributed ^heir discontent to grievances which had bee.i effectually lopped off. They imagined that the prerogative was too strong for the Constitution, that the principles of the Revo- lution were abandoned, that the system of the Stuarts was restored. Every impartial man must now acknowledge that these charges were groundless. The conduct of the Government with respect to the Middlesex election would have been contemplated with delight by the first generation of Whigs. They would have thought it a splendid triumph of the cause of liberty that the King and the Lords should resign to the lower House a portion of the legislative power, and allow it to incapacitate without their consent. This, indeed, Mr. Burke clearly perceived. “ When the House of Commons,” says he, “ in an endeavor to obtain new advan- tages at the expense of the other orders of the state, for the benefit of the commons at large, have pursued strong meas- ures, if it were not just, it was at least natural, that the con- stituents should connive at ah their proceedings; because we ourselves were ultimately to profit. But when this sub- mission is urged to us in a contest between the lepresenta- tives and ourselves, and where nothing can be put into their scale which is not taken from ours, they fancy us to be children when they tell us that they are our representatives, our own flesh and blood, and that all the stripes they give us are for our good.” These sentences contain, in fact, the whole explanation of the mystery. The conflict of the seventeenth century was maintained by the Parliament against the Crown. Tlie conflict which commenced in the middle of the eighteenth century, which still remains unde- cided, and in which our children and grandchildren Will probably be called to act or to suffer, is between a large HISTORY. 383 portion of the people on the one side, and the Crown and the Parliament united on the other, The j)rivileges of the House of Commons, those privileges which, in 1G42, all London rose in arms to defend, Avhicli tJie people considered as synonymous with their own liber- ties, and in comparison of which they took no account of the most precious and sacred principles of English jurisprudence, have now become nearly as odious as the rigors of martial law. That power of committing which the people anciently loved to see the House of Commons exercise, is now, at least when employed against libellers, the most unpopular power in the Constitution. If the Commons were to suffer the Lords to amend money-bills, we do not believe that the people would care one straw about the matter. If they were to suffer the Lords even to originate money-bills, we doubt whether such a surrender of their constitutional rights would excite half so much dissatisfaction as the ex- clusion of strangers from a single important discussion. The gallery in which the reporters sit has become a fourth estate of the realm. The publication of the debates, a^prac- tice which seemed to the most liberal statesman of the old school full of danger to the great safeguards of public lib- erty, IS now regarded by many persons as a safeguard tanta- mount, and more than tantamount, to all the rest together. Burke, in a speech on parliamentary reform, which is the more remarkable because it was delivered long before the French Revolution, has described, in striking language, the change in public feeling of which we speak. “ It suggests melancholy reflections,” sa}'s he, “in consequence of the strange course we have long held, that we are now no longer quarrelling about the character, or about the conduct of men, 01 ’ the tenor of measures ; but we are grown out of humor with the English Constitution itself; this is become the object of the animosity of Englishmen. This constitution in former days used to be the envy of the world ; it was the pattern for politicians ; the theme of the eloquent ; the med- itation of the philosopher in every part of the w^orld. As to Englishmen, it was their pride, their consolation. By it they lived, and for it they were ready to die. Its defects, if it had any, were partly covered by partiality, and partly borne by prudence. Now all its excellencies are forgot, its faults are forcibly dragged into day, exaggerated by every artifice of misrepresentation. It is despised and rejected of men ; and every device and invention of ingenuity or 884 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS* idleness is set up in opposition, or in preference to it.” We neither adopt nor condeinn tlie laiigiuii^e of reprobati^nj which the great orator liere employs. We call liim only as a witness to the fact. That the revolution of public feeling which he describes was then in progress is indisputable ; and it is equally indisputable, we think, that it is in progress still. To investigate and classify the causes of so great a change would require far more thought, and far more space, than w^e at present have to bestow. But some of them are obvious. During the contest which the Parliament carried on against the Stuarts, it had only to check and complain. It has since had to govern. As an attacking body, it could select its points of attack, and it naturally chose those on which it was likely to receive public support. As a ruling body, it has neither the same liberty of choice, nor the same motives to gratify the people. With the power of an exec- utive government, it has drawn to itself some of the vices, and all the unpopularity of an executive government. On the House of Commons above all, possessed as it is of the public purse, and consequently of the public sword, the na- tion throws all the blame of an ill conducted war, of a blun- dering negotiation, of a disgraceful treaty, of an embarrassing commercial crisis. The delays of the Court of Chancery, the misconduct of a judge at Van Diemen’s Land, any thing, in short, which in any part of the administration any person feels as a grievance, is attributed to the tyranny, or at least to the negligence, of that all-powerful body. Private individuals pester it with their wrongs and claims. A mei- chant appeals to it from the Courts of Rio Janeiro or St. Petersburgh. A historical painter comjjlains to it that his department of art finds no encouragement. Anciently the Parliament resembled a member of opposition, from whom no places are expected, who is not expected to confer favors and propose measures, but merely to watch and censure, and who may, therefore, unless he is grossly injudicious, bo popular with the great body of the community. The Par- liament now resembles the same person put into office, sur- rounded by petitioners whom twenty times his patronage would not satisfy, stunned with complaints, buried in memo- rials, compelled by the duties of his station to bring forward measures similar to those which he was formerly accustomed to observe and to check, and perpetually encountered by objections similar to those which it was formerly his busi- ness to raise. Dallam. 385 Perhaps it may be laid down as a general rule that a legislative assembl} , not constituted on democratical princi- ples, cannot be popular long after it ceases to be weak. Its zeal for what the people, rightly or wrongly, conceive to be their interests, its sympathy with their mutable and violent passions, are merely the effects of the particular circum- stances in which it is placed. As long as it depends for ex- istence on the public favor, it will employ all the means in its power to conciliate that favor. While this is the case, de- fects in its constitution are of little consequence. But, as the close union of such a body with the nation is the effect of an identity of interests not essential but accidental, it is in some measure dissolved from the time at which the daii« ger which produced it ceases to exist. Hence, before the Revolution, the question of Parliamen- tary reform was of very little importance. The friends of liberty had no very ardent wish for reform. The strongest Tories saw no objections to it. It is remarkable that Clar- endon loudly applauds the changes which Cromwell intro- duced, changes far stronger than the Whigs of the present day would in general approve. There is no reason to think, however, that the reform effected by Cromwell made any great difference in the conduct of the Parliament. Indeed, if the House of Commons had, during the reign of Charles the Second, been elected by universal suffrage, or if all the seats had been put up to sale, as in the French Parliaments, it would, vve suspect, have acted very much as it did. We know how strongly the Parliament of Paris exerted itself in favor of the people on many important occasions ; and the reason is evident. Though it did not emanate from the people, its whole consequence depended on the support of the people. From the time of the Revolution the House of Commons has been gradually becoming what it now is, a great council of state, containing many members chosen freely by the people, and many others anxious to acquire the favor of the people ; but, on the whole, aristocratical in its temper and interests. It is very far from being an illiberal and stupid oligarchy ; but it is equally far from being an express image of the general feeling. It is influenced by the opinion of the people, and influenced powerfully, but slowly and circuitously. Instead of outrunning the public mind, as be- fore the Re 'ution it frequently did, it now follows with slow steps and at a wide distance. It is therefore neces- VoL. I.—25 386 MACAULAY*S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. sarily unpopular ; and the more so because llic good which it produces is much less evident to common perception than the evil which it inilicts. It bears the blame of all the mischief which is done, or supposed to be done, by its author it}' or by its connivance. It does not get the credit, on the other hand, of having prevented those innumerable abuses which do not exist solely because the House of Commons exists. A large part of the nation is certainly desirous of a re- form in the representative system. How large that part may be, and how strong its desires on the subject may be, it is difficult to say. It is only at intervals that the clamor on the subject is loud and vehement. But it seems to us that, during the remissions, the feeling gathers strength, and that every successive burst is more violent than that which preceded it. The public attention may be for a time diverted to the Catholic claims or the Mercantile code ; but it is probable that at no very distant period, perhaps in the lifetime of the present generation, all other questions will merge in that which is, in a certain degree, connected with them all. Already we seem to ourselves to perceive the signs of un- quiet times, the vague presentiment of something great and strange which pervades the community, the restless and turbid hopes of those who have everything to gain, the dimly hinted forebodings of those who have everything to lose. Many indications might be mentioned, in themselves indeed as insignificant as straws ; but even the direction of a straw, to borrow the illustration of Bacon, will show from what quarter the storm is setting in. A great statesman might, by judicious and timely refor- mations, by reconciling the two great branches of the natural aristocracy, the capitalists and the landowners, and by so widening the base of the government as to interest in its defence the whole of the middle class, that brave, honest, and sound-hearted class, which is as anxious for the main- tenance of order and the security of property, as it is hostile to corruption and oppression, succeed in averting a struggle to which no rational friend of liberty or of law can k)ok forward without great apprehensions. There are those who will be contented with nothing but demolition ; and there are those who shrink from all repair. There are innovators who long for a President and a National Convention ; and there are bigots wffio, while cities larger and richer than the capitals of many great kijigdoms are calling out for repre- HALLAM. S87 sentatives to watch over their interests, select some hack- neyed jobber in boroughs, some peer of the narrowest and smallest mind, as the fittest depositary of a forfeited fran- chise. Between these extremes there lies a more excellent way. Time is bringing round another crisis analogous to that which occurred in the seventeenth century. We stand in a situation similar to that in which our ancestors stood under the reign of James the First. It will soon again be necessary to reform that w^e may preserve, to save the fun- damental principles of the Constitution by alterations in the subordinate parts. It will then be possible, as it was pos- sible two hundred years ago, to protect vested rights, to secure every useful institution, every institution endeared by antiquity and noble associations, and, at the same time, to introduce into the system improvements harmonizing with the original plan. It remains to be seen whether two hundred years have made us wiser. We know of no great revolution which might not have been prevented by compromise early and graciously made. Firmness is a great virtue in public affairs ; but it has its proper sphere. Conspiracies and insurrections in w^hicb small minorities are engaged, the outbreakings of popular violence unconnected with any extensive pioject or any durable principle, are best repressed by vigor and decision. To shrink from them is to make them formidable. But no wise ruler will confound the pervading taint with the slight local irritation. No wise ruler will treat the deeply seated discontents of a great party, as he treats the fury of a mob which destroys mills and power-looms. The neglect of this distinction has been fatal even to governments strong in the power of the sword. The present time is indeed a time of peace and order. But it is at such a time that fools are most thoughtless and wise men most thoughtful. That the discontents which have agitated the country during the late and the present reign, and which, though not always noisy, are never wholly dormant, will again break forth with aggravated symptoms, is almost as certain as that the tides and seasons will follow their appointed course. But in all movements of the human mind which tend to great revolu- tions, there is a crisis at which moderate concession may amend, conciliate, and preserve. Happy wdll it be for Eng- land if, at that crisis, her interests be confided to men for whom history has not recorded the long series of tiimian crimes and follies in vain. 388 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wuitinus. MILL ON GOVERNMENT * {Edinburgh Review ^ March ^ 1829.) Of those philosophers who call themselves Utilitarians, and whom others generally call Benthamites, Mr. Mill is, with the exception of the illustrious founder of the sect, by far the most distinguished. The little work now before us contains a summary of the opinions held by this gentleman and his brethren on several subjects most important to society. All the seven essays of which it consists abound in curious matter. But at present we intend to confine our remarks to the Treatise on Government, which stands first in the volume. On some future occasion, we may perhaps attempt to do justice to the rest. It must be owned that to do justice to any composition of Mr. Mill is not, in the opinion of his admirers, a very easy task. They do not, indeed, place him in the same rank with Mr. Bentham; but the terms in which they extol the dis- ciple, though feeble when compared with the hyperboles of adoration employed by them in speaking of the master, are as strong as any sober man would allow himself to use con- cerning Locke or Bacon. The essay before us is perhaps the most remarkable of the works to which Mr. Mill owes his fame. By the members of his sect, it is considered as •perfect and unanswerable. Every part of it is an article of their faith ; and the damnatory clauses, in which their creed abounds far beyond any theological symbol wdth which we are acquainted, are strong and full against all who reject any portion of what is so irrefragably established. No man, they maintain, who has understanding sufficient to carry him through the first proposition of Euclid, can read this master-piece of demonstration and honestly declare that he remains unconvinced. We have formed a very different opinion of this w'ork. We think that the theory of Mr. Mill rests altogether on * Essays on Government^ Jurisprudence ^ the Liberty of the Press, Prisons and Prison Discipline, Colonies, the Law of Nations, and Education. By James Mill, Esq., author of the History of British India. Reprinted by permission from the Supplement to the Encyclopaedia Britannica. (Not for sale.) London. 18 ^, mill’s essay on government. 389 false principles, and that even on those false principles he does not reason logically. Nevertheless, we do not think it strange that his speculations should have filled the Utili- tarians with admiration. We have been for some time j)ast inclined to susj)cct tliat these people, whom some regard as the lights of the world and others as incarnate demons, are in general ordinary men, with narrow understandings and little information. The contempt which they express for elegant literature is evidently the contempt of ignorance. We appreliend that many of them are persons who, having read little or nothing, are delighted to be rescued from the sense of their own inferiority by some teacher who assures them that the studies which they have neglected arc of no value, puts five or six phrases into their mouths, lends them an odd number of the Westminster Review, and ir. a month transforms them into philosophers. Mingled with these smatterers, whose attainments just suffice to elevate them from the insignificance of dunces to the dignity of bores, and to spread dismay among their pious aunts and grand- mothers, there are, we well know, many w’ell-meaning men who have really read and thought much but whose reading and meditation have been almost exclusively confined to one class of subjects; and who, consequently, though they pos- sess much valuable knowl respecting those subjects, are by no means so well qualified to judge of a great system as if they had taken a more enlarged view of literature and society. Nothing is more amusing or instructive than to observe the manner in which people wdio think themselves wiser than all the rest of the world fall into snares which the simple good sense of their neighbors detects and avoic^s. It is one of the principal tenets of the Utilitarians that senti- ment and eloquence serve only to impede the pursuit of truth. They therefore affect a quakerly plainness, or rather a cynical negligence and impurity, of style. The strongest arguments, when clothed in brilliant language, seem to them oo much wordy nonsense. In the mean time they surren- der their understandings, with a facility found in no other party, to the moenest and most abject sophism, provided those sophisms come before them disguised with the exter- nals of demonstration. They do not seem to know that logic has its illusions as well as rhetoric, — that a fallacy may lurk in a syllogism as well as in a metaphor. Mr. Mill is exactly the writer to please peoide of thi® 390 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wkitings. description. Ilis arguments are stated with the utmost atiectation of precision; his divisions are awfully formal; and his style is generally as dry as that of Euclid’s Elements. Whether this he a merit, we must be permitted to doubt. Thus much is certain : that the ages in which the true prin. ciples of philosophy were least understood w^ere those in w^hich the ceremonial of logic w as most strictly observed, and that the time from which we date the rapid progress of the experimental sciences was also the time at which a less exact and formal w^ay of writing came into use. The style which the Utilitarians admire suits only those subjects on which it is impossible to reason a priori. It grew up with the verbal sophistry which flourished during the dark ages. With that sopfliistry it fell before the Baconian philosophy in the day of the great deliverance of the human mind. The inductive method not only endured but required greater freedom of diction. It w^as impossible to reason from phenomena up to principles, to mark slight shades of difference in quality, or to estimate the compara- tive effect of tw^o opposite considerations betw^een which there was no common measure, by means of the naked and meagre jargon of the schoolmen. Of those schoolmen Mr. Mill has inherited both the spirit and the style. He is an Aristotelian of the fifteenth century, born out of due season. We have here an elaborate treatise on Government, from which, but for tw^o or three passing allusions, it would not apjDear that the author was aware that any governments actually existed among men. Certain propensities of human nature are assumed: and from these premises the whole science of politics is synthetically deduced! We can ^scarcely persuade ourselves that w^e are not reading a book written before the time of Bacon and Galileo, — a book written in those days in w^hich physicians reasoned from the nature of heat to the treatment of fever, and astron- omers proved syllogistically that the planets could have no mdependeiit motion, — because the heavens were incorrupt- ible, and nature abhorred a vacuum ! The reason, too, wdiich Mr. Mill has assigned for taking Ibis course strikes us as a most extraordinary. Experience,” says he, “ if w^e look only at the outside of the facts, ajipears to be divided on this subject. Absolute monarchy, under Neros and Caligulas, under such men as tbo Emperors of Morocco and Sultans of Turkey, is the ^‘Courge of human nature. On the other side, the people of mill’s essay on government. 391 Denmark, tired out with the oppression of an aristocracy, resolved that their king should be absolute ; and, under their absolute monarch, are as well governed as any people in Europe.” This Mr. Mill actually gives as a reason for pursuing the a priori method. But, in our judgment, the very circum- stances which he mentions irresistibly prove that the a priori method is altogether unfit for investigations of this kind, and that the only wa}^ to arrive at the truth is by induction. Experience can never be divided, or even ap- pear to be divided, except with reference to some hypothesis. When we say that one fact is inconsistent with another fact, we mean onlj" that it is inconsistent with the theory which we have founded on that other fact. But, if the fact be certain, the unavoidable conclusion is that our theory is false ; and, in order to correct it, we must reason back from an enlarged collection of facts to principles. Now here we have two governments which, by Mr. Mill’s own account, come under the same head in his theoretical classification. It is evident, therefore, that, by reasoning on that theoretical classification, we shall be brought to the conclusion that these two forms of government must produce the same effect. But Mr. Mill himself tells us that they do not produce the same effect. Hence he infers that the only way to get at truth is to place implicit confidence in that chain of proof a priori from which it appears that they must produce the same effects ! To believe at once in a theory and in a fact which contradicts it is an exercise of faith sufficently hard : but to believe in a theory because a fact contradicts it is what neither philosopher nor pope ever before required. This, however, is what Mr. Mill demands of us. He seems to think that, if all despots, without excep- tion, governed ill, it would be unnecessary to prove, by a Bynthetical argument, what would then be sufficiently clear from experience. But, as some despots will be so perverse as to govern well, he finds himself compelled to prove the impossibility of their governing well by that synthetical ar- gument which would have been superfluous had not the facts contradicted it. He reasons a priori^ because the phe- nomena are not what, by reasoning a priori^ he will prove them to be. In other words, he reasons a priori^ because, 6y so reasoning, he is certain to arrive at a false conclu- sion ! In the course of the examination to which we propose to 392 MACXtJLAY’s MlSCELLANEOtrS WRITINGS. subject tlie specula ions of Mr. Mill we shall have to notice many other curious instances of that turn of mind which the passage above quoted indicates. The first chapter of his Essay relates to the ends of gov- er' ment. The conception on this subject, he tells us, which exists in the minds of most men is vague and undistinguish- ing. He assumes, justly enough, that the end of government is “to increase to the utmost the pleasures, and diminish to the utmost the pains, which men derive from each other.” He then proceeds to show, with great form, that “ the great- est possible happiness of society is attained by insuring to every man the greatest possible quantity of the produce of his labor.” To effect this is, in his opinion, the end of gov- ernment. It is remarkable that Mr. Mill, with all his af- fected display of precision, has here given a description of the ends of government far less precise than that which is in the mouths of the vulgar. The first man with whom Mr, Mill may travel in a stage coach will tell him that govern- ment exists for the protection of the persons and property of men. But Mr. Mill seems to think that the preservation of property is the first and only object. It is true, doubtless, that many of the injuries which are offered to the persons of men proceed from a desire to possess their property. But the practice of vindictive assassination as it has existed in some parts of Europe — the practice of fighting wanton and sanguinary duels, like those of the sixteenth and seven- teenth centuries, in which bands of seconds risked their lives as well as the principals ; — these practices, and many others which might be named, are evidently injurious to society ; and we do not see how a government which tolerated them could be said “ to diminish to the utmost the pains which men derive from each other.” Therefore, according to Mr. Mill’s very correct assumption, such a government would not perfectly accomplish the end of its institution. Yet such a government might, as far as we can perceive, “ insure to every man the greatest possible quantity of the produce of his labor.” Therefore such a government might, accordo ing to Mr. Mill’s subsequent doctrine, perfectly accomplish the end of its institution. The matter is not of much con- sequence, except as an instance of that slovenliness of think- ing which is often concealed beneath a peculiar ostentation of logical neatness. ^ Having determined the ends, Mr. Mill proceeds to con- sider the means. Eor the preservation of property some m:ll’s essay on government. 393 portion of the community must be intrusted with power. This is Government ; and the question is, how are tliose to whom the necessary power is intrusted to be prevented from abusing it ? Mr. Mill first passes in review the sim2)le forms of gov- ernment. He allows that it would be inconvenient, if not jdiysically impossible, that the Avhole community should meet in a mass ; it follows, therefore, that the poAvers of government cannot be directly exercised by the people. But he sees no objection to pure and direct Democracy, ex- cept the difficulties Avhich we have mentioned. “ The community,” says he, “ cannot have an interest opposite to its interests. To affirm this Avould be a contra- diction in terms. The community within itself, and with respect to itself, can haA^e no sinister interests. One com- munity may intend the evil of another ; never its own. This is an indubitable proposition, and one of great impor- tance.” Mr. Mill then proceeds to demonstrate that a purely aristocratical form of government is necessarily bad. “ The reavSoii for which government exists is, that one man, if stronger than another, will take from him whatever that other possesses and he de- sires. But if one man will do this, so will several. And if powers are put into the hands of a comparatively small number, called an aristocracy, — powers which make them stronger than the rest of the community, they will lake from the rest of the community as much as thej^ pleased of the objects of desire. They will thus defeat the very end for which government was instituted. The unfitness, therefore, of aii aristocracy to be intrusted with the powers of government, rests on demonstration.*’ In exactly the same manner Mr. Mill proves absolute monarchy to be a bad form of gOA^ernment. “ If government is founded upon this as a law of human nature, that a man, if able, will take from others anything which they have and he desires, it is sufficiently evident, that when a man is called a king he does not change his nature; so that when he has got power enough to enable him to take from every man whatever he pleases, he will take whatever he pleases. To suppose that he will not, is to affirm that government is unnecessary, and that human beings will abstain from injuring one another of their own accord. “It is very evident that this reasoning extends to every modification of the smaller number. AVhenever the powers of government are placed in any hands other than those of the community, whether those of one man, or of a few, or of several, those principles of human nature wdiich imply that government is at all necessary, imply that those persons will make use of them to defeat the very end for which government exists.” But is it not possible that a king or an aristocracy may soon be saturated with the objects of their desires, and may then protect the community in the enjoyment of the rest ? 394 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. Mr. Mill answers in the negative. lie proves, witli great pomp, that every man desires to have the actions of evttry other correspondent to his will. Others can be induced to conform to our will only by motives derived from^pleasure or from pain. The infliction of pain is a direct injury ; and, even if it take a milder course, in order to produce obedi- ence by motives derived from pleasure, the government must confer favors. But, as there is no limit to its desire of obedience, there will be no limit to its disposition to confer favors ; and, as it can confer favors only by plundering the people, there will be no limit to its disposition to plunder the people. “It is therefore not true that there is in the mind of a king, or in the minds of an aristocracy, any point of saturation with the objects of desire.” Mr. Mill then proceeds to show that, as monarchical and oligarchical governments can influence men by motives drawn from pain, as well as by motives drawn from pleasure, they will carry their cruelty, as well as their rapacity, to a frightful extent. As he seems greatly to ad- mire his own reasonings on this subject, we think it but fair to let him speak for himself. “ The chain of inference in this case is close and strong to a most unusual degree. A man desires that the actions of other men shall be instantly and accurately correspondent to his will. He desires that the actions of the greatest possible number shall be so. Terror is the grand instrument. Terror can work only through assurance that evil will follow any failure of cenformity between the will and the actions willed. Every failure must therefore be punished. As there are no bounds to the mind’s desire of its pleasure, there are, of course, no bounds to its desire of perfection in the instruments of that pleasure. There are, therefore, no bounds to its desire of exactness in the conformity between its will and the actions willed; and by consequence to the strength of that terror which is its procuring cause. Every the most minute failure must be visited with the heaviest infliction; and as failure in extreme exactness must frequently happen, the occasions of cruelty must be incessant. “ We have thus arrived at several conclusions of the highest possible importance. We have seen that the principle of human nature, upon which the necessity of government is founded, the propensity of one man to possess himself of the objects of desire at the cost of another, leads on, by infallible sequence, where power over a community is attained, and nothing checks, not only to that degree of plunder which leaves the members (excepting always the recipients and instruments of the plunder) the bare means of subsistence, but to that degree of cruelty which is necessary to keep in ex- istence the most intense terrors.” Now, no man wlio has the least knowledge of the real state of the world, either in former ages or at the present moment, can possibly be convinced, though he may perhaps be bewildered, by arguments like these. During the last two centuries^ gome hundreds of absolute priueei hm^ mLL’s ESSAY ON GOVERNMENT. 305 reigned in Europe. Is it true, that their cruelty has kept in existence the most intense degree of terror ; that their rapacity has left no more than tlie hare means of subsist- ence to any of tlieir subjects, their ministers and soldiers excepted ? Is this true of all of them ? Of one half of them? Of one tenth part of them? Of a single one? Is it true, in the full extent even of Philip the Second, of Louis the Fifteenth, or of the Emperor Paul? But it is scarcely necessary to quote history. No man of common sense, however ignorant he may be of books, can be imposed on by Mr. Mill's argiment; because no man of common sense can live among his fellow-creatures for a day without seeing innumerable facts which contradict it. It is our business, however, to point out its fallacy; and haj:>23ily the fallacy is not very recondite. We grant that rulers will take as much as they can of the objects of their desires ; and that, when the agency of other men is necessary to that and, they will attempt by all means in their power to enforce the prompt obedience of suck men. But what are the objacts of human desire? Physical pleasure, no doubt, in jDart. But the mere appetites which we have in common with the animals would be gratified almost as cheaply and easily as those of the animals are gratified, if nothing were given to taste, to ostentation, or to the affections. How small a portion of the income of a gentleman in easy circumstances is laid out merely in giving pleasurable sensations to the body of the possessor ! The greater part even of what is spent on his kitchen and his cellar goes, not to titillate his palate, but to keep up his character for hospitality, to save him from the rei3roach of meanness in housekeeping, and to cement the ties of good neighborhood. It is clear that a king or an aristocracy may be supplied to satiety with mere corj^oral pleasures, at an expense Avhich the rudest and poorest community would scarcely feel. Those tastes and propensities which belong to us as reasoning and imaginative beings are not indeed so easily gratified. There is, we admit, no point of saturation with objects of desire which come under this head. And there- fore the argument of Mr. Mill will be just, unless there be something in the nature of the objects of desire themselvei which is inconsistent with it. Now, of these objects there is none which men in general seem to desire more than the good opinion of others. The hatred and contempt of the 896 MACil‘jLAY'8 MISCELLANEOUS WKllxl»ecause liuman nature is what Mr. Mill conceives it to be ; because civilized men, pursuing their own happiness in a social state, are not Yji- hoos fighting for carrion ; because there is a j)leasure in being loved and esteemed, as well as in being feared and servilely obeyed. Why docs not a gentleman restrict his wife to the l,»are maintenance which the law would compel him to allow her, that he may have more to spend on his j)ersonal pleas- ures ? Because, if ho loves her, he has pleasure in seeing her pleased ; and because, even if he dislikes her, he is un- willing that the whole neighborhood should cry shame on his meanness and ill-nature. Why does not the legislature, altogether composed of males, pass a law to deprive women of all civil privileges w hatever, and reduce them to the state of slaves ? By passing such a law, they would gratify wdiat Mr. Mill tells us is an inseparable part of human nature, the desire to possess unlimited power of inflicting pain upon others. That they do not pass such a law, though they have the power to pass it, and that no man in England wdshes to see such a law passed, proves that the desire to possess un- limited power of inflicting pain is not inseparable from hu- man nature. If there be in this country an identity of interest between the two sexes, it cannot possibly arise from anything but the pleasure of being loved, and of communicating happi- ness. For, that it does not spring from the mere instinct of sex, the treatment which w^omen experience over the greater part of the w^orld abundantly proves. And, if it be said that our laws of -marriage have produced it, this only removes the argument a step further ; for those law^s have been made by males. Now, if the kind feelings of one half of the species be a sufficient security for the happi- ness of the other, why may not the kind feelings of a monarch or an aristocracy be sufficient at least to prevent them from grinding the people to the very utmost of their power ? If Mr. Mill will examine why it is that w^omen are better treated in England than in Persia, he may perhaps find out, in the course of his inquiries, why it is that the Danes are better governed than the subjects of Caligula. We now come to the most important practical question in the whole essay. Is it desirable that all males arrived at years of discretion should vote for representatives, or should a pecuniary qualification be required ? Mr. Mill’s opinion mill’s essay on goveek^ment. 409 is, tliat the lower tlic qualification the better ; and that the best system is tliat in which there is none at all. “ The qualification,” says he, “ must either be such as to embrace the majority of the population, or sometliing less than the majority. Suppose, in the first place, tliat it embraces the majority, the question is whether the majority would have an interest in oppressing those wlio, upon this suppo- sition, would be deprived of political power ? If w'e reduce the calculation to its elements, we shall see that tlie interest which they would have of this deplorable kind, though it would be something, would not bo very great. Each man of the majority, if the majority were constituted the governing body, would have something less than the benefit of oppressing a single man. 11 the majority were twice as great as the minority, each man of the majority would only have one half the benefit of oppressing a single man. * * ^ Sup- pose, in the second place, that the qualification did not admit a body of elec- tors so large as the majority, in that case taking again the calculation in its elements, we shall see that each man would have a benefit equal to that de- rived from tbe oppression of more than one man ; and that, in proportion as the elective body constituted a smaller and smaller minority, the benefit of misrule to the elective body would be increased and bad government would be insured.’^ The first remark which we have to make on this argu- ment is, that, by Mr. Mill’s own account, even a govern- ment in which every human being should vote would still be defective. For, under a system of universal suffrage, the majority of the electors return the representative, and the majority of the representatives make the law. The whole ])eople may A^ote, therefore ; but only the majority govern. So that, by Mr. Mill’s own confession, the most perfect system of government conceivable is one in Avhich the in- terest of the ruling body to oppress, though not great, is something. But is Mr. Mill in the right when he says that such an interest could not be A^ery great ? We think not. If, in- deed, every man in the community possessed an equal share of what Mr. Mill calls the objects of desire, the majority would probably abstain from plundering the minority. A large minority Avould offer a vigorous resistance : and the ])roperty of a smalt minority Avould not repay the other mem- bers of the community for the trouble of dividing it. But it happens that in all civilized communities there is a small minority of rich men, and a great majority of poor men. If there were a thousand men Avith ten pounds apiece, it would not be Avorth while for nine hundred and ninety of them to rob ten, and it would be a bold attempt for six hundred of them to rob four hundred. But, if ten of them had a hun- dred thousand pounds apiece, the case would be very different. There would then be much to be got, and nothing to be feared. 410 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. ‘‘ That one Imman being will desire to render the person and property of ^mother subservient to his pleasures notwith- standing the pain or loss of })leasure w hich it may occasion to that other individual, is,” according to Mr. Mill, “the foundation of government.” That the property of the rich minority can be made subservient to the pleasures of the ])Oor majority will scarcely be denied. But Mr. Mill pro- ]>oses to give the poor majority power over the rich mi- nority. Is it possible to doubt to w^hat, on his own prin ci] les, such an arrangement must lead? It may perhaps be said that, in the long run, it is for the interest of the people that property should be secure, and that cherefore they will respect it. We answ^er thus: — It cannot be pretended that it is not for the immediate interest of the people to plunder the rich. Therefore, even if it w^ere quite certain that, in the long run, the people would, as a body, lose by doing so, it w^ould not necessarily follow that the fear of remote ill consequences would overcome the desire of immediate acquisitions. Every individual might flatter himself that the punishment would not fall on him. Mr Mill himself tells us, in his Essay on Jurisprudence, that no quantity of evil which is remote and uncertain will sufllce to prevent crime. But we are rather inclined to think that it wmuld, on the whole, be for the interest of the majority to plunder the rich. If so, the Utilitarians will say, that the rich ought to be plundered. We deny the inference. For, in the first place, if the object of government be the greatest happiness of the greatest number, the intensity of the suffering which a measure inflicts must be taken into consideration, as w^ell as the number of the sufferers. In the next place, we have to notice one most important distinction which Mr. Mill has altogether overlooked. Throughout his essay, he confounds the community with the species. He talks of the greatest happiness of the greatest number : but, when we examine his reasonings, we find that he thinks only of the greatest number of a single generation. Therefore, even if we w^ere to concede that all those ar- guments of which we have exposed the fallacy are unanswer- able, we might still deny the conclusion at which the essayist arrives. Even if we were to grant that he had found out the form of government which is best for the majority of the people now living on the face of the earth, we might still without inconsistency maintain that form of govern- mill’s essay on government. 411 ment to be pernicious to mankind. It would still be in- cumbent on Mr. Mill to prove that the interest of every generation is identical with the interest of all succeeding generations. And how on his own principles he could do this we are at a loss to conceive. The case, indeed, is strictly analogous to that of an aris- tocratic government. In an aristocracy, says Mr. Mill, th<5 few, being invested wdth the powers of government, can take the objects of their desires from the people. In the same man- ner, every generation in turn can gratify itself at the expense of posterity, — priority of time, in the latter case, giving an advantage exactly corresponding to that which superiority of station gives in the former. That an aristocracy will abuse its advantage, is, according to Mr. Mill, matter of demonstration. Is it not equally certain that the whole people will do the same ; that, if they have the power, they will commit waste of every sort on the estate of man- kind, and transmit it to posterity impoverished and deso- lated. How is it possible for any person who holds the doctrines of Mr. Mill to doubt that the rich, in a democracy such as that which he recommends, would be pillaged as unmerci- fully as under a Turkish Pacha? It is no doubt for the in- terest of the next generation, and it may be for the remote interest of the present generation, that property should be held sacred. And so no doubt it will be for the inter- est of the next Pacha, and even for that of the present Pacha, if he should hold office long, that the inhabitants of his Pachalik should be encouraged to accumulate wealth. Scarcely any despotic sovereign has plundered his subjects to a large extent without having reason before the end of his reign to regret it. Everybody knows how bitterly Louis the Fourteenth, towards the close of his life, lamented his former extravagance. If that magnificent prince had not expended millions on Marli and Versailles, and tens of mil- lions on the aggrandizement of his grandson, he would not have been comj)elled at last to pay servile court to low-born money-lenders, to humble himself before men on whom, in the days of his pride, he would not have vouchsafed to look, for the means of supporting even his own household. Exam- ples to the same effect might easily be multiplied. But des- pots, we see, do plunder their subjects, though history and experience tell them that, by prematurely exacting the means of profusion, they are in fact devouring the seed-corn from I 41*2 Macaulay’s miscellankous writings. wliich the future harvest of revenue is to spring. Why then should we suppose that the people will be deterred from procuring immediate relief and enjoyment by the fear of distant calamities, of calamities which perhaps may not be fully felt till the times of their grandchildren ? These conclusions arc strictly drawn from Mr. Mill’s own principles: and, unlike most of the conclusions which he has himself drawn from those principles, they arc not, as far as we know, contradicted by facts. The case of the United States is not in point. In a country where the ne- cessaries of life are cheap and the wages of labor high, where a man who has no capital but his legs and arms may expect to become rich by industry and frugality, it is not very de- cidedly even for the immediate advantage of the poor to plunder the rich; and the punishment of doing so would very speedily follow the offence. But in countries in which the great majority live from hand to mouth, and in which vast masses of wealth have been accumulated by a comparatively small number, the case is widely different. The immediate want is, at particular seasons, craving, impe- rious, irresistible. In our own time it has steeled men to the fear of the gallows, and urged them on the point of the bayonet. And, if these men had at their command that gallows and those bayonets which now scarcely restrain them, what is to be expected? Nor is this state of things one which can exist only under a bad government. If there be the least truth in the doctrines of the school to which Mr. Mill belongs, the increase of population will necessarily produce it every^vhere. The increase of population is ac- celerated by good and cheap government. Therefore, the better the government, the greater is the inequality of con- ditions : and the greater the inequality of conditions, the stronger are the motives which impel the populace to spo- liation. As for America, w’e appeal to the twentieth cen- tury. It is scarcely necessary to discuss the effects which general spoliation of the rich would produce. It may in- deed happen that, where a legal and political system full of abuses is inseparably bound up with the institution of prop- erty, a nation may gain by a single convulsion, in which both perish together. The price is fearful. But, if, when the shock is over, a new order of things should arise under which property may enjoy security, the industry of individ- uals will soon repair the devastation. Thus we entertain MILL^S ESSAY ON GOVEENMENT. 413 no doubt tliat the Revolution was, on tlie whole, a most sal- utary event for France. But would Franco have gained if, ever since the year 1793, she had been governed by a dem- ocratic convention ? If Mr. Mill’s principles be sound, we say that almost her whole capital would by this time have been anniliilated. As soon as the first explosion was be- ginning to be forgotten, as soon as wealth again began to germinate, as soon as the poor again began to compare their cottages and salads witli the hotels and banquets of the rich, there would have been another scramble for prop- erty, ^another maximum, another general confiscation, an- other reign of terror. Four or five such convulsions follow- ing each other, at intervals of ten or twelve years, would reduce the most fiourishing countries of Europe to the state of Barbary or the Morea. The civilized part of the world has now nothing to fear from the hostility of savage nations. Once the deluge of barbarism has passed over it, to destroy and to fertilize ; and in the present state of mankind we enjoy a full security against that calamity. That flood will no more return to cover the earth. But is it possible that in the bosom of j civilization itself may be engendered the malady which I shall destroy it ? Is it possible that institutions may be established which, without the help of earthquake, of famine, of pestilence, or of the foreign sword, may undo the work of so many ages of wisdom and glory, and gradually sweep away taste, literature, science, commerce, manufactures, everything but the rude arts necessary to the support of animal life? Is it possible that, in two or three hundred years, a few lean and half-naked fishermen may divide with owls and foxes the ruins of the greatest European cities — may wash their nets amidst the relics of her gigantic docks, and build their huts out of the capitals of her stately cathe- drals ? If the principles of Mr. Mill be sound, we say, without hesitation, that the form of government which he recom- mends will assuredly produce all this. But, if these principles be unsound, if the reasonings by which we have opposed them be just, the higher and middling orders are the natural rep- resentatives of the human race. Their interests may be opposed in some things to that of their poorer contempora- ries; but it is identical with that of the innumerable gen- erations which are to follow. Mr. Mill concludes his essay, by answering an objection often made to the project ^f universal suffrage — that the 414 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. people do not understand llieir own interests. We shall not go through his arguments on this subject, because, till he has proved that it is for the interest of the people to respect property, he only makes matters worse by proving that they understand their interests. But we cannot refrain from treating our readers with a delicious bonne bouche of wisdom, which he has kept for the last moment. “ The opinions of that class of the people who are below the middle rank are formed, and their minds are directed, by that intelligent, that virtuous rank, who come the most immediately in contact with them, who are in the constant habit of intimate communication with them, to whom they fly for advice and assistance in all their numerous difficulties, upon whop they feel an immediate and daily dependence in health and in sickness, in infancy and in old age, to whom their children look up as models for their imitation, whose opinions they hear daily repeated, and account it their honor to adopt. There can be no doubt that the middle rank, which gives to science, to art, and to legislation itself their most distinguished ornaments, and is the chief source of all that has exalted and reflned human nature, is that portion of the community, of which, if the basis of representation were ever so far ex- tended, the opinion w-ould ultimately decide. Of the people beneath them, a vast majority would be sure to be guided by their advice and example.** This single paragraph is sufficient to upset Mr. Mill’s theory. Will the people act against their own interest? Or wull the middle rank act against its own interest ? Or is the interest of the middle rank identical with the in- terest of the people ? If the people act according to the di- rections of the middle rank, as Mr. Mill says that they assuredly wdll, one of these three questions must be answered in the affirmative. But, if any one of the three be answered in affirmative, his whole system falls to the ground. If the interest of the middle rank be identical with that of the peo- ]de, why should not the powers of government be intrusted to that rank ? If the powers of government were intrusted to that rank, there would evidently be an aristocracy of wealth ; and “ to constitute an aristocracy of wealth, though it were a very numerous one, would,” according to Mr. Mill, “leave the community without protection, and exposed to all the evils of unbridled power.” Will not the same motives which induce the middle classes to abuse one kind of power induce them to abuse another? If their in- terests be the same with that of the people they will govern the people well. If it be opposite to that of the people they will advise the people ill. The system of universal suffrage, therefore, according to Mr. Mill’s own account, is only a device for doing circuitously what a representative system, with a pretty high qualification, would do directly. So ends this celebrated Essay. And such is this philoso- tv toLL^S ESSAY ON GOVEENMENT. 415 phy for which the experience of three thousand years is to be discarded ; this plulosopliy, the professors of which speak as if it liad guided the world" to tlie knowledge of navigation and alpliabetical writing ; as if before its dawn, the inliabi- tants of Europe had lived in caverns and eaten each other! We are sick, it seems, like the children of Israel, of the ob- jects of our old and legitimate worship. We pine for anew idolatry. All that is costly and all that is ornamental in our intellectual treasures must be delivered up, and cast into the furnace — and there comes out this Calf ! Our readers can scarcely mistake our object in writing this article. They will not suspect us of any disposition to advocate the cause of absolute monarchy, or of any narrow form of oligarchy, or to exaggerate the evils of popular gov- ernment. Our object at present is, not so much to attack or defend any particular system of polity, as to expose the vices of a kind of reasoning utterly unfit for moral and political discussions : of a kind of reasoning which may so readily be turned to purposes of falsehood that it ought to receive no quarter, even when by accident it may be em- ployed on the side of truth. Our objection to the essay of Mr. Mill is fundamental. We believe that it is utterly impossible to deduce the science ■ of government from the principles of human nature. What proposition is there respecting human nature which is absolutely and universally true? We know of only one : and that is not only true, but identical ; that men always act from self-interest. This truism the Utilitarians proclaim with as much pride as if it were new, and as much zeal as if it were important But in fact, when explained, it means only that men, if they can, will do as they choose. When we see the actions of a man, we know with certainty wdiat he thinks his interest to be. But it is impossible to reason wdth certainty from what we take to be his interest to his actions. One man goes without a dinner that he may add a shilling to a hundred thousand pounds ; another runs in debt to give balls and masquerades. One man cuts his father’s throat to get possession of his old clothes : another hazards his own life to save that of an enemy. One man volunteers on a forlorn hojie : another is drummed out of a regiment for cow ardice. Each of these men has, no doubt, acted from self-interest. But we gain nothing by knowdng this, except the pleasure, if it be one, of multiplying useless woids. In fact, this princijde is just as recondite and just 41G Macaulay’s miscl:llaneous writings. as important as the great triitli that wliatever is, is. If a philoso])her were always to state facts in the following form — ‘‘There is ,a shower: but whatever is, is ; lherefor(‘, there is a shower,” — his reasoning would be perfectly sound : but we do not apprehend that it would materially enlarge the circle of human knowledge. And it is equally idle to attribute any importance to a proposition which, when in- terpreted, means only that a man had rather do what he Lad rather do. If the doctrine, that men always act from self-interest, be laid down in any other sense than this — if the meaning of the Avord self-interest be narrowed s ) as to exclude any one of the motives which may by possibility act on any human being, — the proposition ceases to be identical ; but at the same time it ceases to be true. What we have said of the Avord “ self-interest ” applies to all the synonymes and circumlocutions Avhich are em- ployed to convey the same meaning; pain and pleasure, happiness and misery, objects of desire, and so forth. The Avhole art of ]\Ir. Mill’s essay consists in one simple trick of legerdemain. It consists in using AA'ords of the sort which Ave have been describing first in one sense and then in another. Men Avill take the objects of their desire if they can. Unquestionably: — but this is an identical proposi tion ; for an object of desire means merely a thing Avhich a man Avill procure if he can. Nothing can possibly be in- ferred from a maxim of this kind. When Ave see a man take something Ave shall knoAv that it Avas an object of his desire. *But till then Ave haA^e no means of judging Avith certainty Avhat he desires or Avhat he Avill take. The gene ral proposition, hoAvever, haAung been admitted, Mr. Mill pro- ceeds to reason as if men had no desires but those Avhich can be gratified only by spoliation and oppression. It then becomes easy to deduce doctrines of vast importance from the original axiom. The only misfortune is, that by thus narrowing the meaning of the Avord desires the axiom be* comes false, and all the doctrines consequent upon it are false likewise. When Ave pass beyond those maxims Avhich it is im- possible to deny without a contradiction in terms, and Avhich therefore, do not enable us to advance a single step in prac- tical knowledge, Av^e do not believe that it is possible to lay down a single general rule respecting the motives which influence human actions. Ther^ is nothing which may not, mill's essay ox government. 417 by association or by comparison, become an object either of desire or of aversion. The fear of deatli is generally considered as one of the strongest of our feelings. It is the most formidable sanction which legislators haA^e been able to devise. Yet it is notorious that, as Lord Bacon has ob- served, there is no passion by which that fear has not been often overcome. Physical pain is indisputably an evil : yet it has been often endured, and even welcomed. Innumer- able martyrs have exulted in torments Avhich made the spectators shudder ; and to use a more homely illustraticn, there are few Avives Avho do not long to be mothers. Is the loA^e of approbation a stronger motive than the love of wealth? It is impossible to ansAver this question generally eA^en in tlie case of an individual with whom we are very intimate. We often say, indeed, that a man loves fame more than money or money more than fame. But this is said in a loose and popular sense ; for there is scarcely a man who AA^ould not endure a few sneers for a great sum of money, if he were in pecuniary distress ; and scarcely a man, on the other hand, Avho, if he were in flourishing cir- cumstances, would expose himself to the hatred and con- tempt of the public for a trifle. In order, therefore, to return a precise answer eA^en about a single human being, Av^e must knoAv Avhat is the amount of the sacrifice of repu- tation demanded and of the pecuniary advantage offered, and in Avhat situation the person to Avhom the temptation is proposed stands at the time. But, Avhen the question is propounded generally about the Avhole sj^ecies, the impossi- bility of ansAvering is still more evident. Man differs from man ; generation from generation ; nation from nation. Education, station, sex, age, accidental associations, j^ro- duce infinite shades of A'ariety. 'NoWy the only mode in which Ave can conceive it possible to deduce a theory of gOA^ernment from the principles of human nature is this. We must find out Avhat aie the mo- tives Avhich, in a particular form of government, impel rulers to bad measures, and what are those which impel them to good measures. We must then compare the effect of the tAA^o classes of inotiA^es ; and, according as we find the one or the other to preA^ail, w^e must pronounce the form of government in question good or bad. Noav let it be supposed that, in aristocratical and mon- archical states, the desire of Avealtli and other desires of the same class ahvays tend to produce misgoA^ernment, and that VoL. I.— 27 418 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. the love of Ji|)prol>ation and other kindred feelings always tend to produce good govei-nment. Then, if it be impossible as w'e have sliown that it is, to ])ronounce generally which of the two classes of motives is the more influential, it is im- possible to find out, a priori^ whether a monarchical or aristocratical form of government be good or bad. Mr. Mill has avoided the difficulty of making the compar- ison, by very coolly putting all the weights into one of the Beales, — by reasoning as if no human being had ever sym- { )atliized with the feelings, been gratified by the thanks, or )een galled by the execrations, of another. The case, as we have put it, is decisive against Mr. J\Iill ; and yet we have put it in a manner far too favorable to him. For, in fact, it is impossible to lay it down as a general rule that the love of wealth in a sovereign always produces misgovernment, or the love of approbation good government. A patient and far-sighted ruler, for example, who is less desirous of raising a great sum immediately than of securing an unencumbered and progressive revenue, will, by taking off restraints from trade and giving perfect security to property, encourage accumulation and entice capital from foreign countries. The commercial policy of Prussia, which is perhaps superior to that of any country in the world, and which puts to shame the absurdities of our re- publican brethren on the other side of the Atlantic, has probably sprung from the desire of an absolute ruler to enrich himself. On the other hand, when the popular es- timate of virtues and vices is erroneous, which is too often the case, the love of approbation leads sovereigns to spend the wealth of the nation on useless show^s, or to engage in wanton and destructive wars. If then we can neither com- pare the strength of two motives, nor determine with cer- tiinty to what description of actions either motive will lead, how can we possibly deduce a theory of government from the nature of man ? How, then, are we to arrive at just conclusions on a sub- ject so important to the happiness of mankind ? Surely by that method which, in every experimental science to which it had been applied, has signally increased the power and knowl- edge of our species, — by that method for which our new phi- losophers would substitute quibbles scarcely worthy of the barbarous respondents and opponents of the middle ages,— by the method of Induction ; — by observing the present state of the world, — ^by assiduously studying the history of past M1LL*S ESSAY ON GOVERNMENT. 419 ages, — ^by sifting the evidence of facts, — ^by carefully com- bining and contrasting those which are authentic, — by gen- eralizing with judgment and diffidence, — by perpetually bringing the theory which we have constructed to the test of new facts, — by correcting, or altogether abandoning it, according as those new facts prove it to be partially or fundamentally unsound. Proceeding thus, — patiently, — diligently, — candidly, — we may hope to form a system as far inferior in pretension to that which we have been ex- amining and as far superior to it in real utility as the pre- scriptions of a great ])hysician, varying with every stage ot every malady and with the constitution of every patient, to the pill of the advertising quack which is to cure all human beings, in all climates, of all diseases. This is that noble Science of Politics, which is equally removed from the barren theories of the Utilitarian sophiste and from the petty craft, so often mistaken for statesman- ship by minds grown narrow in habits of intrigue, jobbing, and official etiquette ; — which of all sciences is the most im- portant to the welfare of nations, — which of all sciences most tends to expand and invigorate the mind, — which draws nutriment and ornament from every part of philoso- phy and literature, and dispenses in return nutriment and ornament to all. We are sorry and surprised when we see men of good intentions and good natural abilities abandon this healthful and generous study to pore over speculations like those which we have been examining. And we should heartily rejoice to find that our remarks had induced any person of this description to employ, in researches of leal utility, the talents and industry which are now wasted on verbal sophisms, wretched of their wretched kind. As to the greater part of the sect, it is, we apprehend, of little consequence what they study or under v/hom. It would be more amusing, to be sure, and more rei)utable, if they would take up the old republican cant and declaim about Brutus and Timoleon, the duty of killing tyrants and the blessedness of dying for liberty. But, on the whole, they might have chosen worse. They may as well be Utilitarians as jockeys or dandies. And, though quibbling about self-interest and motives, and objects of desire, and the greatest happiness of the greatest number, is but a poor employment for a grown man, it certainly hurts the health less than hard drinking and the fortune less than high play ; it is not much more laughable than phrenology, and is im- measurably more humane than cock fighting. 420 Macaulay’s miscellanmous waiiiNtt*. WESTMINSTER REVIEWER’S DEFENCE OF MILL* {Edinburgh Revieio, June^ 1829. ) We have had great reason, we think, to be gratified [>y the success of our late attack on the Utilitarians. We could publish a long list of the cures which it had wrought in cases previously considered as hopeless. Delicacy for- bids us to divulge names ; but we cannot refrain from al- luding to two remarkable instances. A respectable lady writes to inform us that her son, who was plucked at Cam- bridge last January, has not been heard to call Sir James Mackintosh a poor ignorant fool more than twice since the appearance of our article. A distinguished political writer in the Westminster and Parliamentary Reviews has borrowed Hume’s History, and has actually got as far as the battle of Agincourt. He assures us that he takes great pleasure in his new study, and that he is very impatient to learn how Scot- land and England became one kingdom. But the greatest compliment that we have received is that Mr. Bentham him- self should have condescended to take the field in defence of Mr. Mill. We have not been in the habit of reviewing reviews ; but, as Mr. Bentham is a truly great man, and as his party have thought fit to announce in puffs and placards that this article is written by him, and contains not only an answer to our attacks, but a development of the “ great- est happiness principle,” w ith the latest improvements of the author, we shall for once depart from our general rule. However the conflict may terminate, we shall at least not have beep vanquished by an ignoble hand. Of Mr. Bentham himself we shall endeavor, even while defending ourselves against his reproaches, to speak with the respect to which his venerable age, his genius, and h"s public services entitle him. If any harsh expression should escape us, we trust that he will attribute it to inad- vertence, to the momentary warmth of controversy, — to anything, in short, rather than to a design of affronting him. Though we have nothing in common with the crew of Hurds * The Wfstminster Heview. No. XX T. Article XVI. Edinburgh Review No. XCVIL Article on Mill's Essays on Government ^ dc. WESTMINSTER REVIEWER’S DEFENCE OF MILL. 421 and Boswells, who, either from interested motives, or from the habit of intellectual servility and dependence, pamper and vitiate his appetite with the noxious sweetness of their undiscerning praise, we are not perhaps less competent than they to appreciate his merit, or less sincerely disposed to acknowledge it. Though we may sometimes think his rea- sonings on moral and political questions feeble and sophis- tical — though we may sometimes smile at his extraordinary language — we can never be weary of admiring the amplitude of his comprehension, the keenness of his penetration, the exuberant fertility with which his mind pours forth argu- ments and illustrations. However sharply he may speak of us, we can never cease to revere in him the father of the philosophy of Jurisprudence. He has a full right to all the privileges of a great inventor ; and in our court of criticism those privileges will never be pleaded in vain. But they are limited in the same manner in which, fortunately for the ends of justice, the privileges of the peerage are now limited. The advantage is personal and incommunicable. A noble- man can now no longer cover with his protection every lackey who follows his heels, or every bully who draws in his quarrel : and, highly as we respect the exalted rank which Mr. Bentham holds among the writers of our time, yet when, for the due maintenance of literary police, we shall think it necessary to ^confute sophists, or to bring pretenders to shame, we shall not depart from the ordinary course of our proceedings because the offenders call themselves Bentham- ites. Whether Mr. Mill has much reason to thank Mr. Ben- tham for undertaking his defence, our readers, when they have finished this article, will perhaps be inclined to doubt. Great as Mr. Bentham’s talents are, he has, we think, shown an undue confidence in them. He should have considered how dangerous it is for any man, however eloquent and in- genious he may be, to attack or defend a book without read- ing it: and we feel quite convinced that Mr. Bentham would never have written the article before us if he had, before he began, perused our review with attention, and compared it with Mr. Mill’s Essay. He has utterly mistaken our object and meaning. He seems to think that we have undertaken to set up some theory of government in opposition to that of Mr. Mill. But we distinctly disclaimed any such design. From the beginning to the end of our article, there is not, as far as we f 422 Macaulay’s misckllameous wkitungs. remember, a single sentence wliicli, when fairly construed, can be considered as indicating any sucli design. If such expressions can be found, it has been dropped by inadver- tence. Our object was to prove, not that monarchy and ar- istocracy are good, but that Mr. Mill liad not proved them to be bad; not that democracy is bad, but that Mr. Mill had not proved it to be good. The points in issue are these: whether the famous Essay on Government be, as it has been called, a perfect solution of the great political prol> lem, or a series of sophisms and blunders ; and whether the sect which, while it glories in the precision of its logic, extols this Essay as a masterpiece of demonstration, be a sect deserving of the respect or of the derision of mankind. These, we say, are the issues : and on these we with full confi- dence put ourselves on the country. It is not necessary, for the purposes of this investigation, that we should state what our political creed is, or whether we have any political creed at all. A man wlio cannot act the most trivial part in a farce has a right to hiss Romeo Coates : a man who does not know a vein from an artery may caution a simple neighbor against the advertisements of Dr. Eady. A complete theory of government would in- deed be a noble present to mankind ; but it is a i^resent which we do not hope and do not pretend that we can offer. If, however, we cannot lay the foundation, it is«something to clear away the rubbish ; if we cannot set up truth, it is something to pull down error. Even if the subjects of w^hich thu Utilitarians treat were subjects of less fearful importance, we should think it no small service to the cause of good sense and good taste to point out the contrast between their magnificent pretensions and their miserable performance. Some of them have, however, thought fit to display their in- genuity on questions of the most momentous kind, and on questions concerning which men cannot reason ill with im- punity. We think it, under these circumstances, an abso- lute duty to expose the fallacy of their arguments. It is no matter of pride or of pleasure. To read their wmrks is the most soporific employment that we know ; and a man ought no more to be proud of refuting them than of having two legs. We must now come to close quarters with Mr. Ben- tham, whom, we need not say, we do not mean to include in this observation. He charges us with maintaining, — “ First, ‘ That it is not true that all despots govern ill ; * — whereon the world is in a mistaUe, and the Whigs have the true light. And for proot WEST2tfIN8TER REVIEWER’S DEFENCE OF MILL. 423 princif>ally,— that the King of Denmark is not Caligula. To which the answer is, that tlie King of Denmark is not a desi)ot. He was jmt in his present situation 1 ) 3 ’^ the people turning tlie scale in his favor in a balanced contest between himself and the nobilit 3 \ And it is quite clear that the same ix>wer would turn the scale the other way the moment a King of Den- mark should take into his head to be Caligula. It is of little consequence ' by what congeries of letters the Majesty of Denmark is typified in the royal press of Copenhagen, while the rei fact is that the sword of the people is susjiended over his head, in case of ill-behavior, as effectually as in other countries w'here more noise is made upon the subject. Pwerybody believes tlie sovereign of Denmark to be a good and virtuous gentleman ; but there i£ no more superhiiinan merit in his being so than in tlie case of a rural squire who does not shoot his land-steward or quarter his wife with his yeomanry sabre. “ It is true that there are partial exceptions to the rule, that all men use power as badly as they dare. There may have been such things as amiable negro-drivers and sentimental masters of press-gangs ; and here and there, among the old freaks of human nature, there may have been specimens of men w^ho were ‘ No tyrants, though bred up to tyranny.’ But it would be as wise to recommend wolves for nurses at the Foundling on the credit of Romulus and Remus as to substitute the exception for the general fact, and advise mankind to take to trusting to arbitrary power oh the credit of these specimens.’* Now, in the first place, we never cited the case of Den- mark to prove that all despots do not govern ill. We cited it to prove that Mr. Mill did not know how to reason. Mr. Mill gave it as a reason for deducing the theory of govern- ment from the general laws of human nature, that the King of Denmark was not Caligula. This we said, and we still say, was absurd. In the second place, it was not we, but Mr. Mill, who said that the King of Denmark w as a despot. His words are these : — “ The people of Denmark, tired out with the oppression of an aristocracy, resolved that their king should be absolute ; and under their absolute monarch are as well governed as any peo])le in Europe.” We leave Mr. Bentham to settle with Mr. Mill the distinction between a despot and an absolute king. In the third place, Mr. Bentham says that there was in Denmark a ^balanced contest between the king and the nobility. We find some difiiculty in believing that Mr. Bentham seriously means to say this, when we consider that Mr. Mill has demonstrated the chance to be as infinity to oue against the existence of such a balanced contest. Fourthly, Mr. Bentham says that in this balanced com test the people turned the scale in favor of the king against the aristocracy. But Mr. Mill has demonstrated that it can- not possibly be for the interest of the monarchy and democ- racy to join against the aristocracy ; and that, wherever the thv^Q parties exist, the kin;- and the aristocracy will combine 424 MACAULAY^S MISCELLANEOUS WlUtlNGft. against the people. Tliis, Mr. Mill assures us, is as certain an anytliing which (1c|)en(ls ii])on liiiinan will. Fifthly, Mr. ilentliani says that, if the King of Denmark were to oj)press his people, the ])Cople and nobles wculd com- bine against the king. But Mr. Mill has j>roved that it can never be for the interest of the aristocracy to combine with the democracy against the king. It is evidently Mr. Ben- tham’s opinion, that “ monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy may balance each other, and by mutual checks produce good government.” But this is the very theory which Mr. Mill pronounces to be the wildest, the most visionary, the most chimerical ever broached on the subject of government. We have no dispute on these heads with Mr. Bentham. On the contrary, we think his explanation true — or, at least, true in part ; and we heartily thank him for lending us his assistance to demolish the essay of liis follower. His wit and his sarcasm are sport to us ; but they are death to his unhappy disciple. Mr. Bentham seems to imagine that we have said some- thing implying an opinion favorable to despotism. We can scarcely suppose that, as he has not condescended to read that portion of our work which he undertook to answer, he can have bestowed much attention on its general char- acter. Had he done so he would, we think, scarcely have entertained such a suspicion. Mr. Mill asserts, and pretends to prove, that under no despotic government does any human being, exce]3t the tools of the sovereign, possess more than the necessaries of life, and that the most intense degree of terror is kept up by constant cruelty. This, we say, is untrue. It is not merely a rule to which there are exceptions : but it ii not the rule. Despotism is bad ; but it is scarcely any- where so bad as Mr. Mill says that it is everywhere. This we are sure Mr. Bentham will allow\ If a man were to say that five hundred thousand people die every year in London of dram-drinking, he would not assert a proposition more monstrously false than Mr. Mill’s. Would it be just to charge us with defending intoxication because we might say that such a man Avas grossly in the Avrong V We say Avith Mr. Bentham that despotiem is a bad thing. We say AvithMr. Bentham that the exceptions do not destroy the authority of the rule. But this we say — that a single exception overthroAVS an argument which either does not prove the rule at all, or else proves the rule to be true with- out exceptions / and such an argument is Mr. Mill’s argument WESTMINSTER REVIEWERS DEFENCE OF MILL. 425 against despotism. In tliis respect there is a great difference between rules drawn from experience and rules deduced a priori. Wc might believe that there had been a fall of snow last August, and yet not think it likely that there would be snow next August. A single occurrence opposed to our general experience would tell for very little in our calcula- tion of the chances. But, if we could once satisfy ourselves that in any single right-angled triangle the square of the hypothenuse might be less than the squares of the sides, wo must reject the forty-seventh jDroposition of Euclid alto- gether. W e willingly adopt Mr. Bentham’s lively illustration about the wolf ; and we will say in passing that it gives us real jdeasure to see how little old age has diminished the gayety of this eminent man. We can assure him that his merriment gives us far more pleasure on his account than pain on our own. We say with him. Keep the wolf out of the nursery, in spite of the story of Romulus and Remus. But, if the shepherd who saw the wolf licking and suckling those famous twins were, after telling thi-s story to his companions, to assert that it \vas an infallible rule that no wolf ever had spared, or ever would spare, any living thing which might fall in its way — that its nature was carnivorous — and that it could not possibly disobey its nature, 'we think that the hearers might have been excused for staring. It may be strange, but not inconsistent, that a wolf which has eaten ninety-nine children should spare the hundredth. But the fact that a w^olf has once spared a child is sufficient to show that there must be some flaw in the chain of reason- ing purporting to prove that wolves cannot possibly spare children. Mr. Bentham proceeds to attack another position which he conceives us to maintain : — “ Secondly, That a government not under the control of the community (for there is no question upon any other) ‘ may soon he saturated.^ Tell it notin Bow-street, whisper it not in Hatton-garden— that there is a plan for preventing injustice by ‘saturation.’ With what peals of unearthly merriment would Minos, .^acus, and Rhadamanth us be aroused upon their benches, if the ‘ light wings of saffron and of blue ’ should bear this theory into their grim domains ! Why do not the owners of pocl^et-hand kerchiefs try to ‘ saturate ? ’ Why does not the cheated publican beg leave to check the gulosity of his defrauder with a repetatur haiistus, and the pummelled plaintiff neutralize the malice of his adversary, by requesting to have the rest of the beating in presence of the court, — if it is not that such conduct would run counter to all the conclusions of experience, and be the procreation of the mischief it affected to destroy ? Wof ul is the man whose wealth depends oil his having more than somebody else can be persuaded to take from him; and wofol also is the people that is in such a ease I” 426 Macaulay’s misceli.aneous avkitingr. Now tliis is certainly very j)lcasant writing : hut there is no great difficulty in answering the argument. The real reason whicli makes it absurd to think of ])reventing theft by pensioning off thieves is this, that tlierc is no limit to the number of thieves. If there were only a liundred thieves in a place, and we were quite sure that no person not already addicted to theft would take to it, it might become a ques- tion whether to keep the thieves from dishonesty by raising them above distress would not be a better course than to cm- ])loy officers against them. But the actual cases are not parallel. Every man who chooses can become a thief ; but a man cannot become a king or a member of the aristoc* racy ’whenever he choses. The number of the depredators is limited ; and therefore the amount of depredation, so far as physical pleasures are concerned, must be limited also. Now, we made the remark which Mr. Bentham censures with reference to physical pleasures only. The pleasures of os- tentation, of taste, of revenge, and other pleasures of the same description, have, we distinctly allowed, no limit. Our Avords are these : — ‘‘ A king or an aristocracy may be sup- plied to satiety with corporal pleasures^ at an ex]:)ense which the rudest and poorest community would scarcely feel.” Does Mr. Bentham deny this ? If he does, w^e leave him to Mr. Mill. “ What,” says that j^hilosopher, in his Essay on Education, “ what are the ordinary pursuits of vrealth and power, which kindle to such a height the ardor of mankind ? Not the mere love of eating and of drinking, or all the physical objects together w hich wealth can purchase or power command. With these every man is in the long run speedily satisfied.” What the difference is between being speedily satisfied and being soon saturated, w^e leave Mr. Bentham and Mr. Mill to settle together. The w^ord ‘ saturation,’ however, seems to provoke Mr. Bentham’s mirth. It certainly did not strike us as very E ure English; but, as Mr. Mill used it, w^e supposed it 1o e good Benthamese. With the latter language w^e are not critically acquainted, though, as it has many roots in com- mon wdth our mother tongue, we can contrive, by the help of a converted Utilitarian, wdio attends us in the capacity of Moonshee, to make out a little. But Mr. Bentham’s au« thority is of course decisive ; and we bow to it. Mr. Bentham next represents us as maintaining : — “ Thirdly, That ‘ though there may be some tastes and propensities that have ng point of saturation, there eisists a sutScient check hi the desk© of th© WKSTMINSTEK BEVlEWEll’s DEFENCE OF MILL. 421 good opinion of others/ The misfortune of this argument is, that no man cares for til e good opinion of those he has been acrustomed to wrong. If oysters have opinions, it is probable they think very ill of those who eat them in August ; but small is the effect upon the autumnal glutton that en- gulfs their gentle substances within his own. The planter and the slave- driver care just as much about negro opinion, as the epicures about the sen- timents of oysters. M. Ude throwing live eels into the fire as a kindly method of divesting them of the unsavory oil that lodges beneath their skins, is not more convinced of the immense aggregate of good which arises to the lordlier parts of the creation, than is the gentle peer who strips his fellow-man of country and of family tor a wild-fowl slain, 'ihe goodly land- owner, who lives by morsels squeezed indiscriminately from the waxy hands of the cobbler and the polluted ones of the nightman, is in no small degree the object of both hatred and contempt ; but it is to be feared that he is a long way from feeling them to be intolerable. The principle of ‘ Atmihi filaudo ipfie domi, simid ac nummos contemplor in area, is suflficient to make a wide interval between the opinions of the plaintiff and defendant in such cases. In short, to banish law and leave all plaintiffs to trust to the desire of reputation on the opposite side, would only be transporting the theory of the Whigs from the House of Commons to Westminster Hall.’* N'ow, in the first place, we never maintained the propo- sition which Mr. Bentham puts into our mouths. We said, and say, that there is a certain check to the rapacity and cruelty of men, in their desire of the good opinion of others. We never said that it was sufficient. Let Mr. Mill show it to be insufficient. It is enough for us to prove that there is a set-off against the principle from which Mr. Mill deduces the whole theory of government. The balance may be, and we believe, will be, against despotism and the narrower forms of aristocracy. But what is this to the correctness or incorrectness of Mr. Mill’s accounts ? The question is not, whether the motives which lead rulers to behave ill are stronger than those which lead them to behave well ; — but, whether we ought to form a theory of government by look- ing only at the motives which lead rulers to behave ill and never noticing those which lead them to behave well. Absolute rulers, says Mr. Bentham, do not care for the good opinion of their subjects; for no man cares for the good opinion of those whom he has been accustomed to wrong. By Mr. Bentham’s leave, this is a plain begging of the question. The point at issue is this — Will kings and nobles wrong the people ? The argument in favor of kings and nobles is this : — they will not wrong the people, because they care for the good opinion of the people. But this ar- gument Mr. Bentham meets thus : — they will not care for the good opinion of the people, because they are accustomed to wrong the people. Here Mr. Mill differs, as usual, from Mr. Bentham, *‘The greatest princes,” says he, in his Essay on Educa* 428 Macaulay’s miscellaneous avuitings. tion, “ tlie most despotical masters of human destiny, wlien asked what they aim at hy tlieir wars and conquests, would answer, if sincere, as Frederick of Prussia answered, / jowt* faire de soi ; — to occupy a large s]>ace in tire admira- tion of mankind.” Putting Mr. Mill’s and Mr. Bentham’s princijdes together, Ave might make out very easily that “ tlie greatest princes, the most despotical masters of human destiny,” would never abuse their power. A man who has been long accustomed to injure people must also have been long accustomed to do without their lovo, and to endure tlieir aversion. Such a man may not miss the pleasures of i>opularity ; for men seldom miss a pleasure Avhich they have long denied themselves. An old tyrant does without po]mlarity just as an old water-drinker does without Avine. - But, though it is perfectly true that men Avho for the good of their health have long abstained from Avine feel the want of A^ery little, it Avould be absurd to infer that men will alAvays abstain from Avine when their health requires that they should do so. And it would be equally absurd to say, because men Avho haA^e been accus- tomed to oppress care little for popularity, that men Avill therefore necessarily prefer the pleasures of oppression to those of popularity. Then, again, a man may be accustomed to wrong people in one point and not in another. He may care for their good opinion with regard to one point and not with regard to another. The Regent Orleans laughed at charges of impiety, libertinism, extravagance, idleness, disgraceful pro- motions. But the slightest allusion to the charges of poison- ing thrcAV him into couAUilsions. Louis the Fifteenth braved the hatred and contempt of his subjects during many years of the most odious and imbecile misgoA^ernment. But, Avhen a report was spread that he used human blood for his baths, he was almost driven mad by it. Surely Mr. Bentham’s position “ that no man cares for the good opinion of those whom he has been accustomed to Avrong” would be objec- tionable, as far too sweeping and indiscriminate, even if it did not involve, as in the present case Ave haA^e shown that it does, a direct begging of the question at issue. Mr. Bentham proceeds : — Fourthly, The Edinburgh Reviewers are of opinion, that ‘ it might, with no small plausibility, be raaiutaiued, that In many countries, there are two classes which, in some degree, answer to this description ; ’ [viz.] ‘that the poor compose the class which goverument is established to restrain ; and tha WESTMINSTER REVlEWEli’s DEFENCE OF MILL. 429 people of some property the class to wliich the ^xjwers of government maj without danger be con tided.’ “ They take great pains, it is true, to say this and not to say it. They Bhuffle and creep about, to secure a hole to escape at, if ‘ what they do not assert’ should be found in any degree inconvenient. A man might waste his life in trying to find out whether the Misses of the Edinburgh mean to say Yes or No in their political coquetry. But whichever way the lovely spin- sters may decide, it is diametrically op])osed to history and the evidence of facts, that the poor are the class wliom there is any difficulty in restraining. It is not the poor but the rich that have a proi^ensity to take the property of other people. There is no instance upon eiirth of the ix)or having combined to take away the projverty of the rich ; and all the instances habitually brought forward in support if it are gross misiepresentations, founded upon the most necessary acts of self-defence on the part of the most numerous classes. Such a misrepresentation is the common one of the Agrarian law ; which was nothing but an attempt on the part of the Roman people to get back some part of what had been taken from them by undisguised robbery. Such another is the stock example of the French Revolution, appealed to by the Edinburgh Eevieru in the actual case. It is utterly untrue that the French Revolution took place because ‘ the poor began to compare their cottages and salads with the hotels and banquets of the rich ; ’ it took place because they were robbed of their cottages and salads to suj^port the hotels and banquets of their oppressors. It is utterly untrue that there was either a scramble for property or a general confiscation ; the classes who took part with the foreign invaders lost their property, as they would have done here, and ought to do everywhere. All these are the vulgar errors of the man on the lion’s back, — which the lion will set to rights when he can tell his own story. History is nothing but the relation of the sufferings of the poor from the rich ; except precisely so far as the numerous classes of the community have contrived to keep the virtual power in their hands, or in other words, to establish free governments. If the poor man injures the rich, the law is instantly at his heels ; the injuries of the rich towards the poor are always inflicted by the law. And to enable the rich to do this to any extent that may be practicable or prudent, there is clearly one postulate required, which is, that the rich shall make the law.” This passage is alone sufficient to prove that Mr. Ben- tham has not taken tlie trouble to read our article from beginning to end. We are quite sure that he would not stoop to misrepresent it. And, if he had read it with any attention, he would have perceived tliat all this co- quetry, this hesitation, this Yes and No, this saying and not saying, is simply an exercise of the undeniable right which in controversy belongs to the defensive side — to the side which proposes to establish nothing. The affirmative of the issue and the burden of the proof are with Mr. Mill, not with us. We are not bound, perhaps we are not able, to show that the form of government which he recommends is bad. It is quite enough if we can show that he does not prove it to be good. In his proof, among many other flaws, is this — He says, that if men are not inclined to plunder each other, government is unnecessary, and that, if men are so inclined, kings and aristocracies will plunder the people. Now this, we say is a fallacy. That some men will plunder 430 MACAULAY'S MISCKLLANEOUS WRITINGS. their neighbors if tliey can, is a siifhcient reason for the existence of governments. But it is not deinorstrated that kings and aristocracies will ])lund(jr the ))eo])le, unless it be true that all men will plunder their neiglibors if they can. Men are placed in very different situations. Some have all the bodily pleasure that they desire, and many other jdeasures besides, without plundering anybody. Others can scarcely obtain their daily bread without plundering. It maybe true, but surely it is not self-evident, that the former class is under as strong temptations to plunder as the latter. Mr. Mill was therefore bound to prove it. That he has not proved it is one of thirty or forty fatal errors in his argu- ment. It is not necessary that we should express an opinion or even have an opinion on the subject. Perhaps we are in a state of perfect skepticism ; but what then ? Are we the theory-makers ? When we bring before the world a theory of government, it will be time to call upon us to offer proof at every step. At present we stand on our un- doubted logical right. We concede nothing ; and we deny nothing. We say to the Utilitarian theorists : — When you prove your doctrine, we will believe it ; and, till you prove it, we will not believe it. Mr. Bentham has quite misunderstood what we said about the French Revolution. We never alluded to that event for the purpose of proving tliat the poor were inclined to rob the rich. Mr. Mill’s principles of human nature fur- nished us with that part of our argument ready-made. We alluded to the French Revolution for the purpose of illustra- ting the effects which general spoliation produces on society, not for the purpose of showing that general spoliation Avill take place under a democracy. We allowed distinctly that, in the peculiar circumstances of the French monarchy, the Revolution, though accompanied by a great shock to the insti • tution of property, v/as a blessing. Surely Mr. Bentham will not maintain that the injury produced by the deluge of ^signats and by the maximum fell only on the emigrants,— or that there were not many emigrants who would have staid and lived peaceably under any government if their persons and property had been secure. We never said that the French Revolution took place because the poor began to compare their cottages and salads with the hotels and banquets of the rich. We were not Bpeaking about the causes of the Revolution, or thinking ibout i hem. This we said, and say, that, if a democratic WESTMINSTER REVIEWER^S DEFENCE OF MILL. 431 government had been establislicd in France, the poor, wiien they began to compare their cottages and salads with the Hotels and banquets of the rich, would, oD the supposition that Mr. Mill’s principles are sound, have plundered the rich, and repeated without provocation all the severities and con- fiscations which, at the time of the Revolution, were com- mitted with j:>ro vocation. We say that Mr. Mill’s favorite form of government would, if his own views of human natuie be just, make those violent convulsions and transfers of pro[>- erly which now rarely happen, except, as in the case of the French Revolution, when the people are maddened by op- pression, events of annual or biennial occurrence. W e gave no opinion of our own. We give none now. We say that this proposition may be proved from Mr. Mill’s own premises, by steps strictly analogous to those by which he proves monar- chy and aristocracy to be bad forms of government. To say this, is not to say that the proposition is true. For we hold both Mr. Mill’s premises and his deduction to be unsound throughout. Mr. Bentham challenges us to prove from history that the people will plunder the rich. What does history say to Mr. Mill’s doctrine, that absolute kings will always plunder their subjects so unmercifully as to leave nothing but a bare subsistence to any except their OAvn creatures ? If expe- rience is to be the test, Mr. Mill’s theory is unsound. If Mr. Mill’s reasoning a priori be sound, the people in a democracy will j)lunder the rich. Let us use one Aveight and one meas- ure. Let us not throw history aside when we are proving a theory, and take it up again when Ave have to refute an objection founded on the principles of that theory. We have not done, however, with Mr. Bentham’s charges against us. “ Among other specimens of their ingenuity, they think they embarrass the subject by asking why, on the principles in question, women should not have votes as well as men. And why not ? ‘ Gentle shepherd, tell me why. — ’ If the mode of election was what it ought to be, there would be no more difficulty in women voting for a representative in Parliament than for a di- rector at the India House. The world will find out at some time that the readiest way to secure justice on some points is to be just on all : — that the whole is easier to accomplish than the part ; and that, whenever the camel is driven through the eye of the needle, it would be simple follj’^ and debility that would leave a hoof behind.” Why, says or sings Mr. Bentham, should not women vot© ? It may seem uncivil in us to turn a deal ear to his 432 MACAUJ.Ay’s MISCELLANKOUS AVKITINGS. Arcadian warldiiigs. But we suLmit, witli great defei ence, that it is not our business to tell him why. We fully agree with him that the ])rinciple of female suffrage is not so palpably absurd that a chain of reasoning ought to be pronounceil unsound merely because it leads to female suffrage. We say that every argument which tells in fa- vor of the universal suffrage of the males tells equally in favor of female suffrage. Mr. Mill, liowever, wishes to see all men vote, but says that it is unnecessary that women should vote; and for making this distinction gives as a reason an assertion which, in the first jdace, is not true, and which, in the next place, would, if true, overset his whole theory of human nature ; namely, that the interest of the women is identical with that of the men. We side with Mr. Bentham, so far at least as this : that, when Ave join to drive the camel through the needle, he shall go through hoof and all. We at present desire to be excused from driving the camel. It is Mr. Mill avIk/ leaA^es the hoof behind. But we should think it uncourteous to reproach him in the language which Mr. Bentham, in the exercise of his paternal authority OA^er the sect, thinks himself entitled to employ. “Another of their perverted ingenuities is, that ‘they are rather inclined to think,’ that it would, on the whole, be for the interest of the majority to plunder the rich ; and if so, the Utilitarians will say that the rich ought to be plundered. On which it is sufficient to reply, that for the majority to plunder the rich would amount to a declaration that nobody should be rich ; which, as all men wish to be rich, wmild involve a suicide of hope. And as nobody has shown a fragment of reason why such a proceeding should be for the general happiness, it does not follow that the ‘ Utilitarians ’ would recom- mend it. The Edinburgh Reviewers have a waiting gentlewoman’s ideas of ‘Utilitarianism.’ It is unsupported by anything but the pitiable ‘We are rather inclined to think ’ — and is utterly contradicted by the whole course of history and human experience besides, — that there is either danger or possi- bility of such a consummation as the ma jority agreeing on tlie plunder of the rich. There have been instances in human memory, of their agreeing to plunder rich oppressors, rich traitors, rich enemies, — but the rich simpliciter never. It is as true now as in the days of Harrington, that ‘ a people never will, nor ever can, never did, nor ever shall, take up arms for levelling.’ All the commotions in the world have been for something else ; and ‘ levelling * Is brought forward as the blind to conceal what the other was.'’ We sajq again and again, that we are on the defensive. We do not think it necessary to prove that a quack medi- cine is poison. Let the vendor prove it to be sanitive. We do not pretend to show that universal suffrage is an evil. Let its advocates shov/ it to be a good. Mr. Mill tells us that, if power be given for short terms to representatives elected by all the males of mature age, it will then be for the interest c f those representatives to promote the greatest WESTMINSTER REVIEWER’S DEFENCE OF MILL. 433 happiness of the greatest mimher. To prove this, it is ne- cessary that he should ])rove three propositions : first, that the interest of such a representative body will be identical with the interest of the constituent body ; secondly, that the interest of the constituent body will be identical with that of the community ; thirdly, that the interest of one generation of a community is identical with that of all suc- ceeding generations. The two first propositions Mr. Mill attempts to prove. We therefore refuse our assent to his itonclusions. Is this unreasonable ? We never even dreamed, what Mr. Bentham conceives ns to have maintained, that it could be for the greatest hap^ piness of manhindXo plunder the rich. But we are “ rather inclined to think,” though doubtingly and with a disposition to yield to conviction, that it may be for the pecuniary in- terest of the majority of a single generation ifi a thickly- peopled country to plunder the rich. Why we are inclined to think so we will explain, whenever we send a theory of government to an EncyclopaBdia. At present we are bound to say only that we think so, and shall think so till somebody shows us a reason for thinking otherwise. Mr. Bentham’s answer to us is simple assertion. He must not think that we mean any discourtesy by meeting it with a simple denial. The fact is, that almost all the govern- ments that had ever existedln the civilized world have been, ’in part at least, monarchical and aristocratical. The first government constituted on principles approaching to those which the Utilitarians hold was, we think, that of the United States. That the poor have never combined to plunder the rich in the governments of the old world, no more proves that they mi^ht hot combine to plunder the rich under a system of universal suffrage, than the fact that the English kings of the House of Brunswick have not been Neros and Domitians proves that sovereigns may safely be intrusted with absolute power. Of what the people would do in a state of perfect sovereignty we can judge only by indications, which, though rarely of much moment in themselves, and though always suppressed with little difficulty, are yet of great significance, and resemble those by wffiich our domes- tic animals sometimes remind us that they are of kin with the fiercest monsters of the forest. It would not be wise to reason from the behavior of a dog crouching under the lash, w hich is the case of the Italian people, or from the behavior a dog pampered with the best morsels of a plentiful 434 MACAULAV’S MISCELLANEOUS AVKITINGS. kitchen, wliicli is tlic case of llu; ])eo]>le of America, to the behavior of a wolf, which is notliiiig but a dog run wild, after a week’s fast among tlie snows of tlie Pyrenees. No commotion, says Mr. Bentliam, Avas ever really produced by the wish of levelling: the Avish has been put forward as a blind ; but something else has been the real object. Grant all this. But Avhy has levelling been put forward as a blind in times of commotion to conceal the real objects of the agitators ? Is it with declarations which involve “ a suicide of hope” that men attempt to allure others? Was famine, oestilence, slavery, ever held out to attract the people ? If leA'elling has been made a pretence for disturbances, the argument against Mr. Bentham’s doctrine is as strong as if it had been the real object of disturbances. But the great objection AA^hich Mr. Bentham makes to our revicAV, still remains to be noticed : — The pith of the charge against the author of the Essays is. that he has written ‘an elaborate Treatise on Government,’ and deduced the whole science from the assumption of certain propensities of human nature.’ Now, in the name of Sir Richard Birnie and all saints, from what else should it be deduced ? What did ever anybody imagine to be the end, ob- ject, and design of government as it ought to he but the same operation, on an extended scale, which that meritorious chief magistrate conducts on a limited one at Bow-street ; to wdt, the preventing one man from injuring an- other ? Imagine, then, that the Whiggery of Bow-street were to rise up against the proposition that their science was to be deduced from ‘ certain propensities of human nature,’ and tliereon were to ratiocinate as follows: “ ‘ How then are we to arrive at just conclusions on a subject so important to the happiness of mankind ? Surely by that method, Avhich, in every ex- perimental science to which it has been applied, has signally increased the power and knowledge of our species, — by that method for which our new philosophers would substitute quibbles scarcely worthy of the barbarous respondents and opponents of the middle ages, — by the method of induction, — by observing the present state of the world, — by assiduously studying the history of past ages, — by sifting the evidence of facts, — by carefully com- bining and contrasting those which are authentic, — by generalizing with judgment and diffidence, — by perpetually bringing the theory which wo nave constructed to the test of new facts, — by correcting, or altogether abandoning it, according as those new facts prove it to be partially or fun- damentally unsound. Proceeding thus, — patienth', diligently, candidly, we may hope to form a system as far inferior in pretension to that which we have been examining, and as far superior to it in real utility, as the prescrip- tions of a great physician, varying with every stage of every malady, and with the constitution of every patient, to the pill of the advertising quack, which is to cure all human beings, in all climates, of all diseases.’ ” “ Fancy now, — only fancy, — the delivery of these wise words at Bow- street ; and think how speedily the practical catchpolls would reply, that all this might be very fine, but as far as they had studied history, the naked story was, after all, that numbers of men had a propensity to thieving, and their business was to catch them ; that they, too, had been sifters of facts ; and, to say the truth, their simple opinion was that their brethren of the red waisicoat—though they should be sorry to think ill of any man — had some- how contracted a leaning to the other side, and were more bent on puzzling WESTMINSTER REVIEWER’S DEFENCE OF MILL. 435 the case for the benefit of the defendants, than on doing the duty of good olficers and true. Siicli would, beyond all doubt, be the sentence passed on such trimmers in the microcosm of Bow-street. It niiglit not absolutely fol- low that they were in a jdot to rob the goldsmiths’ shops, or to set fire to the House of Commons ; but it would be quite clear that they had got cifeclinr/f — that they were in process of siding witli the thieves, — and that it was not to them that any man must look who was anxious that pantries should bo gafe. ” This is all very witty ; but it does not touch us. On the present occasion, we cannot but flatter ouseh^es that we near a much greater resemblance to a practical catchpoll than either Mr. Mill or Mr. Centham. It Avould, to be sure, be very absurd in a magistrate, discussing the arrangements of a police-office, to spout in the style either of our article or Mr. Bentham’s ; but, in substance, he would proceed, if he were a man of sense, exactly as we recommend. He would, on being appointed to provide for the security of property in a town, study attentively the state of the town. He would learn at what places, at what times, and under what circumstances, theft and outrage were most frequent. Are the streets, he would ask, most infested with thieves at sunset or at midnight ? Are there any public places of re- sort which give peculiar facilities to pickjiockets ? Are there any districts completely inhabited by a lawless pop- ulation ? Which are the flash-houses, and which the shops of receivers ? Having made himself master of the facts he would act accordingly. A strong detachment of officers might be necessary for Petticoat Lane ; another for the pit entrance of Covent Garden Theatre. Grosvenor Square and Hamilton Place would require little or no protection. Ex- actly thus should we reason about government. Lombardy is oppressed by tyrants ; and constitutional checks, such as may produce security to the people, are required. It is, so to speak, one of the resorts of thieves ; and there is great need of police-officers. Denmark resembles one of those respectable streets in which it is scarcely necessary to station a catchpoll, because the inhabitants would at once join to seize a thief. Yet, even in such a street, we should wish to see an officer apj)ear now and then, as his occasional superintendence would render the security more complete. And even Denmark, we think, would be better off under a constitutional form of government. Mr. Mill proceeds like a director of police, who without asking a single question about the state of his district, should give his orders thus : — ‘‘My maxim is, that every man will take what he can. Every man in London would be a thief, ]siACAULAv\s aiiscL:llaxi:ol*.s wnrriXGr m but for tlic lliief-takers. Tliis is an undeniable princij)le oi liuinan nature. Some of my predecessors have wasted their time in inquiring about particular i)awnbrokcrs, and par- ticular alehouses. Experience is altogether divided. Of people placed in exactly the same situation, I see that one steals, and that another would sooner burn his hand off Therefore I trust to the laws of human nature alone, and pronounce all men thieves alike. Let everybody, high and low, be watched. Let Townsend take particular care that the Duke of Wellington does not steal the silk handkerchief of the lord in waiting at the levee. A person has lost a wat( h. Go to Lord Fitzwilliam and search him for it ; he is as great a receiver of stolen goods as Ikey Solomons himself. Don’t tell me about his rank, and character, and fortune. He is a man ; and a man does not change his nature Avhen he is called a lord.* Either men will steal or they will not steal. If they will not, why do I sit heire ? If they will, his lord- ship must be a thief. ” The Whiggery of Bow Street would perhaps rise up against this wisdom. Would Mr. Bentham think that the Whiggery of Bow Street was in the wrong? We blamed Mr. Mill for deducing his theory of govern- ment from the principles of human nature. “ In the name of Sir Richard Birnie and all saints, ” cries Mr. Bentham, “ from what else should it be deduced ? ” In spite of this solemn adjuration, we shall venture to answer Mr. Bentham’s question by another. How does he arrive at those principles of human nature from which he proposes to deduce the science of government ? We think that we may venture to put an answer into his mouth ; for in truth there is but one possible answer. He will say — By experience. ^ But what Is the extent of this experience ? Is it an experience which includes experience of the conduct of men intrusted with the powers of government ; or is it exclusive of that experience ? If it includes experience of the manner in which men act when intrusted with the powers of government, then those principles of human nature from which the science of gov- ernment is to be deduced can only be known after going through that inductive process by which we propose to arrive at the science of government. Our knowledge of • If Government is founded upon this, as a law of human nature, that a man, if able, will take from others anything which they have and he desires, it is «iufficieiitly evident that when a man is called a king, he does not change his nature : so that, when he has power to take what he pleases, he will take what he pleases. To suppose that he will not, is to affirm that government is unne- cessary, and that human beings will abstain from injuring on© another of thelx own accord.— M ill on Government, WESTAIINSTKli KEVIEWiEilS DEFENCE OF MILL. 437 human nature, instead of being prior in order to our knowl- edge of tlie science of government, will be ])osterior to it. And it would be correct to say, tliatby means of the science of government, and of other kindred sciences — the science of education, for example, wiiich falls under exactly the same principle — we arrive at the science of human nature. If, on the other liand, we arc to deduce the tlieory of government from principles of liuman nature, in arriving at which principles we have not taken into the account the manner in which men act when invested with the powers of government, then those ])rinciples must be defective. They have not been formed by a sufficiently copious induction. We are reasoning, from what a man does in one situation, to Avhat he will do in another. Sometimes we may be quite justified in reasoning thus. When we liave no means of ac- quiring information about the particular case before us, we are compelled to resort to cases which bear some resemblance to it. But the most satisfactory course is to obtain informa- tion about the particular cases ; and, whenever this can be obtained, it ought to be obtained. When first the yellow fever broke out, a physician might be justified in treating it as he had been accustomed to treat those complaints which, on the whole, had the most symptoms in common with it,. But what should we tliink of a physician who should now tell us tliat he deduced his treatment of yellow fever from the general theory of pathology? Surely we should ask liim. Whether, in constructing his. theory of pathology, he liad or had not taken into the account the facts wdiich had been ascertained respecting the yellow fever? If he had, then it wmuld be more correct to say that he had arrived at the principles of pathology partly by his experience of cases of yellow fever than that he had deduced his treatment of yellow fever from the principles of pathology. If he had not, he should not prescribe for us. If w^e had the yellow fever, we should prefer a man wlio had never treated any cases but cases of yellow fever to a man who had walked the hospitals of London and Paris for years, but who knew nothing of our particular disease. Let Lord Bacon speak for us : Inductionem censemus earn esse demonstrandi formam, quie sensum tuetur, et naturam premit, et operibus imminet, ac fere immiscetur. Itaque ordo quoque demonstrandi plane invertitur. Adhuc cnim res ita geri consuevit, ut a sensu et particularibus primo loco ad maxime generalia ad voletur, tanquam ad polos 438 Macaulay’s miscellankous WRiTmos. iSxos, circa quos disputationes vertantur; ab illis csetera, per media, deriventur; via, certe compendiaria, sed pra?- cipiti, et ad naturam impervia, ad disj)utationes proclivi et accommodata. At, secundum nos, axiomata continenter et gradatim excitantur, ut non, nisi postremo loco, ad maxime generalia veniatur. ” Can any words more exactly describe tbe political reasonings of Mr. Mill than those in which Lord Bacon thus describes the logomachies of the schoolmen? Mr. Mill springs at once to a general principle of the widest extent, and from that general principle deduces syllogistically everything which is included in it. We say with Bacon — ‘‘ non, nisi postremo loco, ad maxime generalia veniatur. ” In the present inquiry, the science of human nature is the ‘‘maxime generale. ” To this the Utilitarian rushes at once, and from this he deduces a hundred sciences. But tlie true philosopher, the inductive reasoner, travels up to it slowly, through those hundred sciences, of which the science of government is one. As we have lying before us that incomparable volume, the noblest and most useful of all the works of the human reason, the Novum Organum, we will transcribe a few lines, in which the Utilitarian philosophy is portrayed to the life. “ Syllogismus ad prmcipta scientiarum non adhibetur, ad media axiomata frustra adhibetur, cum sit subtilitati natarai longe impar. Assensum itaque coiistriiigit, non res. Syllogismus ex propositionibus constat, propositiones ex verbis, verba notionum tesserae, sunt. Itaque si notiones ipsae, id quod basis rei est, confusae sint, et temere a rebus abstractae, nihil in iis quae super- struuntur est firmitudinis. Itaque spes est una in Inductioue vera. In notionibus nil sani est, nec in Logicis nec in physicis. Non substantia, non qualitas, agere, pati, ipsum esse, bonae notiones sunt ; multo minus grave, leve, deusum, tenue, huiniduni, siccum, generatio, corruptio, attrahere, fugare, elementura, materia, forma, et id genus, sed omnes phantasticae et male terminatae.” Substitute for the “ substantia,” the “ generatio,” the “corruptio,” the “ elementum,” the “materia” of the old schoolmen, Mr. Mill’s pain, pleasure, interest, power, objects of desire, — and the words of Bacon will seem to suit the current year as well as the beginning of the seventeenth century. We have now gone through the objections that Mr. Ben- tham makes to our article i and we submit ourselves on all the charges to the judgment of the public. The rest of Mr. Bentham’s article consists of an ex- position of the Utilitarian principle, or, as he decrees that it shall be called, the “ greatest happiness principle.” He WESTMINSTER REVIEWER’S DEFENCE OF MILL. 439 neems to think that we have been assailing it. We never said a syllable against it. We spoke slightingly of the Utilitarian sect, as we thought of them, and think of them ; but it was not for holding this doctrine that we blamed them. In attacking them we no more meant to attack the “ greatest happiness principle ” than when we say that Ma- hometanism is a false religion we mean to deny the unity of God, which is tlie first article of the Mahometan creed ; — no more than Mr. Bentham, when he sneers at the Whigs, means to blame them for denying the divine right of kings. We reasoned throughout our article on the supposition that the end of government was to produce the greatest happi- ness to mankind. Mr. Bentham gives an account of the manner in which he arrived at the discovery of the “ greatest happiness prin- ciple.” He then proceeds to describe the effects which, as he conceives, that discovery is producing in language so rhetorical and ardent that, if it had been written by any other person, a genuine Utilitarian would certainly have thrown down the book in disgust. “ The only rivals of any note to the new principle which were brought forward, were those known by the names of the ‘ moral sense,’ and the ‘ original contract.’ The new principle superseded the first of these, by pre- senting it with a guide for its decisions ; and the other, by making it un- necessary to resort to a remote and imaginary contract for what was clearly tlie business of every man and every hour. Throughout the whole horizon of morals and of politics, the consequences were glorious and vast. It might be said without danger of exaggeration, that they who sat in darkness had seen a great light. The mists in which mankind had jousted against each other were swept away, as when the sun of astronomical science arose in the full development of the principle of gravitation. If the object of legislation was the greatest happiness, morality was the promotion of the same end by the conduct of the individual ; and by analogy, the happiness of the world was tlie morality of nations. * * n: * « ^1^0 gublime obscurities, which had haunted the mind of man from the first formation of society,— the phantoms whose steps had been on earth, and their heads among the clouds,— marshalled themselves it the sound of this new principle of connection and of union, and stood a regulated band, where all was order, symmetry and force. What men had struggled for and bled, while they saw it but as through a glass darkly, was made the object of substantial knowledge and lively apprehension. The bones of sages and of patriots stirred within their tombs, that what they dimly saw and followed had become the world’s common heritage. And the great result was wrought by no supernatural means, nor produced by any iinparallelable concatenation of events. It was foretold by no oracles, and ushered by no portents ; but was brought about by the quiet and reiterated exercise of God’s first gift of common sense.” Mr. Bentham’s discovery does not, as we think we shall be able to show, approach in importance to that of gravi- tation, to which he compares it. At all events, Mr, Bentham 440 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. seems to us to act much as Sir Isaac Newton would have done if he had gone about boasting tliat he was the first person who taught bricklayers not to jump off scaffolds and break their legs. Does Mr. Bentham profess to hold out any new motive which may induce men to promote tlie hapyjiness of the species to which tliey belong ? Not at all. lie distinctly admits that, if he is asked why government should attem])t to produce the greatest possible happiness, he can give no answer. “ The real answer,’’ says he, “ appeared to be, that men at large ought not to allow a government to afflict them with more evil or less good than they can help. What a rjovernment ought to do is a mysterious and search- ing question, which those may answer who know what it means ; but what other men ought to do is a question of no myster^^ at all. The word oufjhty if it means anything, must have reference to some kind of interest or motives; and what interest a government has in doing right, when it happens to be interested in doing wrong, is a question for the schoolmen. The fact appears to be, that ought is not predicable of governments. Tlie question is not why governments are bound not to do this or that, but wliy other men should let them if they can help it. The point is not to determine why the lion should not eat sheep, but why men should uot eat their own mutton if they can.” The principle of Mr. Bentham, if wo understand it, is this, that mankind ought to act so as to produce their gi-eatest happiness. The word oughts he tells us, has no meam ing, unless it be used with reference to some interest. But the: interest of a man is synonymous with his greatest happiness : — and therefore to say that a man ought to do a thing, is to say that it is for his greatest happiness to do it. And to say that mankind ought to act so as to produce their great, est happiness, is to say that the greatest happiness is the* greatest happiness — ard this is all ! Does Mr. Bentham’s principle tend to make any mau wish for anything for which he would not have wished, or do anything which he would not have done, if the principle had never been heard of ? If not, it is an utterly useless principle. Now, every man pursues his own happiness or interest— call it which you will. If his happiness coincides with the happiness of the species, then, whether he ever heard of the ‘‘ greatest happiness principle ” or not, he will, to the best of his knowledge and ability, attempt to prod .