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ESSAYS. 
 
ESSAYS 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 CLEMENT MANSFIELD mOLEBY, 
 
 M.A., LL.D., V.P.R.S.L. 
 
 EDITED BY HIS SON. 
 
 LONDON: 
 TRiJBNER & CO., LUDGATE HILL. 
 
 1888. 
 
 [All rights reserved. ] 
 
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Of the essays included in this volume, four are now 
 printed for the first time, viz. : ' A Dialogue on the 
 Perception of Objects,' ' Law and Religion,' ' Romantic 
 History,' and ' A Voice for the Mute Creation.' The 
 first of these, though complete in itself, was intended 
 to be only one of a series on the same subject. Five 
 were actually written, but, on the advice of a friend, 
 the late George Henry Lewes, who objected to the dia- 
 logue form, my father refrained from publishing them. 
 What became of the complete MS. I do not know. 
 In addition to what is here presented I have been 
 able to find only a fragment of the second Dialogue. 
 
 The essay entitled ' A Voice for the Mute Creation ' 
 was delivered in the form of a lecture at the Reading- 
 Room, Ilford : that 'On some Traces of the Authorship of 
 the Works attributed to Shakespeare,' before the Royal 
 Society of Literature : that on ' The Mutual Relations 
 of Theory and Practice,' before the Birmingham Young 
 Men's Mental Improvement and Mental Aid Association. 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 The essays on Bacon, Coleridge, and De Quincey 
 appeared in the British Controversialist some years 
 ago, having formed part of a series published in that 
 magazine under the title of ' Many-Sided llinds.' 
 
 The essay entitled ' The Ideality of the Rainbow ' 
 appeared in the Fortnightly Review, ' An Estimate of 
 Wordsworth' in Hiher7iia, a Dublin publication, and 
 the essay on Henry Thomas Buckle in The Church of 
 our Saviour Magazine, Birmingham. 
 
 I have to thank the proprietors of the above maga- 
 zines for their courtesy in permitting the re-publication 
 of these Essays. 
 
 HOLCOMEE INGLEBY. 
 
 Valentines, Ilfokd, 
 
 October 29, 1887. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ^I. On Some Tkaoes of the Authorship of the 
 
 Works attributed to Shakespeare . i 
 
 ^ II. On the Mutual Relations of Theory and Prac- 
 tice . . . . . .35 
 
 ^III. A Dialogue on the Perception of Objects . 65 
 
 ^ IV. The Ideality of the Rainbow . . 87 
 
 V. Law and Religion . . ... 103 
 
 ^VI. Romantic History . 121 
 
 ^VII. Francis Bacon— Part I. 145 
 
 VIII. „ „ Part II. 170 
 
 IX. Samuel Taylor Coleridge— The Poet . . .190 
 
 X. „ „ „ The Divine . . 225 
 
 XI. An Estimate of Wordsworth . . 251 
 
 , XII. Thomas de Quincey ... . .270 
 
 XIII. Henry Thomas Suckle . . 292 
 
 XIV. A Voice for the Mute Creation . 303 
 
ON SOME TRACES OF THE AUTHORSHIP 
 OF THE WORKS ATTRIBUTED TO 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 One does not look for popularity in the attempt to dis- 
 turb a popular belief. One may, nevertheless, bespeak 
 a favourable consideration for the most startling views 
 if only they are supported by facts, and their advocacy 
 is addressed to a competent tribunal. 
 
 An American essayist, who speaks from an intellectual 
 eminence which justifies the speculation, asserts : — 
 
 " that what is best written or done by genius, in the world, was 
 no man's work, but came by wide social labour, when a thousand 
 wrought like one, sharing the same impulse." ^ 
 
 He points to the English Bible, the Anglican Eitual, 
 and the Dramas of Shakespeare, as examples in point. 
 He remembers, and so must we, that Shakespeare did 
 not write for fame ; that he claimed no property in his 
 published works, and did not assert their originality. 
 If their whole merit has been assigned to him, it was 
 by no act of his. They were produced for representa- 
 tion, not for literature, and their producer was rather a 
 showman than an author. 
 
 I ' Representative Men,' by R. W. Emerson. A like passage occurs 
 in his masterly Fssay on Compensation, Essays, 1841, p. io8. 
 
 A 
 
2 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WORKS 
 
 The time may come when every personal interest 
 about the man will be forgotten, when the schoolboys 
 of an American empire will confound the man with his 
 works, as schoolboys nowadays are said sometimes to 
 look upon Euclid as the name of a science. When that 
 time comes, the reading public will be no more astonished 
 by the assertion that Lord Bacon wrote Shakespeare than 
 we are by the assertion that Babrius wrote ./Bsop. 
 
 But at present we have not wholly identified Shake- 
 speare with " his booke," and when ]\Irs. Kitty, in 
 Garrick's farce, asks, " Who wrote Shakespeare ? " and 
 my Lord Duke replies, " Ben Jonson," the humour is 
 still as fresh as the day when it was written. 
 
 Before entertaining Mrs. Kitty's question, we must 
 determine in what sense it is to be understood. If the 
 inquiry be after some one man who originated, designed, 
 and executed the various dramas of the " booke," let us 
 consider whether such a requirement would be reason- 
 able in the case of any great work of art. Was 
 Tennyson the sole author of those Arthurian Romances 
 which have won for him a corner of Spenser's footstool ? 
 Not at all. The legends and materials were made to 
 his hand. Yet, in the truest sense, Tennyson may be 
 called the author of the ' Idylls of the King,' for he re- 
 imagined and re-created them, without infringing the 
 rights of another. In this sense, then, was the actor, 
 William Shakespeare, the author of ' The IMerry Wives 
 of Windsor,' ' The Taming of the Shrew,' ' The Life and 
 Death of King John,' ' The Life of King Henry V.,' the 
 three parts of ' King Henry VI.,' ' The Life of King 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 3 
 
 Henry VIII.,' ' Titus Andronicus,' ' Romeo and Juliet,' 
 'Timon of Athens,' 'Hamlet,' and 'Pericles'? It 
 seems not. You may suppose I have not selected those 
 thirteen plays at random. The fact is, that not one of 
 them is free from the suspicion that another hand has 
 contributed to that fame which has been appropriated 
 to Shakespeare alone. 
 
 We are here introduced into the thick of some of the 
 most intricate problems of dramatic criticism, which I 
 can only glance at now. Among the waifs which the 
 wreck of the early Elizabethan drama has bequeathed 
 to us are four plays bearing the following names : — 
 ' The Troublesome Eeigne of John, Eling of England,' 
 4to, 1591, 1611, 1622; ' The First Part of the Conten- 
 tion betwixt the Two Famous Houses of Yorke and 
 Lancaster,' small 8to, 1594, and 4to, 1600 and 1619; 
 ' The True Tragedie of Eichard, Duke of Yorke,' 4to, 
 1595, 1600, and 1619; and 'A Pleasant Conceited 
 Historie called the Taming of a Shrew,' 4to, 1594, 1596, 
 and 1607. 
 
 These respectively correspond to four of the plays 
 attributed to Shakespeare, viz., ' The Life and Death 
 of King John,' the second and third parts of ' King 
 Henry VI.,' and ' The Taming of the Shrew.' 
 
 It is nearly certain that Shakespeare did not write 
 a line of the old ' King John,' on which he constructed 
 his play so named. It is equally certain that he had 
 no hand whatever in the old ' Taming of a Shrew,' which 
 we have every reason for believing to have been written 
 by Christopher Marlow; but, on the other hand, he 
 
4 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WORKS 
 
 would be a " rash intruding fool " who should assert 
 that Shakespeare had used this play in the composition 
 of his own. Some day the knot will be untied ; and 
 then we shall see Mr. Charles Knight's conjecture 
 established by the discovery of evidence that Marlow 
 and Shakespeare used one and the same original in the 
 composition of their dramas. I wish it were possible 
 for us to see our way as clearly in dealing with ' The 
 rirst Part of the Contention ' and ' The True Tragedie.' 
 They s«em to have been originally the joint compositions 
 of Marlow and Robert Greene, not improbably touched 
 by Shakespeare subsequently, and exhibiting those 
 touches in the edition of 1619 ; anyhow, Mario w's hand 
 is unmistakably apparent in both plays. The following 
 examples are adduced in support of this view by Mr. 
 Halliwell in his edition of the ' First Sketches of II. 
 and III. Henry VI.,' printed for the Shakespeare 
 Society, 1843 : — 
 
 The wild O'Neile, my lord, is The wild O'Neile, -n-ith swarms 
 
 up in arms, of Irish kernes, 
 
 "With troupes of Irish kernes, Lives uncontrourd within the 
 
 that uncontroul'd English pale. 
 
 Do plant themselves within the Marloio's Edward II. 
 English pale. 
 First Part of the Contention. 
 
 This villain, being hut cap- I rememher, Ismena, that 
 
 tain of a pinnace, threatens Epicurus measured every man's 
 more plagues than Abradas, dyet by his own principles, and 
 the great Macedonian pirate. Abradas, the great Macedonian 
 — Ibid. pirat, thought every one had a 
 
 letter of mart that bare sayles 
 in the ocean. — Gi-een's Pene- 
 lope's Weh, 1 5 88. 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 5 
 
 What, will the aspiring blood But when the imperial lion's 
 
 of Lancaster flesh is gored, 
 
 Sink into the ground ? I He rends and tears it with his 
 thought it would have wrathful paw, 
 
 mounted. And highly scorning, that the 
 
 True Tragedie. lowly earth 
 
 Should drink his blood, mounts 
 up to the air. 
 
 Marlow's Edward II. 
 
 Stern Falconbridge commands The haughty Dane commands 
 the narrow seas. — Ibid. the narrow seas. — Ibid. 
 
 I am, however, far from sure tliafc the argument 
 founded on these and other similarities between the 
 ' Contention ' and the works of Marlow and of Greene 
 would not go to prove that some of the very additions 
 to the old plays, in II. and III. ' Henry VI.,' with 
 which Shakespeare is credited, were the work of one or 
 other of his contemporaries. I give one example to 
 show what I mean. In II. ' Henry VI.,' i. 3, occurs 
 the line : — 
 
 " She bears a duke's revenues on her back." 
 
 In the 4to, 16 19, of the 'First Part of the Conten- 
 tion,' the line stands thus : — 
 
 " She bears a duke's whole revenues on her back ; " 
 
 but it is wholly wanting in the earlier editions ; and it 
 is this edition of 16 19 which Mr. Halliwell regards as 
 an intermediate version, presenting Shakespeare's first 
 draft of II. ' Henry VI.' Now this very addition is 
 
6 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WORKS 
 
 almost wholly tlie property of Marlow, for in his 
 ' Edward II.' we read — 
 
 " He wears a lord's revenue on his back." 
 
 Here then is an intricate problem. Was Marlow the 
 amender of the old play of the ' First Part of the Con- 
 tention ' ? and was Shakespeare a purloiner from 
 Marlow ? Perhaps neither. 
 
 In order to show in what manner Shakespeare availed 
 himself of the old plays of ' The First Part of the Con- 
 tention' and 'The True Tragedie,' I will adduce five 
 passages from these plays, and place in juxtaposition 
 with them the corresponding passages in the second and 
 third parts of ' King Henry VI.' Further with a view 
 to afford the reader the means of apprsciating the true 
 character of the quarto edition of 1619, which contains 
 both parts of the ' Contention,' I have added the corre- 
 sponding passages in this edition, which Mr. Halliwell 
 regards as " an intermediate composition." I need only 
 add that, with the exception of a passage containing the 
 genealogy of the Duke of York, there is none other 
 which countenances, or at least supports, Mr. Halliwell's 
 view. The other variations are (as it seems to me) of 
 no greater significance than the general run of various 
 readings in the early quarto editions of Shakespeare, 
 and which assuredly have no source more respectable 
 than the blunders of printers and copyists, and the 
 tinkerings of players. 
 
 (i.) " Humphrey. This night when I was laid in bed, I dreampt 
 that 
 This my staffe mine Office badge in Court, 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 7 
 
 Was broke in two, and on the ends were plac'd, 
 
 The heads of the Cardinall of Winchester, 
 
 And William de la Poule first Duke of Suffolke." 
 
 The First Part of the Contention, 4to, 1 594. 
 
 " This night when I was laid in bed, I dreamt 
 That this my stafie, mine ofiice badge in Court, 
 Was broke in twaine, by whom I cannot gesse : 
 But as I thinke by the Cardinall. What it bodes 
 God knowes ; and on the ends were plao'd 
 The heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset, 
 And William de la Pole first Duke of Suffolke." 
 
 Ibid., 4to, 16 19. 
 
 " Methought this staff, mine office-badge in Court, 
 Was broke in twain ; by whom I have forgot, 
 But as I think, it was by the Cardinal ; 
 And on the pieces of the broken wand 
 Were placed the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset, 
 And William de la Pole, first Duke of Suffolk. 
 This was my dream : what it doth bode, God knows." 
 
 II. Henry VI., folio, 1623. 
 
 (2.) " Elnor. He come after you, for I cannot go before. 
 But ere it be long. He go before them all, 
 Despight of all that seeke to crosse me thus." 
 
 The First Part of the Contention, 4to, 1594. 
 
 " He come after you, for I cannot go before. 
 As long as Gloster beares this base and humble minde : 
 Were I a man, and Protector as he is, 
 Pde reach to th' crowne, or make some hop headlesse. 
 And being but a woman, ile not be behinde 
 For playing of my part, in spite of all that seek to crosse 
 me thus.'' 
 
 Ibid., 4to, i6ig. 
 
 " Tes, my good lord, I'll follow presently. 
 Follow I must ; I cannot go before, 
 While Gloucester bears this base and humble mind. 
 Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood, 
 
8 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WORKS 
 
 I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks 
 And smooth, my way upon their headless necks ; 
 And being a woman, I will not be slack 
 To play my part in Fortune's pageant." 
 
 II. Henry VI., folio, 1623. 
 
 (3.) " And his proud wife, high minded Elanor,^ 
 That ruffles it with such a troupe of Ladies, 
 As strangers in the Court takes her for the Queene." 
 
 The First Fart of the Contention, 4to, 1594. 
 
 " And his proud wife, high minded Elanor, 
 That ruffles it with such a troupe of Ladies, 
 As strangers in Court take her for the Queene ; 
 She beares a Dukes whole revennewes on her backe.'' 
 
 Ibid., 4to, 1 619. 
 
 " Not all these lords do ves me half so much 
 As that proud dame, the lord protector's wife. 
 She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies, 
 More like an empress than Duke Humphrey's wife : 
 Strangers in court do take her for the queen : 
 She bears a duke's revennues on her back," etc. 
 
 II. Henry VI., folio, 1623. 
 
 (4.) " I have seduste a headstrong Kentishman, 
 John Cade of Ashford, 
 Under the title of John Mortemer, 
 To raise commotion." 
 
 Tlie First Part of the Contention, 4to, 1594. 
 
 " I have seduste a headstrong Kentish man, 
 John Cade of Ashford, 
 Under the title of Sir John Mortimer, 
 (For he is like him every kinde of way) 
 To raise commotion." 
 
 Hid., 4to, 1619. 
 
 " I have seduced a headstrong Kentish man, 
 John Cade of Ashford, 
 
ATTEIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 To make commotion, as full well lie can, 
 Under tlie title of Jolin Mortimer." 
 
 II. Henry VI., folio, 1623. 
 
 (5.) " Clarence beware, thou teptst me from the light, 
 But I will sort a pitchie daie for thee. 
 For I will buz abroad such prophesies, 
 As Edward shall be fearefull of his life. 
 And then to purge his feare. He be thy death. 
 Henry and his Sonne are gone, thou Clarence next. 
 And one by one I will dispatch the rest, 
 Counting my selfe but bad, till I be best. 
 He drag thy bodie in another roome, 
 And triumph Henry in thy daie of doome." 
 
 The True Tragedie, 1595. 
 
 " Clarence beware, thou keptst me from the light, 
 But I will sort a pitchie daie for thee. 
 For I will buz abroad such prophesies. 
 Under pretence of outward seeming ill. 
 As Edward shall be fearefull of his life. 
 And then to purge his feare, He be thy death. 
 King Henry, and the Prince his sonne are gone, 
 And Clarence thou art next to follow them, 
 So by one and one dispatching all the rest, 
 Counting my selfe but bad, till I be best. 
 He drag thy bodie in another roome. 
 And triumph Henry in thy daie of doom." 
 
 Ihid., 16 19. 
 
 " Clarence, beware ; thou keep'st me from the light : 
 But I will sort a pitchy day for thee ; 
 For I will buz abroad such prophecies 
 That Edward shall be fearfuU of his life, 
 And then, to purge his feare, I'll be his death. 
 King Henry and the prince his son are gone : 
 Clarence thy turn is next, and then the rest, 
 Counting myself but bad till I be best. 
 I'll throw thy body in another room 
 And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom." 
 
 III. Henry VI., foHo, 1623. 
 
lo THE AUTHOKSHIP OF THE WOEKS 
 
 If Shakespeare had no hand in these two old plays, 
 it is demonstrable that more than fonr-sevenths of 
 those plays were borrowed, and appropriated verbatim 
 by Shakespeare, in the composition of the second and 
 third parts of ' King Henry VI.' Mr. Halliwell, how- 
 ever, thinks it not unlikely that they are both rifaci- 
 menti by Shakespeare of older plays (' The First Sketches 
 of II. and III. Henry VI.,' edited by Halliwell for the 
 Shakesp. Soc, 1843, introd. p. 19), a conjecture which 
 is unhappily unsupported by evidence, or it would 
 relieve Shakespeare from the charge of appropriation. 
 But we need not, I think, be very nice on that score, 
 when we consider the large levies he made on contem- 
 porary prose literature. ■■■ I ought to add that we know 
 of no old play corresponding to the first part of ' King 
 Henry VI.' This default, considered in conjunction 
 with the poverty of that performance, might incline 
 one to think that it owes as little to the genius of 
 Shakespeare as do ' The First Part of the Contention ' 
 and ' The True Tragedie.' 
 
 These four (or five) plays form a class by themselves. 
 Into another class fall four other plays, which are 
 almost universally received and always cited as first 
 sketches by Shakespeare. These are as follows : — ' An 
 
 ' Compare, for example, Shakespeare's Roman plays with North's 
 ' Plutarch ; ' take ' Coriolanus ' as a sample : or better still, perhaps, 
 consult Florio's ' Montaigne,' and see how Shakespeare could appro- 
 priate a long and curious passage. In all such cases he made no 
 attempt to stamp his own originality on what he borrowed ; he simply 
 touched it up, so as to make it serviceable to his needs, and fall into 
 fair blank verse. In this art he certainly did not surpass Byron or 
 Coleridge. 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. n 
 
 excellent conceited Ti-agedie of Eomeo and Juliet,' 4to, 
 1597; 'The Chronicle Historie of Henry the Fifth,' 
 4to, 1600, 1602, and 1608; 'A most pleasaunt and 
 excellent conceited Oomedie of Syr John PalstafFe, and 
 the Merry "Wives of Windsor,' 4to, 1602, and 1619 ; 
 and ' The Tragicall Historie of Hamlet, Prince of 
 Denmark,' 4to, 1603. 
 
 These respectively correspond to ' Eomeo and Juliet,' 
 ' The Life of King Henry V.,' ' The Merry Wives of 
 Windsor,' and ' Hamlet,' of the folio collections. But 
 though I have, for convenience, assigned these four 
 sketches to one class, no two of them can be said to 
 present common characteristics. In the first place, 
 I find it hard to believe that Shakespeare had the 
 lion's share in the composition of the old ' Romeo and 
 Juliet,' and the old ' Hamlet ' bears abundant internal 
 evidence of having been printed from a manuscript 
 copy, which had been fabricated out of the odds and 
 ends furnished by an unskilled reporter. This play 
 was entered on the books of the Stationers' Company 
 in 1602, and so may have been acted some years before. 
 It seems, however, not improbable that it was a rifaci- 
 mento of an older play ; that it was the older ' Hamlet ' 
 which was played at Henslow's theatre on June 9th, 
 1594, and that this was the play alluded to by Nash 
 in his ' Epistle to the Gentlemen Students of the two 
 Universities,' prefixed to Robert Greene's 'Arcadia,' 
 and also by Lodge in that eccentric brochure, entitled 
 'Wit's Miserie, or the World's Madnesse,' 1596.1 But 
 
 1 Oxberry, the player, in his acting edition of Marlow's Dramatic 
 
12 THE AUTHOKSHIP OF THE WOEKS 
 
 these are questions which it is impossible to discuss in 
 the compass of this paper. 
 