^ce the greatest happiness of the species. But, if what he thinks his happiness be inconsistent with the greatest happiness of mankind, will this new principle convert him to another frame of mind ? Mi% Bentham himself allows, as we have ^VESTMINSTER REVIEWEr’s DEFENCE OF MILL. 44 1 seen, that lie can give no reason why a man sliould promote the greatest liappiness ofotliersif their greatest hapjiiness bo inconsistent wnth what he thinks his own. We should very much like to know how the Utilitarian principle would run when reduced to one plain imperative proposition ? Will it run thus — pursue your own happiness ? This is superfluous. Every man pursues it, according to his light, and always has pursued it, and always must pursue it. To say that a man has done anything, is to say that he thought it for his happiness to do it. Will the principle run thus — pursue the greatest happiness of mankind, whether it be your own greatest happiness or not ? This is absurd and impossible ; and Bentham himself allows it to be so. But, if the principle be not stated in one of these two ways, w^e cannot imagine how it is to be stated at all. Stated in one of these ways, it is an identical proposition, — true, but utterly barren of conse- quences. Stated in the other way, it is a contradiction in terms. Mr. Bentham has distinctly declined the absurdity. Are we then to suppose that he adopts the truism ? There are thus, it seems, two great truths which the Utilitarian philosophy is to communicate to mankind — two truths which are to produce a revolution in morals, in laws, in governments, in literature, in the whole system of life. The first of these is speculative ; the second is practical. The speculative truth is, that the greatest happiness is the greatest happiness. The practical rule is very simple ; for it imports merely that men should never omit, when they wdsh for anything, to wish for it, or when they do anything, to do it ! It is a great comfort to us to think that we readily assented to the former of these great doctrines as soon as it was stated to us ; and that we have long endeavored, as far as human frailty would permit, to conform to the latter in our practice. W e are, however, inclined to suspect that the calamities of the human race have been owing, less to their not knowing that happiness was happiness, than to their not knowing how to obtain it — less to their neglecting to do what they did, than to their not being able to do what they wished, or not wishing to do what they ought. Thus frivolous, thus useless is this philosophy, — ‘‘ coii- troversiarum ferax, operum effoeta, ad garriendum promp- ta, ad generandum invalida.” * The humble mechanic who discovers some slight improvement in the construction of safety lamps or steam-vessels does more for the happiness • Bacon, Novum Organum. i42 MACAULAy'^S MISCELi^ANKOUS WKlllJMaS. of mankind than tlie “magnificent principle,” as Mr. Ben- tham calls it, will do in ten thousand years. The meclianio teaches us liow we may in a small degree be better off than we were. The Utilitarian adAUses us with gi'eat pomp to be as well off as we can. The doctrine of moral sense may be very unphilosoph- ical ; but we do not think that it can be proved to be per- nicious. Men did not entertain certain desires and aver- sions because tliey believed in a moral sense, but they gave the name of moral sense to a feeling which they found in their minds, however it came there. If they had given it no name at all it would still have influenced their actions ; and it will not be very easy to demonstrate that it has in- fluenced their actions the more because they have called it the moral sense. The theory of the original contract is a fiction, and a very absurd fiction ; but in practice it meant, what the “ greatest happiness principle,” if ever it becomes a watchword of political warfare, will mean — that is to say, whatever served the turn of those who used it. Both the one expression and the other sound very well in debating clubs ; but in the real conflicts of life our passions and in- terests bid them stand aside and know their place. The “ greatest happiness principle ” has always been latent under the words, social contract, justice, benevolence, patriotism, liberty and so forth, just as far as it was for the happiness, real or imagined, of those words to promote the greatest happiness of mankind. And of this we may be sure, that the words “ greatest happiness ” will never, in smy man’s mouth, mean more than the greatest happiness of others which is consistent with what he thinks his own. The pro- ject of mending a bad world by teaching people to give new names to old things reminds us of Walter Shandy’s scheme for compensating the loss of his son’s nose by christening him Trismegistus. What society wants is a new motive — ‘ not a new cant. If Mr. Bentham can find out any argu- ment yet undiscovered which may induce men to pursue the general happiness, he will indeed be a great benefactor to our species. But those Avhose happiness is identical with the gen- eral ha23piness are even now promoting the general happi- ness to the very best of their power and knowledge ; and Mr. Bentham himself confesses that he has no means of persuad-^ ing those whose liappiness is not identical with the general happiness to act upon his principle. Is not this, then, darken- ing counsel by words without knowledge ? If the only fruit WKSTMINST1£B RKVIBW-Kli’s DJ5FJEKCB OF MILL. 443 [■ of the “ magnificent principle ” is to be, that the oppressoi s and pilferers of the next generation are to talk of seeking the greatest happiness of the greatest number, just as the same class of men have talked in our time of seeking to uphold the Protestant constitution — just as they talked under Anne of seeking the good of the Church, and under Cromwell of seeking the Lord — where is the gain? Is not every great question already enveloped in a sufficient dark cloud of unmeaning words? Is it so difficult for a man to cant some one or more of the good old English cants which his father and grandfather canted before him, that he must learn, in the schools of the Utilitarians, a new sleight of tongue,, to make fools clap and wise men sneer ? Let our countrymen keep their eyes on the neophytes of this sect, and see whether we turn out to be mistaken in the predic- tion which we now hazard. It will before long be found, we prophesy, that, as the corruption of a dunce is the gen- eration of an Utilitarian, so is the corruption of an Utilita- rian the generation of a jobber. The most elevated station that “the greatest happi- ness principle” is ever likely to attain is this, that it may be a fashionable phrase among newspaper writers and mem- bers of parliament — that it may succeed to the dignity which has been enjoyed by the “original contract,” by the “con- stitution of 1688,” and other expressions of the same kind. We do not apprehend that it is a less flexible cant than those which have preceded it., or that it will less easily furnish a pretext for any design for which a pretext may be required. The “original contract” meant in the Convention Parlia- ment the co-ordinate authority of the Three Estates. If there were to be a radical insurrection to-morrow, the “ orig- inal contract” Avould stand just as well for annual parlia- ments and universal suffrage. The “ Glorious Constitution,” again, has meant everything in turn : the Habeas Corpus Act, the Test Act, the Repeal of the Test Act. There has not been for many years a single important measure which has not been unconstitutional with its opponents, and which its supporters have not maintained to be agreeable to the true spirit of the constitution. Is it easier to ascertain what is for the greatest happiness of the human race tlian what is the constitution of England ? If not, the “ greatest hap- piness principle ” will be what the “ principles of the con- stitution ” are, a thing to be appealed to by everybody, and understood by everybody in the sense which suits him best- 444 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. It will mean cheap bread, dear bread, free trade, protecting duties, annual parliaments, septennial parliaments, universal suffrage. Old Sarum, trial by jury, martial law — everything, in short, good, bad, or indifferent, of which any person, from rapacity or from benevolence, chooses to undertake the defence. It will mean six-and-eightpence with the at- torney, tithes at the rectory, and game-laws at the nianoi- house. The Statute of Uses, in appearance the most sweej) ing legislative reform in our history, was said to have pro- duced no other effect than that of adding three words to a conveyance. The universal admission of Mr. Bentham’s great indnciple would, as far as we can see, produce no other effect than that those orators who, while Avaiting for a mean- ing, gain time (like bankers paying in sixpences during a run) by uttering words that mean nothing would substitute ‘‘ the greatest happiness,” or rather, as the longer phrase, “ the greatest happiness of the greatest number,” for “ under existing circumstances,” — “ now that I am on my legs,” — and “ Mr. Speaker, I, for one, am free to say.” In fact, principles of this sort resemble those forms which are sold by law-stationers, with blanks for the names of parties, and for the special circumstances of every case — mere cus- tomary headings and conclusions, Avhich are equally at the command of the most honest and of the most un- righteous claimant. It is on the filling up that everything depends. The “greatest happiness princi]3le” of Mr. Bentham is included in the Christian morality ; and, to our thinking, it is there exhibited in an infinitely more sound and philosoph- ical form than in the Utilitarian speculations. For in the Ncav Testament it is neither an identical proposition, nor a contradiction in terms; and, as laid down by Mr. Bentham, it must be either the one or the other. “ Do as you would be done by : Love your neighbor as yourself : ” these are the precepts of Jesus Christ. Understood in an enlarged sense, these precepts are, in fact, a direction to every man to promote the greatest happiness of the greatest number. But this direction would be utterly unmeaning, as it actu- ally is in Mr. Bentham’s philosophy, unless it were accom- panied by a sanction. In the Christian scheme, accordingly, it is accompanied by a sanction of immense force. To a man whose greatest happiness in this world is inconsistent with the greatest hapi^iness of the greatest number is held out the prospect of an infinite liappiness hereafter, from WESTMINSTER REVIEWER’S DEFENCE OF MILL. t45 wnich he excludes himself by wronging his fellow-creatures here. This is practical philosophy, as practical as that on which penal .9gislation is founded. A man is told to do something which otherwise he would not do, and is furnished with a new motive for doing it. Mr. Bentham has no new motive to furnish his disciples with. He has talents sufficient to effect anything that can be effected. But to induce men to act Avithout an inducement is too much, even for liim. He should reflect that the whole vast world of morals can- not be moved unless the mover can obtain some stand for his engines beyond it. He acts as Archimedes Avould have done, if he had attempted to move the earth by a lever fixed on the earth. The action and reaction neutralize each other. The artist labors, and the Avorld remains at rest. Mr. Bentham can only tell us to do something which we have always been doing, and should still have continued to do, if we had never, heard of the “ gi^eatest haj^piness prin- ciple ” — or else to do something which we have no conceiv- able motive for doing, and therefore shall not do. Mr. Bentham’s principle is at best no more than the golden rule of the Gospel without its sanction. Whatever evils, there- fore, have existed in societies in which the authority of the Gospel is recognized may, a fortiori^ as it appears to us, exist in societies in which the Utilitarian principle is recog- nized. We do not aj:)prehend that it is more difficult for a tyrant or a persecutor to persuade himself and others that in putting to death those who oppose his poAver or differ from his opinions he is pursuing “ the greatest happiness,” than that he is doing as he Avould be done by. But religion gives him a motive for doing as he Avould be done by : and Mr. Bentham furnishes him no motive to induce him to K omote the general happiness. If, on the other hand, r. Bentham’s principle mean only that every man should pursue Ins OAvn greatest happiness, he merely asseits what everybody knoAvs, and recommends what everybody does. It is not upon this ‘‘ greatest happiness principle ” that the fame of Mr. Bentham will rest. He has not taught peo- ple to pursue their own happiness ; for tliat they always did. He has not taught them to promote the happiness of others at the expense of their own ; for that they will not and cannot do. But he has taught them liow^ in some most important points, to promote their own happiness ; and, if his school had emulated him as successfully in this respect 446 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. as in t]ic trick of passing off truisms for discoveries, the name of Benthamite would have been no word for the scof- fer. But few of those who consider themselves as in a more especial manner his followers have anything in common with him but his faults. The whole science of Jurispru- dence is his. He has done much for political economy; but we are not aware that in either department any improve- ment has been made by members of his sect. He discov- ered truths ; all that they have done has been to make those truths unpopular. He investigated the philosophy of law ; ne could teach them only to snarl at lawyers. We entertain no apprehensions of danger to the institu tions of this country from tlie Utilitarians. Our fears are of a different kind. We dread tlie odium and discredit of their alliance. We wish to see a broad and clear line drawn between the judicious friends of practical reform and a sect which, having derived all its influence from the countenance which they have imprudently bestowed upon it, hates them with the deadly hatred of ingratitude. There is not, and we firmly believe that there never was, in this country a party so unpopular. They have already made the science of political economy — a science of vast importance to the welfare of nations — an object of disgust to the majority of the community. The question of parliamentary reform will share the same fate if once an association be formed in the public mind between Reform and Utilitarianism. We bear no enmity to any member of the sect ; and for Mr. Bentham we entertain very high admiration. We know that among his followers there are some well-intentioned men, and some men of talents : but we cannot say that we think the logic on which they pride themselves likely to improve their heads, or the scheme of morality which they have adopted likely to improve tlieir hearts. Their theory of morals, however, well deserves an article to itself ; and per- haps, on some future occasion, we may discuss it more fully than time and space at present allow. The preceding artiojc was written, and was actually in types, when a letter from Mr. Bentham appeared in the newspapers, importing that, ‘‘though he had furnishea the Westminster Review with some memoranda respect- ing ‘the greatest happiness principle,’ he had nothing to do with the remarks on our former article.” We are truly happy to find that this illustrious man had so small a tTTILITARIAK THEOIir OF GOTFRNMENT. 447 share in a performance which, for his sake, we have treated with far greater lenity than it deserved. Tlie mistake, liow- ever, does not in the least affect any part of our arguments ; and we have therefore thought it unnecessary to cancel or cast anew any of the foregoing ]>ages. Indeed, we are not sorry that the world should see how- respectfully we were disposed to treat a great man, even when we considered him as the author of a very weak and very unfair attack on our- aolves. We wdsh, however, to intimate to the actual writer of that attack that our civilities were intended for the author of the “Preuves Judiciaires,” and the “Defence of Usuiy^’ — and not for him. We cannot conclude, indeed, without expressing a wish — though we fear it has but little chance of reaching Mr. Bcntham — that he Avould endeavor to find better editors for his compositions. If M. Dumont had not been a redacteur of a different description from some of his successors, Mr. Bentham would never have attained the dis- tinction of even giving his name to a sect. UTILITARIAN THEORY OF GOVERNMENT.* {Edinburgh Revieio, October ^ 1829.) We have long been of opinion that the Utilitarians have owed all their influence to a mere delusion — that, while pro- fessing to have submitted their minds to an intellectual dis- cipline of peculiar severity, to have discarded all sentimen- tality, and to have acquired consummate skill in the art of reasoning, they are decidedly inferior to the mass of educated men in the very qualities in which they conceive themselves to excel. They have undoubtedly freed themselves from the dominion of some absurd notions. But their struggle for intellectual emancipation has ended, as injudicious and violent struggles for political emancipation too often end, in a mere change of tyrants. Indeed, we are not sure that we do not prefer the venerable nonsense which holds prescrip- tive sway over tlie ultra-Tory to the upstart dynasty of pre- judices and sophisms by w^hich the revolutionists of the moral world have suffered themselves to be enslaved. * Westminster Review ^ {XXIT. Art. 16.) on the Strictures of the Edinburgh Re-' view (XC VI / /. Art. 1) on the Utilitarian Theory of Qovemmentt ihe Greatest Happiness Principle,** Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. Tlie Utilitarians liave sometimes been abused as intoler- ant, arrogant, irreligious, — as enemies of literature, of the fine arts, and of the domestic charities. They have l)een re- viled for some things of which they were guilty, and for some of which they were innocent. But scarcely anybody seems to have perceived that almost all their peculiar faults arise from the utter want both of comprehensiveness and of precision in their mode of reasoning. We have, for some time past, been convinced that this was really the case ; and that, whenever their philosophy should be boldly and un- sparingly scrutinized, the world would see that it had been under a mistake respecting them. We have made the experiment ; and it has succeeded far beyond our most sanguine expectations. A chosen cham- pion of the School has come forth against us. A specimen of his logical abilities now lies before us ; and v/e pledge ourselves to show that no prebendary at an anti-Catholic meeting, no true-blue baronet after the third bottle at a Pitt Club, ever displayed such utter incapacity of comprehend- ing or answering an argument as appears in the speculations of this Utilitarian apostle ; that he does not understand our meaning, or Mr. Mill’s meaning, or Mr. Bentham’s meaning, or his own meaning; and that the various parts of his sys- tem — if the name of system can be so misapplied — directly contradict each other. Having shown this, we intend to leave him in undisputed possession of whatever advantage he may derive from the last word. We propose only to convince the public that there is nothing in the far-famed logic of the Utilitarians of which any plain man has reason to be afraid ; that this logic will impose on no man who dares to look it in the face. The V^estminster Reviewer begins by charging us with having misrepresented an important part of Mr. Mill’s argu- ment. The first extract given by the Edinburgh Reviewers from the essay was an insulated passage, purposely despoiled of what had preceded and what followed. The author had been observing, that ‘ some profound and benev- olent investigators of human affairs had adopted the conclusion that, of all the possible forms of government, absolute monarchy is tlie best.* This is what the reviewers have omitted at the beginning. He then adds, as in the extract, that ‘ Exi^erience, if we look only at the outside of the facts, appears to be divided on this subject;’ there are Caligulas in one place, and kings of Denmark in another. ‘ As the surface of history affords, therefore, no certain principle of decision, ice must go beyond the smface,^xid. penetrate to the springs within.’ This is what tlie reviewers have omitted at the end.” It perfectly true that our quotation from Mr. Mill’a UTILITARIAN TllKOKi Ob' uO S KU.N :^KNT. 449 essay was, like most other quotations, preceded and followed by something which we did not quote. But, if the West- minster Reviewer means to say that either what preceded or what followed would, if quoted, have shown that we put a ivrong interpretation on the passage which was extracted, he does not understand Mr. Mill rightly. Mr. Mill undoubtedly says that, “ as the surface of history affords no certain principle of decision, we must go beyond the surface, and penetrate to the springs within.” But tliese expressions will admit of several inteiqwetations. In what sense, then, does Mr. Mill use them ? If he means that we ought to inspect the facts with close attention, he means what is rational. But, if he means that we ought to leave the facts, with all their inconsistencies, unexplained — to lay down a general principle of the widest extent, and to deduce doctrines from that principle by syllogistic argument, with- out pausing to consider whether those doctrines be or be not consistent with the facts, — then he means what is irra- tional ; and this is clearly what he does mean : for he imme- diately begins, without offering the least explanation of the contradictory appearances which he has himself described, to go beyond the surface in the following manner : — “ That one human being will desire to render the person and prop- erty of another subservient to his pleasures, notwithstand- ing the pain or loss of pleasure which it may occasion to that other individual, is the foundation of government. The desire of the object implies the desire of the power neces- sary to accomplish the object.” And thus he proceeds to deduce consequences directly inconsistent with what he has himself stated respecting the situation of the Danish people. If we assume that the object of government is the preservation of the person and property of men, then we must hold that, wherever that object is attained, there the principle of good government exists. If that object be attained both in Denmark and in the United States of America, then that which makes government good must exist, under whatever disguise of title or name, both in Denmark and in the United States. If men lived in fear for their lives and their possessions under Nero and under the National Convention, it follows that the causes irom which misgovernment proceeds existed both in the des- potism of Rome and in the democracy of France. What, then, is that which, being found in Denmark and in the United States, and not being found in the Roman Empire VoL. I.— 29. - 450 MACAL lav's illSCKLLANEOUS WUITINGM. or under tlie administration of Robespierre, renders govern- ments, widely differing in their external form, practically good ? Be it wdiat it may, it certainly is not that which Mr. Mill ]>roves a priori that it must be, — a democratic representative assembly. For the Danes have no such assembly. The latent principle of good government ought to be tracked, as it appears to us, in the same manner in which Lord Bacon proposed to track the principle of Heat. Make as large a list as possible, said that great man, of those bodies in which, however widely they differ from each other in appearance, we perceive heat ; and as large a list as pos- sible of those wdiich, while they bear a general resemblance to hot bodies, are nevertheless not hot. Observe the dif- ferent degrees of heat in different hot bodies ; and then, if there be something which is found in all hot bodies, and of which the increase or diminution is always accompanied by an increase or diminution of heat, we may hope that we have really discovered the object of our search. In the same manner we ought to discover the constitution of all those communities in which, under whatever form, the bless- ings of good government are enjoyed ; and to discover, if possible, in what they resemble each other, and in what they all differ from those societies in which the object of govern- ment is not attained. By proceeding thus we shall arrive, not indeed at a perfect theory of government, but at a theory which will be of great practical use, and which the experience of every successive generation will probably bring nearer and nearer to perfection. The inconsistencies into which Mr. Mill has been be- trayed by taking a different course ought to serve as a warn- ing to all speculators. Because Denmark is well governed by a monarch who, in appearance at least, is absolute, Mr. Mill thinks that the only mode of arriving at the true prin- c iples of government is to deduce them a priori from the laws of human nature. And what conclusion does he bung uut by this deduction ? We will give it in his own words : — “ In the grand discovery of modern times, the system of representation, the solution of all difficulties, both specu- lative and practical, will perhaps be found. If it cannot, we seem to be forced upon the extraordinary concinsion that good government is impossible.” That the Danes are well governed without a representation is a reason for deducing the theory of government from a general prin- UTILITARIAN THEORY OP GOVERNMENT, 451 ciple from which it necessarily follows that good govern- ment is impossible without a representation! We have done our best to put this question plainly; and we think that, if the Westminster Reviewer will read over what we have written twice or thrice with patience and attention, some glimpse of our meaning will break in even on his mind. Some objections follow, so frivolous and unfair, that we are almost ashamed to notice them. “ When it was said that there was in Denmark a balanced contest between the king and the nobility, what was said was, that there was a balanced contest, but it did not last. It was balanced till something put an end to the balance ; and so is everything else. That such a balance will not last is precisely what Mr. Mill had demonstrated.” Mr. Mill, we positively affirm, pretends to demonstrate, not merely that a balanced contest between the king and tlie aristocracy will not last, but that the chances are as infinity to one against the existence of such a balanced con- test. This is a mere question of fact. We quote the words of the essay, and defy the Westminster Reviewer to impeach our accuracy : — “ It seems impossible that such equality should ever exist. How is it to be established ? Or by what criterion is it to be ascertained ? If there is no such criterion, it must, in all cases, be the result of chance. If so, the chances against it are as infinity to one.” The Reviewer has confounded the division of power with the balance or equal division of power. Mr. Mill says that the division of power can never exist long, because it IS next to impossible that the equal division of power should ever exist at all. “ When I\rr. Mill asserted that it cannot be for the interest of eithe) the monarchy or the aristocracy to combine with the democracy, it is plaii he did not assert that if the monarchy and aristocracy were in doubtful con test with each other, they would not, either of them, accept of the assistanc# of the democracy. He spoke of their taking the side of the democracy ; not of thdr allowing the democracy to take side ’with themselves.*^ If Mr. Mill meant anything he must have meant this — that the monarchy and the aristocracy will never forget theii enmity to the democracy in their enmity to each other, “ The monarchy and aristocracy,** says he, “ have all possible motives for endeavoring fo obtain unlimited power over the persons and property of the community. The consequence is inevitable. They have all possible motives for combining to obtain that power, and unless the people have power enough to be a match for both they have no protection. The balance, therefore, is a thing the existence of which upon the best possible evidence IB to be regarded as impossible.’* 452 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. If Mr. Mill meant only what the Westminster Reviewer conceives him to liave meant, liis argument would leave the popular theory of the balance quite untouched. For it is the very theory of the balance that the help of the people will be solicited by the nobles when hard pressed by the king, and by the king when hard pressed by the nobles ; and that, as the price of giving alternate support to the crown and the aristocracy, they will obtain something for themselves, as the Reviewer admits tliat they have done in Denmark. If Mr. Mill admits this, he admits the only theory of the balance of which we ever heard — that very theory which he has declared to be wild and chimerical. If he denies it, ho is at issue with the Westminster Reviewer as to the phenomena of the Danish government. We now come to a more important passage. Our o])ponent has discovered, as he conceives, a radical error wdiich runs through our whole argument, and vitiates every part of it. We suspect that we shall spoil his triumph. ” Mr. Mill never asserted ‘ that under no despotic government does any human being y except the tools of the sovereigUy possess more than the neces- saries of lifCy and that the most intense degree of terror is kept up by con- stant crueUy.* He said that absolute power leads to such results, ‘by in- fallible sequence, where power over a community is attained, and nothing checks.* The critic on the Mount never made a more palpable misquotation. “ The spirit of this misquotation runs through every part of the reply of the Edinburgh Review that relates to the Essay on Government ; and is re- peated in as many shapes as the Roman pork. The whole description of * Mr. Mill’s argument against despotism,' — including the illustration from right- angled triangles and the square of the hypothenuse, — is founded on this in- vention of saying what an author has not said, and leaving unsaid what no has.” We thought, and still think, for reasons which our read- ers will soon understand, that we represented Mr. Mill’s principle quite fairly, and according to the rule of law and common sense, ut res magis valeat quam per eat. Let us, however, give him all the advantage of the explanation ten- dered by his advocate, and see what he will gain by it. The Utilitarian doctrine then is, not that despots and aristocracies will always plunder and oppress the people to the last point, b#t that they will do so if nothing checks them. In the first place, it is quite clear that the doctrine thus stated is of no use at all, unless the force of the cheeks be estimated. The first law of motion is, that a ball once pro- jected will fly on to all eternity with undiminished velocity, unless something checks. The fact is, that a ball stops in a ITTTLITAEIAN theory of government. 453 few seconds after proceeding a few yards with very variable motion. Every man would wring his child’s neck and pick his friend’s pocket if nothing checked him. In fact, the principle thus stated means only that governments will op- press unless they abstain from oppressing. This is quite true, we own. But we might with equal propriety turn the maxim round, and lay it down, as the fundamental principle of government, that all rulers will govern well, unless some motive interferes to keep them from doing so. If there be, as the Westminster Reviewer acknowledges, certain checks which, under political institutions the most arbitrary in seeming, sometimes produce good government, and almost always place some restraint on the rapacity and cruelty of the powerful, surely the knowledge of those checks, of their nature, and of their effect, must be a most important part of the science of governiaent. Does Mr. Mill say anything upon this part of the subject? Not one word. The line of defence now taken by the Utilitarians evi- dently degrades Mr. Mill’s theory of government from the rank which, till within the last few months, was claimed for it by the whole sect. It is no longer a practical system, fit to guide statesmen, but merely a b^arren exercise of the intellect, like those propositions in mechanics in which the effect of friction and of the resistance of the air is left out of the question ; and which, therefore, though correctly de- duced from the premises, are in practice utterly false. For, if Mr. Mill professes to prove only that absolute monarchy and aristocracy are pernicious without checks, — if he allows that there are checks which produce good government even under absolute monarchs and aristocracies, — and if he omits to tell us what those checks arc, and what effects they pro- duce under different circumstances, — he surely gives us n3 information which can be of real utility. But the fact is, — and it is most extraordinary that the Westminster Reviewer should not have perceived it, — that, if once the existence of checks on the abuse of power in monarchies and aristocracies be admitted, the whole of Mr. Mill’s theory falls to the ground at once. This is so palpa- ble, that, in spite of the opinion of the Westminster Re- viewer, we must acquit Mr. Mill of having intended to make such an admission. We still think that the words, ‘‘ v/here power over a community is attained, and nothing checks,” must not be understood to mean that under a monarchical 454 m/caulay’s miscellaneous writings. or aristocratical form of government there can really be any check which can in any degree mitigate the wretched- ness of the people. For all possible checks may bo classed ander two gen- eral heads, — want of will, and want of power. Now, if a king or an aristocracy, having the power to plunder and oppress the people, can want the will, all Mr. Mill’s prin- ciples of human nature must be pronounced unsound. Tie tells us, “ that the desire to possess unlimited power of in- dicting pain upon others, is an inseparable part of human nature ; ” and that “ a chain of inference, close and strong to a most unusual degree,” leads to the conclusion that those who possess this power will always desire to use it. It is plain, therefore, that if Mr. Mill’s principles be sound, the check on a monarchical or an aristocratical government will not be the want of will to oppress. If a king or an aristocracy, having, as Mr. Mill tells us that they always must have, the will to oppress the people with the utmost severity, want the power, then the govern- ment, by whatever name it may be called, must be virtually a mixed government or a pure democracy : for it is quite clear that the people possess some power in the state — some means of influencing the nominal rulers. But Mr. Mill has demonstrated that no mixed government can possibly exist, or at least that such a government must come to a very speedy end ; therefore, every country in which people not in the service of the government have, for any length of time, been permitted to accumulate more than the bare means of subsistence must be a pure democracy. That is to say, France before the revolution, and Ireland during the last century, were- pure democracies. Prussia, Austria, Russia, all the governments of the civilized world, are pure democracies. If this be not a reductio ad ahsurdum^ we do not know what is. The errors of Mr. Mill proceed principally from that radical vice in his reasoning w'hich, in our last number, we described in the words of Lord Bacon. The Westminster Reviewer is unable to discover the meaning of our extracts from the Novum Organum^ and expresses himself as follows* “ The quotations from Lord Bacon are misapplications, such as anybody may make to anything lie dislikes. There is no more resemblance between pain, pleasure, motives, &c., a,nd substantia^ generatio, corruption elemen- tumn materia ^ — than between lines, angles, magnitudes, &c., and tlie same.” It woul I perhaps be unreasonable to expect thpt o utilitarian theory of government. 455 writer who cannot understand his own English should un- derstand Lord Bacon’s Latin. We will therefore attempt to make our meaning clearer. What Lord Bacon blames in the schoolmen of his time is this, — that they reasoned syllogistically on words which had not been defined with precision ; such as moist, dry, generation, corruption, and so forth. Mr. Mill’s error is exactly of the same kind. He reasons syllogistically about p3wer, pleasure, and pain, without attaching any definite notion to any one of those words. There is no more re- semblance, says the Westminster Reviewer, between pain and substantia than between pain and a line or an angle. By his permission, in the very point to which Lord Bacon’s observation applies, Mr. Mill’s subjects do resemble the substantia and elementum of the schoolmen and differ from the lines and magnitudes of Euclid. We can reason a 'priori on mathematics, because we can define with an ex- actitude which precludes all possibility of confusion. If a mathematician were to admit the least laxity into his no- tions, if he were to allow himself to be deluded by the vague sense which words bear in popular use, or by the as- pect of an ill-drawn diagram, if he were to forget in his rea- sonings that a point was indivisible, or that the definition of a line excluded breadth, there would be no end to his blunders. The schoolmen tried to reason mathematically about things which had not been, and perhaps could not be, defined with mathematical accuracy. We know the re- sult. Mr. Mill has in our time attempted to do the same. He talks of power, for example, as if the meaning of the word power were as determinate as the meaning of the word circle. But, when we analyze his speculations, we find that his notion of power is, in the words of Bacon, phantastica et male terminata^ There are two senses in which we may use the word power ^ and those words which denote the various distribu- tions of power, as, for example, monarchy / — the one sense popular and superficial, — the other more scientific and ac- curate. Mr. Mfll, since he chose to reason a priori^ ought to have clearly pointed out in which sense he intended to use words of this kind, and to have adhered inflexibly to the sense on which he fixed. Instead of doing this, he flies backwards and forwards from the one sense to the other, and brings out conclusions at last which suit neither. The state of those two communities to which he hag 456 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. himself referred — tlie kingdom of Denmark and the empire of J{ome — may serve to illustrate our meaning. Looking merely at the surface of things, we should call Denmark a despotic monarchy, and the ] toman world, in the first cen- tury after Christ, an aristocratical rc])ublic. Caligula was^ in theory, nothing more than a magistrate elected by the senate, and subject to the senate. That irresponsible dig- nity which, in the most limited monarchies of our time, is ascribed to the person of the sovereign never belonged lo the earlier Ca3sars. The sentence of death which the great council of the commonwealth passed on Nero was strictly according to the theory of the constitution. Yet, in fact, the power of the Roman emperors approached nearer to ab- solute dominion than that of any prince in modern Europe. On the other hand, the King of Denmark, in theory the most despotic of princes, would in practice find it most per- ilous to indulge in cruelty and licentiousness. Nor is there, we believe, at the present moment a single sovereign in our part of the world who has so much real power over the lives of his subjects as Robespierre, while he lodged at a chandler’s and dined at a restaurateur’s, exercised over the li\ es of those whom he called his fellow-citizens. Mr. Mill and the Westminster Reviewer seem to agree that there cannot long exist in any society a division of power between a monarch, an aristocracy, and the people, or between any two of them. However the power be dis- tributed, one of the three parties will, according to them, inevitably monopolize the whole. Now, what is here meant by power ? If Mr. Mill speaks of the external semblance of power, — of power recognized by the theory of the con- stitution, — ^lie is palpably wrong. In England, for example, we have had for ages the name and form of a mixed gov- ernment, if nothing more. Indeed, Mr. Mill himself owns that there are appearances which have given color to the theoi y of the balance, though he maintains that these ap- j)carances are delusive. But, if he uses the word power in a deeper and philosophical sense, he is, if possible, still more in the wrong than on the former supposition. For, if he had considered in what the power of one human being over other human beings must ultimately consist, he would have ])erceived, not only that there are mixed governments in the world, but that all the governments in the world, and all the governments which can even be conceived as exist- ing in the world, a^'e virtually mixed. UTILITARIAN THEORY OF GOVERNMENT. 467 If a king possessed the lamp of Aladdin, — if he governed by the help of a genius who carried away the daughters and wives of his subjects through the air to the royal I^arc-aux- cerfs^ and turned into stone every man who wagged a finger against his majesty’s government, there would indeed be an unmixed despotism. But, fortunately, a ruler can be grat- ified only by means of his subjects. Ilis power depends on their obedience ; and, as any three or four of them are more than a match for him by himself, he can only enforce the unwilling obedience of some by means of the willing obe- dience of others. Take any of those who are popularly called absolute princes — Napoleon for example. Could Napoleon have walked through Paris, cutting off the head of one per- son in every house which he passed? Certainly not with- out the assistance of an army. If not, why not? Be- cause the people had sufficient physical power to resist him, and would have put forth that power in defence of their lives and of the lives of their children. In other Avords, there was a portion of power in the democracy under Na- poleon. Napoleon might probably have indulged himself in such an atrocious freak of power if his army Avould havo seconded him. But, if his army had taken part with the people, he would have found himself utterly helpless ; and, even if they had obeyed his orders against the people, they would not have suffered him to decimate their own body. In other Avords, there was a portion of power in the hands of a minority of the people, that is to say, in the hands of an aristocracy,* under the reign of Napoleon. To come nearer home, — Mr. Mill tells us that it is a mis- take to imagine that the English government is mixed. He holds, we suppose, with all the politicians of the Utilitarian school, that it is purely aristocratical. There certainly is an aristocracy in England; and we are afraid that their power is greater than it ought to be. They have poAver enough to keep up the game-laws and corn-laws ; but they have not power enough to subject the bodies of men of the lowest class to wanton outrage at their pleasure. Suppose that they were to make a laAV that any gentleman of two thousand a-year might have a day-laborer or a pauper flogged Avith a cat-of-nine-tails whenever the whim might take him. It is quite clear that the first day on which such flagellation should be administered would be the last day of the English aristocracy. In this point, and in many other 458 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. points which might be named, the commonalty in our isl- and enjoy a security quite as com])lete as if they exercised the right of universal suffrage. We say, therefore, that the English people have in their own hands a sufficient guar- antee that in some points tlie aristocracy will conform to their wishes ; — in other words, they liave a certain portion of power over the aristocracy. Therefore the English government is mixed. Wherever a king or an oligarchy refrains from the last extremity of rapacity and tyranny through fear of the resist- ance of the people, there the constitution, whatever it may be called, is in some measure democratical. The admixture of democratic power may be slight. It may be much slighter than it ought to be ; but some admixture there is. Wher- ever a numerical minority, by means of superior wealth or intelligence, of political concert, or of military discipline, ex- ercises a greater influence on the society than any other equal number of persons, — there, whatever the form of gov* ernment may be called, a mixture of aristocracy does in fact exist. And, wherever a single man, from whatever cause, is so necessary to the community, or to any portion of it, that he possesses more power than any other man, there is a mix- ture of monarchy. This is the philosophical classification of governments : and if we use this classification we shall find, not only that there are mixed governments, but that all governments are, and must always be, mixed. But we may safely challenge Mr. Mill to give any definition of power, or to make any classification of governments, which shall bear him out in his assertion that a lasting division of authority is impracticable. It is evidently on the real distribution of power, and not on names and badges, that the happiness of nations must depend. The representative system, though doubtless a great and precious discovery in politics, is only one of the many modes in which the democratic part of the community can efficiently check the governing few. That certain men have been chosen as deputies of the people, — that there is a piece of paper stating such deputies to possess certain pow- ers, — these circumstances in themselves constitute no secur- ity for good government. Such a constitution nominally existed in France ; while, in fact, an oligarchy of commit- tees and clubs trampled at once on the electors and the elected. Representation is a very happy contrivance for enabling large bodies of men to exert their power with less risk of disor- UTIIJTAMAN TTIEORY OR GOVERNMENT. 459 der than there would otherwise be. But, assuredly, it does not of itsftlf give power. Unless a representative assembly IS sure of being supported in the last resort by the physical strength of large masses who have spirit to defend the con- stitution and sense to defend it in concert, the mob of the town in which it meets may overaw^e it ; — the howls of the listeners in its gallery may silence its deliberations ; — an able and daring individual may dissolve it. And, if that sense and that spirit of v/hich we speak be diffused through a so- ciety, then, even without a representative assembly, that soci- ety will enjoy many of the blessings oi good government. Which is the better able to defend himself ; a strong man wuth nothing but his fists, or a paralytic cripple encumbered with a sword which ho cannot lift? Such, we believe, is the difference between Denmark and some new republics in which the constitutional forms of the United States have been most sedulously imitated. Look at the Long Parliament on the day on w^hich Charles came to seize the five members : and look at it again on the day when Cromwell stamped with his foot on its floor. On which day was its apparent power the greater f On which day w^as its real power the less ? Nominally sub- ject, it was able to defy the sovereign. Nominally sover- eign, it was turned out of doors by its servant. Constitutions are in politics what paper money is in com- merce. They afford great facilities and conveniences. But we must not attribute to them that value which really be- longs to what they represent. They are not power, but sym- bols of power, and will, in an emergency, prove altogether useless unless the power for which they stand be forthcoming. The real power by which the community is governed is made up of all the means which all its members possess of giving pleasure or pain to each other. Great light may be thrown on the nature of a circulating rnediuiu by the phenomena of a state of barter. And in the same manner it may be useful to those who wish to compre- hend the nature and operation of the outward signs of power to look at communities in which no such signs exist ; for example, at the great community of nations. There we find nothing analogous to a constitution : but do we not find a government? We do in fact find government in its purest, and simplest, and most intelligible form. We see one por- tion of power acting directly on another portion of power. We see a certain police kept up; the weak to a certain 460 MACATJLAY'8 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. degree protected ; tlie strong to a certain degree restrained. We see the principle of the balance in const.ant operation. We see the whole system sometimes undisturbed by any at- tempt at encroachment for twenty or thirty years at a time ; and all this is produced without a legislative assembly, or an executive magistracy — without tribunals — without any code which deserves the name ; solely by the mutual ho])e8 and fears of the various members of the federation. In tho community of nations, the first appeal is to physical force. In communities of men, forms of government serve to put off that appeal, and often render it unnecessary. But it is still open to the oppressed or the ambitious. Of course, we do not mean to deny that a form of gov- ernment will, after it has existed for a long time, materially affect the real distribution of power throughout the com- munity. This is because those who administer a government, with their dependents, form a compact and disciplined body, which, acting methodically and in concert, is more powerful than any other equally numerous body which is inferior in organization. The power of rulers is not, as superficial ob- servers sometimes seem to think, a thing sui generis. It is exactly similar in kind, though generally superior in amount, to that of any set of conspirators who plot to overthrow it. We have seen in our time the most extensive and the best organized conspiracy that ever existed — a conspiracy which possessed all the elements of real power in so great a degree that it was able to cope with a strong government, and to triumph over it — the Catholic Association. An Utilitarian would tell us, we suppose, that the Irish Catholics had no portion of political power whatever on the first day of the late Session of Parliament. Let us really go beyond the surface of facts ; let us, in the sound sense of the words, penetrate to the springs with- in ; and the deeper we go the more reason shall we find to smile at those theorists who hold that the sole hope of the human race is in a rule-of-three sum and a ballot-box. We must now return to the Westminster Reviewer. The following paragraph is an excellent specimen of his pe- culiar mode of understanding and answering arg^Aments. “ The reply to the argument against ‘ saturation * supplies its own answer. The reason why it is of no use to try to ‘ saturate ’ is precisely what the Edin- burgh Reviewers have suggested,—* that there is no limit to the number o/ thieves.* There are the thieves and the thieves’ cousins, — with their men- servants, their maid-servants, and their little ones, to the fortieth generation. It is true, that ‘ a man cannot become a king or a member of the aristocracy UTILITARIAN THEORY OP GOVERNMENT. 4bl whenever he chooses •/ but if there is to be no limit to the depredators ex* /.ept their own inclination to increase and multiply, the situation of those who are to suffer is as wretched as its needs be. It is impossible to define what are ‘ corporal pleasures.’ A Duchess of Cleveland was a ‘ corporal pleasure.* The most disgraceful period in the history of any nation — that of the Restoration— presents an instance of the length to which it is possible to go in an attemi)t to ‘ saturate ’ with pleasures of this kind.’* To reason with such a writer is like talking to a deaf man who catches at a stray word, makes answer beside the mark, and is led further and further into error by every at- tempt to explain. Yet, that our readers may fully appre- ciate the abilities of the new philosophers, we shall take the trouble to go over some of our ground again. Mr. Mill attempts to prove that there is no point of sat- uration with the objects of human desire. He then takes it for granted that men have no objects of desire but those which can be obtained only at the expense of the happiness of others. Hence he infers that absolute monarchs and aristocracies will necessarily oppress and pillage the people to a frightful extent. We answer in substance thus. There are two kinds of objects of desire ; those which give mere bodily pleasure, and those which please through the medium of associations. Objects of the former class, it is true, a man cannot obtain without depriving somebody else of a share. But then with these every man is soon satisfied. A king or an aristocracy cannot spend any very large portion of the national w^ealtli on the mere pleasures of sense. With the pleasures whicli belong to us as reasoning and imaginative beings we are never satiated, it is true : but then, on the other hand, many of those pleasures can be obtained without injury to nny person, and some of them can be obtained only by doing good to others. The Westminster Reviewer, in his former attack on us, laughed at us for saying that a king or an aristocracy could not be easily satiated with the pleasures of sense, and asked why the same course was not tried with thieves. We were not a little surprised at so silly an objection from the pen, as^we imagined, of Mr. Bentham. We returned, however, a very simple answer. There is no limit to the number of thieves. Any man who chooses can steal : but a man can- not become a member of the aristocracy or a king whenever he chooses. To satiate one thief, is to tempt twenty other people to steal. But by satiating one king or five hundred nobles with bodily pleasures we do not produce more kings 46*2 Macaulay’s miscellaneous whiting s. or more nobles. The answer of the Westminster Reviewer we have quoted above; and it wdll aiii])ly re])ay our readers tor tl)e trouble of examining it. We never read any pas- sage which indicated notions so vague and confused. The number of the thieves, says our Utilitarian, is not limited. For there are the dependents and friends of the king and of tlie nobles. Is it possible that he should not perceive that this comes under a different head? The bodily pleasures which a man in power dispenses among his creatures are bodily pleasures as respects his creatures, no doubt. But the pleasure which he derives from bestowing them is not a bodily pleasure. It is one of those pleasures which belong to him as a reasoning and imaginative being. No man oi common understanding can have failed to perceive that, when we said that a king or an aristocracy might easily be supplied to satiety with sensual pleasures, we were speaking of sensual pleasures directly enjoyed by themselves. But “ it is impossible,” says the Reviewer, “ to define what are corporal ] >leasures.” Our brother would indeed, we suspect, find it a difficult task ; nor, if we are to judge of his genius for classification from the specimen which immediately fol- lows, would we advise him to make the attempt. “A Duchess of Cleveland was a corporal pleasure.” And to this wise remark is appended a note, setting forth that Charles the Second gave to the Duchess of Cleveland the money which he ought to have spent on the war with Holland. We scarcely know how to answ^er a man who unites so much pretension to so much ignorance. There are, among the many Utilitarians who talk about Hume, Condillac, and Hartley, a few who have read those writers. Let the Reviewer ask one of these what he thinks on the sub- ject. We shall not undertake to whip a pupil of so little promise through his first course of metaphysics. We shall, therefore, only say — leaving him to guess and wonder what we can mean — that, in our opinion, the Duchess of Cleve- land was not a merely corporal pleasure, — that the feeling which leads a prince to prefer one woman to all others, and to lavish the wealth of kingdoms on her, is a feeling which can only be explained by the law of association. But we are tired, and even more ashamed than tired, of exposing these blunders. The whole article is of a piece. One passage, however, we must select, because it contains a very gross misrepresentation. “ ‘ They never allnoled to the Fremh EevoluUon/or the purpose of proving UTILITAKIAN THEORY OF GOVERNMENT. 4t)0 that the poor were inclined to rob the rich.* They only said, ‘ae soon as the poor o.gain began to compare their cottages and salads with the hotels and banquets of the rich, there would have been another scramble for property, another geneial confiscation,’ &c.” I We said that, if Mr, MilVs principles of human na- ture loere correct,^ there would have been another scramble for property, and another confiscation. We particularly pointed this out in our last article. We showed the West- minster Reviewer that he had misunderstood us. We dwelt particularly on the condition which was introduced into our statement. We said that we had not given, and did not mean to give, any opinion of our own. And, after this, the Westminster Reviewer thinks proper to repeat his former misrepresentation, without taking the least notice of that qualification to which we, in the most marked manner, called his attention. We hasten on to the most curious part of the article un- der our consideration — the defence of the “ greatest happi- ness principle.” The Reviewer charges us with having quite mistaken its nature. “ All that they have established is, that they do not understand it. In- stead of the truism of the Whigs, ‘ that the greatest happiness is the greatest happiness,’ what Mr. Bentham had demonstrated, or at all events had laid such foundations that there was no trouble in demonstrating, was, that the greatest happiness of the individual was in the long run to be obtained by pursuing the greatest happiness of the aggregate.” It was distinctly admitted by the Westminster Re- viewer, as we remarked in our last article, that he could give no answer to the question — why governments should attempt to produce the greatest possible happiness ? The Reviewer replied thus : — Nothing of the kind will be admitted at all. In the passage this selected to be tacked to the other, the question started was, concerning ‘ tne object of government ; ’ in which government was spoken of as an opera- tion, not as anything that is capable of feeling pleasure or pain. In this sense it is true enough, that oufit is not predicable of governments.” We will quote, once again, the passage which we quoted in our last Number; and we really hope that our brother critic will feel something like shame while he peruses it. The real answer appeared to be, that men at large ought not to allow a government to afflict them with more evil or less good, than they can help. What a government ought to do is a mysteriomi and searching question which those may answer who know what it mean.' ; but what other men ought to do is a question of no mystery at all. The word ought^ if it means anything, must have reference to some kind of interest or motives : and wh»t gQveruBieut has in dqing xi^bt, It to b© 464 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. epted in doiii" wrong, is a question for tlie schoolmen. The fact appears to be that ought is not predicable of governments. The question is not, why governments are bound not to do tliis or that, but why other men slunild let them if they can help it. The point is not to det^ermine why tlie lion should not eat sheep, but why men should not eat their own mutton if they can." We defy tlie Westminster Reviewer to reconcile this passage with the ‘‘ general happiness principle ” as he now states it. He tells us that he meant by government, not the people invested with the powers of government, but a mere operation incapable of feeling pleasure or pain. We say, that he meant the people invested with the powers of gov- ernment, and nothing else. It is true that ought is not ])redicable of an operation. But who would ever dream of raising any question about the duties of an operation ? What did the Reviewer mean by saying, that a government could not be interested in doing right because it was interested in doing wrong? Can an operation be interested in either? And wdiat did he mean by his comparison about the lion? Is a lion an operation incapable of pain or pleasure ? And what did he mean by the expression, “ other men,” so ob- viously opposed to the word “ government ? ” But let the public judge between us. It is superfluous to argue a point so clear. The Reviewer does indeed seem to feel that his expres- sions cannot be explained away, and attempts to shuffle out of the difflculty by owning that, “ the double meaning of the word government was not got clear of without con- fusion.” He has now, at all events, he assures us, made himself master of Mr. Bentham’s philosophy. The real and genuine “greatest happiness principle ” is, that the greatest happiness of every individual is identical with the greatest happiness of society; and all other “greatest happiness jn'inciples ” whatever are counterfeits. “ This,” says he, “ is the spirit of Mr. Bentham’s principle ; and if there is anything opposed to it in any former statement it may be corrected by the present.” “ Assuredly, if a fair and honorable opponent had, in discussing a question so abstruse as that concerning th^> origin of moral obligation, made some unguarded admission inconsistent with the spirit of his doctrines, we should not be inclined to triumph over him. But no tenderness is due to a writer who, in the very act of confessing his blunders, insults those by whom his blunders have been detected, and accuses them of misunderstanding what, in fact^ he has him* self mis-statedi utilitarian TnEOKY OF GOVERNMENT. 465 The whole of this transaction illustrates excellently the real character of this sect. A paper comes forth, professing to contain a full development of the “greatest happiness pi'inciple,” with the latest improvements of Mr. Bentham. The writer boasts that his article has the honor of being the announcement and the origin of this wonderful dis- covery, which is to make “ the bones of sages and patriots stir within their tombs.” This “ magnificent principle ” is then stated thus : Mankind ought to pursue their greatest happiness. But there are persons whose interest is o^> posed to the greatest happiness of mankind. Ought is not predicable of such persons. For the word ought has no meaning unless it be used with reference to some interest. We ansAvered, with much more lenity than Ave should ha\^e show n to such nonsense, had it not proceeded, as we supposed, from Mr. Bentham, that interest was synonymous Avith greatest happiness ; and that, therefore, if the word ought has no meaning, unless used Avith reference to inter- est, then, to say that mankind ought to pursue their greatest happiness, is simply to say that the greatest happiness is the greatest happiness ; that every individual pursues his own hap- piness ; that cither w^hat he thinks is happiness must coincide with the greatest happiness of society or not ; that, if what he thinks his happiness coincides Avith the greatest happiness of society, he Avill attempt to promote the greatest happi- ness of society whether he cA^er heard of the “ greatest hap- piness principle ” or not ; and that, by the admission of the W estminster Reviewer, if his happiness is inconsistent Avith the greatest happiness of society, there is no reason Avhy he should promote the greatest happiness of society. Now, that there are indiAuduals w^ho think that for their happiness which is not for the greatest happiness of society is evident. The Westminster Reviewer alio w^ed that some of these in- dividuals were in the right ; and did not pretend to give any reason which could induce any one of them to think himself in the wu’ong. So that the “ magnificent principle ” turned out to be, either a truism or a contradiction in terms ; either this maxim — “ Do w'hat you do ; ” or this maxim, “ Do what you cannot do.” The Westminster Reviewer had the wit to see that lie could not defend this palpable nonsense ; but, instead of manfully owning that he misunderstood the whole nature of the “greatest happiness principle” in the summer, and had obtained new light during the autumn, he attempts to with* Vql. 86 MACAULAY'S MISCELLA NEGUS WHITINGS. draw the former principle unobserved, and to substitute another, directly opposed to it, in its place; clamoring all the time against our unfairness, like one who, while changing the cards, diverts the attention of the table from his sleight of hand by vociferating charges of foul play against other people. The greatest happiness principle” for the present quarter is then this, — that every individual will best pro- mote his own happiness in this world, religious considera- tions being left out of the question, by promoting the greatest happiness of the whole species. And this prin- ciple, we are told, holds good with respect to kings and aristocracies as well as with other people. “ It is certain that the individual operators in any g“0 vernraent, if they were thoroughly intelligent and entered into a perfect calculation of all existing chances, would seek for their own happiness in the promotion of the general ; which brings them, if they knew it, under Mr. Bentham’srule. The mistake of supposing the contrary, lies in confounding criminals who have had the luck to escape punishment with those who have the risk still before them. Suppose, for instance, a member of the House of Commons were at this moment to debate within himself, whether it would be for his ultimate happiness to begin, according to his ability, to misgovern. If he could be sure of being as lucky as some that are dead and gone there might be difficulty in finding him an answer. But he is not sure; and never can be, till he is dead. He does not know that he is not close upon the moment when misgovernment such as he is tempted to contemplate, will be made a terrible example of. It is not fair to pick out the instance of the thief that has died unhanged. The question is, whether thieving is at this moment an advisable trade to begin with all the possibilities of hanging not got ov er ? This is the spirit of Mr. Bentham’s principle ; and if there is anything op- posed to it in any former statement, it maybe corrected by the present. ” We hope that we have now at last got to the real magnificent principle,” — to the principle which is really to make the bones of the sages and patriots stir.” What effect it may produce on the bones of the dead we shall not pretend to decide; but we are sure that it will do very little for the happiness of the living. In the first place, nothing is more certain than this, that the Utilitarian theory of government, as developed in Mr. Milks Essay and in all the other works on the subject which have been put forth by the sect, rests on these two principles, — that men follow their interest, and that the interest of individuals may be, and in fact perpetually is, opposed to the interest of society. Unless these two principles be granted, Mr. Milks Essay does not contain one sound sentence. All his arguments against monarchy and aristocracy, all his arguments in favor of democracy, nay, the very ar« tJTILlTAniAK THEORY OF GOYERNATENT. 467 gument by which he shows that there is any necessity for having government at all, must be rejected as utterly worth- less. This is so palpable that even the Westminster Reviewer, though not the most clear-sighted of men, could not help seeing it. Accordingly, he attempts to guard himself against the objection, after the manner of such reasoners, by committing two blunders instead of one. “ All this,” says he, “ only shows that the members of a government would do well if they were all-wise ; ” and he proceeds to tell us that, as rulers are not all-wise, they will invariably act against this principle wherever they can, so that the democratical checks will still be necessary to produce good government. No form which human folly takes is so richly and ex- quisitely laughable as the spectacle of an Utilitarian in a dilemma. What earthly good can there be in a principle upon which no man will act until he is all-wise ? A certain most important doctrine, we are told, has been demonstrated BO clearly that it ought to be the foundation of the science of government. And yet the whole frame of government is to be constituted exactly as if his fundamental doctrine were false, and on the supposition that no human being will ever act as if he believed it to be true ! The whole argument of the Utilitarians in favor of uni- versal suffrage proceeds on the supposition that even the rudest and most uneducated men cannot, for any length of time, be deluded into acting against their own true in- terest. Yet now they tell us that, in all aristocratical com- munities, the higher and more educated class will, not oc- casionally, but invariably, act against its own interest. Now, the only use of proving anything, as far as we can see, is that people may believe it. To say that a man does what he believes to be against his happiness is a contradic- tion in terms. If, therefore, government and laws are to be constituted on the supposition on which [vir. Mill’s Essay is founded, that all individuals will, whenever they have power over others put into their hands, act in opposition to the general happiness, then government and laws must be constituted on the supposition that no individual believes, or ever will believe, his own happiness to be identical with the happiness of society. That is to say, government and laws are to be constituted on the supposition that no human being will ever be satisfied by Mr. Bentliam’s proof of iiis 468 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. 1 / “greatest happiness* principle,” — a supposition which may he true enougli, but which says little, we think, for the prin- ciple in question. But where has this principle been demon^rated ? We are curious, we confess, to see this demonstration which is to change the face of the world and yet is to convince no- body. The most amusing circumstance is that the West- minster Reviewer himself does not seem to know whether the principle has been demonstrated or not. “ Mr. Bern tham,” he says, “ has demonstrated it, or at all events has laid such foundations that there is no trouble in demon- strating it.” Surely it is rather strange that such a matter should be left in doubt. The Reviewer proposed, in his former article, a slight verbal emendation in the statement of the principle ; he then announced that the principle had received its last improvement ; and gloried in the circum- stance that the Westminster Review had been selected as the organ of that improvement. Did it never occur to him that one slight improvement to a doctrine is to prove it ? Mr. Bentham has not demonstrated the “ greatest hap- piness principle,” as now stated. He is far too wise a man to think of demonstrating any such thing. In those sec- tions of his Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation^ to which the Reviewer refers us in his note, there is not a word of the kind. Mr. Bentham says, most truly, that there are no occasions in which a man has not some motives for consulting the happiness of other men ; and he proceeds to set forth what those motives are — sym- pathy on all occasions, and the love of reputation on most occasions. This is the very doctrine which we have been maintaining against Mr. Mill and the Westminster Re- viewer. The principal charge which we brought against Mr. Mill was, that those motives to which Mr. Bentham as- cribes so much influence were quite left out of considera- tion in his theory. The W estminster Reviewer, in the very Article now before us, abuses us for saying, in the spirits and almost in the words of Mr. Bentham, that “ there is a cer- tain check to the rapacity and cruelty of men in their desire of the good opinion of others.” But does this principle, in which we fully agree with Mr. Bentham, go the length of the new “ greatest happiness principle ? ” The question is, not whether men have some motives for promoting the greatest happiness, but whether the stronger motives be those which impel them to promote the greatest happiness. Utilitarian tiieory ur sovernMenT. 4G9 That this would always he the case if men knew their own worldly interests is the assertion of the Reviewer. As he expresses some doubt whether Mr. Bentharn has demon- strated this or not, we would advise him to set the point at rest by giving his own demonstration. The Reviewer has not attempted to give a general con- firmation of the ‘‘ greatest happiness principle ; ” but he has tried to prove that it holds good in one or two particular cases. And even in those particular cases he has utterly failed. A man, says he, who calculated the chances fairly would perceive that it would be for his greatest happiness to abstain from stealing ; for a thief runs a greater risk of be- ing hanged than an lionest man. It would have been wise, we think, in the Westminster Reviewer, before he entered on a discussion of this sort, to settle ill what human happiness consists. Each of the an- cient sects of philosophy held some tenet on this subject which served for a distinguishing badge. The summum honum of the Utilitarians, as far as we can judge fr.om the passage which we are now considering, is the not being hanged. That it is an unpleasant thing to bo hanged, we most willingly concede to our brother. But that the whole ques- tion of happiness or misery resolves itself into this single point, Ave cannot so easily admit. We must look at the thing purchased as Avell as the price paid for it. A thief, assuredly, runs a greater risk of being hanged than a la- borer ; and so an olHcer in the army runs a greater risk of being shot than a banker’s clerk ; and a governor of India runs a greater risk of dying of cholera than a lord of the bedchamber. But does it therefore follow that every man, whatever his habits or feelings may be, would, if he knew his OAvn happiness, become a clerk ratlier than a cornet, or gold stick in waiting rather than governor of India ? Nothing can be more absurd than to suppose, like the Westminster Reviewer, that thieves steal only because they do not calculate the chances of being hanged as correctly as honest men. It never seems to have occurred to him as possible that a man may so greatly }:>refer the life of a thief to the life of a laborer that he may determine to brave the risk of detection and punishment, though he may even think that risk greater than it really is. And how, on Util- itarian principles, is sucli a man to be convinced that he is in the Avrong ? “ You will be found out.” — “ Undoubtedly.” 470 MACAULAY’r MlSCKT.LANliOrB WKITTNGS. — “You will he hanged within two years.” — “ I expect to I be hanged within one year.” — “ Then why do you pursue § this lawless mode of life ? ” — Because I would rather live for % one year with plenty of money, dressed like a gentleman, | eating and drinking of the best, frequenting public places, and visiting a dashing mistress, than break stones on the road, or sit down to the loom, with the certainty of at- ; taining a good old age. It is my humor. Arc you an- swered ? ” A king, says the Reviewer again, would govern well, if he were wise, for fear of provoking his subjects to insurrec- tion. Therefore, the true happiness of a king is identical with the greatest happiness of society. Tell Charles II. that, if he will be constant to his queen, sober at table, regular at prayers, frugal in his expenses, active in the transaction of business, if he will drive the herd of slaves, buffoons, and procurers from Whitehall, and make the happiness of his people the rule of his conduct, he will have a much greater chance of reigning in comfort to an advanced age ; that his profusion and tyranny have exasperated his subjects, and may, perhaps, bring him to an end as terrible as his father’s. He might answer, that ho saw the danger, but that life was not worth having wdthout ease and vicious pleasures. And what has our philosoi)hcr to say ? Does he not see that it is no more possible to reason a man out of liking a short life and a merry one more than a longlife and a dull one than to reason a Greenlander out of his train-oil ? We may say that the tastes of the thief and the tyrant differ from ours ; but what right have we to say, looking at this world alone, that they do not pursue their greatest happiness very judi- ciously ? It is the grossest ignorance of human nature to suppose that another man calculates the chances differently from us, merely because he does what, in his place, we should not do. Every man has tastes and propensities, which he is disposed to gratify at a risk and expense which people of different temperaments and habits think extravagant. “ Why,” says Horace,- “ docs one brother like to lounge in the forum, to play in the Campus, and to anoint himself in the baths, so well, that he would not put himself out of his way for all the wealth of the richest plantations of the East ; while the other toils from sunrise to sunset for the purpose of increasing his fortune ! ” Horace attributes the diversity to the influence of the Genius and the natal star : and eighteen hundred years UTILITARIAN THEORY OF GOVERNMENT. 471 have taught us only to disguise our ignorance beneath a more philosophical language. We think, therefore, that theWestminster Keviewer,even if we admit his calculation of the chances to be right, does not make out his case. But he appears to us to miscalculate chances more grossly than any person who ever acted or speculated in this world. It is for the happiness, says he, ‘‘of a member of the House of Commons to govern well: for he never can tell that he is not close on the moment when misgovernment will be terribly punished: if he was sure that he should be as lucky as his predecessors, it might be for his happiness to misgovern; but he is not sure.'’^ Cer- tainly a member of Parliament is not sure that he shall not be torn to pieces by a mob, or guillotined by a revolutionary tribunal for his opposition to reform. Nor is the West- minster Keviewer sure that he shall not be hanged for writ- ing in favor of universal suffrage. We may have demo- cratical massacres. We may also have aristocratical pro- scriptions. It is not very likely, thank God, that we should see either. But the radical, we think, runs as much danger as the aristocrat. As to our friend the Westminster Ke- viewer, he, it must be owned, has as good a right as any man on his side, Antoni gladios contemnere,^^ But take the man whose votes, ever since he has sate in Parliament, have been the most uniformly bad, and oppose him to the man whose votes have been the most uniformly good. The Westminster Reviewer would probably select Mr. Sadler and Mr. Hume. Now, does any rational man think, — will the Westminster Reviewer himself say, — that Mr. Sadler runs more risk of coming to a miserable end on account of his public conduct than Mr. Hume? Mr. Sadler does not know that he is not close on the moment when he will be made an example of; for Mr. Sadler knows, if possible, less about the future than about the past. But he has no more reason to expect that he shall be made an example of than to expect that London will be swallowed up by an earth- quake next spring; and it would be as foolish in him to act on the former supposition as on the latter. There is a risk; for there is a risk of everything which does not involve a contradiction; but it is a risk from which no man in his wits would give a shilling to be insured. Yet our West- minster Reviewer tells us that this risk alone, apart from all considerations of religion, honor, or benevolence, would, as a matter of mere calculation, induce a wise member of the 472 macaxjlay’b misckllankous whitings. House of Coramons to refuse any emoluments whicli might be offered him as tlie price of his support to ])ernicious measures. We have hitherto been examining cases proposed by our opponent. It is now our turn to propose one ; and we beg that he will spare no wisdom in' solving it. A thief is condemned to be hanged. On the eve of the day fixed for the execution a turnkey enters his cell and tells him that all is safe, that he has only to slip out, that his friends are waiting in the neigliborhood with disguises, and that a passage is taken for him in an American packet. Now, it is clearly for the greatest happiness of society that the thief should be hanged and the corrupt turnkey exposed and punished. Will the Westminster Reviewer tell us that it is for the greatest happiness of the thief to summon the head jailer and tell the whole story? Now, either it is foi the greatest happiness of a thief to be hanged or it is not. If it is, then the argument, by which the Westminster Re viewer attempts to prove that men do not |Dromote their own happiness by thieving, falls to the ground. If it is not, then there are men whose greatest hapj^iness is at variance with the greatest happiness of the community. To sum up our arguments shortly, we say that the “ greatest happiness principle,” as now stated, is diametri- cally opposed to the principle stated in the W estminster Re view three months ago. We say that, if the “greatest happiness principle,” as now stated, be sound, Mr. Mill’s Essay, and all other works concerning Government which, like that Essay, proceed on the supposition that individuals may have an interest op- posed to the greatest happiness of society, are fundamentally erroneous. We say that those who hold this principle to be sound must be prepared to maintain, either that monarchs and aristocracies may be trusted to govern the community, or else that men cannot be trusted to follow their own interest when that interest is demonstrated to them. We say that, if men cannot be trusted to follow their own interest when that interest has been demonstrated to them, then the Utilitarian arguments in favor of universal suffrage are good for nothing. We say that the “ greatest happiness principle” lias not been proved ; that it cannot be generally proved ; that even in the particular cases selected by the Reviewer it is not UTILITARIAN THEORY OF GOVERNMENT. 473 clear that the principle is true ; and that many cases might be stated in which the common sense of mankind would at once ])ronounce it to be false. We now leave the Westminster Reviewer to alter and amend his “ magnificent principle ” as he thinks best. Un- limited, it is false. Properly limited, it will be barren. The “ greatest happiness principle ” of the 1st of July, as far as we could discern its meaning through a cloud of rodomontade, was an idle truism. The “ greatest happiness principle of the 1st of October is, in the phrase of the American news* f apers, ‘‘ important if true.” But unhappily it is not true, t is not our business to conjecture what new maxim is to make the bones of sages and patriots stir on the 1st of De- cember. We can only say that, unless it be something infinitely more ingenious than its two predecessors, we shall leave it unmolested. The Westminster Reviewer may, if he pleases, indulge himself like Sultan Schahriar with es- pousing a rapid succession of virgin theories. But we must beg to be excused from playing the part of the vizier who regularly attended on the day after the wedding to strangle the new Sultana. The Westminster Reviewer charges us with urging it as an objection to the ‘‘greatest happiness principle ” that “it is included in the Christian morality.” This is a mere fiction of his own. We never attacked the morality of the Gospel. We blamed the Utilitarians for claiming the credit of a discovery, when they had merely stolen that morality, and spoiled it in the stealing. They have taken the precept of Christ and left the motive ; and they demand the praise of a most wonderful and beneficial invention, when all that they have done has been to make a most useful maxim use- bss by separating it from its sanction. On religious prin- ciples it is true that every individual will best promote his own happiness by promoting the happiness of others. But if religious considerations be left out of the question .'t is not true. If we do not reason on the supposition of a future state, where is the motive ? If we do reason on that sup- position, where is the discovery ? The Westminster Reviewer tells us that “ we wish to see the science of Government unsettled because we see no pros- pect of a settlement which accords with our interests.” His angry eagerness to have questions settled resembles that of a judge in one of Dryden’s plays — the Amphitryon, we think — who wishes to decide a cause after hearing only one 474 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. party, and, when lie has been at last compelled to iisten wO ^ the statement of tlie defendant. Hies into a passion, and exclaims, ‘‘ There now, sir ! See what you have done. The case was quite clear a minute ago ; and you must come and ])uzzle it ! ” He is the zealot of a sect. We are searchers after truth. He wishes to have the question settled. We wish to have it sifted first. The querulous manner in which we have been blamed for attacking Mr. Mill’s system, and propounding no system of our own, reminds us of the horror with which that shallow dogmatist, Epicurus, the worst parts of whose nonsense the Utilitarians have attempted to revive, shrank from the keen and searching skepticism of the second Academy. It is not our fault that an experimental science of vast extent does not admit of being settled by a short demon- stration ; — that the subtilty of nature, in the moral as in the physical world, triumphs over the subtilty of syllogism. The quack, who declares on affidavit that by using his pills and attending to his printed directions, hundreds who had been dismissed incurable from the hospitals have renewed their youth like the eagles, may, perhaps, think that Sir Henry Halford, when he feels the pulses of patients, inquires about their symptoms, and prescribes a different remedy to each, is unsettling the science of medicine for the sake of a fee. If, in the course of this controversy, we have refrained from expressing any opinion respecting the jDolitical institu- • tions of England, it is not because we have not an opinion or because we shrink from avowing it. The Utilitarians, indeed, conscious that their boasted theory of government would not bear investigation, were desirous to turn the dis- pute about Mr. Mill’s Essay into a dispute about the Whig party, rotten boroughs, unpaid magistrates, and ex-officio informations. When we blamed them for talking nonsense, they cried out that they were insulted for being reformers, « — ^just as poor Ancient Pistol swore that the scars which ho had received from the cudgel of Fluellen were got in the Gallia wars. We, however, did not think it desirable to mix up political questions, about which the public mind is vio- lently agitated,- with a great problem in moral philosophy. Our notions about Government are not, however, alto- gether unsettled. We have an opinion about parliamentary reform, though we have not arrived at that opinion by the royal road which Mr. Mill has opened for the explorers of Southey’s colloquies. 475 f )olitical science. As we are taking leave, probably for the ast time, of this controversy? we will state very concisely what our doctrines are. On some future occasion we may, perhaps, explain and defend them at length. Our fervent wish, and we will add our sanguine hope, is that we may see such a reform of the House of Commons as may render its votes the express image of the opinion of the middle orders of Britain. A pecuniary qualification we think absolutely necessary ; and, in settling its amount, our object w^ould be to draw the line in such a manner that every decent farmer and shopkeeper might possess the elec- tive franchise. We should wish to see an end j^ut to all the advantages which particular forms of property possess over other forms, and particular portions of property over other equal portions. And this would content us. Such a reform would, according to Mr. Mill, establish an aristocracy of wealth, and leave the community without protection and exposed to all the evils of unbridled power. Most willingly would we stake the Avhole controversy between us on the success of the experiment which we propose. SOUTHEY’S COLLOQUIES. ♦ {Edinburgh Review y January 1830.) It would be scarcely possible for a man of Mr. Southey’s talents and acquirements to write two volumes so large as those before us, which should be wholly destitute of infor- mation and amusement. Yet we do not remember to have read with so little satisfaction any equal quantity of matter written by any man of real abilities. We have, for some time past, observed with great regret the strange infatuation which leads the Poet Laureate to abandon those departments of literature in which he might excel, and to lecture the public on sciences of which he has still the very alphabet to learn. He has now, we think, done his worst. The subject which he has at last undertaken to treat is one which de- mands all the highest intellectual and moral qualities of a ♦ Sir Thomas More ; or, Colloquies on the. Progress and Prospects oj Society By ^bbrt Southey, Eb(j., r Poot Laureate. 2 yols. 8to, Loudon ; 476 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wkitings. philosophical statesruan, an understanding at once compro j| hensive and acute, a heart at once uj)right and charitable. J Mr. Southey brings to the task two faculties which were ^ never, we believe, vouchsafed in measure so copious to any f human being, the faculty of believing without a reason, and ■ ' the faculty of hating without a provocation. ' It is, indeed, most extraordinary, that a mind like Mr. Southey’s, a mind richly endowed in many respects by nature, and highly cultivated by study, a mind which has exercised considerable influence on the most enlightened generation of the most enlightened people that ever existed, should be utterly destitute of the power of discerning truth from falsehood. Yet such is the fact. Government is to Mr. Southey one of the fine arts. He judges of a theory, of a public measure, of a religion or a political party, of a peace or a war, as men judge of a picture or a statute, by the effect produced on his imagination. A chain of associa- tions is to him what a chain of reasonings is to other men ; and what he calls his opinions are in fact merely his tastes. " Part of this description might perhaps apply to a much greater man, Mr. Burke. But Mr. Burke assuredly possessed an understanding admirably fitted for the investigation of truth, an understanding stronger than that of any states- man, active or speculative, of the eighteenth century, stronger than everything, except his own fierce and ungov- ernable sensibility. Hence he generally chose his side like a fanatic, and defended it like a philosopher. His conduct on the most important occasions of his life, at the time of the impeachment of Hastings for example, and at the time of the French Revolution, seems to have been prompted by those feelings and motives which Mr. Coleridge has so hap- * pily described. Stormy pity, and the cherish’d lure Of pomp, and proud precipitance of soul.** Hindostan, with its vast cities, its gorgeous pagodas, its infinite swarms of dusky population, its long-descended dynasties, its stately etiquette, excited in a mind so capacious, BO imaginative, and so susceptible, the most intense interest. The peculiarities of the costume, of the manners, and of the laws, the very mystery which hung over the language and origin of the people, seized his imagination. To plead under the ancient arches of Westminster Hall, in the name of the English people, at the bar of the English nobles, for Southey’s colloquies. 477 great nations and kings separated from him by half the world, seemed to him the height of human glory. Again, it is not difficult to perceive that his hostility to the French Revolution principally arose from the vexation which he felt at having all his old political associations disturbed, at seeing the well known landmarks of states obliterated, and the names and distinctions with which the history of Europe had been filled for ages at once swej^t away. He felt like an antiquary whose shield had been scoured, or a connois- seur who found his Titian retouched. But, however he came by an opinion, he had no sooner got it than he did his best to make out a legitimate title to it. His reason, like a spirit in the service of an enchanter, though spellbound, was still mighty. It did whatever work his passions and liis imagination miglit impose. But it did that work, how- ever arduous, with marvellous dexterity and vigor. His course was not determined by argument ; but he could de- fend the wildest course by arguments more plausible than those by which common men siq^port opinions which they have adopted after the fullest deliberation. Reason has scarcely ever displayed, even in those well constituted minds of which she occupies the throne, so much power and energy as in the lowest offices of that imperial servi- tude. Now in the mind of Mr. Southey reason has no place at all, as either leader or follower, as either sovereign or slave. He does not seem to know what an argument is. He never uses arguments himself. He never troubles himself to an- swer the arguments of his opponents. It has never occurred to him, that a man ought to be able to give some better ac- count of the way in which he has arrived at his opinions than merely that it is his will and pleasure to hold them. It has never occurred to him that there is a difference between as- sertion and demonstration, that a rumor does not always prove a fact, that a single fact, when proved, is hardly foundar tion enough for a theory, that two contradictory proposi tions cannot be undeniable truths, that to beg the question is not the way to settle it, or that when an objection is raised, it ought to be met with something more convincing than scoundrel ” and “ blockhead. ” It would be absurd to read the works of such a writer for political instruction. The utmost that can be expected from any system promulgated by him is that* it maybe splen- did and affecting, that it may suggest sublime and pleasing 1 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wRiTiNUb. images. Ilis scheme of pliilosophy is a mere day-dream, a poetical creation, like the Domdaniel cavern, the Swerga, or Padalon ; and indeed it bears no inconsiderable resem- blance to those gorgeous visions. Like them, it has some- thing of invention, grandeur, and brilliancy. But, like them, it is grotesque and extravagant, and perpetually vio- lates even that conventional probability which is essential tc the effect of works of art. The warmest admirers of Mr. Soutliey will scarcely, we think, deny that his success lias almost always borne an in- verse proportion to the degree in which his undertakings have required a logical head. Ilis poems, taken in the mass, stand far higher than his prose works. His official Odes indeed, among which the Vision of Judgment must be classed, are, for the most part, worse than Pye’s and as bad as Cibber’s ; nor do we think him generally happy in short pieces. But his longer poems, though full of faults, are nevertheless very extraordinary productions. We doubt greatly wdiether they will be read fifty years hence ; but that, if they are read, they will be admired, we have no doubt whatever. But, though in general we prefer Mr. Southey’s poetry to his prose, we must make one exception. The Life of Nelson is, beyond all doubt, the most perfect and the most delightful of his works. The fact is, as his poems most abundantly prove, that he is by no means so skilful in de- signing as in filling up. It was therefore an advantage to him to be furnished with an outline of characters and events, and to have no other task to perform than that of touching the cold sketch into life. No writer, perhaps, ever lived, whose talents so precisely qualified him to write the history of the great naval warrior. There were no fine riddles of the human heart to read, no theories to propound, no hid- den causes to develope, no remote consequences to predict. The character of the hero lay on the surface. The exploits were brilliant and picturesque. The necessity of adhering to the real course of events saved Mr. Southey from those faults which deform the original plan of almost every one of his poems, and which even his innumerable beauties of detail scarcely redeem. The subject did not require the exercise of those reasoning powers the want of which is the blemish of his prose. It would not be easy to find, in all literary history, an instance of a more exnct hit between wind and water. John Wesley and the Peninsular War SOUTHEY'S COLLOQUIES. 479 were subjects of a very different kind, subjects which re- quired all the qualities of a philosophic historian. In Mr, Southey’s works on these subjects, lie has, on the whole, failed. Yet there are charming specimens of the art of nar^ ration in both of them. Tlie Life of Wesley will probably live. Defective as it is, it contains the only popular account of a most remarkable moral revolution, and of a man whose eloquence and logical acuteness might have made him emi- nent in literature, whose genius for government was not in- ferior to that of Richelieu, and who, whatever his errors may have been, devoted all his powers, in defiance of oblo- quy and derision, to what he sincerely considered as the highest good of his species. The History of the Peninsular War is already dead : indeed, the second volume was dead- born. The glory of producing an imperishable record of that great conflict seems to bo reserved for Colonel Napier. The Book of the Church contains some stories very prettily told. Tlic rest is mere rubbish. The adventure was manifestly one which could be achieved only by a pro- found thinker, and one in which even a profound thinker might have failed, unless his passions had been kept under strict control. But in all those w^orks in which Mr. Southey has completely abandoned narration, and has undertaken to argue moral and political questions, his failure has been comjilete and ignominious. On such occasions his writings are rescued from utter contempt and derision solely by the beauty and purity of the English. We find, we confess, so great a charm in Mr. Southey’s style that, even when lie writes nonsense, we generally read it with pleasure, except indeed when he tries to be droll. A more insufferable jester never existed. He very often attempts to be humorous, and yet we do not remember a single occasion on which he has succeeded farther than to be quaintly and flippantly dull. In one of his works he tells us that Bishop Spratt was very properly so called, inasmuch as he was a very si rail poet. And in the book now before us he cannot quote Francis Bugg, the renegade Quaker, without a remark on his unsavory name. A wise man might talk folly like this by his own fireside ; but that any human being, after having made such a joke, should write it down, and copy it out, and transmit it to the printer, and correct the proof-sheets, and send it forth into the world, is enough to make us ashamed of our species. The extraordinary bitterness of spirit which Mr. Southey 480 Macaulay’s miscellaneous 'nviutings. manifests towards Ids opponents is, no doubt, in a great meas- ure to be attributed to the manner in whicli he forms his opinions. Differences of taste, it has often been remarked, produce greater exasperation than differences on points of science. But this is not all. A peculiar austerity marks almost all Mr. Southey’s judgments of men and actions. We are far from blaming him for fixing on a high standard of morals, and for applying that standard to every case. But rigor ought to be accompanied by discernment ; and of discernment Mr. Southey seems to be utterly destitute. His mode of judging is monkish. It is exactly what we should expect from a stern old Benedictine, who had been preserved from many ordinary frailties by the restraints of his situa- tion. No man out of a cloister ever wrote about love, for example, so coldly and at the same time so grossly. His descriptions of it are just what we should hear from a re- cluse who knew the passion only from the details of the confessional. Almost all his heroes make love either like Seraphim or like cattle. He seems to have no notion of anything between the Platonic passion of the Glendoveer who gazes with rapture on his mistress’s leprosy, and the brutal appetite of Arvalan and Roderick. In Roderick, in- deed, the two characters are united. He is first all clay, and then all spirit. He goes forth a Tarquin, and coihes back too ethereal to be married. The only love scene, as far as we can recollect, in Madoc, consists of the delicate attentions which a savage, who has drunk too much of the Prince’s excellent metheglin, offers to Goervyl. It would be the labor of a week to find, in all the vast mass of Mr. Southey’s poetry, a single passage indicating any sympathy with those feelings which have consecrated the shades of Vaucluse and the rocks of Meillerie. Indeed, if we except some very pleasing images of pater- nal tenderness and filial duty, there is scarcely anything soft or humane in Mr. Southey’s poetry. What theologians call the spiritual sins are his cardinal virtues, hatred, pride, and the insatiable thirst of vengeance. These passions he dis- guises under the name of duties ; he purifies them from the alloy of vulgar interests ; he ennobles them by uniting them with energy, fortitude, and a severe sanctity of manners ; and he then holds them up to the admiration of mankind. This is the spirit of Thalaba, of Ladurlad, of Adosinda, of Roderick after his conversion. It is the spirit which, in all his writings, Mr. Southey appears to affect. ‘‘I do well to SOUTHEY'S COLLOQUIES. 48i lO angry,” seems to be the predominant feeling of nis mind. Almost the only mark of charity whicli lie vouchsafes to his opponents is to pray for their reformation ; and this he does in terms not unlike those in which we can imagine a Portu- guese priest interceding with Heaven for a Jew, delivered over to the secular arm after a relapse. We have always heard, and fully believe, that Mr. Southey is a very amiable and humane man ; nor do we in- tend to apply to him personally any of the remarks which we have made on the spirit of his writings. Such are the ca- prices of human nature. Even Uncle Toby troubled himself very little about the French grenadiers who fell on the glacis of Namur. And Mr. Southey, when he takes up his pen, changes his nature as much as Captain Shandy, when he girt on his sword. The only opponents to whom the Laureate gives quarter are those in whom he finds something of his own character reflected. He seems to have an instinctive antipathy for calm, moderate men, for men who shun ex- tremes, and who render reasons. He has treated Mr. Owen of Lanark, for example, with infinitely more respect than he has shown to Mr. Hallam or to Dr. Lingard ; and this for no reason that we can discover, except that Mr. Owen is more unreasonably and hopelessly in the wrong than any speculator of our time. Mr. Southey’s political system is just Avhat wo might ex- pect from a man who regards politics, not as matter of sci- ence, but as matter of taste and feeling. All his schemes of government have been inconsistent with themselves. In his youth h(3 was a republican ; yet, as he tells us in his pref- ace to these Colloquies, he was even then opposed to the Catholic Claims. He is now a violent ultra-Tory. Yet, while he maintains, with vehemence approaching to ferocity, all the sterner and harsher parts of the Ultra-Tory theory of government, the baser and dirtier part of that theory disgusts him. Exclusion, persecution, severe punishments for libellers and demagogues, proscri 2 :>tions, massacres, civil war, if necessary, rather than any concession to a discontented people ; these are the measures which he seems inclined to recommend. A severe and gloomy tyranny, crushing op- position, silencing remonstrance, drilling the minds of the people into unreasoning obedience, has in it something of grandeur which delights his imagination. But there is nothing fine in the shabby tricks and jobs of office ; and Mr. Southey, accordingly, has no toleration for them. When VoL. I —31 482 Macaulay’s miscellaneous whitings. a Jacobin, he did not perceive that his system led logically, and would have led })ractically, to the removal of religious distinctions, lie now commits a similar error, lie re- nounces the abject and paltry part of the creed of his party, without perceiving that it is also an essential part of 'hat creed. He would have tyranny and purity together ; though the most superficial observation might have shown him that there can be no tyranny without corruption. It is high time, however, that we should proceed to the consideration of the work which is our more immediate sub- ject, and which, indeed, illustrates in almost every page our general remarks on Mr. Southey’s writings. In the preface, vve are informed tliat the author, notwithstanding rome statements to the contrary, was always opposed to the Cath- olic Claims. We fully believe this; both because we are sure that Mr. Southey is incapable of publishing a deliber- ate falseh('.od, and because his assertion is in itself probable. We should have expected that, even in his wildest parox- isms of democratic enthusiasm, Mr. Southey would have felt no wish to see a simple remedy applied to a great prac- tical evil. We should have expected that, the only measure which all the great statesmen of two generations have agreed with each other in supporting would be the only measure which Mr. Southey would have agreed with himself in op- |)Osing. He has passed from one extreme of political opin- ion to another, as Satan in Milton went round the globe, contriving constantly to ‘‘ ride with darkness.” Wherever the thickest shadow of the night may at any moment chance to fall, there is Mr. Southey. It is not everybody who could have so dexterously avoided blundering on the day- light in the course of a journey to the antipodes. Mr. Southey has not been fortunate in the plan of any of his fictitious narratives. But he has never failed so con- spicuously as in the work before us; except, indeed, in the wretched Vision of J udgment. In November, 1817, it seema the Laureate was sitting over his newspaper, and meditating about the death of the Princess Charlotte. An elderly per- son of very dignified aspect makes his appearance, an- nounces himself as a stranger from a distant country, and apologizes very politely for not having provided himself with letVers of introduction. Mr. Southey supposes his visitor to be some American gentleman who has come to see the lakes and lake-poets, and accordingly proceeds to perform, with that grace, which only long j>ractice can give, all the duties bouthey’s colloquies. 483 which authors owe to starers. He assures liis guest that fomc of the most agreeable visits which he has received have been from Americans, and that he knows men among them w^hose talents and virtues would do honor to any iountry. In passing we may observe, to the honor of Mr. Southey, that, though he evidently has no liking for the American institutions, he never speaks of the people of the United States with that pitiful affectation of contempt by which some members of his party have done more than wars or tariffs can do to excite mutual enmity between two communities formed for mutual friendship. Great as the faults of his mind are, paltry spite like this has no place in it. Indeed it is scarcely conceivable that a man of his sen- sibility and his imagination should look without pleasure and national pride on the vigorous and splendid youth of a great people, whose veins are filled with our blood, whose minds are nourished with our literature, and on whom is en- tailed the rich inheritance of our civilization, our freedom, and our glory. But we must return to Mr. Southey’s study at Keswick. The visitor informs the hospitable poet that he is not an American but a spirit. Mr. Southey, with more frankness than civility, tells him that he is a very queer one. The stranger holds out his hand. It has neither weight nor sub- stance. Mr. Southey upon this becomes more serious ; his hair stands on end ; and he adjures the spectre to tell him what he is, and why he comes. The ghost turns out to be Sir Thomas More. The traces of martyrdom, it seems, are worn in the other world, as stars and ribands are worn in this. Sir Thomas shows the poet a red streak round his neck, brighter than a ruby, anct informs him that Cranmer wears a suit of flames in paradise, the right hand glove, we suppose, of peculiar brilliancy. Sir Thomas pays but a short visit on this occasion, but promises to cultivate the new acquaintance which he has formed, and, after begging that his visit may be kept se- cret from Mrs. Southey, vanishes into air. The rest of the book consists of conversations between Mr. Southey and the spirit about trade, cuirency. Catholic emancipation, periodical literature, female nunneries, butch- ers, snuff, book-stalls, and a hundred other subjects. Mr. Soutliey very hospitably takes an opportunity to escort the ghost round the lakes, and directs his attention to the most beautiful points of view. Why a spirit was to be evoked 184 Macaulay’s miscellaneous aviutingb. for the purpose of talking over such matters and seeing such siglits, why the vicar of tlie j>arish, a blue-stocking from London, or an American, such as Mr. Southey at first 8Uj)posed the aerial visitor to be, might not have done as Avell, Ave are unable to conceive. Sir Thomas tells Mr. Southey nothing about future events, and indeed absolutely disclaims the gift of prescience. He has learned to talk modern English. He has read all the new publications, and loves a jest as Avell as Avhen he jested Avith the executioner, though Ave cannot say that the (piality of his Avit has materi- ally improved in Paradise. His powers of reasoning, too, are by no means in as great Augor as Avhen he sate on the Avool-sack ; and though he boasts that he is “ divested of all those passions Avhich cloud tlie intellects and Avarp the un- derstandings of men,” Ave think him, avo must confess, far less stoical than formerly. As to reA^elations, he tells Mr. Southey at the outset to expect none from him. The Lau- reate expresses some doubts, Avhich assuredly Avill not raise him in the opinion of our modern millennarians, as to the divine authority of the Apocalypse. But the ghost pre- serAms an impenetrable silence. As far as Ave remember, only one hint about the employment of disembodied spirits escapes him. He encourages Mr. Southey to hope that there is a Paradise Press, at Avhich all the A^aluable publications of Mr. Murray and Mr. Colburn are reprinted as regularly as at Philadelphia; and delicately insinuates that Thalaba and the Curse of Kehama are among the number. What a contrast does this absurd fiction present to those charming narratiA^es Avhich Plato and Cicero prefixed to their dia- logues ! What cost in machinery, yet Avhat poAmrty of ef- fect ! A ghost brought in to say Avhat any man might have said! The glorified spirit of a great statesman and philoso- pher dawdling, like a bilious old nabob at a Avatering place, over quarterly revieAVS and novels, dropping in to pay long calls, making excursions in search of the picturesque ! The scene of St. George and St. Dennis in the Pucelle is hardly more ridiculous. We knoAV A\diat Voltaire meant. Nobody, hoAVCAmr, can suppose that Mr. Southey means to make game of the mysteries of a higher state of existence. The fact is that, m the Avork before us, in the Vision of Judgment, and in some of his other pieces, his mode of treating the most solemn subjects differs from that of open scoffers only as the extravagant representations of sacred persons and things in some grotesque Italian paintings differ from the caricatures 485 Southey’s colloquies. which Carlile exposes in the front of his shop. Wo Interpret the particular act by the general character. What in the window of a convicted blasphemer we call blasphemous, we call only absurd and ill-judged in an altar-piece. We now come to the conversations Avhich pass between Mr. Southey and Sir Thomas More, or rather between two Southeys, equally eloquent, equally angry, equally unreason- able, and equally given to talking about what they do not understand.* Perhaps we could not select a better instance of the spirit which pervades the wliole book than the pas- sages in which Mr. Southey gives his opinion of the manu- facturing system. There is nothing which he hates so bit- terly. It is, according to him, a system more tyrannical than that of the feudal ages, a system of actual servi. tilde, a system which destroys the bodies and degrades the minds of those who are engaged in it. He expresses a hope that the competition of other nations may drive us out of the field ; that our foreign trade may decline ; and that we may thus enjoy a restoration of national sanity and strength. But he seems to think that the extermination of the whole manufacturing population would be a blessing, if the evil could be removed in no other way. Mr. Southey does not bring forward a single fact in sup- port of these views ; and, as it seems to us, thei'e are facts which lead to a very different conclusion. In the first place, the poor-rate is very decidedly lower in the manufac- turing than in the agricultural districts. If Mr. Southey will look over the Parliamentary returns on this subject, he will find that the amount of parochial relief required by the laborers in the different counties of England is almost ex- actly in inverse proportion to the degree in which the man- ufacturing system has been introduced into those counties. The returns for the years ending in March 1825, and in March 1828, are now before us. In the former year we find the poor-rate highest in Sussex, about twenty shillings to every inhabitant. Then come Buckinghamshire, Essex, Suffolk, Bedfordshire, Huntingdonshire, Kent, and Norfolk. In all these the rate is above fifteen shillings a head. We will not go through the whole. Even in Westmoreland and the North Riding of Yorkshire, the rate is at more than eight shillings. In Cumberland and Monmouthshire, the most fortunate of all the agricultural districts, it is at six * A passage in which some expressions used by Mr. Southey were misrepre eentedi certainly without any unfair intention, has been here omitted* 48G MACAUJ.AY S AIISCl^LI.ANEOUS AVKITINGS. sliillings. But in the West Riding of Yorkshire, it is as lo^v as five shillings ; and when we come to Lancashire, we find it at four shillings, one fifth of what it is in Sussex. The returns of the year ending in March 1828 are a little, and but a little, more unfavorable to the manufacturing districts. Lancashire, even in that season of distress, required a smaller poor-rate than any other district, and little more than one fourth of the poor-rate raised in Sussex. Cumberland alone, of the agricultural districts, was as well off as the West Riding of Yorkshire. These facts seem to indicate that the manufacturer is both in a more comfortable and in a less dependent situation than the agricultural laborer. As to the effect of the manufacturing system on the bodily health, we must beg leave to estimate it by a stand- ard far too low and vulgar for a mind so imaginative as that of Mr. Southey, the proportion of births and deaths. We know that, during the growth of this atrocious system, this new misery, to use the phrase of Mr. Southey, this new enormity, this birth of a portentous age, this pest, wLich no man can approve wdiose heart is not seared or whose under- standing has not been darkened, there has been a great diminution of mortality, and that this diminution has been greater in the manufacturing towns than anywhere else. The mortality still is, as it always was, greater in towms than in the country. But the difference has diminished in an extraordinary degree. There is the best reason to believe that the annual mortality of Manchester, about the middle of the last century, w\as one in twenty-eight. It is now reckoned at one in forty-five. In Glasgow and Leeds a similar improvement has taken place. Nay, the rate of mortality in those three great capitals of the manufacturing districts is now considerably less than it w^as, fifty years ago, over England and Wales taken together, open country and all. We might wdth some plausibility maintain that the people live longer because they are better fed, better lodged, better clothed, and better attended in sickness, and that these improvements are owing to that increase of national wealth w^hich the manufacturing system has produced. Much more might be said on the subject. But to what end ? It is not from bills of mortality and statistical tables that Mr. Southey has learned his political creed. He can- not stoop to study the history of the system which he abuses, to strike the balance betw^een the good and evil which it has produced, to compare district with district, or goner- Southey’s colloquies. 487 ation with generation. We will give his own reason for his opinion, the only reason which he gives for it, in his own words : — “We remained awhile in silence lookin" upon the assemblage of dwell- ings below. Here, and in the adjoining hamlet of Millbeck, the effects of manufactures and of agriculture may be seen and compared. The old cot- tages are such as the poet and tlie painter equally delight in beholding. Substantially built of the native stone without mortar, dirtied with no white lime, and their long low roofs covered with slate, if they had been raised by the magic of some indigenous Amphion’s music, the materials could not have adjusted tliemselves more beautifully in accord with the surrounding scene ; and time has still further harmonized them with weather-stains, lichens, and moss, short grasses, and short fern, and stone-plants of various kinds. The ornamented chimneys, round or square, less adorned than those 'vrhich, like little turrets, crest the houses of the Portuguese peasantry ; and yet not less happily suited to their place, the hedge of dipt box beneath the windows, the rose-bushes beside the door, tlie little patch of flower- ground, with its tall holly-hocks in front ; the garden beside, the bee-hives, and the orchard with its banlv of daffodils and snow-drops, the earliest and the profusest in these parts, indicate in the owners some portion of ease and leisure, some regard to neatness and comfort, some sense of mtural, and innocent, and healthful enjoyment. Tlie new cottages of the manufacturers are upon the manufacturing pattern — naked, and in a row. “ How is it,” said I, “ that everything which is connected with manu- factures presents such features of unqualified deformity ? From the largest of Mammon’s temples down to the poorest hovel in which his helotry are stalled, these edifices have all one character. Time will not mellow them ; nature will neither clotlie nor conceal them ; and they will remain always as offensive to the eye as to the mind.” Here is wisdom. Here are the principles on which nations are to be governed. Rose-bushes and poor-rates rather than steam-engines and independence. Mortality and cottages with weatlier stains, rather than health and long life with edifices which time cannot mellow. We are told that our age has invented atrocities beyond the imag- ination of our fathers ; tliat society has been brought into a state compared with winch extermination would be a bless- ing ; and all because the dwellings of cotton-spinners are naked and rectangular. Mr. Southey has found out a way, he tells us, in which the effects of manufactures and agri- culture may be compared. And what is this way? To stand on a hill, to look at a cottage and a factory, and to sec which is the prettier. Does Mr. Southey think that the body of the English peasantry live, or ever lived, in substantial or ornamented cottages with box-hedges, flower- gardens, bee-hives, and orchards ? If not, what is his paral- lel worth? We despise those mock philosophers, who think that they serve the cause of science by depreciating literature and the fine arts. But if any thing could excuse their narrowness of mind it would be such a book as this. 488 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wuiriNas. It is not strange that, when one enthusiast makcfl the, pic- turesque the test of political good, anotlier should feel in- clined to proscribe altogether the pleasures of taste and imagination. Tims it is that Mr. Southey reasons about matters with which he thinks himself perfectly conversant. We cannot, therefore, be sur])rised to find that he commits extraordinary blunders when he writes on points of which he acknowl- edges himself to be ignorant. He confesses that he is nc»t versed in political economy, and that he has neither liking nor aptitude for it ; and he then proceeds to read the public a lecture concerning it which fully bears out his confession. “ All wealth,” says Sir Thomas More, “ in former times was tangible. It consisted in land, money, or chattels, which were either of real or conventional value.” Montesinos, as Mr. Southey somewhat affectedly calls himself, answers thus : — “Jewels, for example, and pictures, as in Holland, where indeed at one time tulip bulbs answered the same purpose.” “ That bubble,” says Sir Thomas, “ was one of those contagious insanities to which communities are subject. All wealth was .real, till the extent of commerce rendered a paper currency necessary ; which differed from precious stones and pictures in this important j^oint, that there was no limit to its production.” “ We regard it,” says Montesinos, “as the representa- tive of real wealth ; and, therefore, limited always to the amount of what it represents ” “ Pursue that notion,” answers the ghost, “ and you will oe in the dark presently. Your pnwincial bank-notes, * which constitute almost wholly the circulating medium of certain districts, pass current to-day. To-morrow tidings may come that the house which issued them has stopped payment, and what do they represent then ? You will find them the shadow of a shade.” W e scarcely know at which end to begin to disentangle this knot of absurdities. We might ask, why it should be a greater proof of insanity in men to set a high value on rare tulips than on rare stones, which are neither more use- ful nor more beautiful ? We might ask how it can be said that there is no limit to the production of paper money, when a man is hanged if he issues any in the name of an other, and is forced to casli what he issues in his own? But SOUTHEY’S COLLOQUIES. 489 Mr. Southey’s error lies deeper still. “All wealth,” says he, “ was tangible and real till paper currency Avas intro- duced.” Noay, was there ever, since men emerged from a state of utter barbarism, an age in Avhich there Avere no debts ? Is not a debt, AAhile the solvency of the debtor is undoubted, always reckoned as part of the Avealth of the creditor? Yet is it tangible and real Avealth ? Does it cease to be wealth, because there is the security of a Avrit- ten acknowledgment for it? And A\diat else is paper cur- rency ? Did Mr. Southey ever read a bank-note ? If he did, he would see that it is a Avritten acknoAvledgment of a debt, and a promise to pay that debt. The promise may be violated: the debt may remain unpaid: those* to Avhom it Avas due may suffer : but this is a risk not confined to cases of paper currency : it is a risk inseparable from the rela- tion of debtor and creditor. Every man A\dio sells goods for anything but ready money runs the risk of finding that AA^hat he considered as part of his Avealth one day is nothing at all the next day. Mr. Southey refers to the picture-gal- leries of Holland. The pictures Avere undoubtedly real and tangible possessions. But surely it might happen that a burgomaster might OAve a picture-dealer a thousand guilders for a Teniers. What in this case corresponds to our paper money is not the picture, Avdiich is tangible, but the claim of the picture-dealer on his customer for the price of the picture; and this claim is not tangible. Noav, Avould not the picture-dealer consider this claim as part of his Avealth ? Would not a tradesman Avho kneAv of the claim gh^e credit to the picture-dealer the more readily on account of the claim? The burgomaster might be ruined. If so, would not those consequences folloAV which, as Mr. Southey tells us, Avere never heard of till paper money came into use ? Yesterday this claim was worth a thousand guilders. To- day what is it ? The shadow of a shade. It is true that, the more readily claims of this sort are transferred from hand to hand, the more extensive will be the injury produced by a single failure. The laws of all nations sanction, in certain cases, the transfer of rights not yet reduced into possession. Mr. Southey Avould scarcely wish, we should think, that all indorsements of bills and notes should be declared invalid. Yet even if this were done, the transfer of claims Avould imperceptibly take place, to a very great extent. When the baker trusts the butcher, for example, he is in fact, though not in form, trusting the 490 Macaulay’s miscellaneous whitings. butclicr’s customers. A man wlio owes large bills to trades' men, and fails to ]>ay them, almost always j)roduces distresH through a very wide circle of people with whom he never dealt. In short, what Mr. Southey takes for a difference in kind is only a difference of form and degree. In every society men have claims on the j^roperty of others. In every so- ciety there is a possibility that some debtors may not bo able to fulfil their obligations. In every society, therefore, there is wealth which is not tangible, and which may become the shadow of a shade. Mr. Southey then proceeds to a dissertation on the na- tional debt, which he considers in a new and most consola- tory light, as a clear addition to the income of the country. “You can understand,” says Sir Thomas, “that it con- stitutes a great part of the national wealth.” “ So large a part,” answers Montesinos, “that the interest amounted, during the prosperous time of agriculture, to as much as the rental of all the land in Great Britain ; and at present to the rental of all lands, all houses, and all other fixed property put together.” The Ghost and the Laureate agree that it is very desir- able that there should be so secure and advantageous a de- posit for wealth as the funds afford. Sir Thomas then pro- ceeds : — “ Another and far more momentous benefit must not be overlooked ; the expenditure of an annual interest, equal- ling, as you have stated, the present rental of all fixed property.” “That expenditure,” quoth Montesinos, “gives employ- ment to half the industry in the kingdom, and feeds half the mouths. Take, indeed, the weight of the national debt from this great and complicated social machine, and tie wheels must stop.” From this passage we should have been inclined to think that Mr. Southey supposes the dividends to be a free gift periodically sent down from heaven to the fundholders, as quails and manna were sent to the Israelites ; were it not that he has vouchsafed, in the following question and answer, to give the public some information, which, we be^ lieve, was very little needed. “Whence comes the interest?” says Sir Thomas. “ It is raised,” answers Montesinos, “ by taxation.” Now, has Mr* Southey ever aonsUJereti what would b« flout colloquies. 49i done with tins sum if it were not paid as interest to tlie na» tional creditor ? If he would think over tliis matter fora sliort time, we suspect that tlie ‘‘momentous benefit” of which he talks would appear to him to shrink strangely" in amount. A fundholder, we will suppose, spends dividends amounting to five hundred ]3ounds a year ; and his ten nearest neighbors pay fifty pounds each to the tax-gatherer, for the ]nirj)ose of discharging the interest of the national debt. If the debt were Aviped out, a measure, be it under- stood, which we by no means recommend, the fundholder would cease to spend his five hundred pounds a year. He would no longer give employment to industry, or put food into the mouths of laborers. This Mr. Southey thinks a fearful evil. But is there no mitigating circumstances ? Each of the ten neighbors of our fundholder has fifty pounds a year more than formerly. Each of them will, as it seems to our feeble understandings, employ more industry and feed more mouths than formerly. The sum is exactly the same. It is in different hands. But on wdiat grounds docs Mr. Southey call upon us to believe that it is in the hands of men who will spend it less liberally or less judiciously? He seems to think that nobody but a fundholder can em- ploy the poor ; that, if a tax is remitted, those who formerly used to pay it proceed immediately to dig holes in the earth, and to bury the sum Avhich the government had been ac- customed to take ; that no money can set industry in mo- tion till such money has been taken by the tax-gatherer out of one man’s pocket ana put into another man’s pocket. We really wish that Mr. Southey would try to prove this principle, which is indeed the foundation of his whole theory of finance : for we think it right to hint to him that our hard-hearted and unimaginative generation will expect some more satisfactory reason than the only one with which he his yet favored it, namely, a similitude touching evapora- t:on and dew. Both the theory and the illustration, indeed, are old fiiends of ours. In every season of distress which we can remember, Mr. Southey has been proclaiming that it is not from economy, but from increased taxation, that the coun- try must expect relief; and he still, we find, places the undoubting faith of a political Diafoirus, in his “ Resaignare, repurgare, et reclysterizare." “ A people,” he tells us, “ may be too rich, but agoverm ment cannot be so,” 492 MACAULAY'S itISCELLANKOUS WElTmOS. “ A state,” says lie, “ cannot liave more wealth at its com- mand than may be employed for the general good, a liberal expenditure in national works being one of the surest means of promoting national prosperity; and the benefit being still more obvious, of an expenditure directed to the pur- poses of national improvement. But a people may be too rich.” We fully admit that a state cannot have at its command more wealth than may be employed for the general good. But neither can individuals, or bodies of individuals, have at their command more wealth than may be employed for the general good. If there be no limit to the sum which may be usefully laid out in public works and national im- provement, then wealth, whether in the hands of private men or of the government, may always, if the possessors choose to spend it usefully, be usefully spent. The only ground, therefore, on Avhicli Mr. Southey can possibly main- tain that a government cannot be too rich, but that a peo- ple may be too rich, must be this, that governments are more likely to spend their money on good objects than pri- vate individuals. But what is useful expenditure ? “ A liberal expenditure in national works,” says Mr. Southey, ‘‘ is one of the surest means for promoting national prosperity.” What does he mean by national prosperity ? Does he mean the wealth of the slate? If so, his reasoning runs thus: The more wealth a state has the better ; for the more wealth a state has the more wealth it will have. This is surely some- thing like that fallacy, which is ungallantly termed a lady’s reason. If by national j^rosperity he means the w^ealth of the people, of how gross a contradiction is Mr. Southey guilty. A people, he tells us, may be too rich: a govern- ment cannot : for a government can employ its riches in making the people richer. The wealth of the people is tc be taken from them, because they have too much, and laid out in w^orks, which will yield them more. We are really at a loss to determine w^hether Mr. South- ey’s reason for recommending large taxation is that it will make the people rich, or that it will make them poor. But we arc sure that, if his object is to make them rich, he takes the wrong course. There are two or three principles respect- ing public works, which, as an experience of vast extent proves, may be trusted in almost every case. It scarcely ever happens that any private man or body fiOtJTHEY's COLLOQUIE0. 493 of men will invest property in a canal^ a tunnel, or a bridge, but from an expectation tliat the outlay will be profitable to them. No work of tliis sort can be profitable to private speculators, unless the public be willing to pay lor the use of it. The public will not pay of their own accord for what yields no ])rofit or convenience to them. There is thus a direct and obvious connection between the motive which induces individuals to undertake such a work, and the utility of the work. Can we find any such connection in the case of a public work executed by a government ? If it is useful, are the individuals who rule the country richer? If it is useless, are they poorer? A public man may be solicitous for his credit. But is not he likely to gain more credit by an use- less display of ostentatious architecture in a great town than by the best road or the best canal in some remote prov- ince ? The fame of public works is a much less certain test of their utility than the amount of toll collected at them. In a corrupt age, there will be direct embezzlement. In the purest age, there will be abundance of jobbing. Never were the statesmen of any country more sensitive to public opinion, and more spotless in pecuniary transactions, than those who have of late governed England. Yet we have only to look at the buildings recently erected in London for a proof of our rule. In a bad age, the fate of the public is to be robbed outright. In a good age, it is merely to have the dearest and worst of every thing. Buildings for state purposes the state must erect. And here we think that in general, the state ought to stop. We firmly believe that five hundred thousand pounds subscribed by individuals for railroads or canals would produce more advantage to the public than five millions voted by Parlia- ment for the same purpose. There are certain old saws about the master’s eye and about everybody’s business, in which we place very great faith. Tnere is, w e have said, no consistency in Mr. Southey’s political system. But if there be in his political system any leading principle, any one error which diverges more widely and variously than any other, it is that of which his theory about national works is a ramification. He conceives that the business of the magistrate is, not merely to see that the persons and property of the people are secure from attack, but that he ought to be a jack-of-all-trades, architect, engi- neer schoohmastcr, merchant, theologian, a Lady Bountiful 494 MAC AULAY S MISCELLANEOUS AVIUTINGS. in every parish, a Paul Pry in every house, spying, caves dropping, relieving, admonisliing, spending our money for us, and choosing our opinions for us. His princijde is, if we understand it rightly, that no man can do any tiling so well for himself as his rulers, be they who they may, can do it for him, and that a government approaches nearer and nearer to perfection, in proportion as it interferes more and more with the habits and notions of individuals. He seems to be fully convinced that it is in the power of government to relieve all the distresses under which tlic lower orders labor. Nay, he considers doubt on this sub ject as impious. We cannot refrain from quoting his argu- ment on this subject. It is a perfect jewel of logic. '•‘Many thousands in your metropolis,’ says Sir Thomas More, rise every morning without knowing how they are to subsist during the day ; as many of them, where they are to lay their heads at night. All men, even the vicious themselves, know that wickedness leads to misery : but many, even among the good and the wise, have yet to learn that misery is almost as often the cause of wickedness.’ “ ‘ There are many,’ says Montesinos, ‘who know this, but believe that it is not in the power of human institutions to prevent this misery. They see the effect, but regard the causes as inseparable from the condition ol human nature.’ ‘“As surely as God is good,’ replies Sir Thomas, ‘ so surely there is no such thing as necessary evil. For, by the religious mind, sickness, and pain, and death, are not to be accounted evils.’” Now if sickness, pain, and death, are not evils, vre cannot understand why it should be an evil that thousands should rise without knowing how they are to subsist. The only evil of hunger is that it produces first pain, than sickness, and finally death. If it did not produce these, it would bo no calamity. If these are not evils, it is no calamity. We will propose a very plain dilemma : either physical pain is an evil, or it is not an evil. If it is an evil, then there is necessary evil in the universe : if it is not, why should the poor be delivered from it ? Mr. Southey entertains as exaggerated a notion of the wisdom of governments as of their power. He speaks with tlie greatest disgust of the respect now paid to public opin- ion. That opinion is, according to him, to be distrusted and dreaded ; its usurpation ought to be vigorously re- sisted ; and the practice of yielding to it is likely to rum the country. To maintain police is, according to him. only one of the ends of government. The duties of a ruler are patriarchal and paternal. He ought to consider the moral discipline of the people as his first object, to establish u re- Southey’s colloquies. m ligion, to train tlie wliole community in that religion, and tc consider all dissenters as his own enemies. “ ‘ Notliing,’ says Sir Thomas, ‘ is more certain, than that religion is the Oasis upon which civil government rests ; that from religion power derives its authority, laws their efficacy, and botli their zeal and sanction ; and it is necessary that this religion be established as for the security of the state, and for the welfare of the people, who would otherwise be moved to and fro with every wind of doctrine. A state is secure in proportion as the peo- jde are attached to its institutions: it is, therefore, the first and plainest rule of sound policy, tliat the people be trained up in tlie way they should go. The s>tate that neglects this prepares its own destruction ; and they who train tliem in any other way are undermining it. Nothing in abstract sci- ence can be more certain than these positions are.’ “ ‘ All of which,’ answers Montesinos, ‘ are nevertheless denied by our professors of the arts Babblative and Scribblative : some in the audacity of evil designs, and others in the glorious assurance of impenetrable igno- rance.’ ” The greater part of the two volumes before us is merely an amplification of these paragraphs. What does Mr. Southey mean by saying that religion is demonstrably the basis of civil government? He cannot surely mean that men have no motives except those derived from religion for establishing and supporting civil government, that no tem- poral advantage is derived from civil government, that men would experience no temporal inconvenience from living in a state of anarchy ? If he allows, as we think he must al- low, that it is for the good of mankind in this world to liave civil government, and that the great majority of man- kind have always tliought it for their good in this world to have civil government, we then have a basis for government quite distinct from religion. It is true that the Cliristian religion sanctions government, as it sanctions everything which ])romotes the happiness and virtue of our species. But Ave are at a loss to conceh^e in what sense religion can be said to be the basis of government, in which religion is not also the basis of the practices of eating, drinking, and lighting fires in cold Aveather. Nothing in history is more certain than that goA^ernment has existed, has received some obedience, and has given some protection, in times in which it derived no support from religion, in times in which there Avas no religion that influenced the hearts and Ha^cs of men. It Avas not from dread of Tartarus, or from belief in the Elysian fields, that an Athenian wished to have some insti- tutions which might keep Orestes from filching his cloak, or Mi dias from breaking his head. “It is from religion,” Bays Mr. Southey, “ that power derives its authority, and kws their efficacy,” From what religion does our power 496 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. over the Hindoos derive its authority, or tlie law in virtue of wliich we hang Brahmins its efficacy ? For thousands of years civil government lias existed in almost every corner of the world, in ages of ])riestcraft, in ages of fanaticism, in ages of Epicurean indifference, in ages of enlightened jiiety. However pure or impure the faith of the people might be, whether they adorned a beneficent or a malignant power, whether they thought the soul mortal or immortal, they have, as soon as they ceased to be absolute savages, fouml out their need of civil government, and instituted it ac- cordingly. It is as universal as the practice of cookery. Yet, it is as certain, says Mr. Southey, as anything in abstract science, that government is founded on religion. We should like to know what notion Mr. Southey has of the demonstrations of abstract science. A very vague one, we suspect. The proof proceeds. As religion is the basis of gov^ ernment, and as the state is secure in proportion as the peo- ple are attached to public institutions, it is therefore, says Mr. Southey, the first rule of policy, that the government should train the people in the way in which they should go ; and it is plain that those who train them in any other way are undermining the state. Now it does not appear to us to be the first object that people should always believe in the established religion and be attached to the established government. A religion may be false. A government may be oppressive. And whatever support government gives to false religions, or religion to oppressive governments, we consider as a clear evil. The maxim, that governments ought to train the people in the way in which they should go, sounds well. But is there any reason for believing that a government is more likely to lead the people in the right way than the people to fall into the right Avay of themselves ? Have there not been governments which were blind leaders of the blind ? Are there not still such governments ? Can it be laid down as a general rule that the movement of political and religious truth is rather downwards from the government to the people than upwards from the people to the govern- ment ? These are questions which it is of importance to have clearly resolved. Mr. Southey declaims against pub- lic opinion, which is now, he tells us, usurping supreme power* Formerly, according to him, the laws governed ; gOUTIlEY’S COLLOQUIES. 497 now public opinion governs. Wliat are laws nut expres- sions of the opinion of some class which has power over the rest of the community ? By what was the world ever gov- erned but by the opinion of some person or persons? By what else can it ever be gov(;rned ? What are all systems, religious, political, or scientilic, but opinions resting on evi- dence more or less satisfactory? The question is not be- tween human opinion and some higher and more certain mode of arriving at truth, but between opinion and opinion, between the opinions of one man and another, or of ona class and another, or of one generation and another. Pub- lic opinion is not infallible ; but can Mr. Southey construct any institutions which shall secure to us the guidance of an infallible opinion ? Can Mr. Southey select any family, any urofession, any class, in short, distinguished by any plain badge from the rest of the community, whose opinion is more likely to be just than this much abused public opinion ? Would he choose the peers, for example? Or the two hun- dred tallest men in the country ? Or the poor Knights of Windsor ? Or children who are born with cauls ? Or the seventh sons of seventh sons? We cannot suppose that he would recommend popular election ; for that is merely an appeal to public opinion. And to say that society ought to be governed by the opinion of the wisest and best, though f.rue, is useless. Whose opinion is to decide, who are the wisest and best ? Mr. Southey and many other respectable people seem to diink that, when they have once proved the moral and re- ligious training of the people to be a most important object, \t follows, of course, that it is an object which the govern- ment ought to pursue. They forget that we have to con- sider, not merely the goodness of the end, but also the fit- ness of the means. Neither in the natural nor in the politi- cal body have all members the same office. There is surely no contradiction in saying that a certain section of the com- munity mav be quite competent to protect the persons and property of the rest, yet quite unfit to direct our opinions, or to superintend our private habits. So strong is the interest of a ruler to protect his subjects against all depredations and outrages except his own, so clear and simple are the means by which this end is to be effected, that men are probably better off under the worst governments in the world than they would be in a state of anarchy. Even when the appointment of magistrates has VOL. _ 498 macaulay’0 miscellankous writings. been left to cliance, as in the Italian Republics, things have gone on far better than if there had been no magistrates at all, and if every man had done what seemed right in his own eyes. But w^e see no reason for thinking that the opinions of the magistrate on s])eculative questions are more likely to be right than those of any otherhnan. None of the modes by which a magistrate is appointed, popular election, the accident of the lot, or the accident of birth, affords, as far as we can perceive, much security for his being wiser tlian any of his neighbors. The chance of his being wiser than all his neighbors together is still smaller. Now we cannot un- derstand how it can be laid down that it is the duty and the right of one class to direct tlie opinions of another, un- less it can be proved that the former class is more likely to form just opinions than the latter. The duties of government would be, as Mr. Southey says that they are, paternal, if a government were necessa- rily as much superior in wisdom to a people as the most foolish father, for a time, is to the most intelligent child, and if a government loved a people as fathers generally love their children. But there is no reason to believe that a govern- ment will have either the paternal warmth of affection or the paternal superiority of intellect. Mr. Southey might as well say that the duties of the shoemaker are paternal, and that it is an usurpation in any man not of the craft to say that his shoes are bad and to insist on having better. The division of labor would be no blessing, if those by whom a thing is done were to pay no attention to the opinion of those for whom it is done. The shoemaker, in the Relapse, tells Lord Foppington that his lordship is mistaken in supposing that his shoe pinches. “ It does not pinch ; it cannot pinch ; I know my business ; I never made a better shoe.'’ This is the way in which Mr. Southey would have a government treat a people who usurp the privilege of thin&ng. Nay, the shoemaker of Vanbrugh has the advantage in the com- parison. He contented himself with regulating his custom^ er’s shoes, about which he had peculiar means of informa- tion, and did not presume to dictate about the coat and hat. But Mr. Southey would have the rulers of a country pre- scribe opinions to the people, not only about politics, but about matters concerning which a government has no pecu- liar sources of information, and concerning which any man in the streets may know as much and think as justly as the King, namely religion and moraki soutitey’s COLLOQTJIBS. 490 Men are never so likely to settle a question rightly as vrhen they discuss it freely. A government can interfere in discussion only by making it less free than it would other- wise be. Men are most likely to form just o[)inions when they have no other wish than to know the truth, and are exempt from all influence, either of hope or fear. Gov- ernment, as government, can bring nothing but the influ- ence of hopes and fears to support its doctrines. It car- ries on controversy, not with reasons, but with threats and bribes. If it employs reasons, it does so, not in virtue oi any powers which belong to it as a government. Thus, instead of a contest between argument and argument, we have a contest between argument and force. Instead of a contest in which truth, from the natural constitution of the human mind, ha« a decided advantage over false- hood, we have a contest in Avhich truth can be victorious only by accident. And what, after all, is the security which this training gives to governments ? Mr. Southey would scarcely propose that discussion should be more efectually shackled, that public opinion should be more strictly disciplined into con- formity with established institutions, than in Spain and Italy. Yet we know that the restraints which exist in Spain and Italy have not prevented atheism from spreading among the educated classes, and especially among those whose office it is to minister at the altars of God. All our readers know how, at the time of the French Revolution, priest after priest came forward to declare that his doctrine, his ministry, his whole life, had been a lie, a mummery during which he could scarcely compose his countenance sufficiently to carry on the imposture. This was the case of a false, or at least of a grossly corrupted religion. Let us take then the case of all others most favorable to Mr. Southey’s argument. Let us take that form of religion which he holds to be the purest, the system of the Armenian part of the Church of England. Let us take the form of government which he most admires and regrets, the government of England in the time of Charles the First. Would he wish to see a closer connection between church and state than then ex- isted? Would he wish for more powerful ecclesiastical tribunals ? for a more zealous king ? for a more active primate. Would he wish to see a more complete monopoly of public instruction given to the Established Church ? Could any government do more to train the people in the way in which 600 Macaulay’s MiscfiLLANi:ous tvnixiNGS* he would have them go ? And in what did all this training end ? The Report of the state of tlie Province of Canterbury, delivered by Laud to his master at the close of 1649, represents the Church of England as in the highest and most palmy state. So effectually had the government pursued that policy which Mr. Southey wishes to sec revived that there was scarcely the least appearance of dissent. Most of the bishops stated that all was well among their flocks. Seven or eight per- sons in the diocese of Peterborough had seemed refractory to the church, but had made ample submission. In Norfolk and Suffolk all whom there had been reason to suspect had made professions of conformity, and appeared to observe it strictly. It is confessed that there was a little difficulty in bringing some of the vulgar in Suffolk to take the sacrar ment at the rails in the chancel. This was the only open instance of non-conformity which the vigilant eye of Laud could detect in all the dioceses of his twenty-one suffragans, on the very eve of a revolution in which primate, and church, and monarch, and monarchy were to perish together. At which time would Mr. Southey pronounce the con- stitution more secure ; in 1639, when Laud presented this Report to Charles ; or now, when thousands of meetings openly collect millions of dissenters, when designs against ffie tithes are openly avowed, when books attacking not )nly the Establishment, but the first j^rinciples of Chris 'ianity, are openly sold in the streets ? The signs of discon- tent, he tells us, are stronger in England now than in France when the States-General met : and hence he would have us infer that a revolution like that of France may be at hand. Does he not know that the danger of states is to be estima- ted, not by what breaks out of the public mind, but by what stays in it ? Can he conceive anything more terrible than the situation of a government which rules without apprehen- sion over a people of hypocrites, which is flattered by the press and cursed in the inner chambers, which exults in the attachment and obedience of its subjects, and knows not that those subjects are leagued against it in a free-masonry of hatred, the sign of which is every day conveyed in the glance of ten thousand eyes, the pressure of ten thousand hands, and the tone of ten thousand voices ? Profound and ingenious policy ! Instead of curing the disease, to remove those symptoms by which alone its nature can be known ! To leave the serpent his deadly sting, and deprive him only of his warning rattle ! BOliTIlliY’s COLLOQUIES. 50i W]ien tli8 people wliom Charles had so assiduously trained in the good way had rewarded his paternal care by cutting off Ids head, a new kind of training came into fasli- ion. Another government arose which, like the former, considered religion as its surest basis, and the religious dis- cipline, of the people as its first duty. Sanguinary laws were enacted against libertinism ; profane pictures were burned ; drapery was put on indecorous statues ; the theatres weie shut up : fast-days were numerous ; and the Parliament resolved that no person should be admitted into any public, employment, unless the House should be first satisfied of liis vital godliness. W e know what Avas the end of this training. We knoAV that it ended in impiety, in filthy and heartless sensuality, in the dissolution of all ties of honor and moral- ity.' W e know that at this very day scrijitural phrases, scrip- tural names, perhaps some scriptural doctrines, excite dis- gust and ridicule, solely because they are associated wdth the austerity of that period. Thus has the experiment of training the people in estab- lished forms of religion been twice tried in England on a large scale, once by Charles and Laud, and once by the Puritans. The High Tories of our time still entertain many of the feelings and opinions of Charles and Laud, tliough in a mitigated form ; nor is it difficult to see that heirs of the Puritans are still amongst us. It Avould be desirable that each of these parties should remember hoAV little advantage or honor it formerly derived from the closest alliance with power, that it fell by the support of rulers, and rose by their opposition, that of the tAvo systems that in AsLich the peo- ple were at any time drilled Avas always at that time the unpopular system, that the training of the High Church ended in the reign of the Puritans, and that the training of the Puritans ended in the reign of the harlots. This was quite natural. Nothing is so galling to a peo- ple not broken in from the birth as a paternal, or, in other words, a meddling goAxrnment, a government Avhich tells them what to read, and say, and eat, and drink and wear. Our fathers could not bear it tAVO hundred years ago ; and we are not more patient than they. Mr. Southey thinks that the yoke of the church is dropping off because it is loose. We feel convinced that it is borne only because it is easy, and that, in the instant in which an attempt is made to tighten it, it will be ffung aAvay. It Avdll be neither the first nor the strongest yoke that has been broken asunf their ancestors. The advice and medicine which the poorest laborer can now obtain, in disease, or after an accident, is far superior to what Henry the Eighth could have commanded. Scarcely any part of the country is out of the reach of practitioners who are probably not so far inferior to Sir Henry Halford as they are superior to Dr. Butts. That there has been a great improvement in this respect, Mr. Southey allows. Indeed he could not well have denied it. “ But,” says he, “ the evils for which these sciences are the palliative, have increased since the time of the Druids, in a proportion that heavily overweighs the benefit of improved thera- peutics.” We know nothing either of the diseases or the remedies of the Druids. But we are quite sure that the improvement of medicine has far more than kept pace with the increase of disease during the last three centuries. This is proved by the best possible evidence. The term of human life is decidedly longer in England than in any former age, respecting which we possess any information on which we can rely. All the rants in the world about j)icturesque cottages and temples of Mammon will not shake this argument. No test of the physical well-being of society can be named so decisive as that which is furnished by bills of mortality. That the lives of the people of this country have been gradually lengthening during the course of several generations, is as certain as any fact in statistics ; and that the lives of men should become longer and longer, while their bodily condition during life is becoming worse and worse, is utterly incredible. Let our readers think over these circumstances. Let them take into the account the sweating sickness and the plague. Let them take into the account that fearful disease which first made its appearance in the generation to w hicli Mr. Southey assigns the palm of felicity, and raged through Europe with a fury at which the physician stood aghast, and before which the people w^ere swept away by myriads. Let them consider the state of the northern counties, constantly the scene of robberies, rapes, massacres, and conflagrations. Let them add to all this the fact that seventy-two thousand i 508 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. persons suffered death by the liands of tlie executioner during the reign of Henry tlie Eightli, and judge between thenine* teenth and the sixteenth century. We do not say that the lower orders in England do not Buffer severe hardships. But, in spite of Mr. Southey’s asser- tions, and in spite of the assertions of a class of politicians, who differing from Mr. Southey in every other point, agree with him in this, we are inclined to doubt whether the la- boring classes here really suffer greater physical distress than the laboring classes of the most flourishing countries of the Continent. It will scarcely be maintained that the lazzaroni who sleep under the porticoes of Naples, or the beggars who besiege the convents of Spain, arc in a happier situation than the English commonalty. The distress which has lately been experienced in the northern part of Germany, one of the best governed and most prosperous regions of Europe, surpasses, if we have been correctly informed, anything which has of late years been known among us. In Norway and Sweden the peasantry are constantly compelled to mix bark with their bread ; and even tliis expedient has not always pre- served whole families and neighborhoods from perishing to- gether of famine. An exj^erimenthas lately been tried in the kingdom of the Netherlands, which has been cited to prove the possibility of establishing agricultural colonies on the waste lands of England, but which proves to our minds noth- ing so clearly as this, that the rate of subsistence to which the laboring classes are reduced in the Netherlands is mis- erably low, and very far inferior to that of the English pau- pers. No distress which the people here have endured for centuries approaches to that which has been felt by the French in our own time. The beginning of the year 1817 was a time of great distress in this island. But the state of the lowest classes here was luxury comiiared with that of fhe people of France. We find in Magendie’s ‘‘Journal de Physiologic Experimentale” a paper on a point of physiology connected with the distress of that season. It appears that the inhabitants of six departments, Aix, Jura, Doubs, Haute Saone, Vosges, and Saone-et-Loire, were reduced first to oat- meal and potatoes, and at last to nettles, bean-stalks, and others kinds of herbage fit only for cattle ; that when the next harvest enabled them to eat barley-bread, many of t hern died from intemperate indulgence in what they tliought an exquisite repast ; and that a dropsy of a peculiar descrip- SOUTHEY S COLLOQUIES. 509 tion was produced by the hard fare of the year. Dead bodies were found on the roads and in the fields. A single surgeon dissected six of these, and found the stomach shrunk, and filled with the unwholesome aliments which hunger had driven men to share with beasts. Such extremity of distress as this is never heard of in England, or even in Ireland. We are, on the whole, inclined to think, though we would speak with diffidence on a point on which it would be rash to pronounce a positive judgment without a much longer and closer investigation than we have bestowed upon it, that the laboring classes of this island, though they have their grievances and distresses, some produced by their own improvidence, some by the errors of their rulers, are on the whole better off as to physical comforts than the inhabitants of any equally extensive district of the old world. For this very reason, suffering is more acutely felt and more loudly bewailed here than elsewhere. We must take into the account the liberty of discussion, and the strong interest which the opponents of a ministry always have to exaggerate the extent of the public disasters. There are countries in which the people quietly endure distress that here would shake the foundations of the state, countries in which the inhabitants of a whole province turn out to eat grass with less clamor than one Spitalfields weaver would make here, if the overseers were to put him on barley-bread. In those new commonwealths in which a civilized population has at its command a boundless extent of the richest soil, the condition of the laborer is probably happier than in any society which has lasted for many centuries. But in the old world we must confess ourselves unable to find any satisfactory record of any great nation, past or present, in which the working classes have been .n a more comfortable situation than in England during the last thirty years. When this island was thinly peopled, it was barbarous : there was little capital ; and that little was insecure. It is now the richest and the most highly civilized spot in the world ; but the population is dense. Thus we have never known that golden age which the lower orders in the United States are now enjoying. We have never known an age of liberty, of order, and of education, an age in which the mechanical sciences were carried to a great height, yet in which the people were not sufficiently numerous to cultivate even the most fertile valleys. But, when we com- pare our own condition with that of our ancestors, we think 510 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wkitings. it clear tliat tlie advantages arising from the progress of civilization have far more than counterbalanced the disad- vantages arising from the progress of j)opulation. While our numbers have increased tenfold, our wealth has increased a hundred-fold. Though there are so many more people to share the wealth now existing in the countrv than there were in the sixteenth century, it seems certain that a greater sliare falls to almost every individual than fell to the share of any of the corresponding class in the sixteenth century. The King keeps a more splendid court. The establishments of the nobles are more magnificent. The esquires are richer ; merchants are richer; the shopkeepers are richer. The servingman, the artisan, and the husbandman, have a more copious and palatable supply of food, better clothing and better furniture. This is no reason for tolerating abuses ; or for neglecting any means of ameliorating the condition of our poorer countrymen. But it is a reason against telling them, as some of our philosophers are constantly telling them, that they are the most wretched people who ever existed on the face of the earth. We have already adverted to Mr. Southey’s amusing doctrine about national wealth. A state, says he, cannot be too rich ; but a people may be too rich. His reason for thinking this is extremely curious. A people may be too rich, because it is the tendency of the commercial, and more especially of the manufacturing system, to collect wealth rather than to diffuse it. Where wealth is necessarily employed in any of the speculations of trade, its increase is in proportion to its amount. Great capitalists become like pikes in a fish-pond, who devour the weaker fish ; and it is but too certain, that the poverty of one part of the people seems to increase in the same ratio as the riches of another. There are examples of tills in history. In Portugal, when the high tide of wealth flowed in from the conquests in Africa and the East, the effect of that great influx was not more visible in the augmented splendor of the court, and the luxury of the higher ranks, than in the distress of the people."* Mr. Southey’s instance is not a very fortunate one. The wealth which did so little for the Portuguese was not the fruit either of manufactures or of commerce carried on by private individuals. It was the wealth, not of the people, but of the government and its creatures, of those who, as Mr. Southey thinks, can never be too rich. The fact is that Mr. Southey’s proposition is opposed to all history, and to the phaenomena which surround us on every side. England is the richest country in Europe, the most commercial coun- try, and the country in which manufactures flourish most. Russia and Poland are the poorest countries in Europe. SOUTHEY S COI.LOQUIES. 511 They have scarcely any trade, and none but the rudest man- ufactures. Is wcaltli more diffused in Russia and Poland than in England ? Tliere are individuals in Russia and Poland whose incomes are ])robably equal to those of our richest countrymen. It may be doubted whether there are not, in those countries, as many fortunes of eighty thousand a year as here. But are there as many fortunes of two thousand a year, or of one thousand a year? Tliere are parishes in England which contain more people of bet\veen three hundred and three thousand pounds a year than could be found in all the dominions of the Emperor Nicholas. The neat and commodious houses which have been built in London and its vicinity, for people of this class, within the last thirty years would of themselves form a city larger than the capitals of some European kingdoms. And this is the state of society in which the great proprietors have devoured a smaller. The cure which Mr. Southey thinks that he has dis- covered is worthy of the sagacity which he has shown in detecting the evil. The calamities arising from the collec- tion of wealth in the hands of a few capitalists are to be remedied by collecting it in the hands of one great capitalist, who has no conceivable motive to use it better than other capitalists, the all-devouring state. It is not strange that differing so widely from Mr. Southey as to the past progress of society, we should differ from him also as to its probable destiny. He thinks, that to all outward appearance, the country is hastening to de- struction ; but he relies firmly on the goodness of God. We do not see either the piety or the rationality of thus confi- dently expecting that the Supreme Being will interfere to disturb the common succession of causes and effects. We, too, rely on his goodness as manifested, not in extraordinary interpositions, but in those general laws which it has pleased him to establish in the physical and in the moral world. We rely on the natural tendency of the human intellect to truth, and on the natural tendency of society to improve- ment. We know no well authenticated instance of a people which has decidedly retrograded in civilization and pros- perity, except from the influence of violent and terrible ca- lamities, such as those which laid the iRoman empire in ruins, or those which, about the beginning of the sixteenth century, desolated Italy. We know of no country which, at the encl of fifty years of peace, and tolerable good government, lias 512 Macaulay’s miscellaneous weitinos, been less prosperous than at tlie beginning of tliat period. TJie political importance of a state may decline, as the bal- ance of power is disturbed by the introduction of new forces. Thus the influence of Holland and of Spam is much dimin- ish«^d. But are Holland and Spain poorer than formerly ? We doubt it. Other countries have outrun them. But we suspect that they have been positively, though not relatively, advancing. We suspect that Holland is richer than when she sent her navies up the Thames, that Spain is richer than when a French king was brought captive to the footstool of Charles the Fifth. History is full of the signs of this natural progress of society. We see in almost every ]>art of the annals of man- kind how the industry of individuals, struggling up against wars, taxes, famines, conflagrations, mischievous prohibit tions, and more mischievous protections, creates faster than governments can squander, and repairs whatever invaders can destroy. We see the wealth of nations increasing, and all the arts of life approaching nearer and nearer to perfec- tion, in spite of the grossest corruj^tion and the wildest pro- fusion on the part of rulers. The ]u’esent moment is one of great distress. But how small will that distress appear when we think over the his- tory of the last forty years ; a war, compared with which all other wars sink into insignificance ; taxation, such as the most heavily taxed people of former times could not have con- ceived ; a debt larger than all the public debts that ever ex- isted m the world added together; the food of the people studiously rendered dear ; the currency imprudently debased, and imprudently restored. Yet is the country poorer than in 1790 ? We firmly believe that, is spite of all the misgovern* ment of her rulers, she has been almost constantly becoming richer and richer. Now and then there has been a stoppage, now and then a short retrogression ; but as to the general tendency there can be no doubt. A single breaker may re- cede ; but the tide is evidently coming in. If we were to prophesy that in the year 1930 a popular tion of fifty millions, better fed, clad, and lodged than the English of our time, will cover these islands, that Sussex and Huntingdonshire will be wealthier than the wealthiest parts of the West Riding of Yorkshire now are, and cultiva- tion, rich as that of a flower-garden, will be carried up to tho very tops of Ben Nevis and Helvellyn, that machines con- structed on principles yet undiscovered will be in every SOUTHEY S COLLOQUIES. 513 house, that there will be no highways but railroads, no travelling but by steam, that our debt, vast as it seems to us, will appear to our great-grandchildren a trifling encum- brance, which might easily be paid off in a year or two, many people would think us insane. We prophesy nothing ; but this we say : If any person had told the Parliament which met in perplexity and terror after the crash in 1720 that in 1830 the wealth of England would surpass all their wildest dreams, that the annual revenue would equal the principal of that debt which they considered as an intolerable burden, that for one man of ten thousand pounds then living there would be five men of fifty thousand pounds, that London would be twice as large and twice as populous, and that nevertheless the rate of mortality would have diminished to one half of what it then was, that the post-ofllce would bring more into the exchequer than the excise and customs had brought in together under Charles the Second, that stage-coaches would run from London to York in twenty-four hours, that men would be in the habit of sailing without wind, and would be beginning to ride without horses, our ancestors would have given as much credit to the prediction as they gave to Gul- liver’s Travels. Yet the prediction would have been true ; and they would have perceived that it was not altogether absurd, if they had considered that the country was then raising every year a sum which would have purchased the fee-simple of the revenue of the Plantagenets, ten times what supported the government of Elizabeth, three times what, in the time of Oliver Cromwell, had been thought in- tolerably oppressive. To almost all men the state of things under which they have been used to live seems to be the necessary state of things. We have heard it said that five per cent, is the natural interest of money, that twelve is the natural number of a jury, that forty shillings is the natural qualification of a country voter. Hence it is that, though in every age everybody knows that up to his own time pro- gressive improvement has been taking place, nobody seems to reckon on any improvement during the next generation. We cannot absolutely prove that those are in error who tell us that society has reached a turning point, that we liave seen our best days. But so said all who came before us, and with just as much apparent reason. “ A million a year will beggar us,” said the patriots of 1640. “ Two millions a year will grind the country to powder,” was the cry in 1660, ‘‘ Six millions a yeai j and a debt of fifty millions ! ” ex- VoL. I.— 33 614 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wniriNOS. claimed Swift ; “ the high allies have been the ruin of us.” “A hundred and forty millions of debt! ” said Junius; “well may we say that we owe Lord Chatham more than we shall ever pay, if we owe him such a load as this.” “ Two hun- dred and forty millions of debt ! ” cried all the statesmen of 1783 in chorus ; “ what abilities, or what economy on the part of a minister, can save a country so burdened? ” We know that if, since 1783, no fresh debt had been incurred, the in- creased resources of the country would have enabled as io? defray that debt at which Pitt, Fox, and Burke stood aghast, nay, to defray it over and over again, and that with mud lighter taxation than what we have actually borne. On what principle is it tnat, when we see nothing but im- provement behind us, w^e are to expect nothing but deteri- oration before us ? It is not by the intermeddling of Mr. Southey’s idol, the omniscient and omnipotent State, but by the prudence and energy of the people, that England has hitherto been carried forward in civilization ; and it is to the same prudence and the same energy that we now look with comfort and good hope. Our rulers will best promote the improvement of the nation by strictly confining themselves to their own legiti- mate duties, by leaving capital to find its most lucrative course, commodities their fair price, industry and intelligence their natural reward, idleness and folly their natural punish- ment, maintaining peace, by defending property, by dimin- ishing the price of law, and by observing strict economy in every department of the state. Let the Government do this : the People will assuredly do the rest. MR. RORERT MONTGOMERY. 615 MR. ROBERT MONTGOMERY.* {Edinburgh Review, April, 1830.) The wise men of antiquity loved to convey instruction under the covering of apologue ; and though this practice is generally thought cJiildish, we shall make no apology for adopting it on the present occasion. A generation which has eleven editions of a poem by Mr. Robert Montgomery may well condescend to listen to a fable of Pilpay. A pious Brahmin, it is written, made a vow that on a certain day lie would sacrifice a sheep, and on the appointed morning he went forth to buy one. There lived in his neighborhood three rogues who knew of his vow, and laid a scheme for profiting by it. The first met him and said, ‘‘ Oh Brahmin, wilt thou buy a sheep ? I have one fit for sac- rifice. ” “ It is for that very purpose,” said the holy man, ‘‘ that I came forth this day.” Then the impostor opened a bag, and brought out of it an unclean beast, an ugly dog, lame and blind. Thereon the Brahmin cried out, “ Wretch, who touchest things impure, and utterest things untrue, callest thou that cur a sheep ? ” “ Truly,” answered the other, “ it is a sheep of the finest fleece, and of the sweetest flesh. Oh Brahmin, it will be an offering most acceptable to the gods. ” “ Friend,” said the Brahmin, “ either thou or I must be blind.” Just then one of the accomplices came up. “ Praised be the gods,” said this second rogue, ‘‘ that I have been saved the trouble of going to the market for a sheep ! This is such a sheep as I wanted. For how much wilt thou sell it ? ” When the Brahmin heard this, his mind waved to and fro, like one swinging in the air at a holy festival. “ Sir,” said he to the new comer, “ take heed what thou dost ; this is no sheep, but an unclean cur.” ‘‘ Oh Brahmin,” said the new comer, ‘‘ thou art drunk or mad ! ” At this time the third confederate drew near. “Lei us ask this man,” said the Brahmin, “ what the creature is, and I will stand by what he shall say.” To this the others * 1. The Omnipresence of the Deity: a Poem. By Robert Montgomery, Eleventh Edition. London ; 1830. 2. Satan: a Poem. By Robert Montgomery. Second Edition. London: 1830. 616 MACATILAT’s MTSCEM.ANEOtrS -n-RlTINQS. 1 agreed ; and the Brahmin called out, “ Oh strangor, wh&t dost thou call this beast?” “Surely, oh Brahmin,” said the knave, “ it is a fine sheep.” Then the Brahmin said, “ Surely the gods have taken away my senses ; ” and he asked pardon of him who carried the dog, and bouglit it for a measure of rice and a pot of ghee, and offered it up to the gods, who, being wroth at this unclean sacrifice, smote L’m with a sore disease in all his joints. Thus, or nearly thus, if we remember rightly, runs the story of the Sanscrit -^sop. The moral, like the moral of every fable that is worth the telling, lies on the surface. The writer evidently means to caution us against the prac- tices of puffers, a class of people who have more than once talked the public into the most absurd errors, but who surely never played a more curious or a more difficult trick than when they passed Mr. Robert Montgomery off upon the world as a great poet. In an age in which there are so few readers that a writer cannot subsist on the sum arising from the sale of his works, no man who has not an independent fortune can devote himself to literary pursuits, unless he is assisted by patron- age. In such an age, accordingly, men of letters too often pass their lives in dangling at the heels of the wealthy and powerful ; and all the faults which dependence tends to pro- duce, pass into their character. They become the parasites and slaves of the great. It is melancholy to think how many of the highest and most exquisitely formed of human intellects have been condemned to the ignominous labor of disposing the commonplaces of adulation in new forms and brightening them into new splendor. Horace invoking Augustus in the most enthusiastic language of religious ven- eration, Statius flattering a tyrant, and the minion of 8 tyrant, for a morsel of bread, Ariosto versifying the whole genealogy of a niggardly patron, Tasso extolling the heroic virtues of the wretched creature who locked him up in a mad-house, these are but a few of the instances which might easily be giveii of the degradation to which those must sub- mit who, not possessing a competent forlmie, are resolved to write when there are scarcely any wffio read. This evil the progress of the human mind tends to re- move. As a taste for books becomes more and more com- mon, the patronage of individuals becomes less and less necessary. In the middle of the last century a marked change took place. The tone of literary men, both in this MR. ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 517 country and in France, became higher and more indepen- dent. Pope boasted that he was the “ one poet ” who had pleased by manly ways ; ” he derided the soft dedications with which Halifax had been fed, asserted his own superior- ity over the pensioned Boileau, and gloried in being not the follower, but the friend, of nobles and princes. The explana- tion of all this is very simple. Pope was the first English- man who, by the mere sale of his writings, realized a sum which enabled him to live in comfort and in perfect inde- pendence. Johnson extols him for the magnanimity which he showed in inscribing his Iliad not to a minister or a peer, but to Congreve. In our time this would scarcely be a sub- ject for praise. Nobody is astonished when Mr. Moore pays a compliment of this kind to Sir Walter Scott, or Sir Wal- ter Scott to Mr. Moore. The idea of either of those gentle- men looking out for some lord who would be likely to give him a few guineas in return for a fulsome dedication seems laughably incongruous. Yet this is exactly what Dryden or Otway would have done ; and it would be hard to blame them for it. Otway is said to have been choked v/ith a piece of bread which he devoured in the rage of hunger ; and, whether this story be true or false, he was beyond all question miserably poor. Dryden, at near seventy, when at the head of the literary men of England, without equal or second, received three hundred pounds for his Fables, a col- lection of ten thousand verses, and of such verses as no man then living, except himself, could have produced. Pope, at thirty, had laid up between six and seven thousand pounds, the fruits of his poetry. It was not, we suspect, because he had a higher spirit or a more scrupulous conscience than his predecessors, but because he had a larger income, that he kept up the dignity of the literary character so much better than they had done. From the time of Pope to the present day the readers have been constantly becoming more and more numerous, and the writers, consequently, more and more independent. It is assuredly a great evil that men, fitted by their talents and acquirements to enlighten and charm the world, should be reduced to the necessity of flattering wicked and foolish patrons in return for the sustenance of life. But, though we heartily rejoice that this evil is removed, we cannot but see with concern that another evil has succeeded to it. The public is now the patron, and a most liberal patron. All that the rich and powerful bestowed on authors from the 518 MACAULAY MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. time of Maecenas to tliat of Harley would not, we appre- hend, make up a sum equal to that which has been ])aid by English booksellers to authors during the last fifty years. Men of letters have accordingly ceased to court individuals, and have begun to court tlib public. They formerly used flattery. They now use puffing. Whether the old or the new vice be the worse, whether those who formerly lavished insincere praise on others, or those who now contrive by every art of beggary and bribery to stun the public with praises of themselves, dis- grace their vocation the more deeply, we shall not attempt to decide. But of this we arc sure, that it is high time to make a stand against the new trickery. The puffing of books is now so shamefully and so successfully carried on that it is the duty of all who are anxious for the purity of the national taste, or for the honor of the literary character, to join in discountenancing the practice. All the pens that ever were employed in magnifying Bish’s lucky office, Romanis’s fleecy hosiery, Packwouod’s razor strops, and Rowland’s Kalydor, all the placard-bearers of Dr. Eady, all the wall-chalkers of Day and Martin, seem to have taken service with the poets and novelists of this generation. De- vices which in the lowest trades are considered as disrepu- table are adopted without scruple, and improved upon with a despicable ingenuity, by people engaged in a pursuit which never was and never will be considered as a mere trade by any man of honor and virtue. A butcher of the higher class disdains to ticket his meat. A mercer of the higher class would be ashamed to hang up papers in his window inviting the passers-by to look at the stock of a bankrupt, all of the first quality, and going for half the value. We expect some reserve, some decent pride, in our hatter and our bootmaker. But no artifice by which no- toriety can be obtained is thought too abject for a man of letters. It is amusing to think over the history of most of the publications which have had a run during the last few years The publisher is often the publisher of some periodical work In this periodical work the first flourish of trumpets it sounded. The peal is then echoed and re-echoed by all th€ other periodical works over which the publisher, or th« author, or the author’s coterie, may have any influence. Th( newspapers are for a fortnight filled with puffs of all th( various kinds which Sheridan enumerated, direct, oblique ME. EGBERT MONTGOMEEY. 519 smd collusive. Sometimes the praise is laid on thick for simple-minded people. Patlietic,” “ sublime,” splendid,” “graceful,” “ brilliant wit,” “exquisite humor,” and other phrases equally flattering, fall, in a shower as thick and as sweet as the sugar-plums at a Roman carnival. Sometimes greater art is used. A sinecure has been offered to the writer if he would suppress his work, or if he would even soften down a few of his incomparable portraits. A dis- tinguished military and political character has challenged th 3 inimitable satirist of the vices of the great; and the puffer is glad to learn that the parties have been bound over to keep the peace. Sometimes it is thought expedient that the puffer should put on a grave face, and utter his pane- gyric in the form of admonition. “ Such attacks on private character cannot be too much condemned. Even the ex- uberant wit of our author, and the irresistible power of his withering sarcasm, are no excuses for that utter disregard which he manifests for the feelings of others. We cannot but wonder that a writey of such transcendent talents, a writer who is evidently no stranger to the kindly charities and sensibilities of our nature, should show so little tender- ness to the foibles of noble and distinguished individuiils, with whom it is clear, from every page of his work, that he must have been constantly mingling in society.” These are but tame and feeble imitations of the paragraphs with which the daily papers are filled whenever an attorney’s clerk or an apothecary’s assistant undertakes to tell the public in bad English and worse French, how people tie their neckcloths and eat their dinners in Grosvenor Square. The editors of the higher and more respectable newspapers usually prefix the words “ Advertisement,” or “ From a CorresjDondent,” to such paragraphs. But this makes little difference. The panegyric is extracted, and the significant heading omitted. The fulsome eulogy makes its appearance on the covers of all the Reviews and Magazines, with “ Times ” or “ Globe ” affixed, though the editors of the Times and the Globe have no more to do with it than with Mr. Goss’s way of making old rakes young again. That people who live by personal slander should practise these arts is not surprising. Those who stoop to write calumnious books may well stoop to puff them ; and that the basest of all trades should be carried on in the basest of all manners is quite proper and as it should be. But how any man who has tho least self-respect, the least regard for 620 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. his own personal dignity, can condescend to persecute the public with this Kag-fair importunity, we do not understand Extreme poverty may, indeed, in some degree, be some ex- cuse for employing these shifts, as it may be an excuse for stealing a leg of mutton. But we really think that a man of spirit and delicacy would quite as soon satisfy his wants in the one way as in the other. It is no excuse for an author that the praises of journal- ists are procured by the money or influence of his publishers, and not by his own. It is his business to take such precautions as to prevent others from doing what must degrade him. It is for his honor as a gentleman, and, if he is really a man of talents, it will eventually be for his honor and interest as a writer, that his works should come before the public recom- mended by their own merits alone, and should be discussed with perfect freedom. If his objects be really such as he may own without shame, he will find that they will, in the long run, be better attended by suffering the voice of criti- cism to be fairly heard. At present, we too often see a writer attempting to obtain literary fame as Shakspeare’s usurper obtains sovereignty. The publisher plays Bucking- ham to the author’s Richard. Some few creatures of the conspiracy are dexterously disposed here and there in the crowd. It is the business of these hirelings to throw up their caps, and clap their hands, and utter their vivas. The rabble at first stare and wonder, and at last join in shouting for shouting’s sake ; and thus a crown is placed on a head which has no right to it, by the huzzas of a few servile de- pendents. The opinion of the great body of the reading public is very materially influenced by the unsupported assertions of those who assume a right to criticize. Nor is the public altogether to blame on this account. Most even of those who have really a great enjoyment in reading are in the same state, with respect to a book, in which a man who has never given particular attention to the art of painting is with respect to a picture. Every man who has the least sensibility or imagination derives a certain pleasure from pictures. Yet a man of the highest and finest intellect might, unless he had formed his taste by contemplating the best pictures, be easily persuaded by a knot of connoisseurs that the w^orst daub in Somerset House was a miracle of art. If he deserves to be laughed at, it is not for his ignorance ol pictures, but for his ignorance of men. He knows that there MR. ROBERT MONTGOAmilY. 521 is a delicacy of taste in painting whicli he does not possess, that he cannot distinguisli liands, as practised judges dis- tinguish them, that he is not familiar with the finest models, that he has never looked at them with close attention, and that, when the general effect of a piece has pleased him or displeased him, he has never troubled himself to ascertain why. When, therefore, people whom he thinks more com- petent judges than himself, and of whose sincerity he enter- tains no doubt, assure him that a particular work is exquis- itely beautiful, he takes it for granted that they must be in the right. He returns to the examination, resolved to find or imagine beauties ; and, if he can work himself up into something like admiration, he exults in his own proficiency. Just such is the manner in which nine readers out of ten judge of a book. They are ashamed to dislike what men who speak as having authority declare to be good. At present, however contemptible a poem or a novel may be, there is not the least difficulty in procuring favorable notices of it from all sorts of publications, daily, weekly, and monthly. In the mean time, little or nothing is said on the other side. The author and the publisher are interested in crying up the book. Nobody has any very strong interest in crying it down. Those who are best fitted to guide the public opinion think it beneath them to expose mere non- sense, and comfort themselves by reflecting that such popu- larity cannot last. This contemptuous lenity has been car- ried too far. It is j>erfectly true that reputations which have been forced into an unnatural bloom fade almost as soon as they have expanded ; nor have we any apprehensions that pufiing will ever raise any scribbler to the rank of a classic. It is indeed amusing to turn over some late volumes ( f periodical works, and to see how many immortal produc- tions have, within a few months, been gathered to the Poems of Blackmore and the novels of Mrs. Behn ; “ how many profound views of human nature,” and “ exquisite delineations of fashionable manners,” and “ vernal, and sunny, and refreshing thoughts,” and “ high imaginings,” and “ young breathings,” and “ embodyings,” and “ pin- ings,” and ‘‘ minglings with the beauty of the universe,” and “ harmonies which dissolve the soul in a passionate sense of loveliness and divinity,” the world has contrived to forget. The names of the books and of the writers are buried in as deep an oblivion as the name of the builder of Stonehenge. Some of the well puffed fashionable novels of eighteen hun* 522 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. dred and twenty-nine liold the pastry of eigliteen hundred and tliirty ; and otliers, which are now extolled in lanp^uage almost too high-flown for the merit of Don Quixote, will, wo have no doubt, line the trunks of eighteen hundred and thirty-one. But, though we have no apprehensions that pufling will ever confer permanent reputation on the unde- serving, we still think its influence most pernicious. Men of real merit will, if they persevere, at last reach the station to which they are entitled, and intruders will be ejected with contempt and derision. But it is no small evil that the avenues to fame should be blocked up by a swarm of noisy, pushing, elbowing pretenders, who, though they will not ultimately be able to make good their own entrance, hin- der, in the mean time, those who have a right to enter. All who wdll not disgrace themselves by joining in the unseemly scuffle must expect to be at first hustled and shouldered back. Some men of talents, accordingly, turn away in de- jection from pursuits in which success appears to bear no proportion to desert. Others employ in self-defence the means by which competitors, far inferior to themselves, ap- pear for a time to obtain a decided advantage. There are few who have suffleient confidence in their own powers and suffleient elevation of mind to wait with secure and contemp- tuous patience, while dunce after dunce presses before them. Those who will not stoop to the baseness of the modern fashion are too often discouraged. Those who stoop to it are always degraded. We have of late observed with great pleasure some symi:)toms which lead us to hope that respectable literary men of all parties are beginning to be impatient of this in- sufferable nuisance. And we propose to do what in us lies for the abating of it. We do not think that we can more usefully assist in this good work than by showing our hon- est countrymen what that sort of poetry is which pufflng can drive through eleven editions, and how easy any bellman might, if a bellman would stoop to the necessary degree of meanness, become a “ master-spirit of the age.” We have no enmity to Mr. Robert Montgomery. We know nothing whatever about him, except what we have learned from his books, and from the portrait prefixed to one of them, in which he appears to be doing his very best to look like a man of genius and sensibility, though with less success than his strenuous exertions deserve. We select him, because his works have received more enthusiastic praise, and have mt. ROfiERT MONTGOMERY. 523 deserved more unmixed contempt, than any which, as far as our knowledge extends, have appeared within the last three or four years. Ills writing bears the same relation to poetry which the Turkey carpet bears to a picture. There are colors in a Turkey carpet ou-t of which a picture might be made. There are words in Mr. Montgomery’s writing, which, when disposed in certain orders and combinations, Iin ve made, and will again make, good poetry. But, as they now stand, they seem to be put together on principle in such a manner as to give no image of anything “ in the heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth.” The poem on the Omnipresence of the Deity commences with a description of the creation, in which we can find only one thought which has the least pretension to ingenuity, and that one thought is stolen from Dryden, and marred in the stealing ; “ Last, softly beautiful as music’s close, Angelic woman into being rose.” The all-pervading influence of the Supreme Being is then described in a few tolerable lines borrowed from Pope, and a great many intolerable lines of Mr Robert Mont- gomery’s own. The following may stand as a siDecimen : “ But who could trace Thine unrestricted course, Though Fancy follow’d with immortal force ? There’s not a blossom fondled by the breeze, There’s not a fruit that beautifies the trees, There’s not a particle in sea or air, But nature owns thy plastic influence there I With fearful gaze, still be it mine to see How all is fill’d and vivified by Thee; Upon thy mirror, earth’s majestic view, To paint Thy Presence, and to feel it too.” The last two lines contain an excellent specimen of Mr. Robert Montgomery’s Turkey-carpet style of writing. The majestic view of earth is the mirror of God’s presence ; and on this mirror Mr. Robert Montgomery paints God’s pres- ence. The use of a mirror, we submit, is not to be painted upon. A few more lines, as bad as those which we have quoted, bring us to one of the most amusing instances of literary pilfering which we remember. It might be of use to pla- giarists to know, as a general rule, that what they steal is, to employ a phrase common in advertisements, of no use to any but the right owner. We never fell in, however, with 524 MACAULAY S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. any blunderer who so little understood how to turn his booty to good account as Mr. Montgomery. Lord Byron, in a passage which everybody knows by heart, has said, address- ing the sea, “ Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow.** Mr. Robert Montgomery very coolly appropriates the image and reproduces the stolen goods in the following form : “ And thou, vast Ocean, on whose awful face Time’s iron feet can print no ruin-trace.” So may such ill got gains ever prosper ! The effect which the Ocean produces on Atheists is then described in the following lofty lines : “ Oh ! never did the dark-soul’ d Atheist stand, And watch the breakers boiling on the strand, And, while Creation stagger’d at his nod. Mock the dread presence of the mighty God I We hear Him in the wind-heaved ocean’s roar, Hurling her billowy crags upon the shore ; We hear Him in the riot of the blast, And shake, 's^hile rush the raving whirlwinds past ! ** If Mr. Robert Montgomery’s genius were not far too free and aspiring to be shackled by the rules of syntax, we should suppose that it is at the nod of the Atheist that creation staggers. But Mr. Robert Montgomery’s readers must take such grammar as they can get, and be thankful. A few more lines bring us to another instance of unprofit- able theft. Sir Walter Scott has these lines in the Lord of the Isles : “ The dew that on the violet lies Mocks the dark.lustre of thine eyes.** This is pretty, taken separately, and, as is always the case with the good things of good writers, much prettier in its place than can even be conceived by those who sec it only detached from the context. Now for Mr. Montgomery : “ And the bright dew-bead on the bramble lies. Like liquid rapture upon beauty’s eyes.” The comparison of a violet, bright with the dew, to a woman’s eyes, is as perfect as a comparison can be. Sir Walter’s lines are part of a song addressed to a woman at daybreak, when the violets are bathed in dew ; and the com- parison is therefore peculiarly natural and graceful. Dew on a bramble is no more like a woman’s eyes than dew any- where else. There is a very pretty Eastern tale of wnlch the fate of plagiarists often reminds us. The slave of a MR. RORRRT MOl^TGOMERi?'. 625 magician saw his master wave liis wand, and heard him give orders to the spirits who arose at the summons. The slave stole the wand, and waved it himself in the air ; but he had not observed that his master used the left hand for that purpose. The spirits thus irregularly summoned tore the thief to pieces instead of obeying his orders. There are very few who can safely venture to conjure with the rod of Sir Walter: and Mr. Robert Montgomery is not one of them. Mr. Campbell, in one of his most pleasing pieces, has this line, “The sentinel stars set their watch in the sky.** The thought is good, and has a very striking propriety where Mr. Campbell has placed it, in the mouth of a soldier telling his dream. But, though Shakspeare assures us that “ every true man’s apparel fits your thief,” it is by no means the case, as we have already seen, that every true poet’s similitude fits your plagiarist. Let us see how Mr. Robert Montgomery uses the image : “ Ye quenchless stars ! so eloquently bright, Untroubled sentries of the shadowy night, While half the world is lapp’d in downy dreams, And round the lattice creep your midnight beams, How sweet to gaze upon your placid eyes. In lambent beauty looking from the skies.’* Certainly the ideas of eloquence, of untroubled repose, of placid eyes, on the lambent beauty of which it is sweet to gaze, harmonize admirably with the idea of a sentry. We would not be understood, however, to say, that Mr. Robert Montgomery cannot make similitudes for himself. A very few lines further on, we find one which has every mark of originality, and on which, we will be bound, none of the poets whom he has ^dundered will ever think of making reprisals : “ The soul, aspiring, pants its source to mount. As streams meander level with their fount.’’ We take this to be, on the whole, the worst similitude in the world. In the first place, no stream meanders, or can possibly meander, level with its fount. In the next place, if streams did meander level with their founts, nc two motions can be less like each other than that of meander^ ing level and that of mounting upwards. We have than an apostrophe to the Deity, couched m terms which, in any writer who dealt in meanings, w® 526 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. should call profane, but to which we suppose Mr. Robert Montgomery attaches no idea whatever. “ Yes ! pause and tliink, \vithin one fleeting hour, How vast a universe obeys Thy power ; Unseen, but felt, Thine interfused control Works in each atom, and pervades the whole ; Expands the blossom, and erects the tree, Conducts such vapor, and commands each sea, Beams in each ray, bids whirlwinds be unfurl’d. Unrolls the thunder, and upheaves a world ! ” No field-preacher surely ever carried his irreverent famil- iarity so far as to bid the Supreme Being stop and think on the importance of the interests which are under his care. The grotesque indecency of such an address throws into shade the subordinate absurdities of the passage, the un- furling of whirlwinds, the unrolling of thunder, and the upheaving of worlds. Then comes a curious specimen of our poet’s English : — “ Yet not alone created realms engage Thy faultless wisdom, grand, primeval sage ! For all the thronging woes to life allied Thy mercy tempers, and Thy cares provide.” We should be glad to know what the word For ” means here. If it is a preposition, it makes nonsense of the words, “ Thy mercy tempers.” If it is an adverb, it makes non- sense of the words, “ Thy cares provide.” These beauties we have taken, almost at random, from the first part of the poem. The second part is a series of de- scriptions of various events, a battle, a murder, an execu- tion, a marriage, a funeral, and so forth. Mr. Robert Montgomery terminates each of these descriptions by as- suring us that the Deity was present at the battle, murder, execution, marriage, or funeral in question. And this prop- osition, which might be safely predicated of every event that ever happened or ever will happen, forms the only link which connects these descriptions with the subject or with each other. How the descriptions are executed our readers are prob- ably by this time able to conjecture. The battle is made up of the battles of all ages and nations : “ red-mouthed cannons, uproaring to the clouds,” and ‘‘hands grasping firm the glittering shield.” The only military operations of which this part of the poem reminds us, are those which reduced the Abbey of Quedlinburgh to submission, the Templar with his cross, the Austrian and Prussian grem MR. ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 527 adiers in full uniform, and Curtius and Dentatus wkh their battering-ram. We ought not to pass unnoticed the slain war-horse, who wnll no more “ Roll his red eye, and rally for the fight ; ** or the slain w^arrior who, while “ lying on his bleeding breast,” contrives to ‘‘stare ghastly and grimly cn the skies.” As to this last exploit, we can only say, as Dante did on a similar occasion, “ Forse per forza gia di’ parlasia Si stravolse cosi alcun del tiitto : Ma io nol vidi, nc credo che sia.” The tempest is thus described : “ Blit lo ! around the marsh’lling clouds unite, Like thick battalions halting for the fight ; Tlie sun sinks back, the tempest spirits sweep Fierce through the air, and flutter on the deep. Till from tlieir caverns rush the maniac masts, Tear the loose sails, and split the creaking masts. And the lash’d billows, rolling in a train. Rear their white heads, and race along the main ! *' What, we should like to know, is the difference between the tw^o operations which Mr. Robert Montgomery so ac- curately distinguishes from each other, the fierce sweeping of the tempest-spirits through the air, and the rushing of the maniac blasts from their caverns ? And why does the former operation end exactly when the latter commences ? We cannot stop over each of Mr. Robert Montgomery’s descriptions. We have a shipwrecked sailor, who “visions a viewdess temple in the air ; ” a murderer who stands on a heath, “ wdth ashy lips, in cold convulsion spread ; ” a pious man, to whom, as he lies in bed at night, “ The panorama of past life appears. Warms his pure mind, and melts it into tears ; a traveller, who loses his way, owing to the thickness of the “cloud-battalion,” and the want of “ heaven-lamps^ lo beam their holy light.” We have a description of a con- victed felon, stolen from that incomparable passage in Crabbe’s Borough, which has made many a rough and cynical reader cry like a child. We can, however, con- scientiously declare that persons of the most excitable sensibility may safely venture upon Mr. Robert Mont- gomery’s version. Then we have the “ poor, mindless, pale- faced maniac boy,” who ‘Rolls bis vacant eye, To greet the globing iaucieg of the sky,'* 1)28 macaulay’b miscellaneous writings* What are the glowing fancies of the sky ? And what is the meaning of the two lines which almost immediately follow ? “ A soulless thing, a spirit of the woods, He loves to commune with the fields and floods.** How can a soulless thing be a spirit? Then comes a pane- gyric on the Sunday. A baptism follows; after that a marriage : and we then proceed, in due course, to the visit> tion of the sick, and tlie burial of the dead. Often as Deatli has been personified, Mr. Montgcmery has found something new to say about him. ' “ O death ! though dreadless vanquisher of earth, The Elements shrank blasted at thy birth ! Careering round the world like tempest wind, Martyrs before, and victims strew’d behind ; Ages on ages cannot grapple thee. Dragging the world into eternity ! ’* [f there be any one line in this passage about which we are more in the dark than about the rest, it is the fourth. What the difference may be between the victims and the martyrs. And why the martyrs are to lie before Death, and the victims behind him, are to us great mysteries. We now came to the third part, of which we may say with honest Cassio, “ Why, this is a more excellent song than the other.” Mr. Robert Montgomery is very severe on the infidels, and undertakes to prove, that, as he elegantly expresses it, “ One great Enchanter helm’d the harmonious whole.** What an enchanter has to do with helming, or what a helm has to do with harmony, he does not explain. He proceeds with his argument thus : “ And dare men dream that dismal Chance has framed All that the eye perceives, or tongue has named ; The spacious world, and all its wonders, bom Designless, self-created, and forlorn ; Like to the flashing bubbles on a stream. Fire from the cloud, or phantom in a dream ? ** We should be sorry to stake our faith in a higher Power on Mr. Robert Montgomery’s logic. He informs us that light- ning is designless and self-created. If he can believe this, we cannot conceive why he may not believe that the whole universe is designless and self-created. A few lines before, he tells us that it is the Deity who bids “ thunder rattle from the skiey deep.” Ilis theory is therefore this, that God made the thunder, but that the lightning made itself. MU. ROBEUT MONTGOMERY. 529 But Mr. Robert Montgomery’s metaphysics are not at present our game. He proceeds to set forth the fearful effects of Atheism. “ Then, blood-stain’d Murder, bare thy hideous arm, And thou, Rebellion, welter in thy storm; Awake, ye spirits of avenging crime ; Burst from your bonds, and battle with the time ! " Mr. Robert^ Montgomery is fond of personification, and belongs, we need not say, to that school of poets who hold that nothing more is necessary to a personification in poetry than to begin a word with a capital letter. Mur- der may, without impropriety, bare her arm, as she did long ago, in Mr. Campbell’s Pleasures of Hope. But what pos- sible motive Rebellion can have for weltering in her storm, what avenging crime may be, who its spirits may be, why they should burst from their bonds, what their bonds may be, why tliey should battle with the time, what the time may be, and what a battle between the time and the spirits of avenging crime would resemble, we must confess our- selves quite unable to understand. “ And here let Memory turn her tearful glance On the dark horrors of tumultuous France, * When blood and blasphemy defiled her land, And fierce Rebellion shook her savage hand.’' Whether Rebellion shakes her own hand, shakes the hand of Memory, or shakes the hand of France, or what any one of these three metaphors would mean, we know no more than we know what is the sense of the following passage : ** Let the foul orgies of infuriate crime Picture the raging havoc of that time, When leagued Rebellion march’d to kindle man. Fright in her rear, and Murder in her van. And thou, sweet flower of Austria, slaughter’d Queen, Who dropp’d no tear upon the dreadful scene. When gush’d the life-blood from thine angel form, And martyr’d beauty perish’d in the storm, Once worshipp’d paragon of all who saw, Thy look obedience, and thy smile a law.” What is the distinction between the foul orgies and tio raging havoc which the foul orgies are to picture ? Why does Fright go behind Rebellion, and Murder before? Why should not Murder fall behind Fright? Or why should not ail the three walk abreast? We have read of a hero who bad ** Amazement in his van, with flight combined. And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind#*' VoL. I,— 34 530 Macaulay's miscellaneous whitings. Gray, we suspect, could have given a reason for dispos- ing the allegorical attendants of Edward thus. But to })roceed, “Flower of Austria” is stolen from Byron* “ Drop})’d ” is false English. “ Perisli’d in the storm ” means nothing at all ; and “ thy look obedience ” means the very reverse of A\diat Mr. Kobert Montgomery intends to say. Our poet then })roceeds to demonstrate the immortality of the soul: • “ And shall the soul, the fount of reason, die, When dust and darkness round its temple lie ? Did God breathe in it no ethereal fire, Dimless and quenchless, though the breath expire ? ’* The soul is a fountain ; and therefore it is not to die, though dust and darkness lie round its temple, because an ethereal fire has been breathed into it, which cannot be quenched though its breath expire. Is it the fountain, or the temple, that breathes, and has fire breathed into it? Mr. Montgomery apostrophizes the “ Immortal beacons, — spirits of the just,** — and describes their employments in another world, which are to be, it seems, bathing in light, hearing fiery streams fld^v, and riding on living cars of lightning. The deathbed of the skeptic is described with what we suppose is meant for energy. We then have the deathbed of a Christian made as ridiculous as false imagery and false English can make it. But this is not enough. The day of Judgment is to be described, and a roaring cataract of nonsense is poured forth upon this tremendous subject. Earth, we are tcld, is flashed into Eternity. Furnace blazes wheel round the ho- rizon, and burst into bright wizard phantoms. Racing hur- ricanes enroll and whirl quivering fire-clouds. The white weaves gallop. Shadowy worlds career around. The red and raging eye of Imagination is then forbidden to pry further. But further Mr. Robert Montgomery persists in prying. The stars bound through the airy roar. The unbosomed deep yawns on the ruin. The billows of Eter- nity then begin to advance. The world glares in fiery slum- ber. A cUr comes forward driven by living thunder. “ Creation shudders with sublime dismay. And in a blazing tempest whirls away.** And this is fine poetry ! This is what ranks its writer with the master-spirits of the age ! This is what has been described, over and over again, in terms which would rev MR. ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 581 quire some qualification if used respecting Paradise Lost ! It is too much that this patchwork, made by stitching to- gether old odds and ends of Avhat, when new", was but taw- dry frippery, is to be picked off the dunghill on which it ought to rot, and to be held up to admiration as an inesti- mable specimen of art. And what must wc think of a sys- tem by means of which verses like those which we have quoted, verses fit only for the poet’s corner of the Morning Post, can produce emolument and fame ? The circulation of this writer’s poetry has been greater than that of South- ey’s Roderick, and beyond all comparison greater than that of Cary’s Dante or of the best works of Coleridge. Thus encouraged Mr. Robert Montgomery has favored the pub- lic with volume after volume. We have given so much space to the examination of his first and most popular per- formance that we have none to spare for his Universa* Prayer, and his smaller poems, which, as the puffing journals tell us, would alone constitute a sufficient title to literary immortality. We shall pass at once to his last publication, entitled Satan. This poem was ushered into the wmrld with the usual roar of acclamation. But the thing was now past a joke. Pretensions so unfounded, so impudent, and so successful, had aroused a spirit of resistance. In several magazines and reviews, accordingly, Satan has been handled somewhat roughly, and the arts of the puffers have been exposed with good sense and spirit. We shall, therefore, be very concise. Of the two poems we rather prefer that on the Omni- presence of the Deity, for the same reason which induced Sir Thomas More to rank one bad book above another. Marry, this is somewhat. This is rhyme. But the other is neither rhyme nor reason.” Satan is a long soliloquy, which the Devil pronounces in five or six thousand lines of bad blank verse, concerning geography, politics, newspa- pers, fashionable society, theatrical amusements. Sir Walter Scott’s novels. Lord Byron’s poetry, and Mr. Martin’s pic- tures. The new designs for Milton have, as was natural, particularly attracted the attention of a personage who oc- cupies so conspicuous a place in them. Mr. Martin must be pleased to learn that, whatever may be thought of those performances on earth, they give full satisfaction in Pan- dasmonium, and that he is there thought to have hit off the likenesses of the various Thrones and Dominations very haj)pily. 1 632 Macaulay’s miscellaneous ^vElTlNGS. The motto to the poem of Satan is taken from the Bool; of Job: “Whence comest thou? From going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it.” And cer- tainly Mr. Robert Montgomery has not failed to make liis hero go to and fro, and walk up and down. With the ex- ception, however, of this propensity to locomotion, Satan lias not one Satanic quality. Mad Tom had told us that “ the prince of darkness is a gentleman ; ” but we had yet ii learn that he is a respectable and pious gentleman, whose principal fault is that he is something of a twaddle and far too liberal of his good advice. That happy change in his character which Origen anticipated, and of which Tillotson did not despair, seems to be rapidly taking place. Bad habits are not eradicated in a moment. It is not strange, therefore, that so old an offender should now and then re- lapse for a short time into wrong dispositions. But to give him his due, as the proverb recommends, we must say that he always returns, after two or three lines of impiety, to his preaching style. We would seriously advise Mr. Mont- gomery to omit or alter about a hundred lines in different })arts of this large volume, and to republish it under the name of “ Gabriel.” The reflections of which it consists would come less absurdly, as far as there is a more and a less ill extreme absurdity, from a good than from a bad angel. We can afford room only for a single quotation. We give one taken at random, neither worse nor better, as far as we can perceive, than any other equal number of lines in the book. The Devil goes to the play, and moralizes there- on as follows : “ Music and Pomp their mingling spirits shed Around me ; beauties in their cloud-like robes Shine forth, — a scenic paradise, it glares Intoxication through the reeling sense Of flush’d enjoyment. In the motley host Three prime gradations may be rank’d : the first, To mount upon the wings of Shakspeare’s mind, And win a flash of his Promethean thought, — To smile and weep, to shudder, and achieve A round of passionate omnipotence, Attend : the second are a sensual tribe. Convened to hear romantic harlots sing, On forms to banquet a lascivious gaze. While tlie bright perfidy of wanton eyes Through brain and spirit darts delicious fire : The last, a throng most pitiful ! who seem, With their corroded figures, rayless glance, And death-like struggle of decaying age, BADLiik^S LAW OB' 1*0I*ULATI0X, 533 Like painted skeletons in charnel pomp Set forth to satirize the human kind 1 — How fine a prospect for demoniac view I * Creatures whose souls outbalance worlds awake! • Methinks I hear a pitying angel cry.’* Here we conclude. If our remarks give pain to Mr. Ilobert Montgomery, we arc sorry for it. But, at whatever cost of pain to individuals, literature must be purified from this taint. And, to show that we are not actuated by any feelings of personal enmity towards him, we hereby give notice that, as soon as any book shall, by means of puffing, reach a second edition, our intention is to do unto the writer of it as we have done unto Mr. Robert Montgomery. SADLER’S LAW OF POPULATION ♦ {Edinburgh Review ^ July, 1830.) j We did not expect a good book from Mr. Sadler: and it is well that we did not ; for he has given us a very bad one. The matter of his treatise is extraordinary; the man- ner more extraordinary still. His arrangement is confused, his repetitions endless, his style everything which it ought not to be. Instead of saying what he has t j say with the perspicuity, the precision, and the simpl’ iiy in which con- sists the eloquence proper to scient fic writing, he indulges without measure in vague, bombastic declamation, made up of those fine things which boys of fifteen admire, and which everybody, who is not destined o be a 1 oy all his life, weeds vigorously out of his composiiions afier five-and-twenty. That portion of his two thick volumes vhich is not made up of statistical tables, consists principally of jaculations, apostrophes, metaphors, similes, — all the worst of their re- spective kinds. His thoughts are Lressed up in this shabby finery with so much profusion and \o little discrimination, that they remind us of a company *f wretched strolling players, who have huddled on suits of ragged and faded tinsel, taken from a common wardrobe, and fitting neither their persons nor their parts : and who then exhibit them- ♦ The Law of Population: a Treatise in Six Books, in Disproof of the Super- : ^cundity of Human Bemgs, and developing the real Principle of their Increasti By Miohakl Thomas Sadl.i:r, M. P. 2 voIb. 8vo. Loudon ; 1830. {^34 Macaulay’s mtscellankous writings, selves to the laughing and pitying spectators, in a state of strutting, ranting, painted, gilded beggary. “ 01), rare Daniels ! ” ‘‘ Political economist, go and do thou likewise !” “Population, if not j)roscribed and worried down by the Cerberean dogs of this wretched and cruel system, really does press against the level of the means of subsistence, and still elevating that level, it continues thus to urge society thiough advancing stages, till at length the strong and re- sistless hand of necessity presses the secret spring of human prosperity, and the portals of Providence fly open, and dis- close to the enraptured gaze the promised land of contented and rewarded labor.” These are specimens, taken at ran- dom, of Mr. Sadler’s eloquence. We could easily multiply them ; but our readers, we fear, are already inclined to cry for mercy. Much blank verse and much rhyme is also senttered through these volumes, sometimes rightly quoted, sometimes wrongly, — sometimes good, sometimes insufferable, — some- times taken from Shakspeare, and sometimes, for aught we know, Mr. Sadler’s own. “Let man,” cries the philosopher, “ take heed how he rashly violates his trust ; ” and there- upon he breaks forth into singing as follows : “ What myriads wait in destiny’s dark womb, Doubtful of life or an eternal tomb ! ’Tis his to blot them from the book of fate, Or, like a second Deity, create ; To dry the stream of being in its source, Or bid it, widening, win its restless course; While, eartli and heaven replenishing, the flood Rolls to its Ocean fount, and rests in God.” If these lines are not Mr. Sadler’s we heartily beg his pardon for our suspicion — a suspicion which, we acknowl- edge, ought not to be liglitly entertained of any human being. We can only say that we never met with them be- fore, and that we do not much care how long it may be be- fore we meet with them, or with any others like them, again. The spirit of this work is as bad as its style. We never met with a book which so strongly indicated that the writer was in a good humor wdth himself, and in a bad humor with everybody else ; which contained so much of that kind of reproach which is vulgarly said to be no slander, and of that kind of praise which is vulgarly said to be no com- mendation. Mr. Malthus is attacked in language w^hich it w^ould be scarcely dec.ent to employ respecting Titus Oates. “ Atrocious,” “ execrable,” “ blasphemous,” and sadlkb’s law of population. 535 other epithets of the same kind, are poured forth against that able, excellent, and honorable man, with a profusion which in the early part of the work excites indignation, but, after the first hundred pages, produces mere weariness and nausea. In the preface, Mr. Sadler excuses himself on the plea of haste. Two-thirds of his book, he tells us, were written in a few months. If any terms have escaped liim which can be construed into personal disrespect, he shall i deeply regret that he had not more time to revise them. ’ We must inform him that the tone of his book required a I very different apology ; and that a quarter of a year, though it is a short time for a man to be engaged in writing a book, is a very long time for a man to be in a passion. The imputation of being in a passion Mr. Sadler will not disclaim. His is a theme, he tells us, on which ‘‘ it were impious to be calm ; ” and he boasts that, instead of con- forming to the candor of the present age, he has imitated the honesty of preceding ones, in expressing himself with the utmost plainness and freedom throughout.” If Mr. Sadler really wishes that the controversy about his new principle of population should be carried on with all the license of the seventeenth century, we can have no personal objections. We are quite as little afraid of a content in which quarter shall be neither given nor taken as he can be. But we would advise him seriously to consider, before he publishes the promised continuation of his work, whether he be not one of that class of writers who stand peculiarly in need of the candor which he insults, and who would have most to fear from that unsparing severity which he practises and recommends. There is only one excuse for the extreme acrimony with which this book is written ; and that excuse is but a bad one. Mr. Sadler imagines that the theory of Mr. Malthus is inconsistent with Christianity, and even with the purer forms of Deism. Now, even had this been the case, a gn^ater degree of mildness and self-command than Mr. Sadler has shown would have been becoming in a writer who had undertaken to defend the religion of charity. But, in fact, the imputation which has been thrown on Mr. Malthus and his follo^vers is so absurd as scarcely to deserve an answer. As it appears, however, in almost every page of Mr. Sadler’s book, we will say a few words respecting it. Mr. Sadler describes Mr. Malthus’s principle in the fot lowing words 5S6 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. “It pronounces that there exists an evil in the principle of population ; an evil, not accidental, but inherent ; not of occasional occurrence, but in perpetual operation ; not light, transient, or mitigated, but productive oI miseries, compared with wluch all those inflicted by human institutions, that is to say, by the weakness and wickedness of man, however instigated, ' are ‘ light: ’ an evil, finally, for which there is no remedy save one, which had been long overlooked, and which is now enunicated in terms which evince anything rather than confidence. It is a principle, moreover, pre-eminently boid, as well as ‘ clear.’ With a presumption, to call it by no fitter name, of which it may be doubted whether literature, heathen or Christian, fur- nigbes a parallel, it professes to trace thi supposed evil to its source, ‘the laws of nature, which are those of God ’ thereby implying, and indeed as- serting, that the law by which the Deity multiplies his offspring, and that by which he makes provision for their sustentation, are different, and, indeed, irreconcilable.” “ This theory,” he adds, “ in the plain apprehension of the many, lowers the character of the Deity in that attri- bute, which, as Rousseau has well observed, is the most essential to him, his goodness ; or otherwise, impugns his wisdom.” Now nothing is more certain than that there is physical and moral evil in the world. Whoever, th rofore, believes, as we do most firmly believe, in the goodn ss of God, must believe that there is no * icompatibility etween the good- ness of God and he existence of physical and moral evil. If, then, the goodness f ijfod ' e not incompaf'ble with the existence of physical and moral evil, n hat orrounds does Mr. Sadler maintain that the *^oodness of God incompat- ible with "he aw of population laid d wn y ' Ir. Mai thus ? Is there my difference etween he articular form of evil w^hich ^ould de produced by over-population, and other forms of evil which we know to exist * ' the world ? It is, says Mr. Sadler, i ot a light • ransient evil, but a great and permanent evil. What then ? '^he question of the origin of evil is a question of ly r no, — not a question of more or less. If any explanation can be found by which the slightest inconvenience ver sustained by any sentient being can be reconciled with the divine attribute of benevo- lence, that explanation will equally apply to the most dread- ful and extensive calamities hat can ever afflict the human race. The difficulty arises from an apparent contradiction in terms ; and that difficulty is as complete in the case of a headache which lasts for an hour as in the case of a pestilence which unpeoples an empire, — in the case of the gust which makes us shiver for a moment as in the case of the hurricane in which an Armada is cast away. It is, according to Mr. Sadler^ an instance of presump SADLER S LAW OP POPULATION. 537 tion unparalleled in literature, heathen or Christian, to trace an evil to “ the laws of nature, which are those of God,” as its source. Is not hydrophobia an evil ? And is it not a law of nature that hydrophobia should be communicated by the bite of a mad dog ? Is not malaria an evil ? And is it not a law of nature that in particular situations the human frame should be liable to malaria ? And is it not a law of nature that in particular situations the human frame should be liable to malaria? We know that there is evil in the world. If it is not to be traced to the laws of nature, how did it come into the world ? Is it supernatural ? And, if we suppose it to be supernatural, is not the difficulty of reconciling it with the divine attributes as great as if we sup- pose it to be natural ? Or, rather, what do the words natural and supernatural mean when applied to the operations of the Supreme Mind ? Mr. Sadler has attempted, in another part of his work, to meet these obvious arguments, by a distinction without a difference. “The scourges of human existence, as necessary regulators of the num- bers of mankind, it is also agreed by some, are not inconsistent with the wisdom or benevolence of the Governor of the universe ; though such think that it is a mere after-concern to ‘ reconcile the undeniable state of the fact to the attributes we assign to the Deity.* ‘ The purpose of the earthquake,* say tliey, ‘ the hurricane, the drought, or the famine, by which thousands, and sometimes almost millions, of the human race, are at once overwhelmed, or left the victims of lingering want, is certainly inscrutable.* How singular is it that a sophism like this, so false, as a mere illustration, should pass for an argument, as it has long done ! The principle of population is declared to be naturally productive of evils to mankind, and as having that constant and manifest tendency to increase their numbers beyond the means of their subsistence, which has produced the unhappy and disgusting conse- quences so often enumerated. This is, then, its universal tendency or rule. But is there in Nature tlie same constant tendency to these earthquakes, hurricanes, droughts, and famines, by which so many myriads, if not mil- lions, are overwhelmed or reduced at once to ruin? No; these awful events are strange exceptions to the ordinary course of things ; their visita- sions are partial, and they occur at distant intervals of time. While Religion has assigned to them a very solemn office, Philosophy readily refers them to those great and benevolent principles of Nature by which the universe is regulated. But were there a constantly operating tendency to these calam- itous occurrences ; did we feel the earth beneath us tremulous, and giving ceaseless and certain tokens of the coming catastrophe of nature ; were the hurricane heard mustering its devastating powers, and perpetually mutter- ing around us ; were the skies ‘ like brass,* without a cloud to produce one genial drop to refresh the thirsty earth, and famine, consequently, visibly on the approach ; I say, would such a state of things, as resulting from the constant laws of Nature, be ‘ reconcilable with the attributes we assign to the Deity,’ or with any attributes which in these inventive days could be assigned to him, so as to represent him as anything but the tormentor, rather than the kind benefactor, of his creatures ? Life, in such a condition, would be like the unceasingly threatened and miserable existence of Damocles at the table of Dionysius, and the tyrant himself the worthy image of the anti- populationists.** 638 MACAULAY S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 1 Surely tliis is wretched trifling. Is it on the number of bad liarvests, or of volcanic eruptions, that this great question iety, it seems, would be proof against one rainy summer, but would be overcome by three or four in succession. On the coasts of the Mediter- ranean, where earthquakes are rare, he would be an optim- ist. South America would make him a skeptic, and Java a decided Manichean. To say that religion assigns a solemn office to these visitations is nothing to the purpose. Why was man so constituted as co need such warnings ? It is equally unmeaning to say that philosophy refers these events to benevolent general laws of nature. In so far as the laws of nature produce evil, they are clearly not benevolent. They may produce much good. But why is this good mixed with evil? The most subtle and powerful intellects have been laboring for centuries to solve these difficulties. The true solution, we are inclined to think, is that which has been rather suggested, than developed, by Paley and Butler, But there is not one solution which will not apply quite as well to the evils of over-population as to any other evil. Many excellent people think that it is presumptuous to meddle with such high questions at all, and that, though there doubtless is an explanation, our faculties^ are not suf- ficiently enlarged to comprehend that explanation. This mode of getting rid of the difficulty, again, will apply quite as well to the evils of over-population as to any other evils. We are sure that those who humbly confess their inability to expound the great enigma act more rationally and more decorously than Mr. Sadler, v/ho tells us, with the utmost confidence, which are the meaniS and which the ends, — which the exceptions and which the rules, in the government of the universe ; — who consents to bear a little evil without denying the divine benevolence, but distinctly announces that a certain quantity of dry weather or stormy weather would force him to regard the Deity as the tyrant of bis creatures. The great discovery by which Mr. Sadler has, as he con- ceives, vindicated the ways of Providence is enounced with all the pomp of capital letters. We must particularly beg that our readers will peruse it with attention. “ No one fact relative to the human species is more clearly ascertained, whether by general observation or actual proof, than that their fecundity varies in different communities nnd countries. The principle which effects this variation, without the necessity of these cruel and unnatural expedients SADLKr’s law of rorULATION. 539 •o frequently adverted to, constitutes what I presume to call Thk Law of Population ; and that law may be tlius briefly enunciated : — “The Prolificness of human beings, otherwise similarly cir- cumstanced, VARIES inversely AS THEIR NUMBERS. “ The preceding? definition may be thus amplified and explained. Pre- mising, as a mere truism, that marriages under precisely similar circum- stances will, on tlie average, be equally fruitful everywhere, I proceed to state, first, that the prolificness of a given number of marriages will, all oilier circumstances being the same, vary in proportion to the condensation of the population, so that that prolificness shall be greatest where the num- bers on an equal space are Hie fewest, and, on the contrary, the smallest where those numbers are the largest.” Mr. Sadler, at setting out, abuses Mr. Maltbus for enouncing liis theory in terms taken from the exact sci- ences. “ Applied to the mensuration of human fecundity,” he tells us, ‘‘ the most fallacious of all things is geometrical demonstration ; ” and he again informs us that those act an irrational and irreverent part who affect to measure the mighty depth of God’s mercies by their arithmetic, and to demonstrate, by their geometrical ratios, that it is inade- quate to receive and contain the efflux of that fountain of life which is in Him.” It appears, however, that it is not to the use of mathe- matical words, but only to the use of those words in their right senses that Mr. Sadler objects. The law of inverse variation, or inverse proportion, is as much a part of mathe- matical science as the law of geometric progression. The only difference in this respect between Mr. Malthus and Mr. Sadler is, that Mr. Malthus knows what is meant by geo- metric progression, and that Mr. Sadler has not the faintest notion of what is meant by inverse variation. Had he understood the proposition which he has enounced with so much pomp, its ludicrous absurdity must at once have flashed on his mind. Let it be supposed that there is a tract in the back set- tlements of America, or in New South Wales, equal in size (o London, with only a single couple, a man and his wife, living upon it. The population of London, with its imme- diate suburbs, is now probably about a million and a half. The average fecundity of a marriage in London is, as Mr. Sadler tells us, 2*35. How many children will tlie women in the back settlements bear according to Mr. Sadler’s theory ? The solution of the problem is easy. As the popu- lation in this tract in the back settlements is to the popula- tion of London, so will be the number of children born from a marriage in London to the number of children born from 540 MACAULAY S MISCKLLANEOUB WRITINGS. the marriage of this couple in the back RcttlementB. That is to say — 2: 1,500,000: : 2-35 : 1,762,500. The lady will have 1,762,500 children : a large “ efflux oi the fountain of life,” to borrow Mr. Sadler’s sonorous rhet- oric, as the most philoprogenitive parent could possibly desire. But let us, instead of putting cases of our own, look at some of those which Mr. Sadler has brought forward in sup- port of his theory. The following table, he tells us, ex- hibits a striking proof of the truth of his main position. It seems to us to prove only that Mr. Sadler does not know what inverse proportion means. Countries. Inhabitants on a square mile, about Childrea to a Marriage. Cape of Good Hope . • 1 5-48 North America 4 5*22 Russia in Europe • 23 4-94 Denmark .... 73 4-89 Prussia 100 4-70 France 140 4-22 England 160 3-66 Is 1 to 160 as 3*66 to 5*48 ? If Mr. Sadler’s principle were just, the number of children produced by a marriage at the Cape 'would be, not 5*48, but very near 600. Or take America and France. Is 4 to 140 as 4 22 to 5*22? The number of births to a marriage in North America ought, according to this proportion, to be about 150. Mr. Sadler states the law of population in England thus : “ Where the inhabitants are found to be on the square mile, From 50 to 100 (2 counties) the births to 100 marriages are 420 — 100 to 150 (9 counties) 396 — 150 to 200 (16 counties) 390 — 200 to 250 (4 counties) 388 — 250 to 300 (5 counties) 378 — 300 to 350 ( 3 counties) 353 — 500 to 600 (2 counties) 331 — 4000 and upwards (1 county) 246 “ Now, 1 think it quite reasonable to conclude, that, were there not another document in existence relative to this subject, the facts thus deduced from the census of England are fully sufficient to demonstrate the position, that the fecundity of liumaii beings varies inversely as their num- bers- How, I ask, can it be evaded ? Wbat, we ask, is there to evade? Is 246 to 420 as 50 sadler’i? law op population. 641 to 4000? Is 331 to 396 as 100 to 500? If the law pro- pounded by Mr. Sadler were correct, the births to a hundred marriages in the least populous part of England, would be 246 X 4000 -4- 50, that is 19,680, — nearly two hundred chil- dren to every mother. But we will not carry on these cal- culations. The absurdity of Mr. Sadler’s proposition is so palpable lhat it is unnecessary to select particular instances. Let us see v/hat are the extremes of population and fecundity in well-known countries. The space which Mr. Sadler gener* ally takes is a square mile. The population at the Cape of Good Hope is, according to him, one to the square mile. That of London is two hundred thousand to the square mile. The number of children at the Cape, Mr. Sadler informs us, is 5*48 to a marriage. In London, he states it at 2*35 to a marriage. Now how can that of which all the variations lie between 2*35 and 5*48 vary, either directly or inversely, as that which admits of all the variations between one and two hundred thousand ? Mr. Sadler evidently does not know the meaning of the word proportion. A million is a larger quantity than ten. A hundred is a larger quantity than five. Mr. Sadler thinks, therefore, that there is no impropriety in saying that a hundred is to five as a million is to ten, or in the inverse ratio of ten to a million. He pro- poses to prove that the fecundity of marriages varies in in- verse proportion to the density of the population. But all that he attempts to prove is that, while the population increases from one to a hundred and sixty on the square mile, the fecundity will diminish from 5*48 to 3*66; and that again, while the population increases from one hundred and sixty to two hundred thousand on the square mile, the fecundity will diminish from 3*66 to 2*35. The proposition which Mr. Sadler enounces, without un- derstanding the words which he uses, would indeed, if it could be proved, set us at ease as to the dangers of over- population. But it is, as we have shown, a proposition so grossly absurd that it is difiicult for any man to keep his countenance while he repeats it. The utmost that Mr. Sadler has ever attempted to prove is this, — that the fecundity of the human race diminishes as the population becomes more condensed, ^ — but that the diminution of fecundity bears a very small ratio to the increase of popula- tion, — so that, while the population on a square mile is mul tiplied two hundred-thousand-fold, the fecundity decreases by little more than one-halt D412 Macaulay’s miscellaneous’ writings. Docs this principle vindicate tlie honor of God ? Does it hold out any new hope or comfort to man. Not at all. We pledge ourselves to show, with the utmost strictness ol reasoning, from Mr. Sadler’s own principles, and from facta of the most notorious description, that every consequence which follows from the law of geometrical progression, laid down by Mr. Malthus, will follow from the law, miscalled a law of inverse variation, which has been laid down by Mfc S adler. London is the most thickly peopled spot of its size in the known world. Therefore the fecundity of the popula- tion of London must, according to Mr. Sadler, be less than the fecundity of human beings living on any other spot of equal size. Mr. Sadler tells us that, ‘‘ the ratios of mortality are influenced by the different degrees in which the popula- tion is condensated ; and that, other circumstances being similar, the relative number of deaths in a thinly-populated, or country district, is less than that which takes place in towns, and in towns of a moderate size less again than that which exists in large and populous cities.” Therefore the mortality in London must, according to him, be greater than in other places. But, though, according to Mr. Sadler, the fecundity is less in London than elsewhere, and though the mortality is greater there than elsewhere, we find that even in London the number of births greatly exceeds the number of deaths. During the ten years which ended with 1820 , there were fifty thousand more baptisms than burials within the bills of mortality. It follows, therefore, that, even within London itself, an increase of the population is taking place by internal propagation. Now, if the population of a place in which the fecundity is less and the mortality greater than in other places still goes on increasing by propagation, it follows that in other places the population will increase, and increase still faster. There is clearly nothing in Mr. Sadler’s boasted law of fe- cundity which will keep the population from multiplying till the whole earth is as thick with human beings as St. Giles’s parish. If Mr. Sadler denies this, he must hold that, in places less fruitful than in London, marriages may bo less fruitful than in London, which is directly contrary to his own principles ; or that, in places less thickly peopled than London, and similarly situated, people will die faster than in London, which is again directly contrary to his own princij)les. Now, if it follows, as it clearly does follow badlek’s law op population. 543 from Mr. Sadler’s own doctrines, that tlie human race might be stowed togetlier by tliree or four hundred to the acre, and might still, as far as the principle of pro])agation is con- cerned, go on increasing, wliat advantage, in a religious or moral point of view, has his theory over that of Mr. Mal- th\^s? The principle of Mr. Malthus, says Mr. Sadler, leads to consequences of the most frightful description. Be it so. But do not all these consequences spring equally from his own principle ? Revealed religion condemns Mr. Malthus. Bo it so. 13ut Mr. Sadler must share in the reproach of heresy. The theory of Mr. Malthus represents the Deity as a Dionysius hanging the sword over the head of his trem- bling slaves. Be it so. But under what rhetorical figure are we to represent the Deity of Mr. Sadler ? A man who wishes to serve the cause of religion ought to hesitate long before he stakes the truth of religion on the event of a controversy respecting facts in the physical world. For a time he may succeed in making a theory which he dislikes unpopular by persuading the public that it contra- dicts the Scriptures and is inconsistent with the attributes of the Deity. But, if at last an overwhelming force of evi- dence proves this maligned theory to be true, what is the effect of the arguments by v>diich the objector has attempted to prove that it is irreconcilable with natural and revealed religion? Merely this, to make men infidels. Like the Israelites, in their battle with tlie Philistines, he has pre- sumptuously and without warrant brought down the ark of God into the camp as a means of ensuring victory : — and the consequence of this profanation is that, when the battle is lost, the ark is taken. In every age the Church has been cautioned against this fatal and impious rashness by its most illustrious members, — by the lervid Augustin, by the subtle Aquinas, by the all- accomplished Pascal. Tlie warning has been given in vain. The close alliance which, under the disguise of the most deadly enmity, has always subsisted between fanaticism and atheism is still unbroken. At one time the cry was, — “If you hold that the earth moves round the sun, you deny the truth of the Bibl 3.” Popes, conclaves, and religious orders, rose up against the Copernican heresy. But, as Pascal said, they could not prevent the earth from moving, or them- gelves from moving along with it. One thing, however, they could do, and they did. They could teach numbers to con- fiider the Bible as a collection of old women’s stories which 644 Macaulay’s MiscKLLANEotJS wuiTiNOS. the progress of civ^ilization and knowledge was refuting one by one. They had attempted to show tliat the Ptolemaic system was as much a part of Christianity as the resurrec- tion of the dead. Was it strange, then, that, when the Ptolemaic system became an object of ridicule to every man of education in Catholic countries, the doctrine of Jlie resurrection should be in peril ? In the present generation, and in our ow n country, the prevailing system of geology has been, wdth equal folly, attacked on the ground that it is inconsistent with the Mosaic dates. And here w'e have Mr. Sadler, out of his especial zeal for religion, first proving that the doctrine of su])erfecundity is irreconcilable wdth the goodness of God, and then laying down principles, and stat- ing facts, from which the doctrine of superfecundity neces- sarily follows. This blundering piety reminds us of the ad- ventures of a certain missionary who w^ent to convert the inhabitants of Madagascar. The good father had an au- dience of the king, and began to instruct his majesty in the history of the human race as given in the Scriptures. ‘‘ Thus, sir,” said he, “ was woman made out of the rib of man, and ever since that time a woman has had one rib more than a man.” “ Surely, father, you must be mistaken there,” said the king. “ Mistaken ! ” said the missionary. ‘‘ It is an indisputable fact. My faith upon it ! My life upon it ! ” The good man had heard the fact asserted by his nurse when he was a child, — had ahvays considered it a strong confirmation of the Scriptures, and fully believed it wdthout ever having thought of verifying it. The king or- dered a man and woman, the leanest that could be found, to be brought before him, and desired his spiritual instructor to count their ribs. The father counted over and over, up- W’ard and downw^ard, and still found the same number in both. He then cleared his throat, stammered, stuttered, and began to assure the king that, though he had committed a little error in saying that a woman had more ribs than a man, he was quite right in saying that the first woman was made out of the rib of the first man. “ How can I tell that?” said the king. ‘‘You come to me with a strange story, w^hich you say is revealed to you from heaven. I have already made you confess that one half of it is a lie : and how can you have the face to expect that I shall believe the other half ? ” We have shown that Mr. Sadler’s theory, if it be true, is as much a theory of superfecundity as that of Mr. Malthus. 545 Sadler’s law op population. But it IS not true. And from Mr. Sadler’s own tables wo will prove, that it is not true. The fecundity of the human race in England Mr. Sadler rates as follows : — Where the inhabitants arc found to be on the square mile — From 50 to 100 (2 counties) the births to 100 marriages are . — 100 to 150 (9 counties) — 150 to 200 (16 counties) — 2(X) to 250 (4 counties) . — 250 to 300 (5 counties) . — 300 to 350 (3 counties) — 500 to 600 (2 counties) — 4000 and upwards (1 county) 420 396 390 388 378 353 ;J31 !S46 Having given this table, he begins, as usual, to boast and triumph. Were there not another document on the subject in existence,” says he, ‘‘ the facts thus deduced from the census of England are sufficient to demonstrate the posi- tion, that the fecundity of human beings varies inversely as their numbers in the right sense of the words inverse varia- tion. But certainly they would, “ if there were no other document in existence,” appear to indicate something like what Mr. Sadler means by inverse variation. Unhappily for him, however, there are other documents in existence ; and he has himself furnished us with them. We will extract another of his tables : — TABLE LXIV. Showing the Operation of the law of Population in the different Hun- dreds of the County of Lancaster, Hundreds. Population on each Square Mile. Square Miles. Population ;in 1821, exclusive of Towns of separate Jurisdiction. Marriages from 1811 to 1821. Baptisms from 1811 to 1821. Baptisms to I 100 Marriages. Lonsdale . . 96 441 42,486 3,651 16,129 442 Almondness 267 228 60,930 3,670 15,228 415 Leyland . . 354 126 44,583 2,858 11,182 391 West Derby 409 377 154,040 24,182 86,407 357 Blackburn . 513 286 146,608 10,814 31,463 291 Salford . . . 869 373 322,592 40,143 114,941 286 Mr. Sadler rejoices much over this table. The results, he says, have surprised himself; and, indeed, as we shall show, they might well have done so. The result of his inquiries with respect to France he presents in the following table : — VoL. I.— 35 546 macatjlat’b miscellaneous whitings. 1 The legitimate births are, in those departments where there are to each inhabitant — From 4 to 5 beets. (2 departs.) to every 1000 marriages . • • • 6130 3 to 4 . . (3 do.) 4372 2 to 3 . . (30do.) 4250 lto2 . . (44do.) 4231 •Oetol . . (5 do.) 4140 and -06 . . (1 do.) . . . 2555 Tlien comes the shout of exultation as regularly as th«‘ Gloria Patri at the end of a Psalm. ‘‘ Is there any possi bility of gainsaying the conclusions these facts force upoi us ; namely that the fecundity of marriage is regulated b} the density of the population, and inversely to it ? ” Certainly these tables, taken separately, look well for Mr. Sadler’s theory. He must be a bungling gamester who cannot win when he is suffered to pack the cards his own way. We must beg leave to shuffle them a little ; and we will venture to promise our readers that some curious re- sults will follow from the operation. In nine counties of England, says Mr. Sadler, in which the population is from 100 to 150 on the square mile, the births to 100 marriages are 39G. He afterwards expresses some doubts as to the accuracy of the documents from which this estimate has been formed, and rates the number of births as high as 414. Let him take his choice. We will allow him every advan- tage. In the table w'hich we have quoted, numbered Ixiv., he tells us that in Almondness, where the population is 267 to the square mile, there are 415 births to 100 marriages. The population of Almondness is twice as thick as the popula- tion of the nine counties referred to in the other table. Yet the number of births to a marriage is greater in Al- niondness than in those counties. Once more, he tells us that in three counties, in which the population was from 800 to 350 on the square mile, the births to 100 marriages were 353. He afterwards rates them at 375. Again we say, let him take his choice. But from his table of the population of Lancashire it appears that, in the hundred of Leyland, where the population is 354 to the square mile, the number of births to 100 mar- riages is 391. Here again we have the marriages becoming more fruitful as the population becomes denser. Let us now shuffle the censuses of England and France tog-ether. In two English counties which contain from fifty to lOO inhabitants on the soiiare mile, the births to 100 mai Sadler’s law of population. 547 riages are, according to Mr. Sadler, 420. But in forty-four departments of France, in which there are from one to two liecatares to each inhabitant, that is to say, in which the population is from 125 to 250, or rather more, to the square mile, the number of births to 100 marriages is 423 and a fraction. Again, in five departments of France in which there is less than one hecataro to each inhabitant, that is to say, in which the population is more than 250 to the square mile, the number of births to 100 marriages is 414 and a fraction. But, in the four counties of England in which the popula- tion is from 200 to 250 on the square mile, the number oi births to 100 marriages is, according to one of Mr. Sadler’s tables, only 388, and by his very highest estimate no more than 402. Mr. Sadler gives us a long table of all the towns of Eng- land and Ireland, which, he tells us, irrefragably demon- strates his principle. We assert, and will prove, that thes# tables are alone sufficient to upset his whole theory. It is very true that in the great towns the number of births to a marriage appears to be smaller than in the less populous towns. But we learn some other facts from these tables which we should be glad to know how Mr. Sadler will explain. We find that the fecundity in towns of fewer than 3,000 inhabitants is actually much greater than the average fecundity of the kingdom, and that the fecundity in towns of between 3,000 and 4,000 inhabitants is at least as great as the average fecundity of the kingdom. The average fecundity of a marriage in towns of fewer than 3,000 inhabitants is about four ; in towns of between 3,000 and 4,000 inhabitants it is 3*60. Now the average fecundity of England, when it contained only 160 inhabitants to a square mile, and when, therefore, according to the new law of population, the fecundity must have been greater than it now is, was only, according to Mr. Sadler, 3*66 to a mar- riage. To proceed, — the fecundity of a marriage in the English towns of between 4,000 and 5,000 inhabitants if stated at 3*56. But when we turn to Mr. Sadler’s table o\ the counties, we find the fecundity of a marriage in War- wickshire and Staffordshire rated at only 3*48, and in Lan cashire and Surrey at only 3*41. These facts disprove Mr. Sadler’s principle ; and the fact on which he lays so much stress — that the fecundity is less in the great towws than in the small towns — does not -4 648 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writinos. tend in any degree to prove his principle. There Is not the least reason to believe that the population is more dense, on a given space^ in London or Manchester than in a town of 4,000 inhabitants. But it is quite certain that the popular- lion is more dense in a town of 4,000 inhabitants than in Warwickshire or Lancashire. That the fecundity of Man- chester is less than the fecundity of Sandwich or Guildford is a circumstance which has nothing whatever to do with Mr. Sadler’s theory. But that the fecundity of Sandwich is greater that the average fecundity of Kent, — that the fecundity of Guildford is greater than the average fecundity of Surrey, — as from his own tables appears to be the case, — these are facts utterly inconsistent with his theory. We need not here examine why it is that the human race is less fruitful in great cities than in small towns or in the open country. The fact has long been notorious. We are inclined to attribute it to the same causes which tend to abridge human life in great cities, — to general sickliness and want of tone, produced by close air and sedentary employ- ments. Thus far, and thus far only, we agree with Mr. Sadler, that, when population is crowded together in such masses that the general health and energy of the frame are impaired by the condensation, and by the habits attending on the condensation, then the fecundity of the race dimin- ishes. But this is evidently a check of the same class with war, pestilence, and famine. It is a check for the operation of which Mr. Malthus has allowed. That any condensation which does not affect the general health will effect fecundity, is not only not proved — it is disproved — by Mr. Sadler’s own tables. Mr. Sadler passes on to Prussia, and sums up his infor- mation respecting that country as follows : — Inhabitants on a Square Mile, Ger- man. Number of Provinces Births to 100 Marriages, 1754. Births to 100 Marriages, 1784. Births to 100 Marriages, Busching. Under 1000 2 434 472 503 1000 to 2000 4 414 455 454 2000 to 3000 6 384 424 426 8000 to 4000 2 365 40^ 394 After the table comes the boast as usual: badler’s law of population. 