 Into another class I must place the remaining four 
 plays of those above cited, on which I will bestow but 
 a passing remark. It is almost certain that John 
 Fletcher wrote the greater part of ' The Life of King 
 Henry VIII.' The author of ' Titus Andronicus ' it is 
 now impossible to determine. As far as I know, it 
 has never been satisfactorily made out that Shakespeare 
 VTTote any part of it. It must be admitted that all the 
 external evidences give him the sole authorship, as 
 indeed they do in the case of several plays universally 
 allowed to be spurious ; but in this (as in those) the 
 internal evidences wholly negative his claim. ' Timon 
 of Athens ' is a joint composition of which it is quite 
 easy to determine the parts which were written by 
 Shakespeare and those which were written by the 
 older dramatist. As an example of this, take the two 
 following speeches of Apemantus : — 
 
 "Hoyday, 
 What a sweep of vanity comes this way ! 
 They dance ! they are mad women. 
 Like madness is the glory of this life, 
 As this pomp shows to a little oil and root. 
 
 Works, l8i8, asserts that in ' Richard II.' Shakespeare has borrowed 
 largely, and to speak with candour, rather too largely, from Marlow's 
 'Edward II.' In snpport of this, be cites from 'Edward 11.' the 
 scene in which Edward is required by Leicester and others to give up 
 his crown ; and the "looking-glass scene " from Richard II., viz., that 
 in which Richard is required by Bolingbroke and Northumberland to 
 do the like. The passages are too long for quotation here, and, in my 
 opinion, do not support Oxberry's charge. 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 13 
 
 We make ourselves fools, to disport ourselves ; 
 
 And spend our flatteries, to drink those men, 
 
 Upon whose age we void it up again, 
 
 With poisonous spite and envy. 
 
 Who lives, that's not depraved, or depraves ? 
 
 Who dies, that bears not one spurn to their graves 
 
 Of their friend's gift ? 
 
 I should fear, those that dance before me now. 
 
 Would one day stamp upon me : it has been done : 
 
 Men shut their doors against a setting sun." 
 
 We may be quite sure that this is the older work. 
 It has not the ring of Shakespeare in any of his moods ; 
 and not only that, it has not a single feature, turn, or 
 style which suggests him. It is of the old, rude, dusty 
 school, dusty and rude enough; evidently written by 
 one who bombasted it when Kyd and Marlow were in 
 their swaddling clothes. When Shakespeare conde- 
 scends to repair the old rubbish, see what sterling work 
 he makes of it. Here is Shakespeare's Apemantus : — 
 
 " What, think'st 
 That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain, 
 Will put thy shirt on warm ? Will these moss'd trees,* 
 That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels. 
 And skip when thou point'st out ? Will the cold brook 
 Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste. 
 To cure thy o'er-night's surfeit 1 Call the creatures. 
 Whose naked natures live in all the spite 
 Of wreakful heaven ; whose bare unhoused trunks, 
 To the conflicting elements exposed, 
 Answer mere nature ; bid them flatter thee ; 
 O ! thou shalt find .... thou flatter'st misery." 
 
 Do we not here catch the rare old tones of him who 
 
 sang the outcast king in the storm, and the banished 
 
 1 Moss'd trees. So Hammer's edition. The folios have moist trees. 
 
14 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WORKS 
 
 duke in the forest of Ardenne ? ^ The study of ' Pericles ' 
 leads us to a similar conclusion, but the dissection is 
 not so easy. 
 
 To these remarks I should add, that in ' The Life 
 and Death of King Eichard II.,' Shakespeare may have 
 utilised an older play. Anyhow, there was at least one 
 old play on this subject. Such a play was acted in 
 1601, and again in 161 1. 
 
 In using up old materials, and grafting one play 
 upon another, Shakespeare was merely conforming to 
 an established usage. We can hardly regret that he 
 did so, even though the practice is to be reprehended, 
 as likely to give currency to falsehood. Be that as it 
 may, we cannot but marvel at that magic skill which 
 at the first touch endows the grub with wings, and 
 then transmutes it into a lovely butterfly. The material 
 he used up seems generally to have been the livelier 
 portions of the old theatric stock, which, like the bones 
 in a dust-heap, become the property of the first person 
 who takes the trouble to turn them to account. He 
 must, indeed, have wrought ut magus who made those 
 dry bones live.^ 
 
 ' After making this selection, I observe that Mr. Charles Knight, 
 in his 'Studies of Shakespeare,' 1S51, p. 72, has selected the same 
 speeches for comparison ; to these he adds two speeches of Flavins, 
 the just steward, viz., that beginning, " What will this come to ?" and 
 that beginning, "If you suspect my husbandry." These exhibit the 
 double authorship almost as well as the former pair ; but, of course 
 the grander is the character, the more striking is the contrast. 
 
 ° Vt mar/us: two words from Horace (Ep. 1., lib. ii. 1. 213) which 
 surmount the noble portrait of Shakespeare, attributed to Cornelius 
 Jansen, the property of the Duke of Somerset. It is instructive to 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 15 
 
 Justifiable or not, tlie practice was eminently advan- 
 tageous; it not only effected a great economy in the 
 playwright's mental resources and " midnight oil," but 
 ensured for the audience the maintenance of their 
 old interest in the story that was represented. I have 
 elsewhere pointed out and established the low social 
 status of the dramatist at this time.^ Playwriting 
 and acting were neither trades nor professions. When 
 the Professor in ' The Water Babies ' caught Tom in 
 his net, he called him an eft, but observing that he had 
 no tail (so that he could not be an eft) and was to all 
 appearance a land-baby (and therefore could not live 
 under water), he let him go, and struck him out of the 
 book of life. Like Tom, the Elizabethan players and 
 dramatists fell "between two stools." Their patrons 
 regarded them as persons sans aveu, and therefore 
 statutable vagrants. Accordingly, it came to pass that 
 where all was disreputable, no particular scandal arose 
 from one dramatist annexing the lucubration or in- 
 spiration of another, unless, indeed, the preserve of one 
 theatre were poached on by the playwright of another. 
 In that event fired out the smouldering jealousy which 
 maintained the standing quarrels of rival theatres; 
 literally rival they sometimes were, being on opposite 
 banks of the Thames. " It is an ill wind that blows 
 nobody any good." To this wretched jealousy we are 
 
 compare this portrait with the mask in the possession of Professor 
 Owen, and which is to be seen at the British Museum. 
 
 1 I refer to a tract entitled, 'Was Thomas Lodge a player? An 
 exposition touching the social status of the Dramatist in the reign of 
 Elizabeth,' imp. 8vo, 1S68. 
 
i6 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WORKS 
 
 indebted for a most curious piece of evidence, that 
 Shakespeare did more poaching at the Globe than ever 
 he did at Fulbrooke. I refer to the famous passage in 
 Greene's ' Groat'sworth of Wit bought with a Million 
 of Kepentance,' 1592, to which I shall shortly revert. 
 Apropos of that, Mr. Halliwell quotes from a quarto 
 tract, dated 1594, called 'Greene's Funeralls,' by R. 
 B., Gent., the following lines : — 
 
 " Nay, more the men that so eclipst his fame, 
 Purloynde his plumes ; can they deny the same ? " 
 
 Shakespeare was certainly one of the men censured 
 here. 
 
 I have called the more ancient Elizabethan plays waifs 
 from the general wreck of the older drama. In the 
 coming days of Macaulay's New Zealander, the grander 
 works of Shakespeare will remain to our posterity, not 
 like waifs that have drifted down by reason of their 
 lightness, but like the boulders which, by reason of 
 their solidity and weight, have escaped the general 
 denudation. Perhaps, too, in times to come, the 
 Apollyon power of criticism may reveal Shakespeare's 
 method of composition, by some subtle process of dis- 
 integration of which we now know nothing. I have 
 marked, on the sea beach at Filey, the work of destruc- 
 tion which the tide is ceaselessly waging among the 
 Oolitic rocks. The primeval sand had been amassed 
 by the ancient sea in the usual rippled form, and thus 
 became stratified. The sea is now silting out the less 
 solid particles from the rock, and breaking it up into 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 17 
 
 slabSj whose cleavage shows the old ripple-mark. 
 " Nature," says Emerson, " can never keep a secret ; " 
 she never wholly erases her footprints, and we may be 
 sure that the genius of Shakespeare was not more subtle 
 or cunning than nature. 
 
 Putting aside the questions suggested by the plays, 
 it is necessary, for the completion of our inquiry, to 
 ascertain what contemporary testimony is extant, which 
 by identifying William Shakespeare, the player, with 
 the author of the plays, may prevent or rebut all 
 rational doubt on the subject. Any difficulty which 
 we may meet with here more or less infects all the 
 poetical literature of that day. For instance, the 
 beautiful epigram on " Sidney's sister, Pembroke's 
 mother," which is No. 1 5 in Ben Jonson's ' Under- 
 woods,' is also in a collection of poems by Jonson's 
 friend, William Browne (Lansdowne Manuscripts, J'j'j^ 
 first printed by Sir Egerton Brydges), with an additional 
 verse. I suspect the second verse is all that belongs 
 to Browne. The pastoral, " Come live with me and be 
 my love," is assigned to Marlow in ' England's Helicon,' 
 1606 ; and the nymph's reply, " If love and all the world 
 were yonng," is there given to Raleigh, under the 
 pseudonym Ignoto : yet the first of these, and the 
 first verse of the second, constitute No. 20 in the col- 
 lection of short pieces attributed to Shakespeare, printed 
 in 1 599, and senselessly called ' The Passionate Pilgrim.' 
 No. II in the same collection, "Venus with yottng 
 Adonis sitting by her," occurs in a volume called 
 'Eide^sa, a collection of Sonnets,' by B. GriflBn, 1596, 
 
i8 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WORKS 
 
 and Nos. 8 and 21, "If Music and sweet Poetry agree," 
 and " As it fell upon a day," are included in Richard 
 Barnefield's 'Poems in divers Humors,' 1598. Who 
 is sufEcient to solve these questions of authorship ? and 
 those which relate to the drama are (for various reasons 
 inapplicable to minor poetry) infinitely more intricate 
 and perplexing. 
 
 There is a growing school who affect to disbelieve in 
 Shakespeare's authorship of the works attributed to him. 
 There were probably sceptics of this sort before 1852, 
 but the earliest attempt to impugn the prevalent belief, 
 as far as I know, was made in the number of Chambers's 
 Udinhurgh Journal for August 7th in that year. The 
 spirit of the article is healthy enough. The scantiness 
 of our evidence is fairly pointed out ; at the same time, 
 the two dedications to Lord Southampton, and the 
 testimony of Jonson, both in prose and verse, are 
 admitted to weigh heavily against the doubters. On 
 the other hand, the omission of Shakespeare's name from 
 the works of Raleigh and Bacon is indicated, but with- 
 out the suggestion of their possible authorship of the 
 works attributed to Shakespeare. The game thus 
 started was hunted, by Miss Delia Bacon, I believe, in 
 Putnam's Monthly for January 1856 (vol. vii. p. l). 
 It is here that the claims of Lord Bacon to the author- 
 ship of those works were first advanced. In 1856, an 
 original inquirer, Mr. William Henry Smith (then of 
 Brompton, now of Highgate), published a letter to the 
 first Lord Ellesmere, with the interrogative title, ' Was 
 Lord Bacon the author of Shakespeare's plays ? ' This 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 19 
 
 he followed np, in 1857, with a small volume on the 
 same subject, entitled ' Bacon and Shakespeare.' In 
 the same year was published the enormous volume 
 (the composition of which cost Miss Delia Bacon her 
 reason and her life), called ' The Philosophy of the 
 Plays of Shakespeare unfolded.' In this book, the joint 
 claims of Raleigh and Bacon are advocated with the 
 faith and earnestness of a martyr. Lastly, in 1 866 was 
 published, in America, a large volume, entitled ' The 
 Authorship of the Plays attributed to Shakespeare,' by 
 Nathaniel Holmes, one of the Judges of the Supreme 
 Court of the State of Missouri. This work is entirely 
 devoted to the advocacy of Lord Bacon's authorship. 
 Mr. Holmes having presented Mr. James Spedding, the 
 editor of Bacon's works, with a copy of this book, and 
 solicited his opinion thereupon, was so fortunate as to 
 elicit an admirable criticism on the general question. 
 This, together with other private letters which have 
 passed between Messrs. W. H. Smith, Spedding, and 
 Holmes, I have been permitted to read, but I am not 
 at liberty to make known their very curious contents. 
 
 This remarkable controversy is not without its uses. 
 It serves to call particular attention to the existence of a 
 class of minds which, like Macadam's sieves, retain only 
 those ingredients that are unsuited to the end in view. 
 MiV up a quantity of matters relevant and irrelevant, 
 and those minds will eliminate from the instrument of 
 reasoning every point on which the reasoning ought to 
 turn; and then proceed to exercise their constitutional 
 perversity on the residue. This is the class of minds to 
 
20 THE AUTHOKSHIP OF THE WOEKS 
 
 whicli Bishop Warburton belonged ; so that what Thomas 
 De Quincey (Works, A. & 0. Black, vol. vi. p. 259) writes 
 of that prelate will serve for a generic description : — 
 
 " The natural vegetation of his intellect tended to that kind of 
 fungus -which is called ' crochet ; ' so much so that if he had a 
 just and powerful thought (as sometimes in germ he had), or a 
 wise and beautiful thought, yet by the mere perversity of his 
 tortuous brain, it was soon digested into a crochet.'' 
 
 The profession of the law (which at first was War- 
 burton's) has (as De Quincey perceived) the inevitable 
 effect of fostering the native tendency of such minds. 
 For a fresh field of studying their idiosyncrasy we are 
 indebted to this controversy. It has also another use. 
 It incites us to look up our evidences for Shakespeare's 
 authorship ; and we are reminded how few and meagre 
 they are. 
 
 The critic has the same interest in the works of Miss 
 Delia Bacon, Mr. W. H. Smith, and Judge Holmes, as 
 the physician has in morbid anatomy. He reads them, 
 not so much for the light which they throw on the 
 question of authorship, as for their interest as examples 
 of wrong-headedness. It is not at all a matter of moment 
 whether Bacon, Ealeigh, or some mythical Mr. W. H. 
 be the favourite on whom the works are fathered ; but 
 it is instructive to discover by what plausible process 
 the positive evidences of Shakespeare's authorship (scanty 
 as they are) are put out of court. As to Bacon as first 
 favourite, I suppose any one conversant with the life 
 and authentic works of that powerful but unamiable 
 character must agree with Mr. Spedding that, unless 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 21 
 
 he be the author of " Shakespeare," neither his life nor 
 his works give us any assurance that he could excel as 
 a dramatic poet. Of all men who have left their impress 
 on the reign of the first maiden Queen, not one can be 
 found who was so deficient in human sympathies as 
 Lord Bacon. As for such a man portraying a woman 
 in all her natural simplicity, purity, and grace, as to his 
 imagining and bodying forth in natural speech and 
 action such exquisite creations as Miranda, Perdita, 
 Cordelia, Desdemona, Marina — the supposition is the 
 height of absurdity. What, as it seems to me, has led 
 astray the few writers who have set up a claim for Lord 
 Bacon, is his admirable gift of language, scarcely 
 inferior to that of Shakespeare himself. This almost 
 unique endowment caused Bacon to manifest a kind of 
 likeness to Shakespeare in matters into which the 
 sympathies of the man and the training of the dramatic 
 poet do not enter. Hence it is easy to cull from the 
 works of these two great masters a considerable number 
 of curious parallels. I have looked over the collections 
 of Messrs. W. H. Smith and Holmes, and I must 
 confess I am astonished ; but my astonishment has 
 not been provoked by the quantity or closeness of 
 the resemblances adduced, but by the spectacle of 
 educated men attempting to found such an edifice on 
 such a foundation. I could from my own reading add 
 to their collection some remarkable parallelisms which 
 they have overlooked.^ But what of that ? Is there 
 
 1 For instance, compare the following : — 
 
 "And because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air (where 
 
22 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WOEKS 
 
 anytHing singular in the case ? Not at all. For if 
 parallelisms can prove identity of authorship, what an 
 array of anonymous plays ought to be put to Shake- 
 speare's credit! For instance, the old play called 
 ' Lust's Dominion ' has no owner : in the course of its 
 perusal I observed some very remarkable parallels 
 between its text and that of Shakespeare. I will 
 mention two by way of illustration. In Act I. Scene i , 
 the Moor, speaking of the multitude, asks the Queen- 
 mother — 
 
 " Who arms this many-headed beast, but yon 1 " 
 Compare this with Coriolanus, Act IV. Scene i — 
 
 " The beast 
 With many heads butts me away.'' 
 
 And with the chorus to Act II., ' Henry IV.' — 
 " The blunt monster with uncounted heads." 
 
 Again, the Queen-mother, at the end of the play (Act 
 V. Scene 3), when all her troubles are consummated, 
 says — 
 
 " I'll now repose myself in peaceful rest, 
 And fly into some solitary residence, (?) 
 Where I'll spin out the remnant of my life, 
 In true contrition for my past offences." 
 
 it comes and goes, like the warbling of music) than in the hand," etc. 
 Essay xlvi. 
 
 " O, it came o'er my ear, like the sweet sound 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets ; 
 Stealing and giving^odour." — Twelfth Night, I i. 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 23 
 
 Which reminds us of Paulina's last speech in ' A 
 "Winter's Tale,' somewhat as a flowered tea-tray reminds 
 us of a garden. 
 
 How many of such resemblances between ' Lust's 
 Dominion ' and Shakespeare would prove the right 
 of that play to a place in the received collection ? 
 My answer is that a large number of such cases would 
 assuredly dispose of that claim, and a small number 
 would go no way to prove it. It requires no minute 
 acquaintance with Shakespeare's text to be struck with 
 that inexhaustible pregnancy of language which rarely 
 repeats an image once expressed without expressing it 
 anew. In fact it is one argument against Shakespeare's 
 authorship of ' The Two Noble Kinsmen,' which has his 
 name, along with Fletcher's, on the title, that so many 
 Shakespeareanisms occur in its text. 
 
 " And I 
 
 Doe here present this Machine, or this frame." 
 
 Two Nob. K. iii. 6. 
 
 " Thou mighty one, that with thy power has turn'd 
 Green Neptune into purple." 
 
 Ibid., V. I. 
 
 PALA.M0N (addressing Mars). 
 
 " Thou great decider 
 Of dusty and old titles, that heal'st with hlood 
 The earth when it is sick, and cur'st the world 
 
 O' the pluresie of people." 
 
 Ibid., V. I. 
 
 And yet we are asked to believe that, because Bacon 
 writes, " All was inned at last unto the King's barn," 
 and " the cold becometh more eager," therefore he was 
 the author of ' All's Well that Ends Well,' and ' Hamlet.' 
 