549 ••Thug is the law of population deduced from the registers of Prussia also ; and were the argument to pause here, it is conclusive. The results obtained from the registers of this and the preceding countries exhibiting, as they do most clearly, the principle of human increase, it is utterly im- possible should have been the work of chance ; on the contrary, the regu- larity with which the facts class themselves in conformity with that princi- ple, and the striking analogy which the whole of them bear to each other, demonstrate equally the design of Nature, and the certainty of its accom- plishment.” We are sorry to disturb Mr. Sadler’s complaceucy. But, in our opinion, this table completely disproves his whole principle. If we read the columns perpendicularly, indeed, they seem to be in his favor. But how stands the case if we read horizontally ? Does Mr. Sadler believe that, during the thirty years which' elapsed between 1754 and 1784, the population of Prussia had been diminishing ? No fact in history is better ascertained than that, during the long peace which followed the seven years’ war, it increased with great rapidity. Indeed, if the fecundity were what Mr. Sadler states it to have been, it must have increased with great rapidity. Yet, the ratio of births to marriages is greater in 1784 than in 1754, and that in every province. It is, therefore, per- fectly clear that the fecundity does not diminish whenever the density of the population increases. We will try another of Mr. Sadler’s tables: TABLE LXXXI. Showing the Estimated Prolificness of Marriages in England at the close of the Seventeenth Century, Places. Number of Inhabitants. One Annual Marriage to Number of Mar- riages. Children to one Marri’ge Total Number of Births. London .... Large Towns . . 630.000 870.000 106 128 5,000 6,800 4- 4-5 20,000 30,000 Small Towns and j Country Places j 4,100,000 141 29,200 4'^ 5,500,000 41,000 4-65 190,760 Standing by itself, this table, like most of the others, geems to support Mr. Sadler’s theory. But surely London, at the close of the seventeenth century, was far more thickly peopled than the kingdom of England now is. Yet the 550 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. fecundity in London at the close of the seventeenth century was 4; and the average fecundity of the whole kingdom now is not more, according to Mr. Sadler, than Then, again, tlie large towns in 1700 were far more thickly peopled than Westmorland and the North Riding of Yorkshire now are. Yet the fecundity in those large towns was then 4-5. And Mr. Sadler tells us that it is now only 4*2 in Westmor- land and the North Riding. It is scarcely necessary to say anything about the cen- suses of the Netherlands, as Mr. Sadler himself confesses that there is some difficulty in reconciling tliem with his theory, and helps out his awkward explanation by supposing, quite gratuitously, as it seems to us, that the official docu- ments are inaccurate. The argument which he has drawn from the United States will detain us but for a very short time. He has not told us, — perhaps he had not the means of telling us, — what proportion the number of births in the different parts of that country bears to the number of mar- riages. He shows that in the thinly-peopled States the num- ber of children bears a greater proportion to the number of grown-up people than in the old States ; and tliis, he con- ceives, is a sufficient proof that the condensation of the population is unfavorable to fecundity. We deny the in- ference altogether. Nothing can be more obvious than the explanation of the phenomenon. The back settlements are for the most part peopled by emigration from the old States ; and emigrants are almost always breeders. They are al- most always vigorous people in the prime of life. Mr. Sadler himself, in another part of his book, in which he tries very unsuccessfully to show that the rapid multiplica- tion of the people of America is principally owing to emi- gration from Europe, states this fact in the plainest manner : “Nothing is more certain, than that emigration is almost universally supplied by ‘ single persons in the beginning of mature life ; " nor. secondly, that such persons, as Dr. Franklin long ago asserted, ‘ marry and raise families.* “ Nor is this all. It is not more true, that emigrants, generally speaking consist of individuals in the prime of life, than that ‘ they are the most active and vigorous ’ of that age, as Dr. Seybert escribes them to be. They are. as it respects the principle at issue, a select class, even compared witli tha; of their own age generally considered. Their very object in leaving theii native countries is to settle in life, a phrase that needs lio explanation ; and they do so. No equal number of human l^eings, therefore, have ever given BO large or rapid an increase to a community as ‘ settlers ^ have invariably done.” It is perfectly clear that children are more numerous in the back settlements of America than in the maritime SADLER S LAW OF rOPULATION. 55 States, not because unoccupied land makes people prolific^ but because the most prolific people go to the unoccupied land. • Mr. Sadler having, as he conceives, fully established his theory of population by statistical evidence, proceeds to prove, that it is in unison, or rather required by tlie prin- ciples of physiology.” Tlie difference between himself and his opponents he states as follows: — “ lu pursuing’ this part of my subject, I must begin by reminding the reader of the diiference between those who hold the superfecundity of man- kind and myself, in regard to those principles wliich will form the basis of the present argument. They contend, that production precedes population; I, on the contrary, maintain ^'nt population precedes, and is indeed the cause of, production. They teach that man breeds up to the capital, or in proportion to tl>e abundance of the food, he possesses ; I assert, that he is comparatively sterile when he is wealthy, and that he breeds in proportion to his poverty ; not meaning, however, by that poverty, a state of privation approaching to actual starvation, any more than, I suppose, they would contend, that extreme and culpable excess is the grand patron of popula- tion. In a word, they hold that a state of ease and affluence is the great i)roraoter of prolificness : I maintain that a considerable degree of labor, and even privation, is a more efficient cause of an increased degree of hu- man fecundity.’* To prove this point he quotes Aristotle, Hippocrates, Dr. Short, Gregory, Dr. Perceval, M. Villermi, Lord Bacon, and Rousseau. We will not dispute about it ; for it seems quite clear to us that if he succeeds in establishing it he overturns his own theory. If men breed in proportion to their poverty, as he tells us here, — and at the same time breed in inverse proportion to their numbers, as he told us before, — it necessarily follows that the poverty of men must be in inverse proportion to their numbers. Inverse propor- tion, indeed, as we have shown, is not the phrase which ex- presses Mr. Sadler’s meaning. To speak more correctly, it follows, from his own positions, that, if one j^opulation be thinner than another, it will also be poorer. Is this the fact ^ Mr. Sadler tells us, in one of those tables which we have already quoted, that in the United States the popula- tion is four to a square mile, and the fecundity 5*22 to a marriage, and that in Russia the population is twenty-three to a square mile, and the fecundity 4*94 to a marriage. Is the North American laborer poorer than the Russian boor? If not, what becomes of Mr. Sadler’s argument? The most decisive proof of Sadler’s theory, accord- ing to him, is that which he has kept for the last. It is derived from the registers of the English Peerage. The Peers, he says, and says truly, are the class with respect to whom we possess the most accurate statistical information 652 MAOAtJLAY S MlSCJlLLAKEOUS WRITINGS. “Touching their nnmher^ this has been accurately known and recorded ever since tlie order has existed in the country. For several centuries past, the ad- pealed to by more distant connections, as conferring distinction on all w ho can claim such afliuity. Hence there are few disputes concerning succes- sions to this rank, but such as go back to very remote periods. In later times, the marriages, births, and deaths, of the nobility, have not only been registered by and known to those personally interested, but have been pub- lished periodically, and, consequently, subject to perpetual correction and revision ; while many of the most powerful motives which can influence tlie human mind conspire to preserve these records from the slightest falsifica- tion. Compared with these, therefore, all other registers, or reports, whether of sworn searchers or others, are incorrectness itself.” Mr. Sadler goes on to tell us that the Peers are a marry- ing class, and that their general longevity proves them to be a healthy class. Still peerages often become extinct ; — and from this fact he infers that they are a sterile class. So far, says he, from increasing in geometrical progression, they do not even keep up their numbers. “Nature interdicts their increase.” “ Thus,” says he, “in all ages of the world, and in every nation of it, have the highest ranks of the community been the most sterile, and the lowest the most prolific. As it respects our own country, from the lowest grade of society, the Irish peasant, to the highest, the British peer, this re- mains a conspicuous truth ; and the regulation of the degree of fecundity conformably to this principle, through the intermediate gradations of society, constitutes one of the features of ^ le system developed in these pages.” We take the issue which Mr. Sadler has himself offered. We agree with him, that the registers of the English Peer- age are of far higher authority than any other statistical documents. We are content that by those registers his principles should be judged. And we meet him by positively denying his facts. We assert that the English nobles are not only not a sterile, but an eminently prolific, part of the community. Mr. Sadler concludes that they are sterile, merely because peerages often become extinct. Is this the proper way of ascertaining the point ? Is it thus that ho avails himself of those registers on the accuracy and fulness of which he descants so largely ? Surely his right course would have been to count the marriages, and the number of births in Peerage. This he has not done ; — but we have done it. And what is the result ? It appears from the last edition of Debrett’s Peerage^ published in 1828, that there were at that time 287 peers of the United Kingdom, who had been married once or oftener. SADLER’S LAW OF POPULATION. 553 Tlie whole number of marriages contracted by these 287 peers was 333. The number of children by these marriages was 1437, — more than five to a peer, — more than 4*3 to a marriage, — more, that is to say, than the average number in those countries of England in which, according to Mr. Sad- ler’s own statement, the fecundity is the greatest. Butthisisnot all. These marriages had not, in 1828, produced their full effect. Some of them had been very lately contracted. In a very large proportion of them there w^aa every probability of additional issue. To allow for this probability, we may safely add one to the average which we have already obtained, and rate the fecundity of a noble marriage in England at 5*3 ; — higher than the fecun- dity which Mr. Sadler assigns to the people of the United States. Even if we do not make this allowance, the average fecundity of the marriage of peers is higher by one-fifth than the average fecundity of marriages throughout the kingdom. And this is the sterile class ! This is the class Avhich “ nature has interdicted from increasing!” The evidence to which Mr. Sadler has himself appealed proves that his principle is false, — utterly false, — wildly and ex- travagantly false. It proves that a class, living during half of every year in the most crowded population in the world, breeds faster than those who live in the country ; — that the class which enjoys the greatest degree of luxury and ease breeds faster than the class which undergoes labor and privation. To talk a little in Mr. Sadler’s style, we must own that we are ourselves surprised at the results which our examination of the peerage has brought out. We certainly should have thought that the habits of fashionable life, and long residence even in the most airy parts of so great a city as London, would have been more unfavorable to the fe- cundity of the higher orders than they appear to be. Peerages, it is true, often become extinct. But it is quite clear, from what we have stated, that this is not be- cause peeresses are barren. There is no difficulty in dis- covering what the causes really are. In the first place, most of the titles of our nobles are limited to heirs male ; so that, though the average fecundity of a noble marriage is upwards of five, yet, for the purpose of keeping up a peerage, it can- not be reckoned at much more than two and a half. Sec- ondly, though the peers are, as Mr. Sadler says, a marrying class, the younger sons of peers are decidedly not a marry- ing class ; SQ that a peer, though he has at least as great a 554 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. chance of liaviiig a son as his neighbors, has less chance than they of liaving a collateral heir. We have now disposed, we think, of Mr. Sadler’s princi- ple of population. Our readers must, by this time, be pretty well satisfied as to his qualifications for setting up theories of his own. We will, therefore, present them with a few instances of the skill and fairness which he shows when he undertakes to pull dowm the theories of other men. The doctrine of Mr. Malthus, that population, if not checked l)y want, by vice, by excessive mortality, or by the prudent self-denial of individuals, would increase in a geometric progression, is, in Mr. Sadler’s opinion, at once false and atrocious. ‘‘ It may at once be denied,” says he, “ that human in- crease proceeds geometrically; and for this simple but decisive reason, that the existence of a geometrical ratio of increase in the works of nature, is neither true nor possible. ItAvould fling into utter confusion all order, time, magnitude, and space.” This is as curious a specimen of reasoning as any that had been offered to the world since the days when theories w^erc founded on the principle that nature abhors a vacuum. Wc proceed a few pages farther, however ; and we then find that geometric progression is unnatural only in those cases in Avhich Mr. Malthus conceives that it exists ; and that, in all cases in wdiich Mr. Malthus denies the existence of a geometric ratio, nature changes sides, and adopts that ratio as the rule of increase. Mr. Malthus holds that subsistence wdll increase only in an arithmetical ratio. ‘‘ As far as nature has to do with the question,” says Mr. Sadler, “ men might, for instance, plant twice the number of peas, and breed from a double number of the same animals, wuth equal prospect of their multiplication.” Now, if Mr. Sadler thinks that, as far as nature is concerned, four sheep will double as fast as two, and eight as fast as four, how can he deny that the geomet- rical ratio of increase does exist in the works of nature: Or has he a definition of his own for geometrical progres sion, as well as for inverse proportion ? Mr. Malthus, and those who agree with him, have gener- ally referred to the United States, as a country in which the human race increases in a geometrical ratio, and have fixed on twenty-five years as the term in which the population of that country doubkis itsdfc Mr. Sadler contends that it is SADLER S LAW OF POPtJLATlOK’. 555 j)h} sically impossible for a people to double in twenty-five years ; nay, tliat thirty-five years is far too short a period, — that the Americans do not double by procreation in less than forty-seven years, — and that the rapid increase of their numbers is produced by emigration from Europe. Emigration has certainly had some effect in increasing the ])opulation of the United States. But so great has the rate of that increase been that, after making full allowance lor the effect of emigration, there will be a residue, attrib- utable to procreation alone, amply sufficient to double the population in twenty-five years. Mr. Sadler states the result of the four censuses as fol- lows : — “ There were, of white inhabitants, in the whole of the United States in 1790, 3,093,111; in 1800, 4,309,650 ; in 1810,5,862,093; and in 1820, 7,861,710. I’he increase, in the first term, being 39 per cent. ; and that in the third and last, 33 per cent. It is superfluous to say, that it is utterly impossible to de- duce the geometric theory of human increase, whatever be the period of duplication, from such terms as these.** Mr. Sadler is a bad arithmetician. The increase in the last term is not, as he states it, 33 per cent., but more than 34 per cent. Now, an increase of 32 per cent, in ten years, is more than sufficient to double the population in twenty- years. And there is, we think, very strong reason to believe that the white population of the United States does increase by 32 per cent, every ten years. Our reason is this. There is in the United States a class of persons whose numbers are not increased by emigration, ' — the negro slaves. During the interval which elapsed be- tween the census of 1810 and the census of 1820, the change in their numbers must have been produced by procreation, and by procreation alone. Their situation, though much happier than that of the wretched beings who cultivate the sugar plantations of Trinidad and Demerara, cannot be sup- posed to be more favorable to health and fecundity than that of free laborers. In 1810, the slave trade had been but recently abolished ; and there were in consequence many more male than female slaves, — a circumstance, of course, very unfavorable to procreation. Slaves are perpetually passiLg into the class of freemen ; but no freeman ever de- scends into servitude ; so that the census will not exhibit th^ whole effect of the procreation which really takes place. We find, by the census of 1810, that the number of slaves in the Union was then 1,191,000. In 1820, they had in creased to 1.538.000. That ^ tA) say, in ten years, they had 650 iiACATJLAY’s MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. increased 29 per cent. — within three per cent, of that rate of increase wliich would double their number in twenty-five years. We may, we think, fairly calculate that, if the fe- male slaves had been as numerous as the males, and if no manumissions had taken place, the census of the slave popm lation would have exhibited an increase of 32 per cent, in ten years. If we are right in fixing on 32 per cent, as the rate at which the white population of America increases by procre* ation in ten years, it will follow that, during th^ last ten years of the eighteenth century, nearly one-sixth of the im crease was the effect of emigration; from 1800 to 1810, about one-ninth; and from 1810 to 1820, about one-seven- teenth. This is what we should have expected; for it is clear that, unless the number of emigrants be constantly in- creasing, it must, as compared with the resident population, be relatively decreasing. The number of persons added to the population of the United States by emigration, between 1810 and 1820, would be nearly 120,000. From the data furnished by Mr. Sadler himself, we should be inclined to think that this would be a fair estimate. “ Dr. Seybert says, that the passengers to ten of the principal ports of the United States, in the year 1817, amounted to 22,235 ; of whom 11,977 were from Great Britain and Ireland; 4,164 from Germany and Holland; 1,245 from France; 58 from Italy; 2,901 from the British possessions in North America; 1,569 from the West Indies; and from other countries, 321. These, however, we may conclude, with the editor of Styles’s Register, were far short of the number that arrived.’’ We have not the honor of knowing either Dr. Seybert or the editor of Styles’s Register. We cannot, therefore, de- cide on their respective claims to our confidence so peremp- torily as Mr. Sadler thinks fit to do. Nor can we agr ee to what Mr. Sadler very gravely assigns as a reason for dis- believing Dr. Seybert’s testimony. ‘‘ Such accounts,” lie says, “ if not wilfully exaggerated, must always fall short of the truth.” It would be a curious question of casuistry to determine what a man ought to do in a case in which ho cannot tell the truth except being guilty of wilful exaggera- tion. We will, however, suppose, with Mr. Sadler, that Dr. Seybert, finding himself compelled to choose between two sins, preferred telling a falsehood to exaggerating; and that he has consequently underrated the number of emigrants. W e will take it at double of the Doctors estimate, and sup- pose that, in 1817, 45,000 Europeans crossed to the United States. Now, it must be remembered that the year 1817 BAt>LER^S LAW OF POPULATION. 557 was a year of the severest and most general distress over all Europe, — a year of scarcity everywhere, and of cruel fam- ine in some places. There can, therefore, be no doubt that the emigration of 1817 was very far above the average, probably more than three times that of an ordinary year. Till the year 1815, the war rendered it almost impossible to emigrate to the United Statesjeither from England or from the Continent. If we suppose the average emigration of the remaining years to have been 16,000, we shall probably not be much mistaken. In 1818 and 1819, the number was certainly much beyond that average; in 1815 and 1816, ])robably much below it. But, even if we were to suppose that, in every year from the peace to 1820, the number of emigrants had been as high as we have supposed it to be in 1817, the increase by procreation among the white inhabi- tants of the United States would still appear to be about 30 per cent, in ten years. Mr. Sadler acknowledges that Cobbett exaggerates the number of emigrants when he states it at 150,000 a year. Yet even this estimate, absurdly great as it is, would not be sufficient to explain the increase of the population of the United States on Mr. Sadler’s principles. He is, he tells us, “ convinced that doubling in 35 years is a far more rapid duplication than ever has taken place in that country from procreation only.” An increase of 20 per cent, in ten years, by procreation, would therefore be the very utmost that he would allow to be possible. We have already shown, by reference to the census of the slave population, that this doctrine is quite absurd. And, if we suppose it to be sound, we shall be driven to the conclusion that above eight hun- dred thousand people emigrated from Europe to the United States in a space of little more than five years. The whole increase of the white population from 1810 to 1820 was within a few hundreds of 2,000,000. If we are to attribute to procreation only 20 per cent, on the number returned by the census of 1810, we shall have about 830,000 persons to account for in some other way ; — and to suppose that the emigrants who went to America between the peace of 1815 and the census of 1820, with the children who were born to them there, would make up that number, would be the height of absurdity. We could say much more; but we think it quite unnes CGSsary at present. We have shown that Mr. Sadler is careless in the collection of facts, — that he is incapable of Macaulay’s miscellaneous avritingS. b58 reasoning on facts when lie has collected them, — that ho does not understand the sim])lest terms of science, — that he lias enounced a ))ro})Osition of which he does n. t know the meaning, — that the proposition which he means tc enounce, nid which he tries to prove, leads directly to all those pon- seqiiences which he represents as impious and immoral, — and that, from the very documents to which he has himself a])pealed, it may be demonstrated that his theory is false* W e may, perhaps, resume the subject when his next volume ai^pears. Meanwliile, we hope that he will delay its publi- cation until he has learned a little arithmetic, and unlearned a great deal of eloquence. JOHN BUNYAN {Edinburgh Revieio^ December^ 1830.) This is an eminently beautiful and splendid edition of a book which well deserves all that the printer and the en- graver can do for it. The life of Bunyan is, of course, not a performance which can add much to the literary reputa- tion of such a writer as Mr. Southey. But it is written in excellent English, and, for the most part, in an excellent spirit. Mr. Southey propounds, we need not say, many opinions from which we altogether dissent ; and his attempts to excuse the odious persecution to which Bunyan was sub- jected have sometimes moved our indignation. But w^e will avoid this topic. We are at present much more in- clined to join in paying homage to the genius of a great man than to engage in a controversy concerning church- government and toleration. We must not pass ivithout notice the engravings with which this volume is decorated. Some of Mr. Heath’s wood- cuts are admirably designed and executed. Mr. Martin’s illustrations do not please us quite so well. His Valley of the Shadow of Death is not that Valley of the Shadow of *The Pilgrim'* a Progress, with a TAfe of John Bunyan. By Robert Southey, Esq. LL.D. Poet Laureato, lUustrateU with EngraviDga, 8vo. Loadon: laao JOHN BUN Y AN. 569 Death which Bunyan imagined. At all events, it is not that dark and horrible glen which has from childhood been in our mind’s eye. The valley is a cavern : the quagmire is a lake : the straight path runs zigzag : and Christian ap- pears like a speck in the darkness of the immense vault. W e miss, too, those hideous forms which make so striking a part of the description of Bunyan, and which Salvator Rosa would have loved to draw. It is with unfeigned diffidence that we pronounce judgment on any question relating to the art of painting. But it appears to us that Mr. Martin has not of late been fortunate in his choice of subjects. He should never have attempted to illustrate the Paradise Lost. There' can be no two manners more directly opposed to each other than the manner of his painting and the man- ner of Milton’s poetry. Those things which are mere acces- sories in the descriptions become the principal objects in the pictures ; and those figures which are most prominent in the descriptions can be detected in the pictures only by a very close scrutiny. Mr. Martin has succeeded perfectly in representing the pillars and candelabra of Pandaemonium. But he has forgotten that Milton’s PandaBmonium is merely the background to Satan. In the picture, the Archangel is scarcely visible amidst the endless colonnades of his infernal ]:>alace. Milton’s Paradise, again, is merely the background to his Adam and Eve. But in Mr. Martin’s picture the landscape is everything. Adam, Eve, and Raphael attract much less notice than the lake and the mountains, the gigan- tic flowers, and the giraffes which feed upon them. Wo read that James the Second sat to Varelst, the great flower- painter. When the performance was finished, his Majesty appeared in the midst of a bower of sun-flowers and tulips, which completely drew away all attention from the central figure. All who looked at the portrait took it for a flower- piece. Mr. Martin, we think, introduces his immeasurable spaces, his innumerable multitudes, his gorgeous prodigies of architecture and landscape, almost as unseasonably as Varelst introduced his flower-pots and nosegays. If Mr, Martin were to paint Lear in the storm, we suspect that the blazing sky, the sheets of rain, the swollen torrents, and the tossing forest, would draw away all attention from the agonies of the insulted king and father. If he were to paint the death of Lear, the old man, asking the by-standers to undo his button, would be thrown into the shade by a vast blas5e of pavilions, standards, armor, and heralds’ ooatg d60 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. Mr. Martin would illustrate the Orlando Furioso well, tlie ’ Orlando Innamorato still better, the Arabian Nights best of all. Fairy palaces and gardens, porticoes of agate, and r groves flowering with emeralds and rubies, inhabited b^ people for whom nobody cares, these are his proper domain. lie would succeed admirably in the enchanted ground of Alcina, or the mansion of Aladdin. But he should avoid Milton and Bunyan. The characteristic peculiarity of the Pilgrim’s Progress is that it is the only work of its kind which possesses a strong human interest. Other allegories only amuse the fancy. The allegory of Bunyan has been read by many thousands with tears. There are some good allegories in Johnson's works, and some of still higher merit by Addison. In these performances there is, perhaps, as much wit and ingenuity as in the Pilgrim’s Progress. But the pleasure which is produced by the Vision of Mirza, the Vision of Theodore, the genealogy of Wit, or the contest between Rest and Labor, is exactly similar to the pleasure which we derive from one of Cowley’s odes or from a canto of Hudibras. It is a pleasure which belongs wholly to the understanding, and in which the feelings have no part whatever. Nay, even Spenser himself, though assuredly one of the greatest poets that ever lived, could not succeed in the attempt to make allegory interesting. It was in vain that he lavished the riches of his mind on the House of Pride and the House of Temperance. One unpardonable fault, the fault of te- diousiiess, pervades the whole of the Fairy Queen. We become sick of cardinal virtues and deadly sins, and long for the society of plain men and women. Of the persons who read the first canto, not one in ten reaches the end of the first book, and not one in a hundred perseveres to the end of the poem. Very few and very weary are those who are in at the death of the Blatant Beast. If the last six books, which are said to have been destroyed in Ireland, had been preserved, we doubt whether any heart less stout than that of a commentator would have held out to the end. It is not so with the Pilgrim’s Progress. That wonder- ful book, while it obtains admiration from the most fas- tidious critics, is loved by those who are too simple to ad- mire it. Dr. Johnson, all whose studies were desultory, and who hated, as he said, to read books through, made an exception in favor of the Pilgrim’s Progress. The work was one of the two qv three works which he wished longer* JOHN BUNYAN. 561 It was by no common merit that the illiterate sectary ex- tracted praise like this from the most pedantic of critics and the most bigoted of Tories. In the wildest parts of Scotland the Pilgrim’s Progress is the delight of the peasantry. In every nursery the Pilgrim’s Progress is a greater favorite than Jack the Giant Killer. Every reader knows the straight and narrow path as well as he knows a road in which he has gone backward and forward a hundred times. This is tlie highest miracle of genius, that things which are not should be as though they were, that the imaginations of one mind should become the personal recollections of another. And this miracle the tinker has wrought. There is no aS’ cent, no declivity, no resting-place, no turn-stile, with which we are not perfectly acquainted. The wicket gate, and the desolate swamp wdiich separates it from the City of De- struction, the long line of road, as straight as a rule can make it, the Interpreter’s house and all its fair shows, the prisoner in the iron cage, the palace, at the doors of which armed men kept guard, and on the battlements of which walked persons clothed all in gold, the cross and the sepulchre, the steep hill and the pleasant arbor, the stately front of the House Beautiful by the wayside, the chained lions crouching in the porch, the low green valley of Humil- iation, rich with grass and covered with flocks, all are as well known to us as the sights of our own street. Then we come to the narrow place where Apollyon strode right across the whole breadth of the way, to stop the journey of Christian, and where afterwards the pillar was set up to tes- tify how bravely the pilgrim had fought the good fight. As we advance, the valley becomes deeper and deeper. The shade of the precipices on both sides falls blacker and blacker. The clouds gather overhead. Doleful voices, the clanking of chains, and the rushing of many feet to and fro, are heard through the darkness. The way, hardly discern- ible in gloom, runs close by the mouth of the burning pit, which sends forth its flames, its noisome smoke, and its hideous shapes, to terrify the adventurer. Thence he goes on, amidst the snares and pitfalls, with the mangled bodies of those who have perished lying in the ditch by his side. At the end of the long dark valley he passes the dens in which the old giants dwelt, amidst the bones of those whom they had slain. Then the road passes straight on through a waste moor^ till at length the towers of a distant city appear before the Yon. 562 MACAULAY’S MISCELLANEOUS WEITINSS. ^ traveller ; and soon he is in the midst of the innumerable ^ multitudes of Vanity Fair. Tliere are the jugglers and the apes, the shops and the puppet-shows. There are Italian t Row, and French Row, and Spanish Row, and Britain Row, | with their crowds of buyers, sellers, and loungers, jabbering ^ all the lanmiacres of the earth. Thence we go on by the little hill of the silver min% and through the meadow of lilies, along the bank of that pleasant river which is bordered on both sides by fruit-trees ^ On the left branches off the path leading to the horrible castle, the court-yard of which is paved with the skulls of pilgrims ; and right onward are the sheepfolds and orchards of the Delectable Mountains. From the Delectable Mountains, the way lies through the fogs and briers of the Enchanted Ground, with here and there a bed of soft cushions spread under a green arbor. And beyond is the land of Beulah, where the flowers, the grapes, and the songs of birds never cease, and where tlie sun shines night and day. Thence are plainly seen the golden pavements and streets of pearl, on the other side of that black and cold river over which there is no bridge. All the stages of the journey, all the forms which cross or overtake the pilgrims, giants, and hobgoblins, ill-favored ones, and shining ones, the tall, comely, swarthy Madame BublDle, with her great purse by her side, and her fingers playing with the money, the black man in the bright vesture, Mr. Worldly Wiseman and my Lord Hategood, Mr. Talkative, and Mrs. Timorous, all are actually existing beings to us. We follow the travellers through their al- legorical progress with interest not inferior to that with which we follow Elizabeth from Siberia to Moscow, or Jeanie Deans from Edinburgh to London. Bunyan is almost the only writer who ever gave to the abstract the interest of the concrete. In the works of many celebrated authors, men are mere personifications. We have not a jealous man, but jealousy ; not a traitor, but perfidy ; not a patriot, but pa* triotism. The mind of Bunyan, on the contrary, was so imaginative that personifications, when he dealt with them, became men. A dialogue between two qualities, in hia dream, has more dramatic effect than a dialogue between two human beings in most plays. In this respect the genius of Bunyan bore a great resemblance to that of a man who had very little else in common with him, Percy Bysshe Shelley. The strong imagiaatiou of Shelley made him an JOHN" BUNYAN. idolater in his own despite. Out of the most indeiiiiito terms of a hard, cold, dark, metaphysical system, lie made a gorgeous Pantheon, full of beautiful, majestic, and life-like forms. lie turned atlieism itself into a mythology, rich with .visions as glorious as the gods tliat live in tlic marbk of Phidias, or the virgin saints tliat smile on us from the canvas of Murillo. The Spirit of Beauty, the Principle cf Good, the Principle of Evil, when he treated of them, ceased to be abstractions. They took sliaj^e and color. They were no longer mere words ; but “ intelligible forms ; ” “ fair humanities ; ” objects of love, of adoration, or of fear. As there can be no stronger sign of a mind destitute of the poetical faculty than that tendency which was so common among the writers of the French school to turn images into abstractions, Venus, for example, into Love, Minerva into Wisdom, Mars into War, and Bacchus into Festivity, so there can be no stronger sign of a mind truly poetical than a disposition to reverse this abstracting process, and to make individuals out of generalities. Some of the metaphysical and ethical theories of Shelley were certainly most absurd and pernicious. But we doubt whether any modern poet has possessed in an equal degree some of the highest qualities of the great ancient masters. The words bard and inspiration, which seem so cold and affected when applied to other modern writers, have a perfect propriety when applied to him. He was not an author, but a bard. His poetry seems not to have been an art, but an inspiration. Plad he lived to the full age of man, he might not improbably have given to the world some great work of the very highest rank in design and execution. But, alas ! 6 Ad(J)VL<; e/3a poov e#cAu(re Siva Toi' Mcicrat? earance than j in Banyan’s works, it would never have become a term of . reproach. In fact, those works of Banyan with which we ^ are acquainted are by no means more Calvinistic than the articles and homilies of the Church of England. The mod- ' eration of hh opinions on the subject of predestination gave i offence to some zealous persons. We have seen an absurd ; allegory, the heroine of which is named Ilephzibah, written i by some laving supralapsarian preacher who was dissatisfied | with tb mild theology of the Pilgrim’s Progress. In this | foolish book, if we recollect rightly, the Interpreter is called | the Enlightener, and the House Beautiful is Castle Strength. | Mr. Southey tells us that the Catholics had also their Pil- -’j grim’s Progress, without a Giant Pope, in which the Inter- ^ preter is the Director, and the House Beautiful Grace’s Hall. It is surely a remarkable proof of the power of Banyan’s ) genius, that two religious parties, both of which regarded j his opinions as heterodox, should have had recourse to him for assistance. * -V There are, we think, some characters and scenes in the r Pilgrim’s Progress, which can be fully comprehended and ; enjoyed only by persons familiar with the history of the * times through which Bunyan lived. The character of Mr. J Greatheart, the guide, is an examine. His fighting is, of ; course, allegorical ; but the allegory is not strictly preserved. : He delivers a sermon on imputed righteousness to his com- panions ; and, soon after, he gives battle to Giant Grim, who > had taken upon him to back the lions. He expounds the ; fifty-third chapter of Isaiah to the household and guests of J Gains ; and then he sallies out to attack Slaygood, who was < of the nature of flesh-eaters, in his den. These are incon- 'i sistencies ; but they are inconsistencies which add, we think, to the interest of the narrative. We have not the least doubt that Bunyan had in view some stout old Greatheart of Naseby and Worcester, who prayed with his men before he drilled them, who knew the spiritual state of every dra- goon in his troop, and who with the praises of God in his mouth, and a two-edged sword in his hand, had turned to . flight, on many fields of battle, the swearing, drunken ' bravoes of Rupert and Lunsford. Every age produces such men as By-ends. But the middle of the seventeenth century was eminently prolific of euch men* Mr. Southey thinks that the satire was aimed at i JOHN BUNTAN. >669 some particular individual; and this seems hy no means improbable. At all events, Bunyan must liave known many of those hypocrites who followed religion only when religion walked in silver slippers, when the sun shone, and when the people applauded. Indeed he might have easily found all the kindred of By-ends among the public men of his time. He might have found among the peers my Lord Turn-about, my Lord Time-server, and my Lord Fair-speech; in the House of Commons, Mr. Smooth-man, Mr. Anything, and and Mr. Facing-both-ways ; nor would “ the parson of the parish, Mr. Two-tongues,” have been wanting. The town of Bedford probably contained more than one politician who, after contriving to raise an estate by seeking the Lord during the reign of the saints, contrived to keep what he had got by persecuting the saints during the reign of the strumpets, and more than one priest who, during repeated changes in the discipline and doctrines of the church, had remained constant to nothing but his benefice. One of the most remarkable passages in the Pilgrim’s Progress is that in which the proceedings against Faithful are described. It is impossible to doubt that Bunyan in- tended to satirize the mode in which state trials were con- ducted under Charles the Second. The license given to the witnesses for the prosecution, the shameless partiality and ferocious insolence of the judge, the precipitancy and the blind rancor of the jury, remind us of those odious mum- meries which, from the Restoration to the Revolution, were merely forms preliminary to hanging, drawing, and quarter- ing. Lord Hategood performs the office of counsel for the prisoners as well as Scroggs himself could have performed it. “ Judge. Thou runagate, heretic, and traitor, hast thou heard what these honest gentlemen have witnessed against thee ? “ Faithful. May I speak a few words in my own defence? “ Judge. Sirrah, sirrah ! thou deservest to live no longer, but to he slain immediately upon the place ; yet, that all men may see oui gentleness to thee, let us hear what thou, vile runagate, hast to say.” No person who knows the state trials can be at a loss for parallel cases. Indeed, write what Bunyan would, the base- ness and cruelty of the lawyers of those times “ sinned up to it still,” and even went beyond it. The imaginary trial of Faithful, before a jury composed of personified vices, was just and merciful, when compared with the real trial of Alice Lisle before that tribunal where all the vices sat in the person of Jefferies. 570 MACAULAY’S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. The style of Bunyan is deliglitful to every reader, and y invaluable as a study to every ])orson who wishes to obtain ^ a wide command over the English language. The vocabu- | iary is the vocabulary of the common people. There is not an expression, if we except a few technical terms of theology, | which would puzzle the rudest peasant. We have observed ^ several pages which do not contain a single word of more tlian two syllables. Yet no writer has said more exactly J what he meant to say. For magnificence, for pathos, for \ vehement exhortation, for subtle disquisition, for every pur- t pose of the poet, the orator, and the divine, this homely dialect, the dialect of plain working men, was perfectly ; sufficient. There is no book in our literature on which we Avould so readily stake the fame of the old un|)olluted English language, no book wffiich shows so well how rich that lan- guage is in its own proper wealth, and hoAV little it has been imj3roved by all that it has borrowed. Cowper said, forty or fifty years ago, that he dared not name John Bunyan in his verse, for fear of moving a sneer. To our refined forefathers, we suppose. Lord Roscommon’s Essay on Translated Verse and the duke of Buckingham- . shire’s Essay on Poetry, appeared to be compositions infinite- ly superior to the allegory of the preaching tinker. We live ) in better times ; and we are not afraid to say, that, though 1 there were many. clever men in England during the latter half of the seventeenth century, there were only two minds which possessed the imaginative faculty in a very eminent degree. One of those minds produced the Paradise Lost, the other the Pilgrim’s Progress. We have, in violation of our usual joractice, transcribed Mr. Sadler’s title-page from top to bottom, motto and all. *A Refuiation of an Article in the Edinburgh Review {No. CII.) entitled^ “ Sad- ler^sLawof Population, and Disproof of Human Superfecundity y* containing also Additional Proofs the Principle enunciated vn that Treatise, founded on the Censuses of different Countries recently published. By Michael. Thomas Sad- ler, M. P. , 8vo. London : 1830. “ Before anything came out against my Essay, I was told I must prepare mv- Belf for a storm coming against it, it being resolved by some men that it was necessary that book of mine should, as it is phrased, be run down.*’'-JoHH Locke. SADLER’S REFUTATION REFUTED * (Edinburgh Review, January, 1831.) SADLER’S REFUTATION REFUTED. 571 The parallel implied between the Essay on the Human Un- derstanding and the Essay on Superfecundity is exquisitely laughable. We can match it, however, with mottoes aa ludicrous. We remember to have heard of a dramatic piece, entitled “ News from Camperdown,” written soon after Lord Duncan’s victory, by a man once as much in his own good graces as Mr. Sadler is, and now as much forgotten as Mr. Sadler will soon be, Robert Heron. His piece was brought upon the stage, and damned, “as it is phrased,” in the second act ; but the author, thinking that it had been unfairly and unjustly “run down,” published it, in order to put his critics to shame, with this motto from Swift ; — “ When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this mark — that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.” We remember another anecdote, which may perhaps be acceptable to so zealous a churchman as Mr. Sadler. A certain Antinomian preacher, the oracle of a barn, in a county of which we do not think it proper to mention the name, finding that divinity was not by itself a sufficiently lucrative profession, resolved to combine with it that of dog-stealing. He was, by ill-fortune, detected in several offences of this de- scription, and wa:: in consequence brought before two justices, who, in virtue of the powers given thera by an act of parlia- ment, sentenced him to a whipping for each theft. The degrading punishment inflicted on the pastor naturally thinned the flock; and the poor man was in danger of wanting bread. He accordingly put forth a handbill, solemnly protesting, and appealing to the Christian charity of the public ; and to his pathetic address he prefixed this most appropriate text : “ Thrice was I beaten with rods. — jSL J^aiiVs Epistle to the CorinthiansP He did not perceive that, though St. Paul had been scourged, no number of whip- pings, however severe, will of themselves entitle a man to be considered as an apostle. Mr. Sadler seems to us to have fallen into a somewhat similar error. He should remember that, though Locke may have been laughed at, so has Sir Claudius Hunter ; and that it takes something more than the laughter of all the world to make a Locke. The body of this pamphlet by no means justifies the parallel so modestly insinuated on the title-page. Yet we must own that, though Mr. Sadler has not risen to the level of Locke, he has done what was almost as difficult, if not as honorable — ho has fallen below his own. He is at best a bad writer. His arrangement is an elaborate con- 572 macauiay’s miscellaneous writings. fusion. Ilis style has l)cen constructed, with p^reat care, in ! such a manner as to produce the least possible effect by means of the greatest possible number of words. Aspiring to the exalted character of a Christian philosojdier, he can never preserve through a single paragraph either the calm- ness of a philosopher or the meekness of a Christian. His ill- nature would make a very little wit formidable. But, ha}> pily, his efforts to wound resemble those of a juggler’s snake. The bags of poison are full, but the fang is wanting. In this foolish pamphlet, all the unpleasant peculiarities of his style and temper are brought out in the strongest manner. He is from the beginning to the end in a paroxysm of rage, and would certainly do us some mischief if he knew how. We will give a single instance for the present. Others will present themselves as we proceed. We laughed at some doggerel verses which he cited, and which we, never having seen them before, suspected to be his own. We are now sure that, if the principle on which Solomon decided a famous case of filiation wpre correct, there can be no doubt as to the justice of our suspicion. Mr. Sadler, who, whatever elements of the poetical character he may lack, possesses the i poetical irritability in an abundance which might have sufficed for Homer himself, resolved to retaliate on the person, who, as he supposed, had reviewed him. He has, : accordingly, ransacked some collection of college verses, in the . hope of finding, among the performances of his supposed antagonist, something as bad as his own. And we must in fairness admit that he has succeeded pretty well. We must | admit that the gentleman in question sometimes put into ■ his exercises, at seventeen, almost as great nonsense as Mr. Sadler is in the habit of puting into his books at sixty. i Mr. Sadler complains that we have devoted whole pages to mere abuse of him. We deny the charge. We have, indeed, characterized, in terms of just reprehension, that spirit w hich shows itself in every part of his prolix work. Those terms of reprehension we are by no means inclined to retract ; and we conceive that we might have used much stronger expressions, without the least offence either to truth or to decorum. There is a limit prescribed to us by our sense of what is due to ourselves. But we think that no indulgence is due to Mr. Sadler. A write • who dis- tinctly announces that he has not conformed to the candor of the age — who makes it his boast that he expresses him- self throughout with the greatest plainness and freedom — • Sadler’s refutation refuted. 673 and whose constant practice proves t?iat by plainness and freedom he means coarseness and rancor — has no right to expect that others shall remember courtesies which he has forgotten, or shall respect one who has ceased to respect himself. Mr. Sadler declares that he has never vilified Mr. Malthas personally, and has confined himself to attacking the doc- trines which that gentleman maintains. We should wish to leave that point to the decision of all who have read Mr. Sadler’s book, or any twenty pages of it. To quote particu- lar instances of a temper which penetrates and inspires the whole work, is to weaken our charge. Yet, that we may not be suspected of flinching, we will give two specimens, — • the two first which occur to our recollection. “ Wliose minister is it that speaks thus ? ” says Mr. Sadler, after mis- representing in a most extraordinary manner, though, we are willing to believe, unintentionally, one of the positions of Mr. Malthas. “ Whose minister is it that speaks thus ? That of the lover and avenger of little children?” Again, Mr. Malthas recommends, erroneously perhaps, but assuredly from humane motives, that alms, when given, should be given very sparingly. Mr. Sadler quotes the recommenda- tion, and adds the following courteous comment : — “ The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel. ” We cannot think that a writer who indulges in these indecent and unjust at- tacks on professional and personal character has any right to complain of our sarcasms on his metaphors and rhymes. We will now proceed to examine the reply which Mr. Sadler has thought fit to make to our arguments. He begins by attacking our remarks on the origin of evil. They are, says he, too profound for common apprehension ; and he liopes that they are too profound for our own. That they seem profound to him we can well believe. Profundity, in its secondary as in its primary sense, is a relative term. When Grildrig was nearly drowned in the Brobdignagian cream-jug he doubtless thought it very deep. But to com- mon apprehension our reasoning would, we are persuaded, a})pear perfectly simple. The theory of Mr. Malthas, says Mr. Sadler, cannot be true, because it asserts the existence of a great and terrible evil, and is therefore inconsistent with the goodnesg of God. We answer thus. We know that there are in the world great and terrible evils. In spite of these evils, Av^e believe in the goodness of God. Why may we not then continue Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. {)74 to believe in liis goodness, tliougli another evil should be ** added to the list. How does Mr. Sadler answer this ? Merely by telling us that we are too wicked to be reasoned with, lie com- • pletely shrinks from the question ; a question, be it remem- bered, not raised by us — a question which wc should have felt strong objections to raising unnecessarily — a question put forward by himself, as intimately connected with the subject of his two ponderous volumes. lie attempts to carp at detached jiarts of our reasoning on the subject. With what success he carries on this guerilla Avar after declining a general action with the main body of our argument our readers shall see. “ The reviewer sends me to Paley, who is, I confess, rather more intel- ligible on the subject, and wlio, fortunately, has decided the very point in dispute. I will first give the words of tlie reviewer, who, wlien speaking of my general argument regarding the magnitude of the evils, moral and phys- ical, implied in the tlieory I ppose, sums up his ideas thus : — ‘ Mr. Sadler says, that it is not a li ht or transient evil but a great and permanent evil. What then ? The qr ^ition of the origin of evil is a question of ay or no, — not a question o/moi : less.’ But what says Paley ? His express rule is this, that ‘ when we cannot resolve all appearances into benevolence of design, we make the few f/ive place to the many, the little to the great ,* that we take our judgment from a large and decided preponder ancy.* Now in weighing these two authorities, directly at issue on this point, I think there will be little trouble in determining which we shall make ‘ to give place ; ’ or, if we ‘look to a large and ecided preponderancy ’ of either talent, learning, or benevolence, from whom we shall ‘ take our judgment.’ The effrontery, or, to speak more charitably, the ignorance of a reference to Paley on this subject, and in th; ; instance is really marvellous.” Now, does not Mr. Sadler see that the very words which he quotes from Paley contain in themselves a refutation of his whole argument ? Paley says, indeed, as every man in his senses would say, that in a certain case which he has specified, the more and the less come into question. But in what case ? “ When we cannot resolve all appearances into the benevolence of design.” It is better that there should be a little evil than a great deal of evil. This is self-evident. But it also self-evident that no evil is better than a little evil. Why, then, is there any evil ? It is a mystery which we cannot solve. It is a mystery which Paley, by the very words which Mr. Sadler has quoted, acknowledges himself unable to solve; and it is because he cannot solve that mystery that he proceeds to take into consideration the more and. the less. Believing in the divine goodness, we must necessarily believe that the evils Avhich exist are necessary to avert greater evils. But Avhat those greater evils are we do not know. How the happiness of any part SADLER^S REFUTATIvON REPUTED. 576 of the sentient creation would be in any respect diminished if, for example, children cut their teeth without pain, we cannot understand. The case is exactly the same with the principle of Mr. Mai thus. If superfecundity exists, it exists, no doubt, because it is a less evil than some other evil which otherwise would exist. Can Mr. Sadler prove that this is an impossibility ? One single expression which Mr. Sadler employs on this subject is sufficient to show how utterly incompetent he is to discuss it. “On the Christian hypothesis,” says he, “no doubt exists as to the origin of evil.” lie does not, we think, understand what is meant by the origin of evil. The Christian Scriptures profess to give no solution of that mystery. They relate facts ; but they leave the metaphys^ ical question undetermined. They tell us that man fell ; but why he was not so constituted as to be incapable of fall- ing, or why the Supreme Being has not mitigated the con- sequences of the Fall more than they actually have been mitigated, the Scriptures did not tell us, and, it may witli- out presumption be said, could not tell us, unless we had been creatures different from what we are. There is some- thing, either in the nature of our faculties or in the nature of the machinery employed by us for the purpose of reason- ing, which condemns us, on this and similar subjects, to hopeless ignorance. Man can understand these high mat- ters only by ceasing to be man, just as a fly can understand a lemma of Newton only by ceasing to be a fly. To make it an objection to the Christian system that it gives us no solution of these difficulties, is to make it an objection to the Christian system that it is a system formed for human be- ings. Of the puzzles of the Academy, there is not one which does not apply as strongly to Deism as to Christianity, and to Atheism as to Deism. There are difficulties in erery- thing. Yet we are sure that something must be true. If revelation speaks on the subject of the origin of evil it speaks only to discourage dogmatism and temerity. In the most ancient, the most beautiful, and the most profound of all works on the subject, the Book of Job, both the sufferer who compiains of the divine government, and the injudi- cious advisers who attempt to defend it on wrong principles, are silenced by the voice of supreme wisdom, and reminded that the question is beyond the reach of human intellect. St. Paul silences the supposed objector, who strives to force him into controversy, in the same manner. The church has 576 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings* been, ever since the apostolic times, agitated by this ques- tion, and by a question wliich is insej>arable from it, the question of fate and free-will. The greatest theologians and j)hilosophers have acknowledged that these things were too high for them, and liave contented themselves with hinting at what seemed to be the most probable solution. What says Johnson? “All our effort ends in belief that for the evils of life there is some good reason, and in confession that the reason cannot be found.” What says Paley? “Of the origin of evil no universal solution has been discovered. I mean no solution which reaches to all cases of complaint. — The consideration of general laws, although it may concern the question of the origin of evil very nearly, which I think it does, rests in views dispro- portionate to our faculties, and in a knowledge which we do not possess. It serves rather to account for the obscurity of the subject, than to supply us with distinct answers to our difficulties.” What says presumptuous ignorance? “ No doubt whatever exists as to the origin of evil.” It is remarkable that ]Mr. Sadler does not tell us what his solu- tion is. The world, we suspect, will lose little by his silence. He falls on the reviewer again. “ Though I have shown,*' says he, “ and on authorities from which nono can liglitly differ, not only the cruelty and immorality which this system necessarily involves, but its most revolting feature, its gross partiality, he has wholly suppressed this, the most important of my argument ; as even the bare notice of it would have instantly exposed tlie sophistry to which he has had recourse. If, however, he would fairly meet the whole question, let him show me that ‘ hydrophobia,’ which he gives as an example of the laws of God and nature, is a calamity to which tlie poor alone are liable ; or that ‘ malaria,’ which, with singular infelicity, he has chosen as an illustra- tion of the fancied evils of population, is a respecter of persons.” We said notbing about Ibis argument, as Mr. Sadler calls it, merely because we did not think it worth while ', and we are half ashamed to say anything about it now. Ihit, since Mr. Sadler is so urgent for an answer, he shall have one. If there is evil, it must be either partial or uni- versal. Which is the better of the two? Hydrophobia, says this great philosopher, is no argument against the divine goodness, because mad dogs bite rich and poor alike ; but, if the rich were exempted, and only nine people suf- fered for ten who suffer now, hydrophobia would forthwith, simply because it would produce less evil than at present, become an argument against the divine goodness ! To state such a proposition, is to refute it. And is not the Sadler’s reputatiok refuted. 577 malaria a respecter of persons ? It infests Rome. Does it infest London ? There are complaints peculiar to the tropi- cal countries. There are others which are found only in mountainous districts ; others which are confined to marshy regions ; others again which run in ])articular families. Is not this partiality V Why is it more inconsistent with the divine goodness that poor men should suffer an evil from which rich men are exempt, than that a particular portion of the community should inherit gout, scrofula, insanity, and other maladies? And are there no miseries under ' which, in fact, the poor alone are suffering? Mr. Sadler himself acknowledges, in this very paragraph, that then) are such ; but he tells us that these calamities are the effects of misgovernmciit, and that this misgovernment is the effect of political economy. Be it so. But does he not see that he is only removing the difficulty one step farther ? Why does Providence suffer men, whose minds are filled with false and pernicious notions, to have power in the state ? For good ends, we doubt not, if the fact be so ; but for ends inscrutable to us, who see only a small part of the vast scheme, and who see that small part only for a short period. Does Mr. Sadler doubt that the Supreme Being has power as absolute over the revolutions of political as over the organization of natural bodies? Surely not ; and, if not, we do not see that he vindicates the ways of Provi- dence by attributing the distresses, which the poor, as he confesses, endure, to an error in legislation rather than to a law of physiology. Turn the question as we may, dis- guise it as Ave may, we shall find that it at last resolves itself into the same great enigma, — the origin of physical and moral evil : an enigma Avhich the highest humaq intel- lects have given up in despair, but which Mr. Sadler thinks himself perfectly able to solve. He next accuses us of having paused long on verbal crilicism. We certainly did object to his improper use of the words, “ inverse variation.” Mr. Sadler complains of this wdth his usual bitterness. “ Now what is the Reviewer’s quarrel with me on tnis occasion ? That ne does not understand the meaning of my terms ? No. He acknowl- edges the contraiy. That I have not fully explained the sense in which I have used them ? No. An explanation, he know^s, is immediately sub- joined, though he has carefully suppressed it. That I have varied the sense in which I have applied them ? No. I challenge him to show it. But he nevertheless goes on for many pages together in arguing against what he know's, and, in fact, acknowledges, I did not mean ; and then VoL. I. —37 m MACAUI.AY B SnSCELLANKOtTS WniTINGS. turn? round and art^ues again, tliough much more fochly, indeed, againat \rhat he says 1 did ihcan ! Now, even had 1 been in error as to the use of a word, I apoeal to the reader whetlier such an unworthy and disingenuous course wouln not, if generally pursued, make controversy on all subjects, however important, that into which, in such hands, it always degenerates — a dispute about words.” The best way to avoid controversies about words is to use words in their proper senses. Mr. Sadler may think our objection captious ; but how he can tliink it disingenu- ous we do not well understand. If we had represented him as meaning what we knew that he did not mean, we sltould have acted in a disgraceful manner. But we did not represent him, and he allows that we did not represent him, as meaning what he did not mean. We blamed him, and with perfect justice and propriety, for saying what he did not mean. Every man has in one sense a right to de- fine his own terms ; that is to say, if he chooses to call one two, and two seven, it would be alDsurd to charge him with false arithmetic for saying that seven is the double of one. But it would be perfectly fair to blame him for changing the established sense of words. The words, “ inverse varia- tion,” in matters not purely scientific, have often been used in the loose way in which Mr. Sadler has used them. But we shall be surprised if we can find a single instance of their having been so used in a matter of pure arithmetic. We will illustrate our meaning thus. Lord Thurlow, in one of his speeches about Indian affairs, said that one Has- tings was worth twenty Macartneys. Pie might, with equal propriety, have said ten Macartneys, or a hundred Macart- neys. Nor would there have been the least inconsistency in his using all the three expressions in one speech. But would* this be an excuse for a financier who, in a matter of account, should reason as if ten, twenty, and a hundred were the same number ? Mr. Sadler tells us that he purposely avoided the use of the word proportion in stating his principle. He seems, therefore, to allow that the word proportion would have l)een improper. Yet he did in fact employ it in explaining his principle, accompanied with an awkward explanation intended to signify that, though he said proportion, he meant something quite different from proportion. We should not have said so much on this subject, either in our former article, or at ])resent, but that there is in all Miv Sadler’s writings an air of scientific pedantry, which renders his errors fair game. W3 v;ill not let the matter rest; and, A i h SADLER S REFUTATION REFUTED. 579 instead of assailing Mr. Sadler witli our verbal criticism, j)roceed to defend ourselves against liis literal criticism. “ The Reviewer promised his readers that some curious results should follow from his shuffling. We will enable him to keej) his word. “ ‘ In two English counties/ says he, ‘ which contain from 50 to 100 in- habitants on the square mile, the births to 100 marriages are, according to Mr. Sadler, 420 ; but in 44 departments of France, in which there are from one to two hecatares [hectares} to each inliabitant, that is to say, in which the ])opulation is from 125 to 250, or rather more, to the square mile, the number of births to one hundred marriages is 423 and a fraction.* “ The first curious result is, that our Reviewer is ignorant, not only of the name, but of the extent, of a French hectare ; otherwise he is guilty of a ])ractice which, even if transferred to the gambling-table, would, I pre- Fiime, prevent him from being allowed ever to shuffle, even there, again. He was most ready to pronounce upon a mistake of one per cent, in a cal- culation of mine, the difference in no wise affecting the argument in hand ; but here I must inform him, that his error, whether wilfully or ignorantly put forth, involves his entire argument. The French hectare 1 had calculated to contain 107708iV?r English square feet, or acres ; Dr. Kelly takes it, on authority which he gives, at ]07644TWJmny English square feet, or 2 tVbVoV?j acres. The last French Annu- cures, however, state it, I perceive, as being equal to 2/o”ooViy acres. The difference is very trifling, and will not in the slightest degree cover our crit- ic’s error. The first calculation gives about 258 tV?t hectares to an English square mile ; the second, 25S{v% ; the last, or French calculation, 258f(f{T. When, therefore, the Reviewer calculates the population of the departments of France thus : ‘ from one to two hectares to each inhabitant, that is to say, in which the population is from 125 to 250, or rather more, to the square mile ; ’ his ‘ that is to say ’ is that which he ought not to have said — no rare case with him, as we shall sho^v throughout.” We must inform Mr. Sadler, in the first place, that we inserted the vowel which amuses him so much, not from ignorance or from carelessness, but advisedly, and in con- formity with the practice of several respectable writers. He will find the word hecatare in Rees’s Cyclopa3dia. He will find it also in Dr. Young. We prefer the form which we have employed, because it is etymologically correct. Mr. Sadler seems not to know that a hecatare is so called, because it contains a hundred ares. We were perfectly acquainted with the extent as well as with the name of a hecatare. Is it at all strange .that we should use the words ‘‘ 250, or rather more,” in speaking of 258 and a fraction? Do not people constantly employ round numbers with still greater looseness, in translating foreign distances and foreign money? If indeed, as Mr. Sadler says, the difference which he chooses to call an error involved the entire argument, or any part of the argument, we should have been guilty of gross unfairness. But it is so. The difference between 258 and 250, as even Mr. Sadler would see if he were not blind with fury, was a dif- ference to his advantage. Our point was this. The fecun- 580 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. dity of a dense population in certain departments of France 9 is greater than that of a tliinly scattered population in cer 1 tain counties of England. The more dense, therefore, the J population in tliose de])artmciits of France, the stronger m was our case. By putting 250, instcjid of 258, wo under f ; stated our case. Mr. Sadler’s correction of our orthography i leads us to suspect that he knows very little of Greek ; and i; his correction of our calculation quite satisfies us that he knows very little of logic. J But to come to the gist of the controversy. Our argu ^ ment, drawn from ]\Ir. Sadler’s own Tables, remains abso- t lutely untouched. lie makes excuses indeed ; for an excuse is the last thing that Mr. Sadler will ever want. There is something half laughable and half provoking in the facility ~ with which ho asserts and retracts, says and unsays, exactly as suits his argument. Sometimes the register of ba])tism is imperfect, and sometimes the register of burials. Then again these registers become all at once exact almost to an unit. He brings forward a census of Prussia in proof of his theory. We show that it directly confutes his theory ; and it forthwith becomes notoriously and grossly defective.’' The census of the Netherlands is not to be easily dealt with ; and the census of the Netherlands is therefore pronounced inaccurate. In his book on the Law of Population, he tells us that “ in the slave-holding States of America, the male slaves constitute a decided majority of that unfortunate class.” This fact we turned against him ; and, forgetting that he had himself stated it, he tells that “ it is as errone- ous as many other ideas which we entertain,” and that “he will venture to assert that the female slaves were, at the nubile age, as numerous as the males. The increase of the negroes in the United States puzzles him ; and he creates a vast slave-trade to solve it. He confounds together things perfectly different ; the slave-trade carried on under the American flag and the slave-trade carried on for the sup- ply of the American soil, — the slave-trade with Africa, and the internal slave-trade between the different States. lie exaggerates a few occasional acts of smuggling into an im- mense and regular importation, and makes his escape as well as he can under cover of this hubbub of words. Doc- uments are authentic and facts true precisely in proportion to the support which they^ afford to his theory. This is one way, undoubtedly, of making books : but we question much whether it be the way to make discoveries, Sadler’s refutation refuted. 581 As to the inconsistencies which we pointed out between his theory and his own tables, he finds no difficulty in ex- plaining them away or facing them out. In one case there would have been no contradiction if, instead of taking one of his tables, we had manipulated the number of three tables together, and taken the average. Another would never have existed if there had not been a great migration of peo- ple into Lancashire. Another is not to be got over by any device. But then it is very small, and of no consequence to tl e argument. Here, indeed, he is perhaps right. The inconsistencies whi we noticed were, in themselves, of little moment. We gave them as samples, — as mere hints, to caution those of our readers who might also happen to be readers of Mr. Sadler against being deceived by his packing. He com- plains of the word packing. We repeat it; and, since he has defied us to the proof, we will go fully into the question which, in our last article, we only glanced at, and prove, in such a manner as shall not leave even Mr. Sadler any shadow of excuse, that his theory owes its speciousness to packing, and to packing alone. That our readers may fully understand our reasoning, we will again state what Mr. Sadler’s proposition is. He asserts that, on a given space, the number of children to a marriage becomes less and less as the population becomes more and more numerous. We will begin with the censuses of France as given by Mr. Sadler. By joining the departments together in com- binations which suit his purpose, he has contrived to pro- duce three tables, which he presents as decisive proofs of his theory. The first is as follows : — The legitimate births are, in those departments where there are to each Inhabitant— From 4 to 5 hects. (2 departments) to every 1000 marriages 5130 3to4 . . (3do) 4372 2to3 . . (30do) 4250 lto2 . . (44do) 4234 •06 to 1 .. (5 do) 4146 and*06 . . (1 do) 2657 The two other computations he has given as one table We subjoin it. 582 MACAULAy’H MT8CKLLANEOU8 WRITINGS. Ilect. to each Inhabitant. Number of Departments. Legit. Births to 100 Marriages. Legit. Births to 100 Mar. (1826. 4 to 5 2 497 397 3 to 4 8 439 389 2 to 3 80 424 379 lto2 44 420 376 under 1 5 415 372 and 06 1 263 253 These tables, as we said in our former article, certainly look well from Mr. Sadler’s theory. “Do they?” says he. “ Assuredly they do ; and in admitting this, the Reviewer lias admitted the theory to be proved.” We cannot abso- lutely agree to this. A theory is not proved, we must tell Mr. Sadler, merely because the evidence in its favor looks well at first sight. There is an old proverb, very homely in expression, but well deserving to be had in con- stant remembrance by all men, engaged either in action or in speculation — “ One story is good till another is told ! ” We affirm, then, that the results which these tables pre- sent, and which seem so favorable to Mr. Sadler’s theory, are produced by packing, and by packing alone. In the first place, if we look at the departments singly, the whole is in disorder. About the department in which Paris is situated there is no dispute : Mr. Malthus distinctly admits that great cities prevent propagation. There remain eighty-four departments ; and of these there is not, we be- lieve, a single one in the place which, according to Mr. Sad- ler’s principle, it ought to occupy. That which ought to be highest in fecundity is tenth in one table, fourteenth in another, and only thirty-first ac- cording to the third. That which ought to be third is twenty-second by the table, which places it highest. That which ought to be fourth is fortieth by the table, which places it highest. That which ought to be eighth is fiftieth or sixtieth. That which ought to be tenth from the top is about the same distance from the bottom. On the other hand, that which, according to Mr. Sadler’s principle, ought to be last but two of all the eighty-four is third in two of the tables, and seventh in that which places it lowest ; and that which ought to be last is, in one of Mr. Sadler’s tables, above that which ought to be first, in two of them, above that which ought to be third, and, in all of them, above that which ought to be fourth. sadler’s refutation refuted. 583 By dividing the departments in a particular manner, Mr. Sadler has produced results which he contemplates with great satisfaction. But, if we draw the lines a little higher up or a little lower down, we shall find that all his calcula- tions are thrown into utter confusion ; and that the phe- nomena, if they indicate anything, indicate a law the very reverse of that which he has propounded. Let us take, for example, the thirty-two departments, as they stand in Mr. Sadler’s table, from Lozere to Meuse in- ( lusive, and divide them into two sets of sixteen depait- ments e|ich. The set from Lozere and Loiret inclusive con- sists of" those departments in which the space to each inhabitant is from 3-8 hecatares to 2*42. The set from Can- tal to Meuse inclusive consists of those departments in which the space to each inhabitant is from 2'42 hectares to 2*07. That is to say, in the former set the inhabitants are from G8 to 107 on the square mile, or thereabouts. In the latter they are from 107 to 125. Therefore, on Mr. Sadler’s prin- ciple, the fecundity ought to be smaller in the latter set tlian in the former. It is, however, greater, and that in every one of Mr. Sadler’s three tables. Let us now go a little lower down, and take another set of sixteen departments — those which lie together in Mr. Sadler’s tables, from Herault to J ura inclusive. Here the population is still thicker than in the second of those sets wliich we before compared. The fecundity, therefore, ought, on Mr. Sadler’s principle, to be less than in that set. But it is again greater, and that in all Mr. Sadler’s three tables. We have a regular ascending series, where, if his theory liad any truth in it, we ought to have a regularly descend* ing series. We will give the results of our calculation. The number of children to 1000 marriages is — First Table. Second Table. Third Table. In the sixteen departments •where there are from 68 to 107 people on a square mile 4188 4226 3780 Ill the sixteen departments where there are from 107 “ to 125 people on a square mile 4374 4332 3855 In the sixteen departments where there are from 134 to 125 people on a square mile . m 441Q 3914 584 Macaulay’s mtscellaxeous writings. We will give another instance, if possil)le still more de- cisive. We will take the three departments of France which ought, on Mr. Sadler’s principle, to be the lowest in fecun- dity of all the eighty-five, saving only th^t in which Paris stands ; and we will compare them with the three depart- ments in which the fecundity ought, according to him, to bo greater than in any other department of France, two only excepted. We will compare Bas Rhin, Rhone, and Nord, with Lozere, Landes, and Indre. In Lozere, Landes, and Indre, the population is from 68 to 84 on the square mile, or nearly so. In Bas Rhin, Rhone, and Nord, it is from 300 to 417 on the square mile. There cannot be“ a more overwhelming answer to Mr. Sadler’s theory than the table which we subjoin : The number of births to 1000 marriages is — First Table. Second Table. Third Tabla In the three departments in which there are from 68 to 84 people on the square mile 4372 4390 3890 In the three departments in which there are from 300 to 417 people on the square mile 4457 4510 4060 These are strong cases. But we have a still stronger case. Take the whole of the third, fourth, and fifth divis- ions into which Mr. Sadler has portioned out the French departments. These three divisions make up almost the whole kingdom of France. They contain seventy-nine out of the eighty-five departments. Mr. Sadler bas contrived to divide them in such a manner that, to a person who looks merii y at his averages, the fecundity seems to diminish as the population thickens. We will separate them into two parts instead of three. We will draw the line between the department of Gironde and that of Herault. On the one side are the thirty-two departments from Cher to Gironde inclusive. On the other side are the forty-six departments from Herault to Nord inclusive. In all the departments of the former set, the population is under 132 on the square mile. It is clear that, if there be one word of truth in Mr, Sadler’s theory, the fecundity of the latter of these divisions must be very decidedly smaller than in the former. Is it sadleb’s refutation reputed. 585 BO ? It is, on the contrary, greater in all the three tables. We give the rebult. The number of births to 1000 marriages is— First Table. Second Table. Third Table. In the thirty-two departments in which there are from 86 to 132 people on the square mile r\ 4210 4199 3760 In the forty-seven depart- ments in which there are from 132 to 417 people on tlie square mile .... 4260 4224 3766 This fact is alone enough to decide the question. Yet it is only one of a crowd of similar facts. If the line be- tween Mr. Sadler’s second and third divisions be drawn six departments lower down, the third and fourth divisions will, in all the tables, be above the second. If the line between the third and fourth divisions be drawn two dejiartments lower down, the fourth division will be above the third in all the tables. If the line between the fourth and fifth divis- ions be drawn two departments lower down, the fifth will, in all the tables, be above the fourth, above the third, and even above the second. How then has Mr. Sadler ob- tained his results ? .By packing solely. By placing in one compartment a district no larger than the Isle of Wight 5 in another, a district somewhat less than Yorkshire ; in a third, a territory much larger than the island of Great Britain, By the same artifice it is that he has obtained from the census of England those delusive averages which he brings forward with the utmost ostentation in proof of his prin- ciple. We will examine the facts relating to England, as we have examined those relating to France. If we look at the counties one by one, Mr. Sadler’s prin- ciple utterly fails. Hertfordshire with 251, on the square mile; Worcestershire with 258; and Kent with 282, exhibit a far greater fecundity than the East-Riding of York, which has 151 on the square mile; Monmouthshire, which has 145 ; or Northumberland, which has 108. The fecundity ol Staffordshire, which has more than 300 on the square mile, is as high as the average fecundity of the counties which have from 150 to 200 on the square nile. Butj instead oi 586 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. confining ourselves to particular instances, we will try masses. Take tlie eight counties of England which stand together in Mr. Sadler’s list, from Cumberland to Dorset inclusive. In these the population is from 107 to 150 on the square mile. Compare with these the eight counties from Berks to Durham inclusive, in whicli the population is from 1 75 to 200 on the square mile. Is the fecundity in tlie latter counties smaller than in the former? On the contrary, the result stands thus : , The number of children to 100 marriages is — In the eight counties of England, in which there are from 107 to 146 people on the square mile . . . 388 In the eight counties of England, in which there are from 175 to 200 people on the square mile . . . 402 Take the six districts from the East-Riding of York to the County of Norfolk inclusive. Here the population is from 150 to 170 on the square mile. To these oppose the six counties from Derby to Worcester inclusive. The popula- tion is from 200 to 260. Here again we find that a law, directly the reverse of that which Mr. Sadler has laid down, appears to regulate the fecundity of the inhabitants. The number of children to 100 marriages is — In the six counties in which there are from 150 to 170 people on the square mile 392 In the six counties in which there are from 200 to to 260 i^eople on the square mile 399 But we will make another experiment on Mr. Sadler’s tables, if possible more decisive than any of those which we have hitherto made. We will take the four largest divis- ions into which he has distributed the English counties, and which follow each other in regular order. That our reader? may fully comprehend the nature of that packing by which his theory is supported, we will set before them tbis part oi his table. SADLER’S ERPUTATIOK REEOTSl), 587 OOUNTIEB. Population on & Square Mile. Population in 1821. Square Miles iis { each County. | Number of Marriages from 1810 to 1820. J Number of Baptisms from 1810 to 1820 Proportion of ( Births to 100 Marriages. Lincoln .... 105 288,800 2748 20,892 87,620 Ciiraberland . . . 107 159,300 1478 10,299 45,085 Nortliumberland. . 108 203,000 1871 12,997 45,871 Hereford .... 122 . 105,300 860 6,202 27,909 Rutland .... 127 18,900 149 1,286 5,125 Huntingdon . . . 131 49,800 370 3,766 13,633 Cambridge . . . 145 124,400 858 9,894 37,491 Monmouth , . . 145 72,300 498 4,586 13,411 Dorset 146 147,400 1005 9,554 39,060 From 100 to 150. 79,476 315,205 396 York, East Riding . Salop 151 194,300 1280 15,313 55,606 153 210,300 1341 13,613 58,542 Sussex 1G2 237,700 1463 15,779 68,700 Northampton . . 1G3 165,800 1017 12,346 42,336 Wilts 1G4 226,600 1379 15 G54 58,845 Norfolk .... 1G8 351,300 2092 25,752 102,259 Devon 173 447,900 2579 35,264 130,758 Southampton . . . 177 289,000 1G28 24,561 88,170 Berks 178 134,700 756 9,301 38,841 Suffolk 182 276,000 1512 19,885 76,327 Bedford .... 184 85,400 463 6,536 22,871 Buckingham . . . 185 136,800 740 9,505 37,518 Oxford 186 139,800 752 9,131 39,633 Essex 193 295,300 1532 19,726 79,792 Cornwall .... 198 262,600 1327 17,363 74,611 Durham .... 199 211,900 1031 14,787 58,222 From 150 fo 200. 264,516 1,033,039 390 Derby ..... 217,600 1026 14,226 68,804 Somerset .... 212 362,500 1642 24,356 95,802 Leicester .... 220 178,100 804 13,366 47,013 Nottingham . . . 221 190,700 837 14,296 55,517 228 From 200 to 250. 66,244 267,136 388 Hertford .... 251 132,400 528 7,386 35,741 Worcester .... 258 188,200 729 13,178 63,838 Chester 262 275,500 1052 20,305 75,012 Gloucester . , , 272 342,600 1256 28,884 90,671 Kent 282 mm 1537 33,502 135,060 Fr(ym 250 to 300. 103,255 390*322 879 588 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. Tliese averages look well, undoubtedly, for Mr. Sadler’s theory. The numbers 39G, 390, 388, 378, follow eacli other verj^ speciously in a descending order. But let our readers divide these thirty-four counties into two equal sets of sev- enteen counties each, and try whether the principle will then hold good. We have made this calculation, and we j)resent them with the following result. The number of children to 100 marriages is — In the seventeen counties of England in which there are from 100 to 177 people on the square mile . 387 In the seventeen counties in which there are from 177 to 282 peojile on the square mile . . . 389 The difference is small, but not smaller than differences which Mr. Sadler has brought forward as proofs of his theory. We say, that these English tables no more prove that fecundity increases with the population than that it diminishes with the population. The thirty-four coun ties which we have taken make up, at least, four-fifths of the kingdom : and we see that, through those thirty-four counties, the phenomena are directly opposed to Mr. Sadler’s principle. That in the capital, and in great manufacturing towns, marriages are less prolific than in the open country, we admit, and Mr. Malthus admits. But that any con- densation of the population, short of that which injures all physical energies, will diminish the prolific j^owers of man, is, from these very tables of Mr. Sadler, completely dis- proved. It is scarcely worth while to proceed with instances, after proofs so overwhelming as those which we have given. Yet we will show that Mr. Sadler has formed his averages on the census of Prussia by an artifice exactly similar to that which we have already exposed. Of the census of 1756 we will say nothing, as Mr. Sadler, finding himself hard pressed by the argument which we drew from it, now declares it to be grossly defective. We confine ourselves to the census of 1784 : and we wdll draw our lines at points somewhat different from those at which Mr. Sadler has drawn his. Let the first compartment re- main as it stands. Let East Prussia, which contains a much larger population than his last compartment, stand alone in the second division. Let the third consist of the New Mark, the Mark of Brandenburg, East Friesland and Guelderland, and the fourth of the rciiiainiug provinces. Our readers SADLKR’s REPUTATION REFUTED. 589 'Will find that, on this aiTangement, the division which, on Mr Sadler’s principle ought to be second in fecundity iitaiids higher than that which ought to be first and that the division which ought to be fourth stands liigher than Hihat which ought to be third. We will give the result in ^ne view. Penwnatrating the Law of Population from the Censuses of Prussia^ at two several Periods. Inhabi- 1 Births to Births to PROVINCES. tants on a each Average. eacli Average. Square Marriage. Marriage. League. 1756. 1784. West Prussia . . 832 4-3 4*34 4 75 4*72 Pomerania . . . 928 4C9 East Prussia . . 1175 5 07 1 6*10 New Mark . . . 1190 4-22 1 1 4*43 Mark of Bran- 1 denburg ) 1790 3*88 1 4*14 4*60 4*45 East Friesland . . 1909 3*39 J 3*66 Guelderland . . 2083 4*33 3*74 Silesia and Glatz 2314 4*84 Cleves 2375 3*80 4*03 Minden and . ) Ravensburg ) 2549 3*67 > 3*84 4*31 ■4*24 Magdeburg . . . 2692 , 4-03 4*57 Neufchatel, &c. . . 2700 3*39 3*98 Ilalberstadt . . . 3142 3*71 1 1 4*48 > 1 Tickliugburg . ) and Lingen ) 3461 3*69 1 [ 3*65 3*69 [ 4*08 The number of births to a marriage is — In those provinces of Prussia where there are fewer than 1000 people on the square league 4*72 In the province in which there are 1175 people on the square league 5'10 111 the provinces in which there are from 1190 to 2083 people on the square mile 4i0 In the provinces in which there are from 2314 to 34G1 people on the square league 4 '27 We will go no farther with this examination. In fact, we have nothing more to examine. The tables which we have scrutinized constitute the whole strength of Mr. Sadler’s case ; and we confidently leave it to our readers to say, whether we have not shown that the strength of his case is weakness. Be it remembered too that we are reasoning on data 690 MACAULAY’S mSCELLANEOUS WRTTTN-Gfl. furnished by Mr. Sadler himself. We have not made col- lections of facts to set against his, as wo easily might have done. It is on his own showing, it is out of his own mouth, that his theory stands condemned. That packing which we have exposed is not the onl^ sort of packing which Mr. Sadler has practised. We men- tioned in our review some facts relating to the towns of England, Avhich appear from Mr. Sadler’s tables, and whicl) it seems impossible to explain if his principles be sound. The average fecundity of a marriage in towns of fewer than 8000 inhabitants is greater than the average fecundity of the kingdom. The average fecundity in towns of from 4030 to 5000 inhabitants is greater than the average fecun- dity of Warwickshire, Lancashire, or Surrey. IIow is it, we asked, if Mr. Sadler’s principle be correct, that the fecundity of Guildford should be greater than the averge fecundity of the county in which it stands ? Mr. Sadler, in reply, talks about ‘‘ the absurdity of com- paring the fecundity in the small towns alluded to with that in the counties of Warwick and Stafford, or those of Lan- caster and Surrey.” He proceeds thus : — “ In Warwickshire, far above half the population is comprised in large towns, including, of course, the immense metropolis of one great branch of our manufactures, Birmingham. In the county of Stafford, besides the large and populous towns in its iron districts, situated so close together as almost to form, for considerable distances, a continuous street; there is, in its potteries, a great population, recently accumulated, not included, indeed, in the towns distinctly enumerated in the censuses, but vastly exceeding in its condensation that found in the i3laces to which the Reviewer alludes. In Lancashire again, to which he also appeals, one-fourth of the entire popula- tion is made up oJSrthe inhabitants of two only of the towns of that county ; far above half of it is contained in towns, compared with which those he refers to are villages ; even the hamlets of the manufacturing parts of Lancashire aie often far more populous than the places he mentions. But he presents us with a climax of absurdity in appealing lastly to the population of Surrey as quite rural compared with that of the twelve towns, having less than 5000 inliab- itants in their respective jurisdictions, such as Saffrou-Walden, Monmouth, &c. Now, in the last census, Surrey numbered 398,658 inhabitants, and, to say not a word about the other towns of tho county, much above two hun- dred thousands of these are within the Bills of Mortality! ‘We should, therefore, be glad to know ’ how it is utterly inconsistent with my i^rinciple that the fecundity of Guildford, which numbers about 3000 inhabitants, should be greater than the average fecundity of Surrey, made up, as the bulk of the population of Surrey is, of the inhabitants of some of the worst parts of the metropolis ? Or 'v\hy the fecundity of a given number of mar- riages in the eleven little rural towns he alludes to, being somewhat higher than that of an equal number, half taken for instance, from the heart of Birmingham or Manchester, and half from the populous districts by which they are surrounded, is inconsistent with my theory ? “ Had the Reviewer’s object, in this instance, been to discover the truth, or had he known how to pursue it, it is perfectly clear, at first sight, that he would not have instituted a comparison between the proiificness which SADLER’S REFUTATION REFUTED. 591 exisis in the small towns he has alluded to, and that in certain districts, Uk population of wliich is made ui>, partly of rural inhabitants and partly ol accumulations of people in immense masses, the prolificness of which, if lie will albw me still the use of the phrase, is inversely as their magnitude, but he vould have compared these small towms with the co Aiitry places properly bo called, and then again the different classes of towns with each other; this method would have led to certiiin conclusions on the subject.” Now, this reply shows that Mr. Sadler does not in the least understand the priiici])le which he himself has laid down. What is that principle ? It is this, that the feciiH’ dity of human beings on given spaces^ varies inversely as their numbers. We know what he means by inverse varia- tion. But we must suppose that he uses the words, “given spaces ” in the proper sense. Given spaces are equal spaces. Is there any reason to believe, that in those parts of Surrey which lie within the bills of mortality there is any space, equal in area to the space on which Guildford stands, which is more thickly peopled than the space on which Guildford stands? We do not know that there is any such. We are sure that there are not many. Why, therefore, on Mr. Sadler’s principle, should the people of Guildford be more prolific than the people who live within the bills of mortality ? And, if the people of Guildford ought, as on Mr. Sadler’s principle they unquestionably ought, to stand as low in the scale of fecundity as the people of Southwark itself, it follows, most clearly, that they ought to stand far lower than the average obtained by taking all the people of Surrey together. The same remark applies to the case of Birmingham, and to all the other cases which Mr. Sadler mentions. Towns of 5000 inhabitants may be, and often are, as thickly peopled, “ on a given space,” as Birmingham. They are, in other words, as thickly peopled as a portion of Birming- ham, equal to them in area. If so, on Mr. Sadler’s principle, they ought to be as low in the scale of fecundity as Bir- mingham. But they are not so. On the contrary, they stand higher than the average obtained by taking the fecun- dity of Birmingham in combination with the fecundity of the rural districts of Warwickshire. The plain fact is that Mr. Sadler has confounded the population of a city with its population “ on a given space,” —a mistake which, in a gentleman who assures us that mathematical science was one of his early and favorite Sadies, is somewhat curious. It is as absurd, on his prin- ciple, to say that the fecundity of London ought to be less 592 Macaulay’s misckllaxkoi. s aviutings. than the fecundity of Edinburgh, because London has greater population than Edinburgh, as to say that the fe- cundity of Russia ouglit to be greate/’ than that of England, because Russia has a greater population than England. IFo cannot say that the spaces on whicl towns stand are 1 very passage which we :juoted above, he tells us that if we knew how to pursue truth, or wished to find it, we “ should have compared these small towns with country ])laces, and the different classes of towns Avith each other.” That ir> to say, Ave ought to compare together such unequal spaces as give results favor- able to his theory, and neA^er to com} are such equal spaces as give results opposed to it. Does be mean any thing by “ a given space ? ” Or does he mean merely such a space as suits his argument ? It is perfectly clear that, if he is al- lowed to take this course, he may prove anything. No fact can come amiss to him. Suppose, for example, that the fecundity of Ncav York should prove to be smaller than the fecundity of Liverpool. “ That,” says Mr. Sadler, ‘‘ makes for my theory. For there are more people Avithin two miles of the Broadway of NeAV York, than within two miles ot the Exchange of Liverpool.” Suppose, on the other hand, that the fecundity of Ncav York should be greater than the fecundity of Liverpool. This,” says Mr. Sadler again, “ is an unanswerable proof of my theory. For there are many more people within forty miles of Liverpool than within forty miles of New York.” In order to obtain his numbers, he takes spaces in any combinations which may suit him. In order to obtain his averages, he takes numbers in any com- binations which may suit him. And then he tells us that, because his tables, at the first glance, look well for his theory, his theory is irrefragably proved. We will add a few Avords respecting the argument which we drew from the peerage. Mr. Sadler asserted that the Peers were a class condemned by nature to sterility. We denied this, and showed, from the last edition of Dcbrett, that the Peers of the United Kingdom have considerably more than the average number of children to a marriage. Mr. Sadler’s ansAver has amused us much. He denies the accuracy of the counting, and by reckoning all the Scotch and Irish Peers as Peers of the United Kingdom, certainly makes very diiierest numbers from thorn Avhich wa gave* Sadler’s refutation refuted. A member of the Parliament of the United Kingdom might have been expected, we think, to know better what a Peer of the United Kingdom is. By taking the Scotch and Irish Peers, Mr. Sadler has altered the average. But it is considerably higher than the average fecundity of England, and still, therefore, consti- tutes an unanswerable argument against his theory. The shifts to which, in this difficulty, he has recourse, are exceedingly diverting. “ The average fecundity of the marriages of Peers,” said we, “is higher by one-fifth than the average fecundity of marriages throughout the king- dom.” “ Where, or by whom did the Reviewer find it supposcii,” answers Mr. Sadler, “that the registered baptisms ex- pressed the full fecundity of the marriages of England ? ” Assuredly, if the registers of England are so defective as to explain the difference which, on our calculation, ex- ists between the fecundity of the peers and the fecundity of the people, no argument against Mr. Sadler’s theory can be drawn from that difference. But what becomes of all tlie other arguments which Mr. Sadler has founded on tlicse very registers? Above all, what becomes of his com- j^arison between the censuses of England and France ? In the pamphlet before us, he dwells with great complacency on a coincidence which seems to him to support his theory, and which to us seems, of itself, sufficient to overthrow it. “ In my table of the population of France, in the forty-four departments in which there are from one to two hectares to each inhabitant, the fecundity of 100 marriages, calculated on the average of the results of the three com- putations relating to different periods given in my table, is 406 In the twenty-two counties of England, in which there is from one to two hectares to each inhabitant, or from 129 to 259 on the square mile, — beginning, there- fore, with Huntingdonshire, and ending with Worcestershire, — the whole number of marriages during ten years will be found to amount to 379,624, and the whole number of the births during the same term to 1,545,549 — or 407 tV births to 100 marriages ! A difference of one in one thousand only, compared with the French proportion ! Does not Mr. Sadler see that, if the registers of England which are notoriously very defective, give a result exactly corresponding almost to an unit with that obtained from the registers of France, which are notoriously very full and accurate, this proves the very reverse of what he employs it to prove ? The correspondence of the registers proves that there is no correspondence in the facts. In order to raise the average fecundity of England even to the level of the average fecundity of the peers of the three kingdoms^ o * *■’ 694 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. which is 3*81 to a, marriage, it is necessary to add nearly six per cent, to the numl)er of birtlis given in the English registers. But, if this addition 1>e made, we shall have, in the counties of England, from Huntingdonshire to Worces- tershire inclusive, 4*30 births to a mai riage or thei eabouts ; and the boasted coincidence between the phenomena of propagation in Franco and England disappears at once. This is a curious specimen of Mr. Sadler’s proficiency in the art of making excuses. In the same ])amphlet he reasons as if the same registers were accurate to one in a thousard, and as if they were wrong at the very least by one in eigh- teen. He tries to show’’ that we have not taken a fair criterion of the fecundity of the peers. W e are not quite sure that we understand his reasoning on this subject. The order of his observations is more than usually confused, and the cloud of words more than usually thick. W e will give the argu- ment on which he seems to lay most stress in his own words “ But I shall first notice a far more obvious and important blunder into which the Reviewer has fallen ; or into w'hich, I rather fear, he knowingly wishes to precipitate his readers, since I have distinctly pointed out what ought to have preserved him from it in the very chapter he is criticising and contradicting. It is this : — he has entirely omitted “ counting” the sterile marriages of all those peerages which have become extinct during the very { period his counting embraces. He counts, for instance, Earl Fitzwilliam, lis marriages, and lieir ; but has he not omitted to enumerate the marriages of those branches of the same noble house, which have become extinct since that venerable individual possessed his title ? He talks of my having ap- pealed merely to the extinction of peerages in my argument f but, on his plan of computing, extinctions are perpetually and wholly lost sight of. In computing the average prolificness of the marriages of the nobles, he posi- tively counts from a select class of them only, one from which the unprolific are constantly weeded, and regularly disappear ; and he thus comes to the conclusion, that the peers are ‘ an eminently prolific class ! ’ Just as though a farmer should compute the rate of increase, not from the quantity of seed sown, but from that part of it only which comes to perfection, entirely omit- ting all which had failed to spring up or come to maturity. Upon this prin- ciple the most scanty crop ever obtained, in which the husband-man should fail to receive ‘seed again,’ as the phrase is, might be so ‘counted as to appear ‘ eminently prolific ’ indeed.”' If we understand this passage rightly, it decisively proves that Mr. Sadler is incompetent to perform even the .lowest offices of statistical research. What shadow of rea- son is there to believe that the peers who were alive in the year 1828 differed as to their prolificness from any other equally numerous set of peers taken at random ? In what sense were the peers who were alive in 1828 analogous to hat part of the seed which comes to perfection ? Did we bablee's refutation refuted. 596 entirely omit all tliat failed? On tlie contrary, we counted the sterile as Avell as tlie fruitful marriages of all the peers of tlie United Kingdom living at one time. In what way were tlie peers who were alive in 1828 a select class? In what way were the sterile weeded from among them? Did every peer who had been married without having issue die in ifet? Wliat shadow of reason is there to suppose that there was not the ordinary proportion of barren marriages among tlie marriages contracted by the noblemen whoso names are in Debrett’s last edition ? But we ought, says Mr. Sadler, to have counted all the sterile marriages of all the ])cers “ Avhose titles had become extinct during the period wliicli our counting embraced that is to say, since the earliest marriage contracted by any peer living in 1828. Was such a proposition ever heard of before? Surely wc were bound to do no such thing, unless at the same time we had counted also the children born from all the fruitful marriages contracted by peers during the same period. Mr. Sadler would have us divide the number of children born to |)eers living in 1828, not by the number of marriages' which those peers contracted, but by the number of mar- riages which those peers contracted added to a crowd of marriages selected, on account of their sterility, from among the noble marriages which have taken place during the last fifty years. Is this the way to obtain fair averages? We might as Avell require that ail the noble marriages Avhich dur- ing the last fifty years have produced ten children apiece should be added to those of the peers living in 1828. The proper way to ascertain whether a set of people be prolific or sterile is, not to take marriages selected from the mass cither on account of their fruitfulness or on account of their steiility, but to take a collection of marriages which there is no reason to think either more or less fruitful than others. What reason is there to think that the marriages contracted by the peers who were alive in 1828 were more fruitful than those contracted by the peers who were alive in 1800 or in 1750? We will add another passage from Mr. Sadler’s pam* phlet on this subject. We attributed the extinction of peer- ages partly to the fact that those honors are for the most part limited to heirs male. “ This is a discovery indeed ! Peeresses, ‘ eminently prolific,* do not, as Macbeth conjured his spouse, ‘bring forth men-children only;’ they actual- ly produce daughters aa well as sous!! Why, does not the Reviewer see^ MACAtTLAv’s MISCELLANKOIIS \VUlTlx\GS. that 80 lonj» as tlie rule of nature, which proportions tlie sexes so accnra:rel.y to each other, continues to exist, a tendency to a diminution in one sex proves, as certainly as the demonstration of any mathematical problem, a tendency to a diminution i^' both; but to talk of ‘eminently prolific’ peer- esses, and still to maintain that the raj)id extinction in peerages is owing to their not bearing male children exclusively, is arrant nonsense.’* ]STow, if there be any proposition on the face of the earth which we should not have expected to hear characterized as arrant nonsense, it is this, — that an honor limited to males alone is more likely to become extinct than an honor which, like the crown of England, descends indifferently to sons and daughters. We have heard, nay, we actually know families, in which, much as Mr. Sadler may marvel at it,' there are daughters and no sons. Nay, wo know many such families. W e are as much inclined as Mvo Sadler to trace the benevolent and wise arrangements of Providence in the physical world, when once we are satisfied as to the facts on which we proceed. And we have alv/ays considered it as an arrangement deserving of the highest admiration, that, though in families the number of males and females differs widely, yet in great collections of human beings the dispar- ity almost disappears. The chance undoubtedly is, that in a thousand marriages the number of daughters will not very much exceed the number of sons. But the chance also is, that several of those marriages will produce, daughters, and daughters only. In every generation of the peerage there are several such cases. When a peer whose title is limited to male heirs dies, leaving only daughters, his peerage must expire, unless he have, not only a collateral heir, but a collat- eral heir descended through an uninterrupted line of males from the first possessor of the honor. If the deceased peer was the first nobleman of his family, then, by the supposition, his peerage will become extinct. If he was the second, it will become extinct, unless he leaves a brother or a brother’s son. If the second 23cer had a brother, the first peer must nave had at least two sons ; and this is more than the aver- age number of sons to a marriage in England. When, there- foi e, it is considered how’’ many peerages are in the first and second generation, it will not appear strange that extinctions should frequently take place. There are peerages which descend to females as well as males. But, in such cases, if a peer dies, leaving only daughters, the very fecundity of the marriage is a cause of the extinction of the peerage. If there were only one daughter, the honor w^ould descend. If there were several, it falls into abeyance. SADLER^S KEEUTATir^X REFUTED. 597 But it is needless to niulti])ly words in a case so clear: and indeed it is needless to say anytliing more about Mr, Sadler’s book. We have, if w^e do not deceive ourselves, completely exposed the calculations on which his theory rests ; and we do not think that we should either amuse our readers or serve the cause of science if we were to rebut in succession a series of futile charges brought in the most angry spirit against ourselves , ignorant imputations of igno- rance, and unfair complaints of unfairness, — conveyed :n long, dreary declamations, so prolix that we cannot find space to quote them, and so confused that we cannot venture to abridge them. There is much indeed in this foolish pamphlet to laugh at, from the motto in the first page down to some wdsdom about coAvs in the last. One part of it indeed is solemn enough, we mean a certain jeu d^esprit of Mr. Sadler’s touching a tract of Dr. Arbuthnot’s. This is indeed very tragical mirth,” as Peter Quince’s playbill has it; and we would not advise any person who reads for amusement to ven- ture on it as long as he can procure a volume of the Statutes at Large. This, however, to do Mr. Sadler justice, is an exception. His witticisms, and his tables of figures, consti- tute the only parts of his work which can be perused with perfect gravity. Ilis blunders are diverting, his excuses exquisitely comic. But his anger is the most grotesque exhibition that we ever saw. He foams at the mouth with the love of truth, and vindicates the Divine benevolence wdth a most edifying heartiness of hatred. On this subject we wdll give him one word of parting advice. If he raves in this way to ease his mind, or because he thinks that he does himself credit by it, or from a sense of religious duty, far be it from us to interfere. His peace, his reputation, and his religion are his owm concern ; and he, like the nobleman to V horn his treatise is dedicated, has a right to do what he will with his own. But, if he has adopted his abusive style from a notion that it would hurt our feelings, we must inform him that he is altogether mistaken ; and that he would do well in future to give us his arguments, if he has any, and to keep his anger for those who fear it. 698 uacaulay’s miscellaneous whitings* CIVIL DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS * {Edinburgh Review^ January ^ 1831.) The distinguished member of the House of Commons who, towards the close of tlie late Parliament, brought for* : ward a proposition for the relief of the Jews, has given notice of his intention to renew it. The force of reason, in the last session, carried the measure through one stage, in spite of the opposition of power. Reason and power are now on the same side; and we have little doubt that they will conjoint- ^ ly achieve a decisive victory. In order to contribute our J share to the success of just principles, we propose to ])ass in ^ review, as rapidly as possible, some of the arguments, or phrases claiming to be arguments, which have been em- : ployed to vindicate a system full of absurdity and injustice. ? The constitution, it is said, is essentially Christian ; and therefore to admit Jews to office is to destroy the constitu- | tion. Nor is the Jew injured by being excluded from polit- ical power. For no man has any right to power. A man W has a right to his property ; a man has a right to be pro- f tected from personal injury. These rights the law allows to 'f the Jew; and with these rights it would be atrocious to interfere. But it is mere matter of favor to admit any man to political power ; and no man can justly complain that ho is shut out from it. We cannot but admire the ingenuity of this contrivance f. for shifting the burden of the proof from those to whom it properly belongs, and who would, we suspect, find it rather " cumbersome. Surely no Christian can deny that every human being has a right to be allowed every gratification which produces no harm to others, and to be spared every mortification which produces no good to others. Is it not a source of mortification to a class of men that they are excluded from political power? If it be, they have, on Christian principles, a right to be freed from that mortifica tion, unless it can be shown that their exclusion is necessary for the averting of some greater evil. The presumption is • StcUement of the Civil Disabilities and Privations ajfscting Jews in England Svo. Loudon: 1829. CIVIL DISABILITIES OB" THE JEWS. 599 evidently in favor of toleration. It is for the prosecutor to make out his case. The strange argument which we are considering would prove too much even for those who advance it. If no man lias a right to political power, then neither Jew nor Gentile . has such a right. The whole foundation of government is taken away. But if government be taken away, the prop- erty and the persons of men are insecure ; and it is acknowl edged that men have a right to their property and to per- sonal security. If it be right that the property of men should be protected, and if this can only be done by means of government, then it must be right that government should exist. Now there cannot be government unless some person or persons possess political power. Therefore it is right that some person of persons should possess political power. That is to say, some person or j:>ersons must have a right to political power. It is because men are not in the habit of considering what tlie end of government is, that Catholic disabilities and Jewish disabilities have been suffered to exist so long. We hear of essentially Protestant governments and essentially Christian governments, words which mean just as much as essentially Protestant cookery, or essentially Christian horse- manship. Government exists for the purpose of keeping the j)eace, for the purpose of compelling us to settle our disputes l)y arbitration instead of settling them by blows, for the purpose of compelling us to supply our wants by industry instead of supplying them by rapine. This is the only oper- ation for which the machinery of government is peculiarly adapted, the only operation which wise governments ever propose to themselves as their chief object. If there is any class of people who are not interested, or who do not think themselves interested, in the security of property and the maintenance of order, that class ought to have no share of the powers which exist for the purpose of securing property and maintaining order. But Avhy a man should be less fit to exercise those powers because he wears a beard, because ho does not eat ham, because he goes to the synagogue on Saturdays instead of going to the church on Sundays, we cannot conceive. The points of difference between Christianity and Jtidaism have very much to do with a man’s fitness to be a bishop or a rabbi. But they have no more to do with his fitness to be a magistrate, a legislator, or a minister of finance, than with 600 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. his fitness to be a cobbler. Nobody has ever thought of j compelling cobblers to make any declaration on the true ? faith of a Christian. Any man would rather have his shoes | mended by a heretical cobbler than by a person who had \ subscribed all the thirty-nine articles, but had never handled 1 an awl. Men act thus, not because they arc indifferent to • ¥ religion, but because they do not see what religion has to do { with the mending of their shoes. Yet religion has as much ; to do with the mending of shoes as with the budget and the | army estimates. We have surely had several signal proofs ^ within the last twenty years that a very good Christian may f be a very bad Chancellor of the Exchequer. But it would be monstrous, say the persecutors, that Jews should legislate for a Christian community. This is a )>alpable misrepresentation. What is proposed is, not that the Jews should legislate for a Christian community, but that a legislature composed of Christians and Jews should legislate for a community composed of Christians and Jews. On nine hundred and ninety-nine questions out of a thousand, on all questions of police, of finance, of civil and criminal law, of foreign policy, the Jew, as a Jew, has no interest hostile to that of the Christian, or even to that of the Church- man. On questions relating to the ecclesiastical establish- ment, the Jew and the Churchman may differ. But they cannot differ more widely than the Catholic and the Church- man, or the Independent and the Churchman. The principle that Churchmen ought to monopolize the whole power of the state would at least have an intelligible meaning. The principle that Christians ought to monopolize it has no mean- ing at all. For no question connected with the ecclesiastical institutions of the country can possibly come before Parliar ment, with respect to which there will not be as wide a dif- ference between Christians as there can be between any Christian and any Jew. In fact, the Jews are not now excluded from political power. They possess it ; and as long as they are allowed to accumulate large fortunes, they must possess it. The dis- tinction which is sometimes made between civil privileges and political power is a distinction without a difference. Privileges are power. Civil and political are synonymous words, the one derived from the Latin, the other from the Greek. Nor is this mere verbal quibbling. If we look for a moment at the facts of the case, we shall see that the things are inseparable, or rather identicah CIVIL DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS. 601 That a Jew should be a judge in a Christian country would be most shocking. But he may be a juryman, lie may try issues of fact ; and no harm is done. But if he should be suffered to try issues of law, there is an end of the constitution. He may sit in a box plainly dressed, and re- turn verdicts. But that he should sit on the bench in a black gown and white wig, and grant new trials, would bo an abomination not to be thought of among baptized people. The distinction is certainly most philosophical. What power in civilized society is so great as that of the creditor over the debtor ? If we take this away from the Jew, we take away from him the security of his property. If we leave it to him, we leave to him a power more despotic by far than that of the king and all his cabinet. It would be impious to let a Jew sit in Parliament. But a Jew may make money ; and money may make members of Parliament. Grattan and Old Sarum may be the property of a Hebrew. An elector of Penryn will take ten pounds from Shylock rather than nine pounds nineteen shillings and eleven pence three farthings from Antonio. To this no objection is made. That a Jew should possess the substance of legislative ]Dowcr, that he should command eight votes on every division as if he were the great Duke of Newcastle himself, is exactly as it should be. But that he should pass the bar and sit down on those mysterious cushions of green leather, that he should cry “ hear ” and ‘‘ order,” and talk about being on his legs, and being, for one, free to say this and to say that, would be a profanation sufficient to bring ruin on the country. That a Jew should be privy-councillor to a Christian king would be an eternal disgrace to the nation. But the Jew may govern the money-market, and the money-market may govern the world. The minister may be in doubt as to his scheme of finance till ho has been closeted with the Jew. A congress of sovereigns may be forced to summon the Jew to their assistance. The scrawl of the Jew on the back of a piece of paper may be worth more than the royal word of three kings, or the national faith of three new American re- publics. But that he should put Right Honorable before his name would be the most frightful of national calamities. It was in this way that some of our politicians reasoned about the Irish Catholics. The Catholics ought to have no political power. The sun of England is set for ever if the Catholics exercise political power, Give the Catholics every 602 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. thing else; but keep ])oliticnl j)ower from tliem. These wise 1 men did not sec tliat, wlien every tiling else had been given, | jiolitical power had been given. They continued to rcjieat ; their cuckoo song, when it was no longer a question whether ' Catholics should have political power or not, when a Catholic J Association bearded the Parliament, when a Catholic agita- i tor exercised infinitely more authority than the Lord Lieu- ^ tenant. j If it is our duty as Christians to exclude the Jews from | political power, it must be our duty to treat them as our y ancestors treated them, to murder them, and banish them, • and rob them. For in that way, and in that way alone, can we really deprive them of political power. If we do not adopt this course, we may take away the shadow, but we must leave them the substance. We may do enough to pain and irritate them ; but wo shall not do enough to secure our- ■ selves from danger, if danger really exists. Where wealth is, there power must inevitably be. The English Jews, we are told, are not Englishmen. They are a separate people, living locally in this island, but living morally and politically in communion with their brethren who are scattered over all the world. An English Jew looks on a Dutch or a Portuguese Jew as his country- man, and on an English Christian as a stranger. This Tvant of patriotic feeling, it is said, renders a Jew unfit to exer- cise political functions. The argument has in it something plausible ; but a close examination shows it to be quite unsound. Even if the alleged facts are admitted, still the Jews are not the only people who have preferred their sect to their country. The feeling of patriotism, when society is in a healthful state, springs up, by a natural and inevitable association, in the minds of citizens who know that they owe all their com- forts and pleasures to the bond which unites them in one community. But, under a partial and oppressive govern- ment, these associations cannot acquire that strength which they have in a better state of things. Men are compelled to seek from their party that protection which they ought to receive from their country, and they, by a natural con- sequence, transfer to their party that affection which they would otherwise have felt for their country. The Hugue- nots of France called in the help of England against their Catholic kings. The Catholics of France called in the help of Spain against a Huguenot king. Would it be fair to in- CIVIL DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS. 603 fer, that at present the French Protestants would wish to see their religion made dominant by the help of a Prussian or English army ? Surely not. And why is it that they are not willing, as they formerly were willing, to sacrifice the interests of their coun^»ry to the interests of their re- ligious persuasion ? The reason is obvious : they were per- secuted then, and are not persecuted now. The English Puritans, under Charles the First, prevailed on the Scotch to invade England. Do the Protestant Dissenters of our time wish to see the Church put down by an invasion of foreign Calvinists ? If not, to what cause are we to at- tribute the change? Surely to this, that the Protestant Dissenters are far better treated now than in the seventeenth century. Some of the most illustrious public men that England ever produced were inclined to take refuge from the tyranny of Laud in North America. Was this because Presbyterians and Independents are incapable of loving their country? But it is idle to multiply instances. Noth- ing is so offensive to a man who knows anything of history or of human nature as to hear those who exercise the powers of government accuse any sect of foreign attach- ments. If there be any proposition universally true in poli- tics it is this, that foreign attachments are the fruit of do- mestic misrule. It has always been the trick of bigots to make their subjects miserable at home, and then to com- plain that they look for relief abroad ; to divide society, and to wonder that it is not united ; to govern as if a sec- tion of the state were the whole, and to censure the other sections of the state for their want of patriotic spirit. If the Jews have not felt towards England like children, it is because she has treated them like a step-mother. There is no feeling which more certainly develops itself in the minds of men living under tolerably good government than the feeling of patriotism. Since the beginning of the Avorld, there never was any nation, or any large portion of any na- tion, not cruelly oppressed, which was wholly destitute of that feeling. To make it therefore ground of accusation against a class of men, that they are not patriotic, is the most vulgar legerdemain of sophistry. It is the logic which the wolf employs against the lamb. It is to accuse the mouth of the stream of poisoning the source. If the English Jews really felt a deadly hatred to Eng- land, if the weekly prayer of their synagogues were that all the curses denounced by Ezekiel on Tyre and Egypt might 604 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. fall on London, if, in tlieir solemn feasts, they called down 9 blessings on those who should dash our children to pieces 'fl on tlie stones, still, we say, their hatred to their countrymen « would not be more intense than that which sects of Chris- M tians have often borne to each other. But in fact the feel- fl. ing of the Jews is not such. It is precisely Avhat, in the 9 ; situation in which they are placed, we should expect it to m be. They are treated far better than the French Protestants ■■ were in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, or tlian our ft Puritans were treated in the time of Laud. They, there- 9! fore, have no rancor against the government or against I their countrymen. It will not be denied that they are far 9 better affected to the state than the followers of Coligni or m Vane. But they are not so well treated as the dissenting m sects of Christians are now treated in England ; and on this ■ account, and, we firmly believe, on this account alone, they I have a more exclusive spirit. Till we have carried the ex- m periment farther, we are not entitled to conclude that they 1 cannot be made Englishmen altogether. The statesman J who treats them as aliens, and then abuses them for not en- § tertaining all the feelings of natives, is as unreasonable as the i tyrant who punished their fathers for not making bricks J without straw. 