24 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WORKS 
 
 Summarily disallowing, then, the claims set up on 
 behalf of Bacon, I proceed to consider, with the utmost 
 brevity, those evidences on which we are justified in 
 attributing to Shakespeare the chief authorship of the 
 dramas which have the passport of his name. I own 
 at once that those evidences are scanty : not so scanty 
 as Mr. W. H. Smith asserts, for he cites but four 
 witnesses whose testimony was given in Shakespeare's 
 lifetime, viz., Francis Meres (1598); William Basse 
 (1599 ?); tiis anonymous author of 'The Return from 
 Parnassus' (1606, said to have been written in 1602), 
 who, however, does not connect the poems named with 
 Shakespeare ; and Ben Jonson. In fact, there are at 
 least eleven besides ; two of whom are among our chief 
 witnesses.-"- 
 
 But so little weight do I attach to contemporary 
 
 ' I do not count Spenser, for the oft-quoted line from his ' Teares of 
 the Muses,' 
 
 " Our pleasant Willy, ah ! is dead of late,'' 
 
 unquestionably referred to Sir Philip Sidney, whose poetical solriqiiet 
 was Willy. Thus, in an eclogue signed A. W., in the 'Poetical 
 Rhapsody' quoted by Mr. Collier, in his Introduction to 'Seven 
 English Poetical Miscellanies,' 1867, occurs the following, in reference 
 to Sidney's recent death : — 
 
 " We deem'd our Willy aye should live, 
 So sweet a sound his pipe could give ; 
 
 But cruell death 
 
 Hath stopt his breath : 
 Dumb lies his pipe that wont so sweet to sound ! " 
 
 Besides, as Mr. Halliwell lias proved, Spenser's allusion could not be 
 to Shakespeare ; for the ' Teares of the Muses ' was written about 15S0, 
 and published ten years later. Shakespeare was but sixteen years old 
 in 1580, and was not known in London as a poet till eight or nine years 
 afterwards. 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 2; 
 
 rumour as an evidence of authorsliip tliat I shall trouble 
 you with seven witnesses only. Of these, there are but 
 four who directly identify the man, or the actor, with 
 the writer of the plays and poems. 
 
 The first witness I shall call is John Harrison, the 
 publisher ; though it is but little that he can tell us. 
 It was for him that ' Venus and Adonis ' was printed in 
 1 593) and ' The Rape of Lucrece ' in 1 594. No author's 
 name is on the title-page of either. But fortunately 
 he prefixed to each a dedication to Lord Southampton, 
 subscribed " William Shakespeare." It is to me quite 
 incredible that Harrison would have done this, unless 
 Shakespeare had written the dedications, or at least 
 had been a party to them. Now in dedicating the 
 first poem, the undersigned speaks of it as " my un- 
 polisht lines," and "the first heir of my invention," 
 and he promises to honour his patron " with some 
 graver labour : " in dedicating the second poem he 
 speaks of it as " my untutored lines," and adds, "what 
 I have done is yours, what I have to do is yours, being 
 part in all I have, devoted yours." 
 
 So far, then, we have a tittle of evidence to prove 
 that one William Shakespeare was the author of both 
 these poems. Three or four years later a well-known 
 man of letters named Francis Meres speaks of Shake- 
 speare as the author of ' Venus and Adonis,' ' Lucrece,' 
 sundry sonnets, and ten specified plays. Of these plays 
 nine are known to us and received as Shakespeare's. 
 Meres' testimony is given in seven pages of his book, 
 called 'Palladis Tamia — Wit's Commonwealth,' 1598; 
 
26 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WOKKS 
 
 but I have never seen quoted any of his remarks on 
 Shakespeare's works, except the stock passages on folios 
 2S1 and 282, which one writer evidently borrows from 
 another to save the trouble of consulting the original. 
 It is especially noteworthy that on the first page of 
 folio 280 Meres selects Sir Philip Sidney, Spenser, 
 Daniel, Drayton, Warner, Shakespeare, Marlow, and 
 Chapman, as the poets by whom the English tongue 
 was "mightily enriched, and gorgeouslie invested in 
 rare ornaments and resplendent abiliments ; " and it 
 is evident from subsequent remarks that he awarded 
 the palm to the authors of the ' Faerie Queen ' and the 
 ' Arcadia.' 
 
 Robert Greene (the abler and better known of the 
 two Elizabethan poets of that surname) wrote a number 
 of plays in conjunction with Marlow, Lodge, Nash, and 
 others, which had great popularity before the advent 
 of Shakespeare. In his last publication, called ' A 
 Groatsworth of Wit Bought with a Million of Repent- 
 ance,' 1 592, he addresses an admonition to three of his 
 associates, exhorting them to abandon play-writing. 
 These we may readily identify as Marlow, Lodge, and 
 Peele. Then follow the words, so often quoted, which 
 are for us the important testimony : — 
 
 " Base-minded men, all of you, if by my misery }-e be not 
 warned ; for unto none of you (like me) sought those burs to 
 cleave : those puppets (I mean) that speak from our mouths, 
 those antics garnished in our colours. . . . Yes, trust them not : 
 for there is an upstart crow beautified with our feathers, that 
 with his tyger's heart, wrapt in u, player's hide, supposes he is as 
 well able to bombast out a blank verse as the beat of you." 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 27 
 
 So far it might be conjectured that Shakespeare is 
 the man alluded to : providentially Greene adds these 
 words, which convert that conjecture into a certainty : — 
 
 " and being an absolute Johannes Fac totum, is in his own conceit 
 the only Shakes-scene in a country.'' 
 
 Burs, puppets, antics, crows in peacock's feathers — 
 such are the hard words he gives the players; and 
 these he follows up with a second instalment of abusive 
 epithets — apes, rude grooms, huckram gentlemen, peasants, 
 and painted monsters. Why, this insolence out-Nashes 
 Nash! 
 
 Now in turning this extract to account we must be 
 more cautious than dramatic critics usually are to avoid 
 reasoning in a circle. If we are fully satisfied that 
 Shake-scene is a pun upon Shakespeare, independently 
 of the verse (which, like Shake-scene, is in italics), we 
 may infer, perhaps, that Greene, or one of the dramatists 
 admonished by him, wrote the whole or a part of ' The 
 True Tragedy of Richard, Duke of York,' and that Shake- 
 speare pillaged his predecessor's work '■' to beautify " or 
 rather to fabricate his third part of ' Henry VI.' Any- 
 how, the line quoted, or rather travestied, occurs in 
 both the ' True Tragedy ' and III. ' Henry VI.' 
 
 The conclusion being reached that Shakespeare is 
 the player assailed by Greene, the testimony of Henry 
 Chettle, the editor of Greene's ' Groatsworth of Wit,' 
 is invested with a curious and special interest. Im- 
 mediately after the appearance of that book, Chettle 
 published a work of fiction called 'Kind Hart's Dream.' 
 
28 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WORKS 
 
 He here refers to the preceding work, and confesses to 
 having expunged from the manuscripts some of Greene's 
 hard words ; but he protests that he added nothing to 
 it. After remarking on the admonition to the three 
 dramatists, he adds this sputter of solecisms : — 
 
 " The other, whom I did not spare so much, as since I wish I 
 had, for that, I have moderated the hate of living writers, and 
 might have used my own discretion (especially in such a case, 
 the Author heing dead), that I did not, I am as sorry as if the 
 original fault had heen my fault ; hecause myself have seen his 
 demeanour no less civil, than he excellent in the quality he pro- 
 fesses : hesides diverse of worship have reported his uprightness 
 of dealing, which argues his honesty and his facetious grace in 
 writing that approves his art." i 
 
 This is indeed a singular apology. We may picture 
 to our mind's eye the shadowless man, the tinker of 
 old plays, the second-rate actor, who had already, like 
 the hero of his masterpiece, 
 
 " bought 
 Golden opinions from all sorts of people," 
 
 but who as yet had not become a man of worship, and 
 an armiger in right of gentle blood, by the mere force of 
 his unpretending frankness, his modesty, and his gentle- 
 ness, disarming his contemptuous and jealous traducers ; 
 insomuch that the respectable Henry Chettle, who had 
 never been a motley and a vagrant, is induced to give 
 the author of ' Hamlet ' an acceptable testimonial. 
 
 ' Gabriel Harvey was even more complimentary to the upstart 
 crow. " I speak generally to every springing wit, but more especially 
 to a few : and, at this instant, singularly to one, whom I salute with a 
 hundred blessings." Four letters especially touching Robert Green, 
 and other parties by him abused, 1592 ; third letter dated Sept. 9, 
 1592. 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEAEE. 29 
 
 Well, for my part, I tonour Chettle for this tardy- 
 act of justice. 
 
 I suppose I raust, in the nest place, cite the osten- 
 sible editors of the first 'collection of Shakespeare's 
 works ; for they were none other than Heminge and 
 Condell, two of the company of players which, at the 
 accession of James the First, was under the joint 
 management of Lawrence Fletcher and William Shake- 
 speare. But unfortunately for their credit and our 
 satisfaction their prefatory statement contains, or at 
 least suggests, what they must have known to be false. 
 They would lead us to believe that their edition was 
 printed from Shakespeare's manuscripts. 
 
 " who, as lie was a happie imitator of Nature, was a most gentle 
 expresser of it. His mind and hand went together : And what 
 he thought, he uttered with that easinesse, that wee haue scarse 
 receiued from him a blot in his papers." 
 
 Now we have positive knowledge of a fact incon- 
 sistent with this excerpt. We know that the text of 
 seven of the plays in that edition was printed from the 
 quarto editions, which they denounce as stolen and 
 surreptitious, " maimed, and deformed by the frauds 
 and stealthes of injurious impostors,'' and which plays 
 they now offer " cur'd and perfect of their limbes." 
 
 Nothwithstanding this, the testimony of Shakespeare's 
 fellows must be allowed to have some weight in the 
 question of authorship. It is to me incredible that 
 they should in that matter have attempted a fraud 
 which must have been transparent to the noble brothers 
 who lent their patronage to the volume, and which 
 
30 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WORKS 
 
 must sooner or later liave been exposed in the face of 
 all England. 
 
 Our last and principal witness is Ben Jonson, though 
 he is less communicative than might be expected con- 
 sidering the closeness of his friendship with Shake- 
 speare. In what he writes of the man, he seems to 
 take it for granted that we know all about him already, 
 and the things he tells us are not those which we most 
 want to know. There are the verses prefixed to the 
 first folio of Shakespeare, and the remarks entitled, 
 Be Shakespeare nostrati, in his posthumous work called 
 ' Timber or Discoveries.' These remarks must be read 
 in connection with Heminge and Condell's preface to 
 the first folio, and with the Induction to Ben Jonson's 
 play, entitled ' The Staple of News.' In the latter, 
 Expectation says to Prologue, " Sir, I can expect 
 much." Prologue answers, " I fear too much, lady ; 
 and teach others to do the like." Expectation rejoins, 
 " I can do that, too, if I have cause." To which Pro- 
 logue says, " Cry you mercy, you never did wrong, 
 but with just cause." Truly one would never have 
 found any evidence for Shakespeare in that, but for 
 the explanation which Ben vouchsafes in his ' Timber.' 
 He writes : — 
 
 "I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an 
 honour to Shakespeare that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) 
 he never blotted out a line, lly answer hath been, Would he 
 had blotted a thousand. Which they thought a malevolent 
 speech. I had not told posterity this, but for their ignorance, 
 who chose that circumstance to commend their friend by, wherein 
 he most faulted ; and to justify mine own candour : for I loved 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 31 
 
 tte man, and do honour liis memory, on this side idolatry, as 
 mucli as any. He was (indeed) honest, and of an open and free 
 nature ; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions, and gentle 
 expressions ; wherein he flowed with that facility, that sometimes 
 it was necessary he should he stopped : Sufflaminandus erat, as 
 Augustus says of Haterius. His wit was in his own power, would 
 the rule of it had been so too. Many times he fell into those 
 things, could not escape laughter : as when he said in the person 
 of Caesar, one speaking to him, ' Caesar, thou dost me wrong.' He 
 replied, 'Caesar did never wrong but with just cause,' and such 
 like ; which were ridiculous. But he redeemed his vices with 
 his virtues. There was ever more in him to be praised than to be 
 pardoned." 
 
 This is direct testimony, not merely to the fact that 
 Shakespeare wrote the play of ' Julius Osesar,' but that 
 Ca3sar's reply to Metellus Cimber was — 
 
 " Caesar did never wrong but with just cause, 
 Nor without cause will he be satisfied." 
 
 But of course the editors will not have it. It is pro- 
 verbial that office is a potent perverter of the judgment. 
 It would seem as if a critic became blear-eyed as soon 
 as he turned editor. 
 
 "We may, I think, unreservedly accept the whole of 
 Ben's testimony in this matter. The five couplets 
 which he wrote on Droeshout's engraved portrait of 
 Shakespeare, prefixed to the early folios, are, I am 
 afraid, merely complimentary: besides, they are little 
 more than a translation. Mr. J. Hain Priswell has 
 been so kind as to refer me to an old portrait (1588) 
 of Sir Thomas More, in the " Tres Thomte " of Staple- 
 ton, under which are the following lines :— 
 
 " Corporis eflBgiem dedit aenea lamina. At 6 si 
 Efli'dem mentis sic daret iste liber." 
 
32 THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE WORKS 
 
 Ben Jonson's lines — 
 
 " could lie but have drawne his wit 
 As well in brass as he hath hit 
 His face, the print would then surpasse 
 All that was ever wit in brass," 
 
 are but an expansion of the Latin couplet, as Mr. 
 Frisvrell says, " with a certain lack twist." 
 
 It is not, however, these lines on which we rely as 
 an evidence of authorship, but the forty couplets which 
 follow the preface to the Folio 1623, addressed by Ben 
 " To the memory of my beloved, the author, Mr. WiLliam 
 Shakespeare, and what he hath left us." These verses 
 are a precious testimony both to the authorship of the 
 plays and to Ben's friendly estimate of the author's 
 genius. But forasmuch as they do not deal in speci- 
 alities, I have no occasion to quote them at length. It 
 is curious that one of the phrases of eulogy here em- 
 ployed is repeated by Ben almost totidem verbis in a 
 note entitled " Scriptorum Catalogus," in his ' Timber ; ' 
 but it is there applied to Lord Bacon. To Shakespeare 
 he says — 
 
 " 0, when thy socks were on, 
 Leave thee alone, for the comparison 
 Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughtie Rome 
 Sent forth," etc. 
 
 Of Bacon he writes, — 
 
 " He who hath filled up all numbers, and performed that in 
 our tongue which may be compared or preferred either to insolent 
 Greece or haughty Rome." 
 
 Of course the heretics have not been slow to avail them- 
 
ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 33 
 
 selves of ttis resemblance. They are welcome to what 
 it is worth. 
 
 The conclusion which I think we may safely draw 
 from the evidences adduced is, that no other known 
 name is entitled to the credit awarded by common 
 consent to " William Shakespeare," unless we go back 
 to the playwrights who preceded him, and are able to 
 identify the authors of those plays on which Shake- 
 speare founded so many of his. In this case a residual 
 problem is presented to us of so great diiEculty, that at 
 present no approximation has been made to its solution ; 
 and though it is one which has a special interest for 
 me, and comes within the scope of my subject, its 
 treatment would require the monopoly of a separate 
 paper. 
 
 Certain it is that in a considerable number (I think 
 more than one-half) of the plays, Shakespeare's all- 
 assimilating genius derives its pabulum from the clumsy 
 productions of earlier writers. To get an adequate 
 notion of Shakespeare's art in this sort of work, I 
 would call attention to the play of 'King John,' in 
 comparison with ' The Troublesome Reign,' and I shall 
 be much surprised if the comparion does not create an 
 entirely new notion of Shakespeare's dramatic talent. 
 
 If I might venture to express my own opinion on 
 this difficult inquiry, I should say, that in all proba- 
 bility, several of the comedies (strictly so called), and 
 of the tragedies, ' Macbeth,' ' Coriolanus,' and ' Julius 
 Csesar,' are not indebted to any older plays on the same 
 subject; and that 'Antony and Cleopatra,' ' Troilus 
 
34 WORKS ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 and Cressida,' and the ' Tempest,' are, in the profoundest 
 sense, original compositions ; the entire structure, as 
 well as the architecture of each play, being wholly due 
 to Shakespeare's incomparable art. Looking at those 
 three plays only, unless, indeed, my judgment has been 
 warped by force of habit, I there discern the figure of 
 a poet who was of a more " select and generous chief" 
 than any of the imaginative writers of Elizabeth's 
 reign. Hazlitt, who proclaimed Shakespeare's intel- 
 lectual and aesthetic superiority to the men of that day, 
 qualified his verdict by saying that " it was a common 
 and a noble brood." With Mr. Alexander Dyce, let 
 me say that " falser remark was never made by critic."' 
 That the times were curiously favourable to genius 
 may be allowed ; and we may agree with Goethe's 
 opinion, that much of what the giants of those days 
 became and achieved was due to the " stimulating 
 atmosphere " in which they lived. None can say to 
 what forest trees the garden fiowers of our day, such 
 as Tennyson and Browning, might have waxed, had 
 they been planted in an Elizabethan soil. But if so 
 much be due to a man's surroundings, we must also 
 admit with sorrow that the direction into which the 
 energies of Englishmen have been diverted is so un- 
 favourable to artistic life, that an artist of Shake- 
 speare's stamp will never more be possible among us ; 
 that we "ne'er shall look upon his like again." 
 
( 35 ) 
 
 II. 
 
 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF THEORY 
 AND PRACTICE. 
 
 An eminent American essayist, in an essay on Com- 
 pensation, gives us a striking instance of pregnant 
 symbolism bought at the cost of good taste, if not of 
 reverence : " There is,'' says he, " a crack in every work 
 God has made." Now, without going out of my way 
 to censure this aphorism, I propose to inquire whether 
 it does not condense, as it were, in cipher, an almost 
 universal truth, of which every branch of human know- 
 ledge furnishes a treasury of examples. It is not for us 
 to inquire why it has pleased our Creator to make us as 
 we are, or the world in which we live as it is. Let His 
 sovereign pleasure suffice us. Stet pro ratione voluntas. 
 Yet we may profitably and reverently scan the wonders 
 of His hand, and take note of the various anomalies 
 which meet us at every turn and impede us in every 
 attempt to measure His works by our limited faculties. 
 In Psychology have we not the anomaly of the Fall 
 of man ? And is it not true that his every effort to 
 practise the ideal even of his own religious instinct is 
 fraught with failure as disheartening as it is shameful ? 
 
36 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF 
 
 Then, in Theology, have we not the anomalous element 
 of miraculous agency which necessarily mars its scien- 
 tific unity ? In Moral Philosophy, too, we have certain 
 insoluble " cases of conscience," which casuistry has 
 essayed in vain; while in Jurisprudence we are pre- 
 sented with the so-called "cases of necessity and 
 equity," in which the sceptre of the lawgiver is broken 
 in his hand. Then, in the Painter's art, what have 
 we but anomaly? Does not it ever vibrate between 
 two scarcely discriminable points, so that, on the one 
 hand, it is in danger of bondage to the real, as the 
 diorama and the works of the Pre-Kaphaelite school ; 
 and, on the other hand, in danger of losing in propriety 
 and truth what it gains in exalted sentiment? In 
 Music we have " temperament," which may be popularly 
 explained to be an unscientific procedure, by which 
 those intervals called the " third " and the " fifth " are 
 reduced to a common measure with the " octave." Then, 
 to turn our thoughts to the exact sciences, I might 
 pause to explain how in every pure and applied science 
 we have difficulties absolutely insuperable, "impossible 
 problems," "failures," and "anomalous results," which, 
 however, I will do no more than mention. 
 
 It is a common saying, that such and such a thing 
 may be true in theory, but does not hold good in practice. 
 On this subject the great German philosopher, Immanuel 
 Kant, wrote an essay, with the view of correcting this 
 vulgar error. For myself, I conceive it is an error 
 rather in the use of words than in the thing signified. 
 
 In the vulgar use of the word "theory," there is 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 37 
 
 generally some confusion between it and " hypothesis ; " 
 just as if it were not possible to have a theory consisting 
 of the relations of facts to one another, without involving 
 any hypothetical element whatever. I am not sure, 
 indeed I very much doubt, whether this confusion 
 between "theory" and "hypothesis " is always involved 
 in the ordinary use of the former word. However, it 
 will be safer to discriminate between the proper mean- 
 ing of these two words before proceeding further. We 
 must understand, then, that a hypothesis is a supposed 
 fact, assumed for the purpose of accounting for some 
 known phenomenon. Thus, when Arago suggested 
 that falling stars and thunderbolts are fragmentary 
 planets, he simply propounded a hypothesis (on the 
 strength of some probabilities), which might be sus- 
 ceptible of disproof or confirmation by subsequent facts, 
 as the case might be. Or to take another example. 
 When M. Bomme (on the elements assigned by Mr. J. 
 Eussell Hind) calculated the return of the great comet 
 of 1556, he did so on the assumption that it was the 
 same comet which had been observed in 1264. Now it 
 is just at the present time that this assumption is about 
 to be confirmed or disproved. The reappearance of this 
 great comet within the next year will convert the 
 hypothesis in question into a fact ; while, on the other 
 hand, its non-appearance before the end of 1 860 will 
 conversely disprove that hypothesis. Now let us observe, 
 that the assumption of the identity of the comets of 
 1264 and 1556, is the only hypothetical element among 
 the data upon which M. Bomme made those exceed- 
 
38 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF 
 
 ingly laborious calculations (of the comet's return) which 
 would warrant us in regarding him as a champion, and 
 almost a martyr, of science. With the exception of 
 this assumption, all his data were facts, not hypotheses. 
 His calculations in respect of them were theoretical, and 
 as such need not have comprised a single hypothetical 
 element. 
 
 To recapitulate, then, what we have said, theory is 
 the introduction of organisation among the facts or data 
 of science. Hypothesis is the underlaying of the phe- 
 nomena with such imaginary data as appear capable of 
 accounting for them. Henceforth let these two things 
 be kept distinct in the mind, and we shall have made 
 our first step towards an investigation of the question 
 whether there be, or can be, an irreconcilability, or, at 
 least, want of harmony, between the laws of theory and 
 the results of observation and experiment; that is, 
 between the so-called " facts of science " and the " facts 
 of experience." 
 
 But it is not always practicable to avoid the risk 
 of confounding theory and hypothesis : and even men 
 of mark not uncommonly fail to discriminate exactly 
 between them. However, we rarely meet with such 
 an example of this mistake as the following, which is 
 furnished by a work of the highest repute and desert. 
 
 Mr. John Stuart Mill ('Logic,' vol. ii'. p. 28), after 
 describing the Nebular Hypothesis of Laplace, writes 
 thus : " The known law of gravitation would then cause 
 them (i.e., the nebular zones) to agglomerate in masses 
 which would assume the shape which our planets 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 39 
 
 actually exhibit, would acquire, each round its own axis, 
 a rotatory movement ; and would in that state revolve 
 as the planets actually do about the sun in the same 
 direction with the sun's direction, but with less velocity, 
 and each of them in the same periodic time which the 
 sun's rotation occupied when his atmosphere extended 
 to that point; and this also M. Comte has, by the 
 necessary calculations, ascertained to be true within 
 certain small limits of error. There is thus, in Lap- 
 lace's theory, nothing hypothetical : it is an example of 
 legitimate reasoning, from a present effect to its past 
 cause ; it assumes nothing more than that objects which 
 really exist obey the laws which are known to be obeyed 
 by all terrestrial objects resembling them." ^ 
 
 In the first place let me correct Mr. Mill's estimate of 
 the value of Comte's calculations. Professor Sedgwick, 
 in the Introduction to his celebrated Discourse, has 
 pointed out that Comte has committed a. petitio principii, 
 which is of so glaring a character that it could hardly 
 have deceived Mr. Mill if he had understood the ques- 
 tion. Comte's calculations are based on the assumption 
 of the truth of Kepler's laws, which involve the whole 
 question at issue. The whole problem is one of the 
 expansion and condensation of a rotating fluid mass, 
 and this has been evaded by the great positivist. Mr. 
 Mill accordingly is on the horns of a dilemma. He 
 either understood Comte's argument, or he did not. If 
 
 1 Mr. Mill, in his ' Examination of Sir W. Hamilton's Philosophy,' 
 1855, p. 544, asks, if ignorance is with any man a necessary condition 
 of wonder ; can he find nothing to wonder at "in the probable former 
 extension of the solar substance beyond the orbit of Neptune " ? 
 
40 THE MUTUAL KELATIONS OF 
 
 lie understood it, lie either perceived the fallacy, or lie 
 did not. Such a man could not have perceived the 
 fallacy and have endorsed it. If he did not perceive it, 
 he must have been either so obtuse or so careless as to 
 be a very unsafe guide through the labyrinth of inductive 
 philosophy. On the other hand, the supposition that 
 he did not understand Comte's argument is equally 
 damaging to the confidence of his readers. 
 
 But Mr. Mill has committed offences graver than this. 
 Let us inquire how many of the fallacies enumerated 
 by himself he has himself committed. 
 
 And, first, of " fallacies of observation." Mr. Mill has 
 fallen into that which he describes (p. 387) as "non- 
 observation," inasmuch as the evidence for the existence 
 of pure nebulous matter is insufiicient, as also the 
 evidence for supposing that it resembles known matter ; 
 i.e., supposing for the sake of argument that there be 
 such a thing as pure nebulous matter. Every nebula, 
 wholly or partially resolved into a star-cluster, diminishes 
 the probability of the present existence of an essential 
 nebulous fluid (■princeps limus), and the non-resolution 
 is but a negative evidence of the least conceivable 
 weight.i 
 
 ^ A writer in the Westminstei' and Foreign Quarterhf Review for July 
 I, 1858 (N. S., vol. xiv. p. 190), thus unsuccessfully labours to prove 
 the existence of nebulous matter. " If we are to believe that one of 
 these nebulffi is so remote that its hundred thousand stars look only 
 like a milky spot, invisible to the naked eye, we must, at the same 
 time, believe that there are single stars so enormous that though 
 removed to this same distance they remain visible. If we accept the 
 other alternative, and say that many nebulae are no farther off than our 
 own stars of the eighth magnitude, then it is requisite to believe that 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 41 
 
 The result of induction in reference to the nature of 
 comets is that, with the possible exception of their nuclei, 
 they are subject to laws of which we know nothing, 
 and of which the whole series of terrestrial phenomena 
 furnishes no type. That a material body should be as 
 transparent as air, and yet should not refract light, 
 and that it should augment instead of tone down the 
 centres of light over which it passes, is inexplicable 
 by the known laws of nature ; and yet such are the 
 properties of comets' tails which, with the Magellanic 
 clouds, furnish the slight ground on which the hypothesis 
 of pure nebulous matter has been reared. 
 
 On these grounds Mr. Mill stands convicted of several 
 " fallacies of generalisation," viz. : — 
 
 I. That of "gi;oundless generalisation" (p. 406); 
 " such, for instance, as all inferences from the order of 
 nature existing on the earth or in the solar system to 
 that which may exist in remote parts of the universe." 
 
 at a distance not greater than that at which a single star is still faintly 
 visible to the naked eye, there may exist a -group ot a hundred thousand 
 stars which is invisible to the naked eye. Neither of these positions 
 can be entertained. What then is the conclusion that remains ? This 
 only ; that the nebulas are not farther off from us than parts of our own 
 sidereal system, ot which they must be considered members ; and that 
 when they are resolvable into discrete masses, these masses cannot be 
 considered as stars in anything like the ordinary sense of that word." 
 
 Giving the writer credit (as we are bound) for logical consistency, 
 and supplying the premises implied in the enthymemes, it becomes 
 apparent that we are asked to assume that unresolved nebulie are, on 
 an average, no farther from us than resolved nebulae ; and with the con- 
 cession of this assumption, the writer securely puts us on the horns of 
 a dilemma, unless we accept his conclusion. But why are we to grant 
 him this ? Is it not at least equally prohahle that the nebulae which 
 are resolvable only by the higher powers of Lord Rosse's telescope are 
 farther off than thosg which yield to a lower power ? 
 
42 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF 
 
 2. An attempt to resolve wliat may be radically 
 different phenomena into the same. 
 
 3. "False analogy;" not to mention other offences 
 against the canons of induction. 
 
 These remarks are not intended to disparage Laplace's 
 theory, which has a high claim on our faith. But we 
 must not lose sight of the fact that the theory in question 
 contains several pure hypotheses, and, in fact, assumes 
 that objects, not known to have ever existed, were yet 
 subject to the laws which terrestrial objects (possibly 
 wholly unlike them) obey. We have, then, the pheno- 
 menon of a writer on logic, of the highest intellectual 
 endowments, lulled by the opium of French positivism 
 into a fancied security in an induction ag-ainst which 
 his seven chapters on Fallacies are but one long, 
 earnest protest. 
 
 After this example, it is right to call attention to the 
 necessity under which all men lie of being furnished 
 with a theory, before applying themselves to practice, 
 unless they are content that what they do shall be ill 
 done. There is a proverb, which I first heard from the 
 lips of a mathematical Yorkshireman : "He lets his 
 hand outrun his head." Practical power has been 
 happily called, by Coleridge, " the brain in the hand." 
 And these expressions do not imply merely a looking 
 before you leap, but a diligent marshalling of all avail- 
 able facts in the case, and an investigation of their 
 mutual relations ; the character of such investigation 
 and the method employed therein being determined by 
 the practical object you have in view. This preliminary 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 43 
 
 brain-work is called a theory, from the Greek decopia, 
 which signifies, primarily, a view or inspection, second- 
 arily, science. 
 
 By this procedure it is generally possible to attain 
 the proposed end by the simplest and best means. 
 Without some such procedure it is seldom, if ever, 
 possible to attain the end at all. Nature rarely dictates 
 the best manner of doing even that which she herself 
 imposes. A man, in walking, naturally swings his 
 arms : mechanical theory establishes the fact that, in 
 fast walking, this motion of the arms is a hindrance. 
 A man sitting in the stern of a wherry finds himself 
 thrown back with each forward stroke of the waterman : 
 theory shows that by a forcible resistance to this motion 
 the rowing is made easier to the waterman than by 
 yielding to it. Many such instances might be adduced. 
 
 It will be obvious by this time to all my readers that 
 any complaint against theorising, or any objection to a 
 man on the ground of his being a theorist, can have its 
 origin only in the ignorance or thoughtlessness of the 
 objector ; and that if a theory have misled any one, the 
 evil does not lie in his having trusted to the guidance 
 of a theory, but in his having been really without a true 
 theory ; and he therefore stands in need of one. 
 
 When Lord Brougham, in his introduction to the 
 publications of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful 
 Knowledge, explained the law of terrestrial gravity to 
 be that bodies were attracted by the earth in an inverse 
 proportion to the square of their distances from it, so 
 that a body four feet from the earth would weigh only 
 
44 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF 
 
 one-sixteentli what it would at the distance of one foot, 
 a critic waggishly replied — " We now see why a ticket 
 porter carries his burden on his back, instead of tying 
 it to his waist; and why the weights used by shop- 
 keepers are so generally found false in the scales : for 
 if one of them weigh a pound at one foot from the 
 ground, it is obvious, according to Lord Brougham, that 
 it can weigh little more than an ounce in the scales." ■■■ 
 The fact is, that Lord Brougham had, simply for want 
 of thought, ignored a distance of about 3982 miles (the 
 mean distance from the surface of the earth to its 
 centre) ; for the force of gravity of the earth upon a 
 body varies inversely as the square of the distance of 
 that body from their common centre of gravity — a point 
 really not far removed from the centre of the earth. In 
 comparison of such a distance as that, the variation of 
 a few hundred yards is a matter of small moment in the 
 calculation of a body's weight to the earth. Hence it 
 is always assumed (as it may be without sensible error) 
 that the force of gravity near the earth's surface is not a 
 varying, but an uniform force. Now, the practical man 
 who had been innocently misled by Lord Brougham's 
 statement would at once begin, in John Bull fashion, 
 to rail at theory and theoretical men. But it is easily 
 seen how unreasonable such a procedure would be ; for 
 of all men the person who could be so taken in stands 
 specially in need of a theory to direct him aright ; in 
 point of fact, without some theory, even his weighing 
 operations would lead to no result. 
 
 ' ' The Errors of Big Wig.' (I quote from memory.) 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 45 
 
 But say what one may, there will always be a dis- 
 agreement between merely practical men and theoretical 
 men, be the latter ever so practical. An amusing in- 
 stance of this occurred in my own professional practice. 
 A mining lease contained a provision for the indemni- 
 fication of the lessee against faults in a coal bed. A 
 fault in geological language is a discontinuity in the 
 bed in consequence of its dislocation, the iissure being 
 filled up with a foreign substance ; or otherwise, the 
 parts being not only dissevered but displaced. Now in 
 the instance in question the workings showed no fault 
 in the coal bed ; but, what was almost as bad for the 
 lessee's pocket, he did break into what miner's call a 
 "horse's back," which is an upheaving of the strata 
 which underlie the coal, so as to throw the latter out of 
 its normal, straight direction into a curve ; in geological 
 lanffuao-e a contortion. The lessee claimed the benefit of 
 his clause ; but that clause contained not a word about 
 horses' hacks or heaves, or any such thing. So to law 
 the parties went. The scientific evidence for the lessor 
 went to prove that a horse's back is not a fault, while 
 the evidence of mine agents on the other side went to 
 prove that miners did call a horse's back a fault. In 
 this case common sense decided it against the geologists, 
 and the lessee got an award in his favour. Here the 
 geological theory was indisputably correct ; but the ter- 
 minology in which the theory was accurately enounced 
 had not obtained such currency as to induce the arbi- 
 trator to suppose that it had been strictly employed in 
 the mining lease. 
 
46 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OP 
 
 Now let us inquire how far Kant and his commentator 
 De Quincey are correct in their views on the subject 
 before us. The latter, rightly expounding the views of 
 the former, says — " Theory is no more than a system of 
 laws abstracted from experience : consequently, if any 
 apparent contradiction should exist between them, this 
 could only argue that the theory had been falsely or 
 imperfectly abstracted ; in which case the sensible in- 
 ference would be, not a summons to forego theories, but 
 a call for better and more enlarged theories." 
 
 In this view I cordially agree ; but I do so with this 
 qualification, that the last theory thus arrived at will 
 generally prove to be false and imperfect, either in con- 
 sequence of the conditions under which, of necessity, 
 the theory is arrived at, or in consequence of the nature 
 of the subject matter investigated. 
 
 It may be of some use to set forth a systematic state- 
 ment of the diiferent kinds of theory, viewed solely in 
 regard to the relation of the human mind to the objects 
 of experience ; and to furnish with illustrative examples 
 of each kind. 
 
 A theory may be perfect or imperfect : practicable or 
 impracticable : true or false. 
 
 All absolutely true theories are practicable and perfect. 
 All approximately true theories are practicable (whether 
 perfect or imperfect) : but it is not a fact that all perfect 
 theories are even trice, much less practicable. These 
 propositions I will proceed to explain. 
 
 And, first, as to an absolutely true theory, the theory 
 of gravitation is such a one. It is universally practi- 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 47 
 
 cable; and inasmuch as it is complete in itself, and 
 needs no correction or readjustment, we call it a perfect 
 theory. It is indeed true that, in practice, there may 
 be found some very slight discrepancy between the cal- 
 culation and the event ; but this is always due either 
 to the necessary imperfection of our instruments of 
 measurement, or to the imperfection of some subsidiary 
 theory employed in the application. 
 
 And, secondly, as to an approximately true theory, 
 which is, first, 'perfect ; and, secondly, imperfect. 
 
 The following is a simple example of a perfect theory 
 taken from the science of plane geometry. If the sides 
 containing the right angle of any right-angled triangle 
 be respectively 3 and 4 inches, theory informs us that 
 the third side, or hypothenuse, is exactly 5 inches. 
 A careful admeasurement will go far to confirm this 
 result; though, owing to the necessary breadth of 
 actual lines (which theoretical ones have not), the ex- 
 periment will not coincide with the theory, though 
 there will be a close approximation to coincidence. If, 
 however, any other proportions be selected for the lines 
 including the right angle, the hypothenuse cannot be 
 measured by any equal parts of either of those lines ; in 
 other words, it is incommensurable with either of them. 
 
 Now in this case, the theory, though still approxi- 
 mately true, is imperfect on account of the nature of 
 the subject matter. 
 
 The theory of rectifying or squaring the circle is 
 another example. It is well known that the circum- 
 ference and diameter of a circle are incommensurable ; 
 
48 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF 
 
 i.e., it is impossible to divide the one into sucli a number 
 of equal parts that a certain number of those parts will 
 make up the other exactly. In fact, the diameter is 
 always to the circumference in the proportion of i to 
 
 3. 141 592653589793 the series of decimals being 
 
 interminable and non-recurrent. The content of a 
 circle is 3. 14 15 . . . . X the square of the radius. 
 Accordingly a square which has the same content as 
 a circle has its side = the radius X ^■^.i/i^i'^ . . . .= 
 r X 1.77245385 . . . ?■ The side of such a square is 
 therefore incommensurable in respect of the radius, 
 and consequently the circle cannot be arithmetically 
 squared. But we have already seen that a line which 
 could not be numbered in units of two other given 
 lines might nevertheless be accurately drawn by means 
 of those two lines. In the particular case in which a 
 right-angled triangle has each of its containing sides 
 equal to i inch, the hypothenuse is as readily repre- 
 sented as in the case in which those sides are in the 
 ratio of 3 : 4. But in the case supposed that hypothe- 
 nuse is V2 = 1-4142135 (where the decimals 
 
 are interminable and non-recurrent). So that the fact 
 of a line being incommensurable in respect of another 
 is no reason why it should not be actually drawn by 
 means of that other. 
 
 For all, then, that we yet see to the contrary, a 
 straight line of 1.77245 3S5 .... inches long may be 
 as readily represented as one of 1.4142135 . . . . inches 
 long. But, in reality, such is not the case. In order 
 
 ^ r : side of square : : 100,000,000, : 177,245,385 nearly. 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 49 
 
 to draw a square, wliich shall be geometrically equal to 
 a given circle, is required the aid of some other curve 
 than the circle. "With Euclid's allowance of means only 
 — viz., the straight line and the circle — the geometrical 
 quadrature of the circle is impossible. An approxima- 
 tion, however, may be effected to any extent that may 
 be desired. The impossibility of an exact geometrical 
 quadrature of the circle, hy the aid of the straight line 
 and circle only, is one of those points which self- 
 educated and half-educated mathematicians find so 
 difiBcult to believe. Accordingly not a year passes 
 without the publication of some new demonstration of 
 the quadrature of the circle, the writer of each tract 
 having either altogether misunderstood the terms and 
 conditions of the problem, or being himself altogether 
 ignorant of geometrical processes. It is amazing that 
 such an amount of brain power is constantly being 
 sacrificed in so hopeless a pursuit. There was a time, 
 indeed, when this problem had an interest for mathe- 
 maticians, and many notable ones constructed curves, 
 by the use of any one of which the circle might be 
 accurately squared. But each of these curves required 
 for its construction a process which is inadmissible in 
 Euclid ; and in some — as the cycloid and trochoid — ^the 
 rolling of a circle is employed for the construction. 
 Now inasmuch as it is very easy to find a square equal 
 to a given circle, if only one is permitted to roll it along 
 a straight line, it is obvious that the employment of 
 those curves for the purpose is something like taking 
 Stafibrd on the road from Birmingham to Rugby. In 
 
50 THE MUTUAL EELATIONS OF 
 
 these days, however, when the problem can be solved 
 to any required degree of accuracy by analytical methods, 
 the question as to its solubility by the means of the 
 straight line and circle only is of no manner of con- 
 sequence. The impossibility of so doing is another 
 problem, of which James Gregory, in 1668, published 
 a solution ; and this, while few mathematicians consider 
 it altogether satisfactory, no one has been able to gain- 
 say. The impossibility in question, however, is proved 
 by moral evidence of so conclusive a nature that it 
 behoves all young mathematicians to make themselves 
 familiar with the literature connected with this problem 
 before endangering their mental soundness by devoting 
 themselves to its solution. 
 
 Some, however, enter on this hopeless pursuit at the 
 instigation of avarice, under a belief that the Govern- 
 ment or the Royal Society has offered a large reward 
 for its solution. This is an entire mistake ; though one 
 that may be found to have been occasionally committed 
 in print. A French Jesuit, however, did, in 1726, offer 
 a reward of three thousand livres to be paid to any one 
 who should disprove his proof of the quadrature of the 
 circle ; and this is the only reward that, as far as I 
 can ascertain, was ever offered in connection with the 
 problem.! 
 