1 Rulers must not be suffered thus to absolve themselves f of their solemn responsibility. It does not lie in their j mouths to say that a sect is not patriotic. It is their busi- J ness to make it patriotic. History and reason clearly in- iicate the means. The English Jews are, as far as we can see, precisely what our government has made them. They % are precisely w’hat any sect, what any class of men, treated i as they have been treated, would have been. If all the red- t liaired people in Europe had, during centuries, been out- ^ raged and oppressed, banished from this place, imprisoned in that, deprived of their money, deprived of their teeth, convicted of the most improbable crimes on the feeblest evidence, dragged at horses’ tails, hanged, tortured, burned alive, if, when manners became milder, they had still been subject to debasing restrictions and exposed to vulgar in- sults, locked up in particular streets in some countries, pelted and ducked by the rabble in others, excluded every- where from magistracies and honors, what would be the patriotism of gentlemen with red hair ? And if, under such ( ircumstances, a proposition were made for admitting red- haired men to office, how striking a speech might an elo* CIVIL DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS. G05 quent admirer of our old institutions deliver against so revolutionary a measure ! “ These men,” he miglit say, “ scarcely consider themselves as Englishmen. They think a red-haired Frenchman or a red-haired German more closely connected with them than a man with brown hair born in their own parish. If a foreign sovereign patronizes red hair, they love him better than their own native king. They are not Englishmen : they cannot be Englishmen : nature has forbidden it: experience proves it to be impossible. Right to political power they have none ; for no man has a right to political power. Let them enjoy personal security, let their property be under the protection of the law. But if they ask for leave to exercise power over a community of which they are only half members, a community the con- stitution of which is essentially dark-haired, let us answer them in the words of our wise ancestors, Nolumus leges Anglice mutari. But, it is said, the Scriptures declare that the Jew's are to be restored to their own country ; and the whole nation looks forward to that restoration. They are, therefore, not so deeply interested as others in the prosperity of England. It is not their home, but merely the place of their sojourn, the house of their bondage. This argument, which first ap- peared in the Times newspaper, and which attracted a degree of attention proportioned not so much to its own intrinsic force as to the general talent with which that jour- nal is conducted, belongs to a class of sophism by which the most hateful persecutions may easily be justified. To charge men with practical consequences which they them- selves deny is disingenuous in controversy ; it is atrocious in government. The doctrine of predestination, in the opinion of many people, tends to make those who hold it utterly immoral. And certainly it would seem that a man who believes his eternal destiny to be already irrevocably fixed is likely to indulge his passions without restraint, and to neglect his religious duties. If he is an heir of wrath, his exertions must be unavailing. If he is preordained to life, they must be superfluous. But would it be wise to punish every man who holds the higher doctrines of Calvinism, as if he had actually committed all those crimes which we know some Antinomians to have committed ? Assuredly not. The fact notoriously is that there are many Calvinists as moral in their conduct as any Armiuian, and many Ar- minians as loose as any Calvinist, 606 Macaulay’s miscellankous whttings. It is altogether impossible to reason from tlie opinions which a man professes to his feelings and his actions ; and in fact no person is ever such a fool as to reason thus, ex- cept when he wants a pretext for persecuting his neighbors. A Christian is commanded, under the strongest sanctions, to be just in all his dealings. Yet to how many of the twenty-four millions of professing Christians in these islands would any man in his senses lend a thousand pounds with- out security? A man who should act, for one day, on the supposition that all the people about him were influenced by the religion which they professed, would find himself ruined before night ; and no man ever does act on that sup- position in any of the ordinary concerns of life, in borrow- ing, in lending, in buying, or in selling. But when any of our fellow^-creatures are to be oppressed, the case is differ- ent. Then we represent those motives which v,^e know to be so feeble for good as omnipotent for evil. Then we lay to the charge of our victims all the vices and follies to which their doctrines, however remotely, seem to tend. W e forget that the same weakness, the same laxity, the same dispo- sition to prefer the present to the future, which make men wmrse than a good religion, make them better than a bad one. It was in this way that our ancestors reasoned, and that some people in our own time still reason, about the Catho- lics. A Papist believes himself bound to obey the pope. The pope has issued a bull deposing Queen Elizabeth. Therefore every Papist wdll treat her grace as an usurper. Therefore every Papist is a traitor. Therefore every Papist ought to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. To this logic we owe some of the most hateful laws that ever disgraced our history. Surely the answer lies on the surface. The Church of Rome may have commanded these men to treat the queen as an usurper. But she has commanded them to do many other things which they have never done. She enjoins her priests to observe strict purity. You are always taunting them with their licentiousness. She commands all her followers to fast often, to be charitable to the poor, to take no interest for money, to fight no duels, to see no plays. Do they obey these injunctions ? If it be the fact that very few of them strictly observe her precepts, w^hen her precepts are o])posed to their passions and interests, may not loyalty, may not humanity, may not the love of ease, may not the fear of death, be sufficient to prevent them 4 i f. emii DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS. 607 from executing those wicked orders which she has issued against Die sovereign of England? When we know that many of these j)0ople do not care enougli for their religion to go without beef on a Friday for it, why should we think that they will run the risk of being racked and hanged for it? People are now reasoning about the Jews as our fathers reasoned about the Papists. The law which is inscribed on the walls of the synagogues prohibits covetousness. But if we were to say that a Jew mortgagee would not foreclose because God had commanded him not to covet his neigh- bor’s house, everybody would think us out of our wits. Yet it passes for an argument to say that a Jew will take no interest in the prosperity of the country in which he lives, that he will not care how bad its laws and policy may be, how heavily it maybe taxed, how often it may be conquered and given up to spoil, because God has promised that, by some unknown means, and at some undetermined time, per- ha])s ten thousand years hence, the Jews shall migrate to Palestine. Is not this the most profound ignorance of human nature ? Do we not know that what is remote and indefinite affects men far less than what is near and certain ? The argument too applies to Christians as strongly as to Jews. The Christian believes as well as the Jew, that at some future period the present order of things will come to an end. Nay, many Christians believe that the Messiah will shortly establish a kingdom on earth, and reign visibly over all its inhabitants. Whether this doctrine be orthodox or not we shall not here inquire. The number of people wlio hold it is very much greater than the number of Jews resid- ing in England. Many of those who hold it are distinguished by rank, Avealth, and ability. It is preached from the pul pits, both of the Scottish and of the English church. Noble- men and members of Parliament have written in defence ot it. Now Avherein does this doctrine differ, as far as its political tendency is concerned, from the doctrine of the Jews? If a Jew is unfit to legislate for us because he be- lieves that he or his remote descendants Avill be removed to Palestine, can we safely open the House of Commons to a fifth-monarchy man, Avho expects that before this genera- tion shall pass away, all the kingdoms of the earth will be swallowed up in one divine empire? Does a J ew engage less eagerly than a Christian in any competition which the law leaves open to him ? Is he less 608 MACAULAY S MISCELLANEOUS WEITINOS. active and regular in his business tlian liis neighbors ? Does he furnisli Iiis house neatly, because he is a pilgrim and so- journer in the land ? Does the expectation of being re- stored to the country of his fathers make him insensible to the fluctuations of the stock-exchange? Does he, in ar- ranging his [a-ivate affairs, ever take into the account the chance of his migrating to Palestine ? If not, why are we to suppose that feelings Avhich never influence his dealings as a merchant, or his dispositions as a testator, will acquire a boundless influence over him as soon as he becomes a magistrate or a legislator ? There is another argument which we would not willingly treat with levity, and which yet we scarcely know how to treat seriously. Scripture, it is said, is full of terrible de- nunciations against the Jews. It is foretold that they are to be wanderers. Is it then right to give them a home? It is foretold that they are to be oppressed. Can we with pro- priety suffer them to be rulers? To admit them to the rights of citizens is manifestly to insult the Divine oracles. We allow that to falsify a projjliecy inspired by Divine Wisdom would be a most atrocious crime. It is, therefore, a happy circumstance for our frail sj^ecms, that it is a crime which no man can possibly commit. 11 we admit the Jews to seats in Parliament, we shall, by so doing, prove that the prophecies in question, whatever they may mean, do not mean that the Jews shall be excluded from Parliament. In fact it is already clear that the prophecies do not bear the meaning put upon them by the respectable persons whom we are now answering. In France and in the United States the Jews are already admitted to all tlie rights of citizens. A prophecy, therefore, which should mean that the Jews W’ould never during the course of their wander- ings, be admitted to all the rights of citizens in the places of their sojourn, would be a false prophecy. This, there fore, is not the meaning of the prophecies of Scripture. But we protest altogether against the practice of con- founding prophecy with precept, of setting up predictions which are often obscure against a morality which is always clear. If actions are to be considered as just and good merely because they have been predicted, what action was ever more laudable than that crime which our bigots are now, at the end of eighteen centuries, urging us to avenge on the Jews, that crime which made the earth shake and blotted out the sun from heaven? The same reasoning tJIVIL DISABILITIES OP TUE JEWS. 609 which is now employed to vindicate the disabilities imposed on our Hebrew countrymen will equally vindicate the kiss of Judas and the judgment of Pilate. ‘‘The Son of Man goeth, as it is \vritten of him ; but woe to that man by whom the Son of man is betrayed.” And woe to those w ho in any age or any country, disobey liis benevolent com- mands under pretence of accomplishing his predictions. If this argument justifies the laws now existing against the Jews, it justifies equally all the cruelties which have ever been committed against them, the sweeping ' edicts of ban- ishment and confiscation, the dungeon, the rack, and the slow fire. IIow can we excuse ourselves for leaving pnop- erty to people who are to “ serve their enemies in hunger, and in thirst, and in nakedness, and in want of all things ; ” for giving protection to the persons of those Avho are to “ fear day and night, and to have none assurance of their life ; ” for not seizing on the children of a race whose “ sons and daughters are to be given unto another ])eople ? ” We have not so learned the doctrines of Him who com- manded us to love our neighbor as ourselves, and who, when he was called upon to explain what He meant by a neighbor, selected as an example a heretic and an alien. Last year, we remember, it w^as represented by a pious writer in the John Bull newspaper, and by some other equally fervid Christians, as a monstrous indecency, that the measure for the relief of the Jews should be brought for- ward in Passion w^eek. One of these humorists ironically recommended that it should be read a second time on Goo<] Friday. We should have had no objection ; nor do wm be- lieve that the day could be commemorated in a more worthy manner. We know of no day fitter for terminating long hostilities, and repairing cruel wrongs, than the day on which the religion of mercy was founded. We know of no day fitter for blotting out from the statute-book the last traces of intolerance than the day on which the spirit of in- tolerance produced the foulest of all judical murders, the day on which the list of the victims of intolerance, that noble list wherein Socrates and More are enrolled, wae glorified by a yet greater and holier name. VoL. I.— 39 GlO Macaulay’s aiiscellanlous wiiiTiKttii MOORE’S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.«^ {Edinburgh Review, June, 1831.) We have read this book with the greatest pleasure. Considered merely as a composition, it deserves to l>e classed among the best specimens of English prose which our age has produced. It contains, indeed, no single pass- age equal to two or three which we could select from the Life of Sheridan. But, as a whole, it is immeasurably su- perior to that work. The style is agreeable, clear, and manly, and when it rises into eloquence, rises ivithout effort or ostentation. Nor is the matter inferior to the manner. It would be difficult to name a book which exhibits more kindness, fairness, and modesty. It has evidently been written, not for the purpose of showing, what, however, it often shows, how well its author can write, but for the pur- pose of vindicating, as far as truth will permit, the mem- ory of a celebrated man who can no longer vindicate him- self. Mr. Moore never thrusts himself between Lord Byron and the public. With the strongest temptations to egotism, he has said no more about himself than the subject abso- lutely required. A great part, indeed the greater part, of these volumes consists of extracts from the Letters and Journals of Lord Byron ; and it is difficult to speak too highly of the skill which has been shown in the selection and arrangement. We will not say that we have not occasionally remarked in these two large quartos an anecdote which should have been omitted, a letter which should have been suppressed, a name which should have been concealed by asterisks, or asterisks which do not answer the. purpose of concealing the name. But it is impossible, on a general survey, to deny that the task has been executed with great judgment and great humanity. When we consider the life which Lord Byron had led, his petulance, his irritability, and his communicativeness, we cannot but admire the dexterity with which Mr. Moore has contrived to exhibit so much of the character and opinions of his friend, with so little pain to the feelings of the living. ♦ Letters and Journals of Lord Byron ; ivith Notices of his Life. By TH0MA8 MooKE, Esq. 2 vols. 4to. I.ontlon : 1830. MOORE’S life of LOBD BYRON. 611 Tlie extracts from the journals and correspondence of Lord Byron are in tlie highest degree valuable, not merely on account of the information which they contain respecting the distinguished man by whom they were written, but on account also of their rare merit as compositions. The Let- ters, at least those which were sent from Italy, are among tin best in our language. They are less affected than those of Pope and Walpole ; they have more matter in them than those of Cowper. Knowing that many of them were not written merely for the person to wdiom they were directed, but were general epistles, meant to be read by a large cir- cle, we expected to find them clever and spirited, but defi- cient in ease. We looked with vigilance for instances of stiffness in the lano:ua2:e and awkwardness in the transitions. We have been agreeably disappointed ; and we must con- fess that, if the epistolary style of Lord Byron was artificial, it was a rare and admirable instance of that highest art which cannot be distinguished from nature. Of the deep and painful interest which this book excites no abstract can give a just notion. So sad and dark a story is scarcely to be found in any work of fiction ; and we are little disposed to envy the moralist who can read it without being softened. The pretty fable by which the Duchess of Orleans illus- trated the character of her son the Regent might, with little change, be applied to Byron. All the fairies, save one, had been bidden to his cradle. All the gossips had been pro- fuse of their gifts. One had bestowed nobility, another genius, a third beauty. The malignant elf who had been uninvited came last, and, unable to reverse what her sisters had done for their favorite, had mixed up a curse with every blessing. In the rank of Lord Byron, in his understanding, in his character, in his very person, there was a strange union of opposite extremes. He was born to all that men covet and admire. But in every one of those eminent ad- vantages which he possessed over others was mingled some- thing of misery and debasement. He was sprung from a house, ancient indeed and noble, but degraded and impov- erished by a series of crimes and follies which had attained a scandalous puolicity. The kinsman whom he succeeded had died poor, and, but for merciful judges, would have died u])on the gallows. The young peer had great intellec- tual powers ; yet there was an unsound part in bis mind. He had naturally a generous and feeling heart ; but his tern- 012 Macaulay’s miscellaneous 'svritingb. per was wayward and irritable. He had a head which statu- aries loved to copy, and a foot the deformity of which the beggars in the streets mimicked. Distinguished at once by the strength and by the weakness of his intellect, affection- ate yet perverse, a poor lord, and a handsome cripple, he required, if ever man required, the firmest and the most judicious training. But, capriciously as nature had dealt with him, the parent to whom the office of forming his char- acter was intrusted was more capricious still. She passed from paroxysms of rage to paroxysms of tenderness. At one time she stifled him with her caresses : at another time she insulted his deformity. He came into the world; and the world treated him as his mother had treated him. sometimes with fondness, sometimes with cruelty, never with justice. It indulged him without discrimination, and pun- ished him without discrimination. He was truly a spoiled child, not merely the spoiled child of his parent, but the spoiled child of nature, the spoiled child of fortune, the spoiled child of fame, the spoiled child of society. His first poems were received with a contempt which, feeble as they were, they did not absolutely deserve. The poem which he published on his return from his travels was, on the other hand, extolled far above its merit. At twenty- four he found himself on the highest pinnacle of literary fame, with Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and a crowd of other distinguished writers beneath his feet. There is scarcely an instance in history of so sudden a rise to so dizzy an eminence. Every thing that could stimulate, and every thing that could gratify the strongest propensities of our nature, the gaze of a hundred drawing-rooms, the acclamations of the whole nation, the applause of applauded men, the love of lovely women, all this world and the glory of it were at once offered to a youth to whom nature had given violent passions, and to whom education had never taught to con- trol them. He lived as many men live who have no similar excuse to plead for their faults. But his countrymen and his (‘-ountrywomen would love him an.d admire him. They were resolved to see in his excesses only the flash and out- break of that same fiery mind which glowed in his poetry. He attacked religion ; yet in religious circles his name was mentioned with fondness, and in many religious publications his works were censured with singular tenderness. He lam- pooned the Prince Regent ; yet he could not alienate the Moore’s life of lord ryron. 61S Tories. Everytliing, it seemed, was to be forgiven to youth, rank, and genius. Then came the reaction. Society, capricious in its in- dignation as it had been capricious in its fondness, flew into a rage with its forward and petted darling. He had been worshipped with an irrational idolatry. He was persecuted with an irrational fury. Much has been written about those unliappy domestic occurrences which decided the fate of hk life, Yet nothing is, nothing ever was, positively known to tlie public, but this, that he quarrelled with his lady, and that she refused to live with him. There have been hints in abundance, and shrugs and shakings of the head, and “Well, well, we know,” and “We could an if we would,” and “ If we list to speak,” and “ There be tliat might an they list.” But we are not aware that there is before the world substantiated by credible, or even by tangible evi- dence, a single fact indicating that Lord Byron Avas mort to blame than any other man who is on bad terms with his Avife. The professional men whom Lady Byron consulted Avere undoubtedly of opinion that she ought not to live with her husband. But it is to be remembered that they formed that opinion without hearing both sides. We do not say, Ave do not mean to insinuate, that Lady Byron was in any respect to blame. We think that those who condemn her on the evidence which is now before the public are as rash as those Avho condemn her husband. We will not pronounce any judgment, Ave cannot, even in our own minds, form any judgment, on a transaction Avhich is so imperfectly known to us. It would have been well if, at the time of the sepa- ration, all those Avho knew as little about the matter then as Ave know about it now had shown the forbearance which, under such circumstances, is but common justice. We knoAV no spectacle so ridiculous as the British pub- lic in one of its periodical fits of morality. In general, elopements, divorces, and family quarrels, pass with little notice. W e read the scandal, talk about it for a day, and for- get it. But once in six or seven years our virtue becomes outrageous. We cannot suffer the laws of religion and de- cency to be violated. We must make a stand against vice. We must teach libertines that the English people appre- ciate the importance of domestic ties. Accordingly some unfortunate man, in no respect more depraved than hun- dreds Avhose offences have been treated Avith lenity, is sin- gled out as an expiatory sacrifice. 1:1 he has children^ thej 614 Macaulay’s mtsckllaneous writings. are to be taken from him. If he has a profession, he is to be di iven from it. lie is cut by the liigher orders, and Iiissed by tlie lower. He is, in truth, a sort of whi])ping- boy, by whose vicarious agonies all tlie other transgressors of the same class are, it is supposed, sufficiently chastised. We reflect very complacently on our own severity, and compare with great pride the high standard of morals es- tablished in England with the Parisian laxity. At lengtli our anger is satiated. Our victim is ruined and broken* hearted. And our virtue goes quietly to sleep for seven years more. It is clear that those vices which destroy domestic hap- piness ought to be as much as possible repressed. It is equally clear that they cannot be repressed by penal legis- lation. It is therefore right and desirable that public opin- ion should be directed against them. But it should be di- rected against them uniformly, steadily and temperately, not by sudden fits and starts. There should be one weight and one measure. Decimation is always an objectionable mode of punishment. It is the resource of judges too indo- lent and hasty to investigate facts and to discriminate nicely between shades of guilt. It is an irrational practice, even when adopted by military tribunals. When adopted by the tribunal of public opinion, it is infinitely more irrational. It is good that a certain portion of disgrace should constantly attend on certain bad actions. But it is not good that the offenders should merely have to stand the risks of a lottery of infamy, that ninety-nine out of every hundred should escape, and that the hundredth, perhaps the most innocent of the hundred, should j^ay for all. We remember to have seen a mob assembled in Lincoln’s Inn to hoot a gentleman against whom the most oppressive proceeding known to the Eng- lish law was then in progress. He was hooted because h.e had been an unfaithful husband, as if some of the most pop- ular men of the age. Lord Nelson for example, had not been unfai thful husbands. We remember a still stronger case. Will posterity believe that, in an age in which men whose gallantries were universally known, and had been legally proved, filled some of the highest offices in the state and in the army, presided at the meetings of religious and benevo lent institutions, were the delight of every society, and the favorites of the multitude, a crowd of moralists went to the theatre, in order to pelt, a poor actor for disturbing the con- jugal felicity of an alderman? What there was in the cir- MOORE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON". 615 ourastances either of the offender or of the sufferer to vindi- cate tlie zeal of the audience, we could never conceive. It has never been supposed that the situation of an actor Is peculiarly favorable to the rigid virtues, or that an aider- man enjoys any special immunity from injuries such as that which on this occasion roused the anger of the public. But such is the justice of mankind. In these cases the punishment was excessive ; but the offence was known and proved. The case of Lord Byron was harder. True Jed wood justice was dealt out to him. First came the execution, then the investigation, and last of all, or rather not at all, the accusation. The public, with- out knowing anything whatever about the transactions in his family, Sew into a violent passion with him, and pro- ceeded to invent stories which might justify its anger. Ten or twenty different accounts of the separation, inconsistent with each other, with themselves, and with common sense, circulated at the same time. What evidence there might be for any one of these, the virtuous people who repeated them neither knew nor cared. For in fact these stories were not the causes, but the effects of the public indigna- tion. They resembled those loathsome slanders which Lewis Goldsmith, and other abject libellers of the same class, w^ere in the habit of publishing about Bonaparte ; such as that he poisoned a girl with arsenic when he was at the military school, that he hired a grenadier to shoot Des- saix at Marengo, that he filled St. Cloud with all the pollu- tions of Caprea3. There was a time when anecdotes like these obtained some credence from persons who, hating the French emperor without knowing why, were eager to be- lieve any thing which might justify their hatred. Lord Byron fared in the same way. His countrymen were in a bad humor with him. His writings and his character had lost the charm of novelty. He had been guilty of the offence which, of all offences, is punished most severely ; he had been over-praised ; he had excited too warm an interest ; and the public, with its usual justice, chastised him for its own folly. The attachments of the multitude bear no small resemblance to those of the Avanton enchant- ress in the Arabian Tales, who, when the forty days of her fondness were over, was not content Avith dismissing her lovers, but condemned them to expiate, in loathsome shapes and under cruel penances, the crime of having once pleased her too well. Macaulay’s miscellan^eous writings. ol6 Tlie obloquy which Byron had to endure was such as might well have shaken a more constant mind. , The news- papers were filled with lampoons. The theatres shook with execrations. lie was excluded from circles where he had lately been the observed of all observers. All those creep- ing things that riot in the decay of nobler natures hastened to their repast ; and they were right ; they did after their kind. It is not every day that the savage envy of aspiring dunces is gratified by the agonies of such a spirit, an 1 the degradation of such a name. The unhappy man left his country for ever. The howl of contumely followed him across the sea, up the Rhine, over the Alps; it gradually waxed fainter; it died away; those who had raised it began to ask each other, what, after all, was the matter about which they had been so clamorous, and wished to invite back the criminal whom they had just chased from them. His poetry became more popular than it had ever been ; and his complaints were read with tears by thousands and tens of thousands who had never seen his face. He had fixed his home on the shores of the Adriatic, in the most picturesque and interesting of cities, beneath the brightest of skies and by the brightest of seas. Censorious- ness was not the vice of the neighbors whom he had chosen. They were a race corrupted by a bad government and a bad religion, long renowned for skill in the arts of volup- tuousness, and tolerant of all the caprices of sensuality. From the public opinion of the country of his adoption, he had nothing to dread. With the public opinion of the country of his birth he was at open war. He plunged into wild and desperate excesses, ennobled by no generous or tender sentiment. From his Venetian harem he sent foith volume after volume, full of eloquence, of wit, of pathos, of ribaldry, and of bitter disdain. His health sank under the effects of his intemperance. His hair turned gray. His food ceased to nourish him. A hectic fever withered him up. It seemed that his body and mind were about to perish together. From this wretched degradation he was in some measure rescued by a connection, culpable indeed, yet such as, if it were judged by the standard o^ morality established in the country where he lived, might be called virtuous. But an imagination polluted by vice, a temper embittered by misfor- tune, and a frame habituated to the fatal excitement of in- ■i s k .1 Moore’s life op lord byron. 617 toxication, prevented him from fully enjoying the happi- ness which he might have derived from the purest and most tranquil of his many attachments. Midnight draughts of ardent spirits and Rhenish wines had begun to work the ruin of his fine intellect. His verse lost much of the energy and condensation which had distinguished it. But he would not resign, without a struggle, the empire which he had exercised over the men of his generation. A new dream of ambition arose before him ; to be the chief of a literary party; to be the great mover of an intellectual rev- olution ; to guide the public mind of England from his Ital- ian retreat, as Voltaire had guided the public mind of France from the villa of Ferney. With this hope, as it should seem, he established the Liberal. But, powerfully as he had affected the imaginations of his contemporaries, he mistook his own powers if he hoped to direct their opin- ions ; and he still more grossly mistook his own disposition, if he thought that he could long act in concert with other men of letters. The plan failed, and failed ignominiously. Angry with himself, angry with his coadjutors, he relin- quished it, and turned to another project, the last and noblest of bis life. A nation, once the first among the nations, preeminent in knowledge, preeminent in military glory, the cradle of phi- losophy, of eloquence, and of the fine arts, had been for ages bowed down under a cruel yoke. All the vices which op- pression generates, the abject vices wLich it generates in those who submit to it, the ferocious vices which it generates in those who struggle against it, had deformed the charac- ter of that miserable race. The valor which had won the great battle of human civilization, which had saved Europe, which had subjugated Asia, lingered only among pirates and robbers. The ingenuity, once so conspicuously dis- played in every department of physical and moral science, had been depraved into a timid and servile cunning. On a sudden this degraded people had risen on their oppressors. Discountenanced or betrayed by the surrounding potentates, they had found in themselves something of that which might well supply the place of all foreign assistance, some- thing of the energy of their fathers. As a man of letters. Lord Byron could not but be inter- ested in the event of this contest. His political opinions, though, like all his opinions, unsettled, leaned strongly towards the side of liberty. He had assisted the Italian 618 MACAULAY’S MISCELLANEOUS AVIUTINGS. insurgents witli Iiis purse, niul if their struggle against the Austrian government had been prolonged, would probably have assisted them with liis sword. But to Greece he was attached by peculiar tics. lie liad when young resided in that country. Much of his most splendid and poj ular poetry liad been inspired by its scenery and by its history. Sick of inaction, degraded in his own eyes by his pi ivato vices and by his literary failures, pining for untried excite- ment and honorable distinction, he carried his exhausted body and his wounded spirit to the Grecian camp. llis conduct in his new situation showed so much vigor and good sense as to justify us in believing that, if his life had been prolonged, he might have distinguished himself as a soldier and a politician. But pleasure and sorrow had done the work of seventy years upon his delicate frame. The hand of death was upon him ; he knew it ; and the only wish which he uttered was that he might die sword in hand. This was denied to him. Anxiety, exertion, exposure, and those fatal stimulants which had become indispensable to him, soon stretched him on a sick bed, in a strange land, amidst strange faces, without one human being that he loved near him. There, at thirty-six, the most celebrated Englishman of the nineteenth century closed his brilliant and miserable career. We cannot even now retrace those events without feel- ing something of Avhat was felt by the nation, when it was first known that the grave had closed over so much sorrow and so much glory ; something of what was felt by those who saw the hearse, with its long train of coaches, turn slowly northward, leaving behind it that cemetery which had been consecrated by the dust of so many great poets, but of which the doors were closed against all that remained of Byron. We well remember on that day, rigid moralists could not refrain from weeping for one so young, so illustri- ous, so imhajDpy, gifted with such rare gifts, and tried by such strong temptations. It is unnecessary to make any re- flections. The history carries its moral with it. Our age has indeed been fruitful of warnings to the eminent, and of consolations to the obscure. Two men have died within our recollection, who, at a time of life at wdiich many peo- ple have hardly completed their education, had raised them- selves, each in his own department, to the height of glory. One of them died at Longwood ; the other at MissolonghL Moore’s life op lord byroh. 619 It ifl always difficult to separate the literary character of a man who lives in our own time from his personal cliarac- ter. It is peculiarly difficult to make this separation in the case of Lord Byron. For it is scarcely too much to say, that Lord Byron never wrote without some reference, di- rect or indirect, to liimself. The interest excited by the events of his life mingles itself in our minds, and probably in the minds of almost all our readers, with the interest which properly belongs to his works. A generation must pass away before it will be possible to form a fair judgment of his books, considered merely as books. At present they are not merely books, but relics. We will, however, ven- ture, though with unfeigned diffidence, to offer some desul- tory remarks on his poetry. His lot was cast in the time of a great literary revolu- tion. That poetical dynasty which had dethroned the successors of Shakspeare and Spenser was, in its turn, dethroned by a race who represented themselves as heirs of the ancient line, so long dispossessed by usurpers. The real nature of this revolution has not, we think, been com- prehended by the great majority of those who concurred in it. Wherein especially does the poetry of our times differ from that of the last century? Ninety-nine persons out of a hundred would answer that the poetry of the last century was correct, but cold and mechanical, and that the poetry of our time, though wild and irregular, presented far more vivid images, and excited the passions far more strongly than that of Parnell, of Addisen, or of Pope. In the same manner we constantly hear it said, that the poets of the age of Elizabeth had far more genius, but far less correctness tlian those of the age of Anne. It seems to be taken for granted, that there is some incompatibility, some antithesis between correctness and creative power. We rather sus- |;ect that this notion arises merely from an abuse of words, and that it has been the parent of many of the fallacies ^vhich perplex the science of criticism. What is meant by correctness in poetry ? If by correct- ness be meant the conforming to rules which have their foundation in truth and in the principles of human nature, then correctness is only another name for excellence. If by correctness be meant the conforming to rules purely arbitrary, correctness may be another name for dulness and absurdity. 620 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. A writer who describes visible objects falsely and vio- lates the propriety of character, a writer wlio makes tlie mountains ‘‘ nod their drow ly heads ” at night, or a dying man take leave of the world with a rant like that of Maxi- min, may be said in the high and just sense of the phrase, to write incorrectly. He violates the first great law of his art. His imitation is altogether unlike the thing imitated. The four poets who are most eminently free from incorrectness of this description are Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, and Mil- ton. They are, therefore, in one sense, and that the best tense, the most correct of poets. When it is said that Virgil, though he had less genius than Homer, was a more correct writer, what sense is attached to the word correctness? Is it meant that the story of the ^neid is developed more skilfully than that of the Odyssey ? that the Roman describes the face of the exter- nal world, or the emotions of the mind, more accurately than the Greek ? that the characters of Achates and Mnes- theus are more nicely discriminated, and more consistently supported, than those of Achilles, of Nestor, and of Ulysses ? The fact incontestably is that, for every violation of the fundamental laws of poetry which can be found in Homer, it would be easy to find twenty in Virgil. Troilus and Cressida is perhaps of all the plays of Shak- speare tha»t which is commonly considered as the most incorrect. Yet it seems to us infinitely more correct, in the sound sense of the term, than what are called the most correct plays of the most correct dramatists. Compare it, for example, with the Tphigenie of Racine. We are sure that the Greeks of Shakspeare bear a far greater resemblance than the Greeks of Racine to the real Greeks who besieged Troy ; and for this reason, that the Greeks of Shakspeare are human beings, and the Greeks of Racine mere names, mere words printed in capitals at the head of paragraphs of declamation. Racine, it is true, would have shuddered at the thought of making a warrior at the siege of Troy quote Aristotle, But of what use is it to avoid a single anachron- ism, when the whole play is one anachronism, the senti- ments and phrases of Versailles in the camp of Aulis? In the sense in which we are now using the word correctness, we think that Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Words- worth, Mr. Coleridge, are far more correct poets than those who are commonly extolled as the models of correctness, Pope, for example, and Addison. The single description of Moore's life of lord byron’. 62] a moonlight niglit in Pope’s Iliad contains more inaccura- cies than can be found in all the Excursion. There is not a single scene in Cato, in which all that conduces to poetical iilusion, all the propriety of character, of language, of situ- ation, is not more grossly violated than in any part of the Lay of the last Minstrel. No man can possibly think that the Romans of Addison resemble the real Romans so closely as the moss-troopers of Scott resemble the real moss-troop- ers. Wat Tinliim and William of Deloraine are not, it is true, persons of so much dignity as Cato. But the dignity of the persons represented has as little to do with the correctness of poetry as with the correctness of painting. We prefer a gypsy by Reynolds to his Majesty’s head on a sign-post, and a Borderer by Scott to a Senator by Addison. In what sense, then, is the word correctness used by those who say, with the author of the Pursuits of Literature, that Pope was the most correct of English Poets, and that next to Pope came the late Mr. Gifford? What is the nature and value of that correctness, the praise of which is denied to Macbeth, to Lear, and to Othello, and given to Hoole’s translations and to all the Seatonian prize-poems ? We can discover no eternal rule, no rule founded in reason and in the nature of things, which Shakspeare does not observe much more strictly than Pope. But if by correct- ness be meant the conforming to a narrow legislation w hich, while lenient to the mala in se^ multiplies, without the shadow of a reason, the mala proliihita^ if by correctness be meant a strict attention to certain ceremonious observ- ances, which are no more essential to poetry than etiquette to good government, or than the washings of a Pharisee to devotion, then, assuredly. Pope may be a more correct poet than Shakspeare; and, if the code were a little altered. Colley Cibber might bo a more correct poet than Pope. But it may well be doubted wdiether this kind of correctness be a merit, nay, whether it be not an absolute fault. It would be amusing to make a digest of the irrational law^s which bad critics have framed for the government of poets. First in celebrity and in absurdity stand the dra- matic unities of place and time. No human being has ever been able to find any thing that could, even by courtesy, bo called an argument for these unities, except that they have been deduced from the general practice of the Greeks. It requires no very profound examination to discover that the Greek dramas, often admirable as compositions, are, as &22 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. exliibitions of liuman cliaractor aiul Immaii life, far inferior to the Englisli ])laysof the age of Elizjibeth. Every scliolar knows that the dramatic part of tlie Atlieniaii tragedies was at first subordinate to the lyrical part. It would, therefore, have been little less than a miracle if the laws of the Athe- nian stage had been found to suit plays in which there was no chorus. All the greatest masterpieces of the dramatic art have been composed in the direct violation of the unities, and could never have been composed if the unities had not been violated. It is clear, for example, that such a charac- ter as tliat of Hamlet could never have been developed within the limits to which Alfieri confined himself. Yet such was the reverence of literary men during the last cen- tury for these unities that Johnson, who, much to his honor, took the opposite side, was, as he says, “ frightened at his own temerity,” and “ afraid to stand against the authorities which might be produced against him.” There are other rules of the same kind without end. “ Shakspeare,” says Rymer, “ ought not to have made Othello black ; for the hero of a tragedy ought always to be white.” “ Milton,” says another critic, “ ought not to have taken Adam for his hero ; for the hero of an epic poem ought always to be victorious.” “ Milton,” says another, “ ought not to have put so many similes into his first book ; for the first book of an e|3ic poem ought always to be the most un- adorned. There are no similes in the first book of the Iliad.” “ Milton,” says another, “ ought not to have placed in an epic poem such lines as these : — “ ‘ While thus I called, and strayed I knew not whither.* ** And why not ? The critic is ready with a reason, a lady’s reason. “ Such lines,” says he, “ are not, it must be allowed, unpleasing to the ear ; but the redundant syllable ought to be confined to the drama, and not admitted into epic poetry.” As to the redundant syllable in heroic rhyme on serious sub- jects, it has been, from the time of Pope downward, pro- scribed by the general consent of all the correct school. No magazine would have admitted so incorrect a couplet as that of Drayton : “ As when we lived untouch’d with these disgraces, When as our kingdom was our dear embraces.*’ Another law of heroic rhyme, which, fifty years ago, was con- sidered as fundamental, was, that there should be a pause, a comma at least, at the end of every couplet. It Avas also MOORE’s life op loro BYRON. 623 provided that there should never be a full stop except at the end of a line. Well do we rein ember to have heard a most correct judge of poetry revile Mr. Rogers for the incorrect- ness of that most sweet and graceful passage, “ Such grief was ours, — it seems but yesterday,— When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, *Twas tliine, Maria, thine without a sigh At midnight in a sister’s arms to die. Oh thou wert lovely ; lovely was thy frame. And pure thy spirit as from heaven it came; And when recalled to join the blest above Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love. Nursing the young to health. In happier hours, When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers. Once in thy mirth thou badst me write on thee; And now I write what thou shalt never see.** Sir Roger Newdigato is fairly entitled, Ave think, to be ranked among the great critics of this school. He made a laAV that none of the poems Avritten for the prize which he established at Oxford should exceed fifty lines. This law seems to us to have at least as much foundation in reason as any of tliose wliich we have mentioned ; nay, much more, for the world, avc believe, is pretty Avell agreed in thinking that the shorter a prize poem is, the better. Wo do not see Avhy Ave should not make a few more rules of the same kind ; why avc should not enact that the number of scenes in every act shall be three or some multiple of three, that the number of lines in every scene shall be an exact square, that the dramatis personce shall never be more or foAver than sixteen, and that, in heroic rhymes, every thirty-sixth line shall have twelv^e syllables. If we were to lay down these canons, and to call Pope, Goldsmith, and Addison incorrect writers for not haAung complied with our whims, we should act precisely as those critics act who find incorrectness in the magnificent imagery and the A^aried music of Coleridge and Shelley. The correctness which the last century prized so much resembles the correctness of those pictures of the garden of Eden Avhich we see in old Bibles. We have an exact square, enclosed by the rivers Pison, Gihon, Hiddekel, and Euphrates, each with a convenient bridge in the centre, rectangular beds of flowers, a long canal, neatly bricked and railed in, the tree of knowledge, clipped like one of the limes behind the Tuileries, standing in the centre of the grand alley, the snake twined round it, the man on the right hand, the woman on the left, and the beasts drawn up in an exact Macaulay’s miscellanp:ous wiutings. V / circle round them. In one sense the picture is correct enough. Thiit is to say, tlie squares are correct; the circles are correct ; the man and the woman are ii< a most correct line with the tree ; and the snake forms a most correct s/>iraL But if there were a painter so gifted that he could place | on the canvas that glorious paradise, seen by the interior eye | of him whose outward sight had failed with long W’atching J and laboring for liberty and truth, if there were a ])ainter ^ who could set before us the mazes of the sap[>hir3 bro>earings denote certain conditions, and that to put colors on colors, or metals on metals,* is false blazonry. If all this were T iversed, if e^ ery coat of arms in Europe were new fashioned, it It were decreed that or should never be placed but on argent, or argent but on or, that illegitimacy should be denoted by a lozenge, and widowhood by a bend, the nev/ science would l)e just as good as the old science, because both the new and old would be good for notliing. The mummery of Port- cullis and Pouge Dragon, as it has no other value than that which caprice has assigned to it, may well submit to any laws which caprice may impose u})on it. But it is not so with that great imitative art, to the power of which all ages, the rudest and the most enlightened, bear witness. Since its first great masterpieces were produced, every thing that is changeable in this world has been changed. Civilization has been gained, lost, gained again. Religions, the lan- guages, and forms of government, and usages of private life, and modes of thinking, all have undergone a succession of revolutions. Every thing has passed away but the great features of nature, and the heart of man, and the miracles of that art which it is the office to reflect back the heart of man an ! the features of nature. Those two strange old poems, the w^onderof ninety generations, still retain all their freshness. They still command the veneration of minds enriched by the literature of many nations and ages. They are still, even in wwetched translations, the delight of school- boys. Having survived ten thousand capricious fashions, having seen successive codes of criticism become obsolete, they still remain to us, immortal wdth the immortality of truth, the same when persued in the study of an English scholar, as when they were first chanted at the banquets of the Ionian princes. Poetry is, as was said more than t^vo thousand years ago, imitation. It is an art analogous in many respects to the art of painting, sculpture, and acting. The imitations of the painter, the sculptor, and the actor, are indeed, within cer- tain limits, more perfect than those of the poet. The machinery which the poet employs consists merely of words, Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. and words cnnnot, even when employed hy such an artist aa ITorner or Dante, present to the mind images of visible objects quite so lively and exact as those which we carry away from looking on the works of the brush and the chisel. But, on the other hand, the range of poetry is infinitely wider than that of any other imitative art, or than that of all the other imitative arts together. The sculptor can imitate only form ; the painter only form and color ; the actor, until the poet supplies him with words, only form, color and motion. Poetry holds the outer world in com- mon with the other arts. The heart of man is the province of poetry, and of poetry alone. The ])ainter, the sculptor, and the actor can exhibit no more of human passion and character than that small portion which overflows into the gesture and the face, always an imperfect, often a deceitful sign of that which is within. The deeper and more com- plex parts of human nature can be exhibited by means of words alone. Thus the objects of the imitation of poetry are the whole external and the whole internal universe, the face of nature, the vicissitudes of fortune, man as he is in himself, man as he appears in society, all things which really exist, all things of which we can form an image in our minds by combining together parts of things which really exist. The domain of this imperial art is commensurate with the imaginative faculty. An art essentially imitative ought not surely to be sub- jected to rules Avhich tend to make its imitations less per- fect than they otherwise would be ; and those who obey such rules ought to be called, not correct, but incorrect artists. The true way to judge of the rules by which Eng- lish poetry was governed during the last century is to look at the effects which they produced. It was in 1780 that Johnson completed his Lives of the Poets. He tells us in that work that, since the time of Dryden, English poetry had shown no tendency to rela])so into its original savageness, that its language had been refined, its numbers tuned, and its sentiments improved. It may perhaps be doubted whether the nation had any great reason to exult in the refinements and improvements which gave it Douglas for Othello, and the Triumphs of Temper for the Fairy Queen. It was during the thirty years which preceded the appearance of Johnson’s Lives that the diction and versifi- cation of English poetry weri, in the sense in which the A i i 'i. I MOORE'S LIFE OF LOUD BYRON. 627 word is commonly used, most correct. Those thirty years are, as respects poetry, tlie most deplorable part of our literary history. They have indeed bequeathed to us scarcely any poetry which deserves to be remembered. Two or three hundred lines of Gray, twice as many of Goldsmitli, a few stanzas of Beattie and Collins, a few strophes of Mason, and a few clever prologues and satires, were the masterpieces of this age of consummate excellence. The}' may all be printed in one volume, and that volume would be by no means a volume of extraordinary merit. It would contain no poetry of the very highest class, and little which could be placed very high in the second class. The Para- dise Regained or Comus would outweigh it all. At last, when poetry had fallen into such utter decay that Mr. Hayley was thought a great poet, it began to appear that the excess of the evil was about to work the cure. Men became tired of an insipid conformity to a standard which derived no authority from nature or reason. A shallow criticism had taught them to ascribe a superstitious value to the spurious correctness of poetasters. A deeper criticism brought them back to the true correctness of the first great masters. The eternal laws of poetry regained their power, and the temporary fashions which had super- seded those laws went after the wig of Lovelace and the hoop of Clarissa. It was in a cold and barren season that the seeds of that rich harvest which we have reaped were first sown. While poetry was every year becoming more feeble and more mechanical, while the monotonous versification which Popo had introduced, no longer redeemed by his brilliant wit and his compactness of expression, palled on the ear of the 23ub- lic, the great works of the old masters w^ere every day attracting more and more of the admiration which they deserved. The plays of Shakspeare were better acted, better edited, and better known than they had ever been. Our fine ancient ballads were again read with pjleasure, and it bec^ame a fashion to imitate them. Many of the imitations were altogether contemptible. But they shov/ed that men had at least begun to admire the excellence which they could not rival. A literary revolution was evidently at hand. There was a feinient in the minds of men, a vague craving for something new, a disposition to hail with delight any thing whicli might at first sight wear the appearance of originality. A reforming age is always fertile to impostors. The same 028 MACAULAY'S MIBCKLLAXKOUS WlllilAviS. excited state of public feeling which produced the great 1 separation from the see of Rome produced also the excesses 1 of the Anabaptists. The same stir in the public mind of * Europe which overthrew tlie abuses of the old French gov- J ernment, produced the Jacobins and Theophilanthropists* T Maepherson and Della Crusca were to be true reformers of | English poetry what Knipperdoling was to Luther, or I (Jlootz to Turgot. The success of Chatterton’s forgeries and I of the far more contemptible forgeries of Ireland showed i that people had begun to love the old poetry well, though | not wisely. The public were never more disposed to be- : lieve stories without evidence, and to admire books without - merit. Any thing which could break the dull monotony of • the correct school was acceptable. J The forerunner of the great restoration of our literature was Cowper. His literary career began and ended at nearly the same time with that of Alfieri. A comparison between Alfieri and Cowper may, at first sight, appear as strange as that which a loyal Presbyterian minister is said to have made in 1745 between George the Second and Enoch. It may seem that the gentle, shy, melancholy Calvinist, whose spirit had been broken by fagging at school, who had not courage to earn a livelihood by reading the titles of bills in the House of Lords, and whose favorite associates were a blind old lady and an evangelical divine, could have nothing in common with the haughty, ardent, and voluptuous noble- man, the horse-jockey, the libertine, who fought Lord Lig- onier in Hyde Park, and robbed the Pretender of his queen. But though the private lives of these remarkable men pre- sent scarcely any points of resemblance, their literary lives bear a close analogy to each other. They both found poetry in its lowest state of degradation, feeble, artificial, and alto- gether nerveless. They both possessed precisely the talents which fitted them for the task of raising it from that deep abasement. They cannot, in strictness, be called great poets. They had not in any very high degree the creative power, but they had great vigor of thought, great warmth of feeling, and what, in their circumstances, was above all things im- portant, a manliness of taste which approached to rough- ness. They did not deal in mechanical versification and conventional phrases. They wrote eoncerning things the thought of which set their hearts on fire ; and thus what “The vision and the faculty divine;” 1 Moore’s lire or loro byron^. 629 they wrote, even avIicii it av anted every other grace, had tliat inimitable grace Avhich sincerity and strong passion im- part to the rudest and most homely compositions. Each of them sought for inspiration in a noble and effecting subject, fertile of images which had not yet been hackneyed. Liberty was the muse of Alfieri, Religion was the muse of Cowper. The same truth is found in their lighter pieces. They were not among those Avho deprecated the severity, or deplored the absence of an unreal mistress in melodious commonplaces. Instead of raving about imaginary Chloes and Sylvias, CoAvper Avrote of Mrs. UnAvin’s knitting-needles. The only love-verses of Alfieri Avere addressed to one whom he truly and passionately loved. “ Tutte le rime amorose che seguono,” says he, ‘‘ tutte sono per essa, e ben sue, e di lei solamente ; poich6 mai d’ altra donna J3er certo non can- tero.” These great men were not free from affectation. But their affectation was directly opposed to the affectation w^hich generally ])revailed. Each of them expressed, in strong and bitter language, the contempt which he felt for the effeminate poetasters Avho Avere in fashion both in Eng- land and in Italy. Cowper complains that Manner is all in all, whate’er is writ, The substitute for genius, taste, and Avit.** He praised Pope ; yet he regretted that Pope had “ Made poetry a mere mechanic art, And every warbler had his tune by heart. Alfieri speaks with similar scorn of the tragedies of his pre. decessors. “Mi cadevano dalle mani per la languidezza, trivialita e prolissita del modi e del verso, senza parlare poi della snervatezza dei pensieri. Or perche mai questa nostra divina lingua, si maschia anco, ed energica, e feroce, m bocca di Dante, dovra, ella farsi cosi sbiadata ed eunuca nel dialogo tragico?” To men thus sick of the languid manner of their con- temporaries ruggedness seemed a venial fault, or rather a positive merit. In their hatred of meretricious ornament, and of what Cowper calls “ creamy smoothness,” they erred on the opposite side. Their style was too austere, their versification too harsh. It is not easy, however, to overrate the service which they rendered to literature. The intrinsic value of their poems is considerable. But the example which they set of mutiny against an absurd system was Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. invaluable. Tlic });n*t wliich they performed was rather that of Moses tliaii that of Joslnia. They oj)ened the house of l)on(lage ; but they did not enter tlie promised land. During the twenty years which followed the death (.V)wper, the revolution in English ])oetry was fully consum- mated. None of the writers of this ])eriod, not even Sir Walter Scott, contributed so much to the consummation as T.ord Byron. Yet Lord Byron contributed to it unwillingly, and with constant self-reproacli and shame. All his tasles and inclinations led him to take part with the school of j)oetry which was going out against the school which was coming in. Of Pope himself he spoke with extravagant admiration. lie did not venture directly to say that the little man of Twickenham was a greater poet than Shak- speare or Milton ; but lie hinted pretty clearly that he thought so. Of his contemporaries, scarcely any had so much of his admiration as Mr. Gifford, who, considered as a poet, was merely Pope, without Pope’s wit and fancy, and whose satires are decidedly inferior in vigor and poignancy to the very imperfect juvenile performance of Lord Byron himself. lie now and then praised Mr. Wadsworth and Mr. Coleridge, but ungraciously and without cordiality. When he attacked them, he brought his whole soul to the work. Of the most elaborate of Mr. Wordsworth’s poems lie could find nothing to say, but that it was “clumsy, and frowsy, and his aversion.” Peter Bell excited his spleen to such a degree that he evoked the shades of Pope and Dry- den, and demanded of them whether it were possible that such trash could evade contempt ? In his heart he thought his own Pilgrimage of Harold inferior to his Imitation of Horace’s Art of Poetry, a feeble echo of Pope and John- 6311. This insipid performance he repeatedly designed to publish, and was withheld only by the solicitations of his friends. He has distinctly declared his approbation of the unities, the most absurd laws by which genius was ever held in scTvitudc. In one of his works, we think in his letter to Mr. Bowles, lie compares the poetry of the eighteenth cen- tury to the Parthenon, and that of the nineteenth to a Turkish mosque, and boasts that, although he had assisted his contemporaries in building their grotesque and barbar- ous edifice, he had never joined them in defacing the remains of a chaster and more graceful architecture. In another letter he compares the change v hich had recently passed on English poeti y to the decay of Latin poetry after MOORE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 631 the Augnstan age. In the time of Pope, he tells his friend, it was all Horace with us. It is all Claudian now. For the great old masters of the art he had no very en- thusiastic veneration. In his letter to Mr. Bowles he uses expressions which clearly indicate that he preferred Pope’s Iliad to the original. Mr. Moore confesses that his friend w^as no very fervent admirer of Shakspeare. Of all the poets of the first class, Lord Byron seems to have admired Dante and Milton most. Yet in the fourth canto of Childe Harold, he places Tasso, a writer not merely inferior to them, but of quite a different order of mind, on at least a footing of equality with them. Mr. Hunt is, we suspect, quite correct in saying that Lord Byron could see little or no merit in Spenser. But Byron the critic and Byron the poet were two very different men. The effects of the noble writer’s theory may indeed often be traced in his practice. But his disposition led him to accommodate himself to the literary taste of the age in which he lived ; and his talents would have enabled him to accommodate himself to the taste of any age. Though he said much of his contempt for mankind, and though he boasted that amidst the inconstancy of fortune and of fame he was all-sufficient to himself, his literary career indicated nothing of that lonely and unsocial pride which he affected. We cannot conceive him, like Milton or Wordsworth, defying the criticism of his contemporaries, retorting their scorn, and laboring on a poem in the full as- surance that it would be unpopular, and in the full assur- ance that it would be immortal. He has said, by the mouth of one of his heroes, in speaking of political greatness, that “ he must serve who fain would sway ; ” and this he assigns as a reason for not entering into political life. He did not consider that the sway which he had exercised in literature had been purchased by servitude, by the sacrifice of his own taste to the taste of the public. He was the creature of his age ; and whenever he had lived he would have been the creature of his age. Under Charles the First Byron would have been more quaint than Donne. Under Charles the Second the rants of Byron’s rhyming plays would have pitted it, boxed it, and galleried it, with those of any Bays or Bilboa. Under George the First the monotonous smoothness of Byron’s versification and the terseness of his expression would have made Pope himself envious. l>o2 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. As it was, ho was the man of the last tliirteen years of die eighteenth century, and of the first tweiity-tliree years of the nineteentli century. He belonged half to the old, and half to the new scliool of poetry. Ills personal taste led him to the former ; his tliirst of praise to the latter ; his talents were equally suited to both. Ilis fame was a com- mon ground on which the zealots of both sides, Gifford, for example, and Shelley, might meet. He was the represen- tative, not of either literary party, but of both at once, and of their conflict, and of the victory by which that conflict was terminated, hlis poetry fills and measures the whole of the vast interval through which our literature has moved since the time of Johnson. It touches the Essay on Man at the one extremity, and the Excursion at the other. There are several parallel instances in literary history. Voltaire, for example, was the connecting link between the France of Lewis the Fourteenth and the Franco of Lewis the Sixteenth, between Racine and Boileauon the one side, and Condorcet and Beaumarchais on the other. He, like Lord Byron, put himself at the head of an intellectual revolution, dreading it all the time, murmuring at it, sneer- ing at it, yet choosing rather to move before his age in any direction than to be left behind and forgotten. Dry den was the connecting link between the literature of the age of James the First and the literature of the age of Anne. Oromasdes and Arimanes fought for him. Arirnanes carried liim off. But his heart was to the last with Oromasdes. Lord Byron was, in the same manner, the mediator between two generations, between two hostile poetical sects. Though always sneering at Mr. Wordsworth, he was yet, though perhaps unconsciously, the interpreter between Mr. Words- worth and the multitude. In the Lyrical Ballads and the Excursion Mr. Wordsworth appeared as the high priest of a worship, of which nature was the idol. No poems have ever indicated a more exquisite perception of the beauty of the outer world, or a more passionate love and reverence for that beauty. Yet they were not popular ; and it is not likely that they ever will be popular as the poetry of Sir W alter Scott is popular. The feeling which pervaded them was too deep for general sympathy. Their style was often too mysterious for general comprehension. They made & few es/)teric disciples, and many scoffers. Lord Byror founded what may be called an exoteric Lake school ; and all the readers of verse in England, we might say in Europe, Moore’s life op lord byron. 683 hastened to sit at his feet. What Mr. Wordsworth had said like a recluse, Lord Byron said like a man of the world, with less profound feeling, but with more perspicuity, energy, and conciseness. We would refer our readers to the last two cantos of Cliilde Harold and to Manfred, in proof of these observations. Lord Byron, like Mr. Wordsworth, had nothing dramatic in his genius. He was indeed the reverse of a great dramatist, the very antithesis to a great dramatist. All his characters, Harold looking on the sky, from which his country and the sun are disappearing together, the Giaour, standing apart in the gloom of the side aisle, and casting a haggard scowl from under his long hood at the crucifix and the censer, Conrad leaning on his sword by the watch-tower, Lara smiling on the dancers. Alp gazing steadily on the fatal cloud as it passes before the moon, Manfred wandering among the precipices of Berne, Azzo on the judgment-seat, Ugo at the bar, Lambro frowning on the siesta of his daugh- ter and Juan, Cain j^resenting his unacceptable offering, are essentially the same. The varieties are varieties merely of age, situation, and outward show. If ever Lord Byron attempted to exhibit men of a different kind, he always made them cither insipid or unnatural. Selim is nothing. Boimivart is nothing. Don Juan, in the first and best cantos, is a feeble copy of the page in the Marriage of Figaro. Johnson, the man whom Juan meets in the slave-market, is a most striking failure. How differently would Sir Walter Scott have drawn a bluff, fearless Englishman, in such a situation ! The jDortrait would have seemed to walk out of the canvas. Sardanapalus is more coarsely drawn than any dramatic personage that we can remember. His heroism and his effeminacy, his contempt of death and his dread of a weighty helmet, his kingly resolution to be seen in the foremost ranks, and the anxiety with which he calls for a looking- glass, that he may be seen to advantage, are contrasted, it is true, with all the point of Juvenal. Indeed, the hint ol the character seems to have been taken from what Juvenal says of Otho : “ Speculum civilis sarcina belli. Nimirum summi duds est occidere Galbam, Et curare cutem summi constantia civis, Bedriaci in campo spoliiim affectare Palati, Et pressum in faciem digitis extend*ere panein.*' These are excellent lines in a satire. But it is not the 634 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. business of the dramatist to exhibit characters in this sharp I antitlietical way. It is not thus that Shakspeare makes I Prince TTal rise from tlie rake of Eastclieap into the hero of | Shrewsbury, and sink again into the rake of Eastcheap. It I is not thus that Shakspeare has exhibited the union of | effeminacy and valor in Antony. A dramatist cannot commit ! a greater error tlian that of following those pointed descrip- j t-ions of character in which satirists and historians indulge i so much. It is by rejecting what is natural that satirists V and historians produce these striking characters. Their < great object generally is to ascribe to every man as many i contradictory qualities as possible, and this is an object easily attained. By judicious selection and judicious exag- , geration, the intellect and the disposition of any human being might be described as being made up of nothing but startling contrasts. If the dramatist attempts to create a being answering to one of these descriptions, he fails, be- cause he reverses an imperfect analytical process. He pro- duces, not a man, but a personified epigiam. Very eminent writers have fallen into this snare. Ben Jonson has given us a Hermogenes, taken from the lively lines of Horace, but 1 the inconsistency which is so amusing in the satire appears unnatural and disgusts us in the play. Sir Walter Scott has committed a far more glaring error of the same kind in the novel of Peveril. Admiring, as every judicious reader must admire, the keen and vigorous lines in which Dryden satirized the Duke of Buckingham, Sir Walter attempted to make a Duke of Buckingham to suit them, a real living Zimri ; and he made, not a man, but the most grotesque of all monsters. A writer who should attempt to introduce into a play or a novel such a Wharton as the Wharton of Pope, or a Lord Hervey answering to Sporus, would fail in the same manner. But to return to Lord Byron ; his women, like his men, are all of one breed. Haidee is a half-savage and girlish ' Julia ; Julia is a civilized and matronly Haidee. Leila is a wedded Zuleika, Zuleika a virgin Leila. Gulnare and Medora appear to have been intentionally opposed to each other. Y et the difference is a difference of situation only. A slight change of circumstances would, it should seem, have sent Gulnare to the lute of Medora, and armed Medora with the dagger of Gulnare. j It is hardly too much to say, that Lord Byron could ex- ' bibit only one man and only one woman, a man proud, i MOORE S LIFE OF LORD BYROK. 635 moody, cynical, with defiance on \m brow, and misery in his heart, a scorner of his kind, implacable in revenj^e, yet capable of deep and strong affection : a woman all softness and gentleness, loving to caress and to be caressed, but ca- pable of being transformed by passion into a tigress. Even these two characters, his only two characters, he cculd not exhibit dramatically. He exhibited them in the 'manner, not of Shakspeare, but of Clarendon. He analyzed them, he made them analyze themselves ; but he did not make them show themselves. We are told, for example, in many lines of great force and spirit, that the speech of Lara was bitterly sarcastic, that he talked little of his travels, that if he was much questioned about them, his an- swers became short, and his brow gloomy. But we have none of Lara’s sarcastic speeches or short answers. It is not thus that the great masters of human nature have por- trayed human beings. ITomer never tells us that Nestor loved to relate long stories about his youth. Shakspeare never tells us that in the mind of lago every thing that is beautiful and endearing was associated with some filthy and debasing idea. It is curious to observe the tendency which the dialogue of Lord Byron always has to lose its character of a dialogue and to become soliloquy. The scenes between Manfred and the Chamois-hunter, between Manfred and the Witch of the Alps, between Manfred and the Abbot, are instances of this tendency. Manfred, after a few unimportant speeches, has all the talk to himself. The other interlocutors are nothing more than good listeners. They drop an occasional question or ejaculation which sets Manfred off again on the inex- haustible topic of his personal feelings. If we examine the fine passages in Lord Byron’s dramas, the description of liome, for example, in Manfred, the description of a Vene- tian revel in Marino Faliero, the concluding invective which the old doge pronounces against Venice, we shall find that there is nothing dramatic in these speeches, that they derive none of their effect from the character or situation of the speaker, and that they would have been as fine, or finer, if they had been published as fragments of blank verse by Lord Byron. There is scarcely a speech in Shakspeare of which the same could be said. No skilful reader of Shak- speare can endure to see what are called the fine things taken out, under the name of “ Beauties ” or of “Elegant Extracts,” or to hear any single passage, “ To be or not to 636 Macaulay’s miscellaneous 'writings. be,” for example, quoted as a sample of tlie great poet. To be or not to be ” has merit undoubtedly as a composi- tion. It would have merit if put into the mouth of a chorus. But its merit as a composition vanishes when com- pared with its merit as belonging to Hamlet. It is not too much to say that the great plays of ShaksjKiare would lose less by being deprived of all the passages which are com- monly called the fine passages, than those passages Icse by being read separately from the play. Tliis is perhaps the highest praise which can be given to a dramatist. On the other hand, it may be doubted Avhether there is, in all Lord Byron’s plays, a single remarkable passage which owes any portion or its interest or effect to its connection with the characters or the action. He has written only one scene, as far as we can recollect, which is dramatic even in manner, the scene between Lucifer and Cain. The confer- ence is animated, and each of the interlocutors has a fair share of it. But this scene, when examined, will be found to be a confirmation of our remarks. It is a dialogue only in form. It is a soliloquy in essence. It is in reality a de- bate carried on within one single unquiet and skeptical mind. The questions and the answers, the objections and the solu- tions, all belong to the same character. A writer who showed so little dramatic skill in works professedly dramatic was not likely to write narrative with dramatic effect. Nothing could indeed be more rude and careless than the structure of his narrative poems. He seems to have thought, with the hero of the Rehearsal, that the plot was good for nothing but to bring in fine things. His two longest works, Chiide Harold and I)on Juan, have no plan whatever. Either of them might have been ex- tended to any length, or cut short at any point. The state in which the Giaour appears illustrates the manner in which all Byron’s poems were constructed. They are all, like the Giaour, collections of fragments ; and, though there may be no empty spaces marked by asterisks, it is still easy to peiceive, by the clumsiness of the joining, Avhere the parts for the sake of which the w^hole 'was composed end and begin. It was in description and meditation that Byron excelled. ‘‘Description,” as he said in Don Juan, “was his forte.” His manner is indeed peculiar, and is almost unequalled ; rapid, sketchy, full of vigor ; the selection happy ; the stn>kes few and bold. In spite of the reverence 'v\^hich we feel for the Moore’s life of lord b\ron. C37 genius of Mr. Wordsworth we cannot but think that the minuteness of his descriptions often diminishes their effect. He has accustomed himself to gaze on nature with the eye of a lover, to dwell on every feature, and to mark every change of aspect. Those beauties which strike the most negligent observer, and those which only a close attention discovers, are equally familiar to him and are equally prom- inent in his poetry. The proverb of old Hesiod, that half is often more than the whole, is eminently applicable to description. The policy of the Dutch who cut down most of the precious trees in the Spice Islands, in order to raise the value of what remained, was a policy which poets would do well to imitate. It was a policy which no poet under- stood better than Lord Byron. Whatever his faults might be, he was never, while his mind retained its vigor, accused of prolixity. His descriptions, great as was their intrinsic merit, de- rived their principal interest from the feeling which always mingled with them. He was himself the beginning, the middle, and the end, of all his own poetry, the hero of every tale, the chief object in every landscape. Harold, Lara, Manfred, and a crowd of other characters, were universally considered merely as loose incognitos of Byron ; and there is every reason to believe that he meant them to be so con- sidered. The wonders of the outer world, the Tagus, with the mighty fleets of England riding on its bosom, the towers of Cintra overhanging the shaggy forest of cork-trees and willows, the glaring marble of Pentelicus, the banks of the Rhine, the glaciers of Clarens, the sweet Lake of Leman, the dell of Egeria with its summer-birds and rustling lizards, the shapeless ruins of Rome overgrown with ivy and wall- flowers, the stars, the sea, the mountains, all were mere ac- cessaries, the background to one dark and melancholy figure. Newer had any writer so vast a command of the whole eloquence of scorn, misanthropy and despair. That Marah <\^as never dry. No art could sweeten, no draughts could vxhaust, its perennial Avaters of bitterness. Never was there mch variety in monotony as that of Byron. From maniac (aughter to piercing lamentation, there Avas not a single note df human anguish of which he was not master. Year after 7 car, and month after month, he continued to repeat that to be wretched is the destiny of all; that to be eminently wretched is the destiny of the eminent ; that all the desires by which we are eursed lead alike to misery, if they axe no* ^38 MACAULAY S MISCELLANEOUS WllITINOS. gratified, to clic misery cf disappointment, if they are grati fied, to the misery of satiety. Ilis heroes are men who have arrived by different roads at the same goal of despair, who are sick of life, who are at war with society, who are 6U])jx)rted in tlieir anguish only by an unconquerable pride resembling that of Prometheus on the rock or of Satan in the buining marl, who can master their agonies by the force of theii will, and who, to the last, defy the whole power of earth and heaven. He always described himself as a man of the same kind with his favorite creations, as a man whose heart had been withered, whose capacity for happiness was gone and could not be restored, but whose invincible spirit dared the worst that could befall him here or hereafter. How much of this morbid feeling sprang from an origi- nal disease of the mind, how much from real misfortune, how much from the nervousness of dissipation, how much was fanciful, how much was merely affected, it is im- possible for us, and would probably have been impos- sible for the most intimate friends of Lord Byron, to de- cide. Whether there ever existed, or can ever exist, a per- son answering to the description which he gave of himself may be doubted ; but that he was not such a person is be- yond all doubt. It is ridiculous to imagine that a man whose mind was really imbued with scorn of his fellow- creatures would have published three or four books every year in order to tell them so ; or that a man who could say with truth that he neither sought sympathy nor needed it would have admitted all Europe to h6ar his farewell to his wife, and his blessings on his child. In the second canto of Childe Harold, he tells us that he is insensible to fame and obloquy : 111 may such contest now* the spirit move, Which heeds nor keen reproof nor partial praise.” Tet we know on the best evidence that, a day or two before he published these lines, he was greatly, indeed childishly, elated by the compliments paid to his maiden speech in the House of Lords. We are far, however, from thinking that his sadness was altogether feigned. He was naturally a man of great sen- sibility; he had been ill educated; his feelings had been early exposed to sharp trials ; he had been crossed in his boyish love ; he had been mortified by the failure of his first literary efforts ; he was straitened in pecuniary circumstau* MOOHE’S life op LORL BYRON. 639 cee ; he was rnifortiniatc in liis domestic relations ; the pub- lie treated him with cruel injustice : his health and spirits Buffered from his dissi])ated habits of life ; he was on the whole, an unha])j>y man. He early discovered that, by pa- rading his unhappiness before the multitude, he prod need an immense sensation. The woi'ld gave him every encourag<;- ment to talk about his mental sufferings. The interest which his first confessions excited induced him to affect much that he did not feel ; and the affectation probably reacted on his feelings. ITow far the character in which he exhibited himself was genuine, and how far theatrical, it would probably have puzzled himself to say. There can be no doubt that this remarkable man owed tlie vast influence which he exercised over his contempo- raries at least as much to his gloomy egotism as to the real ])Ower of his poetry. We never could very clearly under- stand how it is that egotism, so unpopular in conversation, should be so popular in writing ; or how it is that men who affect in their compositions qualities and feelings which they have not, impose so much more easily on their contem- poraries than on posterity. The interest which the loves of Petrarch excited in his own time, and the pitying fondness with which half Europe looked upon Rousseau, are well known. To readers of our age, the love of Petrarch seems to have been love of that kind which breaks no hearts, and I the sufferings of Rousseau to have deserved laughter rather than pity, to have been partly counterfeited, and partly the 1 consequences of his own perverseness and vanity. What our grandchildren may think of the character of Lord Byron, as exhibited in his poetry, we will not pretend to guess. It is certain, that the interest which he excited during his life is without a parallel in literary history. The feeling with which young readers of poetry regard him can be conceived only by those who have experienced it. To people who are unacquainted with real calamity, ‘‘ nothing is so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.” This faint image of sorrow has in all ages been considered by young gentle- men as an agreeable excitement. Old gentlemen and mid- dle-aged gentlemen have so many real causes of sadness that they are rarely inclined “ to be as sad as night only for wantonness.” Indeed they want the power almost as much as the inclination. We know very few persons engaged in active life who, even if they were to procure stools to be melancholy upon, and were to sit down with all the premed- 640 Macaulay's miscellaneous Writings. itation of Master Stephen, would be able to enjoy much of what somebody calls the “ ecstasy of woe.” Among that large class of young persons whose reading is almost entirely confined to works of imagination, the popularity of Lord Byron was unbounded. They bought pictures of him ; they treasured up the smallest relics of him ; they learned his ])oems by heart, and did their best to write like him, and to look like him. Many of them prac- tised at the glass in the ho[>e of catching the curl of the upper lip, and the scowl of the brow, which appear in some of his portraits. A few discarded their neckcloths in imita- tion of their great leader. For some years the Minerva press sent forth no novel without a mysterious, unhappy, Lara-like peer. The number of hopeful under-graduates and medical students who became things of dark imagin- ings, on whom the freshness of the heart ceased to fall like dew, whose passions had consumed themselves to dust, and to whom the relief of tears was denied, passes all calculation. This was not the worst. There was created in the minds of many of these enthusiasts a pernicious and absurd associa* tion between intellectual power and moral depravity. From the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a system of ethics, compounded of misanthropy and voluptuousness, a system in which the two great commandments were, to hate your neighbor, and to love your neighbor’s wdfe. This affectation has passed aw^ay ; and a few more years will destroy whatever yet remains of tliat magical potency which once belonged to the name of Byron. To us he i.-i still a man, young, noble, and unhappy. To our children he will be merely a writer; and their impartial judgment will appoint his place among writers, without regard to his ran); or to his private history. That his poetry will undergo a severe sifting, that much of what has been admired by his contemporaries will be rejected as worthless, we have little doubt. But we have as little doubt, that, after the closest scrutiny, there will still remain much that can only peiish with the English language. ] SAMUEL JOHNSOIC. 64J SAMUEL JOHNSON * {Edinburgh RevieWy September, 1831.) This work has greatly disappointed us. Whatever faults we may have been prepared to find in it, we fully expected that it would be a valuable addition to English literature ; that it would contain many curious facts, and many judi- cious remarks ; that the style of the notes would be neat, clear, and precise; and that the typographical execution would be, as in new editions of classical works it ought to be, almost faultless. We are sorry to be obliged to say that the merits of Mr. Croker’s performance are on a par ^vith. those of a certain leg of mutton on which Dr. Johnson dined, while travelling from London to Oxford, and which he, with char- ijcteristic energy, pronounced to be ‘‘ as bad as bad could be, ill fed, ill killed, ill kept, and ill dressed.” This edition is ill compiled, ill arranged, ill written, and ill printed. Nothing in the work has astonished us so much as the ignorance and carelessness of Mr. Crokcr Avith respect to facts and dates. Many of his blunders are such as wc should be surprised to hear any well educated gentleman commit, even in conversation. The notes absolutely SAvarm Avdth misstatements into Avhich the editor ne\"er Avould have fallen, if he had taken the slightest pains to inA' estigate the truth of his assertions, or if he had even been Avell acquainted Avith the book on which he undertook to comment. We wrl ^ive a few instances. Mr. Croker tells us in a note that Derrick, avIio Avas mas ter of the ceremonies at Bath, died Axry poor in ITGO.f Wo read on ; and, a few pages later, we find Dr. Johnson and Boswell talking of this same Derrick as still living and reigning, as having retrieA^ed his character, as possessing so much power over his subjects at Bath, that his opposition might be fatal to Sheridan’s lectures on oratory, t And all this is in 1763. The fact is, that Derrick died in 1769. Ill one note Ave read, that Sir Herbert Croft, the author of that pompous and foolish account of Young, which ap- ♦ The Life of Samuel John son, LL.D. Including a Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides, by James Boswell, Esq. A new Edition, with numerous Additions and Notes, By John Wilson Choker, LL.D. F.R.S. Five volumes, 8vo. London* 1831. tl. 394. tl. 404. VoL. I. — 41 < 5^12 Macaulay’s miscellaneous whitings. pears among the Lives of the Poets, died in 1805.* An other note in tlie same volume states, that this same Sii Herbert Croft died at Paris, after residing abroad for fifteen years, on the 27th of April ISlG.f Mr. Croker informs us, that Sir William Forbes of Pit- sligo, the author of the Life of Beattie, died in 1816.t A Sir William Forbes undoubtedly died in that year, but not the Sir William Forbes in question, whose death took place in 1806. It is notorious, indeed, that the biographer of Beat- Le lived just long enough to complete the history of his friend. Eight or nine years before the date which Mr. Croker has assigned for Sir William’s death Sir Walter Scott lamented that event in the introduction to the fourth canto of Marmion. Every school-girl knows the lines : “ Scarce had lamented Forbes paid The tribute to his Minstrel’s shade ; The tale of friendship scarce was told. Ere the narrator’s heart was cold : Far may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind ! In one place, we are told, that Allan Ramsay, the painter, was born in 1709, and died in 1784; § in another, that he died in 1784, in the seventy-first year of his age.|| In one place, Mr. Croker says, that at the commence- ment of the intimacy between Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale, In 1765, the lady was twenty-five years old.1T In other places he says, that Mrs. Thrale’s thirty-fifth year coincided with Johnson’s seventieth.** Johnson w^as born in 1709. If, therefore, Mrs. Thrale’s thirty-fifth year coincided with Johnson’s seventieth, she could have been only twenty-one years old in 1765. This is not all. Mr. Croker, in another place, assigns the year 1777 as the date of the complimentary lines which Johnson made on Mrs. Thrale’s thirty-fifth birth- day.tt If llii® <1^1® correct, Mrs. Thrale must have been born in 1742, and could have been only twenty-three when her acquaintance with Johnson commenced. Mr. Croker therefore gives us three different statements as to her age. Two of the three must be incorrect. We will not decide between them ; we will only say, that the reasons which Mr. Croker gives for thinking that Mrs. Thrale was exactly thirty-five years old when Johnson was seventy, appear to ns utterly frivolous. Again, Mr. Croker informs his readers that “Lord Mans^ ♦rv. 321 , t IV. 428 . JII. 262. § IV. 105 . a V, 281 , IT I. 610. **IV. 271. 322. n 3lL. 469. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 643 field survived Johnson full ten years.” * Lord Mansfield survived Dr. Johnson just eight years and a quarter. Johnson found in the library of a French lady, whom he visited during his short visit to Paris, some works which he regarded with great disdain. “ I looked,” says he, “ into the books in the lady’s closet, and, in contempt, showed them to Mr. Thrale. Prince Titi, Bibliotheque des Fees, and other books.”f “ The History of Prince Titi,” observes Mr. Croker, “ was said to be the autobiography of Frederick Prince of Wales, but was probably written by Ralph his secretary.” A more absurd note never was penned. The history of Prince Titi, to which Mr. Croker refers, whether written by Prince Frederick or by Ralph, was certainly never published. If Mr. Croker had taken the trouble to read with attention that very passage in Park’s Royal and Noble Authors which he cites as his authority, he would have seen that the manuscript was given up to the govern- ment. Even if this memoir had been printed, it is not very likely to find its way into a French lady’s bookcase. And would any man in his senses speak contemptuously of a French lady, for having in her possession an English work, so curious and interesting as a Life of Prince Frederick, W’^hether written by himself or by a confidential secretary, must have been ? The history at which Johnson laughed was a very proper companion to the Bibliotheque des Fees, a fairy tale about good Prince Titi and naughty Prince Violent. Mr. Croker may find it in the Magasin des En- fans, the first French book which the little girls of England read to their governesses. Mr. Croker states that Mr. Henry Bate, who afterwards assumed the name of Dudley, was proprietor of the Morning Herald, and fought a duel with George Robinson Stoney ill consequence of some attacks on Lady Strathmore whicl appeared in that paper.} Now Mr. Bate was then con nected, not with the Morning Herald, but with the Morning Post ; and the dispute took place before the Morning IIeral3 was in existence. The duel was fought in January, 1777 ^ The Chronicle of the Annual Register for that year contains an account of the transaction, and distinctly states that Mr. Bate was editor of the Morning Post. The Morning Herald, as any person may see by looking at any number of it, was not established till some years after this affair. For this blunder there is, we must acknowledge, some excuse : for it ♦XI. 161, t XXL 271, tV. 196, 644 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. certainly seems almost incredible to a person living in oui time that any human being should ever have stooped tc fight with a writer in the Morning l^ost. ‘‘James de Duglas,” says Mr. Croker, “was requested by King Robert Bruce, in his last hours, to repair, with his he^irt to Jerusalem, and humbly to deposit it at the sepul- chre of our Lord, which he did in 1329.” * Now, it is well \ known that he did no such thing, and for a very sufficient ^ reason, because he was killed by the way. Nor was it in 1329 that he set out. Robert Bruce died in 1329, and the expedition of Douglas took place in the following year, “ Quand le printems vint et la saison,” says Froissart, in Tune, 1330, says Lord Hailes, whom Mr. Croker cites as ^ the authority for his statement. i Mr. Croker tells us that the great Marquis of Montrose ; was beheaded at Edinburgh in 1650. t There is not a for ^ ward boy at any school in England who does not know that the marquis was hanged. The account of the execution is i one of the finest passages in Lord Clarendon’s History. - We can scarcely suppose that Mr. Croker has never read > that passage ; and yet we can scarcely suppose that any per- son who has ever pursued so noble and pathetic a story can i have utterly forgotten all its most striking circumstances. “ Lord Townshend,” says Mr. Croker, “ was not secre- i tary of state till 1720.”$ Can Mr. Croker possibly be ig- i norant that Lord Townshend was made secretary of state :i at the accession of George I. in 1714, that he continued to f be secretary of state till he was displaced by the intrigues • of Sunderland and Stanhope at the close of 1716, and that he returned to the office of secretary of state, not in 1720, ^ but in 1721 ? j Mr. Croker, indeed, is generally unfortunate in his state- : ments respecting the Townshend family. He tells us that ' Charles Townshend, the chancellor of the exchequer, was | “ nephew of the prime minister, and son of a peer who was secretary of state, and leader of the House of Lords.”§ i Charles Townshend was not nephew, but grandnephew, of | the Duke of Newcastle, not son, but grandson, of the Lord •: Townshend who was secretary of state, and leader of the ' House of Lords. “ General Burgoyne surrendered at Saratoga,” says Mr. Croker, “in March, 1778.” || General Burgoyne surren dered on the 17th of October, 1777, f ♦ IV. 28. 1 11 = 626. i in. 62. 6 in. 868 . U IV. 222. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 645 Nothing,” says Mr. Croker, “can be more unfounded than the assertion that Byng fell a martyr to political party . By a strange coincidence of circumstances, it happened that there was a total change of administration between his con- demnation and his death : so that one party presided at his trial, and another at his execution : there can be no stronger proof that he was not a political martyr.” * Now what will our readers think of this writer, when we assure them that this statement, so confidently made, respecting events so notorious, is absolutely untrue ? One and the same admin- istration was in ofiice when the court-martial on Byng com- menced its sittings, through the whole trial, at the con- demnation, and at the execution. In the month of Novem- ber, 1756, the Duke of Newcastle and Lord Hardwicke re- signed ; the Duke of Devonshire became first lord of the treasury, and Mr. Pitt, secretary of state. This administra- tion lasted till the month of April, 1757. Byng’s court- martial began to sit on the 28th of December, 1756. He was shot on the 14th of March, 1757. There is something at once diverting and provoking in the cool and authorita- tive manner in which Mr. Croker makes these random as- sertions. We do not suspect him of intentionally falsifying history. But of this high literary misdemeanor we do with- out hesitation accuse him, that he has no adequate sense of the obligation which a writer, who professes to relate facts, owes to the public. We accuse him of a negligence and ig- norance analogous to that crassa negligentia^ and that crassa ignorantia, on Avhich the law animadverts in magis- trates and surgeons, e\ en when malice and corruption arc not imputed. We accuse him of having undertaken a work which, if not performed with strict accuracy, must be very much worse than useless, and of having performed it as if the difference between an accurate and an inaccurate state- ment was not worth the trouble of looking into the most common book of reference. But we must proceed. These volumes contain mistakes more gross, if possible, than any that we have yet men- tioned. Boswell has recorded some observations made by Johnson on the changes which had taken place in Gibbon’s religious opinions. That Gibbon when a lad at Oxford turned Catholic is well known. “ It is said,” cried Johnson, laughing, “that he has been a Mahommedan.” “This sar- casm,” says the editor; “ probably alludes to the tenderness 646 MACAULAY^S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. with which Gibbon’s malevolence to Christianity induced him to treat Mahommedanism in his history.” Now the sarcasm was uttered inl77G; and that part of the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire which relateo to Mahommedanism was not published till 1788, twelve years after the date of this conversation, and nearly four years after the death of Johnson.* “It was in the year 1761,” says Mr. Croker, “that Gold- ijmith published his Vicar of Wakefield. This leads tire editor to observe a more serious inaccuracy of Mrs. Piozzi, than Mr. Boswell notices, when he says Johnson left her table to go and sfill the Vicar of Wakefield for Goldsmitli. Now Dr. Johnson was not acquainted with the Thrales till 1765, four years after the book had been published.” f Mr. Croker, in reprehending the fancied inaccuracy of Mrs. Thrale, has himself shown a degree of inaccuracy, or, to speak more properly, a degree of ignorance, hardly credible. In the first place, Johnson became acquainted wdth the Thrales, not in 1765, but in 1764, and during the last weeks of 1764 dined wdth them every Thursday, as is w'ritten in Mrs. Piozzi’s anecdotes. In the second place. Goldsmith published the Vicar of Wakefield, not in 1761, but in 1766. Mrs. Thrale does not pretend to remember the precise date of the summons which called Johnson from her table to the help of his friend. She says only that it was near the be- ginning of her acquaintance with Johnson, and certainly not later than 1766. Her accuracy is therefore completely vindicated. It was probably after one of her Thursday dinners in 1764 that the celebrated scene of the landlady, the sheriff’s officer, and the bottle of Madeira, took place, f * A defence of this blunder was attempted. That the celebrated chapters in which Gibbon has traced the progress of Mahommedanism were not written in 1776 could not be denied. But it was confidently asserted that his partiality to Mahommedanism appeared in his first volume. This assertion is untrue. No passage which can by any art be construed into the faintest indication of the faintest partiality for Mahommedanism has ever been quoted or ever will be quoted from the first volume of the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. To what then, it has been asked, could Johnson allude? Possibly to some anecdote or some conversation of which all trace is lost. One conjecture may bo offered, though with diflSdence. Gibbon tells us in his memoirs, that at Ox- ford he took a fancy for studying Arabic, and was prevented from doing so by the remonstrances of his tutor. Soon after this, the young man fell in with Bos- Buet’s controversial writings, and was speedily converted by them to the Roman Catholic faith. The apostasy of a gentleman commoner would of course be for n time the chief subject of conversation in the common room of Magdalene. His whim about Arabic learning would naturally be mentioned, and would give occasion to some jokes about the probability of his turning Mussulman. If Buch jokes were made, Johnson, who frequently visited Oxford, was very likely to hear of them. f V. 409. I This paragraph has been altered ; and a slight inaccuracy immaterial to th« aiguiieut. has been remoyed SAMUEL JOHNSON. 647 The very page which contains this monstrous blunder, contains another blunder, if possible, more monstrous still. Sir Joseph Mawbey, a foolish member of Parliament, at whose speeches and pig-styes the wits of Brookes’s w 3re, fifty years ago, in the habit of laughing most unmercifully, stated, on the authority of Garrick, that Johnson, while sit- ting in a coffee-house at Oxford, about the time of his doc* tor’s degree, used some contemptuous expressions respect- ing Home’s play and Macpherson’s Ossian. “ Many men,’ lie said, “many women, and many children, might ha\e written Douglas.” Mr. Croker conceives that he has de- tected an inaccuracy, and glories over poor Sir Joseph in a most characteristic manner. “I have quoted his anecdote solely with the view of showing to how little credit hearsay anecdotes are in general entitled. Here is a story published by Sir Joseph Mawbey, a member of the House of Com- mons, and a person every way worthy of credit, who says lie had it from Garrick. Now mark : Johnson’s visit to Oxford, about the time of his doctor’s degree, was in 1754, the first time he had been there since he left the university. But Douglas was not acted till 1756, and Ossian not pub- lished till 1760. All, therefore, that is new in Sir Joseph Mawbey’s story is false.” * Assuredly we need not go far to find ample proof that a member of the House of Com- mons may commit a very gross error. Now mark, say we, in the language of Mr. Croker. The fact is, that Johnson took his Master’s degree in 1754 f and his Doctor’s degree in 1775. t In the spring of 1776, § he paid a visit to Oxford, and at this visit a conversation respecting the works of Home and Macpherson might have taken place, and, in all probability, did take place. The only real objection to the story Mr. Croker has missed. Boswell states, apparently on the best authority, that as early at least as the year 1763, Johnson, in conversation with Blair, used the same expres- sions respecting Ossian, which Sir Joseph represents him as having used respecting Douglas. || Sir Joseph or Garrick, confounded, we suspect, the two stories. But their error is venial, compared with that of Mr. Croker. We will not multiply instances of this scandalous inaccu- racy. It is clear that a writer who, even when warned by the text on which he is commenting, falls into such mistakes as these, is entitled to no confidence whatever. Mr. Croker has committed an error of five years with respect to th« •V.409. 1 1.262. $ 111,206 §111.326. i 1. 405 (348 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. publication of Goldsmith’s novel, an error of twelve years with respect to the publication of part of Gibbon’s ITistorj^, an error of twenty-one years with respect to an event in Johnson’s life so important as the taking of the doctoral de- gree. Two of these three errors he has committed, while ostentatiously displaying his own accuracy, and correcting what he represents as the loose assertions of others. How can his readers take on trust his statements concerning the births, marriages, divorces, and deaths of a crowd of peo- ' pie, whose names are scarcely known to this generation ? It is not likely that a person who is ignorant of what almost everybody knows can know that of which almost everybody is ignorant. We did not open this book with any wish to find blemishes in it. We have made no curious re- searches. The work itself, and a very common knowledge of literary and political history, have enabled us to detect j the mistakes which we have pointed out, and many other j mistakes of the same kind. We must say, and we say it I with regret, that we do not consider the authority of Mr. | Croker, unsupported by other evidence, as sufficient to I justify any writer who may follow him in relating a single j anecdote or in assigning a date to a single event. | Mr. Croker shows almost as much ignorance and heed- lessness in his criticisms as in his statements concerning w facts, ilr. Johnson said, very reasonably as it appears to | us, that some of the satires of Juvenal are too gross for im- | itation. Mr. Croker, who, by the way, is angry with John- 1 son for defending Prior’s tales against the charge of inde- | cency, resents this aspersion on Juvenal, and indeed refuses f to believe that the doctor can have said anything so absurd. | “ He probably said — some passages of them — for there are | none of Juvenal’s satires to which the same objection may j be made as to one of Horace’s, that it is altogether gross i and licentious.* Surely Mr. Croker can never have read ] the second and ninth satires of Juvenal. ; Indeed the decisions of this editor on points of classical learning, though pronounced in a very authoritative tone, are generally such that, if a schoolboy under our care were ’ to utter them our soul assuredly should not spare for his crying. It is no disgrace to a gentleman who has been en- gaged during near thirty years in political life that he has forgotten his Greek and Latin. But he becomes justly ridiculous if, when no longer able to construe a plain sen 1 . 167 , SAMUEL JOHNSON. 649 tencc, he affects to sit in judgment on the most delicate questions of style and metre. From one blunder, a blunder which no good scholar would have made, Mr. Croker was sayed, as he informs us, by Sir Robert Peel, who quoted a passage exactly in point from Horace. We heartily wish that Sir Robert, whose classical attainments are well known, had been more frequently consulted. Unhappily he was not always at his friend’s elbow; and we have therefore a rich abundance of the strangest errors. Boswell has pre- served a poor epigram by Johnson, inscribed “Ad Lairara j>arituram.” Mr. Croker censures the poet for applying the word puella to a lady in Laura’s situation, and for talking of the beauty of Lucina. “ Lucina,” he says, “ was never famed for her beauty.” * If Sir Robert Peel had seen this note, he probably would have again refuted Mr. Croker’s criticisms by an appeal to Horace. In the secular ode, Lucina is used as one of the names of Diana, and the beauty of Diana is extolled by all the most orthodox doc- tors of the ancient mythology, from Homer in his Odyssey, to Claudian in his Rape of Proserpine. In another ode, Horace describes Diana as the goddess who assists the “ laborantes utero puellas.” But we are ashamed to detain our readers with this fourth-form learning. Boswell found, in his tour to the Hebrides, an inscrip- tion written by a Scotch minister. It runs thus : “ Joannes Macleod, &c., gentis sua3 Philarchus, &c., Florae Macdonald matrimoniali vinculo conjugatus turrem hanc Beganodun- cnsem proaevorum habitaculum longe vetustissimum, diu penitus labefactatam, anno aerae vulgaris mdclxxxvi. in- stauravit.” — “ The minister,” says Mr. Croker, “ seems to have been no contemptible Latinist. Is not Philarchus a very happy term to express the paternal and kindly au- thority of the head of a clan?t The composition of this eminent Latinist, short as it is, contains several words that x e juso as much Coptic as Latin, to say nothing of the incor- rect stiucture of the sentence. The word Philarchus, even if it were a happy term expressing a paternal and kindly authority, would prove nothing for the minister’s Latin, whatever it might prove for his Greek. But it is clear that the word Philarchus means, not a man who rules by love, but a man who loves rule. The Attic writers of the best age used thv? word osition could re- ward its eulogists with little more than promises and caresses. St. James’s would give nothing: Leicester house had nothing to give. Thus, at the time when Johnson commenced his literary career, a writer had little to hope from the patronage of powerful individuals. The patronage of the public did not yet furnish the means of comfortable subsistence. The prices paid by booksellers to authors were so low that a man of considerable talents and unremitting industry could do little more than provide for the day which was passing over him. The lean kine had eaten up the fat kine. The thin and withered ears had devoured the good ears. The season of rich harvests was over, and the period of famine had begun. All that is squalid and miserable might now be summed up in the word Poet. That word denoted a creature dressed like a scarecrow, familiar with compters and spunging-houses, and perfectly qualified to decide on the comparative merits of the Common Side in the King’s Bench prison and of Mount Scoundrel in the Fleet. Even the poorest pitied him ; and they well might pity him. For if their condition was equally abject, their aspirings vrere not equally high, nor their sense of insult equally acute. To lodge in a garret up four pair of stairs, to dine in a cellar among footmen out of place, to translate ten hours a day for the wages of a ditcher, to be hunted by bailiffs from one haunt of beggary and pestilence to another, from Grub Street to St. George’s Fields, and from St. George’s Fields to the alleys behind St. Martin’s church, to sleep on a bulk in June and amidst the ashes of a glass-house in December, to die in an hospital and to be buried in a parish vault, was the fate of more than one writer who, if he had lived thirty years earlier, would have been admitted to the sittings of the Kitcat or the Scriblerus club, would have sat in Parliament,, and would have been entrusted with embassies to the High Allies ; who, if he had lived in our time, would have found encouragement scarcely less munificent in Albemarle Street or in Paternoster Bow* SAMUEL JOHNSON. 665 As every climate has its peculiar diseases, so every walk of life lias its peculiar temptations. The literary character, assuredly, has always had its share of faults, vanity, jealousy, morbid sensibility. To these faults were now superadded the faults which are commonly found* in men whose liveli- hood is precarious, and whose principles are exposed to the trial of severe distress. All the vices of the gambler and of the beggar were blended with those of the author. The { irizes in the wretched lottery of book-making were scarcely ess ruinous than the blanks. If good fortune came, it came in such a manner that it was almost certain to be abused. After months of starvation and despair, a full third night or a well-received dedication filled the pocket of the lean, ragged, unwashed poet with guineas. lie hastened to enjoy those luxuries with the images of which his mind had been haunted while he was sleeping amidst the cinders and eating potatoes at the Irish ordinary in Shoe Lane. A week of taverns soon qualified him for another year of night-cellars. Such was tlie life of Savage, of Boyse, and of a crowd of others. Sometimes blazing in gold-laced hats and waist- coats ; sometimes lying in bed because their coats had gone to pieces, or wearing paper cravats because their linen was in pawn ; sometimes drinking Champagne and Tokay with Betty Careless ; sometimes standing at the window of an eating-house in Porridge island, to snuff up the scent of what they could not afford to taste ; they knew luxury ; they knew beggary ; but they never knew comfort. These men were irreclaimable. They looked on a regular and frugal life with the same aversion which an old gipsy or a Mohawk hunter feels for a stationary abode, and for the restraints and securities of civilized communities. They were as untameable, as much wedded to their desolate free- dom, as the wild ass. They could no more be broken into the offices of social man than the unicorn could be trained to serve and abide by the crib. It was well if they did not, like beasts of a still fiercer race, tear the hands which min- istered to their necessities. To assist them was impossible ; and the most benevolent of mankind at length became weary of giving relief which was dissipated with the wildest profusion as soon as it had been received. If a sum was bestowed on the wretched adventurer, such as, properly husbanded, might have supplied him for six months, it was instantly spent in strange freaks of sensuality, and, before forty-eight hours had elapsed, the poet was Again pestering Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. i566 all liis acquaintance for two-pence to get a plate of shin of beef at a subterraneous cook-sliop. If liis friends gave him an asylum in their liouses, those liouses were forthwith turned into bagnios and taverns. All order was destroyed ; all business w^as sus])ended. The most good-natured host began to re})cnt of his eagerness to serve a man of genius in distress wdien he heard his guest roaring for fresh punch at five o’clock in the morning. A few^ eminent writers were more fortunate. Pope had been raised above poverty by the active patronage w^hich, in his youth, both the great political parties had extended to his Homer. Young had received the only pension ever bestow^ed, to the best of our recollection, by Sir Robert Walpole, as the rewmrd of mere literary merit. One or two of the many poets who attached themselves to the opj^osi- tion, Thomson in particular, and Mallet, obtained, after much severe suffering, the means of subsistence from their political friends. Richardson, like a man of sense, kept his shop ; and his shop kept him, which his novels, admirable as they are, w^ould scarcely have done. But nothing could be more deplorable than the state even of the ablest men, who at that time depended for subsistence on their writings. Johnson, Collins, Fielding, and Thomson, w^ere ceitainly four of the most distinguished persons that England produced during the eighteenth century. It is w^ell knowm that they were all four arrested for debt. Into calamities and difficulties such as these Johnson plunged in his tw^enty-eighth year. From that time till he w^as three or four and fifty, we have little information re- specting him ; little, we mean, compared wdth the full and accurate information which we possess respecting his pro- ceedings and habits towards the close of his life. He emerged at length from cock-lofts and sixpenny ordinaries into tlie society of the polished and the opulent. His fame was established. A pension sufficient for his w^ants had been conferred on him : and he came forth to astonish a gener- ation wdth which he had almost as little in common as with Frenchmen or Spaniards. In his early years he had occasionally seen the great ; but he had seen them as a beggar. He now came among them as a companion. The demand for amusement and instruction had, during the course of tw^enty years, been gradually in- creasing. The price of literary labor had risen ; and those rising men oi letters with w horn Johnson was henceforth to SAMUEL JOHNSON. 667 associate were for the most part persons widely different from those who had walked about with liim all night in the streets for want of a lodging. Burke, Robertson, the Wartons, Gray, Mason, Gibbon, Adam Smith, Beattie, Sir William Jones, Goldsmith, and Churchill, were the most distinguished wri- ters of what may be called the second generation of the Johnsonian age. Of these men Churchill was the only one in whom we can trace the stronger lineaments of that char- acter which, when Johnson first came up to London, was common among authors. Of the rest, scarcely any had felt the pressure of severe poverty. Almost all had been early admitted into the most respectable society on an equal foot- ing. They were men of quite a different species from the dependents of Curll and Osborne. Johnson came among them the solitary specimen of a past age, the last survivor of the genuine race of Grub Street hacks ; the last of that generation of authors whose abject misery and whose dissolute manners had furnished inexhaust- ible matter to the satirical genius of Pope. From nature, he had received an uncouth figure, a diseased constitution, *and an irritable temper. The manner in which the earlier years of his manhood had been passed had given to his demeanor, and even to his moral character, some peculiarities appall- ing to the civilized beings who were the companions of his old age. The perverse irregularity of his hours, the sloven- liness of his person, his fits of strenuous exertion, inter- rupted by long intervals of sluggishness, his strange absti- nence, and his equally strange voracity, his active benevo- lence, contrasted with the constant rudeness and the occa- sional ferocity of his manners in society, made him, in the opinion of those with whom he lived during the last twenty years of his life, a complete original. An original he was, undoubtedly, in some respects. But if we possessed full in- formation concerning those who shared his early hardships, we should probably find that what we call his singularities of manner were, for the most part, failings which he had in common with the class to which he belonged. He ate at Streatham Park as he had been used to eat behind the screen at St. J ohn’s Gate, when he was ashamed to show his ragged clothes. He ate as it was natural that a man should eat, who, during a great part of his life, had passed the morning in doubt whether he should have food for the afternoon. The habits of his early life had accustomed him to bear pri« ration with fortitude, but not to taste pleasure with modera* 668 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. tion. lie could fust ; but when he did not fast, he tore hi# dinner like a famished wolf, with the veins swelling on hb forehead, and the perspiration running down his cheeks. He scarcely ever took Avine. But when he drank it, he drank it greedily and in large tumblers. These were, in fact, mitigated symptoms of that same moral disease which raged with such deadly malignity in his friends Savage and Boyse. The roughness and violence which he showed in society were to be expected from a man whose temper, not naturally gentle, had been long tried by the bitterest calam- ities, by the want of meat, of fire, and of clothes, by the importunity of creditors, by the insolence of booksellers^ by the derision of fools, by the insincerity of patrons, by that bread which is the bitterest of all food, by those stairs Avliich are the most toilsome of all paths, by that deferred hope which makes the heart sick. Through all these things the ill-dressed, coarse, ungainly pedant had struggled manfully up to eminence and command. It Avas natural that in the exercise of his poAver, he should be “ eo immitior, quia tok eraverat,” that, though his heart was undoubtedly generous and humane, his demeanor in society should be harsh and despotic. For seA^ere distress he had sympathy, and not only sympathy, but munificent relief. But for the suffering which a harsh Avord inflicts upon a delicate mind he had no pity ; for it was a kind of suffering Avhich he could scarcely con- ceive. He Avould carry home on his shoulders a sick and starving girl from the streets. He turned his house into a place of refuge for a crowd of wretched old creatures who could find no other asylum ; nor could all their peevishness and ingratitude weary out his benevolence. But the pangs of wounded vanity seemed to him ridiculous : and he scarcely felt sufficient compassion even for the pangs of Avounded affection. He had seen and felt so much of sharp misery, that he was not affected by paltry A^exations, and he seemed to think that everybody ought to be as much hard ened to those vexations as himself. He was angry with BosAvell for complaining of a headache, Avith Mrs. Thrale for grumbling about the dust on the road, or the smell of the kitchen. These were, in his phrase, “ foppish lamentations,” AAdiich people ought to be ashamed to utter in a world so full of sin and sorroAV. Goldsmith crying because the Good- natured Man had failed, inspired him vdth no pity. Though his own health was not good, he detested and despised val- etudinarians. Pecuniary losses, unless they reduced the SAMUEL JOHNSON. 