 Astronomy furnishes us with numberless instances of 
 an imperfect theory, which is practicable, but yet only 
 approximately true. Of such a character is the famous 
 
 ^ See several curious articles on this subject by Professor De Morgan, 
 in Notes and Queries. 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 51 
 
 " problem of three bodies." Given two bodies wbicH 
 gravitate towards one another, it is easy to prove that, 
 under certain conditions, the one will describe a conic 
 section about the other. But if a third body be intro- 
 duced, the instruments of calculation which we already 
 possess— viz., the Differential and Integral Calculus— 
 in a certain sense fail us ; for by the aid of the former 
 we obtain an expression for which the latter has no 
 finite equivalent, or " definite integral " as it is called. 
 We are accordingly necessitated to express the value 
 of that integral in an infinite- series, which, however, in 
 practice, enables us to attain any degree of exactitude 
 that may be desired. That such an approximation may 
 be attained as makes the imperfection of the theory 
 unimportant in practice is abundantly evidenced by 
 the calculation of the return of comets, which involves 
 the mutual attraction of several planetary bodies on the 
 comets and on each other. 
 
 Before giving examples, let me premise that known 
 comets are divisible into two classes — those of short 
 periods and those of long periods. Of the former, the 
 majority have a period of less than seven years; of the 
 latter, some have periods of some thousands of years. 
 From the comets of short periods I select four — viz., 
 those of Halley, Encke, Biela, and Faye. 
 
 Halley's comet performs its revolution about the sun 
 in seventy-six years, or thereabouts, and has never been 
 visible to us so long as ten months at a time. M. de 
 Pontecoulant, of Paris, calculated the amount of per- 
 turbation due to the earth, Jupiter, Saturn, and Uranus 
 
52 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF 
 
 on this comet's motion, and announced to the world 
 that it would be nearest the sun at ten o'clock at night 
 on November 1 2 . The comet actually attained that posi- 
 tion at eleven o'clock on the morning of November 1 6 ; 
 the error of prediction being three and a half days in 
 upwards of seventy-six years. 
 
 Encke's comet has a period of three years and four 
 months, or thereabouts. Its return is regularly fore- 
 told within a very small fraction of a day. 
 
 Biela's comet has a period of six years and nine 
 months, or thereabouts. It was observed in 1832, from 
 which time no observations could be made on it till its 
 return in 1846; yet Professor Santini calculated its 
 return in that year to the position nearest the sun 
 within little more than nine hours ! 
 
 Faye's comet has a period of about seven and a half 
 years. It was first discovered by that astronomer on 
 the 22nd of November 1843. M. Le Verrier, the since 
 renowned discoverer of the planet Neptune, calculated 
 the return of Faye's comet from the observations of 
 M. Faye, Professor Argelander, Dr. Goldschmidt, and 
 Professor Henderson, and announced that it would 
 attain its least distance from the sun on the 3rd of 
 April 185 1, at midnight. The fact was — and it is one 
 that excites no kind of astonishment in the theoretical 
 astronomer — that the comet actually attained that 
 position at the very hour predicted. 
 
 These examples show that the deductions of an 
 imperfect theory may be relied on, notwithstanding its 
 imperfection. But imperfect as such theoretical results 
 
THEORY" AND PRACTICE. 53 
 
 are, they are often more exact than the result of observa- 
 tion by means of the finest astronomical instruments. 
 
 And thirdly, as to 'perfect theories, which are untrue 
 and impracticable. The theory of " perpetual motion " 
 is such a one. It is so because it ignores friction and 
 the resistance of the air, both of which prevail in nature; 
 and though both are fatal to the perpetuity of motion, 
 neither can by any possibility be got rid of. It has 
 always seemed to me that Cartwright's steam-engine 
 affords theoretically the nearest approach to perpetual 
 motion that has ever been arrived at ; for the condens- 
 ing apparatus is so contrived that there is no loss of 
 water at all, except by accidental escapes of steam — and 
 this can by no possible contrivance be obviated — and 
 by the loss of such steam as escapes from the hot well 
 when the air within it gets too much condensed to brook 
 resistance. Dr. Lardner suggested working this engine 
 by ardent spirits, which boil at so low a temperature 
 that very little fuel would be required. Of course, if 
 the requisite heat could be constantly supplied without 
 waste — which cannot be done — the engine would yet, 
 in time, wear out. 
 
 There can, as I have already said, be no true or 
 practicable theory of a perpetual motion. The impos- 
 sibility of such is demonstrable. Yet even in this absurd 
 speculation men can be found to embark with a faith, a 
 patience, and a devotion worthy of a true cause. No 
 doubt, in some cases, avarice has its share among the 
 motives which induce them to this self-sacrifice ; but in 
 this, as in the case of the quadrature of the circle, the 
 
54 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF 
 
 expectation of reward is based on a popular tradition 
 whicli has no foundation in fact. It is not improbable 
 that these floating myths originated in a confusion in 
 the popular mind of the two last-mentioned problems 
 with that of the longitude, for the discovery of which a 
 large sum of money was offered by Government ; but 
 the offer was long ago withdrawn. 
 
 I have now given examples from science in illustration 
 of the three propositions with which I started. A due 
 consideration of these established propositions must lead 
 to the conclusion that only some — not all — practicable 
 theories are perfect; and consequently that there are 
 some practicable theories wherein there is, of necessity, 
 not only " a want of harmony," but " an irreconcila- 
 bility," between theory and experience. In point of 
 fact, we may go farther than this, and affirm, without 
 fear of contradiction from men of science, that this irre- 
 concilability inheres in a vast majority of existing 
 theories. And though the discrepancy between theory 
 and experience is in many cases susceptible of diminu- 
 tion, we must not expect that the discrepancy will ever 
 be eliminated. What can add to the perfection of a 
 geometrical deduction ? And yet one who denies the 
 existence of discrepancy in this case is cast on one of 
 the horns of a dilemma : Lines have Ireadth, or they 
 have not. If they have hreadth, geometry is false. If 
 they have no ireadth, experience is impossible. 
 
 Again, in theorising on the properties of force, we 
 often assume bodies to be perfectly elastic, flexible, or 
 rigid; to move in contact with one another without 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 55 
 
 friction and in a vacuum: whereas we meet with no 
 such conditions among terrestrial phenomena. To allow 
 for imperfect elasticity, flexibility, or rigidity, or to in- 
 troduce the element of friction, or that of the resistance 
 of a medium, we have to deal with empirical elements 
 which cannot be exactly measured, and which, conse- 
 quently, instead of perfecting our theory, mar it. Kant, 
 therefore, committed an error, at least in the use of 
 words, when he called the introduction of these empirical 
 elements " adding more theory." 
 
 Of all these empirical elements, friction is peculiarly 
 difficult to theorise upon. Its amount varies with the 
 kind of surface, the grain, and the hardness of the 
 materials in contact. These being constant, it is pro- 
 portional to the pressure. But when the pressure is 
 excessive the amount of friction is practically incal- 
 culable. To this cause must be attributed the failure 
 of Mr. Brunei to effect a launch of the Great Eastern 
 steamship after an expenditure of some fifty thousand 
 pounds. In this case the friction was produced by the 
 attrition of iron on iron, under a pressure of somewhat 
 less than five thousand tons. Every vessel of that 
 burden will, for the future, be built in a dry dock. 
 
 The calculation of the resistance of the air is beset 
 with difficulties as insuperable as that of friction. This 
 retarding force varies with every change in the density 
 of the atmosphere. This being constant, it is propor- 
 tional to the moving force of the projectile. Lord 
 Macaulay, in his celebrated essay on Lord Bacon, says : 
 " William Tell would not have been one whit more 
 
56 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF 
 
 likely to cleave the apple, if he had known that his 
 arrow would describe a parabola under the influence 
 of the attraction of the earth." Clearly not; but for 
 reasons which Macaulay did not contemplate : for no 
 point in the arrow would describe that curve, or any- 
 thing like it. Of course a perfect theory of motion and 
 force would prove that one point in the arrow, called 
 the centre of gravity, would accurately describe that 
 curve, provided that body did not penetrate a resisting 
 medium. If, on the other hand, it moved through the 
 air, the path of the centre of gravity would not be 
 symmetrical with respect to the apex ; but that point 
 would dip more rapidly than it mounted, and reach the 
 ground at a greater angle than that at which it left 
 the bow.^ 
 
 I might proceed to give illustrations from the elasticity, 
 rigidity, and flexibility of bodies. Mechanical theory 
 assumes, for instance, the existence of strings of perfect 
 flexibility ; but none such are possible. Dr. Whewell 
 informs us, in what he intends for dignified prose, but 
 which is in reality unintentional verse — • 
 
 " There is no force, however great, 
 Can stretch a cord, however fine, 
 Into a horizontal line 
 Which is accurately straight." 
 
 In fact, whatever be the force applied, the line in reality 
 hangs in a curve ; but the nature of this curve is investi- 
 gated by mathematicians on the assumption that the 
 
 ' See De Morgan's 'rormal Logic,' chapter on Induction. 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 57 
 
 string is perfectly flexible. But as this is never the 
 case, the calculated curve and the real curve are dis- 
 crepant. 
 
 These indeterminate interlopers are repugnant to 
 theory. Theory ignores them for the sake of its com- 
 pleteness, and recognises them for the sake of its truth. 
 It is, however, little more than recognition that they 
 can receive at the hands of theory ; and when they are 
 incorporated with theory, what is gained in truth is 
 lost in scientific completeness. 
 
 It not unfrequently happens that a perfect theory is 
 less practicable than an imperfect one, while the im- 
 perfection of the latter does not occasion any sensible 
 discrepancy. The simplest examples of this are found, 
 in the science of mechanism, which regards the relations 
 of the parts of a machine apart from any force that 
 may be impressed upon it. One instance will suffice. 
 When steam was used only on one side of the piston 
 of the steam-engine, its up-and-down motion was con- 
 verted into the angular motion of the beam by the 
 simple means of attaching an arch-head to the beam, 
 and connecting the piston-rod with the top of the arch 
 by a chain passing over the arch-head. By this con- 
 trivance the piston-rod pulled down the beam, and the 
 beam pulled up the piston-rod. But when Watt con- 
 structed a steam-engine in which steam was employed 
 to effect the upward as well as the downward stroke, it 
 became necessary to make the piston-rod lift the beam. 
 Accordingly Watt contrived that system of levers called 
 the "parallel motion," which gives the piston-rod an 
 
58 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF 
 
 almost perfectly rigid pushing as well as pulling power. 
 Now, in fact, if the lengths and normal positions of the 
 rods be discreetly chosen, the line described by the 
 motion of the point to which the piston-rod is riveted, 
 during the motion of the beam through an angle of 20°, 
 deviates so little from a straight line that it were 
 scarcely possible to construct a piston-rod of such 
 rigidity, or to joint it with such precision as to make 
 the deviation of the slightest importance. Now there 
 are many other devices by which the summit of the 
 piston-rod may be made to move in a line that is 
 theoretically straight ; but all these involve the use of 
 cog-wheels, which, in the constant working of a steam- 
 engine, are found to be subject to such an amount of 
 wear and tear that they have been, to a great extent, 
 eschewed by engineers. 
 
 The saying that such and such a thing may be all 
 very well in theory, but it does not hold good in practice, 
 is, however, more commonly employed in respect of 
 political, social, and moral matters. Now, in this field, I 
 must confess that I think the saying worthy of respect : 
 for nothing is commoner than for men to theorise on 
 certain elements of the subject, while they, almost of 
 necessity, ignore others. 
 
 We have seen that, in physics, the marplots of theory 
 are certain empirical elements, about which we cannot 
 truly speculate, simply because they stand out of rela- 
 tion to the a priori conceptions of the understanding. 
 Doubtless extended knowledge about friction, elasticity, 
 &c., is possible, and for aught I see to the contrary, 
 
THEORY AND PEACTICE. 59 
 
 extended knowledge may bring these aliens within the 
 legitimate sphere of speculation. But the case is dif- 
 ferent in politics and morals. Besides certain axiomatic 
 principles which prevail in one or other of these realms 
 of thought, there exist an immense number of elements, 
 all of them empirical, and of the majority we do not 
 possess that knowledge which can avail for their reduc- 
 tion to a scientific shape. I know of no topic which 
 can better illustrate my meaning than the currency. 
 Here we have the rival theories of Tooke, Ricardo, 
 Wilson, Lord Overstone, Attwood, &c. &c. Probably 
 in every one of these some important elements are 
 ignored; and the consequence is that a hypothetical 
 element is introduced into the theory. Thus, some 
 writers, in theorising on the causes of a glut or a drain 
 of gold in this country, altogether ignore the fact of 
 the Government having a fixed price of gold ; not per- 
 ceiving that it is a fruitful cause of both a glut and a 
 drain, according to the state of the gold market. The 
 simple fact is this : if a man take i oz. 2.62 gr., or 
 thereabouts, of 22 carat gold to the Mint, he receives 
 back four sovereigns, which contain nearly that same 
 amount of fine gold. The fact that the vendor of the 
 bullion receives from the Mint nearly as much fine gold 
 in the form of sovereigns as he takes to the Mint in the 
 form of dust or nuggets, is regarded by certain writers 
 as a proof of the equity of the transaction, not of there 
 being any price of gold fixed by the Government. Now 
 the real state of the case is this : the conversion of the 
 given amount of bullion into four sovereigns destroys 
 
6o THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF 
 
 or suspends the value which that bullion would have in 
 market-overt, and invests it with a purely artificial 
 value or price : this is represented by eighty shillings in 
 silver; and the fact is that i oz. 2.62 gr. is frequently 
 worth more than eighty shillings in market-overt ; not 
 from any depreciation in the value of silver, but from 
 the high market price of gold. The suppression of this 
 fact introduces into the theory a hypothetical element, 
 viz., that there is but one kind of value for gold ; which 
 is, as I have shown, a great blunder : for it has two 
 incompatible values — the one as a precious metal, the 
 other as a medium of circulation — the one intrinsic, 
 and the other representative. 
 
 This is a fair sample of the kind of hypothesis which 
 vitiates the majority of currency theories.^ It is the 
 confidence with which such theories are put forth that 
 has brought the word " theory " into discredit with 
 men of business ; and these, not discerning the real 
 difference between empirical and exact science, are apt 
 to impute that discredit to physical theory, than which 
 nothing can be more absurd or unjust. 
 
 Of the problems which defy the powers of the social 
 speculator, how many are constantly meeting with a 
 practical solution at the hands of a simple-minded 
 worker, who, in love to Christ, and to those whom He 
 came into the world to save, lay out their lives heartily 
 in the work of converting sinners and evangelising 
 
 ^ I observe that something like this error is committed by my friend 
 and fellow-townsman, Mr. W. L. Sargant, in his very able work, ' The 
 Science of Social Opulence,' chap, xxiii. 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 6i 
 
 the world ! When duty speaks, we must not waste our 
 days in speculating on the best mode of doing it. Ars 
 longa, vita hrevis : there are men specially endowed for 
 the elaboration of theories. The practical man enters 
 into their labours, and works with their instruments. 
 But the more complex problems of social economy have 
 not yet received any scientific solution. There is a 
 work which is to be done ; but how to do it we find 
 not. So it is done, quocunque modo, as it may be ; and 
 thence spring the penalties of mistakes : for 
 
 " Evil is wrouglit by want of thouglit, 
 As well as by want of heart." 
 
 The fear of mistake, however, and of its consequences, 
 is too often made the pretext of ignoble inaction. How 
 many of us are given to murmur at the state of things 
 among which we live, instead of manfully setting to 
 work to do the little that in us lies for the well-being 
 and advancement of our race ! All of us have at one 
 time or another reflected on the cause of an evil state 
 of things, and said to ourselves " if that one circumstance 
 had been otherwise, all this mischief might have been 
 spared us." Is not this to credit ourselves with the 
 foresight requisite for theorising on the circumstances 
 that would be still left us, when we are, in all proba- 
 bility, entirely overlooking the fact that one circum- 
 stance cannot be thus eliminated in practice, without 
 some new circumstance, which we cannot anticipate, 
 taking the place of the one got rid of ? I am speaking, 
 not of what we can conceive, but of what is realised 
 
62 THE MUTUAL RELATIONS OF 
 
 in the experience of life. The fact is that all such 
 theorising is vain, because we are speculating with a 
 portion only of the elements of the problem ; and our 
 result, though it may make us discontented, or possibly 
 afford us consolation, as the case may be, is certain to 
 be very wide of the truth. Such theories are simply 
 false. 
 
 Social economy, however, is not a mere chimsera. It 
 presents problems which can be solved perfectly and 
 practicably. Thus, it is capable of demonstration that 
 all expenditure of capital in the acquisition of those 
 things which gratify and foster pride, vanity, malice, 
 cupidity, or any other vicious propensity of our fallen 
 nature, is an injury to society, and tends to the im- 
 poverishment of its wealth. For instance, the manu- 
 facture of fabrics which have no innate beauty, and 
 which are yet the result of a labour disproportionate to 
 quantity, is itself an evil. The manufacturers of all 
 such goods, however, are "more sinned against than 
 sinning." The sin, at least the great bulk of it, lies at 
 the doors of the buyers, who, by expending their capital 
 on such matters, direct the labours of the manufacturers 
 into that channel, instead of distributing it so as to 
 conserve and economise the capital employed. 
 
 In conclusion, I must call special attention to the 
 relations which subsist between theory and art. Tlicorij 
 bears the same relation to thought that art does to action. 
 Both are instruments more or less adequate. A theory 
 of ideas (metaphysics) bears the same relation to a 
 physical theory as a fine art bears to a mechanical art. 
 
THEOEY AND PRACTICE. 63 
 
 In both metaphysics and the fine arts there are nearly 
 
 as many opinions as writers or workers. The cause of 
 
 this lies too deep for discussion on the present occasion. 
 
 However, it is consolatory to reflect that we can all of 
 
 us do something towards training mankind in those 
 
 habits of reverence and truth which cannot but conduce 
 
 to the attainment of the desired unity of thought and 
 
 sentiment. Whether the talents committed to a man's 
 
 trust are such as fit him for speculation or realisation, 
 
 he has still a work to accomplish by which alone those 
 
 talents can be put out at interest for the good of his 
 
 race. 
 
 " Judge not which serves his mighty Master best, 
 Haply thou mightest be true worth's detractor ; 
 For each obeys his nature's high behest — 
 The close-pent thinker, and the busy actor." 
 
 " Doubt not, but persist : say, ' It is in me, and shall 
 out,' " is the advice of a transatlantic writer. Carlyle 
 says the like : " Be no longer a chaos, but a world, or 
 even a worldkin ! Produce ! Were it but the pitifullest 
 infinitesimal fraction of a product, produce it in God's 
 name. 'Tis the utmost thou hast in thee. Out with 
 it then." 
 
 This is sound advice, but it needs qualification. 
 Before we invest our powers in production let us first 
 of all be sure that what we are about to produce is 
 worth production, and if so, that it has not been 
 already produced by some one else. The only safeguard 
 ao-ainst the waste of mental capital in repetition is a 
 
 to 
 
 preliminary investment of it in mastering the history 
 
64 THEORY AND PRACTICE. 
 
 and literature of the speciality in tlie department of 
 whicli the producer is about to labour. Coincidence 
 in discovery cannot always be avoided. Newton and 
 Leibnitz independently invented (or ratter discovered) 
 fluxions. James "Watt and Lavoisier ought to divide 
 the honour of discovering the constitution of water. 
 Fox Talbot and Daguerre have equal credit in the 
 discovery of photography. Adams and Leverrier con- 
 temporaneously discovered the planet Neptune by a 
 purely theoretical process, though their methods were 
 different. France, somehow, manages to divide the 
 merit of discovery with England. Let us not grudge 
 her that honour. But these are exceptional cases. 
 Our first business, whether in theory or practice, is to 
 become familiar with what has been done by the great 
 who have lived before us or have wrought around us. 
 When that labour is performed, we close the epoch of 
 self-suflBciency and begin that of humility, which is the 
 true pioneer of progress. 
 
( 6s ) 
 
 III. 
 
 A DIALOGUE ON THE PERCEPTION OF 
 OBJECTS. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 It has been often observed that great events have 
 sprung from trivial causes. "Si le nez de Cl^op§,tre 
 eut ^t^ plus court, toute la face de la terre aurait 
 chang^." Thus Pascal sums up the general in the 
 particular. How many instances of the remark does 
 history afford ! It is interesting to know that the career 
 of a Cromwell or a Bonaparte was determined by an 
 incident which at the time seemed fatal, or at least 
 adverse to his advancement. If an- Order in Council had 
 not detained the ships in which Cromwell, Hampden, 
 Pym, and others of their party had embarked for 
 America, the history of our most notable rebellion would 
 have been a blank, or the same great result would have 
 been achieved later by other hands. If Sir Gilbert 
 Elliott, when Governor-General of Corsica, had accepted 
 the services of the young artillery officer, it is, to say 
 the least, improbable that the Napoleonic Dynasty 
 
66 A DIALOGUE ON THE 
 
 would ever have been founded. Such a providence is 
 there in the proportions of Cleopatra's nose ! 
 
 What is thus true of universal history is true of 
 biography. It was a toss-up whether Challis or Galle 
 should have the credit of discovering or rather detect- 
 ing the ultra- uranial planet, of which both Adams and 
 Leverrier had assigned approximate elements. The 
 seeming accident of a cloud passing across the field of 
 the Cambridge equatorial decided the question in favour 
 of Galle, though in fact Challis, like Adams, had the 
 priority. Once more : Mr. Whymper, amid the dangers 
 of the Matterhorn, owed his life to the chance of his 
 staying to take a sketch of the panorama from the 
 summit ; by his own neglect it was that a weak rope 
 was used for the descent ; and if the Alpine Club rope 
 had been used, as he intended, he and the two guides 
 who actually escaped would inevitably have shared the 
 awful and sublime fate of their less fortunate fellows. 
 
 The intellectual as well as the external history of 
 many a man has been determined by an incident which 
 seemed at the time of its occurrence insignificant, and 
 which was but remotely associated with the revolution 
 it inaugurated. The anecdote of Newton and the apple 
 is proverbial, though probably a fable. For myself, I 
 might have remained in life-long bondage to the school 
 of Locke but for the train of thought originated by a 
 rainbow. Thenceforth that commonest and most beauti- 
 ful of meteors has stood to me as the historic clue 
 of the whole visible universe. Nor did its uses end 
 with my own advance in the philosophy of perception ; 
 
PERCEPTION OF OBJECTS. 67 
 
 but I availed myself of every favourable opportunity of 
 expounding to others the analytical lesson of the rain- 
 bow, and thus of guiding them in that " path of transit " 
 which had been vouchsafed to me. One occasion on 
 which I did so is distinguished from others by the 
 number of conversations in which I took part, and by 
 the mental characteristics of those with whom I main- 
 tained the discussion. I was staying at the country 
 seat of a friend, who, at a great disadvantage, had edu- 
 cated himself with no little success, and whose know- 
 ledge on a great variety of subjects was considerable. 
 Partly from living too secluded a life since he had 
 retired from active business, and partly from want of 
 quickness in perception, he had become somewhat 
 opinionated and hard to convince. At that time a well- 
 educated young man, some distant relative of his, was 
 residing with him, and the one was a foil to the other. 
 This lad, who might be anything from nineteen to one- 
 and-twenty, was intelligent, simple-minded, and in- 
 genuous. If I really made a convert of him, I am not 
 proud of the achievement, for he lacked both subtilty 
 and depth, and, like the sun-dial, took note of those 
 points only on which the light happened to fall. With 
 these two companions I daily took walks in a luxuriant 
 woodland country, which was now variegated by the 
 melancholy hues of autumn. Our pursuits and our dis- 
 course were mainly physical. The Hower, the bird, the 
 woods and rocks, and the atmospheric effects of land and 
 sky, furnished ample materials for our employment and 
 pleasure. Philosophy in its highest sense was the last 
 
6S A DIALOGUE ON THE 
 
 thing either my host or his relative could have dreamed 
 of: yet to that height were they conducted on the aerial 
 pontifice of a rainbow. 
 
 In the following dialogue, of which I took copious 
 notes at the time, I have designated my friend by the 
 term Byspeistus, his relative I have called Euethes, and 
 myself Scopus. 
 
 The Dialogue. 
 
 Scopus. Let us get under shelter. We shall have a 
 smart shower. 
 
 Dyspcistus. A sunshine shower ! It will soon be 
 over. 
 
 Euetlics. What a magnificent rainbow ! Did you ever 
 see such vivid colours ? 
 
 Bysp. Yes, I have ; in the spectrum of a prism. But 
 this is unusually bright for a rainbow. 
 
 Scop. What a remarkable coincidence ! 
 
 Dysp. and Eue. What is ? 
 
 Scop. Why, each of you sees a rainbow, and both 
 rainbows are unusually bright. 
 
 Dysp. Both ? You do not see a double rainbow, do 
 you ? For my part, I see but one. Let's see ; it is the 
 interior bow that has the red outside and the violet in ; 
 and the exterior reverses the order. 
 
 Scop. Yes ; and I like you do not see the secondary 
 bow. 
 
 Bysp. Then why do you speak of " both rainbows " ? 
 
 Scop. I mean by " both," the arch you see, and that 
 
PERCEPTION OF OBJECTS. 69 
 
 seen by Euethes. It struck me as a coincidence worth 
 explaining, that both should be unusually bright. 
 
 Eue. I think I have heard or read that no two people 
 either do or can see the same rainbow. 
 
 Scop. It is most certain : indeed if I am to speak 
 according to knowledge, if I am to speak as well as 
 think with the learned, I should say that the rainbow 
 you see with one eye you cannot see with the other 
 eye ; and as you and Dyspeistus are using both eyes, 
 I might have distinguished four rainbows which are 
 seen among you. 
 
 Dijsp. Well, I never heard such nonsense uttered so 
 seriously. 
 
 Scop. I should say, then, that you have been very 
 fortunate in your company, and ought to be thankful 
 for the small mercy of " hearing some new thing.'' I 
 have no doubt, however, that you will live to find that 
 many of the serious judgments of common sense are 
 both stale and false. Let me ask you what you take 
 a rainbow for ; you don't take it for a real thing, do 
 you? 
 
 Dysp. Most certainly I do. Have I any need to tell 
 you what it is made of? 
 
 Scop. I might guess, perhaps, what you will say it is 
 made of; but my guess may be, for aught I know, as 
 wrong as your belief Which will you have — light or 
 water ? 
 
 Bysp. It is made of drops of water, of course. 
 
 Scop. Then is it not remarkable that I do not see 
 any drops of water in a raiubow ? 
 
70 A DIALOGUE ON THE 
 
 Dysp. On the contrary, I should think it miraculons, 
 if at so great a distance, or indeed at any distance, you 
 could distinguish such small objects moving so fast ; 
 to say nothing of the confusion of reflected and trans- 
 mitted light, and its chromatism by refraction. But 
 though we cannot distinguish the drops, it is the drops 
 and nothing else that we see. 
 
 Scop. A very neat little paradox! The only thing 
 we see in a rainbow is the very thing which for three 
 sound reasons we cannot possibly see. 
 
 Dysp. Come, come, Scopus, that's not fair. I don't 
 mind being refuted ; but when you resort to the ex- 
 pedient of making me say what I did not say, it is not 
 refutation you are bent upon, but mockery. 
 
 Scop. I beg your pardon ; but what did you say, 
 then? 
 
 Dysp. I purposely used the word " distinguish." I 
 assert that we see the water in a rainbow, though we 
 do not, cannot distinguish the drops. Let me illustrate 
 this. I suppose you will allow that, in looking at a 
 spoked wheel in rapid rotation, you see the wood, though 
 you cannot distinguish the spokes. 
 
 Scop. You will oblige me by assuming nothing of 
 the kind. I can brook no such abuse of language. If 
 the spokes revolve so fast that I cannot see them dis- 
 tinctly, I cannot see them at all : still less can I be 
 said to see the wood of which the spokes are made. 
 You might as well assert that I see a sunken rock 
 because I see a darker shade on the surface of the sea 
 where the rock lies. If I am to use lanCTuaefe without 
 
PERCEPTION OF OBJECTS. 71 
 
 abusing it, I must say that, if I do not see the spokes 
 of your wheel distinctly, I do not see them at all. 
 
 Dysp. That is, there is no vision but distinct vision. 
 A very neat little parados ! 
 
 Scop. Well hit ! But I did not say anything equiva- 
 lent to that. What I did say, at least implicitly, was 
 this — that of a distinct object there can be no vision 
 but distinct vision. When a definite body is moving 
 so fast that I cannot distinguish it, I still see some- 
 thing : in the case of your wheel I see, in fact, a phantom 
 which is produced in my imagination by the revolving 
 spokes reflecting light. Now, I see that phantom just 
 as distinctly as it is distinctly realised in my imagi- 
 nation, neither more nor less. 
 
 Dysp. But is not that phantom made up of the 
 spokes, and nothing else ? 
 
 Scop. It is not. The phantom is wholly the product 
 of sensations of colour and imagination. Of those sen- 
 sations, I grant, the light reflected from the spokes is 
 the occasion, but I emphatically deny that I see the 
 spokes at all. 
 
 Eue. Would it not be more correct to say that we 
 see the light, and nothing else ? 
 
 Scop. It would not be correct at all. The eye, 
 indeed, afibrds us the sensation of light, but we feel 
 the sensation, we do not see it. To see is to perceive 
 by means of ocular sensations. I see the phantom 
 which is presented to my mind in imagination. If 
 nothing is so presented, I see nothing, and sensation 
 does not rise to the rank of perception. But so far 
 
72 A DIALOGUE ON THE 
 
 are we from seeing external liglit, that we are not 
 conscious, even in the lowest and least significant form 
 of sensation, of anything called light which is said to 
 radiate from objects and to impinge on the retina of 
 the eye. The light of which we are conscious as sen- 
 sation is that which is excited in the optic nerve and 
 brain. Popular usage, indeed, sanctions that employ- 
 ment of the verb to see against which I am protesting ; 
 but popular usage sanctions hundreds of such idola 
 fori for no other conceivable reason than to evade the 
 exertion of thought. Shakespeare, Milton, and other 
 poets might be cited as a sanction for such a phrase 
 as the eye sees an ohj'ect, but only as a poetical figure. 
 Even in poetry no correct writer would say that the 
 eye, or even its owner, sees the sensation of light. 
 He might say that the eye, or its owner, sees an object 
 made visible by light, such as the phantom of the 
 rotating wheel, the image in a mirror, or the fine solar 
 meteor which is now fading out of the dark sky. The 
 shower is over ; let us continue our walk. 
 
 Dysp. With pleasure : though this fine terrestrial 
 meteor — I mean the rain — has made the roads sloppy 
 and the fields spongy. After all, then, it is a mere 
 question of language whether we see material objects 
 or the light which they reflect. I am not fond of 
 splitting verbal hairs. What I meant to say was this : 
 in looking at the rainbow I see a certain shining of the 
 sun upon drops of water ; so that the drops of water 
 are the material thing in the phenomenon. 
 
 Scop. Doubtless the water and the light are the 
 
PERCEPTION OF OBJECTS. 73 
 
 joint physical causes of the phenomenon. I simply 
 contend that in a strict sense of the verb to see, I 
 see the rainbow, and not the drops of water or the 
 light. 
 
 Sue. Just as in looking at the reflection of an object 
 in a mirror one sees the reflected image, and not the 
 glass or the light ? 
 
 Scop. Just so ; and as that image exists only to the 
 mind perceiving it, So the rainbow exists not in the 
 sunlight or the shower, but in the imagination, as it 
 externalises the sensations presented to it. 
 
 Dysp. Do you seriously mean to assert that the rain- 
 bow we were just now looking at and admiring did not 
 exist at a certain distance from us, nor occupy a definite 
 locus in the rain-cloud ? 
 
 Scop. I am perfectly serious in making that asser- 
 tion ; nay, more, I seriously maintain that not any one 
 of the rainbows seen by us had any external existence 
 whatever. 
 
 JEue. If, as I understand it, the rainbow is a reflected 
 image, or rather a corona of reflected images, I think 
 we must allow that it is as much related to the object 
 imaged as the image in a mirror is to the thing re- 
 flected. 
 
 Scop. I grant you that ; but our friend here was not 
 contending that in looking at a rainbow he was looking 
 at a circle of reflected suns, but at illuminated drops of 
 water. Do you understand, Buethes, exactly how this 
 truly sublime colour-band is formed ? 
 
 Eue. I should be glad to hear you explain it. 
 
74 A DIALOGUE ON THE 
 
 Scop. Dyspeistus can do tliafc as well as I can. Give 
 us your version of tlie transaction. 
 
 Dysp. You must grant me an unclouded sun behind 
 me and a rain-cloud in front of me. For convenience 
 of exposition, conceive the drops of rain to be suspended 
 at rest, forming a bed of small pellucid spheres on which 
 the sunlight falls; It falls on all parts of the drops 
 towards the sun ; so one small pencil falls on the upper 
 parts of each drop, and this passes through the drop 
 and falls on the opposite inner side. Some of this 
 pencil passes out into the air, and some is reflected from 
 the inner surface there, which falling on the lower parts, 
 and issuing thence, proceeds towards the sun again, and 
 enters the eye of an observer. Of course I am assuming 
 that he is rightly placed, and that the light is not again 
 intercepted. This light, then, has suffered two refrac- 
 tions and one reflexion at the surface of the drop, and 
 like the light passing through a prism, is by refraction 
 resolved into seven colours. The retina of an eye, 
 situated in the straight line through which the issuing 
 pencil travels, receives the image of a coloured spectrum, 
 and — to speak by the card, the owner of that eye sees 
 the seven primary colours — Scopus, I know, would have 
 me say feels them. 
 
 Scop. I should not say that he feels the coloured 
 light, unless he referred it to the retina, as in touch he 
 refers roughness to the surface which is in immediate 
 contact with the skin, and reciprocally to the skin 
 itself. 
 
 Eue. But you spoke, Dyspeistus, of our seeing the 
 
PERCEPTION OF OBJECTS. 75 
 
 solar spectrum from one drop. Does the single drop, 
 then, give us the segment of a rainbow ? 
 
 Bysp. The single drop gives us a downward streak 
 of light, the red at top, the violet at bottom. But 
 inasmuch as the eye receives the spectra of drops of 
 water in all available positions, the aggregation of such 
 streaks becomes an arch. 
 
 Eue. But your raindrops are suspended at rest, and 
 real ones are in rapid motion. 
 
 Dysip. True. If instead of the suspended layer of 
 drops we conceive a constant succession of drops, the 
 place of one being ever supplied by another, the con- 
 ditions of the phenomenon are not materially altered, 
 for the succession of drops now performs the same 
 function as the stationary drops ; for the eye, by a cer- 
 tain negative virtue it has, viz., a deficiency of sensi- 
 bility, is so retentive of each impression, that its owner 
 is unable to discriminate so rapid a substitution of one 
 drop for another. 
 
 Scop. So far, Dyspeistus, I have nothing to except to 
 in your explanation, which is careful and accurate. But 
 there is one lesson I would draw from it, viz., that of 
 " the permanent in the transitory." The Lee-cloud, 
 which is not uncommonly seen on Alpine heights, like 
 the rainbow, is a stable phenomenon, though its physical 
 constituents are in swift motion. Transparent vapour is 
 driven in a rapid current against the cold side or summit 
 of a mountain. At the touch of the mountain the 
 vapour is condensed, and minute drops of water are 
 formed. But before they can be swept over the moun- 
 
76 A DIALOGUE ON THE 
 
 tain they are revaporised ; and it is only about the point 
 of condensation that the water can maintain its state 
 as drops. So the gale sweeps it on again as invisible 
 vapour. But the place of every drop of water thus re- 
 vaporised is supplied by the condensation of the vapour 
 rushing up behind it. The result is, that though the 
 huge body of invisible vapour is in violent transition, 
 and the condensed portion along with it, there is the 
 stable and permanent phenomenon of a motionless cloud 
 floating on the point of condensation. In fact the 
 stream of vapour flows through it, and no part is more 
 essential to its existence than any other. Now for the 
 moral of the story. We talk of the resurrection of the 
 body, and even of the flesh, in the once universal and 
 still prevalent belief that its material is proper to it 
 and necessary to its identity. But when once we have 
 ascertained the relation of material substance to organic 
 life, we find this doctrine wholly inconsistent with 
 facts. We now know that matter forms no constant part 
 of the bodily structure, but as it were uninterruptedly 
 flows through it, and the arrest of that flow we call 
 death. To reproduce the living organism, a resurrection 
 of the matter composing it at any time is not only un- 
 necessary, but impertinent. The very condition on which 
 this doctrine rests is inconsistent with life. Matter, 
 then, has the same relation to the organism as the drops 
 or molecules of water have to the rainbow or Lee-cloud, 
 life being in the one case what light is in the other. 
 
 Dysp. It will be long before theologians will lay that 
 lesson to heart. 
 
PERCEPTION OF OBJECTS. 77 
 
 Scop. Naturally: for to hold to tlie natural fact 
 means to abandon the superstition as a means of live- 
 lihood ; and to teach the fact to ignorant men would, 
 at first, give a violent shock to their hopes and aspira- 
 tions : from both of which the professed theologian is 
 sure to shrink. And here is a lesson for you, Dyspeistus : 
 that which is permanent in the rainbow is not the rain- 
 drops. Those, indeed, are its physical constituents, but 
 they are in a state of continual flux. 
 
 Bysp. I never doubted it : how could I with such 
 instructive toys before me as Dr. Roget's gyroscope, 
 Mr. Rose's photodrone, and M. Plateau's anortho- 
 scope. 
 
 Eue. I thought Dr. Eoget's invention was called the 
 phenakistiscope. 
 
 Scop. So it was ; but the gyroscope is essentially the 
 same invention. I believe the French give the credit 
 of that invention also to M. Plateau ; but Eoget had the 
 priority by many years. It is a pity, however, that he 
 gave it such a hideous name. Doubtless what we see 
 in the instrument we see <pevaKi(jTLK5)<i, but Imiesiscope 
 or phenaMscope would have been a better formed and 
 more euphonious name. 
 
 Hue. But to return to the rainbow, I have yet to 
 learn why the spectrum is circular. 
 
 Dysp. That is a point which was never made clear 
 to my mind in elementary treatises. I well remember 
 when a boy wondering why the rainbow was circular ; 
 and on my asking my preceptor, who was a capital 
 mathematician, to explain the circular shape of the 
 
78 A DIALOGUE ON THE 
 
 rainbow, he gravely told me that it was due to tlie 
 orbicular shape of the eye. 
 
 /S'cop. I think he must have seen some green in the 
 eye of his pupil. I spare you the alternative. 
 
 Dysp. No good pun can turn on a mere verbal anti- 
 thesis. But let us have your explanation of the circular 
 shape of the spectrum. 
 
 Scop. It is circular, because the circle is the figure 
 of symmetry. Sir David Brewster explains the rain- 
 bow by a pellucid globe held in the hand. Let the 
 observer turn his back to the sun, and hold the globe 
 above the height of his head in front of him, and he 
 will see a horizontal spectrum of colours, the red at 
 top, the violet at bottom ; and all other positions of the 
 globe may be found to the right and to the left in 
 which the spectrum is seen, the inclination to the 
 horizon of the spectrum varying for all the positions. 
 It is plain that the phenomenon is not peculiar to one 
 position of the globe ; but that in every position in 
 which the angle between the incident ray and the ray 
 that comes to the eye is of the same magnitude as in 
 any one of the observed cases, the incident ray always 
 striking a similar part of the globe, the like phenomenon 
 will be observed, the spectrum being at right angles to 
 a plane in which are the centres of the globe, the sun, 
 and the eye. All such positions clearly lie in the 
 right transverse section of a cone of which the centre 
 of the sun is the apex, and the axis is a line passing 
 through the centres of the sun and of the eye. If then 
 there be a series of glass globes in that section, a 
 
PERCEPTION OF OBJECTS. 79 
 
 spectrum of colours will be seen in the form of a regular 
 polygon. Whence it is easily seen that if the globes 
 be very small, the arch closely approximates to the 
 circular form ; and what is true of glass globes is true 
 of spherical drops of water. 
 