669 ^oser absolutely to beggary, moved Liin very little. People whose hearts had been softened by prosperity might weep, he saidj for such events ; but all that could be expected of a plain man was not to laugh. He was not much moved even by the spectacle of Lady Tavistock dying of a broken heart for the loss of her lord. Such grief he considered as a luxury reserved for the idle and the wealthy. A washer woman, left a widow with nine small children, would not have sobbed herself to death. A person who troubled himself so little about small or sentimental grievances was not likely to be very attentive to the feelings of others in tlio ordinary intercourse of so- ciety. He could not understand how a sarcasm or a rep- rimand could make any man really unhappy. ‘‘ My dear doctor,” said he to Goldsmith, “what harm does it do to a man to call him Ilolofernes ? ” “ Pooh, ma’am,” he exclaimed to Mrs. Carter, “ who is the worse for being talked of un- charitably?” Politeness has been veil defined as benev- olence in small things. Johnson was impolite, not because he wanted benevolence, but because small things appeared smaller to him than to people who had never known what it was to live for fourpence halfpenny a day. The characteristic peculiarity of his intellect was the union of great powers with low prejudice;^. If we judged of him by the best parts of his mind, we should place him al- most as high as he was placed by the idolatry of Boswell ; if by the Avorst parts of his mind, we should place him even below Boswell himself. Where he was not under the in- fluence of some strange scruple, or some domineering pas- sion, which prevented him from boldly and fairly investiga- ting a subject, he was a wary and acute reasoner, a little too much inclined to skepticism, and a little too fond of par- adox. No man was less likely to be imposed upon by falla- cies in argument or by exaggerated statements of fact. But if while he was beating down sophisms and exposing false testimony, some childish prejudices, such as would excite laughter in a avcII managed nursery, came across him, he was smitlt/L as if by enchantment. His mind dwindled away under the spell from gigantic elevation to dwarfish little- ness. T1 ose who had lately been admiring its amplitude and its f )rce were now as much astonished at its strange nari-owress and feebleness as the fisherman in the ArahiV tale, Avhen he saw the Genie, whose stature had OA^ersiiado wec» the whole sea-coast, and whose might seemed o(^ual to a con- 670 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. test witli armies, contract himself to the climeiisio^is of his small prison, and lie there the helpless slave of the charm of Solomon. Johnson was in the habit of sifting with extreme severity the evidence for all stories which were merely odd. But when they were not only odd but miraculous, his severity relaxed. He began to be credulous precisely at the point where the most credulous people begin to be skeptical. It is curious to observe, both in his writr.igs and in his conver- sation, the contrast between the disdainful manner in which he rejects unauthenticated anecdotes, even when they are consistent with the general laws of nature, and the respect- ful manner in which he mentions tlie wildest stories relating to the invisible world. A man w^ho told him of a water- spout or a meteoric stone generally had the lie direct given him for his pains. A man who had told him of a prediction or a dream wonderfully accomplished was sure of a court- eous hearing. ‘‘Johnson,” observed Hogarth, “like King David, says in his haste that all men are liars.” “ His in- credulity,” says Mrs. Thrale, “ amounted almost to disease.” She tells us how he browbeat a gentleman, who gave him an account of a hurricane in the West Indies, and a poor quaker who related some strange circumstances about the red-hot balls fired at the siege of Gibraltar. “ It is not so. It cannot be true. Don’t tell that story again. You cannot think how poor a figure you make in telling it.” He once said, half jestingly we suppose, that for six months he refused to credit the fact of the earthquake at Lisbon, and that he still believed the extent of the calamity to be greatly exaggerated. Yet he related with a grave face how old Mr. Cave of St. John’s Gate saw a ghost, and how this ghost was something of a shadowy being. lie went himself on a ghost-hunt to Cock Lane, and was angry with John Wesley not following up another scent of the same kind vvith proper spiiit and perseverance. He rejects the Celtic genealogies and poems without the least lEiesitation ; yet he declares himself willing to believe the stories of the second sight. If he had examined the claims of the Highland seers with half the severity with which he sifted the evidence for the gen- uineness of Fingal, he would, we suspect, have come away from Scotland with a mind fully made up. In his Lives of the Poets, we find that he is unwilling to give credit to the accounts of Lord Roscommon’s early proficiency in his studies; but he tells with great solemnity an absurd SAMUEL JOHNSON. C71 romance about some intelligence preternaturally impressed on the mind of that nobleman. He avows himself to be in great doubt about the truth of the story, and ends by warn- ing his readers not wholly to slight such impressions. Many of his sentiments on religious subjects are worthy of a liberal and enlarged mind. He could discern clearly enough tlie folly and meanness of all bigotry except his own. When he spoke of the scruples of the Puritans, ho spoke like a person who liad really obtained an insight into tlie divine philosophy of the New Testament, and who con- sidered Christianity as a noble scheme of government, tending to promote the happiness and to elevate the moral nature of man. Tlie horror which the sectaries felt for cards, Christmas ale, plum-porridge, mince-pies, and dancing bears, excited his contempt. To the arguments urged by some very worthy people against showy dress he replied with admirable sense and spirit, “ Let us not be found, when our Master calls us, stripping the lace off our waistcoats, but the spirit of contention from our souls and tongues. Alas ! sir, a man who cannot get to heaven in a green coat will not find his way thither the sooner in a gray one.” Yet he was himself under the tyranny of scruples as unreason- able as those of Hudibras or Ralpho, and carried his zeal for ceremonies and for ecclesiastical dignities to lengths alto- getlier inconsistent with reason or with Christian charity. He has gravely noted down in his diary that he once committed the sin of drinking coffee on Good Friday. In Scotland, he thought it his duty to ]>ass several months without joining in public worship, solely because the ministers of the kirk had not been ordained by bishops. His mode of estimating the piety of ]iis neighbors was somewhat singular. “Camp- bell,” said he, “ is a good man, a pious man. I am afraid he lias not been in the inside of a church for many years ; but lie never passes a church without pulling off his hat : this shows he has good principles.” Spain and Sicily must surely contain many pious robbers and well-principled assassins. Johnson could easily see that a Roundhead who named all his children after Solomon’s singers, and talked in the House of Commons about seeking the Lord, might be an unprincipled villain whose religious mummeries only aggravated his guilt. But a man who took off his hat when he passed a church episcojially consecrated must be a good man, a pious man, a man of good principles. Johnson could easily see that those persons who looked on a djince or a 672 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writing^. laced waistcoat as sinful, deemed most ignobly of the attri butes of God and of the ends of revelation. But with what a storm of invective he would have overwhelmed any man who had blamed him for celebrating the redemjjtion of man- kind with sugarless tea and butterless buns. Nobody spoke more contemptuously of the cant of pa- triotism. Nobody saw more clearly the error of those who regarded liberty, not as a means, but as an end, and who proposed to themselves, as the object of their pursuit, the prosperity of the state as distinct from the pros])erity of the individuals who compose the state. His calm and settled opinion seems to have been that forms of government have little or no influence on tlio happiness of society. This opinion, erroneous as it is, ought at least to have preserved him from all intemperance on political questions. It did not, however, preserve him from the lowest, fiercest, and most absurd extravagances of party-s])irit, from rants which, in every thing but the diction, resembled those of Squire Western. He was, as a politician, half ice and half fire. On the side of his intellect he was a mere Pococurante, far too apathetic about public affairs, far too skeptical as to the good or evil tendency of any form of polity. His passions, on the contrary, were violent even to slaying against all who leaned to Whiggish principles. The well-known lines which he inserted in Goldsmith’s Traveller express what seems to have been his deliberate judgment : “ How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which kings or laws can cause or cure I ** He had previously put expressions very similar into the mouth of Rasselas. It is amusing to contrast these passages with the torrents of raving abuse which he poured forth against the Long Parliament and the American Congress. In one of the conversations reported by Boswell, this incon- sistency displays itself in the most ludicrous manner. “ Sir Adam Ferguson,” says Boswell, “ suggested that luxury corrupts a people, and destroys the spirit of liberty. Johnson : ‘ Sir, that is all visionary. I would not give half a guinea to live under one form of government rather than another. It is of no moment to the happiness of an indi- vidual. Sir, the danger of the abuse of power is nothing to a private man. What Frenchman is prevented passing his life as he pleases?’ Sir Adam: ‘But, sir, in the Brit- ish constitution it is surely of importance to keep up a SAMtJEL JOHNSOir. C73 spirit in the people, so ns to preserve a balance against the crown.’ JoriNSON : ‘ Sir, I perceive you are a vile Whig. Why all this childish jealousy of the ])ower of the crown ? The crown has not ]>ower enough.’ ” One of the old philosphers. Lord Bacon tells us, used to say that life and death were just the same to him. ‘‘Why then,” said an objector, “ do you not kill yourself?” The ]diilosopher answered, “ Because it is just the same.” If the difference between two forms of government be not worth half a guinea, it is not easy to see how Whiggism ' can be viler than Toryism, or how the crown can have too little power. If the happiness of individuals is not affected i by political abuses, zeal for liberty is doubtless ridiculous, i But zeal for monarchy must be equally so. No person would have been more quick-sighted than Johnson to such a contradiction as this in the logic of an antagonist. The judgments which Johnson passed on books were, in his own time, regarded with superstitious veneration, and, in our time, are generally treated with indiscriminate con- tempt. They are the judgments of a strong but enslaved understanding. The mind of the critic was hedged round by an uninterrupted fence of prejudices and superstitions. Within his narrow limits, he displayed a vigor and an ac- tivity Avhich ought to have enabled him to clear the barrier that confined him. How it chanced that a man who reasoned on his premises so ably, should assume his premises so foolishly is one of the great mysteries of human nature. The same inconsist- ency ■^aay be observed in the schoolmen of the middle ages. Thoso writers show so much acuteness and force of mind in arguing on their wretched data, that a^ modern reader is jierpetually at a loss to comprehend how such minds came by such data. Not a flaw In the superstructure of the theory which they are rearing escapes their vigilance. Yet they are blind to the obvious unsoundness of the founda- tion. It is the same with some eminent lawyers. Their legal arguments are intellectual prodigies, abounding with the happiest analogies and the most refined distinctions. The principles of their arbitrary science being once admit- ted, the statute-book and the reports being once assumed as the foundations of reasoning, these men must be allowed to be perfect masters of logic. But if a question arises as to the postulates on which their whole system rests, if they are called upon to vindicate the fundamental maxims of that VoL. I.— 4B 674 MACAULAY’B MISCELLANE(»US AVIllTINGS. system wliich they liave passed tlieir lives in studying, tlieso very men often talk the language of savages or of ehildren. Those who liave listened to a man of this class in his own court, and who have witnessed the skill with which he anii- lyzes and digests a vast mass of evidence, or reconciles a crowd of precedents which at first sight seem contradict tory, scarcely know him again when, a few hours later, they h(;ar him speaking on the other side of Westminster Hall in his capacity of legislator. They can scarcely believe that the paltry quirks which are faintly heard through a storm of coughing, and which do not impose on the plainest country gentleman, can proceed from the same sharp and vigorous intellect Avhich had excited their admiration under the same roof, and on the same day. Johnson decided literary questions like a lawyer, not like a legislator. lie never examined foundations where a point Avas already ruled. His Avhole code of criticism rested on pure assumption, for Avhich he sometimes quoted a precedent or an authority, but rarely troubled himself to give a reason draAvn from the nature of things. He took it for granted that the kind of poetry which flourished in his own time, Avhich he had been accustomed to hear praised from his childhood, and Avhich he had himself written with success, was the best kind of poetry. In his biographical work he has repeatedly laid it doAvn as an undeniable propo- sition that during the latter part of the seventeenth century, and the earlier part of the eighteenth, English poetry had been in a constant progress of improvement. Waller, Den- ham, Dryden, and Pope, had been, according to him, the great reformers. He judged of all works of the imagination by the standard established among his own contemporaries. Though he allowed Homer to have been a greater man than Virgil, he seems to have thought the ^neid a greater poem than the Iliad. Indeed he well might have thought so ; for he preferred Pope’s Iliad to Homer’s. He pronounced that, after Hoole’s translation of Tasso, Fairfax’s would hardly be reprinted. He could see no merit in our fine old Eng- lish ballads, and always spoke with the most provoking con- tempt of Percy’s fondness for them. Of the great original works of imagination which appeared during his time, Richardson’s novels alone excited his admiration. He could see little or no merit in Tom Jones, in Gulliver’s Travels, or in Tristram Shandy. To Thomson’s Castle of Indolence, he vouchsafed only a line of cold commendation, of commenda* SAMUEL JOHNSON. 675 tion much colder than Avliat he lias bestowed on the Creation of tliat portentous bore, Sir Richard Blackmore. Gray was, in his dialect, a barren rascal. Churchill was a blockhead. The contempt which he felt for the trash of Macpherson was indeed just ; but it was, we suspect, just by chance. He despised the Fingal for the A^ery reason which led many men of genius to admire it. He desj^ised it, not because it was essentially commonplace, but because it had a super- ficial air of originality. He Avas undoubtedly an excellent judge of compositions fashioned on his OAvn principles. But when a deeper ])hi- losophy was required, when he undertook to pronounce judgment on the Avorks of those great minds Avdiich “ yield homage only to eternal laws,” his failure was ignominious. He criticized Pope’s Epitaphs excellently. But his observa- tions on Shakspeare’s plays and Milton’s poems seem to us for the most part as wretched as if they had been Avritten by Rymer himself, Avhom Ave take to haA^e been the worst critic that CA^er liv^ed. Some of Johnson’s whims on literary subjects can be compared only to that strange nerA^ous feeling Avhich made him uneasy if he had not touched eA^ery post between the Mitre tavern and his own lodgings. His preference of Latin epitaphs to English epitaphs is an instance. An English epitaph, he said, would disgrace Smollett. He declared that he would not pollute the walls of Westminster Abbeys Avith an Englisii epitaph on Goldsmith. What reason there can be for celebrating a British Avriter in Latin, Avhich there was not for coA^ering the Roman arches of triumph Avith Greek inscriptions, or for commemorating the deeds of the heroes of Thermopylse in Egyptian hieroglyphics, we are utterly unable to imagine. On men and manners, at least on the men and manners of a particular place and a particular age, Johnson had cer- tainly looked with a most obserA^ant and discriminating eye. His remarks on the education of children, on marriage, on the economy of families, on the rules of society, are always striking, and generally sound. In his writings, indeed, the knowledge of life which he possessed in an eminent degree is very imperfectly exhibited. Like those unfortunate chiefs of the middle ages who Avere suffocated by their own chain mail and cloth of gold, his maxims perish under that load of Avords Avhich Av^as designed for their defence and their ornament But it is clear from the remains of his conver* C76 MACAULAY’S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. sation, that he had more of tliat homely wisdom which nothing but experience and observation can give than any writer since the time of Swift. If he had been content to write as he talked, lie might have left books on the practical art of living superior to the Directions to Servants. Yet even his remarks on society, like his remarks on literature, indicate a mind at least as remarkable for narrow- ness as for strength. He was no master of the great sci- ence of human nature. He had studied, not the genus man, but the species Londoner. Nobody was ever so thoroughly conversant with all the forms of life and all the shades of moral and intellectual character wliicL were to be seen from Islington to the Thames, and from Ilyde-Park corner to Mile-end green. But his philosophy stoj)ped at the first turnpike-gate. Of the rural life of England he knew noth- ing ; and he took it for granted that everybody who lived in the country was either stupid or miserable. “ Country gentlemen,” said he, “ must be unhappy : for they have not enough to keep their lives in motion ; ” as if all those pecu- liar habits and associations which made Fleet Street and Charing Cross the finest view in the world to himself had been essential parts of human nature. Of remote countries and past times he talked with wild and ignorant presump- tion. “ The Athenians of the age of Demosthenes,” he said to Mrs. Thrale, ‘‘ were a people of brutes, a barbarous people.” In conversation wdth Sir Adam Ferguson he used similar language. The boasted Athenians,” he said, “ were barbarians. The mass of every people must be barbarous where there is no printing.” The fact Avas this : he saAV that a Londoner AA^ho could not read Avas a very stupid and brutal fellow : he saAV that great refinement of taste and ac- tmly of intellect Avere rarely found in a Londoner who had not read much ; and, because it Avas by means of books that people acquired almost all their knowledge in the society with Avhich he was acquainted, he concluded, in defiance of the strongest and clearest eAddence, that the human mind can be cultivated by means of books alone. An Athenian citizen might possess Amry few volumes; and the largest library to which he had access might be much less valuable than Johnson’s bookcase in Bolt Court. But the Athenian might pass CA^ery morning in conAmrsation Avith Socrates, and might hear Pericles speak four or five times every month. He saw the plays of Sophocles and Aristophanes ; he walked amidst the friezes of Phidias and the paintings of SAMUEL JOHNSON. I Zeuxis : he knew by heart the choruses of ^schylus : he heard the rhapsodist at the corner of the street reciting the shield of Achilles or the Death of Argus : he was a legis- lator, conversant with high questions of alliance, revenue, and war : he was a soldier, trained under a liberal and gen- erous discipline : he was a judge, compelled every day to weigh the effect of opposite arguments. These things were in themselves an education, an education eminently fitted, not, indeed, to form exact or profound thinkers, but to give quickness to the perceptions, delicacy to the taste, fiuency to the expression, and politeness to the manners. All this was overlooked. An Athenian who did not improve his mind by reading was, in Johnson’s opinion, much such a person as a Cockney who made his mark, much such a person as black Frank before he went to school, and far inferior to a parish clerk or a printer’s devil. Johnson’s friends have allowed that he carried to a ridiculous extreme his unjust contempt for foreigners. He pronounced the French to be a very silly people, much be- hind us, stupid, ignorant creatures. And this judgment he formed after having been at Paris about a month, during which he would not talk French, for fear of giving the na- tives an advantage over him in conversation. He pronounced them, also, to be an indelicate people, because a French footman touched the sugar with his fingers. That ingenious and amusing traveller, M. Simond, has defended his coun- trymen very successfully against Johnson’s accusation, and has pointed out some English practices wbich, to an impar- tial spectator, would seem at least as inconsistent with phys- ical cleanliness and social decorum as those which Johnson so bitterly reprehended. To the sage, as Boswell loves to call him, it never occurred to doubt that there must be some- thing eternally and immutably good in the usages to which he had been accustomed. In fact, Johnson’s remarks cd society beyond the bills of mortality, are generally of much the same kind with those of honest Tom Dawson, the Eng- lish footman in Dr. Moore’s Zeluco. ‘‘ Suppose the king of France has no sons, but only a daughter, then, when the king dies this here daughter, according to that there law, cannot be made queen, but the next near relative, provided he is a man, is made king, and not the last king’s daughter, which, to be sure, is very unjust. The French footguards are dressed in blue, and all the marching regiments in white which has a very foolish appearance for soldiers ; and as 678 macaulav’b miscellaneous whitings. for blue regimentiils, it is only fit for the blue liorse or the artillery.” Johnson’s visit to the Hebrides introduced him to a state of society comjdetely new to him ; and a salutary sus- picion of liis OAvn deficiencies seems on that occasion to have crossed his mind for the first time. lie confessed, in the last paragraph of his Journey, that his thoughts on national manners were the thoughts of one who had seen but little, of one who had passed his time almost wholly in cities. This feeling, however, soon passed away. It is re- markable that to the last he entertained a fixed contempt for all those modes of life and those studies which tend to emaneij^ate the mind from the prejudices of a particular age or a particular nation. Of foreign travel and of history he spoke with the fierce and boisterous contem])t of ignorance. ‘‘What does a man learn by travelling? Is Beauclerk the better for travelling ? What did Lord Chari emont learn in his travels, except that there Avas a snake in one of the pyra- mids of Egypt ? ” History Avas, in his opinion, to use the fine expression of Lord Plunkett, an old almanac : historians could, as he conceh^cd, claim no higher dignity than that of almanac-makers ; and his faA^orite historians Avere those who, like Lord Hailes, aspired to no higher dignity. He always spoke Avith contemj^t of Robertson. Hume he would not CA'Cn read. He affronted one of his friends for talking to him about Catiline’s conspiracy, and declared that he never desired to hear of the Punic war again as long as he lived. Assuredly one fact Avhich does not directly affect our own interests, considered in itself, is no better worth know- ing than another fact. The fact that there is a snake in a pyramid, or the fact that Hannibal crossed the Alps, are in themseh' es as unprofitable to us as the fact that there is a green blind in a particular house in Threadneedle Street, or the fact that a Mr. Smith comes into the city CA^ery morning on the top of one of the Blackwell stages. But it is cer- tain that those who Avill not crack the shell of history will never get at the kernel. Johnson, Avith hasty arrogance, pronounced the kernel worthless, because he saw no value in the shell. The real use of travelling to distant countries and of studying the annals of past times is to preserve men from the contraction of mind Avhich those can hardly escape whose whole communion is with one generation and one neighborhood, who arrive at conclusions by means of an in- SAMUEL JOHNSON. 679 duction not sufficiently copious, and who therefore con- stantly confound excc])tions with rules, and accidents with essential properties. In short, the real use of travelling and of studying history is to keep men from being what Tom Dawson was in fiction, and Samuel Johnson in reality. Johnson, as Mr. Burke most justly observed, appears fai greater in Boswell’s books than in his own. His conversa- tion appears to have been quite equal to his writings in mat- ter, and far superior to them in manner. When he talked, he clothed his wit and his sense in forcible and natural ex- pressions. As soon as he took his pen in his hand to write for the public, his style became systematically vicious. All his books are written in a learned language, in a language which nobody liears from his mother or his nurse, in a lan- guage in which nobody ever quarrels, or drives bargains, or makes love, in a language in which nobody ever thinks. It is clear that Johnson himself did not think in the dialect in which he wrote. The expressions which came first to his tongue were simple, energetic, and picturesque. When he wrote for publication, he did his sentences out of English into Johnsonese. His letters from the Hebrides to Mrs. Thrale are the original of that work of which the Journey to the Hebrides is the translation ; and it is amusing to com- pare the two versions. ‘‘ When we were taken up stairs,” says he in one of his letters, “ a dirty fellow bounced out of the bed on which one of us was to lie.” This incident is recorded in the Journey as follows : “ Out of one of the beds on which we were to repose started up, at our entrance, a man black as a Cyclops from the forge.” Sometimes Johnson translated aloud. The Rehearsal,” he said, very unjustly, ‘‘has not wit enough to keep it sweet;” then, after a pause, “it has not vitality enough to preserve it from putrefaction.” Mannerism is pardonable, and is sometimes even agree- able, when the manner, though vicious, is natural. Few readers, for example, would be willing to part with the man- nerism of Milton or of Burke. But a mannerism which does not sit easy on the mannerist, which has been adopted or. principle, and which can be sustained only by constant effort, is always offensive. And such is the mannerism of Johnson. The characteristic faults of his style are so familiar to all our readers, and have been so often burlesqued, that it is almost supertiuous to point them out. It is well known 680 MACAULAY’S MISCELLANEOUS WRIT: NOS. tliat lie made less use than any otlier eminent writer of those strong ])lain words, Anglo-Saxon or Norman-French, of which the roots lie in tlie inmost dc])lli8 of our language ; and that he felt «a vicious partiality for terms which, long after our own speech had heen fixed, were borrowed from tlie Greek and Latin, and which, therefore, even when law- fully naturalized, must be considered as born aliens, not en- titled to rank with the king’s English. Ilis constant prac- tice of padding out a sentence with useless epithets, till it became as stift* as the bust of an exquisite, his antithetical forms of expression, constantly employed even where there is no opposition in the ideas expressed, his big words wasted on little things, his harsh inversions so widely different fi‘om those graceful and easy i;iversions which give variety, spirit, and sweetness to the expression of our great old writers, all these peculiarities have been imitated by his admirers and parodied by his assailants, till the 2 )ublic has become sick of the subject. Goldsmith said to him, very wittily and very justly, “ If you were to 'write a fable about little fishes, doctor, you would make the little fishes talk like wdiales.” No man surely ever had so little talent for personation as Johnson. Whether he wrote in the character of a disappointed legacy- hunter or an empty tOAvn fop, of a crazy virtuoso or a flip- pant coquette, he wrote in the same pompous and unbend- ing style. His speech, like Sir Piercy Shaf ton’s Euphuistic eloquence, bewrayed him under every disguise. Euphelia and Rhodoclea talk as finely as Imlac the poet, or Seged, Em]3eror of Ethiopia. The gay Cornelia describes her re- ception at the country-house of her relations in such terms as these : “ I was surprised, after the civilities of my first reception, to find, instead of the leisure and tranquillity which a rural life always promises, and, if well-conducted, might always afford, a confused wildness of care, and a tu- multuous hurry of diligence, by which every face was clouded and every motion agitated.” The gentle Tranquilla informs us, that she ‘‘had not passed the earlier part of life without the flattery of courtship, and the joys of triumph ; but had danced the round of gayety amidst the murmurs of envy and the gratulations of applause, had been attended from pleasure to pleasure by the great, the sprightly, and the vain, and had seen her regard solicited by the obsequi- ousness of gallantry, the gayety of wit, and the timidity of love.” Surely Sir John Falstaff himself did not wear his SAMUEL JOHNSON. C81 petticoats with a worse grace. Tlie reader may well cry out^ with honest Sir Hugh Evans, “ I like not when a ’oman has a great peard : I spy a great peard under her muffler.” * We had something more to say. But our article is al- ready too long; and a ; must close it. We would fain part in good-humor from ' hero, from the biographer, and even from the editor, who, ill as he has performed his task, lias at least this claim to our gratitude, that he has induced us to read BosAvell’s book again. As we close it, the club- room is before us, and tlie table on which stands the omelet for Nugent, and the lemons for Johnson. There are assem- bled those heads Avhich live for ever on the canvas of Key- nolds. There are the spectacles of Burke and the tall thin form of Langton, the courtly sneer of Beauclerk and the beaming smile of Garrick, Gibbon tapping his snuff-box and Sir Joshua with his trumpet in his car. In the foreground is that strange figure Avhich is as familiar to us as the figures of those among a\ horn Ave have been brought up, the gigan- tic body, the huge massy face, seamed Avith the scars of disease, the broAvn coat, the black Avorsted stockings, the gray wig Avith the scorched foretop, the dirty hands, the nails bitten and pared to the quick. We see the eyes and mouth moving Avith conAmlshm twitches ; Ave see the heavy form rolling; we hear it puffing; and then comes the ‘‘Why, sir!” and the “What then, sir?” and the “ No, sir ! ” and the “ You don’t see your Avay through the ques- tion, sir ! ” What a singular destiny has been that of this remark- able man ! To be regarded in his OAvn age as a classic, and in ours as a companion. To receive from his contempora- ries that full homage Avhich men of genius have in general receh^ed only from posterity ! To be more intimately known to posterity than other men are known to their con- temporaries! That kind of fame Avhich is commonly the most transient is, in his case, the most durable. The repu- tation of those Avritings, which he probably expected to be immortal, is every day fading ; Avhile those peculiarities of manner and that careless table-talk, the memory of which, he probably thought, Avould die with him, are likely to be remembered as long as the English language is spoken in any quarter of the globe ♦ It ifl proper to observe that this passage bears a very close resemblance to a passage in the Rambler (No. 2U)» The resembiauc© may possibly be the effeat h»conscious plagiailem. 682 Macaulay’s miscjullankoUs wiaxusuib. JOHN HAMPDEN {Edinburgh Review^ December^ 1831.) We have read this book with great pleasure, though not exactly with that kind of pleasure which we had expected. We had hoped that Lord Nugent would have been able to collect, from family papers and local traditions, much new and interesting information respecting the life and charac- ter of the renowned leader of the Long Parliament, the first of those great English commoners whose plain addition of Mister has, to our ears, a more majestic sound than the proudest of feudal titles. In this hope we have been disap- pointed ; but assuredly not from any want of zeal or dili- gence on the part of the noble biographer. Even at Hamp- den, there are, it seems, no important papers relating to the most illustrious proprietor of that ancient domain. The most valuable memorials of him which still exist, belong to the family of his friend. Sir John Eliot. Lord Eliot has furnished the portrait which is engraved for this work, together with some very interesting letters. The portrait IS undoubtedly an original, and probably the only original now in existence. The intellectual forehead, the mild pene- tration of the eye, and the inflexible resolution expressed by the lines of the mouth sufficiently guarantee the likeness. We shall probably make some extracts from the letters. They contain almost all the new information that Lord Nugent has been able to procure respecting the private pur- suits of the great man whose memory he worshi]3S with an enthusiastic, but not extravagant, veneration. The public life of Hampden is surrounded by no obscu- rity. His history, more particularly from the year 1640 to his death, is the history of England. These Memoirs must be considered as memoirs of the history of England ; and, as such, they well deserve to be attentively perused. They contain some curious facts which, to us at least, are new, much spirited narrative, many judicious remarks, and much elo mt declamation. e are not sure that even the want of information re- • Some Memorials of John HampdeU) h%$ Pa/rtyt mid Ms Times* By Lo»r IfuaKiiT. 2 v©Ji. 8vo. Loa^ou ; JOHN HAMPDEN. 683 Bpecting tlic private character of ITampden is not in itself a circumstance as strikingly characteristic as any wliich the most minute chronicler, O’Meara, Mrs. Thrale, or Boswell himself, ever recorded concerning their heroes. The cele- brated Puritan leader is an almost solitary instance of a great man who neither sought nor shunned greatness, who found glory only because glory lay in the plain path of duty. Dur- ing more than forty yea2*s he was known to his country neigh- boTS as a gentleman of cultivated mind, of high principles, of polished address, happy in his family, and active in the dis- charge of local duties; and to political men, as an honest, industrious, and sensible member of Parliament, not eager to display his talents, staunch to his party, and attentive to the interests of his constituents. A great and terrible crisis came. A direct attack was made by an arbitrary govern- ment on a sacred right of Englishmen, on a right which was tlje chief security for all their other rights. The nation looked round for a defender. Calmly and unostentatiously the plain Buckinghamshire Esquire placed himself at the liead of his countrymen, and right before the face and across the path of tyranny. The times grew darker and more troubled. Public service, perilous, arduous, delicate, was required ; and to every service the intellect and the courage of this wonderful man were found fully equal. lie became a debater of the first order, a most dexterous manager of the House of Commons, a negotiator, a soldier. He governed a fierce and turbulent assembly, abounding in able men, as easily as he had governed his family. He showed himself as competent to direct a campaign as to conduct the busi- ness of the petty sessions. We can scarcely express the admiration which we feel for a mind so great, and, at the same time, so healthful and so well proportioned, so willingly contracting itself to the humblest duties, so easily expand- ing itself to the highest, so contented in repose, so powerful in action. Almost every part of this virtuous and blameless life which is not hidden from us in modest privacy is a pre- cious and splendid portion of our national history. Had the private conduct of Hampden afforded the slightest pre- tence for censure, he would have been assailed by the same blind malevolence which, in defiance of the clearest proofs, still continues to call Sir John Eliot an assassin. Had there been even any weak part in the character of Hampden, had his manners been in any respect open to ridicule, we may be Bure tl at no mercy would have been shown to him by the 084 macaulay^s miscellaneous whitings. wT-itcrs of Charles’s faction. Those writers have carefully ])reserved every little circuinstance which could tend to make their o])[)oneiits odious or contcunptible. They have made themselves merry with the cant of injudicious zealots. They have told us that Pym broke down in a speech, that Ireton had his nose pulled by Hollis, that the Earl of Northumber- land cudgelled Henry Marten, that St. John’s manners were sullen, that Vane had an ugly face, that Cromwell had a red nose. But neither the artful Clarendon nor the scurril- ous Deidiarn could venture to throw the slightest imputation on tiie morals or the manners of Hampden. What was the opinion entertained respecting him by the best men of his time, we learn from Baxter. That eminent person, eminent not only for his piety and his fervid devotional eloquence, but for his moderation, his knowledge of political affairs, and his skill in judging of characters, declared in the Saint’s Rest that one of the pleasures which he hoped to enjoy in heaven was the society of Hampden. In the editions printed after the Restoration, the name of Hampden was omit- ted. ‘‘But I must tell the reader,” says Baxter, “that I did blot it out, not as changing my opinion of the person. * * * * John Hampden was one that friends and enemies acknowledged to be most eminent for prudence, piety, and peaceable counsels, having the most universal praise of any gentleman that I remember of that age. I remember a moderate, prudent, aged gentleman, far from him, but acquainted with him, whom I have heard saying, that if he might choose Avhat person he would be then in the world, he would be John Ilampden.” We cannot but regret that we have not fuller memorials of a man who, after passing through the most severe temptations by which human virtue can be tried, after acting a most conspicuous ])art in a revolution and a civil war, could yet deserve such praise as this from such authority. Yet the want of memo- rials is surely the best proof that liatred itself could find no blemish on his memory. The story of his early life is soon told. He was the head of a family which had been settled in Buckinghamshire before the Conquest. Part of the estate which he inherited had been bestowed by Edward the Confessor on Baldwyn de Hampden, whose name seems to indicate that he was one of the Norman favorites of the last Saxon king. During the contest between the houses of York and Lancaster, the llampdens adhered to tlie party of the Red Rose, and were, JOHN HAMPDEN. 685 consequently, persecuted by Edward the Fourth, and favored by Henry tlie Seventh. Under tlie Tudoi's, the family was great and flourisliing. Griffith IIam])den, high sheriff of Buckinghamsiiire, entertained Elizabeth with great magnifi- cence at his seat. His son, William Hampden, sat in the Parliament which that Queen summoned in the year 1593. William married Elizabeth Cromwell, aunt of the celebrated man who afterward governed the British islands with more than regal power; and from this marriage sprang John Hampden. He was born in 1594. In 1597 his father died, and left him heir to a very large estate. After passing some years at the grammar school of Thame, young Hampden was sent, at fifteen, to Magdalene College, in the University of Ox- ford. At nineteen, he was admitted a student of the Inner Temple, where he made himself master of the principles of the English law. In 1619, he married Elizabeth Symeon, a lady to whom he appears to have been fondly attached. In the following year he was returned to parliament by a borough which has in our time obtained a miserable celeb- rity, the borough of Grampound. Of his private life during his early years little is known beyond what Clarendon has told us. ‘‘ In his entrance into the world,” says that great historian, ‘‘ he indulged himself in all the license in sports, and exercises, and company, which were used by men of the most jolly conversation.” A re- markable change, however, passed on his character. “ On a sudden,” says Clarendon, ‘‘ from a life of great pleasure and license, he retired to extraordinary sobriety and strictness, to a more reserved and melancholy society.” It is probable that this change took place when Hampden was about twen- ty-five years old. At that age he was united to a woman whom he loved and esteemed. At that age he entered into political life. A mind so happily constituted as his would naturally, under such circumstances, relinquish the pleasures of dissipation for domestic enjoyments and public duties. His enemies have allowed that he was a man in whom virtue showed itself in its mildest and least austere form With the morals of a Puritan, he had the manners of an ao complished courtier. Even after the change in his habits,. ‘‘ he preserved,” says Clarendon, “ his own natural cheerful- ness and vivacity, and, above all, a flowing courtesy to ah men.” These qualities distinguished him from most of the members of his sect and his party, and, in the great crisis in libIG macaulay'b miscellaneous ^tuitings. wliich lie afterward took a j)riiicij>al ]>art, were of scarce]} less service to the country than his keen sagacity and liis dauntless courage. In January, 1621 , Hampden took liis seat in the House of Commons. His mother was exceedingly desirous that her son should obtain a peerage. His family, his posses- sions, and his personal accomplishments were such as would, in any age, have justified liim in pretending to that honor. But in the reign of James the First there was one short cut to the House of Lords. It was but to ask, to pay, and to have. The sale of titles was carried on as openly as the sale of boroughs in our times. Hampden turned away with con- tempt from the degrading lionors with which his family desired to see him invested, and attached himself to the party which was in opposition to the court. It was about this time, as Lord Nugent has justly re- marked, that parliamentary opposition began to take a regular form. From a very early age, the English had enjoyed a far larger share of liberty than had fallen to the lot of any neighboring people. How it chanced that a country conquered and enslaved by invaders, a country of which the soil had been portioned out among foreign adven- turers, and of which the laws were written in a foreign tongue, a country given over to that worst tyranny, the tyranny of caste over caste, should have become the seat of civil liberty, the object of the admiration and envy of sur- rounding states, is one of the most obscure problems in the philosophy of history. But the fact is certain. Within a century and a half after the Norman conquest, the Great Charter was conceded. Within two centuries after the Conquest, the first House of Commons met. Froissart tells us, what indeed his whole narrative sufficiently proves, that, of all the nations of the fourteenth century, the English were the least disposed to endure oppression. “ C’est le plus perilleux peuple qui soit au monde, et plus outrageux et orgueilleux.” The good canon probably did not perceive that all the prosperity and internal peace which this danger- ous people enjoyed were the fruits of the spirit which he designates as proud and outrageous. He has, however, borne ample testimony to the effect, though he was not sagacious enough to trace it to its cause. “ En le royaume d’Angleterre,” says he, ‘‘ toutes gens, laboreurs et marchands, ont appris de vivre en paix, et a mener leurs marchandises paieiblement, et les laboreurs laborer.” In the fifteenth JOHN HAMPDEN. 087 century, though England was convulsed by the struggle between the two branches of the royal family, the physical and moral condition of the people continued to improve. Villenage almost wholly disappeared. The calamities of war were little felt, except by those who bore arms. The oppressions of the government were little felt, except by the aristocracy. The institutions of the country, when com- pared with the institutions of the neighboring kingdoms, seem to have been not undeserving of the praises of For- tescue. The government of Edward the Fourth, though we call it cruel and arbitrary, was humane and liberal when compared with that of Lewis che Eleventh, or that of Charles the Bold. Complies, who had lived amidst the wealthy cities of Flanders, and who had visited Florence and Venice, had never seen a people so well governed as the English. “ Or selon mon advis,” says he, ‘‘ entre toutes les seigneuries du monde, dont j’ay connoissance, ou la chose publique est mieulx traitee, et ou regne moins de violence sur le peuple, et ou il n’y an uls edifices abbatus ny demolis pour guerre, e’est Angleterre ; et tombe le sort et le malheur sur ceulx qui font la guerre.” About the close of the fifteenth and the commencement of the sixteenth century, a great portion of the influence which the aristocracy had possessed passed to the crown. No English king has ever enjoyed such absolute power as Hejiry the Eighth. But while the royal prerogatives were acquiring strength at the expense of the nobility, two great revolutions took place, destined to be the parents of many revolutions, the invention of Printing, and the reformation of the Church. The immediate effect of the Reformation in England was by no means favorable to political liberty. The author- ity which had been exercised by the Popes w^as transferred almost entire to the King. Two formidable powers which had often served to check each other were united in a single despot. If the system on which the founders of the Church of England acted could have been permanent, the Reforma- tion would have been, in a political sense, the greatest curse that ever fell on our country. But that system carried within it the seeds of its own death. It was possible to transfer the name of Head of the Church from Clement to Henry ; but it was impossible to transfer to the new estab- lishment the veneration which the old establishment had in- spired, Mankind had not broken one yoke in pieces only 688 MACAULAY S MTSCELLANKOUS WUTTINCS, in order to put on another. The Bupremacy of the Bishop of Rome had been for ages considered as a fundamental principle of Christianity. It liad for it everything that could make a prejudice deep and strong, venerable antiq- uity, high autliority, general consent. It liad been taught in the first lessons of the nurse. It was taken for granted in all the exhortations of the priest. To remove it was to break innumerable associations, and to give a great and perilous shock to tlie principles. Yet this prejudice, strong as it was, could not stand in tlie great day of the deliver- ance of the human reason. And it was not to be expected that the public mind, just after freeing itself by an unexam- pled effort, from a bondage which it had endured for ages, would patiently submit to a tyranny which could ])lead no ancient title. Rome liad at least prescription on its side. But Protestant intolerance, despotism in an upstart sect, inr fallibility claimed by guides who acknowledge that they had passed the greater part of their lives in error, restraints im- posed on the liberty of private judgment at the pleasure of rulers who could vindicate their own proceedings only by asserting the liberty of private judgment, these things could not long be borne. Those who had pulled down the cruci- fix could not long continue to persecute for the surplice. It required no great sagacity to perceive the inconsistency and dishonesty of men who, dissenting from almost all Christendom, would suffer none to dissent from themselves, who demanded freedom of conscience, yet refused to grant it, who execrated persecution, yet persecuted, who urged reason against the authority of one opponent, and authority against the reasons of another. Bonner acted at least in accordance with his own principles. Cranmer could vin* dicate himself from the charge of being a heretic only by arguments which made him out to be a murderer. Thus the system on which the English Princes acted with respect to ecclesiastical affairs for some time after the Reformation was a system too obviously unreasonable to be lasting. The public mind moved while the government moved, but would not stop where the, government stopped. The same impulse which had carried millions away from the Church of Rome continued to carry them forward in the same direction. As Catholics had become Protestants, Pro- testants became Puritans ; and the Tudors and Stuarts were as unable to avert the latter change as the Popes had been to avert the former^ The dissenting party increased and JOHN HAMPDEN. 68 & became strong under every kind of discouragement and oppression. They were a sect. The government perse- cuted them ; and they became an opposition. The old con- stitution of England furnished to them the means of resist- ing the sovereign without breaking the law. They were the majority of the House of Commons. They liad liie power of giving or withholding supplies ; and, by a judicious exercise of this power, they might hope to take from the Church its usurped authority over the consciences of men, and from the Crown some part of the vast prerogative which it had re- cently acquired at the expense of the nobles and of the I^ope. The faint beginnings of tliis memorable contest may be discerned early in the reign of Elizabeth. The conduct of her last Parliament made it clear that one of those great revolutions which policy may guide but cannot stop was in progress. It was on the question of monopolies that the House of Commons gained its first great victory over the Throne. The conduct of the extraordinary woman who then governed England is an admirable study for politicians who live in unquiet times. It shows how thoroughly she un- derstood the people Avhom she ruled, and the crisis in which she was called to act. What she held she held firmly. What she gave she gave graciously. She saw that it was necessary to make a concession to the nation; and she made it, not grudgingly, not tardily, not as a matter of bargain and sale, not, in a word, as Charles the First would have made it, but promptly and cordially. Before a bill could be framed or an address presented, she applied a remedy to the evil of which the nation complained. She expressed in the warm- est terms her gratitude to her faithful Commons for detect- ing abuses which interested persons had concealed from her. If her successors had inherited her wisdom with her Crewm Charles the First might have died of old age, and James the Second would never have seen St. Germain’s. She died ; and the kingdom passed to one who was, in his own opinion, the greatest master of king-craft that ever lived, but who was in truth one of those kings whom God seems to send for the express purpose of hastening revolu- tions. Of all the enemies of liberty whom Britain has pro- duced, he was at once the most harmless and the most pro- voking. His office resembled that of the man who, in a Spanish bull-fight, goads the torpid savage to fury, by shaking a red rag in the air^ and by now and then throwing VoL. I>“44 690 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wbitings. a dart sharp enougli to sting, but too small to injure. Tho 1 policy of wise tyrants has always been to cover their violent I acts with popular forms. James was always obtruding his 1 despotic theories on his subjects without the slightest neces- i sity. Ilis foolish talk exasperated them infinitely more than forced loans or benevolences would have done. Yet, in prac- tice, no king ever held his prerogatives less tenaciously. He neither gave away gracefully to the advancing spirit ot liberty nor took vigorous measures to stop it, but retreated | before it with ludicrous haste, blustering and insulting as ho 1 - retreated. The English people had been governed during I near a hundred and fifty years by Princes who, whatever | might be their frailties or their vices, had all possessed great | force of character, and who, whether beloved or hated, had i always been feared. Now, at length, for the first time since j the day Avhen the sceptre of Henry the Fourth dropped | from the hand of his lethargic grandson, England had a | king whom she despised. ^ The follies and vices of the man increased the contempt | which was produced by the feeble policy of the sovereign. | The indecorous gallantries of the Court, the habits of gross | intoxication in which even the ladies indulged, were alone | sufficient to disgust a people whose manners were beginning j to be strongly tinctured with austerity. But these were | trifles. Crimes of the most frightful kind had been discov- f ered ; others were suspected. The strange story of the { Cowries was not forgotten. The ignominious fondness of j i the King for his minions, the perjuries, the sorceries, the | poisonings, which his chief favorites had planned wdthin the i> walls of his palace, the pardon which, in direct violation of | his duty and of his word, he had granted to the mysterious | threats of a murderer, made him an object of loathing to | many of his subjects. What opinion grave and moral per- | eons residing at a distance from the Court entertained re- epecting him, we learn from Mrs. Hutchinson’s Memoirs. | England was no place, the seventeenth century no time, | for Sporus and Locusta. I This was not all. The most ridiculous weaknesses seemed | to meet in the wretched Solomon of Whitehall, pedantry, 1 buffoonery, garrulity, low curiosity, the most contemptible personal cowardice. Nature and education had done their | best to moduce a finished specimen of all that a king ought ^ to be. His awkward figure, his rolling eye, his rickety walk, q his nerv(^u8 tremblings, his slobbering mouth, his broad | JOHN HAMPDEN. 6&1 Scotch accent, were imperfections which miglit have been found in the best and greatest man. Their effect, liowever, was to make James and liis office objects of contempt, and to dissolve those associations which had been created by the noble bearing of preceding monarchs, and which were in themselves no inconsiderable fence to royalty. The sovereign whom James most resembled was, we think, Claudius Caesar. Both had the same feeble vacillating temper, the same childishness, the same coarseness, the same poltroonery. Both were men of learning; both wrote and spoke, not, indeed, well, but still in a manner in which it seems almost incredible that men so foolish should have written or spoken. The follies and indecencies of James are well described in the w^ords which Suetonius uses re- specting Claudius : Multa talia, etiam privatis deformia, nedum principi, neque infacundo, neque indocto, immo etiam pertinaciter liberalibus studiis dedito.” The descrip- tion given by Suetonius of the manner in which the Roman prince transacted business exactly subs the Briton. “In cognoscend^ ac decernendo mira varietate animi fuit, modo circumspectus et sagax, modo inconsultus ac praeceps, non- nunquam frivolus amentique similis.” Claudius was ruled successively by two bad women : James successively by two bad men. Even the description of the person of Claudius, which we find in the ancient memoirs, might, in many points, serve for that of James. “ Ceterum et ingredientum des- tituebant poplites minus firmi, et remisse quid vel serio agentem multa dehonestabant, risus indecens, ira turpior, spumante rictu, praeterea linguaB titubantia.” The Parliament which James had called soon after his accession had been refractory. Ilis second Parliament, called in the spring of 1614, had been more refractory still. It had been dissolved after a session of two months ; and during six years the King had governed without having re- course to the legislature. During those six years, melan- choly and disgraceful events, at home and abroad, had fol- lowed one another in rapid succession ; the divorce of Lady Essex, the murder of Overbury, the elevation of Villiers, the pardon of Somerset, the disgrace of Coke, the execution of Raleigh, the battle of Prague, the invasion of the Pala- tinate by Spinola, the ignominious flight of the son-in-law of the English king, the depression of tlie Protestant interest all over the continent. All the extraordinary modes by which James could venture to raise money had been tried. m Macaulay’s miscella^?£ous writings. ITis necessities were greater tlian ever ; and lie was com- pelled to summon tlie Parliament in which llamjiden lirst a])j)eared as a jmblic man. This Parli-ament lasted about twelve months. During that time it visited with deserved punislirnent several of those who, during the preceding six years, had enriched themselves by peculation and monopoly. Michell, one of the grasping patentees who had purchased of tlie favorite tlie ])ower of robbing the nation, w^as fined and imprisoned for life. Mompesson, the original, it is said, of Massinger’s Overreach, was outlawed and deprived of his ill-gotten wealth. Even Sir Edward Villiers, the brother of Buck- ingham, found it convenient to leave England. A greater name is to be added to the ignominious list. By this Par- liament was brought to justice that illustrious philosopher whose memory genius has half redeemed from the infamy due to servility, to ingratitude, and to corruption. After redressing internal grievances, the Commons pro- ceeded to take into consideration the state of Europe. The King flew into a rage with them for meddling with such matters, and, with characteristic judgment, drew them into a controversy about the origin of their House and of its privileges. When he found he could not convince them, he dissolved them in a passion, and sent some of the leaders of the Opposition to ruminate on his logic in prison. During the time which elapsed between this dissolution and the meeting of the next Parliament, took place the cele- brated negotiation respecting the Infanta. The wmuld-be despot was unmercifully browbeaten. The would-be Solo- mon was ridiculously overreached. Steenie, in spite of the begging and sobbing of his dear dad and gossip, carried off baby Charles in triumph to Madrid. The sweet lads, as James called them, came back safe, but without their er- rand. The great master of king-craft, in looking for a Spanish match, had found a Spanish war. In February, 1624, a Parliament met, during the w^hole sitting of which, James was a mere puppet in the hands of his baby, and of his poor slave and dog. The Commons were disposed to support the King in the vigorous policy which his favorite urged him to adopt. But they were not disposed to place any confidence in their feeble sovereign and his dissolute courtiers, or to relax in their efforts to remove public griev- ances. They therefore lodged the money which they voted for the war in the hands of Parliamentary Commissioners. iiampbuk-. 693 They impeached the treasurer, Lord Middlesex, for corrup- tion, and they passed a bill l)y wliicli patents of monopoly 'were declared illegal. Hampden did not, during the reign of James, take any prominent part in public affairs. It is certain, however, that ho paid great attention to the details of Parliamentary business, and to the local interests of his own country. It was in a great measure owing to his exertions that Wend- over and some other boroughs on which the popular party could depend recovered the elective franchise, in spite of the opposition of the Court. The health of the King had for some time been declin- ing. On the twenty-seventh of March, 1625, he expired. Under his weak rule, the spirit of liberty had grown strong, and had become equal to a great contest. The contest was brought on by the policy of his successor. Charles bore no resemblance to his father. lie was not a driveller, or a ])endant, or a buffoon, or a coward. It would be absurd to deny that he was a scholar and a gentleman, a man of ex- quisite taste in the fine arts, a man of strict morals in private life. His talents for business were respectable; his de- meanor was kingly. But he was false, imperious, obstinate, narrow-minded, ignorant of the temper of his people, unob- servant of the signs of his times. The whole principle of his government was resistance to public opinion ; nor did he make any real concession to that opinion till it mattered not whether he resisted or conceded, till the nation, which had long ceased to love him or to trust him, had at last ceased to fear him. His first Parliament met in June, 1625. Hampden sat in it as burgess for Wendover. The King wished for money. The Commons wished for the redress of grievances. The war, however, could not be carried on without funds , The plan of the Opposition was, it should seem, to dole out supplies by small sums, in order to prevent a speedy disso- lution. They gave the King two subsidies only, and pro- ceeded to complain that his ships had been employed against the Huguenots in Prance, and to petition in behalf of the Puritans who were persecuted in England. The King dis- solved them, and raised money by Letters under his Privy Seal. The supply fell far short of what he needed ; and in the spring of 1626, he called together another Parliament. In this Parliament Hampden again sat for Wendover. The Commons resolved to grant a very liberal supply, 694 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. but to defer the final passing of the act for that purjyos till the grievances of the nation sliould he redressed. The struggle which followed far exceeded in violence any that had yet taken place. The Commons impeached Bucking- ham. The King threw the managers of the impeachment into prison. The Commons denied the right of the King to levy tonnage and poundage without their consent. The King dissolved them. They put forth a remonstrance. The King circulated a declaration vindicating his measures, and committed some of the most distinguished members of the Opposition to close custody. Money was raised by a forced loan, which was apportioned among the people according to the rate at which they had been respectively assessed to to the last subsidy. On this occasion it was, that Hampden made his first stand for the fundamental principle of the English constitution. He positively refused to lend a far- thing. He was required to give his reasons. He answered, “ that he could be content to lend as well as others, but feared to draw upon himself that curse in Magna Charta which should be read twice a year against those who infringe it.” For this spirited answer, the Privy Council committed him close prisoner to the Gate House. After some time, he was again brought up ; but he persisted in his refusal, and was sent to a place of confinement in Hampshire. The government went on, oppressing at home, and blundering in all its measures abroad. A war was foolishly undertaken against France, and more foolishly conducted. Buckingham led an expedition against Rhe, and failed ignominiously. In the mean time soldiers were billeted on the people. Crimes of which ordinary justice should have taken cognizance were punished by martial law. Near eighty gentlemen were imprisoned for refusing to contribute to the forced loan. The lower people who showed any signs, of insubordination were pressed into the fleet, or com- pelled to serve in the army. Money, however, came in slowly ; and the King was compelled to summon another Parliament. In the hope of conciliating his subjects, he set at liberty the persons who had been imprisoned for refusing to comply with his unlawful demands. Hampden regained his freedom, and was immediately re^-elected burgess for Wendover. Early in 1628 the Parliament met. During its first ses- sion, the Commons prevailed on the King, after many delays and much equivocation, to give, in return for five subsidies, JOHN UAMPDEK. 695 his full an(l solemn assent to that celebrated instrument, the second great charter of the liberties of England, known by the name of the Petition of Right. By agreeing to tliis act, the King bound himself to raise no taxes without the con- sent of Parliament, to imprison no man except by legal pro- cess, to billet no more soldiers on the people, and to leave the cognizance of offences to the ordinary tribunals. In the summer, this memorable Parliament was prorogued. It met again in January, 1629. Buckingham was no moie. That weak, violent, and dissolute adventurer, who, with no talents or acquirements but those of a mere courtier, had, in a great crisis of foreign and domestic politics, ventured on the part of prime minister, had fallen, during the recess of Parliament, by the hand of an assassin. Both before and after his death the war had been feebly and unsuccessfully conducted. The King had continued, in direct violation of the Petition of Right, to raise tonnage and poundage with- out the consent of Parliament. The troo]3S had again been billeted on the people ; and it was clear to the Commons that the five subsidies which they had given as the price of the national liberties had been given in vain. They met accordingly in no complying humor. They took into their most serious consideration the measures of the government concerning tonnage and poundage. They summoned the officers of the custom-house to their bar. They interrogated the barons of the exchequer. They committed one of the sheriffs of London. Sir John Eliot, a distin- guished member of the Opposition, and an intimate friend of Hampden, proposed a resolution condemning the uncon- stitutional imposition. The Speaker said that the King had commanded him to ])ut no such question to the vote. This decision produced the most violent burst of feeling ever seen within the walls of Parliament. Ilayman remonstrated vehemently against the disgraceful language which had been heard from the chair. Eliot dashed the paper which con- tained his resolution on the floor of the House. Valentine and Hollis held the Speaker down in his seat by main force, and read the motion amidst the loudest shouts. The door was locked. The key was laid on the table. Black Rod knocked for ad mittance in vain. After passing several strong resolutions, the House adjourned. On the day appointed for its meeting it was dissolved by the King, and several of its most eminent members, among whom were Hollis and Sir John Eliot, were committed to prisom 696 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. Though Hampden had as yet taken little part in the debates of the House, he had been a member of many ver^ important committees, and had read and written much con- cerning the law of I’arliament. A manuscript volume of Parliamentary cases, which is still in existence, contains many extracts from his notes. He now retired to the duties and pleasures of a rural life. During the eleven years which followed the dissolu- tion of the Parliament of 1628, he resided at his seat in one of the most beautiful parts of the county of Buckingham. The house, which has since his time been greatly altered, and which is now, we believe, almost entirely neglected, was an old English mansion, built in the days of the Planta- genets and the Tudors. It stood on the brow of a hill which overlooks a narrow valley. The extensive woods which surround it were pierced by long avenues. One of those avenues the grandfather of the great statesman had cut for the approach of Elizabeth ; and the opening, which is still visible for many miles, retains the name of the Queen’s Gap. In this delightful retreat, Hampden passed several years, performing v/ith great activity all the duties of a landed gentleman and a magistrate, and amusing himself with books and with field sports. He was not in his retirement unmindful of his persecuted friends. In particular, he kept up a close correspondence with Sir John Eliot, who was confined in the Tower. Lord Nugent has published several of the Letters. We may perhaps be fanciful ; but it seems to us that every one of them is an admirable illustration of some part of the char- acter of Hampden which Clarendon has drawn. Part of the correspondence relates to the two sons of Sir John Eliot. These young men were wild and unsteady: and their father, who was now separated from them, was naturally anxious about their conduct. He at length re- solved to send one of them to France, and the other to serve a campaign in the Low Countries. The letter which we subjoin shows that Hampden, though rigorous towards him- self, was not uncharitable towards others, and that his Puritanism was perfectly compatible with the sentiments and the tastes of an accomplished gentleman. It also il- lustrates admirably what has been said of him by Claren- don ; “ He was of that rare affability and temper in debate, and of that seeming humility and submission of Judgment, as if he brought no opinion of his own with him, but a JOHN IIAMPDEl'f. 697 desire of information and instruction. Yet lie had so subtle a way of interrogating, and, under cover of doubts, insinua- ting his objections, that lie infused liis own opinions into those from wliom he pretended to learn and receive them.” The letter runs thus : “ I am so perfectly acquainted with your clear insight into the dispositions of men, and ability to fit them with courses suitable, that, had yo i bestowed sons of mine as you have done your own, iry judgment durst hardly have called it into question, espe- cially when, in laying the design, you have prevented the 1 objections to be made against it. For if Mr. Richard Eliot will, in the intermission of action, add study to practice, and adorn that lively spirit witli flowers of contemplation, he will raise our expectations of another Sir Edward Vere, that had this character — all summer in the field, all winter in his study — in whose fall fame makes this kingdom a great loser ; and, having taken this resolution from counsel with the highest wisdom, as I doubt not you have, I hope and pray that the same power will crown it with a blessing answerable to our wish. The way you take with my other friend shows you to be none of the Bishop of Exeter’s con- verts ; * of whose mind neither am I superstitiously. But had my opinion been asked, I should, as vulgar conceits use to do, have showed my power rather to raise objections than to answer them. A temper between France and Ox- ford, might have taken away his scruples, with more ad- vantage to his years. * * * * Eor although he be one of those that, if liis age were looked for in no other book but that of the mind, would be found no ward if you should die to-morrow, yet it is a great hazard, methinks, to see so sweet a disposition guarded with no more, amongst a people whereof many make it their religion to be superstitious in impiety, and their behavior to be affected in ill manners. But God, who only knoweth the periods of life and oppor- tunities to come, hath designed him, I hope, for his own service be time, and stirred up your providence to husband him so early for great affairs. Then shall he be sure to find Him in France that Abraham did in Sechem and Joseph in Egypt, under Avhose wing alone is perfect safety.” Sir John Eliot employed himself, during his imprison- ment, in writing a treatise on government, which he trans- mitted to his friend. Hampden’s criticisms are strikingly * Hall, Bislio]) of Exeter, had written strongly, both in verse and in prose, against the fashion of sending young men of quality to travel. 698 Macaulay’s misckllankous wiutixqs. characteristic. They arc written with all that ‘‘ flowing courtesy” which is ascribed to him by Clarendon. Tho objections are insinuated with so much delicacy that they could scarcely gall the inost irritable author. We see too how highly Hampden valued in the writings of others that conciseness which was one of the most striking peculiarities of his own eloquence. Sir John Eliot’s style was, it seems, too diffuse, and it is impossible not to admire the skill with which this is suggested. “ The piece,” says Hampden, “ is as complete an image of the pattern as can be drawn by lines, a lively character of a large mind, the subject, method, and expression, excellent and homogeneal, and, to say truth, 1 sweetheart, somewhat exceeding my commendations. My | words cannot render them to the life. Yet, to show my j ingenuity rather than wit, would not a less model have 1 given a full representation of that subject, not by diminu- ^ tion but by contraction of parts ? I desire to learn. I dare 1 not say. The variations upon each particular seem many ; | all, I confess, excellent. The fountain was full, the channel I narrow ; that may be the cause ; or that the author resembled | Virgil, who made more verses by many than he intended to ^ write. To extract a just number, had I seen all his, I could j easily have bid him make fewer ; but if he had bade me tell A him which he should have spared, I had been posed.” l This is evidently the writing not only of a man of good sense and natural good taste, but of a man of literary habits. ~ Of the studies of Hampden little is known. But, as it was at one time in contemplation to give him the charge of the education of the Prince of Wales, it cannot be doubted that his acquirements were considerable. Davila, it is said, was one of his favorite writers. The moderation of Davila’s opinions and the perspicuity and manliness of his style could not but recommend him to so judicious a reader. It is not improbable that the parallel between France and England, the Huguenots and the Puritans, had struck the mind of Hampden, and that he already found within himself ])owers not unequal to the lofty part of Coligni. j While he was engaged in these pursuits, a heavy domes- || tic calamity fell on him. His wife, who had borne him nine !| children, died in the summer of 1634. She lies in the parish I church of Hampden, close to the manor-house. The tender ' and energetic language of her epitaph still attests the bitter- j ness of her husband’s sorrow, and the consolation which he found in a hope full of irmuortality. ' JOHN HAMPDEN. 699 In the mean time, the aspect of public affairs grew darker and darker. The health of Eliot had sunk under an unlawful imprisonment of several years. The brave sufferer refused to purchase liberty, though liberty Avould to him have been life, by recognizing the authority which had con fined liim. In consequence of the representations of his physicians, the severity of restraint was somewhat relaxed. lUit it was in vain. He languished and expired a martyr to that good cause for which his friend Hampden was des«> tined to meet a more brilliant, but not a more honorable death. All the promises of the King were violatedwithout scruple or shame. The Petition of Right, to which he had, in con - sideration of monies duly numbered, given a solemn assent, was set at nought. Taxes were raised by the royal author- ity. Patents of monopoly were granted. The old usages of feudal times were made pretexts for harassing the people with exactions unknown during many years. Tlie Puritans were persecuted with cruelty worthy of the Holy Office. They were forced to fly from the country. They were im- prisoned. They were whipped. Their ears were cut off. Their noses were slit. Their cheeks were branded with red- hot iron. But the cruelty of the oppressor could not tire out the fortitude of the victims. The mutilated defenders of liberty again defied the vengeance of the Star Chamber, came back with undiminished resolution to the place of their glorious infamy, and manfully presented the stumjis of their ears to be grubbed out by the hangman’s knife. The hardy sect grew up and flourished in spite of every thing that seemed likely to stunt it, struck its roots deep into a barren soil, and spread its branches wide to an inclement sky. The multitude thronged round Prynne in the pillory with more respect than they paid to Mainwaring in the pulpit, and treasured up the rags which the blood of Burton had soaked, with a veneration such as mitres and surplices had ceased to inspire. For the misgo Adornment of this disastrous period Charles himself is principally responsible. After the death of Buck- ingham, he seems to have been his own prime ihinister. He had, howcA^cr, tAvo counsellors Avho seconded him, or went beyond him, in intolerance and lawless violence, the one a superstitious drReller, as honest as a vile temper would Buffer him to be, the other a man of gi-eat valor and ca« pacity, ])ut I'centious, faithless, corrupt, and cruel. 700 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings, Never were faces more strikingly characteristic of the individuals to whom they belonged, than those of Laud and Strafford, as they still remain portrayed by the most skilful liand of that age. The mean forehead, the pinched features, the peering eyes, of the prelate, suit admirably with his dis- position. They mark him out as a lower kind of Saint Dominic, differing from the fierce and gloomy enthusiast who founded the Inquisition, as we might imagine the fa^ miliar imp of a spiteful witch to differ from an archangel of darkness. When we read His Grace’s judgments, when we read the report which he drew up, setting forth that he had sent some separatists to prison, and imploring the royal aid against others, we feel a movement of indignation. We turn to his Diary, and we are at once as cool as contempt can make us. There we learn how his picture fell down, and how fearful he was lest the fall should be an omen ; j how he dreamed that the Duke of Buckingham came to bed to him, that King James walked past him, that he saw ^ Thomas Flaxney in green garments, and the Bishop of Worcester with his shoulders wrapped in linen. In the | early part of 1627, the sleep of this great ornament of the ^ church seems to have been much disturbed. On the fifth : of January, he saw a merry old man with a wrinkled coun- i tenance, named Grove, lying on the ground. On the four- ’ teenth of the same memorable month, he saw the Bishop of i Lincoln jump on a horse and ride away. A day or two g after this he dreamed that he gave the King drink in a silver 8 cup, and that the King refused it, and called for glass. 3 Then he dreamed that he had turned Papist; of all his f dreams the only one, we suspect, which came through the gate of horn. But of these visions our favorite is that which, as J he has recorded, he enjoyed on the night of Friday, the .3 ninth of February, 1627. “I dreamed,” says he, “that I ;• had the scurvy ; and that forthwith all my teeth became loose. There was one in especial in my lower jaw, which I " could scarcely keep in with my finger till I had called for help.” Here was a man to have the superintendence of the opinions of a great nation ! But Wentworth, — who ever names him without think- ing of those harsh dark features, ennobled by their expres- sion into more than the majesty of an antique Jupiter ; of that brow, that eye, that cheek, that lip, wherein, as in a | chronicle, are written the events of many stormy and dis- astrous years, high enterprise accomplished, frightful dangers JOHN HAMPDEN. 701 braved, power unsparingly exercised, suffering unshrink- ingly borne; of that fixed look, so full of severity, of mourn- ful anxiety, of deep thought, of dauntless resolution, which seems at once to forebode and to defy a terrible fate, as it lowers on us from the living canvass of Vandyke? Even at this day the haughty earl overawes posterity as he over- awed his contemporaries, and excites the same interest when arraigned before the tribunal of history which he excited at the bar of the House of Lords. In spite of ourselves, we sometimes feel towards his memory a certain relenting similar to that relenting which his defence, as Sir John Denham tells us, produced in Westminster Hall. This great, brave, bad man entered the House of Com- mons at the same time with Plampden, and took the same side with Hampden. Both were among the richest and most powerful commoners in the kingdom. Both were equally distinguished by force of character, and by personal courage. Hampden had more judgment and sagacity than Wentworth. But no orator of that time equalled Went- worth in force and brilliancy of expression. In 1626 both these eminent men were committed to prison by the King, Wentworth, who was among the leaders of the Opposition, on account of his parliamentary conduct, Hampden, who had not as yet taken a prominent part in debate, for refusing to pay taxes illegally imposed. Here their path separated. After the death of Bucking- ham, the King attempted to seduce some of the chiefs of the Opposition from their party; and Wentworth was among those who yielded to the seduction. He abandoned his associates, and hated them ever after with the deadly hatred of a renegade. High titles and great employments were heaped upon him. He became Earl of Strafford, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, President of the Council of the North; and. he employed all his power for the purpose of crushing those liberties of which he had been the most dis- tinguished champion. His counsels respecting public affairs were fierce and arbitrary. His correspondence with Laud abundantly proves that government without parliaments, government by the sword, was his favorite scheme. He was angry even that the course of justice between man and man should be unrestrained by the royal prerogative. He grudged to the Courts of King’s Bench and Common Pleas even that measure of liberty which the most absolute of the Bourbons allowed to the Parliameuts of France. In Ir^- 702 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. land, where he stood in the place of the King, his practice fl was in strict accordance witli his theory. lie set up the au- ■ thority of the executive government over that of the courts I of law. He permitted no person to leave the island without I his license. He established vast monopolies for his own I private benefit. He imposed taxes arbitrarily. He levied V them by military force. Some of his acts are described m even by the partial Clarendon as powerful acts, acts which I marked a nature excessively imperious, acts which caused S dislike and terror in sober and dispassionate persons, high I acts of oppression. Upon a most frivolous charge, he ob- ■ tained a capital sentence from a court-martial against a I man of high rank who had given him offence. He debauched a the daughter-in-law of the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, and 5 then commanded that nobleman to settle his estate accord- 1 ing to the wishes of the lady. The Chancellor refused. Th^e Lord Lieutenant turned him out of office, and threw I him into prison. When the violent acts of the Long Parlia- | ment are blamed, let it not be forgotten from what a tyranny | they rescued the nation. J Among the humbler tools of Charles were Chief-Justice 3 Finch and Noy the Attorney-General. Noy had, like Vv^ ent- f worth, supported the cause of liberty in Parliament, and J had, like Wentworth, abandoned that cause for the sak^^ of | office. He devised, in conjunction with Finch, a scheme of | exaction which made the alienation of the people from the throne complete. A writ was issued by the King, com- manding the city of London to equip and man ships of war for his service. Similar writs were sent to the towns along the coast. These measures, though they were direct viola- tions of the Petition of Right, had at least some show of precedent in their favor. But, after a time, the government took a step for which no precedent could be pleaded, and sent writs of ship-money to the inland counties. This was a stretch of power on which Elizabeth herself had not ven- tured, even at a time when all laws might with propriety haA^e been made to bend to that highest law, the safety of the State. The inland counties had not been required to furnish ships, or money in the room of ships, eA^en when the Armada was approaching our shores. It seemed intolerable that a prince who, by assenting to the Petition of Right, had relinquished the power of levying ship-money even in the out-ports, should be the first to levy it on parts of the kingdom where it had been unknown under the most ab solute of his predecessors. JOHN HAMPDEN. 703 Clarendon distinctly admits that this tax was intended, not only for the support of the navy, but “for a spring and magazine that should have no bottom, and for an everlast- ing supply of all occasions.” The nation well understood this ; and from one end of England to the other the public mind was strongly excited. Buckinghamshire was assessed at a ship of four hundred and fifty tons, or a sum of four thousand five hundred pounds. The share of the tax which fell to Hampden was very small ; so small, indeed, that the sheriff was blamed for setting so wealthy a man at so low a rate. But, though the sum demanded was a trifle, the principle involved was fearfully important. Hampden, after consulting the most eminent constitutional lawyers of the time, refused to pay the few shillings at which he was assessed, and determined to incur all the certain expense, and the probable danger of bringing to a solemn hearing this great controversy between the people and the Crown. “ Till this time,” says Claren don, “ he was rather of reputation in his own country than of public discourse or fame in the kingdom ; but then he grew the argument of all tongues, every man inquiring who and what he was that durst, at his own charge, sup- port the liberty and prosperity of the kingdom.” Towards the close of the year 1636, this great cause came on in the Exchequer Chamber before all the judges of Eng- land. The leading counsel against the writ was the cele- brated Oliver St. John, a man whose temper was melancholy, whose manners were reserved, and who was as yet little known in Westminster Hall, but whose great talents had not escaped the penetrating eye of Hampden. The Attorney- General and Solicitor-General appeared for the Crown. The arguments of the counsel occupied many days ; and the Exchequer Chamber took a considerable time for delib- eration. The opinion of the Bench was divided. So clearly was the la v in favor of Hampden that, though the judges held their situations only during the royal pleasure, the ma- jority against him was the least possible. Five of the twelve pronounced in his favor. The remaining seven gave their voices for the writ. The only effect of this decision was to make the public indignation stronger and deeper. “The judgment,” says Clarendon, “ proved of more advantage and credit to the gentleman condemned than to the King’s service.” The courage which Hampden had shown on this occasion, as the 704 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. same liistorian tells ns, “ raised liis reputation to a great height generally throughout the kingdom.” Even courtiers and crown-lawyers spoke respectfully of him. “His car- riage,” says Clarendon, “ throughout that agitation, was with that rare temper and modesty, that they who watched liim narrowly to find some advantage against his person, to make him less resolute in his cause, were compelled to give him a just testimony.” But his demeanor, though it im- pressed Lord Falkland with the deepest respect, though it drew forth the praises of Solicitor-General Herbert, only kindled into a fiercer flame the ever-burning hatred of Strafford. That minister, in his letters to Laud, murmured against the lenity with wliich Hampden was treated. “ In good faith,” he wrote, “ were such men rightly served, they should be whipped into their right wits.” Again he says, “ I still wish Mr. Hampden, and others of his likeness, were well whipped into their right senses. And if the rod be so used that it smart not, I am the more sorry.” The person of Hampden was now scarcely safe. His prudence and moderation had hitherto disappointed those who Avould gladly have had a pretence for sending him to the prison of Eliot. But he knew that the eye of a tyrant was on him. In the year 1637 misgovernment had reached its height. Eight years had passed without a Parliamcmt. The decision of the Exchequer Chamber had placed at the disposal of the Crown the whole property of the English people. About the time at which that decision was pro- nounced, Prynne, Bastwick, and Burton were mutilated by the sentence of the Star Chamber, and sent to rot in remote dungeons. The estate and person of every man who had opposed the court were at its mercy. Hampden determined to leave England. Beyond the Atlantic Ocean, a few of the persecuted Puritans had formed, in the wilderness of Connecticut, a settlement which has since become a prosperous commonwealth, and which, in spite of the lapse of time and of.the change of government, still retains something of the character given to it by its first founders. Lord Saye and Lord Brooke were the original projectors of the scheme of emigration. Hampden had been early consulted respecting it. He was now, it appears, desirous to withdraw himself beyond the reach of oppressors who, as he probably suspected, and as we know, were bent on punishing his manful resistance to their tyr- anny. He was accompanied by his kinsman, Oliver Crom ^OHK HAMPDEN'. 70D n^ell, over \vhom lie possessed great influence, and in vvdiom he alone liad discovered, under an exterior appearance of coarseness and extravagance, those great and commanding talents which were afterwards the admiration and the dread of Europe. The cousins took their passage in a vessel whicli lay in the Thames, and wliicli was bound for America. They were actually on board, when an order of council appeared, by which the ship was prohibited from sailing. Seven other ships, filled with emigrants, were stopped at the same lime. Hampden and Cromwell remained ; and with themi remained the Evil Genius of the House of Stuart. The tide of ])ublic affairs was even now on the turn. The King had resolved to change the ecclesiastical constitution of Scot- land, and to introduce into the public worship of that king- dom ceremonies which the great body of the Scotch regarded as popish. This absurd attempt produced, first discontents, then riots, and at last open rebellion. A provisional gov- ernment was established at Edinburgh, and its authority was obeyed throughout the kingdom. This government raised an army, appointed a general, and summoned an Assembly of the Kirk. The famous instrument called the Covenant was put forth at this time, and was eagerly sub- Bcribed by the people. The beginnings of this formidable insurrection were strangely neglected by the King and his advisers. But to- wards the close of the year 1CB8 the danger became press- ing. An army was raised ; and early in the following spring Charles marched northward at the head of a force sufficient, as it seemed, to reduce the Covenanters to submission. But Charles acted at this conjuncture as he acted at every important conjuncture tliroiighout his life. After oppressing, threatening, and blustering, he hesitated and failed. He was bold in tlie wrong place, and timid in the wrong place. He would have shown liis wisdom by being afraid before the liturgy was read in St. Giles’s church, lie put off his fear till lie had reached the Scottish border with his troops. Then^ after a feeble campaign, he con- cluded a treaty with the insurgents, and withdrew his army. But the terms of the pacification were not observed. Each party charged the other with foul play. The Scots refused to disarm. The King found great difficulty in re-assem blinghis forces. His late expedition had drained his treasury. VoL. I.— 45^ 706 Macaulay’s miscellaneous muitingb. The revenues of the next year liad been anticipated. At another time, lie might liave attempted to make up tlie de- ficiency by illegal expedients ; but such a course would clearly have been dangerous when part of the island was in rebellion. It was necessary to call a Parliament. After eleven years of suffering, the voice of the nation was to be beard once more. In April, 1640, the Parliament met; and the King had another chance of conciliating his people. The new House of Commons was, beyond all comparison, the least refractory House of Commons that had been known for many years. Indeed, we have never been able to understand how, after so long a period of misgovernment, the representatives of the nation should have shown so moderate and so loyal a disposition. Clarendon speaks with admiration of their dutiful temper. “ The House, generally,” says he, “ was ex- ceedingly disposed to please the King, and to do him ser- vice.” ‘‘ It could never be hoped,” he observes elsewhere, “ that more sober or dispassionate men would ever meet to- gether in that place, or fewer who brought ill purposes with them.” In this Parliament Hampden took his seat as member for Buckinghamshire, and thenceforward, till the day of his death, gave himself up, with scarcely any intermission, to public affairs. He took lodgings in Gray’s Inn Lane, near the house occupied by Pym, with whom he lived in habits of the closest intimacy. He was now decidedly the most popular man in England. The Opposition looked to him as their leader, and the servants of the King treated him with marked respect. Charles requested the Parliament to vote an immediate supply, and pledged liis word that, if they would gratify him in this request, he would afterwards give them time to represent their grievances to him. The grievances under which the nation suffered were so serious, and the royal v ord had been so shamefully violated, that the Commons could hardly be expected to comply with this request. During the first week of the session, the minutes of the pro- ceedings against Hampden were laid on the table by Olivei St. John, and a committee reported that the case was mat- ter of grievance. The King sent a message to the Commons, offering, if they would vote him twelve subsidies, to give up the prerogative of ship-money. Many years before, he had received five subsidies in consideration of his assent to the JOHN HAMPDEN. 707 Petition of Right. By assenting to that petition, he had given up the right of levying ship-money, if he ever possessed it. How he had observed the promises made to tliis third Parliament, all England knew ; and it was not strange that the Commons should be somewhat unwilling to buy from liim, over and over again, their own ancient and undoubted inheritance. Jlis message, however, was not unfavorably receivedc The Commons were ready to give a large supply ; but they were not disposed to give it in exchange for a prerogative of which they altogether denied the existence. If they acceded to the proposal of the King, they recognized the legality of the writs of ship-money. Hampden, who was a greater master of parliamentary tactics than any man of his time, saw that this was the pre- vailing feeling, and availed himself of it with great dexterity. Ife moved that the question should be put, “ Whether the House would consent to the proposition mad’e by the King, as contained in the message.” Hyde interfered, and pro- posed that the question should be divided ; that the sense of the House should be taken merely on the point whether there should be a supply or no supply ; and that the man- ner and the amount should be left for subsequent consider- ation. The majority of the House was for granting a supply, but against granting it in the manner proposed by the King. If the House had divided on Hampden’s question, the court would have sustained a defeat ; if on Hyde’s, the court would have gained an apparent victory. Some members called for Hyde’s motion, others for Hampden’s. In the midst of the uproar, the secretary of state. Sir Harry Vane, rose and stated that the supply would not be accepted unless it were voted according to the tenor of the message. Vane was supported by Herbert, the Solicitor-General. Hyde’s motion was therefore no further pressed, and the debate on the general question was adjourned till the next day. On the next day the King came down to the House of Lords, and dissolved the Parliament with an angry speech. 11 is conduct on this occasion has never been defended by •:iny of his apologists. Clarendon condemns it severely. ‘‘No man,” says he, “could imagine what offence the Com- mons had given.” The offence which they had given is plain. They had, indeed, behaved most temperately and most respectfully. But they had shown a disposition to 708 Macaulay’s misoellaiseous writings. redress wrongs and to vindicate tlie laws; and this w^a8 enough to make them hateful to a king whom no law could bind, and whose whole government was one system of wrong. The nation received the intelligence of the dissolution with sorrow and indignation. Tlie only persons to whom this event gave ])leasure were those few^ discerning men who thought that the maladies of the state w^erc beyond the reach of gentle remedies. Oliver St. John’s joy was too great for concealment. It lighted up his dark and melan- choly features, and made him, for the first time, indiscreetly communicative. lie told Hyde that things must be wmrse liefore they could be better, and that the dissolved Parlia- ment would never have done all that w^as necessary. St. John, we think, was in the right. No good could then have been done by any Parliament which did not fully understand that no confidence could safely be placed in the King, and that, while he enjoyed more than the shadow of power, the nation would never enjoy more than the shadow of liberty. As soon as Charles had dismissed the Parliament, he threw several members of the House of Commons into prison. Ship-money was exacted more rigorously than ever ; and the Mayor and Sheriffs of London were prosecuted before the Star Chamber for slackness in levying it. Wentw^orth, it is said, observed, with characteristic insolence and cruelty, that things w^ould never go right till the Aldermen were hanged. Large sums w^ere raised by force on those counties in which the troops w^ere quartered. All the wretched shifts of a beggared exchequer were tried. Forced loans were raised. Great quantities of goods were bought on long credit and sold for ready-money. A scheme for debasing the currency was under consideration. At length, in August, the King again marched northward. The Scots advanced into England to meet him. It is by no means improbable that tliis bold step was taken by the aflvice of Hampden, and of those with whom he acted ; and this has been made matter of grave accusation against the English Opposition. It is said that to call in the aid of for- eigners in a domestic quarrel is the worst of treasons, and that the Puritan leaders, by taking this course, showed that they were regardless of the honor and independence of the nation, and anxious only for the success of their own fac- tion. We are utterly unable to see any distinction between JOHN HAMPDEN/ 709 the case of the Scotch invasion in 1640, and the case of the Dutch invasion in 1688 ; or rather, we see distinctions which are to tlie advantage of Hampden and his friends. We be- lieve Charles to have been a worse and more dangerous king than his son. The Dutch were strangers to us, tlie Scots a kindred people speaking the same language, subjects of the same prince, not aliens in the eye of the law. If, in- deed, it had been possible that a Scotch army or a Dutch army could have enslaved England, those who persuaded Leslie to cross the Tweed, and those who signed the invita^ tion to tlie Prince of Orange, would have been traitors to their country. But such a result was out of the question. All that either a Scotch or a Dutch invasion could do was to give the public feeling of England an opportunity to show itself. Both expeditions would have ended in complete and ludicrous discomfiture, had Charles and James been sup- ported by their soldiers and their people. In neither case, therefore, was the independence of England endangered ; in both cases her liberties were preserved. The second campaign of Charles against the Scots was short and ignominious. His soldiers, as soon as they saw the enemy, ran away as English soldiers have never run either before or since. It can scarcely be doubted that their flight was the effect, not of cowardice, but of disaffection. Tlie four northern counties of England were occupied by the Scotch army, and the King retired to York. The game of tyranny was now up. Charles had risked and I lost his last stake. It is not easy to retrace the mortifica- tions and humiliations which the tyrant now had to endure, without a feeling of vindictive pleasure. His army was mutinous ; his treasury was empty ; his people clamored for a Parliament ; addresses and petitions against the govern- ment were presented. Strafford* was for shooting the peti- tioners by martial law : but the King could not trust the soldiers. A great council of Peers was called at York ; but the King could not trust even the Peers. He struggled, evaded, hesitated, tried every shift, rather than again face the representatives of his injured people. At length no shift was left. He made a truce with the Scots, and sum- moned a Parliament. The leaders of the popular party had, after the late dissolu- I tion, remained in London for the purpose of organizing a scheme of opposition to the court. They now exerted them- ! selves to the utmost. Hampdenj in particular, rode from TcO Macaulay’s mtsceilaneous writings. county to county, exhorting the electors to give their votes to men worthy of their confidence. The great majority of the returns was on tlie side of tlie Opposition. Hampden was himself chosen member both for Wendover and Buck- inghamshire. He made his election to serve for the county. On the third of November, 1640, a day to be long re- membered, met that great Parliament, destined to every ex- treme of fortune, to empire and to servitude, to glory and to contempt ; at one time the sovereign of its sovereign, at an- other time the servant of its servants. From the first day of meeting the attendance was great; and the aspect of the members was that of men hot disposed to do the work negligently. The dissolution of the late Parlia- ment had convinced most of them that half measures would no longer suffice. Clarendon tells us, that “ the same men who, six months before, were observed to be of very moder- ate tempers, and to wish that gentle remedies might be ap- plied, talked now in anotheT dialect both of kings and persons ; and said that they must now be of another temper than they were the last Parliament.” The debt of ven- geance was swollen by all the usury which had been accumu- lating during manjf years ; and payment was made to the full. This memorable crisis called forth parliamentary abilities such as England had never before seen. Among the most distinguished members of the House of Commons were Falk- land, Hyde, Digby, young Harry Vane, Oliver St.John, Denzil Hollis, Nathaniel Fiennes. But two men exercised a paramount influence over the legislature and the country, Pym and Hampden ; and, by the universal consent of friends and enemies, the first place belonged to Hampden. On occasions which required set speeches Pym generally look the lead. Hampden very seldom rose till late in a de- bate. His speaking was of that kind which has, in every age, been held in the highest estimation by English Parlia^ ments, ready, weighty, perspicuous, condensed. His per- ception of the feelings of the House was exquisite, his temper unalterably placid, his manner eminently courteous and gentlemanlike. Even with those,” says Clarendon, “ who are able to preserve themselves from his infusions, and who discerned those opinions to be fixed in him with which they could not comply, he always left the character of an in- genious and conscientious person.” His talents for business were as remarkable as his talents for debate. “ He was,” JOHN HAMPDEN. m eays Clarendon, “ of an industry and vigilance not to be tired out or wearied by the most laborious, and of parts not to be imposed upon by the most subtle and sharp.” Yet it was rather to his moral than to his intellectual qualities that ho was indebted for the vast influence which he possessed. “ When tin’s parliament began,” — we again quote Clarendon, — “the eyes of all men were flxed upon him, as their patricB pate7\ and the pilot that must steer the vessel through the tem))ests and rocks which threatened it. And I am per- suaded his power and interest at that time were greater to do good or hurt than any man’s in the kingdom, or than any man of his rank hath had in any time : for his reputa- tion of honesty was universal, and his affections seemed so publicly guided, that no corrupt or private ends could bias them. * * * He was indeed a very wise man, and of great parts, and possessed with the most absolute spirit of popularity, and the most absolute faculties to govern the people, of any man I ever knew.” It is sufficient to recapitulate shortly the acts of the Long Parliament during its first session. Strafford and Laud were impeached and imprisoned. Strafford was afterwards attainted by Bill, and executed. Lord Keeper Finch fled to Holland, Secretary Windebank to France. All those whom the King had, during the last twelve years, employed for tlie oppression of his people, from the servile judges who had pronounced in favor of the crown against Hampden, down to the sheriffs who had distrained for ship-money, and the custom-house officers who had levied tonnage and poundage, were summoned to answer for their conduct. The Star Chamber, the High. Commission Court, the Council of York, were abolished. Those unfortunate victims of Laud who, after undergoing ignominious exposure and cruel manglings, had been sent to languish in distant prisons, were set at liberty, and conducted through London in triumphant procession. The King was compelled to give the judges patents for life or during good behavior. He was deprived of those oppressive powers which were the last relics of the old feudal tenures. The Forest Courts and the Stannary Courts were reformed. It was provided that the Parliament then sitting should not be prorogued or dissolved without its own consent, and that a Parliament should be held at least once every three years. Many of these measures Lord Clarendon allows to have been most salutary ; and few persons will, in our times, 712 ma^caulay’s miscellaneous writings. deny tliat, in the laws passed during this session, the good greatly preponderated over the evil. The abolition of those three hateful courts, the Northern Council, the Star Cham- ber, and the High Commission, would alone entitle the Long Parliament to the lasting gratitude of Englishmen. The proceeding against Strafford undoubtedly seems hard to people living in our days. It would probably have seemed merciful and moderate to people living in the six teenth century. It is curious to compare the trial of Charles’s minister with the trial, if it can be so called, of Lord Seymour of Sudeley, in the blessed reign of Edward the Sixth. None of the great reformers of our Church doubted the propriety of passing an act of Parliament for cutting off Lord Seymour’s head without a legal convic- tion. The pious Cranmer voted for that act; the pious Latimer preached for it ; the pious Edward returned thanks for it ; and all the pious Lords of the council together ex- horted their victim to what they were pleased facetiously to call ‘‘ the quiet and patient suffering of justice.” But it is not necessary to defend the proceedings against Strafford by any such comparison. They are justified, in our opinion, by that which alone justifies capital punish- 4 ment or any punishment, by that which alone justifies war, ^ by the public danger. That there is a certain amount of public danger which will justify a legislature in sentencing ' - a man to death by retrospective law, few people, we sup- pose, will deny. Few people, for examplo, will deny that the French Convention was perfectly justified in placing Robespierre, St. Just, and Couthon under the ban of the law, without a trial. This proceeding differed from the proceeding against Strafford only in being much more lapid and violent. Strafford was fully heard. Robespierre was not suffered to defend himself. Was there, then, in the case of Strafford, a danger sufficient to justify an act of attainder? We believe that there was. We believe that the contest in which the Parliament was engaged against the King was a contest for the security of our property, for the liberty of our persons, for everything which makes us to differ from the subjects of Don Miguel. We believe that the cause of the Commons was such as justified them in re- sisting the King, in raising an army, in sending thousands of brave men to kill and to be killed. An act of attainder is surely not more a departure from the ordinary course of law than a civil war. An act of attainder produces much JOHN HAMPDEN. 713 less suffering than a civil war. We are, therefore, unable to discover on wliat principle it can be maintained that a cause which justifies a civil war will not justify an act of at- tainder. Many specious arguments have been urged against the retrospective law by which Strafford was condemned to death. But all these arguments proceed on the supposition that the crisis was an ordinary crisis. Tlie attainder was, in truth, a revolutionary measure. It was part of a system of resistance which oppression had rendered necessary. It is as unjust to judge of the conduct pursued by the Long Parliament towards Strafford on ordinary principles, as it would have been to indict Fairfax for murder because he cut down a cornet at Naseby. From the day on which the Houses met, there was a war waged by them against the King, a war for all that they held dear, a war carried on at first by means of parliamentary forms, at last by physical force ; and, as in the second stage of that war, so in the first, they were entitled to do many things which, in quiet times, would have been culpable. We must not omit to mention that those who were after- wards the most distinguished ornaments of the King’s party supported the bill of attainder. It is almost certain that Hyde voted for it. It is quite certain that Falkland both voted and spoke for it. The opinion of Hampden, as far as it can be collected from a very obscure note of one of his speeches, seems to have been that the proceeding by Bill w^as unnecessary, and that it would be a better course to ob- tain judgment on the impeachment. During this year the Court opened a negotiation with the leaders of the Opposition. The Earl of Bedford was in- vited to form an administration on popular principles. St. John was made solicitor-general. Hollis was to have been secretary of state, and Pym chancellor of the exchequer. The post of tutor to the Prince of Wales was designed for Hampden. The death of the Earl of Bedford prevented this arrangement from being carried into effect ; and it may be doubted whether, even if that nobleman’s life had been prolonged, Charles would ever have consented to surround himself with counsellors whom he could not but hate and fear. Lord Clarendon admits that the conduct of Hampden during this year was mild and temperate, that he seemed disposed rather to soothe than to excite the public mind| 714 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. and that, wlicn violent and unreasonable motions were made by his followers, he generally left the House before the division, lest he should seem to give countenance to their extravagance. Ilis temper was moderate. He sincerely loved peace. He felt also great fear lest too precipitate a movement should produce a reaction. The events which took place early in the next session clearly showed that this fear was not unfounded. During the autumn the Parliament adjourned for a few weeks. Before the recess, Hanrpden was despatched to Scotland by the House of Commons, nominally as a com- missioner, to obtain security for a debt wdiich the Scots liad contracted during the late invasion ; but in truth that he might keep watch over the King, wdio had now repaired to Edinburgh, for the purpose of finally adjusting the points of difference which remained bet^veen him and his northern subjects. It was the business of Hampden to dissuade the Covenanters from making their peace with the Court, at the exj^ense of the popular party in England. While the King was in Scotland, the Irish rebellion broke out. The suddenness and violence of this terrible explosion excited a strange suspicion in the public mind. The Queen was a professed Papist. The King and Archbishop of Canterbury had not indeed been reconciled to the See of Rome ; but they had, while acting towards the Puritan party with the utmost rigor, and speaking of that party with the utmost contempt, shown great tenderness and re- spect towards the Catholic religion and its professors. In spite of the wishes of successive Parliaments, the Prot- estant separatists had been cruelly persecuted. And at the same time, in spite of the wishes of those very Parliaments, laws which w^ere in force against the Papists, and w hich, unjustifiable as they were, suited the temper of that age, had not been carried into execution. The Protestant non- conformists had not yet learned toleration in the school of suffering. They reprobated the partial lenity wdiich the government show^ed tow^ard idolaters, and, wdth some show of reason, ascribed to bad motives conduct w^hich, in such a king as C'harles, and such a prelate as Laud, could not pos- sibly be ascribed to humanity or to liberality of sentiment. The violent Armenianism of the Archbishop, his childish attachment to ceremonies, his superstitious veneration for altars, vestments, and painted wdndo'ws, his bigoted zeal for the constitution and the juivileges of his order, his known JOHN HAMPDEN. Hi opinions respecting the celibacy of the clergy, had excited great disgust throughout that large ]>arty which was every (lay becoiiiiiig more and more hostile to Koine, and more imd more inclined to the doctrines and the dicipline of Geneva. It was believed by many that the Irish rebellion had been secrectly encouraged by the Court ; and, when the Parliament met again in November, after a short re- ce-ss, the Puritans were more intractable than ever. But that which Hampden had feared had come to pass. A reaction liad taken place. A large body of moderate and well-meaning men, who had heartily concurred in the strong measures adopted before the recess, were inclined to pause. Their opinion was that, during many years, the country had been grievously misgoverned, and that a great reform had been necessary; but that a great reform had j been made, that the grievances of the nation had been fully ; redressed, that sufficient vengeance had been exacted for the past, that sufficient security had been provided for the future, and that it would, therefore, be both ungrateful and unwise to make any further attacks on the royal prerogative. In support of this opinion many plausible arguments had l)een used. But to all these arguments there is one short .answer. The King could not be trusted. At the head of those who might be called the Constitu- tional Royalists were Falkland, Hyde, and Culpeper. All these eminent men had, during the former year, been in very decided opposition to the Court. In some of those very j)roceedings with which their admirers reproach Hampden, they had taken a more decided part than Hampden. They had all been concerned in the impeachment of Strafford. They had all, there is reason to believe, voted for the Bill of Attainder. Certainly none of them voted against it. T'hey had all agreed to the act which made the consent of llie Parliament necessary to a dissolution or prorogation. Hyde had been among the most active of those who attacked the Council of York. Falkland had voted for the exclusion of the Bishops from the Upper House. They were now in- (dined to halt in the path of reform, perhaps to retrace a f w of their steps. A direct collision soon took place between the two pai-- ties into which the House of Commons, lately at almost per- fect unity with itself, was now divided. The opponents of the government moved that celebrated address to the King wliich is known by the name of the Grand Remonstrance. 716 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wiutings. In this address all tlie oppressive acts of the preceding fit H teen years were set fortli witli great energy of language ; and, in conclusion, the King was entreated to employ no 9 ministers in whom the Parliament could not confide. S The debate on the Remonstrance was long and stormy. 9. It commenced at nine in the morning of the twenty-first of 9‘ November, and lasted till after midnight. The division 9 ; showed a great change had taken place in the temper of the 9 House. Though many members had retired from exhaus- 9 tion, three hundred voted ; and the Remonstrance was car- 9 ried by a majority of only nine. A violent debate followed, 9 on the question whether the minority should be allowed to 9 protest against this decision. The excitement was so great 9 that several members were on the point of proceeding to 9 personal violence. ‘‘We had sheathed our swords in each 9 other’s bowels,” says an eye-witness, “had not the sagacity 9 and great calmness of Mr. Hampden, by a short speech, pre- 9 vented it.” The House did not rise till two in the morning 9 The situation of the Puritan leaders was now difficult and 9 full of peril. The small majority which they still had might 9 soon become a minority. Out of doors, their supporters in 9 the higher and middle classes were beginning to fall off. 9 There was a growing opinion that the King had been hardly 9 used. The English are always inclined to side with a weak 9 party which is in the wrong, rather than with a strong party m which is in the right. This may be seen in all contests, from contests of boxers to contests of faction. Thus it M was that a violent r(?action took place in favor of Charles M the Second against the Whigs in 1681. Thus it was that 9 an equally violent reaction took place in favor of George 9 - the Third against the coalition in 1784. A similar reaction 9 was beginning to take place during the second year of the 9 Long Parliament. Some members of the opposition “had 9 resumed,” says Clarendon, “ their old resolution of leaving S the kingdom.” Oliver Cromwell openly declared that lie SI and many others Avould have emigrated if they had been ^ left in a minority on the question of the Remonstrance. Charles had now a last chance of regaining the affection of his people. If he could have resolved to give his confi- ;|‘ dence to the leaders of the moderate party in the House of Commons, and to regulate his proceedings by their advice, 'v he miglit have been, not, indeed, as lie had been, a despot, j but the powerful and respected king of a free people. The nation might have enjoyed liberty and repose under a gov* JOHN UAMPDEN. 717 eminent witli Falklnnd at its head, checked by a constitu- tional 0])position under the conduct of Hampden. It was not necessary that, in order to accomplish this happy end, the King should sacrifice any part of his lawful prerogative, or submit to any conditions inconsistent with his dignity. It was necessary only that he should abstain from treachery, from violence, from gross breaches of the law. This was all that the nation was then disposed to require of him. And even this was too much. For a short time he seemed inclined to take a wise and temperate course. He resolved to make Falkland secretary of state, and Culpeper chancellor of the exchequer. lie de- clared his intention of conferring in a short time some im- portant office on Hyde. He assured these three persons that he would do nothing relating to the House of Commons without their joint advice, and that he would communicate all his designs to them in the most unreserved manner. This resolution, had he adhered to it, would have averted many years of blood and mourning. But “ in very few days,” says Clarendon, “ he did fatally swerve from it.” On the third of January, 1642, without giving the slight- est hint of his intention to those advisers whom he had sol- emnly promised to consult, he sent down the attorney-gen- eral to impeach Lord Kimbolton, Hampden, Pym, Hollis, and two other members of the House of Commons, at the bar of the Lords, on a charge of High Treason. It is diffi- cult to find in the whole history of England such an instance of tyranny, perfidy, and folly. The most precious and an- cient rights of the subject were violated by this act. Tlio only way in which Hampden and Pym could legally be tried for treason at the suit of the King, was by a petty jury on a bill found by a grand jury. The attorney-general had no right to impeach them. The House of Lords had no right to try them. The Commons refused to surrender their members. The Peers showed no inclination to usurp the unconstitutional jurisdiction which the King attempted to force on them. A contest began, in which violence and weakness were on the one side, law and resolution on the other. Charles sent an officer to seal up the lodgings and trunks of the accused members. The Commons sent their sergeant to break the seals. The tyrant resolved to follow up one outrage by an- other. In making the charge, he had struck at the institu- tion of juries. In executing the arrest, he struck at the 718 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writing privileges of Parliament. He resolved to go to llic IToiist ill person with an armed force, and there to seize tlie leaders of the Opposition, while engaged in the discharge of their parliamentary duties. What was his purpose ? Is it possible to believe that he had no definite purpose, that he took the most important step of his whole reign without having for one moment con- sidered what might be its effects ? Is it possible to believe that he went merely for the purpose of making himself a laughing-stock, that he intended, if he had found the ac- cused members, and if they had refused, as it was their right and duty to refuse, the submission which he illegally demanded, to leave the House without bringing them away ? If we reject both these suppositions, we must believe, and we certainly do believe, that he went fully determined to carry his unlawful design into effect by violence, and, if necessary, to shed the blood of the chiefs of the OjDposition on the very floor of the Parliament House. Lady Carlisle conveyed intelligence of the design to Pym. The five mem- bers had time to withdraw before the arrival of Charles. They left the House as he was entering New Palace Yard. He was accompanied by about two hundred halberdiers of his guard, and by many gentlemen of the Court armed with swords. He walked up Westminster Hall. At the south- ern end of thQ Hall his attendants divided to the right and left, and formed a lane to the door of the House of Com- mons. He knocked, entered, darted a look towards the place which Pym usually occupied, and, seeing it empty, walked up to the table. The Speaker fell on his knee. The members rose and uncovered their heads in profound si- lence, and the King took his seat in the chair. He looked round the House. But the five members were nowhere to be seen. He interrogated the Speaker. The Speaker an- swered that he was merely the organ of the House, and liad neither eyes to see, nor tongue to speak, but according to their direction. The King muttered a few feeble sentences about his respect for the laws of the realm, and the privi- leges of Parliament, and retired. As he passed along the benches, several resolute voices called out audibly ‘‘ Privi- lege ! ” He returned to Whitehall with his company of bravoes, who, while he was in the House, had been impa- tiently waiting in the lobby for the word, cocking their pistols, and crying “Fall on.” That night he put forth a proclamation, directing that the ports should be sto])pcd, JOHN HAMPDEN. 719 and that no person should, at his peril, venture to harbor the accused members. Ilamiiden and his friends had taken refuge in Coleman Street. The city of London was indeed the fastness of public liberty, and was, in those times, a ])lace of at least as much importance as Paris during the French Revolution. The city, j)roperly so called, now consists in a great meas- ure of immense warehouses and counting-houses, which arc frequented by traders and their clerks during the day, and left in almost total solitude during the night. It was then closely inhabited by three hundred thousand persons, to y horn it was not merely a place of business, but a place of constant residence. This great capital had as complete a civil and military organization as if it had been an independ- ant republic. Each citizen had his company; and the com- panies, which now seem to exist only for the sake of epi- cures and of antiquaries, were then formidable brother- lioods, the members of which were almost as closely bound together as the members of a Highland clan. How strong these artificial ties were, the numerous and valuable legacies anciently bequeathed by citizens to their cor23orations abundantly prove. The municipal offices were filled by the most opulent and respectable merchants of the kingdom. The i:)omp of the magistracy of the capital was inferior only to that which surrounded the person of the sovereign. The Londoners loved their city with that patriotic love which is found only in small communities, like those of ancient Greece, or like those which arose in Italy during the middle ages. The numbers, the intelligence, the wealth of the citizens, the democratical form of their local government, and their vicinity to the Court and to the Parliament, made them one of the most formidable bodies in the kingdom. Even as soldiers they were not to be despised. In an age in which war is a profession, tliere is something ludicrous in the idea of battalions composed of ajiprentices and shop- keepers, and officered by Aldermen. But, in the early part of the seventeenth century, there was no standing army in the island ; and the militia of the metropolis was not in- ferior in training to the militia of other places. A city which could furnish many thousands of armed men, abound- ing in natural courage, and not absolutely untinctured with military discipline, was a formidable auxiliary in times of internal dissension. On several occasions during the civil war, the train-bands of London distinguished themselves 720 Macaulay’s miscellaneous whitings. liiglily ; and at the battle of Newbury, in particular, they repelled the fiery onset of Ru])ert, and saved the army of the Parliament from destruction. The people of this great city had long been thoroughly devoted to the national cause. Many of them had signed a protestation in which they declared their resolution to de- fend the privileges of Parliament. Their enthusiasm had indeed, of late, begun to cool. But the impeachment of the five members, and the insult offered to the House of Commons, inflamed them to fury. Their houses, their purses, their pikes, were at the command of the representatives of the nation. London was in arms all night. The next day the shops Avere closed ; the streets were filled Avith im- mense croAvds ; the multitude pressed round the King’s coach, and insulted him with opprobrious cries. The House of Commons, in the mean time, appointed a committee to feit in the city, for the purpose of inquiring into the circum- stances of the late outrage. The members of the com- mittee were Avelcomed by a deputation of the common council. Merchant Tailors’ Hall, Goldsmiths’ Hall, and Grocers’ Hall, were fitted up for their sittings. A guard of respectable citizens duly relieved twice a day, was posted at their doors. The sheriffs were charged to Avatch OA^er the safety of the accused members, and to escort them to and from the committee with eA^ery ma»i’k of honor. A ATolent and sudden ro\mlsion of feeling, both in the House and out of it, was the effect of the late proceedings of the King. The Opposition regained in a feAv hours all the ascendency Avhich it had lost. The constitutional royal- ists were filled Avith shame and sorrow. They saw that they had been cruelly deceived by Charles. They saw that they were, unjustly, but not unreasonably, susj^ected by the nation. Clarendon distinctly says that they perfectly detested the counsels by Avhich the King had been guided, and were so much displeased and dejected at the unfair manner in which he had treated them that they Avere in- clined to retire from his serAUce. During the debates on the breach of privilege, they preseiwed a melancholy silence. To this day the advocates of Charles take care to say as little as they can about his visit to the House of Commons, and, when they cannot avoid mention of it, attribute to in- fatuation an act Avhich, on any other supposition, they must admit to have been a frightful crime. The Commons, in a few days, openly defied the IGng, xixxMrui::y 721 and ordered the accused members to attend in their places at Westminster and to resume their parliamentary duties. The citizens resolved to bring back the champions of lib- erty in triumph before the windows of Whitehall. Vast preparations were made both by land and water for this great festival. The King had remained in his palace, humbled, dis- mayed, and bewildered, ‘‘feeling,” says Clarendon, “the trouble and agony which usually attend generous and mag- nanimous minds upon their having committed errors ; ” feel- ing, we should say, the despicable repentance which attends the man who, having attempted to commit a crime, finds that he has only committed a folly. The populace hooted and shouted all day before the gates of the royal residence. The tyrant could not bear to see the triumph of those whom he had destined to the gallows and the quartering-block. On the day preceding that which was fixed for their return, he fled, with a few attendants, from that palace which he was never to see again till he was led through it to the scaffold. On the eleventh of January, the Thames was covered with boats, and its shores with the gazing multitude. Armed vessels, decorated with streamers, were ranged in two lines from London Bridge to Westminster Hall. The members returned upon the river in a ship manned by sail- ors who had volunteered their services. The train-bands of the city, under the command of the sheriffs, marched along the Strand, attended by a vast crowd of spectators, to guard the avenues to the House of Commons ; and thus, with shouts and loud discharges of ordnance, the accused pa- triots were brought back by the people whom they had served and for whom they had suffered. The restored members, as soon as they had entered the House, expressed, in the warmest terms, their gratitude to the citizens of Lont don. The sheriffs were warmly thanked by the Speaker in the name of the Commons ; and orders were given that a guard selected from the train-bands of the city, should at- tend daily to watch over the safety of the Parliament. The excitement had not been confined to London. When intelligence of the danger to which Hampden was exposed reached Buckinghamshire, it excited the alarm and indignation of the people. Four thousand freeholders of that county, each of them wearing in his hat a copy of the protestation in favor of the privilege? of Parliament, rode Vox., 722 Macaulay’s mscELLANEOus AvraxiNGS. up to London to defend the person of their beloved rep- resentative. They came in a body to assure Parliament of tlieir full resolution to defend its privileges. Their peti- tion was couched in the strongest terms. “In respect,” said they, “ of that latter attempt upon the honorable House of Commons, we are now come to offer our service to that end, and resolved, in their just defence, to live and die.” A great struggle was clearly at hand. Hampden had returned to Westminster much changed. His inliucnce had hitherto been exerted rather to restrain than to animate the zeal of his party. But the treachery, the contempt of law, the thirst for blood, which tlie King had now shown, left no hope of a peaceable adjustment. It was clear that Charles must be either a puppet or a tyrant, that no obli- gation of law or of honor could bind him, and that the only way to make him harmless was to make him powerless. The attack which the King had made on the five mem- bers was not merely irregular in manner. Even if the charges had been preferred legally, if the Grand Jury of Middlesex had found a true bill, if the accused persons had been arrested under a proper warrant and at a proper time and place, there would still have been in the proceeding enough of perfidy and injustice to vindicate the strongest measures which the Opposition could take. To impeach Pym and Hampden was to impeach the House of Commons. It was notoriously on account of what they had done as mem- bers of that House that they were selected as objects of vengeance ; and in what they had done as members of that House the majority had concurred. Most of the charges brought against them were common between them and the Parliament. They were accused, indeed, and it may be with reason, of encouraging the Scotch army to invade England. In doing this, they had committed what was, in strictness of law, a high offence, the same offence which Devonshire and Shrewsbury committed in 1688. But the King had promised pardon and oblivion to those who had been the principals in the Scotch insurrection. Did it then consist with his honor to punish the accessaries ? He had bestowed marks of his favor on the leading Covenanters. He had given the great seal of Scotland to one chief of the rebels, a marquisate to another, an earldom to Leslie, who had brought the Presbyterian army across the Tweed. On what principle was Hampden to be attainted for advising JOHN HAMPDEN. 