 Eue. Then the line joining the centres of the sun 
 and the eye, if produced towards the rainbow, passes 
 through the centre of the rainbow ? 
 
 Scop. It does ; and thus the rainbow lies symmetri- 
 cally to the sun and the eye. 
 
 Dysp. Hardly, unless the observer, Ixion-like, be 
 bound to a vertical wheel with his eye in the centre, 
 and looking directly forwards, be made to revolve 
 before the rainbow. 
 
 Scop. Your remark convinces me that your tutor was 
 not such an ass after all. I have no doubt he meant to 
 point this most important fact, that the orbicular form 
 of the eye is a necessary co-efficient in the production 
 of the circular arch. Evidently, but for that, some 
 such a contrivance as yon suggest would be essential 
 to the symmetry. As it is constituted, the eyeball 
 being nearly spherical, it is a matter of indifference 
 whether its owner stand erect or lie on his side in 
 observing any part of the rainbow. 
 
 Eue. You have hitherto been speaking of the 
 primary or interior rainbow, such as we saw just 
 now. Why did we not see the secondary or exterior 
 rainbow ? 
 
 Scop. For no other reason than the absence of rain- 
 drops from the place where it should be seen, or, the 
 
8o A DIALOGUE ON THE 
 
 drops being there, some other cloud intercepting the 
 sunlight which would otherwise fall upon them. 
 
 Eii,e. I suppose an actual rainfall between those drops 
 and the sun would hardly be sufficiently opaque to 
 intercept all sunlight ? 
 
 Scop. That depends : such a rainfall would probably 
 divert too much light for the secondary bow to be 
 visible. You must remember that such an intercepting 
 rainfall would divert the light which strikes the drops, 
 of which it consists, in various directions, so as to afiect 
 persons whose eyes are in position with primary and 
 secondary bows, and so as to fulfil the conditions of 
 conceivable tertiary and other bows. No, I do not 
 think your secondary bow could be visible in the case 
 suggested. In any case it is fainter than its primary, 
 and therefore more liable to invisibility than the other. 
 
 JEue. Why is it fainter ? 
 
 Scop. Because it is formed by the light which, strik- 
 ing the lower parts of the drop, enters it, and after two 
 reflections issues from the upper parts, and thus reaches 
 the observer's eye ; so more light is lost in the' transit 
 than is the case with the light that makes the primary 
 bow. 
 
 Euc. Is the tertiary bow ever seen ? 
 
 Scop. Both the third and fourth bows fall near the 
 sun, and are therefore rarely visible ;i the fifth and sixth 
 are indeed opposite the sun, but it is doubtful if they 
 have ever been seen ; so little light goes to their con- 
 stitution. 
 
 ' A tertiary segment seen by me, Oct. 27, 1 868. 
 
PERCEPTION OF OBJECTS. 8i 
 
 Dysp. It seems to me, Scopus, that the rainbow has 
 always to contend with difficulties of this kind. 
 
 Scop. Yes; and it is therefore but seldom seen. If the 
 sun is not too high, every rain-cloud passing from the 
 sun would afford the conditions of a rainbow, but for 
 the interception of the light. 
 
 Eue. That reminds me of a difSculty : if, as it seems, 
 one corona of raindrops is sufficient and necessary to 
 form a rainbow, say the primary bow, wherever that 
 corona happens to lie in the bed of drops, there surely 
 must be other drops either before or behind it capable 
 of forming rainbows. Why do we never see a com- 
 plication of rainbows overlapping and confounding one 
 another ? 
 
 Scop. Simply because, while you are looking at one 
 primary bow, you are out of position for seeing others. 
 Remember your eye must be in the axis of a cone of 
 which the rainbow is the base, and the centre of the sun 
 the apex, in order that the rainbow forming the base 
 may be visible to you. Now if any other primary bow 
 became visible to you, it would be exactly superposed on 
 the other, the angle which the issuing ray makes with 
 the incident ray being of constant magnitude. In fact, 
 the image on the retina of the eye is of a constant size, 
 both in radius and in breadth, and its reference to this 
 or that part of space, and the consequent mental act or 
 judgment by which it is seen as of this or that magni- 
 tude, are dependent on other and very different con- 
 ditions. The study of the diminutive bow which spans 
 the spray of a paddle wheel, a fountain, or a waterfall, 
 
82 A DIALOGUE ON THE 
 
 is very instructive in this particular, and for myself 
 I find no difficulty in reducing the ordinary rainbow to 
 very small dimensions, and I daresay I can teach you 
 to do the same. 
 
 Eue. How may one do that ? 
 
 Scop. By means of a sort of micrometer of two 
 intersecting stretched hairs. Look at the rainbow 
 through that, and shutting one eye look at the inter- 
 section of the hairs till you see them distinctly. To do 
 that you will involuntarily, or rather unconsciously, per- 
 form an adjustment of the crystalline lens, which will 
 make the rainbow very small and very distinct. Tou 
 may try the experiment with a page of large print 
 when we get home, and you will be surprised to see 
 how small it becomes. 
 
 lHue. Can you do the reverse — make a small-looking 
 object appear large? 
 
 Scop. Not so well ; but it is possible. So you see our 
 sense of sight is remarkably elastic. By Dr. Roget's 
 and Mr. Eose's inventions you may see objects in 
 motion which are but drawings of fixed positions 
 successively presented to the eye, and by the photo- 
 drome you may see an object at rest which is really in 
 rapid motion. By the anorthoscope an unintelligible 
 confusion becomes the picture of a familiar object. And 
 now you have the receipt for altering the apparent size 
 of any object whatever. These experiments reveal but 
 an instalment of the entire debt which nature owes to 
 the percipient. 
 
 Dys-p. Did you ever consider the rationale of the 
 
PERCEPTION OF OBJECTS. 83 
 
 apparently great size of the mooa when near the 
 horizon ? 
 
 Scop. Certainly ; and I see no difficulty whatever in 
 the phenomenon. Why do we see the rainbow so large, 
 when after all we know it to be less than a section of 
 the eyeball ? 
 
 Dysp. Do you mean to say you do not believe it to 
 have any other objective existence than as a disturb- 
 ance of the retina? If so, you will have to give up 
 talking of seeing a rainbow, and speak of it as an 
 extended sensation only. 
 
 Scop. Well, the fact is, we do see it, and see it as an 
 object without us, and the size we assign to it depends 
 on the relation to other external objects which we con- 
 ceive it to have. If I see that the ends of the rainbow 
 disappear behind some distant woods, or a distant range 
 of hills, I unconsciously locate it at a definite distance 
 from the eye — a distance of which my judgment can 
 take cognisance ; and I at once judge the rainbow to 
 be very vast, since I see it spanning so great a belt of 
 earth. So of the horizontal moon. If it seems to me 
 to be a ball resting on the earth at the horizon, a 
 matter of from five to fifty miles, suppose, I uncon- 
 sciously make the inference of its great magnitude ; 
 just as if I were to conceive the ball rolling up to me, 
 and looming larger and larger upon me as it approached. 
 I once saw a rainbow in the Alps which opened out 
 this question to me. It was at midday, in summer, 
 when on the Wetterhorn I saw below me a double 
 circular Iris, and in the centre of the concentric circles 
 
84 A DIALOGUE ON THE 
 
 I saw the shadow of my own head. The rain-cloud 
 which occasioned the phenomenon was so near that the 
 shadow of my head was pretty definite, and I suppose 
 I unconsciously judged from the size of the shadow 
 its distance from me, and referring the rainbow to the 
 shadow, I judged it to be much smaller than any one 
 I had ever seen. Further, I believe that if we could 
 see a circular Iris high in the heavens, so that it would 
 not be referred to any terrestrial objects, it would look 
 smaller still. 
 
 Eue. That is very wonderful. 
 
 Scop. It is so, because the explanation of the anomaly 
 is in the act of judgment, and is therefore purely mental. 
 We have here a case which demands metaphysics. 
 Mere physics is quite at fault — as indeed it is in all 
 ultimate issues. 
 
 Dysp. Then you really hold this meteor for a phantom, 
 a creation of the imagination and nothing else. 
 
 Scop. I do indeed ; but I do not base on that con- 
 clusion my assertion that no two people see the same 
 rainbow, and that there is a different rainbow for every 
 observing eye. Your own knowledge of the physics 
 of the rainbow ought to have secured you from calling 
 that statement " nonsense," as you did just now. Tou 
 cannot deny that every visible rainbow is the base of a 
 cone, of which the centre of the sun is the apex, that 
 rainbow being visible to a person whose eye is at a 
 certain point in the axis of the cone, and to no one 
 else. If two eyes cannot be at one and the same 
 moment in one and the same place, it follows that 
 
PERCEPTION OF OBJECTS. 85 
 
 the rainbow I see with my right eye alone is not the 
 rainbow I see with my left eye alone, unless I move 
 my head. In fact, each rainbow has its cone, and the 
 axes of those cones are not coincident, but inclined at a 
 very small angle. 
 
 Lijsp. The angle is inappreciably small ; it is for all 
 the purposes of the case, zero. 
 
 Scop. Not so ; you forget we are dealing with very 
 minute spheres of water. But even if that angle were 
 zero, yoQ will not say that, in the case of two persons 
 half a mile apart, looking at a rainbow, the angle is 
 inappreciably small. Even you cannot deny that these 
 people receive the light from a different corona of drops ; 
 so that on your own assumption, that they are looking 
 at the drops, the rainbow seen by the one observer is 
 not identical with that seen by another observer. 
 
 Dysp. Why, you will soon be engaged in demon- 
 strating that no two eyes can see the same tree. 
 
 Scop. I cannot move so fast. In passing from a 
 phenomenon like the rainbow, which has no manner 
 of existence but to the perceiving mind — using its 
 organ of sight to such an object as a tree, which is 
 amenable to touch and feeling, as well as to sight and 
 other senses, we must see our way very clearly, lest 
 haply we should confound essentially different pheno- 
 mena. Besides, we have not investigated the case of 
 vision with two eyes. 
 
 Dysp. Like Felix, I shall be happy to hear you on 
 another occasion. You may be sure I'll give you rope 
 enough. Though you may not hang yourself, you will 
 
86 DIALOGUE ON THE PERCEPTION OF OBJECTS. 
 
 assuredly entangle yourself in a mesh, of absurdities. Do 
 you emulate the feats of those dialecticians, ancient and 
 modem, who have opposed knowledge to belief, pro- 
 portioned belief to improbability, or identified existence 
 and nothing ? 
 
 Scop. I am not prepared to reject, much less deride, 
 any of those famous paradoxes ; but at present it is out 
 of my beat to meddle with them. 
 
( 87 ) 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE IDEALITY OF THE RAINBOW. 
 
 This familiar meteor, " the idol of children and men," 
 was, as we all know, to the Hebrews the outward 
 visible sign of a covenant made with them by Blohim 
 (Gen. ix. 13-17). What the rainbow does say to all of 
 us is, that the storm-cloud is past, and that the sun- 
 light behind us is breaking on the diamond shower of 
 the storm's departing skirt. What those old-world 
 theists made it say to them was, that their Deity had 
 unsuccessfully attempted to exterminate human wicked- 
 ness by deluge ; and, becoming convinced that the 
 method was abortive, by reason of the wickedness being 
 inherent in the race, pledged himself not to repeat the 
 experiment. To the Greeks, Iris was the herald of 
 Olympian Jove, and came, sometimes water-pot in 
 hand, tripping down the vari-coloured arch that spanned 
 the abyss between heaven and earth, on her errands of 
 goodwill to men. 
 
 Great must have been the shock to religious prejudice 
 while the true theory of earth's "rich scarf" was being, 
 step by step, evolved by Kepler, De Dominis, Descartes, 
 
88 THE IDEALITY OF THE EAINBOW. 
 
 and Newton.i But there was, in fact, little cause for 
 fear. Those who expected that the results of science 
 could make the slightest breach in the ancient citadel 
 of faith must have greatly mistaken the nature and mis- 
 calculated the strength of religious belief. Here was a 
 phenomenon, declared by Holy Scripture to be miracu- 
 lous, resolved into the very laws which paint external 
 objects alike on the retina of the eye and on the table 
 
 ^ Hallam's estimate of De Dominis' contribution to the optics of tlie 
 rainbow is too high ; and his account of Descartes' services is, in one 
 respect, erroneous (' History of the Literature of Europe,' 1843, vol. iii. 
 p. 203). Most of the archbishop's discussion de iiide amply justifies 
 Boscovich's sweeping censure. Yet De Dominis clearly perceived that 
 the circular form of the arch was the result of symmetry, and so an 
 affair of geometry ; and that the phenomenon was an illusion. " Osten- 
 sum est," he writes, " arcum ilium primum ab oculo nostro determinari, 
 et nullum esse in nube arcum, quae tota est colorata " (De radiis lucis, 
 &c., et iride, 161 1, cap. xiv.) ; and what he here asserts of the primary, 
 he evidently applies to the secondary arch. Happily for Descartes' 
 reputation, he did not attempt to prove that the pencil of light after 
 refraction, reflection, and emergence, is composed of parallel rays. The 
 coloured pencil is convergent, as Descartes very well knew. 
 
 While speaking of Descartes, I may mention his incredulity as to 
 the production of a third exterior bow, under the ordinary conditions 
 of the other two. " Quidam etiam mihi narrarunt, tertlam Iridem 
 duas ordinarias cingentem se aliquando vidisse, sed multo pallidiorem, 
 et tantum circiter a secunda remotam, quantum ab ilia prima distat. 
 Quod vix accidisse arbitror, nisi forsan quffidam grandimis grana, 
 maxime rotunda et pellucida, hino pluviffi fuerint immixta," &c. . . 
 (' Meteora,' cap. viii. § 14). Now, as to the matter of fact, I have seen 
 three concentric arches against Ben Nevis, where there was no water, and 
 that too in mild weather ; so that the third arch could not have arisen 
 from reflexion, nor from the presence of hail. I ought to add that the 
 third arch was so faint that it was visible only where it was backed by 
 the dark mountain. It was broader than the second arch, and more 
 distant from it than the second was from the first. Surely it is easily 
 accounted for on the supposition that light falls on the lower parts of 
 the drops ; and after suffering three reflexions in the drops, emerges to 
 the observing eye. 
 
THE IDEALITY OF THE RAINBOW. 89 
 
 of Porta's camera. But between a Divine revelation 
 and a calculation of science there could be no competi- 
 tion. So the theology, unaffected by knowledge, held 
 on its way — 
 
 " And Science struck the thrones of Earth and Heaven, 
 Which shook, but fell not." 
 
 Well, though I will not bid the old faith God-speed, 
 small blame, I say, to those who cherish it ; but as little 
 to those who love the poetry of the Greeks more than 
 the mythology of the Hebrews ; who, gazing with dis- 
 cerning admiration on this richly invested product of 
 natural laws, are still reminded of Iris and her aerial 
 pontifice — 
 
 " A midway station, given 
 For happy spirits to alight 
 Betwixt the earth and heaven." 
 
 But when religion, poetry, and science have had 
 their say about the rainbow, there is yet an account to 
 be rendered in its behalf by philosophy. We have it 
 on the authority of men eminent in science that not 
 only no two persons, but no two eyes, though paired in 
 the head of Argus, can see one and the same rainbow ; 
 that, in fact, there are as many rainbows as there are 
 eyes beholding. We shall soon see how this comes 
 about. In the meanwhile let me say that this is not a 
 doctrine borrowed from this or that school of idealism 
 or scepticism, but is involved in the physical exposition 
 of the meteor. Let the metaphysician make thereof 
 what capital he may ! 
 
90 THE IDEALITY OF THE KAINBOW. 
 
 There are two sciences implicated in the rainbow : that 
 of optics and that of geometry. The ordinary elementary 
 treatises on dioptrics sufficiently expound the produc- 
 tion of the two spectra, in converse orders of colours, 
 when a pellucid sphere, held in two given positions in 
 the sunlight, is observed by one who has his back to 
 the sun. I will here assume the fact. An observer, 
 with the sun at his back, views the globe in two ascer- 
 tained vertical positions. In the upper position he 
 sees a vertical spectrum of colours, violet at top and 
 red at bottom ; in the lower position he sees a vertical 
 spectrum of colours, red at top and violet at bottom ; 
 the other colours, in both positions of the globe, being 
 in the prismatic sequence. That is the optical fact. 
 The rest is, for the most part, geometry. The essential 
 point, for each arch, is that the sun, the eye, and the 
 globe shall be so relatively placed, that light from the 
 sun shall strike the globe at an ascertained angle ; and 
 that every pencil of light of any given colour shall 
 emerge from the globe to the stationary eye at an ascer- 
 tained angle. These angles must be constant. But 
 this condition being observed, it matters not where the 
 globe is held, whether vertically or to the right or to 
 the left. Evidently the imaginary plane passing through 
 the centres of the sun, the eye, and the globe, may have 
 any inclination to the line passing through those centres. 
 Very well ; then let it revolve round that line as its 
 axis, carrying the globe with it, and the globe will 
 continuously and successively assume every position in 
 which the angles specified are of unchanged magnitude. 
 
THE IDEALITY OF THE KAINBOW. 91 
 
 The circle, therefore, is what mathematicians call the 
 locus of the centre of the globe which is moved under 
 the given conditions. Hence a circular hand will be the 
 locus of the spectrum for each original position of the 
 globe. That is, the observer would see the globe, start- 
 ing from each of the two given positions, describe a cir- 
 cular coloured band, the colours being continuations of 
 the spectra seen while the globe was at rest. 
 
 Accordingly, if instead of employing two rapidly 
 revolving glass globes, I were to build an enormous wall 
 of infinitely small solid transparent spheres, I should 
 see through it (not on it) two concentric segments of 
 circular prismatic arches, the centre of which would be 
 in the same straight line with the centres of my eye 
 and the sun. We thus find that each arch of the rain- 
 bow is the base of an imaginary cone, whose apex is the 
 centre of the eye, and whose axis is the straight line 
 passing through the centre of the arches, and those of 
 the eye and the sun. For every position, then, of the 
 eye in the axis there is a fresh cone ; and for every 
 position of the eye out of that axis there is a fresh axis 
 and a fresh cone ; so that having regard to the light 
 alone, it is proved that for every position of the eye 
 there is a rainbow of at least two concentric arches 
 which cannot be seen in any other position ; and there- 
 fore no two eyes can see one and the same rainbow. 
 
 What then happens when I look at a rainbow with 
 both eyes at once ? The same as happens when I look 
 at my face in a glass. With the right eye alone I see 
 a projection of my face which is invisible to the left 
 
92 THE IDEALITY OF THE KAINBOW. 
 
 eye, and vice versd. But with both eyes I see an image 
 of perfect stereoscopic relief, of which the two dissimilar 
 projections are the co-determinants. In this case the 
 axes of the eyeballs are converged to a point beyond 
 the surface of the glass, so that a spot of dirt thereupon 
 is seen double. If the axes are converged to that spot, 
 then the spot is seen single, but my face is seen double. 
 Now in the case of the rainbow, each eye has its image, 
 and but for the great distance of the rain-bed, the act 
 of coalescing the two images would, by the convergence 
 of the optic axes, be very definitely determinate of dis- 
 tance. Such, indeed, is the case with the little pris- 
 matic arch which De Dominis tells us has been seen in 
 the spray from the oars, and which I have seen against 
 the paddle-boxes of steamers and over fountains. But 
 owing to the great distance of the eflScient drops in 
 the case of the ordinary rainbow, the optic axes are 
 approximately parallel ; and the nearer they approach 
 to parallelism the less significant they are of distance. 
 Otherwise, we might, by the use of both eyes, be con- 
 scious of a phantom of a more determinate distance and 
 position than we could possibly see with one eye ; and 
 we might conclude that the phantom seen with two 
 eyes is not identical with that seen by either eye alone. 
 However, this question of abstract identity is, as 
 Berkeley found, one of considerable difficulty, and a 
 fruitful source of paralogism. 
 