723 what Leslie was ennobled for doing ? In a court of law, of course, no Englislimaii could plead an amnesty granted to the Scots. But, though not an illegal, it was surely an in- consistent and a most unkingly course, after pardoning and promoting the heads of the rebellion in one kingdom^ to hang, draw, and quarter their accomplices in another. The proceedings of the King against the five members, or rather against that Parliament which had concurred in i almost all the acts of the five members, was the cause of ihe ci vil war. It was plain that either Charles or the House of I Commons must be stripped of all real power in the State. The best course which the Commons could have taken would perhaps have been to depose the King, as their ances- tors had deposed Edward the Second and Richard the Second, and as their children afterwards deposed James. ! Had they done this, had they placed on the throne a prince I whose character and whose situation would have been a pledge for his good conduct, they might safely have left to that prince all the old constitutional prerogatives . of the Crown, the command of the armies of the State, the power of making peers, the power of appointing ministers, a veto on bills passed by the two Houses. Such a prince, reigning by their choice, would have been under the necessity of act- ing in conformity with their wishes. But the public mind was not ripe for such a measure. There was no Duke of Lancaster, no Prince of Orange, no great and eminent per- son, near in blood to the throne, yet attached to the cause of the people. Charles was then to remain King; and it was therefore necessary that he should be king only in name. A William the Third, or a George the First, whose title to the crown was identical with the title of the people to their liberty, might safely be trusted with extensive powers. But new freedom could not exist in safety under the old tyrant. Since he was not to be deprived of the name of king, the only course which was left was to make him a mere trus- tee, nominally seized of prerogatives of which others had the use, a Grand Lama, a lloi Faineant^ a phantom resembling those Dagoberts and Childeberts who wore the badges of royalty, while Ebroin and Charles Martel held the real sov- ereignty of the State. The conditions which the Parliament propounded were hard, but, we are sure, not harder than those which even the Tories, in the Convention of 1689, would have imposed on James, if it had been resolved that James should con- T24 Macaulay's miscellaxVEoUs writings* tinue to be king. The chief condition was that the com* rnand of tlie militia and the conduct of the war in Ireland should be left to llie Parliament. On this point was that great issue joined, whereof the two parties put themselves on God and on the sword. We think, not only that the Commons were justified in demanding for themselves the power to dispose of the mili- tary force, but that it would have been absolute insanity in them to leave that force at the disposal of the King. From the very beginning of his reign, it had evidently been his object to govern by an army. Ilis third Parliament had complained, in the Petition of Riglit, of his fondness for martial laAv, and of the vexatious manner in which 1 e bil- leted his sohliers on the people# The wish nearest the heart of Strafford was, as his letters prove, that the revenue might be brought into such a state as would enable the King to keep a standing military establishment. In 1640, Charles had supi^orted an army in the northern counties by lawless exactions. In 1641 he had engaged in an intrigue, the object of which was to bring that army to London for the purpose of overawing the Parliament. Ilis late conduct had proved that, if he were suffered to retain even a small body-guard of his own creatures near his person, the Com- mons would be in danger of outrage, perhaps of massacre. The Houses were still deliberating under the protection of the militia of London. Could the command of the whole armed force of the realm have been, under these circum- stances, safely confided to the King? Would it not have been frenzy in the Parliament to raise and pay an army of fifteen or twenty thousand men for the Irish war, and to give to Charles th bsolute control of this army, and the power of selecting omoting, and dismissing officers at his pleasure? Was it n t probable that this army might become what it h the nature of armies to become, what so many armies formed under much more favorable circumstances aave become, what th^' army of the Roman republic became, what the army of the French republic became, an in- strument of despotism ? Was it not probable that the sol- diers might forget that hey were also citizens, and might be ready to serve their general against their country ? Was t not certain that, on the very first day on which Charles could venture to revoke his concessions, and to punish his opponents, he would establish an arbitrary government, and exact a bloody revenge ? ^OLIN 725 Our OAvn times furnish a parallel case. Suppose that ft revolution should take ])lacc in S})ain, that the Constitution of Cadiz should be reestablished, that the Cortes should meet again, that the Spanish Prynnes and Burtons, who are now wandering in rags round Leicester Square, should be restored to their country. Ferdinand the Seventh would, in that ease, ot course repeat all the oaths and promises which he made in 1820, and broke in 1823. But would it not be madness in the Cortes, even if they were to leave him the name of King, to leave him more than the name? I W ould not all Europe scoff at them, if they were to permit liim to assemble a large army for an expedition to America, j to model that army at his pleasure, to put it under the I command of officers chosen by himself? Should we not say that every member of the Constitutional party who might concur in such a measure would most richly deserve the fate which he would most probably meet, the fate of Riego and of the Empecinado ? We are not disposed to pay compliments to Ferdinand ; nor do we conceive that we pay him any com- pliment, when we say that, of all sovereigns in history, he seems to us most to resemble, in some very important points. King Charles the First. Like Charles, he is pious after a certain fashion ; like Charles, he has made large concessions to his people after a certain fashion. It is well for him that he has had to deal with men who bore very little resemblance to the English Puritans. The Commons would have the power of the sword ; the King would not part with it ; and nothing remained but to try the chances of war. Charles still had a strong party in the country. His august office, his dignified manners, his solemn protestations that he would for the time to come re- spect the liberties of his subjects, pity for fallen greatness, fear of violent innovation, secured to him many adherents, lie had with him the Church, the Universities, a majority of the nobles and of the old landed gentry. The austerity of the Puritan manners drove most of the gay and dissolute youth of that age to the royal standard. Many good, brave, and moderate men, who disliked his former conduct, and who entertained doubts touching his present sincerity, espoused his cause unwillingly and with many painful misgivings, be- cause, though they dreaded his tyranny much, they dreaded democratic violence more. On the other side was the great body of the middle orders of England, the merchants, the shopkeepers, the yeo< 726 MACAULAY’g MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGB. i^.anry, headed hy a very large and formidahle minority of tlie j)eerage .and of tlie landed gentry. The Karl of Essex, a man of respect.ahle abilities and of some military experi ence, was a])pointed to the command of the parliamentarj army. Hampden spared neither his fortune nor his person in the cause. ITo subscribed two thousand pounds to the pub- lie service. He took a colonel’s commission in the army, and v/ent into Buckinghamshire to raise a regiment of in- fantry. Ilis neighbors eagerly enlisted under his command. Ilis men were known by their green uniform, and by their standard, which bore on one side the watchword of the Parliament, “God with us,” and on the other the device of Hampden, “Vestigia nulla retrorsum.” This motto well described the line of conduct which he pursued. No mem- ber of his party had been so temperate, while there remained a hope that legal and peaceable measures might save the country. No member of his party showed so much energy and vigor when it became necessary to appeal to arms. He made himself thoroughly master of his military duty, and “ performed it,” to use the words of Clarendon, “ upon all occasions most punctually.” The regiment which he had raised and trained v/as considered as one of the best in the service of the Parliament. He exposed his person in every action, wdth an intrepidity which made him conspicuous even among thousands of br.ave men. “He was,” says Clar- endon, “ of a personal courage equal to his best j)arts ; so that he was an enemy not to be wished wherever he might liave been made a friend, and as much to be apprehended where he was so, as any man could deserve to be.” Though his military career was short, and his military situation sub- ordinate, he fully proved that he possessed the talents of a great general, as well as those of a great statesman. W e shall not attempt to give a history of the war. Lord Nugent’s account of the military operations is very ani- mated and striking. Our abstract would be dull, and proba- bly unintelligible. There was, in fact, for some time no great and connected system of operations on either side. The war of the two parties was like the war of Arimanes an 1 Oromasdes, neither of whom, according to the Eastern theologians, has any exclusive domain, who are equally omnipresent, who equally pervade all space, who carry on their eternal strife within every particle of matter. There was a petty war in almost every county. A town furnislied JOHN n\MPDEN. 727 troops to the Pai*liament wliile the manor-house of the neighboring peer was garrisoned for tlie King. The com- batants were rarely disposed to march far from their own homes. It was reserved for Fairfax and Cromwell to ter- minate this desultory warfare, by moving one overwhelming force successively against all the scattered fragments of the royal party. It is a remarkable circumstance that the officers who had studied tactics in what were considered as the best schools, under Vere in the Netherlands, and under Gustavus Adol- phus in Germany, displayed far less skill than those com- manders who had been bred to peaceful employments, and who never saw even a skirmish till the civil war broke out. An unlearned person might hence be inclined to suspect that the military art is no very profound mystery, that its principles are the principles of plain good sense, and that a quick eye, a cool head, and a stout heart, will do more to make a general than all the diagrams of elomini. This, however, is certain, that Hampden showed himself a far better officer than Essex, and CroniAvell than Leslie. The military errors of Essex were probably in some de- gree produced by political timidity. He was honestly, but not warmly, attached to the cause of the Parliament ; and next to a great defeat he dreaded a great victory. Hampden, on the other hand, was for vigorous and decisive measures. When he drew the sword, as Clarendon has well said, he threw away the scabbard. He had shown that he knew better than any public man of his time how to value and how to practise moderation. But he knew that the essence of war is violence, and that moderation in war is imbecility. On several occasions, particularly during the operations in the neighborhood of Brentford, he remon- strated earnestly with Essex. Wherever he commanded separately, the boldness and rapidity of his movements pre- sented a striking contrast to the sluggishness of his superior. In the Parliament he possessed b^oundless influence. His employments towards the close of 1642 have been described by Denham in some lines which, though intended to be sar- castic, convey in truth the highest eulogy. Hampden is described in this satire as perpetually passing and repassing between the military station at Windsor and the House of Commons at Westminster, as overawing the general, and as giving law to that Parliament which knew no other law. It was at this time that he organized that celebrated associar 728 MACAUJ.AY S MISC’KLLANEOUS VYJailNGS. tion of counties, to wliicli his party was principally indebted for its victory over the King. In the early part of 1643, the shires lying in the neigh- borhood of London, which were devoted to the cause of the Parliament, were incessantly annoyed by Rupert and his cavalry. Essex had extended his lines so far that almost every point was vulnerable. The young prince, who, though not a great general, was an active and enterprising partisan, frequently surprised posts, burned villages, swept away cat tie, and was again at Oxford before a force sufficient to en counter him could be assembled. The languid proceedings of Essex were loudly con- demned by the troops. All the ardent and daring spirits in the parliamentary party were eager to have Hampden at their head. Had his life been prolonged, there is every rea- son to believe that the supreme command would ha^ e been intrusted to him. But it was decreed, that at this conjunc- ture, England should lose the only man who united perfect disinterestedness to eminent talents, the only man who, being capable of gaining the victory for her, was incajDable of abusing that victory when gained. In the evening of the seventeenth of June, Rupert darted out of Oxford with his cavalry on a predatory expedition. At three in the morning of the following day, he attacked and dispersed a few parliamentary soldiers who lay at Postcombe. He then flew to Chinnor, burned the village, killed or took all the troops who were quartered there, and prepared to hurry back with his booty and his prisoners to Oxford. Hampden had, on the preceding day, strongly represented to Essex the danger to which this part of the line was ex- posed. As soon as he received intelligence of Rupert’s incursion, he sent off a horseman with a message to the General. The cavaliers, he said, could return only by Chiselhampton Bridge. A force ought to bo instantly despatched in that direction for the purpose of intercepting them. In the meantime, he resolved to set out with all tho cavalry that he could muster, for the purpose of impeding the march of the enemy till Essex could take measures for cutting off their retreat. A considerable body of horse and dragoons volunteered to follow him. He was not their commander. He did not even belong to their branch of the service. But “ he was,” says Lord Clarendon, second %Q none but the General himself in the observance and ap JOHN HAMPDEN. 729 plication of all men/’ On the field of Chalgrove he came up with Rupert. A fierce skirmish ensued. In the first charge, Hampden Avas struck in the shoulder by two bul- lets, which broke the bone, and lodged in his body. The troops of the Parliament lost heart and gave way. Rupert, after pursuing them for a short time, hastened to cross the bridge, and made his retreat unmolested to Oxford. Hampden, with his head drooping, and his hands leaning on his horse’s neck, moved feebly out of the battle. The mansion which had been inhabited by his father-in-law, and from which in his youth he had carried home his bride Elizabeth, Avas in sight. There still remains an affecting tradition that he looked for a moment towards that beloved house, and made an effort to go thither to die. But tlie enemy lay in that direction. He turned his horse towards Thame, where he arrived almost fainting with agony. The surgeons dressed his wounds. But there was no hope. The pain which he suffered was most excruciating. But he en- dured it with admirable firmness and resignation. His first care was for his country. He wrote from his bed several letters to London concerning public affairs, and sent a last pressing message to the headquarters, recommending that the dispersed forces should be concentrated. When his public duties Avere performed, he calmly prepared himself to die. He was attended by a clergyman of the Church of England, Avith Avhom he had lived in habits of intimacy, and by the chaplain of the Buckinghamshire Green-coats, Dr. Spur ton, Avhom Baxter describes as a famous and excel- lent divine. A short time before Hampden’s death the sacrament was administered to him. He declared that, though he disliked the government of the Church of England, he yet agreed with that Church as to all essential matters of doctrine. His intellect remained unclouded. When all was nearly over, he lay murmuring faint prayers for himself, and for tlie cause in which he died. Lord Jesus,” he exclaimed, in the moment of the last agony, “ receive my soul. O Lord, save my country. O Lord, be merciful to .” In that broken ejaculation passed aAvay his noble and fearless spirit. He was buried in the parish church of Hampden. His soldiers, bareheaded, with reversed arms and muflied drums and colors, escorted his body to the graA^e, singing, as they marched, that lofty and melancholy psalm in which the fragility of human life is contrasted with the immutability 730 MACAULAY S MISCELLANEOUS WETTINGS. of Him to Avliom a thousand years are as yesterday when it is ])Jissed, and as a waU‘li in the night. The news of Hampden’s death j)roduced as great a con- sternation in liis party, according to Clarendon, as if their whole army had been cut off. The journals of the time amj)ly prove tliat the Parliament and all its friends were filled with grief and dismay. Lord Nugent has quoted a remarkable ])assage from the next Weekly Intelligencer. ‘‘The loss of Colonel Hampden goeth near the heart of every man that loves the good of his king and country, and makes some conceive little content to be at the army now that he is gone. The memory of this deceased colonel is such, that in no age to come but it will more and more be had in honor and esteem ; a man so religious, and of that prudence, judgment, temper, valor, and integrity, that he hath left few his like behind.” He had indeed left none his like behind him. There still remained, indeed, in his party, many acute intellects, many eloquent tongued, many brave and honest hearts. There still remained a rugged and clownish soldier, half fanatic, half buffoon, whose talents, discerned as yet only by one penetrating eye, were equal to all the highest duties of the soldier and the prince. But in Hampden, and in Hampden alone, were united all the qualities which, at such a crisis, were necessary to save the state, the valor and en- crgy of Cromwell, the discernment and eloquence of Vane, tlie humanity and moderation of Manchester, the stern in- tegrity of Hale, the ardent public spirit of Sydney. Others might possess the qualities which were necessary to save the popular party in the crisis of danger ; he alone had both the })ov>^er and the inclination to restrain its excesses in the hour of triumph. Otliers could conquer ; he alone could recon- cile. A heart as bold as his brought up the cuirassiers who turned the tide of battle on Marston Moor. As skilful an eye as his watched the Scotch army descending from the heights over Dunbar. But it was when to the suTen tyr- anny of Laud and Charles had succeeded the fierce conflict of sects and factions, ambitious of ascendency and burning for revenge, it was when the vices and ignorance which the old tyranny had generated threatened the new freedom with destruction, that England missed the sobriety, the self-com- mand, the perfect soundness of judgment, the perfect recti- tude of intention, to which the history of revolutions fur- nishes no parallel, or furnishes a parallel in Washington alone. BCBLEiaH Aia> HIS XLUKS. 731 BURLEIGH AND HIS TIMES * (Edinburgh Review, April, 1832.) The work of Dr. Nares has filled us with astonishment Bimilar to that which Captain Lemuel Gulliver felt when he first landed in Brobdingnag, and saw corn as high as the oaks in the New Forest, thimbles as large as buckets, and wrens of the bulk of turkeys. The whole book, and every component part of it, is on a gigantic scale. The title is as long as an ordinary preface ; the prefatory matter would furnish out an ordinary book; and the book contains as much reading as an ordinary library. We cannot sum up the merits of the stupendous mass of paper which lies before us better than by saying that it consists of about two thou- sand closely printed quarto pages, that it occupies fifteen hundred inches cubic measure, and that it weighs sixty pounds avoirdupois. Such a book might, before the deluge, have been considered as light reading by Hilpa and Shalum. But unhappily the life of man is now threescore years and ten ; and we cannot but think it somewhat unfair in Dr. Nares to demand from us so large a portion of so short an existence. Compared with the labor of reading through these vol- umes, all other labor, the labor of thieves on the treadmill, of children in factories, of negroes in sugar plantations, is an agreeable recreation. There was, it is said, a criminal in Italy, who was suffered to make his choice between Guic- ciardini and the galleys. He chose the history. But the war of Pisa was too much for him. He chq^nged his mind and went to the oar. Guicciardini, though certainly not the most amusing of writers, is a Herodotus or a Froissart, when compared with Dr. Nares. It is not merely in bulk, but in specific gravity also, that these memoirs exceed all other human (compositions. On every subject which the Professor * Memoirs of the Life and Administration of the Bight Honorable William Cedi Lord Burghleifi Secretary of State in the Beign of King Edward the Sixth, and Lord High Treasurer of England in the Beign of Queen Elizabeth. Containing an Historical View of the Times in which he lived, and of the many eminent ana illustrious Persons with whom he was connected; with Extracts from his Private and Official Correspondence and other Papers, now first published from, the Origin- als. By the Reverend Edward Nares, Regius Professor of Modern History in the University of Oxford, 3 vols, 4lo, London: 1828-1832. ;32 MACAULAY’S MISCELLAI^EOUS WKITINGS7* discusses, he produces three times as many pages as another man; and one of his ]>agcs is as tedious as another man's three. Ilis hook is swelled to its vast dimensions by endless repetitions, by ej)isodes which have notliing to do with the main action, by quotations from books whicli are in every circulating library, and by reflections whicli, when they happen to be just, are so obvious that they must necessarily occur to the mind of every reader. He em|)loys more w^ords in expounding and defending a truism than any other writer would employ in supporting a jiaradox. Of the rules of historical perspective, he has not tlie faintest notion. There is neither foreground nor background in his delineation. The wars of Charles the Fifth in Germany are detailed at almost as much lengtli as in Itobertson’s life of that prince. The troubles of Scotland are related as fully as in M‘Crie’s Life of John Knox. It Avould be most unjust to deny that Dr. Nares is a man of great industry and research ; but he is so utterly incompetent to arrange the materials which he has collected that he might as well have left them in their orig- inal repositories. Neither the facts which Dr. Wares has discovered, nor the arguments Avhich he urges, will, we apprehend, materi- ally alter the opinion generally entertained by judicious readers of history concerning his hero. Lord Burleigh can hardly be called a great man. He was not one of those whose genius and energy change the fate of empires. He was by nature and habit one of those Avho follow, not one of those who lead. Nothing that is recorded, either of his words or of his actions, indicates intellectual or moral eleva- tion. But his talents, though not brilliant, were of an emi- nently useful kind ; and his principles, though not inflexible, W'ere not more relaxed than those of his associates and com- petitors. He had a cool temper, a sound judgment, great powers of application, and a constant eye to the main chance. In his youth, ho was, it seems, fond of practical jokes. Yet even out of these he contrived to extract some pecuniary profit. When he was studying the law at Gray’s Inn, he lost all his furniture and books at the gaming table to one of his friends. He accordingly bored a hole in the w^all which separated his chambers from those of his associ- ate, and at midnight bellowed through this passage threats of damnation and calls to repentance in the ears of the vic- torious gambler, who lay sweating with fear all night, and refunded his winnings on his knees next day. “ Many liLKLEIGll a:enly opposed it ; though at last yielding to the gi’eatnessof Northumberland, in an age when it was present drowning not to swim with the stream.’ But as the philosopher tells us, that, thougli the planets be whirled about daily from east to west, by the motion of ^^primum mobile^ yet have they also a con- trary proper motion of their own from west to east, which they slowly, though surely, move at their leisure ; so Cecil had secret counter-endeavors against the strain of the court herein, and privately advanced his rightful intentions against the foresaid duke’s ambition.” This was undoubtedly the most perilous conjuncture of Cecil’s life. Wherever there was a safe course he was safe. But here every course was full of danger, llis situation rendered it impossible for him to be neutral. If he acted on either side, if he refused to act at all, he ran a fearful risk, lie saw all the difficulties of his position. He sent his money and plate out of London, made over his estates to his son, and carried arms about his person. His best arms, however, were his sagacity and his self-command. The plot in which he had been an unwilling accomplice ended, as it was natural that so odious and absurd a plot should end, in the ruin of its contrivers. In the meantime, Cecil quietly extricated himself, and, having been successively patronized by Henry, by Somerset, and by Northumberland, continued to flourish under the protection of Mary. He had no aspirations after the crown of martyrdom. He confessed himself, therefore, with great decorum, heard mass in Wimbledon Church at Easter, and, for the better ordering of his spiritual concerns, took a priest into his house. Dr. Nares, whose simplicity passes that of any casuist with whom we are acquainted, vindicates his hero by assuring us that this was not superstition, but pure un- mixed hypocrisy. “ That he did in some manner conform, we shall not be able, in the face of existing documents, to deny ; while we feel in our own minds abundantly satis- 6ed, that, during this very trying reign, he never abau- BURLEIGH AND IITS TIMES. 785 (loned tlio prospect of anotlier revolution in fu« wjuungs. are still liot beneatli our feet. In some directions tlie deluge of fire still continues to spread. Yet ex]>erience surely en- titles us to believe, that this explosion, like tliat which pre- V ceded it, will fertilize the soil Avhich it has devastated. 9 Already, in those ])arts which have suffered most severely, jB rich cultivation and secure dwellings have begun to aj)pear M amidst the waste. The more we read of the history of past ages, the more we observe the signs of our own times, th? ’jK; more do we feel our hearts filled and swelled u]> by a good hope for the future destinies of the human race. The history of the Reformation in England is full of strange problems. The most prominent and extraordinary (dienomenon which it presents to us is the gigantic strength of the government contrasted with the feebleness of the religious parties. During the twelve or thirteen years which i''''’ Followed the death of Henry the Eighth, the religion of the state was thrice changed. Protestantism Avas established by • . Edward ; the Catholic Church was restored by Mary ; Prot- estantism was again established by Elizabeth. The faith of the nation seemed to depend on the personal inclinations of the sovereign. Nor Avas this all. An established church ^ was then, as a matter of course, a persecuting church. •; Edward persecuted Catholics. Mary persecuted Protestants. Elizabeth persecuted Catholics again. The father of those three sovereigns had enjoyed the pleasure of persecuting both sects at once, and had sent to death, on the same hurdle, the heretic who denied the real presence, and the traitor who denied the royal supremacy. There Avas nothing in England like that fierce and bloody opposition AAdiich, in France, each of the religious factions in its turn offered to the government. We had neither aColigny nor aMayenne, neither a Moncontour nor an Ivry. No English city braved sword and famine for the reformed doctrines Avith the spirit of Rochelle, or for the Catholic doctrines with the spirit of Paris. Neither sect in England formed a League. Neither sect extorted a recantation from the soA^ereign. Neither rcct could obtain from an adA^erse sovereign eA^en a tolera- tion. The English Protestants, after several years of domi- nation, sank down with scarcely a struggle under the tyranny of Mary. The Catholics, after having regained and abused their old ascendency, submitted ]>atiently to the severe rule of Elizabeth. Neither Protestants nor Catholics engaged in any great and well organized scheme of resistance. A feAV wild and tumultuous risings, suppressed as soon as they BURLEIGH AND HTS TIMES. 741 appeared, a few dark conspiracies in which only a small number of desperate men engaged, such were the utmost efforts made by these two parties to assert the most sacred of human riglits, attacked by the most odious tyranny. The explanation of these circumstances which has gen- erally been given is very simple, but by no means satisfac- tory. The poAver of the crown, it is said, was tlien at its height, and was in fact despotic. This solution, Ave own, seems to us to be no solution at all. It has long been the fashion, a fashion introduced by Mr. Hume, to describe the English monarchy in the sixteenth century as an absolute monarchy. And such undoubtedly it ppears to a superfi- cial observer. Elizabeth, it is true often spoke to her parlia- ments in language as haught nd imperious as that Avhich the Great Turk would use to his divan. She punished Avith great severity members of he Hous of Commons who, in her opinion, carried the free om of debate too far. She assumed the power of legislating by means of proclamations. She imprisoned her subjects without bringing them to a legal trial. Torture was often employed, in defiance of the laws of England, for the purpose of extorting confessions from those Avho were shut up in her dungeons. The author- ity of the Star-Chamber and of the Ecclesiastical Commis- sion was at its highest point. Severe restraints were imposed on political and religious discussion. The number of presses was at one time limited. No man could print without a license ; and every work had to undergo the scrutiny of the Primate, or the Bishop of London. Persons whose writings Avere displeasing to the court were cruelly mutilated, like Stubbs, or put to death, like Penry. Nonconformity was severely punished. The Queen prescribed the exact rule of religious faith and discipline ; and Avhoever departed from that rule, either to the right or to the left, was in danger c f seA^ere penalties. Such Avas this government. Yet we know that it was loA^ed by the great body of those who lived under it. We know that, during the fierce contests of the sixteenth cen- tury, both the hostile parties spoke of the time of Elizabeth as of a golden age. That great Queen has now been lying two hundred and thirty years in Henry the Seventh’s chapel. Yet her memory is still dear to the hearts of a free people. The truth seems to be that the government of the Tudors was, with a few occasional deviations, a popular government, under the forms of despotism. ' At first eight, 749 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. it may seem that the prerogatives of Elizabeth were not less ample tliaii those of Lewis the Fourteenth, and her ]>ar- liaments were as obsequious as liis parliaments, that her warrant had as much authority as his lettr e-de-cachet. The extravagance with which her courtiers eulogized her ])erson- al and mental charms went beyond the adulation of Boileaii and Moliere. Lewis would have blushed to receive from those who composed the gorgeous circles of Marli and Ver- sailles such outward marks of servitude as the haughty Brit- oiiess exacted of all who approached her. But the authority of Lewis rested on the support of his army. The authority of Elizabeth rested solely on the support of her people. Those who say that her power was absolute do not suffi- ciently consider in what her power consisted. Her power consisted in the willing obedience of her subjects, in their attachment to her person and to her office, in their respect for the old line from which she sprang, in their sense of the general security which they enjoyed under her government. These were the means, and the only means, which she had at her command for carrying her decrees into execution, for resisting foreign enemies, and for crushing domestic treason. There was not a ward in the city, there was not a hundred in any shire in England, which could not have overpowered the handful of armed men who composed her household. If a hostile sovereign threatened invasion, if an ambitious noble raised the standard of revolt, she could have recourse only to the train-bands of her capital and the array of her coun- ties, to the citizens and yeomen of England, commanded by the merchants and esquires of England. Thus, wdien intelligence arrived of the vast preparations which Philip was making for the subjugation of the realm, the first person to whom the government thought of apply- ing for assistance was the Lord Mayor of London. They sent to ask him Avhat force the city would engage to furnish Cor the defence of the kingdom against the Spaniards. The Mayor and Common Council, in return, desired to know what force the Queeji’s Highness wdshed them to furnish. The answer Avas, fifteen ships and five thousand men. The Londoners deliberated on the matter, and tw’O days after, ‘Mmmbly entreated the council, in sign of their perfect love and loyalty to prince and country, to accept ten thousand men and thirty ships amply furnished.” People Avho could give such signs as these of their loy- alty were by no means to be misgoverned with impunity- BURLEIGH AND HTS TIMES. 743 The Englisli in the sixteenth century were, beyond all doubt, a free people. They had not, indeed, the outward show of freedom ; but they had the reality. They had not as good a constitution as we have ; but they had that with- out which the best constitution is as useless as the king’s proclamation against vice and immorality, that which, Avith- out any constitution, keeps rulers in awe, force, and the spirit to use it. Parliaments, it is true, were rarely held, and were not A^ery respectfully treated. The great charter was often violated. But the people had a security against gross and systematic misgovernment, far stronger than all the paichment that Avas ever marked Avith the sign manual, and than all the Avax that was ever pressed by the great seal. It is a common error in politics to confound means with ends. Constitutions, charters, petitions of right, declara- tions of right, representative assemblies, electoral colleges, are not good gOA^ernments ; nor do they, even Avhen most elaborately constructed, necessarily produce good goA^ern- ment. Laws exist in vain for those Avho liaA^e not the cour- age and the means to defend them. Electors meet in vain v/here want makes them the slaA^es of their landlord, or Avhere superstition makes them the slaA^es of the priest. Representative assemblies sit in A^ain unless they have at their command, in the last resort, the physical poAver which is necessary to make their deliberations free, and their votes effectual. The Irish are better represented in Parliament than the Scotch, Avho indeed are not represented at all."^ But are the Irish better governed than the Scotch ? Surely not. This circumstance has of late been used as an argument against reform. It proves nothing against reform. It proves only this, that laws have no magical, no supernatural virtue; tliat laAvs do not act like Aladdin’s lamp or Prince Ahmed’s apple ; that priestcraft, that ignorance, that the rage of con- tending factions, may make good institutions useless ; that intelligence, sobriety, industry, moral freedom, firm union, may supply in a great measure the defects of tlie Avorst rep- resentative system. A people Avhose education and habits are such, that, in CA^ery quarter of the world, they rise above the mass of those Avith whom they mix, as surely as oil rises to the top of water, a people of such temper and * It must bo remembered that this was written before the passing of th* jrefo-m act. 744 Macaulay’s miscellaneous weitings. Belf-government tliat tlie wildest popular excesses recorded in their history j)artake of the gravity of judicial ])roceed- ings, and of the solemnity of religious rites, a j)eople whose S national pride and mutual attachment have ])assed into a proverb, a people whoso high and fierce s])irit, so forcibly described in the haughty motto which encircles their thistle, S preserved their independence, during a struggle of centuries, ■ from the encroachments of wealthier and more powerf:il 9 neighbors, such a people cannot be long oppressed. Any 9- government, however constituted, must respect their wishes 9 and tremble at their discontents. It is indeed most desir- 9 able that such a ])oople should exercise a direct influence on w the conduct of affairs, and should make their wishes known through constitutional organs. But some influence, direct S or indirect, they will assuredly possess. Some organ, con- stitutional or unconstitutional, they wdll assuredly find. ^ They will be better governed under a good constitution than under a bad constitution. But they will be better gov- ^ erned under the worst constitution than some other nations under the best. In any general classification of constitu- tions, the constitution of Scotland must be reckoned as one of the worst, perhaps the worst, in Christian Europe. Yet ^ the Scotch are not ill-governed, and the reason is simply - that they will not bear to be ill-governed. In some of the oriental monarchies, in Afghanistan for example, though there exists nothing which an European publicist would call a Constitution, the sovereign generally governs in conformity with certain rules established for the public benefit ; and the sanction of those rules is, that every Afghan approves them, and that every Afghan is a soldier. The monarchy of England in the sixteenth century w^as a monarchy of this kind. It is called an absolute monarchy, because little respect was paid by the Tudors to those insti- tutions which w e have been accustomed to consider as the solo checks on the power of the sovereign. A modern Eng- lishman can hardly understand how the people can have had any real security for good government under kings who levied benevolences, and chid the House of Commons as they would have chid a pack of dogs. People do not suf- licently consider that, though the legal checks w^ere feeble, the natural checks were strong. There w^as one great and effectual limitation on the royal authority, the knowledge . that, if the patience of the nation w’^ere severely tried, the BURLEIGU AMI) HIS TIMES. 745 nation would put fortli its strength, and that its strength would be found irresistible. If a large body of English- men became thoroughly discontented, instead of presenting requisitions, holding large meetings, passing resolutions, signing petitions, forming associations and unions, they rose up ; they took their halberds and their bows ; and, if the sovereign was not sufficiently popular to find among h s subjects other halberds and other bows to oppose to tho rebels, nothing remained for him but a repetition of the hoi- rible scenes of Berkeley and Pomfret. He had no regular army which could, by its superior arms and its superior skill, overawe or vanquish the sturdy Commons of his realm abounding in the native hardihood of Englishmen and trained in the simple discipline of the militia. It has been said that the Tudors were as absolute as tho Caesars. Never was parallel so unfortunate. The govern- ment of the Tudors was a direct opposite to the government of Augustus and his successors. The Caesars ruled desj)ot- ically, by means of a great standing army, under the decent forms of a republican constitution. They called themselves citizens. They mixed unceremoniously with other citizens. In theory they were only the elective magistrates of a free commonwealth. Instead of arrogating to themselves des- potic power, they acknowledged allegiance to the senate. They were merely the lieutenants of that venerable body. They mixed in debate. They even appeared as advocates before the courts of law. Yet they could safely indulge in the wildest freaks of cruelty and rapacity, while their le- gions remained faithful. Our Tudors, on the other hand, under the titles and forms of monarchical supremacy, were essentially popular magistrates. They had .no means of protecting themselves against the public hatred ; and they were therefore compelled to court the public favor. To enjoy all the state and all the personal indulgences of abso- li te power, to be adored with Oriental prostrations, to dis- pose at will of the liberty and even of the life of ministers and courtiers, this the nation granted to the Tudors. But the condition on which they were suffered to be the tyrants of Whitehall was that they should be the mild and paternal i5overeigns of England. They were under the same restraints with regard to their people under which a military despot is placed with regard to his army. They would have found it as dangerous to grind their subjects with cruel taxation AS Nero would have found it to leave his praetorians unpaid Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. I’hose who immediately surrounded the royal person, and /ndulged in tlie liazardous game of ambition were exposed to tlie most fearful dangers. Buckingham, Cromwell, Sur- rey, Seymour of Sudeley, Somerset, Northumberland, Suf- folk, Norfolk, Essex, j)erished on the scaffold. But in general the country gentleman liunted and the merchant traded in peace. Even Henry, as cruel as Domitian, but far more politic, contrived, while reeking with the blood of the Lamia3, to be a favorite with the cobblers. The Tudors committed very tyrannical acts. But in their ordinary dealings with the peo])le they were not, and could not safely be, tyrants. Some exccesses were easily par- doned. For the nation was proud of the high and fiery blood of its magnificent princes, and saw, in many proceed- ings which a lawyer would even then have condemned, the outbreak of the same noble spirit which so manfully hurled foul scorn at Parma and at Spain. But to this endurance there was a limit. If the government ventured to adopt measures which the people really felt to be oppressive, it was soon compelled to change its course. When Henry the Eighth attempted to raise a forced loan of unusual amount by proceedings of unusual rigor, the opposition wdiich he en- countered was such as aj^palled even his stubborn and im- perious spirit. The people, we are told, said that, if they were treated thus, ‘‘ then were it worse than the taxes of France ; and England should be bond, and not free.” The county cf Suffolk rose in arms. The king prudently yielded to an opposition which, if he had persisted, would, in all probability, have taken the form of a general rebellion. To- wards the close of the reign of Elizabeth, the people felt themselves aggrieved by the monopolies. The Queen, proud and courageous as she was, shrank from a contest with the nation, and, with admirable sagacity, conceded all that her subjects had demanded, while it was yet in her power tc concede with dignity and grace. It cannot be imagined that a people who had in their own hands the means of checking their princes would suffer any prince to impose upon them a religion generally de- tested. It is absurd to suppose that, if the nation had been decidedly attached to the Protestant faith, Mary could have reestablished the Papal supremacy. It is equally absurd to suppose that, if the nation liad been zealous for the an- cient religion, Elizabeth could have restored the Protestant Church, The truth is, that the people were not disposed to BURLEIGH AND HIS TIMES. 747 *rfigage in a struggle cither for the new or for the old doc- trines. Abundance of spirit was shown when it seemed likely that Mary would resume her father’s grants of church ])roperty, or tliat she would sacrifice the interests of Eng- land to the husband whom she regarded with unmerited tenderness. That queen found that it would be madness to attempt the restoration of the abbey lands. Slie found that her subjects would never suffer her to make her hereditary kingdom a fief of Castile. On these points she encountered a steady resistance, and was compelled to give way. If she was able to establish the Catholic worship and to persecute those who would not conform to it, it was evidently because the people cared far less for the Protestant religion than for the rights of property and for the indepen- dence of the English crown. In plain words, they did nc- think the difference between the hostile sects worth a struggle. There was undoubtedly a zealous Protestant party and a zealous Catholic party. But both these parties were, we believe, very small. We doubt, whether both to- gether made up, at the time of Mary’s death, the twentieth part of the nation. The remaining nineteen twentieths halted between the two opinions, and were not disposed to risk a revolution in the government, for the purpose of giving to either of the extreme factions an advantage over the other. We possess no data which will enable us to compare with exactness the force of the two sects. Mr. Butler asserts that, even at the accession of James the First, a majority of the population of England were Catholics. This is pure assertion ; and is not only unsupported by evidence, but, we think, completely disproved by the strongest evidence. Dr. Lingard is of opinion that th Catholics were one half of the nati in the middP of the regin of Elizabeth. Rushton says that, when Elizabeth came to the throne, the Catholics were two thirds of the nation, and the Protestants only one third. The most judicious and impartial of Eng- lish historians, Mr. Hallam, is, on the contrary, of opinion, that two thirds were Protestants, and only one third Catho- lics. To us, we must confess, it seems incredible that, if the Protestants were really two to one, they should have borne the government of Mary, or that, if the Catholics were really two to one, they should have borne the govern- ment of Elizabeth. We are at a loss to conceive how a sov- ereign who has no standing army, and whose power resta 748 macjaulay^s miscellaneous writings. solely on the loyalty of his subjects, can continue foi years to persecute a relii^ion to which the in:i jority of liis subjects are sincerely attached. In fact, the Protestants did rise up against one sister, and tlie Catholics against the other. Tliose risings clearly showed how small and feeble both the parties were. Both in the one case and in the other the nation ranged itself on the side of the government, and the insurgents were speedily put down and punished. The Kentish gentlemen who took up arms for the reformed doctrines against Mary, and the great Northern Earls who displayed the banner of the Five Wounds against Elizabeth, were alike considered by the great body of their country- men as wicked disturbers of the public peace. The account which Cardinal Bentivoglio gave of the state of religion in England well deserves consideration. The zealous Catholics he reckoned at one thirtieth part of the nation. The people who would without the least scruple become Catholics, if the Catholic religion were established, he estimated at four fifths of the nation. We believe this account to have been very near the truth. We believe that the people, whose minds were made u\y on either side, who were inclined to make any sacrifice or run any risk for either religion, were very few. Each side had a fevr enter- prising champions, and a few stout hearted martyrs ; but the nation, undetermined in its opinions and feelings, re- signed itself implicitly to the guidance of the government, and lent to the sovereign for the time being an equally ready aid against either of the extreme parties. W e are very far from saying that the English of that generation were irreligious. They held firmly those doc- trines which are common to the Catholic and to the Prot- estant theology. But they had no fixed opinion as to the matters in dispute between the churches. They were in a situation resembling that of those Borderers whom Sir Walter Scott has described with so much spirit, “ Who sought the beeves that made their broth, In England and in Scotland both.*’ And who “ Nine times outlawed had been By England’s king and Scotland’s queen." They were sometimes Protestants, sometimes Catholics; sometimes half Protestants half Catholics. The English had not, for ages, been bigoted Papists. BURLEIGH AND HIS TIMES. 749 In the fourteenth century, tlie first and perhaps the greatest of the reformers, John Wickliffe, had stirred the public mind to its inmost depths. During the same century, a scandalous schism in the Catholic Church liad diminished, in many parts of Europe, the reverence in which the Roman pontiffs were held. It is clear that, a hundred years before ihe time of Luther, a great party in this kingdom was eager for a change at least as extensive as that which was subse- quently effected by Henry the Eighth. The House of Com- mons, in the reign of Henry the Fourth, j)roposed a confisca- tion of ecclesiastical property, more sweeping and violent even than that which took place under the administration of Thomas Cromwell ; and, though defeated in this attempt, they succeeded in depriving the clerical order of some of its most oppressive privileges. The splendid conquests of Henry the Fifth turned the attention of the nation from domestic reform. The Council of Constance removed some of the grossest of those scandals wdiich had deprived the Church of the public respect. The authority of that vener- able synod propped up the sinking authority of the Pope- dom. A considerable reaction took place. It cannot, how- ever, be doubted, that there was still some concealed Lollardism in England ; or that many who did not absolutely dissent from any doctrine held by the Church of Rome were jealous of the wealth and power enjoyed by her ministers. At the very beginning of the reign of Henry the Eiglith, a struggle took place between the clergy and the courts of law, in which the courts of law remained victorious. One of the bishops, on that occasion, declared that the common people entertained the strongest prejudices against his order, and that a clergyman had no chance of fair play before a lay tribunal. The London juries, he said, entertained such a spite to the Church that, if Abel were a priest, they would find him guilty of the murder of Cain. This was said a few months before the time when Martin Luther began to j Teach at Wittenburg against indulgences. As the Reformation did not find the English bigoted Papists, so neither was it conducted in such a manner as to make them zealous Protestants. It was not under the direction of men like that fiery Saxon who swore that he would go to Worms, though he had to face as many devils as there were tiles on the houses, or like that brave Switzer who was struck down while praying in front of the ranks of Zurich, No preacher of religion had the same power here 750 Macaulay’s AriscELLANEous avritikgs. wliicli Calvin liad at Geneva and Knox in Scotland. Tho government ])ut itself early at the liead of the movement, and t^'us acquired power to regulate, and occasionally to arrest the movement. To many persons it appears extraordinary that Henry the Eighth should have been able to maintain himself so long in an intermediate position between the Catholic and Prot- estant parties. Most extraordinary it would indeed be, if we were to suppose that the nation consisted of none but decided Catholics and decided Protestants. The fact is that the great mass of the peojde was neither Catholic nor Protestant, but was, like its sovereign, midway between the two sects. Henry, in that very part of his conduct which has been represented as most capricious and inconsistent, was probably following a policy far more pleasing to the majority of his subjects than a policy like that of Edward, or a policy like that of Mary, would have been. Down even to the very close of the reign of Elizabeth, the people were in a state somewhat resembling that in which, as Machiavelli says, the inhabitants of the Roman empire were, during the transition from heathenism to Christianity; “ sendo la maggior parte di loro incerti a quale Dio doves- sero ricorrere.” They were generally, we think, favorable to the royal supremacy. They disliked the policy of the Court of Rome. Their spirit rose against the interference of a foreign priest with their national concerns. The bull which pronounced sentence of deposition against Elizabeth, the plots which were formed against her life, the usurpation of lier titles by the Queen of Scotland, the hostility of Philip, excited their strongest indignation. The cruelties of Bonner were remembered with disgust. Some parts ot the new system, the use of the English language, for ex- ample, in public worship, and the communion in both kinds, were undoubtedly popular. On the other hand, the early lessons of the nurse and the priest were not forgotten. The ancient ceremonies were long remembered with affectionate reverence. A large portion of the ancient theology lingered to the last in the minds which had been imbued with it in childhood. The best proof that the religion of the people was of this mixed kind is furnished by the Drama of that age. Ko man would bring unpopular opinions prominently forward a play intended for representation. And we may safely conclude, that feelings and opinions which pervade the BURLEIGH AND HIS TIMES. 751 whole Dramatic Literature of a generation, are feelings and opinions of which the men of that generation generally partook. The greatest and most popular dramatists of the Eliza- bethan age treat religious subjects in a very remarkable manner. They speak respectfully of the fundamental doc- trines of Christianity. But they speak neither like Catholics nor like Protestants, but like persons who are wavering l/e- Iween the tw^o systems, or who have made a system for themselves out of parts selected from both. They seem to hold some of the Romish rites and doctrines m high res])ect. They treat the vow of celibacy, for example, so tempting, and, in later times, so common a subject for ribaldry, with mysterious reverence. Almost every member of a religious order whom they introduce is a holy and venerable man. We remember in their plays nothing resembling the coarse ridicule with which the Catholic religion and its ministers were assailed, two generations later, by dramatists, who wished to please the multitude. We remember no Friar Dominic, no Father Foigard, among the characters drawn by those great poets. The scene at the close of the Knight of Malta might have been written by a fervent Catholic. Massinger shows a great fondness for ecclesiastics of the Romish Church, and has even gone so far as to bring a virtuous and interesting Jesuit on the stage. Ford, in that fine play which it is painful to read and scarcely decent to name, assigns a highly creditable part to the Friar. The partiality of Shakspeare for Friars is well known. In Hamlet, the Ghost complains that he died without extreme unction, and, in defiance of the article which condemns the doctrine of purgatory, declares that he is “ Confined to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in his days of nature, Are burnt and purged aAvay.’* These lines, w^e suspect, w^ould have raised a tremendous i'torm in the theatre at any time during the reign of Charles the Second. They were clearly not written by a zealous Protestant, or for zealous Protestants. Yet the author of King John and Henry the Eighth w^as surely no friend to papal supremacy. There is, w^e think, only one solution of the phasnomena which w^e find in the history and in the drama of that age. The religion of the English Avas a mixed religion, like that ot the Samaritau settlers, described in the second book of Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. Kings, who “ feared the Lord, and served tlieir graven images ; ” like that of the Judaizing Christians who blended the ceremonies and doctrines of the synagogue with those of the church ; like that of the Mexican Indians, who, during many generations after the subjugation of their race, con- tinued to unite with the rites learned from their conquerors the worship of the grotesque idols which had been adored by Montezuma and Guaternozin. These feelings were not confined to the populace. Eliza- beth herself was by no means exempt from them. A cruci- fix, with wax-lights burning round it, stood in her private chapel. She always s])oke with disgust and anger of the marriage of ])riests. “ I was in horror,” says Archbishop Parker, ‘‘ to hear such words to come from her mild nature and Christian learned conscience, as she spake concerning God’s holy ordinance and institution of matrimony.” Bur- leigh prevailed on her to connive at the marriages of church- men. But she would only connive ; and the children sprung from such marriages were illegitimate till the accession of J ames the First. That which is, as we have said, the great stain on the character of Burleigh is also the great stain on the charac- ter of Elizabeth. Being herself an Adiaphorist, having no scruple about conforming to the Romish Church when con- formity wms necessary to her own safety, retaining to the last moment of her life a fondness for much of the doctrine and much of the ceremonial of that church, she yet subjected that church to a persecution even more odious than the per- secution with which her sister had harassed the Protestants. We say more odious. For Mary had at least the plea of fanaticism. She did nothing for her religion wdiich she was not prepared to suffer for it. She had held it firmly under persecution. She fully believed it to be essential to salva- tion. If she burned the bodies of her subjects, it was in order to rescue their souls. Elizabeth had no such pretext. In opinion, she was little more than half a Protestant. She had professed, when it suited her, to be wholly a Catholic. There is an excuse, a w^retched excuse, for the massacres of Piedmont and the Autos de fe of Spain. But what can be said in defence of a ruler who is at once indifferent and in- tolerant ? If the great Queen, whose memory is still held in just veneration by Englishmen, had possessed sufi&cient virtue and suflicient enlargement of mind to ado]'>t those principles BURLEIGH AND IllS TIMES. 753 which More, wiser in speculation than in action, had avowed in the preceding generation, and by which the excellent L’Hospital regulated his ccjnduct in her own time, how dif- ferent would be the color of the whole history of the last two hundred and fifty years ! She had the happiest o})- portunity ever vouchsafed to any sovereign of establish- ing perfect freedom of conscience throughout her domin- ions, without danger to her government, without scandal to any large party among her subjects. The nation, as it was clearly ready to profess either religion, would, beyond all doubt, have been ready to tolerate both. Unhappily for her own glory and for the public peace, she adopted a policy from the effects of Avhich the empire is still suffering. The yoke of the Established Church was j^jressed down on the people till they would bear it no longer. Then a reaction came. Another reaction followed. To the tyranny of the establishment succeeded the tumultuous conflict of sects, infuriated by manifold wrongs, and drunk with unwonted freedom. To tlie conflict of sects succeeded again the cruel domination of one persecuting church. At length oppression put off its most horrible form, and took a milder aspect. The penal laws which had been framed for the protection of the established church were abolished. But exclusions and disabilities still remained. These exclusions and disabilities, after having generated the most fearful discontents, after having rendered all government in one part of the kingdom impossible, after having brought the state to the very brink of ruin, have, in our times, been remoA^ed, but, though re- moved, ha\^e left behind them a rankling Avhich may last for many years. It is melancholy to think with what ease Elizabeth might haA^e united all conflicting sects under the shelter of the same impartial bws and the same paternal throne, and thus have placed the nation in the same situa- tion, as far as the rights of conscience are concerned, in Avhich we at last stand, after all the heart-burnings, the persecutions, the conspiracies, the seditions, the revolutions, the judicial murders, the ci\ il Avars of ten generations. This is the dark side of her character. Yet she surely was a great woman. Of the soA^ereigns who exercised a ])Ower Avhich Avas seemingly absolute, but which in fact de» ]>ended for support on the loAm and confidence of their sub- jects, she Avas by far tlie most illustrious. It has often been alleged as an excuse for tlie mi.^ 0 A'ernment of her succes- sors that they only folioAved her example, that precedents VoL. I,~48 /54 MACAULAY S MISCP:LLANE0US WRITINGS. might bo found in the transactions of Iicr reign for perse- cuting tlic Puritans, for levying money without the sanction of tlie House of Commons, for confining men without bring- ing them to trial, for interfering with the liberty of parlia mentary debate. All this may be true. But it is no good plea for her successors; and for this plain reason, that they were her successors. She governed one generation, they governed another ; and between the two generations there was almost as little in common as between the y^eople of two different countries. It was not by looking at the par ticular measures which Elizabeth had adopted, but by look- ing at the great general principles of her government, that those who followed her were likely to learn the art of man- aging untractable subjects. If, instead of searching the records of her reign for precedents which might seem to vindicate the mutilation of Pryime and the imprisonment of Eliot, the Stuarts had attempted to discover the funda- mental rules which guided her conduct in all her dealings with her people, they would have perceived that their pol- icy was then most unlike to hers, when to a superficial ob- server it would have seemed most to resemble hers. Firm, haughty, sometimes unjust and cruel in her proceedings tow- ards individuals or towards small parties, she avoided with care, or retracted with speed, every measure which seamed likely to alienate the great mass of the people. She gained more honor and more love by the manner in which she re- paired her errors than she would have gained by never com- mitting errors. If such a man as Charles the First had been in her place when the whole nation was crying out against the monopolies, he would have refused all redress. He would have dissolved the Parliament, and imprisoned the most popular members. He would have called another Parliament. He would have given some vague and delu- sive promises of relief in return for subsidies. When entreated to fulfil his promises, he would have again dis- solved the Parliament, and again imprisoned his leading opponents. The country would have become more agitated than before. The next House of Commons would have been more unmanageable than that which preceded it. The tyrant would have agreed to all that the nation demanded. He would have solemnly ratified an act abolishing monopo- lies forever. He would have received a large supply in re- turn for this concession ; and within half a year new patents, more oppressive than those which had been cancelled, would BmiLETGn AND HIS THfES. 755 have been issued by seores. Such Avas llic ]>oliey wiiicli bi’uiiLi^lit tbe heir vd‘ a long line of kings, in eai’Iy youth llie dai’ling of liis countrymen, to a ])risoii and a scaffold. Elizabetli, before the House of Commons could address her, took out of their mouths tlie words which they were about to utter in the name of the nation. Her promises went beyond their desires. Her performance followed close upon her promise. She did not treat the nation as an ad* verse ]>arty, as a party which had an interest opposed to liers, as a ]>arty to Avhich she Avas to grant as fcAV advan- tages as ]mssible, and from Avliich she Avas to extort as much money as ])Ossible. Her benefits AA^ere given, not sold ; and, Avhen once given, they Avere never a\ ithdraAvn. She gave them too Avith a frankness, an effusion of heart, a princely dignity, a motherly tenderness, AAhich enhanced their value. They were received by tlie sturdy country gentlemen v/ho had come up to Westminster full of resent- ment, Avith tears of joy and shouts of “ God save the Queen.’' Charles the First gave up half the prerogatives of Ids croAvn to the Commons ; and the Commons sent him in return the Grand Remonstrance. We had intended to say something concerning that; illustrious group of which Elizabeth is the central figure, that group Avhich the last of the bards saAV in Ausion from the top of SnoAvdon encircling the Virgin Queen, “ a baron bold, And gorgeous dames and statesmen old In bearded majesty.” We’had intended to say something concerning the dex- terous Walsingham, the impetuous Oxford, tlie graceful Sackville, the all-accomplished Sydney ; concerning Essex, tbe ornament of the court and of the camp, the model of chivalry, the munificent patron of genius, Avhom great Aur- tues, great courage, great talents, the favor of his soA^ereign^ the love of liis countrymen, all that seemed to ensure a hapi^y and glorious life, led to an early and ignominious deati. ; concerning Raleigh, the soldier, the sailor, the scliolar, the cjurtier, the orator, the poet, the historian, the philoso- pher, Avhom Ave picture to ourselves, sometimes reviewing the Queen’s guard, sometimes giving chase to a Spanish galleon, then answering the chiefs of the country party in the House of Commons, then again murmuring one of his sweet loA^e-songs too near the ears of her Highness’s maids of honor, and soon after pouring over the Talmud, or cob 756 MACAULAY'S MISCELLAKEOUB WKlTlXGS. lating Polybius with Livy. We liad intended also co u something concerning tlie literature of that s])lendid ])criod, and especially concerning those two incomparable men, the Prince of Poets, and the Prince of Philosophers, who have made the Elizabethan age a more glorious and important era in the history of the human mind than the age of Per- icles, of Augustus, or of Leo. But subjects so vast require a space far larger than we can at present afford. W e there- fore stop here, fearing that, if we proceed, our article may swell to a bulk exceeding that of all other reviews, as much as Dr, Nares’s book exceeds the bulk of all other histories. MIRABEAU* {Edinburgh Review ^ July, 1832.) This is a very amusing and a very instructive book ; but, even if it were less amusing and less instructive, it would still be interesting as a relic of a wise and virtuous man. M. Dumont was one of those persons, the care of whose fame belongs in an especial manner to mankind. For he was one of those j^ersons who have, for the sake of man- kind, neglected the care of their own fame. In his walk through life there w^as no obtrusiveness, no pushing, no elbowing, none of the little arts which bring forward little men. With every right to the head of the board, he took the lowest room, and well deserved to be greeted with — ■ Friend, go up higher. Though no man was more capable of achieving for himself a separate and independent renown, he attached himself to others; he labored to raise their fame ; he was content to receive as his share of the reward the mere overflowings which redounded from the full meas« lire of their glory. Not that he Avas of a servile and idola^ trous habit of mind : — not that he Avas one of the tribe ct Boswells, — those literary Gibeonites, born to be hewers of Avood and drawers of Avater to the higher intellectual castes. Possessed of talents and acquirements which made him great, he wished only to be useful. In the prime of man- ♦ Souvenirs sur Mirabeau, et sur les deux Premieres Assemblies Ligislatives* Far Etienne Dumont, de Gonhv'€X ouvrage postliuiue public par M. J. L, Duval, Membre du Conseil iteprcbCiitutii duGautoudu Goa^ve, 8vo, J^aris; 1833 MTRABEAlT* 757 hood, at the very time of life at which ambitions men arc most amliitioiis, he was not solicitous to proclaim that lie furnished information, arguments, and eloquence to Mira- beau. In his later years lie was perfectly willing that his renown should merge in that of Mr. Bentham. The services which M. Dumont has rendered to society can be fully appreciated only by those who have studied Mr. Bentham ’s works, both in their rude and in their finished state. The difference both for show and for use is as great as the difference between a lump of golden ore and a rou- ! ‘au of sovereigns fresh from the mint. Of Mr. Bentham we would at all times speak with the reverence which is due to a great original tliinker, and to a sincere and ardent friend of the human race. If a few weaknesses were min- gled with his eminent virtues, — if a few errors insinuated themselves among the many valuable truths which he taught, — this is assuredly no time for noticing those weak- nesses or those errors in an unkind or sarcastic spirit. A great man has gone from among us, full of years, of good works, and of deserved honors. In some of the highest departments in which the human intellect can exert itself he has not left his equal or liis second behind him. From his contemporaries he has had, according to the usual lot, more or less than j ustice. He has had blind flatterers and blind detractors — flatterers who could see nothing but per- fection in liis style, detractors who could see nothing but nonsense in his matter. He will now have judges. Poster- ity will pronounce its calm and impartial decision ; and that decision will, we firmly believe, place in the same rank with Galileo, and with Locke, the man who found juris- prudence a gibberish and left it a science. Never was there a literary partnership so fortunate as tliat of Mr. Bentham and M. Dumont. The raw material which Mr. Bentham furnished was most precious ; but it was unmarketable. He was, assuredly, at once a great logician and a great rhetor- ician. But the effect of his logic was injured by a vicious arrangement, and the effect of his rhetoric by a vicious style. His mind was vigorous, comprehensive, subtle, fer- tile of aiguments, fertile of illustrations. But he spoke ip an unknown tongue ; and, that the congregation might be edified, it was necessary that some brother having the gift of interpretation should expound the invaluable jargon. His oracles were of high import ; but they were traced on leaves and flung loose to the wind. So negligent waa 758 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. lio of the arts of selection, distribution and compression, that to j)ersons wlio formed tlu'ir judgment of liim fj*om his works in tlieir undigested state, lie seemed to be the least systematic of all ])hilosopliers. The truth is, that his opinions formed a system, which, whether sound or unsound, is more exact, more entire, and more consistent with itself than any other. Yet to superficial readers of his works in their original form, and indeed to all readers of those works who did not bring great industry and great acuteness to the study, he seemed to be a man of a quick and inge- nious but ill-regulated mind, — who saw truth only by glimpses, — who threw out many striking hints, but who had never thought of combining his doctrines in one har- monious whole. M. Dumont was admirably qualified to supply what was wanting in Mr. Bentham. In the qualities in which the French writers surpass those of all other nations, — neat- ness, cleanliness, precision, condensation, — he surpassed all French writers. If M. Dumont had never been born, Mr. Bentham would still have been a very great man. But he would have been great to himself alone. The fertility of his mind would have resembled the fertility of those vast American wildernesses in which blossoms and decays a rich but unprofitable vegetation, “ wherewith the reaper filleth not his hand, neither he that bindeth up the sheaves his bosom.” It would have been with his discoveries as it has been with the Century of Inventions.” His speculations on laws would have been of no more practical use than Lord Worcester’s speculations on steam-engines. Some generations hence, perhaps, when legislation had found its Watt, an antiquarian might have published to the world the curious fact, that, in the reign of George the Third, there had been a man called Bentham, who had given hints of many discoveries made since his time, and who had really, for his age, taken a most philosophical view of the priuci- j)les of jurisprudence. Many persons have attempted to interpret between this ])Owerful mind and the public. But, in our opinion, M. Dumont alone has succeeded. It is remarkable that, in foreign countries, where Mr. Bentham’s works are known solely through tlie medium of the French version, his merit is almost universally acknowledged. Even those who are ■lost decidedly opposed to his political opinions — ^the very nefs )i the Holy Alliance — have publicly testified their re* MTRABEA.TT. 759 spect for him. In England, on the contrary, many persona who certainly entertained no prejudice against him on political grounds were long in the habit of mentioning him contemptuously. Indeed, what was said of Bacon’s Phi losophy may be said of Bentham’s. It was in little repute among us, till judgments in its favor came from beyond sea, and convinced us, to our shame, that we had been abusing and laughing at one of the greatest men of the age. M. Dumont might easily have found employments more gratifying to personal vanity than that of arranging works not his own. But he could have found no employment more useful or more truly honorable. The book before us, hastily written as it is, contains abundant proof, if proof were needed, that he did not become an editor because he \vanted the talents which would have made him eminent as a writer. Persons who hold democratical opinions, and who have been accustomed to consider M. Dumont as one of their party, have been surprised and mortified to learn that he speaks with very little respect of the French Revolution and its authors. Some zealous Tories have naturally ex- pressed great satisfaction at finding their doctrines, in some respects, confirmed by the testimony of an unwilling wit- ness. The date of the work, we think, explains every thing. If it had been written ten years earlier, or twenty years later, it would have been very different from what it is. It was written, neither during the first excitement of the Re- volution, nor at that later period when the practical good produced by the Revolution had become manifest to the most prejudiced observers ; but in those wretched times when the enthusiasm had abated, and the solid advantages were not yet fully seen. It was written in the year 1799, — a year in which the most sanguine friend of liberty might well feel some misgivings as to the effects of what the Na- tional Assembly had done. The evils which attend every grsat change had been severely felt. The benefit was still to come. The price — a heavy price — had been paid. The thing purchased had not yet been delivered. Europe was swarming with French exiles. The fleets and armies of the second coalition were victorious. Within France, the reign of terror was over ; but the reign of law had not commenced. There had been, indeed, during three or foui years, a written Constitution, by which rights were defined ttnd checki provided. But these rights had been repeatedly 760 macaulay’b miscellaneous writings. violatecl ; and lliosc cliocks liad ])rovcd utterly im flicient. The laws which had been framed tc secure the distinct au- thority of the executive magistrates and of the legislative assemblies — the freedom of election — the freedom of de- bate — the freedom of the press — the personal freedom of citizens — Avere a dead letter. The ordinary mode in which the Republic was governed Avas by coups eVHat, On one oc,- casion, the legislati\’e councils were placed under military restraint by the directors. Then, again, directors Avere de- { )osed by the legislative councils. Elections Averc set aside >y the executive authority. Shiploads of writers and speak- ers Avere sent, Avithout a legal trial, to die of fever in Gui- anna. France, in short, was in that state in Avhich revolu- tions, effected by violence, almost always leave a nation. The habit of obedience had been lost. The spell of pre- scription had been broken. Those associations on Avhich, far more than on any arguments about property and order, the authority of magistrates rests, had completely passed away. The power of the gOA^ernment consisted merely in the phys- ical force which it could bring to its support. Moral force it had none. It was itself a gOA^ernment sprung from a recent convulsion. Its OAvn fundamental maxim Avas, that rebellion might be justifiable. Its OAvn existence proA^ed that rebellion might be successful. The people had been accustomed, during several years, to offer resistance to the constituted authorities on the slightest provocation, and to see the constituted authorities yield to that resistance. The whole political Avorld was “ without form and void ” — an in- cessant whirl of hostile atoms, Avdiich, every moment, formed some new combination. The only man Avho could fix the agitated elements of society in a stable form AAuas following a wild vision of glory and empire through the Syrian des- erts. The time Avas not yet come, Avhen “ Confusion heard his voice ; and wild uproar Stood ruled : when, out of the chaos into which the old society had been resolved, were to rise a neAV dynasty, a neAv j)eerage, a new church, and a ncAV code. The dying Avords of Madame Roland, ‘‘ Oh Liberty ! how many crimes are committed in thy name ! ” Avere at that time echoed by many of the most upright and benevolent of mankind. M. Guizot has, in one of liis admirable pamphlets, J’Appilyand justly described M. Laine as “an honest and MTRAl^EATT. 761 liberal man discouraged by the Revolution.” This descrip- tion, at the time when M. Dumont’s Memoirs were written, would have applied to almost every honest and liberal man in Europe ; and would, beyond all doubt, have applied to M. Dumont himself. To that fanatical worship of the all- wise and all-good people, which had been common a few years before, had succeeded an uneasy suspicion that the follies and vices of the people would frustrate all attempts to serve them. The wild and joyous exultation with which the meeting of the States-General and the fall of the Bastile had been hailed, had passed away. In its place was dejec- tion, and a gloomy distrust of specious appearances. The philosophers and philanthropists had reigned. And what had their reign produced ? Philosophy had brought with it mummeries as absurd as any which had been practised by the most superstitious zealot of the darkest age. Philan- thropy had brought with it crimes as horrible as the massacre of St. Bartholomew. This was the emancipation of the hu- man mind. These were the fruits of the great victory of reason over prejudice. France had rejected the faith of Pascal and Descartes as a nursery fable, that a courtesan might be her idol, and a madman her priest. She had as- serted her freedom against Louis, that she might bow down before Robespierre. For a time men thought that all the boasted wisdom of the eighteenth century was folly ; and that those hopes of great political and social ameliorations wliich had been cherished by Voltaire and Condorcet were utterly delusive. Under the influence of these feelings, M. Dumont has gone so far as to say that the writings of Mr. Burke on the French Revolution, though disfigured by exaggeration, and though containing doctrines subversive of all public liberty, had been, on the whole, justified by events, and had prob- ably saved Europe from great disasters. That such a man as the friend and fellow-laborer of Mr. Bentham should have expressed such an opinion is a circumstance which well deserves the consideration of uncharitable politicians. These Memoirs have not convinced us that the French Revolution was not a great blessing to mankind. But they have convinced us that very great indulgence is due to those who, while the Revolution was actually taking place, regarded it with un- mixed aversion and horror. We can perceive where their error lay. We can perceive that the evil was temporary, and the good durable. But we cannot be sure that, if our 762 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. lot liad been cast in tlieir times, we slioiild not, like them, have been discouraged and disgusted — that we sliould not, like them, have seen, in tliat great victory of the French people, only insanity and crime. It is curious to observe how some men are applauded, and others reviled, for merely being wliat all their neigh- bors are, — for merely going passively down the stream of events, — for merely representing the opinions and passions of a whole generation. The friends of popular government oidinarily speak with extreme severity of Mr. Pitt, and with res])ect and tenderness of Mr. Canning. Yet the whole dif- fen nee, we suspect, consisted merely in this, — that Mr. Pitt died in 1806, and Mr Canning in 1827. During the years which were common to the public life of both, Mr. Canning was assuredly not a more liberal statesman than his patron. The truth is, that Mr. Pitt began his political life at the end of the American War, when the nation was suffering from the effects of corruption. He closed it in the midst of the calamities produced by the French Revolution, when the nation was still strongly impressed with the horrors of an- archy. He changed, undoubtedly. In his youth he had brought in reform bills. In his manhood he brought in gagging bills. But the change, though lamentable, was^ in our opinion, perfectly natural, and might have been perfectly honest. He changed with the gi’eat body of his countrymen. Mr. Canning, on the other hand, entered into public life when Europe was in dread of the Jacobins. He closed his public life when Europe was suffering under the t}^ranny of the Holy Alliance. He, too, changed with the nation. As the crimes of the Jacobins had turned the masters into something very like a Tory, the events which followed the Congress of Vienna turned the pupil into something very like a Whig. So much are men the creatures of circumstances. We see that, if M. Dumont had died in 1799, he would have died, to use the new cant word, a decided “ Conservative.” If Mr. Pitt had lived in 1832, it is our firm belief that he would have been a decided Reformer. The judgment passed by M. Dumont in this work on the French Revolution must be taken with considerable allowances. It resembles a criticism on a play of which only the first act has been performed, or on a building from which the scaffolding has not yet been taken down. We have no doubt that, if the excellent author had revised these memoirs MIRABEAtT. 763 thirty years after the time at which they were written, ho would have seen reason to omit a few passages, and to add many qualifications and explanations. He would not probably have been inclined to retract the censures, just, though severe, which he has passed on the ignorance, the presumption, and the pedantry, of the National Assembly. But he would have admitted that, in spite of those faults, perhaps even by reason of those faults, that Assembly had conferred inestimable benefits on mankind. It is clear that, among the French of that day, political knowledge was absolutely in its infancy. It would indeed liave been strange if it had attained maturity in the time of censors, of lettres-de-cachet^ and of beds of justice. The electors did not know how to elect. The representatives did not know how to deliberate. M. Dumont taught the constitu- ent body of Montreuil how to perform their functions, and found them apt to learn. He afterwards tried, in concert with Mirabeau, to instruct the National Assembly in that admirable system of Parliamentary tactics which has been long established in the English House of Commons, and which has made the House of Commons, in spite of all the defects in its composition, the best and fairest debating society in the world. But these accomplished legislators, though quite as ignorant as the mob of Montreuil, proved much less docile, and cried out that they did not want to go to school to the English. Their debates consisted of endless successions of trashy pamphlets, all beginning with some- thing about the original compact of society, man in the hunt- ing state, and other such foolery. They sometimes diver- sified and enlivened these long readings by a little rioting. They bawled ; they hooted ; they shook their fists. They kept no order among themselves. They were insulted with impunity by the crowd which filled their galleries. They gave long and solemn considerations to trifies. They hur- ried through the most important resolutions with fearful ex- pedition. They wasted months in quibbling about the words of that false and childish Declaration of Rights on \vhich they professed to found their new constitution, and which was at irreconcilable variance with every clause of that con stitution. They annihilated in a single night privileges, many of which partook of the nature of property, and ought therefore to have been most delicately handled. They are called the Constituent Assembly. Never was fi name less appropriate. They were not constituent, but 7G4 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. the very reverse of constituent. Tliey constituted nothing that stood or tliat deserved to last. They had not, and they could not ]) 0 ssibly liave, the information or the habits of mind which are necessary for the framing of that most ex- quisite of all machines — a government. The metaphysical cant with which they jirefaced their constitution, has long been the scoff of all parties. Their constitution itself, — that constitution which they described as absolutely perfect, and to whicli they predicted immortality, — disappeared in a few months, and left no trace behind it. They were great only in the work of destruction. The glory of the National Assembly is this, that they were in truth, what Mr. Burke called them in austere irony, the ablest architects of ruin that ever the world saw. They were utterly incompetent to perform any work which re- quired a discriminating eye and a skilful hand. But the work which was then to be done was a Avork of devastation. They had to deal with abuses so horrible and so deeply rooted that the highest political wisdom could scarcely have produced greater good to mankind than was produced by their fierce and senseless temerity. Demolition is undoubt- edly a vulgar task ; the highest glory of the statesman is to construct. But there is a time for everything, — a time to set up, and a time to pull down. The talents of revolu- tionary leaders and those of the legislator have equally their use and their season. It is the natural, the almost universal, law, that the age of insurrections and proscriptions shall precede the age of good government, of temperate liberty, and liberal order. And how should it be otherwise ? It is not in swad- dling-bands that we learn to walk. It is not in the dark that we learn to distinguish colors. It is not under oppression that we learn how to use freedom. The ordinary sophism by which misrule is defended is, when truly stated, this . — The people must continue in slavery, because slavery has generated in them all the vices of slaves. Because they are ignorant, they must remain under a power which has made and which keeps them ignorant. Because they have been made ferocious by misgovernment, they must be misgov- erned forever. If the system under which they live were so mild and liberal that under its operation they liad become limnane and enlightened, it would be safe to venture on a change. But, as this system has destroyed morality, and prevented the development of the intellect?, — -as it has MTUAREATJ. 765 turned men, who might under different training have formed a virtuous and hap]>y community, into savage and stupid wild beasts, — therefore it ought to last forever. The Eng- lish Revolution, it is said, was truly a glorious Revolution. Practical evils were redressed ; no excesses were committed ; no sweeping confiscations took place ; the authority of the laws was scarcely for a moment suspended ; the fullest and freest discussion was tolerated in Parliament ; the nation showed, by th^ calm and temperate manner in which it asserted its liberty, that it was fit to enjoy liberty. The French Revolution vras, on the other hand, the most h orrb ble event recorded in history, — all madness and wickedness, — absurdity in theory, and atrocity in practice. What folly and injustice in the revolutionary laws! What grotesque affectation in the revolutionary ceremonies ! What fanati- cism ! What licentiousness ! What cruelty ! Anacharsis Clootz and Marat, — feasts of the Supreme Being, and mar- riages of the Loire — trees of liberty, and heads dancing on pikes — the whole forms a kind of infernal farce, made up of everything ridiculous, and everything frightful. This it is to give freedom to those who have neither wisdom nor virtue. It is not only by bad men interested in the defence of abuses that arguments like these have been urged against all schemes of political improvement. Some of the highest and purest of human beings conceived such scorn and aver- sion for the follies and crimes of the French Revolution that they recanted, in the moment of triumjdi, those liberal opinions to which they had clung in defiance of persecution. And, if Ave inquire why it Avas that they began to doubt Avhether liberty w^ere a blessing, we shall find that it was only because events had proA^ed, in the clearest manner, that liberty is the parent of Aurtue and of order. They ceased to abhor tyranny merely because it had been signally shoAvn that the effect of tyranny on the hearts and understandings of men is more demoralizing and more stupefying than had ever been imagined by the most zealous friend of moral rights. The truth is, that a stronger argument against the old monarchy of France may be drawn from the noyades and the fusillades than from the Bastile and the Parc-aux- cerfs. We belie\"e it to be a rule without an exception, that the Auolence of a rcA'^olution corresponds to the degree of misgOA^exnment AAdiich has produced that revolution. Why Avas the French Revolution so bloody and destructh^e ? Wh j was our revolution of 1641 comparatively mild? Why was 766 MACAULAY’S MISCELLAOTIOUS WRITINGS. pur revolution of 1688 milder still ? Wliy was the Ameri- can Revolution, considered as an internal movement, the mildest of all? There is an obvious and complete solution of the problem. The English under James the First and Charles the First were less oppressed than the French under Louis the Fifteenth and Louis tlie Sixteenth. The English were less oppressed after the Restoration than before the great Rebellion. And America under George the Third was less oppressed than England under the Stuarts. The reaction was exactly proportioned to the pressure, — the vengeance to the provocation. When Mr. Burke was reminded in his later years of the zeal which he had displayed in the cause of the AmericaiM?, he vindicated himself from the charge of inconsistency, by contrasting the wisdom and moderation of the Colonial in- surgents of 1776 with the fanaticism and wickedness of the Jacobins of 1792. He was in fact bringing an argument a fortiori against himself. The circumstances on wdiich he rested his vindication fully proved that the old government of France stood in far more need of a complete change than the old government of America. The difference between Washington and Robespierre, — the difference between Frank- lin and Barcre, — the difference between the destruction of a few barrels of tea and the confiscation of thousands of square miles, — the difference between the tarring and feather- ing of a tax-gatherer and the massacres of September, — meas- ure the difference between the government of America under the rule of England and the government of France under the rule of the Bourbons. Louis the Sixteenth made great voluntary concessions to his people; and they sent him to the scaffold. Charles the Tenth violated the fundamental laws of the State, estab- lished a despotism, and butchered his subjects for not sub- mitting quietly to that despotism. He failed in his wicked attempt. He was at the mercy of those whom he had injured. The pavements of Paris were still heaped up m barricades ; — ^the hospitals were still full of the wounded ; — the dead were still unburied ; — a thousand families were in mourning ; — a hundred thousand citizens were in arms. The crime was recent ; — the life of the criminal was in the hands of the sufferers ; — and they touched not one hair of his head. In the first revolution, victims were sent to death by scores for the most trifling acts j^roved by the lowest testimony, before ihe most partial tribunals. After the second revolution, MmABEAtr. 76T those ministers wlio liad signed the ordinances, — those min isters, whose guilt, as it was of the foulest kind, was proved by the clearest evidence, — were punished only with imprison- ment. In the first revolution, property was attacked. In the second, it was held sacred. Both revolutions, it is true, left the public mind of France in an unsettled state. Both revolutions were followed by insurrectionary movements. But, after the first revolution, the insurgents were almost al- ways stronger than the law ; and, since the second revolu- tion, the lav, has invariably been found stronger than the insurgents. There is, indeed, much in the present state of France which may well excite the uneasiness of those who desire to see her free, happy, powerful, and secure. Yet, if we compare the present state of France with the state in which she was forty years ago, how vast a change for the bet- ter has taken place ! How little effect, for example, during the first revolution, would the sentence of a judicial body have produced on an armed and victorious body ! If, after the 10th of August, or after the proscription of the Gironde, or after the 9th of Thermidor, or after the carnage of Vendem- iaire, or after the arrests of Fructidor, any tribunal had de- cided against the conquerors in favor of the conquered, with what contempt, with wdiat derision, would its award have been received ! The judges would have lost their heads, or would have been sent to die in some unwholesome colony. The fate of the victim whom they had endeavored to save would only have been made darker and more hopeless by their interference. We have lately seen a signal proof that, in France, the law is now stronger than the sword. We have seen a government, in tlic very moment of triumph and revenge, submitting itself to the authority of a court of law. A just and independent sentence has been pronounced — a sentence worthy of the ancient renown of that magistracy to which belong the noblest recollections of French history — which, in an age of persecutors, produced L’Hopital — which, in an age of courtiers, produced D’Aguesseau — which, in an age of wickedness and madness, exhibited to mankind a pattern of every virtue in the life and in the death J)f Malesherbes. The respectful manner in which that sentence has been received is alone sufficient to show how widely the French of this generation differ from their fathers. And how is the difference to be explained ? The race, the soil, the climate are the same. If those dull, honest Englishmen, who explain the events of 17941 and 1794 by saying that the 768 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. French are naturally frivolous and cruel, were in tne riglit, why is the guillotine now standing idle? Not surely for want of Carlists, of aristocrats, of ))eople guilty of incivisin, of people suspected of being susj)icious characters. Is not the true explanation this, that the Frenchman of 1832 has been far better governed than the Frenchman of 1798, — that his soul has never been galled by the o])pressive privi- leges of a separate caste, — that he has been in some degree ac- customed to discuss political questions, and to peiform political functions, — that he has lived for seventeen or eigh- teen years under institutions which, however defective, have yet been far superior to any institutions that had before existed in France? As the second French Revolution has been far milder than the first, so that great change which has just been ef- fected in England has been milder even than the second French Revolution, — milder than any revolution recorded in history. Some orators have described the reform of the House of Commons as a revolution. Others have denied the propriety of the term. The question, though in seeming merely a question of definition, suggests much curious and interesting matter for reflection. If we look at the magni- tude of the reform, it may well be called a revolution. If we look at the means by which it has been effected, it is merely an act of Parliament, regularly brought in, read, committed, and passed. In the whole history of England, there is no prouder circumstance than this, — that a change, which could not, in any other age, or in any other country, have been effected without physical violence, should here have been effected by the force of reason, and under the forms of law. The work of three civil wars has been accomplished by three sessions of Parliament. An ancient and deeply rooted sys- tem of abuses has been fiercely attacked and stubbornly de- fended. It has fallen ; and not one sword has been drawn ; not one estate has been confiscated ; not one family has been forced to emigrate. The bank has kept its credit. The funds have kept their price. Every man has gone forth to his work and to his labor till the evening. During the fiercest excitement of the contest, — during the first fort- night of that immortal May, — there was not one moment at which any sanguinary act committed on the person of an) of the most unpopular men in England would not have filled the country with horror and indignation. And, now that the victory is won, has it been abused ? MlRABEAtT. 7G9 An immense mass of power has been transferred from an oligarchy to the nation. Are the members of the vanquished oligarchy insecure ? Does the nation seem disposed to play the tyrant ? Are not those who, in any other state of society, would have been visited with the severest vengeance of the triumphant party, — would liave been pining in dungeons, or flying to foreign countries, — still enjoying their posses- sions and their honors, still taking part as freely as ever in public affairs? Two years ago they were dominant. They are now vanquished. Yet the whole people would regard with horror any man who should dare to propose any vin- dictive measure. So common is this feeling — so much is it a matter of course among us, — that many of our readers will scarcely understand what we see to admire in it. To what are we to attribute the unparalleled moderation and humanity which the English peojDle have displayed at this great conjuncture ? The answer is plain. This modera- tion, this humanity, are the fruits of a hundred and fifty years of liberty. During many generations we have had legislative assemblies which, however defective their con- stitution might be, have always contained many members chosen by the people, and many others eager to obtain the approbation of the people; — assemblies in which perfect freedom of debate was allowed ; — assemblies in which the smallest minority had a fair hearing ; — assemblies in which abuses, even when they were not redressed, were at least exposed. For many generations we have had the trial by jury, the Habeas Corpus Act, the freedom of the press, the right of meeting to discuss public affairs, the right of peti- tioning the legislature. A vast portion of the population has long been accustomed to the exercise of political func- tions, and has been thoroughly seasoned to political excite- ment. In most other countries there is no middle course between absolute submission and open rebellion. In Eng- land there has always been for centuries a constitutional opposition. Thus our institutions had been so good that they had educated us into a capacity for better institutions. There is not a large - town in the kingdom which does not contain better materials for a legislature than all France could furnish in 1789. There is not a spouting-club at any pot-house in London in which the rules of debate are not better understood, and more strictly observed than in the Constituent Assembly. There is scarcely a Political Union which could not frame in half an hour a declaration of rights VoL. I.— 49 770 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. superior to lliat which occnj)ie(l the collective wisdom of France for several months. It would l>e impossible even to glance at all the causes of the French Revolution, within the limits to which we must confine ourselves. One thing is clear. The govern- ment, the aristocracy, and the church, were rewarded after their works. They reaped that which they had sown. They found the nation such as they had made it. That the people had become possessed of irresistible power before they had attained the slightest knowledge of the art of gov- ernment — that practical questions of vast moment were left to be solved by men to whom politics had been only a matter of theory — that a legislature was composed of per- sons who were scarcely fit to compose a debating society — • that the whole nation was ready to lend an ear to any flatterer who appealed to its cupidity, to its fears, or to its thii*st for vengeance — all this was the effect of misrule, obstinately continued in defiance of solemn warnings, and of the visible signs of an approaching retribution. Even when the monarchy seemed to be in its highest and most palmy state, the causes of that great destruction had already begun to operate. They may be distinctly traced even under the reign of Louis the Fourteenth. That reign is the time to which the Ultra-Royalists refer as the Golden Age of France. It was in truth one of those periods which shine with an unnatural and delusive splendor, and which are rapidly followed by gloom and decay. Concerning Louis the Fourteenth himself, the world seems at last to have formed a correct judgment. He was not a great general ; he was not a great statesman ; but he Avas, in one sense of the words, a great king. Never was there so consummate a master of what our James the First would have called king-craft, — of all those arts which most advantageously display the merits of a prince, and most completely hide his defects. Though his internal admin- istration Avas bad, — though the military triumphs which gaA^e s})lendor to the early part of his reign were not a^:hieA’'ed by himself, — though his later years Avere crowded with defeats and humiliations, — though he was so ignorant that he scarcely understood the Latin of his mass-book, — though he fell under the control of a cunning old Jesuit, and of a more cunning old woman,— he succeeded in pass- ing himself off on his people as a being above humanity. And this is the more extraordinary, because he did not seclude MTRABEAU. 771 himself from the public gaze like those Oriental despots whose faces are never seen, and wh >se very names it is a crime to pronounce lightly. It has been said that no man is a hero to his valet ; — and all the world saw as much of Louis the Fourteenth as his valet could see. Five hundred people assembled to see him shave and put on his breeches in the morning. He then kneeled down at the side of his bed, and said his prayer, while the whole assembly awaited the end in solemn silence, — the ecclesiastics on their knees, and the laymen with their hats before their faces. lie walked about his gardens with a train of two hundred cour- tiers at his heels. All Versailles came to see him dine and sup. He was put to bed at night in the midst of a crowd as great as that which had met to see him rise in the morn- ing. He took liis very emetics in state, and vomited majestically in the presence of all the grandes and petites entrees. Yet, though he constantly exposed himself to the public gaze in situations in which it is scarcely possible for .any man to preserve much personal dignity, he to the last impressed those who surrounded him with the deepest awe and reverence. The illusion Avhich he produced on his wor- shippers can be compared only to those illusions to which lovers are proverbially subject during the season of courtship. It was an illusion which affected even the senses. The contemporaries of Louis thought him tall. Voltaire, who might have seen him, and who had lived with some of the most distinguished members of his court, speaks repeatedly of Lis maj#estic stature. Yet it is as certain as any fact can be, that he was rather below than above the middle size. He had, it seems, a way of holding himself, a way of walk- ing, a way of swelling his chest and rearing his head, which deceived the eyes of the multitude. Eighty years after his death the royal cemetery was violated by the revolutionists ; his coffin was opened ; his body was dragged out ; and it ap- peared that the prince, whose majestic figure had been so long and loudly extolled, was in truth a little man.* That fine expression of Juvenal is singularly applicable, both in its lit- eral and in its metaphorical sense, to Louis the Fourteenth “ Mors sola fatetur Quantula sint hominum corpuscula.** * Even M. de Chateaubriand, to whom we should have thought all the Bour- bons would have seemed at least six feet high, admits this fact. “ C^est une srreur,” says he in his strange memoirs of the Puke of Berri, “ de croire que Louis XIV. 6toit d’une haute stature. Une cuirasse qui nous reste de liii, et les exhuiaatiQBB de St Penys, u’out laiss^ sur ce point aucun doute**’ 772 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. His person and his government liave liad the same fate. He had the art^of making both appear grand and august, in spite of the clearest evidence that both were below the or- dinary standard. Death and time have exposed both the deceptions. The body of the great king has been measured more justly than it was measured by the courtiers who were afraid to look above his shoe-tie. His public character lias been scrutinized by men free from the hopes and fears of Boileau and Moli^re. In the grave, the most majestic of j)r:nces is only five feet eight. In history, the hero and the politician dwindles into a vain and feeble tyrant, — the slave of priests and women, — little in war, — little in government, — little in everything but the art of simulating greatness. He left to his infant successor a famished and miserable people, a. beaten and humbled army, provinces turned into deserts by misgovernment and persecution, factions dividing the court, a schism raging in the church, an immense debt, an empty treasury, immeasurable palaces, an innumerable household, inestimable jewels and furniture. All the sap, and nutriment of the State seemed to have been drawn to feed one bloated and unwholesome excrescence. The nation was withered. The court was morbidly flourishing. Yet it does not apj^ear that the associations which attached the people to the monarchy had lost strength during his reign. He had neglected or sacrificed their dearest interests ; but he had struck their imaginations. The very things which ought to have made him most unpopular, — the prodigies of luxury and magnificence with which his person was sur- rounded, while, beyond the inclosure of his parks, nothing was to be seen but starvation and despair, — seemed to in- crease the respectful attachment which his subjects felt for him. That governments exist only for the good of the people, appears to be the most obvious and simple of all truths. Yet history proves that it is one of the most recon- dite. We can scarcely wonder that it should be so seldom present to the minds of rulers, when we see how slowly, and through how much suffering, nations arrive at the knowledge of it. There was indeed one Frenchman who had discovered those principles which it now seems impossible to miss, — that the many are not made for the use of one,— that the truly good government is not that w^hich concentrates mag- nificence in a court, but that which diffuses happiness among a people, — that a king who gains victory after victory^ and MTRABEAU. 773 adds province to province, may deserve, not the admiration, but tlie abhorrence and contempt of mankind. These were the doctrines which Fenelon taught. Considered as an epic poem, Telemachus can scarcely be placed above Glover’s Leonidas or Wilkie’s Epigoniad. Considered as a treatise on politics and morals, it abounds with errors of detail ; and the truths which it inculcates seem trite to a modern reader. But, if we compare the spirit in which it is written with the spirit which pervades the rest of the French literature of that age, we shall perceive that, though in apj^earance trite, It was in truth one of the most original works that have ever appeared. The fundamental principles of Fenelon’s political morality, the tests by which he judged of institu- tions and of men, were absolutely new to his countrymen. He had taught them indeed, with the happiest effect, to his royal pupil. But how incomprehensible they were to most people, we learn from Saint Simon. That amusing wudter tells us, as a thing almost incredible, that the Duke of Bur- gundy declared it to be his opinion that kings existed for the good of the people, and not the people for the good of kings. Saint Simon is delighted with the benevolence of this saying ; but startled by its novelty, and terrified by its boldness. Indeed he distinctly says that it was not safe to repeat the sentiment in the court of Louis. Saint Simon was, of all the members of that court, the least courtly. He was as nearly an oppositionist as any man of his time. His disposition was proud, bitter, and cynical. In religion he was a Jansenist ; in politics, a less hearty royalist than most of his neighbors. His opinions and his temper had pre- served him from the illusions which the demeanor of Louis produced on others. He neither loved nor respected the king. Yet even this man, — one of the most liberal men in France, — was struck dumb with astonishment at hearing the fundamental axiom of all government propounded, — an axiom which, in our time, nobody in England or France W3uld dispute, — which the stoutest Tory takes for granted as much as the fiercest Radical, and concerning which the Carlist would agree with the most republican deputy of the “extreme left.” 'No person will do justice to Fenelon, who does not constantly keep in mind that Telemachus was written in an age and nation in which bold and independent thinkers stared to hear that twenty millions of Imman beings did not exist for the gratification of one. That work is commonly considered as a school-book, very fit for children, 774 Macaulay’s mtsckllaneoub writings. because its style is easy and its morality blameless, but un- worthy of the attention of statesmen and philosoj)hers. We can distinguish in it, if we are not greatly mistaken, the first faint dawn of a long and splendid day of intellectual light, — the dim ])roniise of a great deliverance, — the un- developed germ of the charter and of the code. What mighty interests were staked on the life of the Duke of Burgundy ! and how different an aspect might tl e history of France have borne if he had attained the age of his grandfather or of his son ; — if he had been permitted tc show how much could be done for humanity by the highest virtue in the highest fortune ! There is scarcely anything in history more remarkable than the descriptions which re- main to us of that extraordinary man. The fierce and im- petuous temper which he showed in early youth, — the com- plete change which a judicious education produced in his character, — his fervid piety, — his large benevolence, — the strictness with which he judged himself, — the liberality with which he judged others, — the fortitude with which alone, in the whole court, he stood uj) against the commands of Louis, when a religious scruple was concerned, — the charity with which alone, in the whole court, he defended the profligate Orleans against calumniators, — his great projects for the good of the people, — his activity in business, — his taste for letters, — his strong domestic attachments, — even the un- graceful person and the shy and awkward manner which concealed from the eyes of the sneering courtiers of his grandfather so many rare endowments, — make his character the most interesting that is to be found in the annals of his house. He had resolved, if he came to the throne, to dis- perse that ostentatious court, which was supported at an expense ruinous to the nation, — to preserve peace, — to cor- rect the abuses which were found in every part of the system of revenue, — to abolish or modify oppressive privi- leges, — to reform the administration of justice, — to revive the institution of the States General. If he had ruled ovei France during forty or fifty years, that great movement of the human mind, which no government could have arrested, which bad government only rendered more violent, would, we are inclined to think, have been conducted, by peaceable means, to a happy termination. Disease and sorrow removed from the world that wis- dom and virtue of which it was not worthy. During two generations it was ruled by men w^ho, with all the vices of MIR\BEATT. 775 Louis the Fourteenth, had none of the art by which that magnificent ]>rince passed off his vices for virtues. The people had now to see tyranny naked. That foul Duessa was stripped of her gorgeous ornaments. She had always been hideous ; but a strange enchantment ha 3 made her seem fair and glorious in the eyes of her willing slaves. The spell was now broken ; the deformity was made mani- fest ; and the lovers, lately so happy and so proud, turned away loathing and horror-struck. First came the Regency. The strictness with which Lo ais had, towards the close of his life, exacted from those ai -)und him an outward attention to religious duties, pro- duced an effect similar to that which the rigor of the Puri- tans had produced in England. It was the boast of Madame de Main tenon, in the time of her greatness, that devotion had become the fashion. A fashion indeed it was ; and, like a fashion, it passed away. The austerity of the tyrant’s old age had injured the morality of the higher orders more than even the licentiousness of his youth. Not only had he not reformed their vices, but, by forcing them to be hypo- crites, he had shaken their belief in virtue. They had found it so easy to perform the grimace of piety, that it was nat- ural for them to consider all piety as grimace. The times were changed. Pensions, regiments, and abbeys, were no longer to be obtained by regular confession and severe pen- ance ; and the obsequious courtiers, who had kept Lent like monks of La Trappe, and who had turned up the whites of their eyes at the edifying parts of sermons preacAed before the king, aspired to the title of roue as ardently as they had aspired to that of devot ; and went, during Passion Week, to the revels of the Palais Royal as readily as they had for- 1 lerly repaired to the sermons of Massillon. The Regent was in many respects the fac-simile of our Charles the Second. Like Charles he was a good-natured man, utterly destitute of sensibility. Like Charles he had gcod natural talents, which a deplorable indolence rendered useless to the State. Like Charles, he thought all men cor- rupt and interested, and yet did not dislike them for being so. Ilis opinion of human nature was Gulliver’s ; but he did not regard human nature with GuLiver’s horror. He thought that he and his fellow-creatures were Yahoos ; and he thought a Yahoo a very agreeable kind of animal. No princes were ever more social than Charles and Philip of Orleans ; yet no princes ever had less capacity for friendship. 770 MACAULAY S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. Tlic tempers of tliese clever cynics were so easy, and their minds so languid, that habit supplied in tliem tlie ])lace of affection, and made them the tools of people for whom they cared not one straw. In love, both were mere sensualists without delicacy or tenderness. In politics, both were utterly careless of faith and of national honor. Charles shut up the Exchequer. Philip patronized the System. The councils of Charles were swayed by the gold of Barillon ; the councils of Philip by the gold of Walpole Charles for private objects made war on Holland, the natural ally of England. Philip for private objects made war on the Span- ish branch of the house of Bourbon, the natural ally, indeed the creature, of France. Even in trifling circumstances the parallel might be carried on. Both these princes were fond of experimental philosophy, and passed in the laboratory much time which would have been more advantageously passed at the council-table. Both were more strongly at- tached to their female relatives than to any other human being ; and in both cases it was suspected that this attach- ment was not perfectly innocent. In personal courage, and in all the virtues which are connected with personal cour- age, the Regent was indisputably superior to Charles. In- deed Charles but narrowly escaped the stain of cowardice. Philip was eminently brave, and, like most brave men, was generally open and sincere. Charles added dissimulation to his other vices. The administration of the Regent was scarcely less per- nicious, and infinitely more scandalous, than that of the de- ceased monarch. It was by magnificent public works, and by wars conducted on a gigantic scale, that Louis had brought distress on his people. The Regent aggravated that distress by frauds of which a lame duck on the stock-exchange would have been ashamed. France, even while suffering under the most severe calamities, had reverenced the con- queror. She despised the swindler. When Orleans and the wretched Dubois had disappeared, the power passed to the Duke of Bourbon ; a prince de- graded in the public eye by the infamously lucrative part which he had taken in the juggles of the System, and by the humility with which he bore the caprices of a loose and imperious woman. It seemed to be decreed that every branch of the royal family should successively incur the ab- horrence and contempt of the nation. Between the fall of the Duke of Bourbon and the death MIR ABE AU. 777 of Flcury, a few years of frugal and moderate government intervened. Then recommenced the downward progress of the monarchy. Profligacy in the court, extravagance in the finances, schism in the church, faction in the Parliaments, unjust war terminated by ignominious peace, — all that indi- cates and all that produces the ruin of great empires, make up the history of that miserable period. Abroad, the French were beaten and humbled everywhere, by land and by sea, on the Elbe and on the Rhine, in Asia and in Amer- ica. At home, they were turned over from vizier to vizier, and from sultana to sultana, till they had reached that point beneath Avhich there was no lower abyss of infamy, — till the yoke of Maupeouhad made them pine for Choiseul,~till Madame du Barri had taught them to regret Madame de Pompadour. But, unpopular as the monarchy had become, the aris- tocracy was more unpopular still ; — and not without reason. The tyranny of an individual is far more supportable than the tyranny of a caste. The old privileges were galling and hateful to the new wealth and the new knowledge. Every- thing indicated the approach of no common revolution, — of a revolution destined to change, not merely the form of government, but the distribution of property and the whole social system, — of a revolution the effects of which were to be felt at every fireside in France, — of a neAv Jaquerie, in which the victory was to remain with Jaques honhomme. In the van of the movement were the moneyed men and the men of letters, — the Avounded pride of wealth and the wounded pride of intellect. An immense multitude, made ignorant and cruel by oppression, was raging in the rear. We greatly doubt whether any course which could have been pursued by Louis the Sixteenth could have averted a great convulsion. But we are sure that, if there was such a course it Avas the course recommended by M. Turgot. The church and the aristocracy, Avith that blindness to danger, that incapacity of belicAung that anything can be except what has been, w^hichthe long possession of poAver seldom fails to gen- erate, mocked at the counsel wLich might haA^e saved them. They would not have reform ; and they had revolution. They would not pay a small contribution in place of the odious corvees ; and they lived to see their castles demolished, and their lands sold to strangers. They would not endure Tur- got ; and they Avere forced to endure Robespierre. Then the rulers of France, as if smitten with judicial 778 Macaulay's miscellaneous writings. blindness, ]>liingcd lioad^ong into tlic American war. They thus committed at once two great errors. They encouraged the spirit of revolution. They augmented at the same time those public burdens, the pressure of which is generally the immediate cause of revolutions. The event of the war carried to the height the enthusiasm of speculative demo- crats. The financial difficulties produced by the Avar carried to the lieight the discontent of that larger body of people who cared little about theories and much about taxes. The meeting of the States-General Avas the signal for the explosion of all the hoarded passions of a century. In that assembly, there Avere undoubtedly very able men. But they had no practical knowledge of the art of government. All the great English revolutions have been conducted by prac- tical statesmen. The French Revolution Avas conducted by mere speculators. Our constitution has never been so far behind the age as to have become an object of aversion to the people. The English revolutions have therefore been undertaken for the purpose of defending, correcting, and restoring, — neA^er for the mere purpose of destroying. Our countrymen haA^e ahvays, even in times of the greatest excite- ment, spoken reverently of the form of government under which they lived, and attacked only what they regarded as its corruptions. In the very act of innovating they have constantly appealed to ancient prescription; they have seldom looked abroad for models ; they have seldom troubled themselves with Utopian theories ; they have not been anxious to prove that liberty is a natural right of men ; they have been content to regard it as the lawful birthright of Englishmen. Their social contract is no fiction. It is still extant on the original parchment, sealed with wax which Avas affixed at Runnymede, and attested by the lordly names of the Marischals and Fitzherberts. No general argu- ments about the original equality of men, no fine stories out of Plutarch and Cornelius Nepos, have eA^er affected them BO much as their own familiar words, — Magna Charta, — Habeas Corpus, — Trial by Jury, — Bill of Rights. This part of our national character has undoubtedly its disad\^antages. An Englishman too often reasons on politics in the spirit rather of a lawyer than of a philosopher. There is too often something narroAA^ something exclusive, something Jewislu if Ave may use the Avord, in his loA^e of freedom. He is dis- posed to consider popular rights as the special heritage of the chosen race to Avhich be belongs, He m inclined rather MIRABEAU. 779 to repel than to encourage the alien proselyte who aspires to a share of his |)rivileges. Very different was the spirit of the Constituent Assembly. They had none of our narrow- ness ; but they had none of our practical skill in the manage- ment of affairs. They did not understand how to regulate the order of their own debates ; and they the ught them- selves able to legislate for the whole world. All the past was loathsome to them. All their agreeable associations were connected with the future. Hopes were to them all that recollections are to us. In the institutions of their country they found nothing to love or to admire. As far back as they could look, they saw only the tyranny of one class and the degradation of another, — Frank and Gaul, knight and villein, gentleman and roturier. They hated the monarchy, the church, the nobility. They cared nothing for the States or the Parliament. It was long the fashion to ascribe all the follies which they committed to the writings of the philosophers. We believe that it was misrule, and nothing but misrule, that put the sting into those writings. It is not true that the French abandoned experience for theories. They took up with theories because they had no experience of good government. It was because they had no charter that they ranted about the original contract. As soon as tolerable institutions were given to them, they began to look to those institutions. In 1830 their rallying cry was Vive la Charter In 1789 thev had nothing but theories round which to rally. They had seen social distinctions only in a bad form ; and it was therefore natural that they should be deluded by sophisms about the equality of men. They had experienced so much evil from the sovereignty of kings that they might be excused for lending a ready ear to those who preached, in an exaggerated form, the doctrine of the sovereignty of the people. The English, content with their own national recollec- tions and names, have never sought for models in the insti- tutions of Greece or Rome. The French, having nothing in their own history to which they could look back with pleasure, had recourse to the history of the great ancient commonwealths : they drew their notions of those common- wealths, not from contemporary writers, but from romances written by pedantic moralists long after the extinction of public liberty. They neglected Thucydides for Plutarch. Blind tliemselves, they took blind guides. They had no experience of freedom ; and they took their opinions con^ ?80 Macaulay’s MIscELLA^^^:ous writings. cerning it from men who had no more experience of it than themselves, and whose imaginations, inflamed hy mystery and privation, exaggerated tlie unknown enjoyment; — from men who raved about patriotism without having ever had a country, and eulogized tyrannicide while crouching before tyrants. The maxim which the French legislators beamed in this school was, that political liberty is an end, and not a means ; that it is not merely valuable as the great safe -guard of order, of property, and of morality, but that it is in itself a high and exquisite happiness to which order, property and morality ought without one scruple to^be sacrificed. The lessons which may be learned from ancient history are indeed most useful and important; but they were not likely to be learned by men who, in all their rhapsodies about the Athenian democracy, seemed utterly to forget that in that democracy there were ten slaves to one citizen ; and who constantly decorated their invectives against the aristocrats with panegyrics on Brutus and Cato, — two aristocrats, fiercer, prouder, and more exclusive, than any that emigra- ted with the Count of Artois. We have never met with so vivid and interesting a pic ture of the National Assembly as that which M. Dumont has set before us. His Mirabeau, in particular is incompar- able. All the former Mirabeaus were daubs in comparison. Some were merely painted from the imagination — others were gross caricatures : this is the very individual, neither god nor demon, but a man — a Frenchman — a Frenchman of the eighteenth century, wdth great talents, with strong passions, depraved by bad education, surrounded by temptations of every kind, — made desperate at one time by disgrace, and then again intoxicated by fame. All his opposite and seem- ingly inconsistent qualities are in this representation so blended together as to make up a harmonious and natural whole. Till now, Mirabeau was to us, and, we believe, to most readers of history, not a man, but a string of an- titheses. Henceforth he will be a real human being, a remarkable and eccentric being indeed, but perfectly com ceivable. He was fond, M. Dumont tells us, of giving odd com- pound nicknames. Thus, M. de Lafayette was Grandison- Cromwell ; the king of Prussia was Alaric-Cottin ; D’Es- premenil was Crispin-Catiline. We think that Mirabeau himself might be descriln'd, after his own fashion, as a WiJkes-Ohatham. He hud Wilkes’s sensuality, Wilkes’s MtRAl^EAtT. 781 levity, Wilkes’s insensibility to shame. Like Wilkes, be had brouglit on himself the censure even of men of pleasure by the peculiar grossness of his immorality, and by the ob- scenity of his writings. Like Wilkes, he was heedless, not only of the laws of morality, but of the laws of honor. Yet he affected, like Wilkes, to unite the character of the dema- gogue to that of the fine gentleman. Like Wilkes, he con- ciliated, by his good humor and by his high spirits, the regal’d of many who despised his character. Like Wilkes, he was liideously ugly ; like Wilkes, he made a jest of his own ugliness; and, like Wilkes, he was, in spite of his ugli- ness, very attentive to his dress, and very successful in affairs of gallantry. Resembling Wilkes in the lower and grosser parts of his character, he had, in his higher qualities, some affinity to Chatham. His eloquence, as far as we can judge of it, bore no inconsiderable resemblance to that of the great English minister. He was not eminently successful in long set speeches. He was not, on the other hand, a close and ready debater. Sudden bursts, which seemed to be the effect of inspiration — short sentences, which came like lightning, dazzling, burning, striking down everything before them — sentences which, spoken at critical moments, decided the fate of great questions— sentences which at once became proverbs — sentences which everybody still knows by heart — in these chiefly lay the oratorical power both of Chatham and of Mirabeau. There have been far greater speakers, and far greater statesmen, than either of them ; but we doubt whether any men have, in modern times, exercised such vast personal influence over stormy and divided assem- blies. The power of both was as much moral as intellectual. In true dignity of character, in private and public virtue, it may seem absurd to institute any comparison between them ; but they had the same haughtiness and vehemence of tem- per. In their language and manner there was a disdainful seff-confidence, an imperiousness, a fierceness of passion, before which all common minds quailed. Even Murray and Charles Townshend, though intellectually not inferior to Chatham, were always cowed by him. Barnave, in the same manner, though the best debater in the National As- sembly, flinched before the energy of Mirabeau. Men, ex- cept in bad novels, are not all good or all evil. It can scarcely be denied that the virtue of Lord Chatham was a little theatrical, Ou the other hand there was in Mirabeau, not 782 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. iiulecd anyt])iiig deserving tlie name of virtue, but tliat im* perfect substitute for virtue Avdiich is found in almost all superior minds, — a sensibility to the beautiful and the good, which sometimes amounted to sincere enthusiasm; and which, mingled with the desire of admiration, sometimes gave to his character a lustre resembling the lustre of true goodness, — as the “faded splendor wan” which lingered round the fallen archangel resembled the exceeding bright- ness of those spirits who had kept their first estate. There are several other admirable portraits of eminent men in these Memoirs. That of Sieyes in particular, and that of Talleyrand, are masterpieces, full of life and expres- sion. But nothing in the book has interested us more than the view which M. Dumont has presented to us, unosten- tatiously, and, we may say, unconsciously, of his own char- acter. The sturdy rectitude, the large charity, the good nature, the modesty, the independent spirit, the ardent philanthropy, the unaffected indifference to money and to fame, make up a character which, while it has nothing un- natural, seems to us to approach nearer to perfection than any of the Grandisons and Allworthys of fiction. The work is not indeed precisely such a work as we had anticipated — it is more lively, more picturesque, more amusing than we had promised ourselves ; and it is, on the other hand, less pro- found and philosophic. But, if it is not, in all respects, such as might have been expected from tlie intellect of ]\f. Dumont, it is assuredly such as might have been expected from his heart. WAR OF THE SUCCESSIOlSr IN SPAIN' {Edinburgh Review ^ January ^ 1833.) The days when Miscellanies in Prose and Verse by a Person of Honor, and Romances of M. Scuderi, done into English by a Person of Quality, were attractive to readers and profitable to booksellers, have long gone by. The literary privileges once enjoyed by lords are as obsolete as ♦ Hiitory of the War qf the Succession in Spain. By Lord Mabor. 8ra Loadcm : 1832. WAR OF THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 783 tlieir right to kill the King’s deer on their way to Parlia- ment, or as their old remedy of scandalum magnatum. Yet we must acknowledge that, though our political opinions are by no means aristocratical, we always feel kindly dis- posed toward noble authors. Industry and a taste for intellectual pleasures are peculiarly respectable in those who can afford to be idle and who have every temptation to be dissipated. It is impossible not to wish success to a man wlio, finding liimself placed, without any exertion or any merit on his part, above the mass of society, voluntarily de- scends from his eminence in search of distinctions which he may justly call his OAvn. This is, Ave think, the second appearance of Lord Mahon in the character of an author. His first book was creditable to him, but was in every respect inferior to the Avork which now lies before us. He has undoubtedly some of the most valuable qualities of a historian, great diligence in examining authorities, great judgment in Aveighing testimony, and great impartiality in estimating characters. We are not aware that he has in any instance forgotten tlie duties be- loTiging to his literary functions in the feelings of a kinsman. He does no more than justice to his ancestor Stanhope ; he does full justice to Stanhope’s enemies and rivals. His narradA^e is A^ery perspicuous, and is also entitled to the praise, seldom, Ave grieve to say, deserved by modern writers, of being very concise. It must be admitted, how- eA^er, that, Avith many of the best qualities of a literary vet- eran, he has some of the faults of a literary novice. He has not yet acquired a great command of words. His style is seldom easy, and is noAv and then unpleasantly stiff. He is so bigoted a purist that he transforms the Abbe d’Estrees into an Abbot. We do not like to see French words intro- duced into English composition ; but, after ah, the first law of Avriting, that laAV to Avhich all other laws are subordinate, is this, that the words employed shall be such as convey to the reader the meaning of the writer. Now, an Abbot is the head of a religious house ; an Abbe is quite a different sort of person. It is better undoubtedly to use an English word than a French word ; but it is better to use a French word than to misuse an English word. Lord Mahon is also a little too fond of uttering moral reflections in a style too sententious and oracular. We will give one instance: “Strange as it s^^ems, experience sliows that we usually feel far more animosity against those whom 784 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS AVIUTINGB. we have injured than against those v»’^>o injure us: and this remark holds good witli every degree of intellect, with every class of fortune, with a prince or a peasant, a stripling or an elder, a hero or a prince.” This remark might have seemed strange at the court of Nimrod or Chcdorlaomer ; but it has now been for many generations considered as a truism rather than a paradox. Every boy has written on the thesis “ OcUsse quern IceserisP Scarcely any lines in English Poetry are better knoAvn than that vigorous couplet, “ Forpjiveiiess to the injured does belong; But they ne’er pardon who have done the wrong.’* The historians and philosophers have quite done with this maxim, and have abandoned it, like other maxims which have lost their gloss, to bad novelists, by whom it will very soon be worn to rags. It is no more than justice to say that the faults of Lord Mahon’s book are precisely the faults which time seldom fails to cure, and that the book, in spite of those faults, is a valuable addition to our historical literature. Whoever wishes to be well acquainted with the morbid anatomy of governments, whoever wishes to know how great States may be made feeble and wretched, should study the history of Spain. The emi^ire of Philip the Second was undoubtedly one of the most powerful and splendid that ever existed in the world. In Europe, he ruled S}3ain, Por- tugal, the Netherlands on both sides of the Rhine, Tranche Comte, Roussillon, the Milanese, and the Two Sicilies. Tuscany, Parma, and the other small States of Italy, were as completely dependent on him as the Nizam and the Rajah of Berar now are on the East India Company. In Asia, the King of Spain was master of the Philippines and of all those rich settlements which the Portuguese had made on the coasts of Malabar and Coromandel, in the Peninsula of Malacca, and in the spice-islands of the Eastern Archipel- ago. In America, his dominions extended on each side of the equator into the temperate zone. There is reason to believe that his annual revenue amounted, in the season his greatest power, to a sum near ten times as large as that which England yielded to Elizabeth. He had a standing army of fifty thousand excellent troops, at a time when England had not a single battalion in constant pay. His ordinary naval force consisted of a hundred and forty gal- leys. He held, what no other prince in modern times has held, the dominion both of the land and of the sea# During WAR OF TUE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 785 the greater part of his reign he was supreme on both ele- ments. Ilis soldiers marched up to the capital of France; his ships menaced the shores of England. It is no exaggeration to say that, during several years, his power over Europe was greater than even that of Na- poleon. The influence of the French conqueror never extended beyond low-water mark. The narrowest strait was to his power what it was of old believed that a running (Stream was to the sorceries of a witch. While his army entered every metropolis from Moscow to Lisbon, the Eng- lish fleets blockaded every port from Dantzic to Trieste. Sicily, Sardinia, Majorca, Guernsey, enjoyed security through the whole course of a war which endangered every throne on the Continent. The victorious and imperial nar tion which had filled its museums with the spoils of Ant- werp, of Florence, and of Rome, was suffering painfully from the want of luxuries which use had made necessaries. While pillars and arches were rising to commemorate the French conquests, the conquerors were trying to manufac- ture coffee out of succory and sugar out of beet-root. The influence of Philip on the Continent was as great as that of Napoleon. The Emperor of Germany was his kinsman. France, torn by religious dissensions, was never a formid- able opponent, and was sometimes a dependent ally. At the same time, Spain had what Napoleon desired in vain, ships, colonies, and commerce. She long monopolized the trade of America and of the Indian Ocean. All the gold of the West, and all the spices of the East, were received and dis- tributed by her. During many years of war, her commerce was interrupted only by the predatory -enterprises of a few roving privateers. Even after the defeat of the Armada, English statesmen continued to look with dread on the maritime power of Philip. ‘‘ The King of Spain,” said the Lord Keeper to the two Houses in 1593, ‘‘since he hath usurped upon the kingdom of Portugal, hath thereby grown mighty by gaining the East Indies : so as, how great soever he was before, he is now therefore manifestly more great : ***** jjg keepeth a navy armed to impeach all trade of merchandise from England to Gascoigne and Guienne, which he attempted to do this last vintage ; so as he is now become as a frontier enemy to all the west of Eng- land, as well as all the south ])arts, as Sussex, Hampshire, and the Isle of Wight. Yea, by means of his interest in St, Maloes, a port full of shipping for the war^ be is a dan- Vo-U, 1^50 786 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. gerous neiglibor to tlie Queen’s isles of Jersey and Guernsejr, ancient possessions of tliis crown, and never conquered in the greatest wars with France.” The ascendency wliicli S|)ain then had in Europe was, in one sense, well deserved. It was an ascendency which had been gained by unquestioned superiority in all the arts of policy and of war. In the sixteenth century, Italy was not more decidedly the land of the fine arts, Germany was not more decidedly the land of bold theological speculation, than Spain was the land of statesmen and of soldiers. The character which Virgil has ascribed to his countrymen might have been claimed by the grave and haughty chiefs, who surrounded the throne of Ferdinand the Catholic, and of his immediate successors. That majestic art, “regere imperio populos,” was not better understood by the Romans in the proudest days of their republic, than by Gonsalvo and Ximenes, Cortez and Alva. The skill of the Spanish diplomatists was renowned throughout Europe. In England the name of Gondomar is still remembered. The sovereign nation was unrivalled both in regular and irregular warfare. The impetuous chivalry of France, the serried phalanx of Switzerland, were alike found wanting when brought face to face with the Spanish infantry. In the wars of the New World, where something different from ordinary strategy was required in the general and something different from ordinary discipline in the soldier, where it was every day necessary to meet by some new expedient the varying tac- tics of a barbarous enemy, the Spanish adventurers, sprung from the common people, displayed a fertility of resource, and a talent for negotiation and command, to which history scarcely affords a parallel. The Castilian of those times was to the Italian what the Roman, in the days of the greatness of Rome, was to the Greek. The conqueror had less ingenuity, less taste, less delicacy of perception than the conquered ; but far more pride, firmness, and courage, a more solemn demeanor, a stronger sense of honor. The subject had more subtlety in speculation, the ruler more energy in action. The vices of the former were those of a coward ; the vices of the lat- ter were those of a tyrant. It may be added that the Spaniard, like the Roman, did not disdain to study the arts and the language of those whom he oppressed. A revolution took place in the literature of Spain, not unlike that revolu- tioB which, as Horace tells usj took place in the poetry of WAR OF THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 787 Latium : “ Capta ferum victorem cepit.” The slave took j)risoiier llie enslaver. The old Castilian ballads gave place to sonnets in the style of Petrarch, and to heroic poems in the stanza of Ariosto, as the national songs of Rome were driven out by imitations of Theocritus, and translations from Menander. In no modern society, not even in England during the reign of Elizabeth, has there been so great a number of men eminent at once in literature and in the pursuit of active life, as Spain produced during the sixteenth century. Al- most every writer was also distinguished as a soldier and a politician. Boscan bore arms with high reputation. Gar- cilaso de Vega, the author of the sweetest and most grace- ful pastoral poem of modern times, after a short but splen- did military career, fell sword in hand at the head of a storming party. Alonzo de Ercilla bore a conspicuous part in that war of Arauco, which he afterwards celebrated in one of the best heroic poems that Spain has produced. Hurtado de Mendoza, whose poems have been compared to those of Horace, and whose charming little novel is evi- dently the model of Gil Bias, has been handed down to us by history as one of the sternest of those iron pro-consuls who were employed by the House of Austria to crush the lingering public spirit of Italy. Lope sailed in the Armada ; Cervantes was wounded at Lepanto. It is curious to consider with how much awe our ances- tors in those times regarded a Spaniard. He was, in their apprehension, a kind of daemon, horribly malevolent, but withal most sagacious and powerful. “ They be verye wyse and politicke,’’ says an honest Englishman, in a memorial addressed to Mary, “ and can, thorowe ther wysdome, re- form and brydell theyr owne natures for a tyme, and ap- plye their conditions to the maners of those men with whom they meddell gladlye by friendshippe ; whose mischievous maners a man shall never knowe untyll he come under ther subjection : but then shall he parfectlye parcey ve and fele them : which thynge I praye God England never do ; for in dissimulations untyll they have ther purposes, and after- wards in oppression and tyranny e, when they can obtayne them, they do exceed all other nations upon the earthe.” This is just such language as Arminius would have used about the Romans, or as an Indian statesman of our times might use about the English. It is the language of a man burning with hatred, but cowed by those whom he bates ; 788 Macaulay’s miscellaneous WRitiNCis. and painfully sensible of their superioiity, not only in power, but in intelligence. But how art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, that didst weaken the nations ! If we overleap a hundred years, and look at Spain towards the close cf the seventeenth cen- tury, what a change do we find ! The contrast is as great as that which the Rome of Gallienus and Ilonorius presents to the Rome of Marius and Ca3sar. Foreign conquest had begun to eat into every part of that gigantic monarchy on which the sun never set. Holland was gone, and Portugal, and Artois, and Roussillon, and Franche Comte. In the East, the empire founded by the Dutch far surpassed in wealth and splendor that which their old tyrants still re- tained. In the West, England had seized, and still held, settlements in the midst of the Mexican sea. The mere loss of territory was, however, of little mo- ment. The reluctant obedience of distant provinces gen- erally costs more than it is worth. Empires which branch out widely are often more flourishing for a little timely prun- ing. Adrian acted judiciously when he abandoned the con- quests of Trajan ; and England was never so rich, so great, so formidable to foreign princes, so absolutely mistress of the sea, as since the loss of her American colonies. The Spanish empire was still, in outward appearance, great and magnificent. The European dominions subject to the last feeble Prince of the House of Austria were far more exten- sive than those of Lewis the Fourteenth. The American dependencies of the Castilian crown still extended far to the South of Capricorn. But within this immense body there was an incurable decay, an utter want of tone, an utter prostration of strength. An ingenious and diligent popula- tion, eminently skilled in arts and manufactures, had been driven into exile by stupid and remorseless bigots. The glory of the Spanish pencil had departed with Velasquez and Murillo. The splendid age of Spanish literature had closed with Solis and Calderon. During the seventeenth century many states had formed great military establish- ments. But the Spanish army, so formidable under the com- mand of Alva and Farnese, had dwindled away to a few thousand men, ill paid and ill disciplined. England, Hol- land, and France had great navies. But the Spanish navy was scarcely equal to the tenth part of that mighty force which, in the time of Philip the Second, had been the ter* -i SVAll OF THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. m ror of the Atlantic anc^l tlic ircditcrranean. The arsenals were deserted. The magazines were nn])rovided. The frontier fortresses were iingarrisoned. The police was utterly inefhcient for the protection of the people. Murders were committed in tlie face of day with perfect impunity. Bravoes and discarded serving-men, witli swords at their sides, swaggered every day through the most public streets and squares of the capital, disturbing the public peace, and setting at defiance the ministers of justice. The finances were in frightful disorder. The people paid much. The government received little. The Ameriean viceroys and the farmers of the revenue became rich, while the merchants broke, while the peasan try starved, while the body-servants of the sovereign remained unpaid, while the soldiers of the royal guard repaired daily to the doors of convents, and battled there with the crowd of beggars for a porringer of broth and a morsel of bread. Every remedy which was tried aggra- vated the disease. The currency was altered; and this frantic measure produced its never-failing effects. It de- stroyed all credit, and increased the misery which it was in- tended to relieve. The American gold, to use the words of Ortiz, was to the necessities of the state but as a drop of water to the lips of a man raging with thirst. Heaps of unopened despatches accumulated in the offices, while the Ministers were concerting with bedchamber-women and Jesuits the means of tripping up each other. Every foreign power could plunder and insult with impunity the heir of Charles the Fifth. Into such a state had the mighty kingdom of Spain fallen, while one of its smallest dependencies, a country not so large as the province of Estremadura or An- dalusia, situated under an inclement sky, and preserved only by artificial means from the inroads of the ocean, had be- come a power of the first class, and treated on terms of equality with the courts of London and Versailles. The manner in which Lord Mahon explains the financial situation of Spain by no means satisfies us. “ It will be found,” says he, ‘‘ that those individuals deriving their chief income from mines, whose yearly produce is uncertain and varying, and seems rather to spring from fortune than to follow industry, are usually careless, unthrifty, and irregular in their expenditure. The example of Spain might tempt us to apply the same remark to states.” Lord Mahon would find it difficult, we suspect, to make out his analogy. Noth- ing could be more uncertain and varying than the gains and 790 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. losses of those who were in the liahit of putting into the State lotteries. Ihit no part of tlie j)iiblic income was more certain than tliat Avliich was derived from the ' lotteries. We believe that this case is very similar to that of the American mines. Some veins of ore exceeded expectation ; some fell below it. Some of the ])rivate speculators drew blanks, and others gained prizes. But the revenue of the State depended, not on any particular vein, but on the whole annual produce of two great continents. This annual pro- duce seems to have been almost constantly on the increase’ during the seventeenth century. The Mexican mines were, through the reigns of Philip the Fourth and Charles th^ Second, in a steady course of improvement ; and in South America, though the district of Potosi was not so productive as formerly, other places more than made up for the defi- ciency. We very much doubt whether Lord Mahon can })rove that the income which the Spanish government de- rived from the mines of America fluctuated more than the income derived from the internal taxes of SjDain itself. All the causes of the decay of Spain resolve themselves into one cause, bad government. The valor, the intelligence, the energy which, at the close of the fifteenth and the begin- ning of the sixteenth century, had made the Spaniards the first nation in the Avorld, Avere the fruits of the old institu- tions of Castile and Arragon, institutions eminently favorable to public liberty. Those institutions the first Princes of the House of Austria attacked and almost wholly destroyed. Their successors expiated the crime. The effects of a change from good government to bad government is not fully felt for some time after the change has taken place. The talents and the virtues which a good constitution generates may for a time survive that constitutioi. Thus the reigns of princes who have established absolute monarchy on the ruins of popular forms of government often shine in history with a peculiar brilliancy But when a generation or two has passed away, then comes signally to pass that which was written by Montesquieu, that despotic governments resemble those savages who cut down the tree in order to get at the fruit. Duiung the first years of tyranny is reaped the har- vest sown during the last years of liberty. Thus the Augus- ts.n age was rich in great minds formed in the generation of Cicero and CaBsar. The fruits of the policy of Augustus were reserved for posterity. Philip the Second was the heir :>f the Cortez and of the Justiza Mayor; and they left WAR OF THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 7D1 him a nation wliich seemed able to conquer all the world What Philip left to his successors is well known. The shock which the great religious schism of the six- teenth century gave to Europe, Avas scarcely felt in Spain. In England, Germany, Holland, France, Denmark, Swit- zerland, Sweden, that shock had produced, with some temporary evil, much durable good. The principles of the Ileformation had triumphed in some of those countries. The Catholic Church had maintained its ascendency in others But though the event had not been the same in all, all had been agitated by the conflict. Even in France, in Southern I Germany, and in the Catholic cantons of Switzerland, the [ public mind had been stirred to its inmost depths. The hold of ancient prejudice had been sorneAvhat loosened. The Church of Rome, warned by the danger which she had nar- rowly escaped, had, in those parts of her dominion, assumed a milder and more liberal character. She sometimes con- descended to submit her high pretensions to the scrutiny of reason, and availed lierself more sparingly than in former times of the aid of the secular arm. Even when persecu- tion was employed, it was not persecution in the Avorst and most frightful shape. The severities of Lewis the Four- teenth, odious as they were, cannot be compared Avith those Avhich, at the first daAvn of the Reformation, had been in ! flicted on the heretics in many parts of Europe, j The only effect Avhich the Reformation had produced in Spain had been to make the Inquisition more vigilant and the commonalty more bigoted. The times of refresh- ing came to all neighboring countries. One people alone remained, like the fleece of the HebreAv Avarrior, dry in the midst of that benignant and fertilizing deAV. While other nations were putting away childish things, the Spaniard still thought as a child and understood as a child. Among uhe men of the seventeenth century, he w^as the man of the fifteenth century or of a still darker period, delighted to be- hold an Auto da fe^ and ready to volunteer on a Crusade. The evils produced by a bad government and a bad re- ligion, seemed to haA^e attained their greatest height during the last years of the seventeenth century. While the king- dom was in this deplorable state, the King, Charles, second of the name, was hastening to an early grave. Ilis days had been few and eAul. He had been unfortunate in all his wars, in every part of his internal administration, and in all his domestic relations^ His first Avlfe, whom he tenderly 792 MACAULAY S MISCELLANEOUS 'WHITINGS. loved, died very young. Ills second wife exercisevl great influence over him, hut seems to liave been regarded by him rather with fear than with love. He was childless ; and his constitution was so completely shattered that, at little more than thirty, years of age, he had given up all hopes of pos- terity. Ilis mind was even more distempered than his body. He was sometimes sunk in listless melancholy, and sometimes harassed by the wildest and most extravagant fancies. He was not, however, wholly destitute of the feel- ings which became his station. His sufferings were aggra- vated by the thought that his owm dissolution might not improbably be followed by the dissolution of his empire. Several princes laid claim to the succession. The King’s eldest sister had married Lewis the Fourteenth. The Dau- phin would, therefore, in the common course of inheritance, have succeeded to the crown. But the Infanta had, at the time of her espousals, solemnly renounced, in her own name, and in that of her posterity, all claim to the succession. This renunciation had been confirmed in due form by the Cortes. A younger sister of the King had been the first wife of Leopold, Emperor of Germany. She too had at her marriage renounced her claims to the Spanish crown ; but the Cortes had not sanctioned the renunciation, and it w^as therefore considered as invalid by the Spanish jurists. The fruit of this marriage was a daughter, who had espoused the Elector of Bavaria. The Electoral Prince of Bavaria inherited her claim to the throne of Spain. The Emperor Leopold was son of a daughter of Philip the Third, and was therefore first cousin to Charles. 'No renunciation whatever had been exacted from his mother at the time of her marriage. The question was certainly very complicated. That claim which, according to the ordinary rules of inheritance, was the strongest, had been barred by a contract executed in the most binding form. The claim of the Electoral Prince of Bavaria was weaker. But so also was the con- tract which bound him not to prosecute his claim. The only party against whom no instrument of renunciation could be produced was the party who, in respect of blood, had the weakest claim of all. As it was clear that great alarm would be excited throughout Europe if either the Emperor or the Dauphin should become King of Spain, each of those Princes offered lo waive his pretensions in favor of his second son ; the WAR OP THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 793 Emperor, in favor of the Archduke Charles, the Dauphin, in favor of Philip, Duke of Anjou. Soon after the peace of Ryswick, William the Third and Lewis the Fourteenth determined to settle the question of the succession without consulting either Charles or the Emperor. France, England, and Holland, became parties (o a treaty by which it was stipulated that the Electoral Prince of Bavaria should succeed to Spain, the Indies, and the Netherlands. The Imperial family were to be bought off with the Milanese; and the Dauphin was to have the Two Sicilies. The great object of the King of Spain and of all his counsellors was to avert the dismemberment of the mon- archy. In the hope of attaining this end, Charles deter- mined to name a successor. A will was accordingly framed by which the crown was bequeathed to the Bavarian Prince. Unhappily, this will had scarcely been signed when the Prince died. The question was again unsettled, and pre- sented greater difficulties than before. A new Treaty of Partition was concluded between France, England, and Holland. It was agreed that Spain, the Indies, and t>he Netherlands, should descend to the Archduke Charles. In return for this great concession made by the Bourbons to a rival house, it was agreed that France should have 4he Milanese, or an equivalent in a more commodious situation. The equivalent in view was the province of Lorraine. Arbuthnot, some years later, ridiculed the Partition Treaty with exquisite humor and ingenuity. Everybody must remember his description of the paroxysm of rage into which poor old Lord Strutt fell, on hearing that his run- away servant Nick Frog, his clothier John Bull, and his old enemy, Lewis Baboon, had come with quadrants, poles, and inkhorns, to survey his estate, and to draw his will for him. Lord Mahon speaks of the arrangement with grave severity. He calls it, an iniquitous compact, concluded without the slightest reference to the welfare of the States so readily parcelled and allotted ; insulting to the pride of Spain, and tending to strip that country of its hard-won conquests.” The most serious part of this charge would apply to half the treaties which have been concluded in Europe quite as strongly as to the Partition Treaty. What regard was shown in the treaty of tlie Pyrenees to the wel- fare of the people of Dunkirk and Roussillon, in the treaty 794 MACAtJLAT’s M1SCELLA:^^E0US WlilTIKGS. \;i Nirneguen to tlie welfare of the people of Franche CoiatS, xii the treaty of Utrecht to the welfare of Flanders, in the treaty of 1735 to the welfare of the people of Tuscany? All Europe remembers, and our latest posterity will, we fear, have reason to remember how coolly, at the last great pacb fication of Christendom, the people of Poland, of Norway, of Belgium, and of Lombardy, were allotted to masters whom they abhorred. The statesmen who negotiated the Pai’tition Treaty were not so far beyond their age and ours in wisdom and virtue as to trouble themselves much about the happiness of the people whom they were apportioning among foreign rulers. But it will be difficult to prove that the stipulations which Lord Mahon condemns were in any respect unfavorable to the happiness of those who were to be transferred to new sovereigns. The Neapolitans would certainly have lost nothing by being given to the Dauphin, or to the Great Turk. Addison, who visited Naples about the time at which the Partition Treaty was signed, has left us a frightful description of the misgovernment under which that part of the Spanish Empire groaned. As to the peo- ple of Lorraine, an union with France would have been the happiest event Avhich could have befallen them. Lewis was already their sovereign for all purposes of cruelty and ex- action. He had kept their country during many years in his own hands. At the peace of Ryswick, indeed, their Duke had been allowed to return. But the conditions which had been imposed on him made him a mere vassal of France. ♦ We cannot admit that the Treaty of Partition was ob- jectionable because it “tended to strip Spain of hard-won conquests.” The inheritance was so vast, and the claimants BO mighty, that without some dismemberment it was scarcely possible to make a peaceable arrangement. If any dismem- berment was to take place, the best way of effecting it Burely was to separate from the monarchy those provinces which were at a great distance from Spain, which were not Spanish in manners, in language, or in feelings, which were both worse governed and less valuable than the old king- doms of Castile and Arragon, and which, having always been governed by foreigners, would not be likely to feel acutely the humiliation of being turned over from one mas- ter to another. That England and Holland had a right to interfere is plain. The question of the Spanish succession was not an WAR OF THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 796 internal question, but an European question. And this Lord Mahon admits. He thinks that when the evil had been done, and a French Prince was reigning at the Escu rial, England and Holland were justified in attempting, not merely to strip Spain of its remote dependencies, but to conquer Spain itself ; that they were justified in attempt- ing to put, not merely the passive Flemings and Italians, but the reluctant Castilians and Asturians, under the do- minion of a stranger. The danger against which the Par- tition Treaty was intended to guard was precisely the same danger which afterwards was made the ground of war. It will be difficult to prove that a danger which was sufficient to justify the war was insufficient to justify the provisions of the treaty. If, as Lord Mahon contends, it was better that Spain should be subjugated by main force than that she should be governed by a Bourbon, it was surely better that she should be deprived of Sicily and the Milanese than that she should be governed by a Bourbon. Whether the treaty was judiciously framed is quite another question. We disapprove of the stipulations. But we disapprove of them, not because we think them bad, but because we think that there was no chance of their being executed. Lewis was the most faithless of politicians. He hated the Dutch. He hated the Government which the Revolution had established in England. He had every dis- position to quarrel with his new allies. It was quite certain that he would not observe his engagements, if it should be for his interest to violate them. Even if it should be for his interest to observe them, it might well be doubted whether the strongest and clearest interest would induce a man so haughty and self-willed to cooperate heartily with two governments which had always been the objects of his scorn and aversion. When intelligence of the second Partition Treaty arrived at Madrid, it roused to momentary energy the languishing ruler of a languishing State. The Spanish ambassador at the court of London was directed to remonstrate with the government of William ; and his remonstrances were so insolent that he was commanded to leave England. Charles retaliated by dismissing the English and Dutch ambassadors. The French King, though the chief author of the Partition Treaty, succeeded in turning the whole wrath of Charles and of the Spanish people from himself, and in directing it against the two maritime powers, Those powers had now 790 macaulay’b miscellaneous writings. no agent at Madrid. Their j)erfidious ally was at liberty to carry on his intrigues unchecked ; and he fully availed hini- eelf of this advantage. A long contest was maintained with varying success by the factions which surrounded the miserable King. On the side of the Imperial family was the Queen, herself a Prin- cess of tliat family. With her were allied the confessor of the King, and most of the ministers. On the other side were two of the most dexterous politicians of that age, Car- dinal Porto Carrero, Archbishop of Toledo, and Ilarcourt, the ambassador of Lewis. Harcourt was a noble specimen of the French aristocracy in the days of its highest splendor, a finished gentleman, a brave soldier, and a skilful diplomatist. Ilis courteous and insinuating manners, his Parisian vivacity tempered with Castilian gravity, made him the favorite of the whole court. He became intimate with the grandees. He caressed the clergy. He dazzled the multitude by his magnificent style of living. The prejudices which the people of Madrid con- ceived against the French character, the vindictive feelings generated during centuries of national rivalry, gradually yielded to his arts ; while the Austrian ambassador, a surly, pompous, niggardly German, made himself and his country more and more unpopular every day. Harcourt won over the court and the city ; Porto Car- rero managed the King. Never were knave and dupe better suited to each other. Charles was sick, nervous and extrav- agantly superstitious. Porto Carrero had learned in the exercise of his profession the art of exciting and soothing such minds ; and he employed that art with the calm and demure cruelty which is the characteristic of wicked and ambitious priests. He first supplanted the confessor. The state of the poor King, during the conflict between his two spiritual advisers, was horrible. At one time he was induced to believe that his malady was the same with that of the wretches described in the New Testament, who dwelt among the tombs, whom no chains could bind, and whom no man dared to approach. At another time a sorceress who lived in the mountains of the Asturias was consulted about his malady. Several per- sons were accused of having bewitched him. Porto Carrero recommended the appalling rite of exorcism, which was actually performed. The ceremony made the poor King more nervous and miserable than ever. But it served the WAS OF THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 797 turn of the Cardinal who, after much secret trickery, suc- ceeded in casting out, not the devil, but the confessor. The next object was to get rid of the Ministers. Madrid was supplied with provisions by a monopoly. The govern- ment looked after this most delicate concern as it looked after everything else. The partisans of the House of Bour- bon took advantage of the negligence of the administration. On a sudden the supply of food failed. Exorbitant prices were demanded. The people rose. The royal residence was surrounded by an immense multitude. The Queen harangued them. The priests exhibited the host. All was in vain. It was necessary to awaken the King from his uneasy sleep, and carry him to the balcony. There a solemn ! ])romise was given that the unpopular advisers of the crown ; should be forthwith dismissed. The mob left the palace and I proceeded to pull down the houses of the ministers. The adherents of the Austrian line were tliiis driven from power, and the government was intrusted to the creatures of Porto Carrero. The King left the city in which he had suffered so cruel an insult for tlie magnificent retreat of the Escurial. ' Here his hypochondriac fancy took a new turn. Like his ancestor Charles the Fifth, he was haunted by a strange curiosity to pry into the secrets of that grave to which he was hastening. In the cePxietery which Philip the Second I had formed beneath the pavement of the church of St. Law- I rence, reposed three generations of Castilian princes. Into these dark vaults the unhappy monarch descended by torch- light, and penetrated to that superb and gloomy chamber where, round the great black crucifix, were ranged the coffins of the kings and queens of Spain. There he com- manded his attendants to open the massy chests of bronze in which the relics of his predecessors decayed. He looked on the ghastly spectacle with little emotion till the coffin of his first wife was unclosed, and she appeared before him — such was the skill of tiie embalmer — in all her well-remembered beauty. He cast one glance on those beloved features, unseen for eighteen years, those features over which corrup- tion seemed to have no power, and rushed from the vault exclaiming, She is with God ; and I shall soon be with her.” The awful sight completed the ruin of his body and mind. The Escurial became hateful to him ; and he hastened to Aranjuez. But the shades and waters of that delicious island-garden, so fondly celebrated in the sparkling verse oi Caldsron, brought no solace to their unfortunate master 798 MACAULAY’ft MISCELLANEOUS WIUTINGS. Having tried medicine, exercise, and amusement in vain, he returned to Madrid to die. He was now beset on every side by the bold and skilful agents of the House of Bourbon. The leading politicians of his court assured him that Lewis, and Lewis alone, was sufficiently powerful to preserve the Spanish monarchy undivided, and that Austria would be utterly unable to pre- vent the Treaty of Partition from being carried into effect. Some celebrated lawyers gave it as their opinion that the act of renunciation executed by the late Queen of France ought to be construed according to the spirit, and not ac- cording to the letter. The letter undoubtedly excluded the French Princes. The spirit was merely this, that ample security should be taken against the union of the French and Spanish crowns on one head. In all probability, neither political nor legal reasonings would have sufficed to overcome the partiality which Charles felt for the House of Austria. There had always been a close connection between the tv/o great royal lines which sprang from the marriage of Philip and Juana. Both had always regarded the French as their natural enemies. It was necessary to have recourse to religious terrors ; and Porto Carrero employed those terrors with true professional skill. The King’s life was drawing to a close. Would the most Catholic prince commit a great sin on the brink of the grave ? And what could be a greater sin than, from an unreasonable attachment to a family name, from an unchris- tian antipathy to a rival house, to set aside the rightful heir of an immense monarchy ? The tender conscience and the feeble intellect of Charles were strongly wrought upon by these appeals. At length Porto Carrero ventured on a master-stroke. He advised Charles to apply for counsel to the Pope. The King who, in the simplicity of his heart, considered the successor of St. Peter as an infallible guide in spiritual matters, adopted the suggestion ; and Porto Carrero, who knew that his Holiness was a mere tool of France, awaited with perfect confidence the result of the application. In the answer which arrived from Rome, the King was solemnly reminded of the great account which he was soon to render, and cautioned against the flagrant in- justice which he was tempted to commit. He was assured that the right was with the House of Bourbon, and reminded that his own salvation ought to be dearer to him than the House of Austria. Yet he still continued irresolute, HU WAR OF THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 799 attachment to his family, liis aversion to France, were not to be overcome even by Papal authority. At lengtli he thought himself actually dying. Then the cardinal re- doubled his efforts. Divine after divine, well tutored for the occasion, was brought to the bed of the trembling penitent. He was dying' in the commission of known sin. He was defrauding his relatives. He was bequeathing civil war to his people. He yielded, and signed that memorable Testa- mc nt, the cause of many calamities to Europe. As he affixed his name to the instrument, he burst into tears. “ God,” he said, “gives kingdoms and takes them away. I am al- ready one of the dead.” The will was kept secret during the short remainder of his life. On the third of November 1700 he expired. All Madrid crowded to the palace. The gates were thronged. The antechamber was filled with ambassadors and grandees, eager to learn what dispositions the deceased sovereign had made. At length the folding doors were flung open. The Duke of Abrantes came forth, and announced that the whole Spanish monarchy was bequeathed to Philip Duke of Anjou. Charles had directed that, during the interval which might elapse between his death and the arrival of his successor, the government should be administered by a council, of which Porto Carrero was the chief member. Lewis acted, as the English minister might have guessed that he would act. With scarcely the show of hesitation, he broke through all the obligations of the Partition Treaty, and accepted for his grandson the splendid legacy of Charles. The new sovereign hesitated to take possession of his do- minions. The whole court of France accompanied him to Sceaux. His brothers escorted him to that frontier which, as they weakly imagined, was to be a frontier no longer. “ The Pyrenees,” said Lewis, “ have ceased to exist.” Those very Pyrenees, a few years later, were the theatre of a war between the heir of Lewis and the prince whom France was now sending to govern Spain. If Charles had ransacked Europe to find a successor whose moral and intellectual character resembled his own, he could not have chosen better. Philij) was not so sickly as his predecessor, but he was quite as weak, as indolent, and as superstitious ; he very soon became quite as hypo- chondriacal and eccentric ; and he was even more uxorious. He was indeed a husbmul of ten thousand. His first object when he became King of Spain, was to procure a wife. 800 MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. From tlie day of liis marriage to tlic day of licr death, his first object was to have licr near liirn and to do what elio wished. As soon as liis wife died liis first object was to procure anotlier. Another was found as unlike the former as possible. But she was a wife ; and Philip was content. Neither by day nor by night, neither in sickness nor in health, neither in time of business nor in time of relaxation, did he ever suffer her to be absent from him for lialf an hour. Ilis mind was naturally feeble ; and he had re- ceived an enfeebling education. He had been brought up amidst the dull magnificence of Versailles. ITis grandfather was as imperious aiul as ostentatious in his intercourse with the royal family as in public acts. All those who grew up immediately under the eye of Lewis had the manners of persons who had never known what it was to be at ease. They were all taciturn, shy, and awkward. In all of them, except the Duke of Burgundy, the evil went further than the manners. The Dauphin, the Duke of Berri, Philip of Anjou, were men of insignificant characters. They had no energy, no force of will. They had been so little accustomed to judge or to act for themselves that implicit dependence had become necessary to their comfort. The new King of Spain, emanci])ated from control, resembled that wretched German captive who, when the irons which he had worn for years were knocked off, fell prostrate on f^e floor of his prison. The restraints which had enfeebled the mind of the young Prince were required to support it. Till he had a wife he could do nothing; and when he had a wife he did whatever she chose. While this lounging, moping boy was on his way to Ma- drid, his grandfather was all activity. Lewis had no reason to fear a contest with the Empjire single-handed. He made vigorous preparations to encounter Leopold. He overawed the States-General by means of a great army. He attempted to soothe the English government by fair ])rofessioiis. William was not deceived. He fully returned the hatred of Lewis; and, if he had been free to act according to his own inclinations, he would have declared war as soon as the contents of the will were known. But he was bound by constitutional restraints. Both his person and his meas- ures wcio unpopular in England. His secluded life and his cold manners disgusted a ])eople accustomed to the grvUceful affability of Cliarles the Second. His foreign accent and his foreign attachments were offensive to the national preju WAR OF THE SUCCESSfOX IX SPAIX. 801 dices. ITis reic^n had been a season of distress, following a 8 i 3 ason of ra])idly increasing prosperity. The burdens of the late war and the expense of restoring the currency had been severely felt. Nine clergymen out of ten were Jaco- bites at heart, and had sworn allegiance to the new dynasty, only in order to save their benefices. A large proportion of the country gentlemen belonged to the same party. The whole body of agricultural proprietors was hostile to that interest which the creation of the national debt had brought into notice, and which was believed to be peculiarly favored by the Court, the monied interest. The middle classes were fully determined to keep out James and his family. But they regarded William only as the less of two evils ; and as long as there was no danger of a counter-revolution, were disposed to thwart and mortify the sovereign by whom they were, nevertheless, ready to stand, in case of necessity, with their lives and fortunes. They w^ere sullen and dis- satisfied. “There was,” as Somers expressed it in a re-' markable letter to William, “ a deadness and want of spirit in the nation universally.” E verything in England was going on as Lewis could have wished. The leaders of the Whig party had retired from power, and were extremely unpopular on account of the un- fortunate issue of the Partition Treaty. The Tories, some of whom still cast a lingering look towards St. Germain’s, -were in office, and had a decided majority in the House of Commons. William was so much embarrassed by the state of parties in England that he could not venture to make war on the House of Bourbon. He was suffering under a complication of severe and incurable diseases. There was every reason to believe that a few months would dissolve the fragile tie which bound up that feeble body with that ardent and unconquerable soul. If Lewis could succeed in f '.reserving peace for a short time, it was probable that all lis vast designs would be securely accomplished. Just at tills crisis, the most important crisis of his life, his pride and passions hurried him into an error, which undid all that forty years of victory and intrigue had done, which pro- duced the dismemberment of the kingdom of his grandson, and brought invasion, bankruptcy, and famine on his own. James the Second died at St. Germain’s. Lewis paid him a farewell visit, and was so much moved by the solemn parting, and by the grief of the exiled queen, that, losing Bight of all considerations of policy, and actuated, as it VoL. I— 51 802 macvulay’s miscellaneous aveitings. should seem, merely by compassion and by a not ungenerous vanity, he acknowledged the Prince of Wales as King of England. The indignation which the Castilians had felt when they heard that three foreign powers had undertaken to regulate the Spanish succession was nothing to the rage with which the English learned that their good neighbor had undertaken the trouble to provide them with a king. Whigs and Tories joined in condemning the proceedings of the French Court. The cry for war was raised by the city of London, and echoed and re-echoed from every corner of the realm. Wil- liam saw that his time was come. Though his wasted and suffering body could hardly move without support, his spirit was as resolute and energetic as when, at twenty-three, he bade defiance to the combined forces of England and France. He left the Hague, where he had been engaged in negotia- ting with the States and the Emperor a defensive treaty against the ambitious designs of the Bourbons. He flew to London. He remodelled the ministry. He dissolved the Parliament. The majority of the new House of Commons was with the King; and the most vigorous j^reparations were made for war. Before the commencement of active hostilities William was no more. But the Grand Alliance of European Princes against the Bourbons was already constructed. The mas- ter workman died,” says Mr. Burlie, “but the work was formed on true mechanical principles, and it was as truly wrought.” On the fifteenth of May, 1702, war was pro- claimed by concert at Vienna, at London, and at the Hague. Thus commenced the great struggle by which Europe, from the Vistula to the Atlantic Ocean, was agitated during twelve years. The two hostile coalitions were in respect of territory, wealth, and population, not unequally matched. On the one side were France, Spain, and Bavaria; on the other England, Holland, the Empire, and a crowd of infe- rior Powers. That part of the war which Lord Mahon has undertaken to relate, though not the least important, is certainly the least attractive. In Italy, in Germany, and in the Nether- lands, great means were at the disposal of great generals. Mighty battles were fought. Fortress after fortress was sub- dued. The iron chain of the Belgian strongholds was broken. By a regular and connected series of operations extending through several ycar^j, the French were driven WAR OP THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 803 back from the Danube and the Po into their own provinces. The war in Spain, on the contrary, is made up of events which seem to have no dependence on each other. The turns of fortune resemble those which take place in a dream. Victory and defeat are not followed by their usual conse- quences. Armies spring out of nothing, and melt into nothing. Yet to judicious readers of history, the Spanish conflict is perhaps more interesting than the campaigns of Marlborough and Eugene. The fate of the Milanese and of the Low Countries was decided by military skill. The fate of Spain was decided by the peculiarities of the national character. When the war commenced, the young King was in a most deplorable situation. On his arrival at Madrid he found Porto Carrero at the head of affairs, and he did not think fit to displace the man to whom he owed his crown. The cardinal was a mere intriguer, and in no sense a states- man. He had acquired, in the Court and in the Confes- sional, a rare degree of skill in all the tricks by which weak minds are managed. But of the noble science of govern- ment, of the sources of national prosperity, of the causes of national decay, he knew no more than his master. It is curious to observe the contrast between the dexterity with which he ruled the conscience of a foolish valetudinarian, and the imbecility which he showed when ])laced at the head of an empire. On what grounds Lord Mahon represents the Cardinal as a man “of splendid genius,” “ of vast abili- ties,” we are unable to discover. Lewis was of a very differ- ent opinion, and Lewis was very seldom mistaken in his judgment of character. “ Everybody,” says he, in a letter to his ambassador, “knows how incapable the Cardinal is. He is an object of contempt to his countrymen.” A few miserable savings were made, which ruined indi- viduals without producing any perceptible benefit to the state. The police became more and more inefficient. The disorders of the capital were increased by the arrival of French adventurers, the refuse of Parisian brothels and gaming-houses. These wretches considered the Spaniards as a subjugated race whom the countrymen of the new sov- ereign might cheat and insult with impunity. The King sate eating and drinking all night, lay in bed all day, yawned at the council table, and suffered the most important papers to lie unopened for weeks. At length he was roused by the only excitement of which his sluggish nature was suscepti- 804 Macaulay’s mscELLANEous writings. Me. TIis grandfather consented to let him have a wife The choice was fortunate. Maria Louisa, Princess of Savoy a beautiful and graceful girl of thirteen, already a woman in person and mind, at the age when the females of colder climates are still children, was the person selected. The King resolved to give her the meeting in Catalonia. He left his capital, of which he was already thoroughly tired. At getting out he was mobbed by a gang of beggars. He, how- ever, made his wav through them, and repaired to Barcelona. Lewis was perfectly aw^are that the Queen would gov- ern Philip. lie, accordingly, looked about for somebody to govern the Queen. He selected the Princess Orsini to bo first lady of the bedchamber, no insignificant post in the household of a very young wife, and a very uxorious hus- band. The princess was the daughter of a French peer, and the widow of a Spanish grandee. She was, therefore, admi- rably fitted by her position to be the instrument of the Court of Versailles at the Court of Madrid. The Duke of Orleans called her, in words too coarse for translation, the Lieu- tenant of Captain Maintenon ; and the appellation Avas well deserved. She aspired to play in Spain the part which Madame de Maintenon had played in France. But, though at least equal to her model in wit, information, and talents for intrigue, she had not that self-command, that patience, that imperturbable evenness of temper, which had raised the Avidow of a buffoon to be the consort of the proudest of kings. The Princess Avas more than fifty years old, but Avas still vain of her fine eyes, and her fine shape; she still dressed in the style of a girl ; and she still carried her flirta- tions so far as to give occasion for scandal. She was, however, polite, eloquent, and not deficient in strength of mind. The bitter Saint Simon OAvns that no person Avhom she wished to attach could long resist the graces of her manners and of her conversation. We have not time to relate how she obtained, and how she preserved her empire over the young couple in Avhose household she was placed, how she became so poAverful, that neither minister of Spain nor ambassador from France could stand against her, hoAv Lewis himself Avas compelled to court her, how she received orders from Versailles to retire, how the Queen took part Avith her faAmrite attendant, hoAV the King took part Avith the Queen, and hoAv, after much squabbling, lying, shuftling, bullying, and coaxing, the dispute was adjusted. We turn to the events of the Avar. WAR OP THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 80 f When hostilities were proclaimed at London, Vienna, and the Hague, Philip was at Naples. He had been witL great difficulty prevailed upon, by the most urgent represen tations from Versailles, to separate himself from his wife, and to repair without her to his Italian dominions, which were then menaced by the Emperor. The QueCii acted ao Regent, and, child as she was, seems to have been quite as competent to govern the kingdom as hei husband or any of his ministers. In August, 1702, an armament, under the command of the Duke of Ormond, appeared od Cadiz. The Spanish authorities had no funds and no regular troops. The na- tional spirit, however, supplied lu some degree what was wanting. The nobles and farmeis advanced money. The peasantry were formed into what the Spanish writers call bands of heroic patriots, and what General Stanhope calls a “ rascally foot militia.” If the invaders had acted with vigor and judgment, Cadiz would probably have fallen. But the chiefs of the expedition were divided by national and pro- fessional feelings, Dutch against English and land against sea. Sparre, the Dutch general, was sulky and perverse. Bellasys, the English general, embezzled the stores. Lord Mahon im- putes the ill temper of Spaire to the influence of the repub- lican institutions of Holland. By parity of reason, we sup- pose that he would impute the peculations of Bellasys to the influence of the monarchical and aristocratical institutions of England. The Duke of Ormond, who had the command of the whole expedition, proved on this occasion, as on every other, destitute of the qualities which great emergencies re- quire. No discipline was kept ; the soldiers were suffered to rob and insult those whom it was most desirable to conciliate. Churches were robbed ; images were pulled down ; nuns were violated. The officers shared the spoil in- stead of punishing the spoilers ; and at last the armament, loaded, to use the words of Stanhope, “ with a great deal of plunder and infamy,” quitted the scene of Essex’s glory, leaving the only Spaniard of note who had declared for them to be hanged by his countrymen. The fleet was off the coast of Portugal on the way back to England, when the Duke of Ormond received intelligence that treasure ships from America had just arrived in Europe, and had, in order to avoid liis armament, repaired to the harbor of Vigo. The cargo consisted, it was said, of more than three millions sterling in gold and silver, besides much 806 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. valiuihle mercliaiulise. The ])rospect of plunder reconciled all disputes. Dutch and English, admirals and generals, were equally eager for action. The Spaniards might with the greatest ease have secured the treasure by simply landing it ; but it was a fundamental law of Spanish trade that the galleons should unload at Cadiz, and at Cadiz only. The Chamber of Commerce at Cadiz, in the true spirit of mo- nopoly, refused, even at this conjuncture, to bate one jot of its privilege. The matter was referred to the Council of tho Indies. That body deliberated and hesitated just a day too long. Some feeble preparations for defence were made. Two ruined towers at the mouth of the bay of Vigo were* garrisoned by a few ill-armed and untrained rustics ; a boom was thrown across the entrance of the basin ; and a few French shi]3S of war, which had convoyed the galleons from America, were moored within. But all was to no purpose. The English ships broke the boom ; Ormond and his soldiers scaled the forts ; the French burned their ships, and escaped to the shore. The conquerors shared some mil- lions of dollars ; some millions more were sunk. When all the galleons had been captured or destroyed came an order in due form allowing them to unload. When Philip returned to Madrid in the beginning of 1703, he found the finances more embarrassed, the people more discontented, and the hostile coalition more formidable than ever. The loss of the galleons had occasioned a great deficiency in the revenue. The Admiral of Castile, one of the greatest subjects in Europe, had fied to Lisbon and sworn allegiance to the Archduke. The King of Portugal soon after acknowledged Charles as King of Spain, and pre- pared to support the title of the House of Austria by arms. On the other side, Lewis sent to the assistance of his grandson an army of 12,000 men, commanded by the Duko of Berwick. Berwick was the son of James the Second and Arabella Churchill. He had been brought up to expect the highest honors which an English subject could enjoy ; but the whole course of his life was changed by the revo- lution which overthrew his infatuated father. Berwick be- came an exile, a man without a country; and from that time forward his camp was to him in the place of a country, and professional honor was his patriotism. He ennobled his wretched calling. There was a stern, cold, Brutus-like virtue in the manner in which he discharged the duties of a soldier of fortune. His military fidelity was tried by th^ WAR OF THE StJCCESSlOK IK SPAIIT, 807 strongest temptations, and was found invincy^le. At one time he fought against liis uncle ; at another time he fought against tlie cause of his brother ; yet he was never sus- ] 3 ectcd of treachery, or even of slackness. Early in 1704, an army composed of English, Dutch, and Portuguese, was assembled on the western frontier of Spain. The Archduke Charles had arrived at Lisbon, and a])])eared in person at the head of his troops. The military skill of Berwick held the Allies, who were commanded by Lord Galway, in check through the whole campaign. On the south, however, a great blow was struck. An English lleet, under Sir George Rooke, having on board several regiments commanded by the Prince of Hesse Darmstadt, appeared before the rock of Gibraltar. That celebrated stronghold, which nature has made all but impregnable, and against which all the resources of the military art have been employed in vain, was taken as easily as if it had been an open village in a plain. The garrison went to say their prayers instead of standing on guard. A few English sailors climbed the rock. The Spaniards capitulated ; and *he British flag was placed on those ramparts from which the combined armies of France and Spain have never been able to pull it down. Rooke proceeded to Malaga, gave battle in the neighborhood of that port to a F rench squad- ron, and after a doubtful action returned to England. But greater events were at hand. The English govern- ment had determined to send an expedition to Spain, under the command of Charles Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough. This man was, if not the greatest, yet assuredly the most extraordinary character of that age, the King of Sweden himself not excepted. Indeed Peterborough may be de- scribed as a polite, learned, and amorous Charles the Twelfth. His courage had all the French impetuosity, and all the English steadiness. His fertility and activity of mind were almost beyond belief. They appeared in everything that he did, in his campaigns, in his negotiations, in his familiar correspondence, in his lightest and most unstudied conver- sation. He was a kind friend, a generous enemy, and in deportment a thorough gentleman. But his splendid talents and virtues were rendered almost useless to his country by his levity, his restlessness, his irritability, his morbid crav- ing for novelty and for excitement. His weaknesses had not only brought him, on more than one occasion, into seri- ous trouble; but had impelled him to some actions alto- 808 Macaulay’s miscellaneous weitixVgs. getli(3r unworthy of liis humane and noble nature. Repose was insupportable to him. He loved to fly round Europe faster than a travelling courier. He was at the Hague one week, at Vienna the next week. Then he took a fancy to see Madrid ; and he had scarcely seen Madrid, when he ordered horses and set off for Copenhagen. No attendants could keep up with his speed. No bodily infirmities could confine him. Old age, disease, imminent death, produced scarcely any effect on his intrepid spirit. Just before he underwent the most liorrid of surgical operations, his con- versation was as sprightly as that of a young man in the full vigor of health. On the day after the operation, in spite of the entreaties of his medical advisers, he would set out on a journey. His figure was that of a skeleton. But his elastic mind supported him under fatigues and sufferings which seemed sufficient to bring the most robust man to the grave. Cliange of employment wHs as necessary to him as change of place. He loved to dictate seven or eight letters at once. Those who had to transact business with him complained that though he talked with great ability on every subject, he could never be kept to the point. Lord Peterborough,” said Pope, ‘‘ would say very pretty and lively things in his letters, but they would be rather too gay and wandering ; whereas, were Lord Bolingbroke to write to an emperor, or to a statesman, he would fix on that point which was the most material, would set it in the strongest and finest light, and manage it so as to make it the most serviceable to his purpose.” What Peterborough was to Bolingbroke as a writer, he was to Marlborough as a general. He was, in truth, the last of the knights-errant, brave to temerity, liberal to profusion, courteous in his dealings with enemies, the protector of the oppressed, the adorer of women. His virtues and vices were those of the Round Table. Indeed, nis character can hardly be better summed up, than in the lines in which the author of that clever little poem. Monks and Giants^ has described Sir Tristram. “ His birth, it seems, by Merlin’s calculation, Was under Venus, Mercury, and Mars ; His mind with all their attributes was mixed. And, like those planets, wandering and unfixed. From realm to realm he ran, and never staid : Kingdoms and crowns he won and gave away s It seemed as if Ijis labors were repaid By the mere noise and movement of the fray : WAR OF THB SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 809 No conquests nor acquirements had iie made ; His chief deli^^ht was, on some festh e day, To ride triumphant, prodigal, and proud, And shower his wealth amidst the shouting crowd. “ His schemes of war were sudden, unforeseen, ' Inexplicable, both to friend and foe ; It seemed as if some momentary spleen Inspired the project and impelled the blow ; And most his fortune and success were seen With means the most inadequate and low; Most master of himself, and least encumbered, When overmatched, entangled, and outnumbered.**^ In June, 1705, tliis remarkable man arrived in Lisbon with five thousand Dutch and English soldiers. There the Archduke embarked with a large train of attendants, whom Peterborough entertained munificently during the voyage at his own expense. From Lisbon the armament proceeded to Gibraltar, and, having taken the Prince of Hesse Darm- stadt on board, steered towards the north-east along the coast of Spain. The first place at which the expedition touched, after leaving Gibraltar, was Alter, in Valencia. The wretched misgovernment of Philip had excited great discontent throughout this province. The invaders were eagerly wel- comed. The peasantry flocked to the shore, bearing pro- visions, and shouting, “ Long live Charles the Third.” The neighboring fortress of Denia surrendered without a blow. The imagination of Peterborough took fire. He con- ceived the hope of finishing the war at one blow. Madrid was but a hundred and fifty miles distant. There was scarcely one fortified place on the road. The troops of Philip were either on the frontiers of Portugal or on the coast of Catalonia. At the capital there was no military force, except a few horse who formed a guard of honor round the person of Philip. But the scheme of pushing into the heart of a great kingdom with an army of only seven thousand men, was too daring to please the Archduke. The Prince of Hesse Darmstadt, who, in the reign of the late King of Spain, had been Governor of Catalonir, rnd who overrated his own influence in that province, was of opinion that they ought instantly to proceed thither, and to attack Barcelona. Peterborough was hampered by his instructions, and 1‘ound it necessary to submit. On the sixteenth of August the fleet arrived before Bar- celona ; and Peterborough found that the task assigned to him by the Archduke and the Prince was one of almost 810 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. Biiperable difliculty. Ono side of the city was ])rotectcd by the sea ; tlic oilier by the strong fortifications of Monjuicb. TIic walls were so extensive that thirty thousand men would scarcely have been suflicient to invest them. The garrison was as numerous as the besieging army. The best officers in the Spanish service were in the town. The hopes which the Prince of Darmstadt had formed of a general rising in Catalonia, were grievously disappointed. The invaders were joined only by alDOut fifteen hundred armed j^easants, whose services cost more than they were worth. No general was ever in a more deplorable situation than that in which Peterborough was now placed. He had always objected to the scheme of besieging Barcelona. His objections had been overruled. He had to execute a project which he had constantly represented as impracticable. His camp was divided into hostile factions, and he was censured by all. The Archduke and the Prince blamed him for not proceed- ing instantly to take the town ; but suggested no plan by which seven thousand men could be enabled to do the work of thirty thousand. Others blamed their general for giving up his own opinion to the childish whims of Charles, and for sacrificing his men in an attempt to perform what was im- possible. The Dutch commander positively declared that his soldiers should not stir : Lord Peterborough might give what orders he chose ; but to engage in such a siege was madness ; and the men should not be sent to certain death where there was no chance of obtaining any advantage. At length, after three weeks of inaction, Peterborough announced his fixed determination to raise the siege. The heavy cannon were sent on board. Preparations were made for re-embarking the troops. Charles and the Prince of Hesse were furious ; but most of the ofiicers blamed their general for having delayed so long the measure which he had at last found it necessary to take. On the 12th of September there were rejoicings and public entertainments in Barcelona for this great deliverance. On the following morning the English flag was flying on the ramparts of Mon- juich. The genius and energy of one man had supplied the place of forty battalions. At midnight Peterborough had called on the Prince of Hesse, with whom he had not for some time been on speak- ing terms. “ I have resolved, sir,” said the Earl, “ to attempt an assault; you may accompany us if you think fit, and see whether X and my men deserve what yon have been pleased WAR OV THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 811 to say of us.” The Prince was startled. The attempt, he said, was hopeless, but he was ready to take his share ; and, without further discussion, he called for his horse. Fifteen Imndred English soldiers were assembled under the Earl. A thousand more had been posted as a body of reserve at a neighboring convent, under the command of Stanhope. After a winding march along the foot of the hills, Peterborough and his little army reached the walls of Monjuich. There they halted till daybreak. As soon as they were descried, the enemy advanced into the outer ditch to meet them. This was the event on which Peterborough had reckoned, and for which his men were prepared. The English received the fire, rushed forward, leaped into the ditch, put the Spaniards to flight, and entered the works to- gether with the fugitives. Before the garrison had recovered from their first surprise, the Earl was master of the out- works, had taken several pieces of cannon, and had thrown up a breastwork to defend his men. He then sent off for Stanhope’s reserve. While he was waiting for this reinforce- ment, news arrived that three thousand men were marching from Barcelona towards Monjuich. He instantly rode out to take a view of them ; but no sooner had he left his troops than they were seized with a panic. Their situation was in- deed full of danger ; they had been brought into Monjuich they scarcely knew how ; their numbers were small ; their general was gone ; their hearts failed them, and they were proceeding to evacuate the fort. Peterborough received information of these occurrences in time to stop the retreat. He galloped up to the fugitives, addressed a few words to them, and put himself at their head. The sound of his voice and the sight of his face restored all their courage, and they marched back to their former position. The Prince of Hesse had fallen in the confusion of the assault ; but everything else went well. Stanhope arrived ; the detachment which had marched out of Barcelona re- treated ; the heavy cannon were disembarked, and brought to bear on the inner fortifications of Monjuich, which speedily fell. Peterborough, with his usual generosity, res- cued the Spanish soldiers from the ferocity of his victorious army, and paid the last honors with great pomp to his rival the Prince of Hesse. The redibction of Monjuich was the first of a series of brilliant exploits. Barcelona fell; and Peterborough had the glory of taking, with a handful of men, one of the larrest MACAtJLAY^S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. and strongest towns of Europe. Tie had also the glory, not less dear to his cliivalrous temper, of saving the life and honor of the beautiful Duchess of Pof)oli, whom lie met fly- ing with dislievelled hair from the fury of the soldiers. He availed himself dexterously of the jealousy with which the Catalonians regarded the infiabitants of Castile. He guaran- teed to the province in the capital of which he was now quartered all its ancient rights and liberties, and thus suc- ceeded in attaching the population to the Austrian cause. The open country now declared in favor of Charles. Tarragona, Tortosa, Gerona, Lerida, San Mateo, threw op< n their gates. The Spanish government sent the Count of Ija Torres with seven thousand men to reduce San Mateo. The Earl of Peterborough, with only twelve hundred ^nen, raised the siege. His officers advised him to be content with this extraordinary success. Charles urged him to return to Barcelona ; but no remonstrance could stop such a spirit in the midst of such a career. It was the depth of winter. The country was mountainous. The roads were almost impassable. The men were ill-clothed. The horses were knocked up. The retreating army was far more numer- ous than the pursuing army. But difficulties and dangers vanished before the energy of Peterborough. He pushed on, driving Las Torres before him. Nules surrendered to the mere terror of his name ; and on the fourth of February, 1706, he arrived in triumph at Valencia. There he learned that a body of four thousand men was on the march to join Las Torres. He set out at dead of night from Valencia, passed the Xucar, came unexpectedly on the encampment of the enemy, and slaughtered, dispersed, or took the whole reinforcement. The Valencians could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw the prisoners brought in. In the mean time the Courts of Madrid and Versailles, exasperated and alarmed by the fall of Barcelona and by the revolt of the surrounding country, determined to make a great effort. A large army, nominally commanded by Philip, but really under the orders of Marshal Tesse, entered Catalonia. A fleet under the Count of Toulouse, one of the natural children of Lewis the Fourteenth, appeared before the port of Barcelona. The city was attacked at once by sea and land. The person of the Archduke was in consider- able danger. Peterborough, at the head of about three thousand men, marched with great rapidity from Valencia. To give battle, with so small a force, to a great regular WAR OF THF SUCCESSION IN^PAIN. 813 anny under tlie con cl net of a Marshal of France, would have been madness. The Earl therefore made war after the fashion of the Minas and Empecinados of our own time. He took his post on the neighboring mountains, harassed the enemy with incessant alarms, cut off their stragglers, intercepted their communications with the interior, and in- troduced supplies, both of men and provisions into the town. He saw, however, that the only hope of the besieged was on tlie side of the sea. His commission from the British gov- ernment gave him supreme power, not only over the army, but, whenever he should be actually on board, over the navy also. He put out to sea at night in an open boat, without communicating liis design to any person. He was picked up, several leagues from the shore, by one of the ships of the English squadron. As soon as he was on board, he an- nounced himself as first in command, and sent a pinnace with his orders to the Admiral. Had these orders been given a few hours earlier, it is probable that the whole French fleet would have been taken. As it was, the Count of Toulouse put out to sea. The port was open. The town was relieved. On the following night the enemy raised the siege and retreated to Roussillon. Peterborough returned to Valencia, a place whfeh he preferred to any other in Spain ; and Philip, who had been some weeks absent from his wife, could endure the misery of separation no longer, and flew to rejoin her at Madrid. At Madrid, however, it was impossible for him or for her to remain. The splendid success which Peterborough had obtained on the eastern coast of tlie Peninsula had in- spired the sluggish Galway with emulation. He advanced into the heart of Spain. Berwdek retreated. Alcantara, Ciudad Rodrigo, and Salamanca fell, and the conquerors marched towards the capital. Philip was earnestly pressed by his advisers to remove the seat of government to Burgos. The advanced guard of the allied army was already seen on the heights above Ma- drid. It was known that the main body was at hand. The unfox'tunate Prince fled with his Queen and his household. The royal wanderers, after travelling eight days on bad roads, under a burning sun, and sleeping eight nights in miserable hovels, one of which fell down and nearly crushed them both to death, reached the metropolis of Old Castile. In the mean time the invaders had entered Madrid in tri- umph, and had proclaimed the Archduke in the streets of MACAUL.y 'S JIISCKLLANEOUS ^VR1TINGS. the imperial city. Arragon, ever jealous of tlie Castilian asceiuleiicy, followed the example of Catalonia. Saragossa revolted without seeing an enemy. The governor whom Philip had set over Carthagena betrayed his trust, and sur- rendered to the Allies the best arsenal and the last ships which Spain possessed. Toledo had been for some time the retreat of two am- bitious, turbulent, and vindictive intriguers, the Queen Dowager and Cardinal Porto Carrero. They had long been deadly enemies. They had led the adverse factions of Austria and France. Each had in turn domineered over the weak and disordered mind of the late King. At length the impostures of the priest had triumphed over the bland- ishments of the woman ; Porto Carrero had remained vic- torious ; and the Queen had fled in shame and mortification, from the court where she had once been supreme. In her retirement she was soon joined by him whose arts had destroyed her influence. The Cardinal, having held power just long enough to convince all parties of his incompetency, had been dismissed to his See, cursing his own folly and the ingratitude of the Ilouse which he had served too well. Common interests and common enmities reconciled the fallen rivals. The Austrian troops were admitted into Toledo without opposition. The Queen Dowager flung off that mournful garb which the widow of a King of Spain wears through her whole life, and blazed forth in jewels. The Cardinal blessed the standards of the invaders in his magnificent cathedral, aud lighted up his palace in honor of the great deliverance. It seemed that the struggle had ter- minated in favor of the Archduke, and that nothing re- mained for Philip but a j^rompt flight into the dominions of his grandfather. So judged those who were ignorant of the character and habits of the Spanish people. There is no country in Europe which it is so easy to overrun as Spain ; there is no country in Europe which it is more difficult to conquer. Nothing can be more contemptible than the regular military resistance which Spain offers to an invader ; nothing more formidable than the energy which she puts forth when her regular military resistance has been beaten down. Her ar- mies have long borne too much resemblance to mobs ; but her mobs have had, in an unusual degree, the spirit of armies. The soldier, as compared Avith other soldiers, is deficient in military qualities; but the peasant has as much of those TTAK OF THE SUCCESSION IN STAIN. 815 qualities as the soldier. In no country have such strong fortresses been taken by surprise : in no country have un- fortified towns made so furious and obstinate a resistance to great armies. War in Spain has, since the days of the Romans, had a character of its own ; it is a fire which can- not be raked out; it burns fiercely under the embers; and long after it has, to all seeming, been extinguished, bursts forth more violently than ever. This was seen in the last war. Spain had no army which could have looked in the face an equal number of French or Prussian soldiers ; but cne day laid the Prussian monarchy in the dust ; one day put the crown of France at the disposal of invaders. No Jena, no Waterloo, would have enabled Joseph to reign in quiet at Madrid. The conduct of the Castilians throughout the War of the Succession was most characteristic. With all the odds of number and situation on their side, they had been igno- miniously beaten. All the European dependencies of the Spanish croAvn Avere lost. Catalonia, Arragon, and Valen- cia had acknoAvledged the Austrian Prince. Gibraltar had been taken by a few sailors ; Barcelona stormed by a few dismounted dragoons. The invaders had penetrated into the centre of the Peninsula, and Avere quartered at Madrid and Toledo. While these events had been in progress, the nation had scarcely given a sign of life. The rich could hardly be prevailed upon to give or to lend for the support of Avar ; the troops had shoAAm neither discipline nor cour- age ; and now at last, Avhen it seemed that all was lost, when it seemed that the most sanguine must relinquish all hope, the national spirit awoke, fierce, proud, and uncon- querable. The people had been sluggish Avhen the circum- stances might have inspired hope ; they reserved all their energy for Avhat appeared to be a season of despair. Cas* tile, Leon, Andalusia, Estremadura, rose at once; evei7 peasant procured a firelock or a pike ; the Allies were mas tcrs only of the ground on which they trod. No soldier could wander a hundred yards from the main body of the invading army without imminent risk of being poniarded. The country through which the conquerors had passed to Madrid, and Avhich, as they thought, they had subdued, Avas all ’n arms behind them. Their communications with Por- tugal Avere cut off. In the mean time, money began, for the first time, to flow rapidly into the treasury of the fugitive king, The day before yesterday,” says the 816 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. Orsini, in a letter written at this time, “ the priest of a vii* lage which contains only a hundred and twenty houses l>rought a hundred and twenty pistoles to the Queen. ‘My dock,’ said he, ‘ are asliamed to send you so little ; but they beg you to believe that in this purse there are a hundred and twenty liearts faithful even to the death.’ The good man wept as he spoke; and indeed we w^pt too. Yester- day another small village, in which there are only twei ty houses, sent us fifty pistoles.” While the Castilians 'were everywhere arming in the' cause of Phhip, the Allies were serving that cause as effec-- tiially by their mismanagement. Galway staid at Madrid, where his soldiers indulged in such boundless licentiousness that one half of them were in the hospitals. Charles re- mained dawdling in Catalonia. Peterborough had taken Kequena, and wished to march from Valencia towards Ma- drid, and to effect a junction with Galway; but the Arch- duke refused his consent to the plan. The indignant general remained accordingly in his favorite city, on the beautiful shores of the Mediterranean, reading Don Quixote, giving balls and su23pers, trying in vain to get some good sport out of the Valencia bulls, and making love, not in vain, to the Valencian women. At length the Archduke advanced into Castile, and or- dered Peterborough to join him. But it was too late. Berwick had already compelled Galway to evacuate Madrid ; and, when the whole force of the Allies was collected at Guadalaxara, it was found to be decidedly inferior in num- bers to that of the enemy. Peterborough formed a plan for regaining possession of the capital. His plan was rejected by Charles. The pa- tience of the sensitive and vainglorious hero was worn out. lie had none of that serenity of temper which enabled Marlborough to act in perfect harmony with Eugene, and to endure the vexatious interference of the Dutch deputies, lie demanded |:)ermission to leave the army. Pcnnission was readily granted ; and he set out for Italy. That there in ig] it be some pretext for his departure, he 'was comrnis^ sioned by the Archduke to raise a loan in Genoa on the Credit of the revenues of Spain. . From that moment to the end of the campaign the tide of fortune ran strong against the AiiStriah cause. Berwdck had placed his army betw^een the Allies and the frontiers of Portugal. They retreated on Valencia, Utud arrived In that WAR OF TDE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 817 province, leaving about ten tliousand prisoners in the hands of the enemy. In January, 1707, Peterborough arrived at Valencia from Italy, no longer bearing a public character, but merely as a volunteer. His advice was asked, and it seemS to have been most judicious. He gave it as his decided opinion tliat no offensive operations against Castile ouglit to be un- dertaken. It would be easy, he said, to defend Arragon, Catalonia, and Valencia, against Philip. The inhabitants of those parts of Spain were attached to the cause of the Aichdukc; and the armies of the House of Bourbon Avould be resisted by the whole population. In a short time the enthusiasm of the Castilians might abate. The government of I^hilip might commit unpo])ular acts. Defeats in the Netherlands might compel Lewis to withdraw the succors wliich he had furnished to his grandson. Then would be the time to strike a decisive blow. This excellent advice was rejected. Peterborough, who had now received formal letters of recall from England, departed before the opening of the campaign ; and with him departed the good fortune of the Allies. Scarcely any general had ever done so much with means so small. Scarcely any general had ever dis- played equal originality and boldness. He possessed, in the highest degree, the art of conciliating those whom he had subdued. But he was not equally successful in winning the attachment of those Avitli whom he acted. He was adored by the Catalonians and Valencians; but he was hated by the prince whom he had all but made a great king, and by the generals whose fortune and reputation were staked on the same venture with his own. The English government eould not understand him. He was so eccentric that they gave him no credit for the judgment which he really pos- sessed. One day he took towns with horse-soldiers ; then again he turned some hundreds of infantry into cavalry at a minute’s notice. He obtained his political intelligence ehiefly by means of love affairs, and filled his despatches with epigrams. The ministers thought that it would be highly impolitic to intrust the conduct of a Spanish war to so volatile and romantic a person. They therefore gave the command to Lord Galway, an experienced veteran, a man who ^vas in war what Moliere’s doctois were in medicine, who thought it much more honorable to fail according to ^’ule, than to succeed by innovation, and who would have fceen very much ashamed of himself if he' had taken Mon- VoL. 1.^62 818 Macaulay’s miscellaneous wettings.' juich by means so strange as tliosc wliich Peterborough em- ployed. This great commander conducted the campaign of 1707 in tlie most scientific manner. On the plain of Alman- za he encountered the army of the Bourbons. lie drew up his troops according to the methods prescribed by the be^ writers, and in a few hours lost eighteen thousand men, a hundred and twenty standards, all his baggage and all liis artillery. Valencia and Arragon were instantly conquered by the French, and, at the close of the year, the mountain- ous province of Catalonia was the only part of Spain which still adhered to Charles. ‘‘ Do you remember, child,” says the foolish woman in the Spectator to her husband, “ that the pigeon-house fell the very afternoon that our careless wench spilt the salt upon the table?” “Yes, my dear,” replies the gentleman, “and the next post brought us an account of the battle of Al- manza.” The approach of disaster in Spain had been for some time indicated by omens much clearer than the mishap of the saltcellar ; an ungrateful prince, an undisciplinea army, a divided council, envy triumphant over merit, a man of genius recalled, a pedant and a sluggard intrusted with supreme command. The battle of Almanza decided the fate of Spain. The loss was such as Marlborough or Eugene could scarcely have retrieved, and was certainly not to be retrieved by Stanhope and Staremberg. Stanhope, who took the command of the English army in Catalonia, was a man of respectable abilities, both in mili- tary and civil affairs, but fitter, we conceive, for a second than for a first place. Lord Mahon, with his usual candor, tells us, what we believe was not known before, that his ancestor’s most distinguished exploit, the conquest of Mi- norca, was suggested by Marlborough. Staremberg, a me- thodical tactician of the German school, was sent by the Emperer to command in Spain. Two languid campaigns followed, during which neither of the hostile armies did anything memorable, but during which both were nearly starved. At length, in 1710, the chiefs of the Allied forces resolved to venture on bolder measures. They began the campaign with a daring move, pushed into Arragon, defeated the troops of Philip at Almenara, defeated them again at Sara- gossa, and advanced to Madrid. The King was again a fugitive. The Castilians sprang to arms with the same en- thusiasm which they had displayed iu 1706, The WAR OF THE SUCCESSrOl^ IN SPAIN. 819 ors found llio capital a desert. Tlie people shut themselves up in their liouses, and refused to -pay any mark of respect to the Austrian prince. It was necessary to hire a few children to shout before him in the streets. Meanwdiile, the court of Philip at Valladolid was thronged by nobles and S relates. Thirty thousand peo])le followed their King from ladrid to his new residence. Women of rank, rather than remain behind, performed the journey on foot. The peas- ants enlisted by thousands. Money, arms, and provisions, were supplied in abundance by the zeal of the people. The country round Madrid was infested by small parties of irreg- ular horse. The Allies could not send off a dispatch to Arragon, or introduce a supply of provisions into the capital. It was unsafe for the Archduke to hunt in the im- mediate vicinity of the palace which he occupied. The wish of Stanhope was to winter in Castile. But he stood alone in the council of war; and, indeed, it is not easy to understand how the Allies could have maintained themselves, through so unpropitious a- season, in the midst of so hostile a population. Charles, whose personal safety was the first object of the generals, was sent with an escort of cavalry to Catalonia in November ; and in December the army commenced its retreat towards Aragon. But the Allies had to do with a master-spirit. The King of France had lately sent the Duke of Vendome to com- mand in Spain. This man was distinguished by the filthi- ness of his person, by the brutality of his demeanor, by the gross buffoonery of his conversation, and by the impudence with which he abandoned himself to the most nauseous of all vices. His sluggishness was almost incredible. Even when engaged in a campaign, he often passed whole days in his bed. His strange torpidity had been the cause of some of the most serious disasters which the armies of the House of Bourbon had sustained. But when he was roused by any great emergency, his resources, his energy, and his presence of mind, were such as had been found in no French general since the death of Luxembourg. At this crisis, Vendome was all himself. He set out from Talavera with his troops, and pursued the retreating army of the Allies with a speed perhaps never equalled, in such a season, and in such a country. He marched night and day. He swam, at the head of his cavalry, the flooded stream of Henares, and, in a few days, overtook Stanhope, who was at Brihuega with the left wing of the Allied army s 820 IIACAUT.AY'B MrSCl:LLAN’‘!:OU.S W11IT1N-G3* ‘‘Nobody with me,” says tlie Englisli general, “ imagined that tliey had any foot witjiin some days’ marcli of us; and our misfortune is owing to tlie incredible diligence which their army made.” Stanho])C had l>ut just time to send off a messenger to the centre of the army, which was some ..eagues from Brihuega, before Vendome was upon him. Tlie town was invested on every side. The walls were battered with cannon. A mine was sprung under one of the gates. The English kept up a terrible fire till their powder was spent. They then fought desperately with the bayonet against overwhelming odds. They burned the houses which the assailants had taken. But all was to no purpose. The British general saw that resistance could produce only a use- less carnage. lie concluded a capitulation ; and his gallant little army became prisoners of war on honorable terms. Scarcely had Vendome signed the capitulation, when he learned that Staremberg was marching to the relief of Stan- hope. Preparations were instantly made for a general action. On the day following that on which the English had delivered up their arms, was fought the obstinate and bloody fight of Villa-Viciosa. Staremberg remained master of the field. Vendome reaped all the fruits of the battle. The Allies spiked their cannon, and retired towards Arragon. But even in Arragon they found no place of rest. Vendome was behind them. The guerilla parties were around them. They fled to Catalonia; but Catalonia was invaded by a French army from Roussillon. At length the Austrian gen- eral, with six thousand harassed and dispirited men, the remains of a great and victorious army, took refuge in Barcelona, almost the only place in Spain which still recog- nized the authority of Charles. PhilijD was now much safer at Madrid than his grand- father at Paris. All hope of conquering Spain in Spain was at an end. But in other quarters the House of Bourbon was reduced to the last extremity. The French armies had undergone a series of defeats in Germany, in Italy, and in the Netherlands. An immense force, flushed with victory, and commanded by the greatest generals of the age, was on the borders of France. Lewis had been forced to humble himself before the conquerers. He had even offered to abandon the cause of his grandson ; and his offer had been rejected. But a great turn in affairs was approaching. The English administrntion which had commenced the War agamst the House of Bourbon was an administration tV'AR OF THE SUCCESSlOJt SPAIK. §21 Composed of Tories. But the war was a Whig war. It was the favorite scheme of William, the Whig King. Lewis" had provoked it by recognizing, as sovereign of England, a f )rince peculiarly hateful to the Whigs. It had placed Eng- and in a position of marked hostility to that power from which alone the Pretender could expect efficient succor. It had joined England in the closest union to a Protestant and republican state, to a state which had assisted in bringing • about the Re\ olution, and which was willing to guarantCv^ the execution of the Act of Settlement. Marlborough and Godolphin found that they were more zealously supported by their old opponents than by their old associates. Those ministers who were zealous for the war were gradually con- verted to Whiggism. The rest dropped off, and were suc- ceeded by Whigs. Cowper became Chancellor. Sunder- land, in spite of the very just antipathy of Anne, was made Secretary of State. On the death of the Prince of Den- mark a more extensive change took place. Wharton be- came Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and Somers President of the Council. At length the administration was wholly in the hands of the Low Church party. In the year 1710 a violent change took place. The Queen had always been a Tory at heart. Her religious feelings were all on the side of the Established Church. Her family feelings pleaded in favor of her exiled brother. Her selfish feelings disposed her to favor the zealots of pre- rogative. The affection which she felt for the Duchess of Marlborough was the great security of the Whigs. That affec- tion had at length turned to deadly aversion. While the great party which had long swayed the destinies of Europe was undermined by bedchamber women at St. James’s, a violent storm gathered in the country. A foolisli parson had preached a foolish sermon against the principles of tho Revolution. The wisest members of the government wero for letting the man alone. But Godolphin, inflamed with all the zeal of a new-made Whig, and exasperated by a nick- name which was applied to him in this unfortunate dis- course, insisted that the preacher should be impeached. The exhortations of the mild and sagacious Somers were disregarded. The impeachment was brought ; the doctor was convicted ; and the accusers were ruined. The clergy came to the rescue of the persecuted clergyman. The coun- try gentlemen came to the rescue of the clergy. A display of Tory feelings, such as England had not witnessed since 822 MACAULAY^S MISCELLANEOUS 'WRl'IINO^. tho closing years of Charles the Second’s reign, appalled the Ministers and gave boldness to the Queen. She turned out the Whigs, called Harley and St. John to power, and dis- Bolvcd the Parliament. The elections went strongly against the late government. Stanhope, who had in his absence been put into nomination for Westminster, was defeated by a Tory candidate. The new Ministers, finding themselves masters of the new Parliament, were induced by the strongest motives to conclude a peace with France. The w^hole system of alliance in which the country was engaged was a Whig system. The general by whom the English armies had constantly been led to victory, and for whom it was impossible to find a substitute, was now, whatever he might formerly have been, a Whig general. If Marlborough were discarded it was probable that some great disaster would follow. Yet, if he were to retain his command, every great action which he might perform would raise the credit of the party in opposition. A peace was therefore concluded between England and the Princes of the House of Bourbon. Of that peace Lord Mahon speaks in terms of the severest reprehension. He is, indeed, an excellent Whig of the time of the first Lord Stanhope. ‘‘ I cannot but pause for a moment,” says he, ‘‘ to observe how much the course of a century has inverted the meaning of our party nicknames, how much a modern Tory resembles a Whig of Queen Anne’s reign, and a Tory of Queen Anne’s reign a modern Whig.” We grant one half of Lord Mahon’s proposition: from the other half we altogether dissent. We allow that a modern Tory resembles, in many things, a Whig of Queen Anne’s reign. It is natural that such should be the case. The worst things of one age often resemble the best things of another. A modern shopkeeper’s house is as well fur- nished as the house of a considerable merchant in Anne’s leign. Very plain people now wear finer cloth than Beau Fielding or Beau Edgeworth could have procured in Queen Anne’s reign. We would rather trust to the apothecary of a modern village than to the physician of a large town m Anne’s reign. A modern boarding-school miss could tell the most learned professor of Anne’s reign some things iii geography, astronomy, and chemistry, which would surprise him. The science of government is an experimental science ; and therefore it is, like all other experimental sciences, 3 WAR OF THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 823 proc^'cssivc science. Lord Mnhon would have been a very good Whig in tlie days of Harley. But Harley, whom Lord Mahon censures so severely, was very Whiggish when com- pared even with Clarendon ; and Clarendon was quite a demo- crat whon compared with Lord Burleigh. If Lord Mahon lives, as we hope he will, fifty years longer, we have no doubt that, as he now boasts of the resemblance which the Tories of our time bear to the Whigs of the Revolution, ho will then boast of the resemblance borne by the Tories of 1882 to those immortal patriots, the Whigs of the Reform Bill. Society, we believe, is constantly advancing in knowl- edge. The tail is now where the head was some generations ago. But the head and the tail still keep their distance. A nurse of this century is as wise as a justice of the quorum and cust-alorum in Shallow’s time. The wooden spoon of this year would puzzle a senior wrangler of the reign of George the Second. A boy from the National School reads and spells better than half the knights of the shire in the October Club. But there is still as wide a difference as ever between justices and nurses, senior wranglers and wooden spoons, members of Parliament and children at charity schools. In the same way, though a Tory may now be very like what a Whig wa.s a hundred and twenty years ago, the Whig is as much in advance of the Tory as ever. The stag, in the Treatise on the Bathos, who “ feared his hind feet would o’ertake the fore,” was not more mistaken than Lord Mahon, if he thinks that he has really come up with the Whigs. The absolute position of the parties has been altered ; the relative position remains unchanged. Through the whole of that great movement, which began before these party-names existed, and which will continue after they have become obsolete, through the whole of that great movement of which the Charter of John, the institu- tion of the House of Commons, the extinction of Villanage, the separation- from the see. of Rome, the expulsion of the Stuarts, the reform of the Representative System, are suc- cessive stages, there have been, under some name or other, two sets of men, those who were before their age, and those w ho were behind it, those who were the wisest among their contemporaries, and tliose who gloried in being no wiser than their great grandfathers. It is delightful to think, that, in due time, the last of those who straggle in the rear of the great march will occupy the place now occupied by the ad- vanced giiard. The Tory Parliament of 1710 would hav« MACAULAY'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. E assed lor a most liberal Parliament in the days of Eliza- etli ; and there are at present few members of tlie Con- servative Club who would not have been fully (puilified to sit with Halifax and Somers at the Kit-cat. Though, tliereforc, we admit that a modern Tory bears some resemblance to a Whig of Queen Anne’s reign, we can by no means admit that a Tory of Anne’s reign resembled a modern Whig. Have the modern Whigs passed laws for the purpose of closing the entrance of the House of Com- mons against the new interests created by trade. Do the modern Whigs hold the doctrine of divine right? Have the modern Whigs labored to exclude all Dissenters from office and Power ? The modern Whigs are, indeed, at the present moment, like the Tories of 1712, desirous of peace, and of close union with France. But is there no difference between the France of 1712 and the France of 1832? Is France now the stronghold of the “ Popish tyranny ” and the “ arbitrary power ” against which our ancestors fought and prayed ? Lord Mahon will find, we think, that this parallel is, in all essential circumstances, as incorrect as that which Fluellen drew between Macedon and Monmouth, or as that which an ingenious Tory lately discovered between Archbishop Williams and Archbishop Vernon. We agree with Lord Mahon in thinking highly of the Whigs of Queen Anne’s reign. But that part of their con- duct which he selects for especial praise is precisely the part which we think most objectionable. We revere them as the great champions of political and of intellectual liberty. It is true that, when raised to power, they were net exempt from the faults which power naturally engenders. It is true that they were men born in the seventeenth century, and <^hat they were therefore ignorant of many truths which are familiar to the men of the nineteenth century. But they were, what the reformers of the Church were before them, and what the reformers of the House of Commons have been since, the leaders of their species in a right direction. It is true that they did not allow to political discussion that latitude which to us appears reasonable and safe ; but to them we owe the removal of the Censorship. It is true that they did not carry the principle of religious liberty to its full extent; but to them we owe the Toleration Act. Though, however, we think that the Whigs of Anne’s reign, were, as a body, far superior in wisdom and public virtue to their contemporaries the Tories^ we by no means WAU or TnE SUCCESSION In SPAilf. 825 hold ourselves bound to defend all llie measures our favorite party. A life of action, if it is to be useful, must be a life of compromise. But speculation admits of no compromise. A public man is often under the necessity of consenting to measures which he dislikes, lest he should endanger the success of measures which he thinks of vital importance. But the historian lies under no such necessity. On the contrary, it is one of his most sacred duties to point out clearly the errors of those whose general conduct lie admires. It seems to us, then, that, on the great question which divided England during the last four years of Anne’s reign, the Tories were in the right, and the Whigs in the wrong. That question Avas, Avhether England ought to conclude peace without exacting from Philip a resignation of the Spanish croAvn ? No Parliamentary struggle, from the time of the Ex- clusion Bill to the time of the Keform Bill, has been so Auolent as that which took place between the authors of the Treaty of Utrecht and the War Party. The Commons were for peace; the Lords were for vigorous hostilities. The queen was compelled to choose which of her two highest prerogatives she would exercise, whether she w^ould create Peers or dissolve the Parliament. The ties of party superseded the ties of neighborhood and of blood. The members of the hostile factions would scarcely speak to each other, or boAv to each other. The women appeared at the theatres bearing the badges of their political sect. The schism extended to the most remote counties of England. Talents, such as had seldom before been displayed in polit- ical controversy, were enlisted in the service of the hostile parties. On one side was Steele, gay, lively, drunk with animal spirits and with factious animosity, and Addison, with his polished satire, his inexhaustible fertility of fancy, and his graceful simplicity of style. In the front of the opposite ranks appeared a darker and fiercer spirit, the apostate politician, the ribald priest, the perjured lover, a heart burning Avith hatred against the whole human race, a mind richly stored Avitli images from the dunghill and the lazar-house. The ministers triumphed, and the peace was concluded. Then came the reaction. A new soA^ereign ascended the throne. The Whigs enjoyed the confidence of the King and of the Parliament. The unjust severity with which the Tories had treated Maidborough and Wab 826 MACACTLAY^S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. ])olo was more tlian retaliated. Harley and Prior were thrown into jjrison ; Bolingbroke and Ormond were com- oeiled to take refuge in a foreign land. The wounds in- flicted in this desperate conflict continued to rankle for many years. It was long before the members of either ])arty could discuss the question of the peace of Utrecht with calmness and impartiality. That the Whig Ministers liad sold us to the Dutch ; that the Tory Ministers had sold ns to the French ; that the war had been carried on only to fill the pockets of Marlborough ; that the peace had been concluded only to facilitate the return of the Pretender ; these imputations and many others, utterly unfounded, or grossly exaggerated, were hurled backward and forward by the political disputants of the last century. In our time the question may be discussed without irritation. We will state, as concisely as possible, the reasons which have led us to the conclusion at which we have arrived. The dangers which were to be apprehended from the peace were two ; first, the danger tliat Philip might be in- duced, by feelings of private affection, to act in strict con- cert with the elder branch of his house, to favor the French trade at the expense of England, and to side with the French government in future wars ; secondly, the danger that the posterity of the Duke of Burgundy might become extinct, that Philip might become heir by blood to the French crown, and that thus two great monarchies might be united under one sovereign. The first danger appears to us altogether chimerical. Family affection has seldom produced much effect on the policy of princes. The state of Europe at the time of the peace of Utrecht proved that in politics the ties of interest are much stronger than those of consanguinity or affinity. Tl] e Elector of Bavaria had been driven from his dominions l>y his father-in-law ; Victor Amadeus was in arms against Ids sons-in-law ; Anne was seated on a throne from which she had assisted to push a most indulgent father. It is true that Philip had been accustomed from childhood to regard his grandfather wdth profound veneration. It was probable, therefore, that the influence of Lewis at Madrid would be very great. But Lewis was more than seventy years old ; he could not live long ; his heir was an infant in the cradle. There was surely no reason to think that the policy of the King of Spain would be swayed by his regard for a nephew whom he had never seen. WAK OF THE SUCCESSIOK IK SPAIK. 827 In fact, soon after the peace, the two branches of the House of Bourbon began to quarrel. A close alliance was formed between Philip and Charles, lately competitors for the Castilian crown. A Spanish princess, betrothed to the King of France, was sent back in the most insulting manner to her native country ; and a decree was put forth by the Court of Madrid commanding every Frenchman to leave Spain. It is true that, fifty years after the peace of Utrecht, an alliance of peculiar strictness was formed between the French and Spanish governments. But both governments were actuated on that occasion, not by domestic affection, but by common interests, and common enmities. Their compact, though called the Family Compact, was as purely a political compact as the league of Cambrai or the league of Pilnitz. The second danger was that Philip-might have succeeded to the crown of his native country. This did not happen : but it might have happened ; and at one time it seemed very hkely to happen. A sickly child alone stood between the King of Spain and the heritage of Lewis the Fourteenth. Philip, it is true, solemnly renounced his claim to the French crown. But the manner in which he had obtained posses- sion of the Spanish crown had proved the inefiicacy of such renunciations. The French lawyers declared Philip’s re- nunciation null, as being inconsistent with the fundamental law of the realm. The French people would probably have sided with him whom they would have considered as the rightful heir. Saint Simon, though much less zealous for hereditary monarchy than most of his countrymen, and though strongly attached to the Regent, declared, in the pres- ence of that prince, that he never would support the claims of the House of Orleans against those of the King of Spain. ‘Hf such,” he said, “ be my feelings, Tvhat must be the feel- ings of others ? ” Bolingbroke, it is certain, was fully con- vinced that the renunciation was worth no more than the paper on which it was written, and demanded it only for the purpose of blinding the English Parliament and people. Yet, though it was at one time probable that the poster « :ty of the Duke of Burgundy would become extinct, and though it is almost certain that, if the posterity of the Duke of Burgundy had become extinct, Philip would have suc- cessfully preferred his claim to the crown of France, we still defend the principle of the treaty of Utrecht. In the first place, Charles had, soon after the battle of Villa-Viciosa, 8i^8 Macaulay’s miscellaneous writings. inherited, by the death of liis elder brother, all the domin- ions of the House of Austria. Surely, if to these dominions he had added the whole monarchy of Spain, the balance of power would liave been seriously endangered. The union of the Austrian dominions and Spain would not, it is true, have been so alarming an event as the union of France and Spain. But Charles was actually Emperor. Philip was not, and never might be. King of France. The certainty of the less evil might well be set against the chance of tha greater evil. But, in fact, we do not believe that Spain would long have remained under the government either of an Emperor or of a King of France. The character of the Spanish peo- ])lc was a better security to the nations of Europe than any will, any instrument of renunciation, or any treaty. The same energy which the people of Castile had put forth when Madrid was occupied by the Allied armies, they would have again put forth as soon as it appeared that their country was about to become a French province. Though they were no longer masters abroad, they were by no means disposed to see foreigners set over them at home. If Philip had attempted to govern Spain by mandates from Versailles, a second Grand Alliance would easily have effected what the first had failed to accomplish. The Spanish nation would have rallied against him as zealously as it had before rallied round him. And of this he seems to have been fully aware. For many years the favorite hope of his heart was that he might ascend the throne of his grandfather; but he seems never to have thought it possible that he could reign at once in the country of his adoption and in the country of his birth. These were the dangers of the peace ; and they seem to us to be of no very formidable kind. Against these dan- gers are to be set off the evils of war and the risk of failure. The evils of the war, the waste of life, the suspension of trade, the expenditure of wealth, the accumulation of debt, require no illustration. The chances of failure it is difficult at this distance of time to calculate with accuracy. But we think that an estimate approximating to the truth may, without much difficulty, be formed. The Allies had been victorious in Germany, Italy, and Flanders. It was by no means improbable that they might fight their way into the very heart of France. But at no time since the commence- ment of the war had their prospects been so dark in that WAR OF THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN. 829 country which was the very object of the struggle. In Spain they held only a few square leagues. The temper of the great majority of the nation w^as decidedly hostile to them. If they had persisted, if they had obtained success equal to their highest expectations, if they had gained a series of victories as splendid as those of Blenheim and Ramilies, if Paris had fallen, if Lewis had been a prisoner, we still doubt whether they w^ould have accomplished their object. They would still have had to carry on interminable hostilities against the whole population of a country which affords peculiar facilities to irregular warfare, and in which invading armies suffer more from famine than from the sword. We are, therefore, for the peace of Utrecht. We are indeed no admirers of the statesmen who concluded that peace. Harvey, we believe, was a solemn trifler, St. John a brilliant knave. The great body of their followers con- sisted of the country clergy and the country gentry ; two classes of men who were then inferior in intelligence to decent shopkeepers or farmers of our time. Parson Barna- bas, Parson Trulliber, Sir Wilful Witwould, Sir Francis Wronghead, Squire Western, Squire Sullen, such were the people who composed the main strength of the Tory party during the sixty years which followed the Revolution. It is true that the means by which the Tories came into power in 1710 were most disreputable. It is true that the manner in which they used their power was often unjust and cruel. It is true that, in order to bring about their favorite projects of peace, they resorted to slander and deception, without the slightest scruple. It is true that they passed off on the British nation a renunciation which they knew to be invalid. It is true that they gave up the Catalans to the vengeance of Philip, in a manner inconsistent with humanity and national honor. But on the great question of Peace or War, we cannot but think that, though their motives may have been selfisli and malevolent, their decision was beneficial to the state. But we have already exceeded our limits. It remains only for us to bid Lord Mahon heartily farewell, and to assure him that, whatever dislike we may feel for his political opinions, we shall always meet him with pleasure on the neutral ground of literature^