 If, instead of a wall of infinitely small transparent 
 globules, we suppose a constant succession of globules 
 in motion, as drops of water falling from a condensed 
 
THE IDEALITY OF THE RAINBOW. 93 
 
 cloud, the place of each one being ever supplied by 
 another, the conditions of the phenomenon are not 
 essentially varied : the succession of drops now effect 
 the same result as the stationary drops, since the eye 
 (even were the drops within the range of minute obser- 
 vation) is nnable to discriminate so rapid a substitution 
 of one drop for another. In respect of the drops, then, 
 the phenomenon presents no identity even to a single 
 eye : nay, further, as Descartes perceived, for the 
 slightest change in the temperature of the drop, and for 
 the slightest change in its curvature (by reason of the 
 wind, or of its motion in the air), the luminous arch 
 varies, either in dimensions or in curvature. It is thus 
 found to be a physical fact that the rainbow, in every 
 objective particular, is an inconstant phenomenon : in 
 every subjective relation is, at any two consecutive 
 infinitesimal instants, an identical object, but one which 
 no other eye can see. 
 
 This meteor stands to the eye and mind of common 
 sense for an objective reality. What then is it made 
 of? I much fear common sense will be divided on the 
 question : some holding, with Reid, that the thing seen 
 is the rain-bed ; some, with Hamilton, that it is the 
 light, and nothing else, that constitutes the objective 
 reality ; some, with Miiller, that it is at bottom the 
 stimulated retina which is seen, and by which some- 
 thing else is, rightly or wrongly, inferred. Let ns 
 examine these opinions, taking all possible care to avoid 
 sophistical reasoning, to which such questions are 
 peculiarly liable. 
 
94 THE IDEALITY OE THE RAINBOW. 
 
 First then : Do we see the rain-drops at all ? That 
 they are sufficiently illuminated we may allow ; but, as 
 it seems to me, there is a valid reason why we cannot 
 see them. Without insisting on the fact of their re- 
 moteness (for that is not the case with the spray-bow), 
 it is manifest that they are in too rapid motion to be 
 discriminated, even were they in sufficient proximity 
 for accurate inspection when at rest. Not to discriminate 
 these drops is not to see them at all. For what are 
 the constituents of any visible object, save its proper 
 figure and colour ? But the figure of any of these 
 drops is invisible, and proper colour they have none ; 
 or, if they have, it is overwhelmed in the play of acci- 
 dental colour. Secondly : Do we see the light ? It 
 seems at first sight a very foolish question ; and nine 
 people out of ten would be tempted to reply with 
 another question : " What else do we see ? " But we 
 must discriminate between seeing and feeling, or we 
 shall soon be lost. We may and do obviously have a 
 sensation of light whenever we open our eyes to the 
 day, or to moonlight, or lamp-light ; or excluding these 
 occasions of vision, whenever by percussion, or a galvanic 
 current, or otherwise, a luminous impression is excited 
 in the retina. In all these cases, too, we may locate 
 the construction which follows upon the sensation as a 
 luminous object. But so far from seeing light (i.e., as 
 an object of sense), its objective reality is a mere hypo- 
 thesis of the physicist. If there be an ethereal medium 
 whose undulations evoke for us the sensation of light 
 (primarily in the retina or optic nerve, and secondarily 
 
THE IDEALITY 01' THE RAINBOW. 9,5 
 
 in the mind), its reality is only an ens rationis, at most 
 believed in, not perceived ; and for all purposes of know- 
 ledge might be a noumenon. If there be any third 
 kind of light, besides the sensation and the dynamical 
 condition, I am unable to conceive it, and certainly 
 have never heard of it. If possessing the sensation (as 
 a merely subjective affection) we locate some construc- 
 tion ensuing upon it, or involved in it, as an object 
 without the eye, we are constituting an object expressly 
 fraught with the power of provoking that sensation. 
 But whether we locate it in the retina, or out of 
 the retina and in the organism, or wholly out of the 
 organism, the light is not the object constituted, but is 
 that which reveals the object : "for whatsoever doth 
 make manifest [and nothing else] is light." The infant's 
 visual perception is believed to be in this order : first, 
 the sensation of light ; secondly, a vague determination 
 of visible non-ego ; thirdly, a discrimination of two 
 kinds of visible non-ego — that which is not me but 
 my organism, and that which is neither me nor my 
 organism. In this third stage of perception the mind 
 not only judges an object to be non-ego, but extra- 
 organic ; that is, it not only says, " that is out of me," 
 but " that is out of my eye," or " that is out of my 
 organism." This objecting and localising of a luminous 
 object is its constitution to the sight as an adequate 
 and intelligible condition of vision. It thus appears 
 that we never see light, but only that object which light 
 is understood to make manifest. But thirdly : Do we 
 see our own retina stimulated to the depicture of the 
 
96 THE IDEALITY OF THE EAINBOW. 
 
 vari-coloured arch ? Those who reply in the affirmative 
 are bound to hold that in touch we do not feel the 
 object touched, but the nervous extremity touching; in 
 short, that we know nothing by the senses, but the 
 nervous system, or, at most, the nervous and muscular 
 systems. This is the doctrine expressly taught by 
 Miiller. ('Physiology,' by Baly, 1838, i. "jQQ, ii. 1059, 
 &c.) Could Berkeley ask anything more ? If Miiller 
 can find assurance for inferring the existence of an 
 external world of three dimensions, it by no means 
 follows that the inference is valid — that it is not based 
 on an illusion.^ In point of fact, if the general con- 
 sciousuess of men testifies (though covertly) to the 
 doctrine that in vision the only object is the stimulated 
 retina, it follows that the external world of sight is a 
 vision of the retinal impressions, and all objects, even 
 the most distant, are all within the range of that stimu- 
 lation. The retina, in fact, is the world without ; and 
 even the human body is in the retina, and the eye 
 itself, as part of that body, is in the retina ; and there 
 is a complete introversion of the whole into a part ! 
 Berkeley, we may be sure, would make no account of 
 the whole, as soon as he had reduced it to so small a 
 
 ^ It is worth a passing mention, that Hamilton {'Discussions,' 1S52, 
 p. 60) classed Berkeley with those who held that ideas are representa- 
 tive of things — what he called Cosmothetio Idealists ; and this course 
 is cited and not excepted to by Mr. J. S. Mill ('Examination of Sir 
 W. Hamilton's Philosophy,' 1S65, p. 161). A long and very familiar 
 acquaintance with Berkeley's works justifies me in saying that there 
 is no doctrine so constantly and obstinately confronted and contested 
 by Berkeley as that imputed to him by Hamilton, Nor is it, by any 
 means, a fair corollary from anything he taught. 
 
THE IDEALITY OF THE RAINBOW. 97 
 
 compass ; nor do I think any reasonable man would, 
 after receiving tlie doctrine in question, have much 
 compunction in going the whole way with him. But 
 if, in seeing a rainbow, we see neither the rain-drops, 
 nor the light, nor the retina, it becomes a question of 
 some interest to determine what it is that constitutes 
 the object seen. It is, at least, a phantom which obeys 
 some, and some only, of the laws of what we call real 
 objects ; for insta.nce, the rainbow, unlike most other 
 objects of sight, becomes less the nearer we approach it. 
 I would, for the nonce, call it a false object ; and such 
 are the phantoms produced by those beautiful toys — Dr. 
 Eoget's phenakistiscope ^ and Mr. Eose's photodrome, 
 and that ingenious German contrivance for making the 
 crooked straight, called the anorthoscope. In truth, 
 all these artifices accomplish more than the rainbow. 
 The rainbow, however, as a clue to a sound theory of 
 visual perception, is, as it should be for that end, of the 
 simpler kind. It is a phenomenon without a substance, 
 presenting a plane geometrical figure at a certain dis- 
 tance from the eye. At this point, then, if at all, we 
 pass over into idealism. But first, the question occurs 
 whether we are justified in deducing a system of 
 idealism from facts which involve the relation of objects 
 to the sensitive organism. It might be said, and in 
 effect has often been said .... You are bent on 
 showing that this object is a creation of the mind. To 
 do this you show that the efficient cause of vision is in 
 
 1 This instrument was re-invented by Plateau. Why was it not 
 called phenakiscope, simply, or kinesiscope ? 
 
 G 
 
98 THE IDEALITY OF THE RAINBOW. 
 
 the retina and nerves ; in short, that what we experi- 
 ence is located there, and not outside at all. That is 
 legitimate. But having done that, you have no right 
 to build the doctrine of idealism on the fact that the 
 retinal and other nervous affections involve the whole 
 act of vision : for that very affection would not be at all 
 but for the existence of an external object, by virtue of 
 which light proceeds to the eye, and figures a photo- 
 graph of that object on the retina. This is the case 
 with all illusory phantoms, as well as visible objects. 
 You cannot, then, be permitted, even in the case of the 
 rainbow, to utilise one pole of the relation and ignore 
 the other ; to extract idealism out of the affection to 
 which the organ and mind are subject ; and then re- 
 duce to a nonentity the object by whose independent 
 existence it was that the organ had that affection, and 
 the mind (by virtue of that organ) had perception of 
 the object. Now if the optical act be purely organic, 
 and confined to the sphere of the organ affected, so be 
 it; but it would not be at all if there were not an 
 
 external object answering to it Now I think 
 
 this objection admits of the plea of " non relevat argu- 
 mentum." The bearing of the objection is wholly on 
 the correlation of object and eye, as manifested to a 
 second percipient — i.e., to an observer of loth. The 
 owner of the eye knows nothing of this objective char- 
 acter of the organ, save by an objecting process; he 
 must see it by reflection, or see a fellow eye in the 
 head of a second person. Shakespeare admirably 
 expresses all this : — 
 
THE IDEALITY OF THE RAINBOW. 99 
 
 " For the eye sees not itself, 
 But by reflection, by some other things." — Julius Ccesar, i. 2. 
 
 " Nor doth, the eye itself 
 (That most pure spirit of sense) behold itself 
 Not going from itself ; but eye to eye opposed 
 Salutes each other with each other's form. 
 For speculation turns not to itself 
 Till it hath traveU'd, and is married 1 there. 
 Where it may see itself." — Troilus and Oressida, iii. 3. 
 
 The relation of object to object is known only as repre- 
 sented to one wbo observes both per sensios. If, then, 
 one of the objects is an organ of sense to the observer, 
 it is plain that he can observe but one pole of the 
 represented relation. For the specified objection to be 
 allowed in bar of idealism, it must be assumed that a 
 relation between two objects which is represented to an 
 observer is also represented to him who owns one of 
 those objects as an organ of sense : that I, looking at a 
 tree, must find between my consciousness and the tree 
 the same relation which he finds who observes both my 
 organism and the tree, as two correlated objects. Now, 
 without dogmatically averring that there is not one 
 and the same relation subsisting for both me and that 
 observer, this I do emphatically maintain as a deliver- 
 ance of consciousness, that I, in perceiving that tree, 
 do not find any such relation, as that the tree as object 
 is the cause of the perception of the tree which I am 
 conscious of as object; nay, rather the reverse; but 
 for analogy I should never dream of such a relation. 
 
 ^ " Married," that is, fdloioed ; quasi marrowed. 
 
100 THE IDEALITY OF THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Analogy, however, leads me to believe that whatever 
 relation subsists between a tree and the sense of another 
 man (both objects being matters of my observation ^«r 
 sensus), that very relation also subsists between that 
 tree and my senses. This is an intellectual speculation, 
 not in the least drawn out of my consciousness of mi/ 
 relation to the tree. What, then, is that relation ? It 
 seems to me that it is the converse of the other : viz., 
 that the visible tree is the eifect of my act of vision, 
 not the cause of it. In the act of seeing a phantom 
 that has no substantial reality, such as the rainbow, I 
 am introduced to this original objecting power of sense: 
 I am thus led, at least, to entertain the doctrine of 
 Kant's ' Transcendental Esthetic,' and to attach some 
 weight to his own views concerning the rainbow : viz., 
 that " not only are the rain-drops [like the rainbow] a 
 mere appearance (cine hlose Urscheinimg), but even their 
 circular form [when visible], as well as the space they 
 fall in, is nothing in itself (an sich selbst), but they are 
 both a mere modification or groundwork of our sensuous 
 intuition (hlose Modificationen oder Gnmdlagen unscrer 
 sinnlichen Auscliauung). (Kritik der reinen Vernunft. 
 Tr. ^sth., § 8, Erste Auflage.) 
 
 But it occurs to me that another form of the objec- 
 tion already considered might be brought against the 
 validity of this transit to idealism. I cannot express 
 it better than in the words of Mr. Herbert Spencer, in 
 the FoHnightly Review (vol. i. pp. 539, 540). Writing 
 concerning idealism, he remarks: "Though the con- 
 clusion reached is that mind and ideas are the only 
 
THE IDEALITY OF THE RAINBOW. loi 
 
 existences, yet the steps by which this conclusion is 
 reached take for granted that external objects have just 
 the kind of independent existence which is eventually 
 denied. If that extension, which the idealist contends 
 is merely an aifection of consciousness, has nothing out 
 of consciousness answering to it, then in each of his 
 propositions concerning extension the word should 
 always mean an affection of consciousness, and nothing 
 else." I am unable to admit the conclusiveness of this 
 objection. I contend that there are two distinct stand- 
 points for speculation — (i) that of the physicist, whose 
 world are phenomena, and in which there is no subject 
 save the objective organism, and the relation of another 
 object to this (as the light-picture transmitted from the 
 former to the retina of the latter) is but one among 
 numberless physical relations which are amenable to 
 science ; and (2) that of the conscious percipient, whose 
 world is mental and voluntary, and to which the 
 objects of sense are, in a manner, constructions serving 
 to accommodate the external universe to the under- 
 standing. Now I contend that between these two 
 there is no more discord than between two poles of the 
 same fact. To take Mr. Herbert Spencer's example of 
 extension : I may on the one hand say that extension 
 is learned piecemeal by experience: that is, on the 
 side of the physicist: and on the other hand I may 
 say that extension is given intuitively as a whole in 
 consciousness, and that its intuition underlies all 
 physical use of the senses : that is, on the side of the 
 percipient. 
 
102 THE IDEALITY OF THE RAINBOW. 
 
 But in this place I do not intend to pursue further 
 this difficult and intricate problem. I do not here 
 design a settlement of the question ; but merely to 
 open it up for further inquiry, and to turn the teaching 
 of the rainbow to the account of psychology. 
 
( I03 ) 
 
 LAW AND RELIGION. 
 
 The wise Emerson perceived that our self-consciousness 
 was no attribute of primeval man, but came to us at 
 the dawn of civilisation. Its discovery, he assures us, 
 is identical with the Pall of Man. Whether or not he 
 was right in that identification, the discovery entailed 
 momentous issues. Man was then first capable of the 
 sense of shame, of vanity and pride, of questionings as 
 to what he is, whither he is going, and why he exists 
 at all. Worst of all, man then became capable of 
 remorse and repentance. In a word, man then first 
 had a conscience. On a lower scale, every child treads 
 in the steps of this sad history. Almost every one in 
 childhood remembers to have experienced that painful 
 questioning which takes the shape of "Why am I 
 here ? " and which usually follows close upon the dawn 
 of his self-consciousness. 
 
 Emerson was fond of comparing, or rather contrast- 
 ino-, men with flowers, who know no past or future, and 
 " live ever in a new day ; " and he saw no reason why 
 men should not revert to a life of less introspection and 
 greater trustfulness. He assured them that they had 
 
104 L^W AND RELIGION. 
 
 no reason to mistrust God's spirit, as if it were incapable 
 of reproducing the simplicity, innocence, and beauty of 
 time past. Somehow he never seems to have boldly 
 confronted and acknowledged the evils which lay 
 around him, and doubtless also in him. He might have 
 taken it for granted that every man would be only too 
 glad to get rid of his conflicts, and to obey some simple 
 law of his own nature. A dog, for instance, is, on his 
 own level, supremely happy. He obeys his natural 
 impulses without any of those embarrassments and 
 hindrances which beset his less privileged masters. 
 Situated as man is, he cannot help living a life of dis- 
 trust and conflict ; finding that his course is determined 
 by an unending series of impulses and checks, he is 
 forced to recognise the fact of a law without him, 
 simply because it is manifestly not the law of his 
 nature. This shows clearly what St. Paul meant when 
 he said : "I find then a law in my members warring 
 against the law in my mind, and bringing it into sub- 
 jection to the law of sin." However this state of things 
 may be described, whether, according to the Christian 
 view, as a fall of humanity from a state of obedience 
 and innocence to one of rebellion and remorse, or, 
 according to Emerson, as a natural result, "unfortunate, 
 but too late to be helped," it is, beyond cavil, to the 
 last degree deplorable. It is abundantly clear that 
 man has arrived at a point where he is " fallen between 
 two stools," the one being instinctive obedience to a 
 natural law, the other rational obedience to a spiritual 
 -law; and he can neither revert to the one, nor, by 
 
LAW AND RELIGION. 105 
 
 taking thought, advance to the other. He has long 
 ceased to be like the flower or even the dog, for over- 
 whelming experience has established the fact that his 
 natural impulses, though possibly useful servants, are 
 the worst masters, bringing the man who is subject to 
 them not only to a condition below that of the brutes, 
 but to every conceivable misery. 
 
 The outcome of all this is the fact of a moral law and 
 the possibility of religion. It is at first somewhat 
 surprising to find St. Paul, who declares himself to be 
 " a Hebrew of the Hebrews," and " of the straightest 
 sect of the Pharisees," describing alike the law of Moses 
 and the law of the mind as of the greatest practical 
 inutility. He tells us the law can and does convince 
 man of sin, but that it ia utterly incapable of delivering 
 him from it. It is like a man standing at the water's 
 edge crying to his drowning friend, " Come out of that 
 or you will perish." In truth, Emerson does give that 
 very advice to one who is living to the subversion of 
 moral rule, but, beyond uttering many wise and 
 scholarly aphorisms, delivered in a style of cold and 
 polished elegance, he afibrds him not the slightest help. 
 He simply stands by the law as one who, through some 
 power not disclosed, has been drawn over to habitual 
 obedience to its dictates. But St. Paul is undoubtedly 
 right : the law which teaches a man by transgression 
 is not only incapable of helping him, but capable of 
 driving him to despair, and it was with this conviction 
 that the apostle compares himself to a living man 
 chained to a dead body. 
 
io6 LAW AND EELIGIOX. 
 
 We have readied this point, then, that the moral law, 
 and still more the ceremonial law, are utterly powerless 
 to become the principle of a man's life. Hence arises, 
 as has been said, the possibility of religion, under- 
 standing by that much-abused term a power or office 
 capable of bringing a man into harmony with the rule 
 of right. When we come to think of it, religion itself 
 arises with the dawn of self- consciousness. But, by 
 the nature of the case, we have no historic record of 
 the earliest and rudest form of worship, and can only 
 infer it from the material and linguistic relics of past 
 races. The existing religions, professedly built on 
 ancient documents, some of which belong to historic 
 times, are but the artificial and comparatively recent 
 products of civilisation. 
 
 The Christian religion without the Fall of Man has 
 no locits standi. It requires as its very foundation that 
 man should have been created in the image of God, a 
 perfect and even divine being, and that he should of 
 his own free will have thrown off his allegiance to his 
 Creator by some act of disobedience. The scribe who 
 relates the story of the temptation and fall in the 
 Hebrew Scriptures is certainly not the author of the 
 earlier story of the Creation. Apart from other evi- 
 dences, the duality is established by there being two 
 accounts of the creation of man and woman in the Book 
 of Genesis. In the earlier account man, male and 
 female, is the subject of a direct creation like that of 
 the lower animals, and the Creator is designated the 
 Elohim, commonly rendered the Gods or God indiflfer- 
 
LAW AND RELIGION. 107 
 
 ently. In the later narrative the Creator is called by 
 the compound, Elohim-Jehovah, the Lord God, and 
 proceeds to create a man out of the dust of the ground, 
 with an evident reference to the operation of modelling 
 in clay. Having accomplished this elemental work, he 
 proceeds to endow his figure with life by breathing into 
 its nostrils, and man thus became a living soul. Then 
 follows what Professor Huxley admirably describes as 
 a "preposterous fable" — preposterous, as putting the 
 cart before the horse ; and, in order to obtain a female 
 exemplar of the same species, he renders the man 
 insensible, and then deprives him of one of his ribs, 
 with which he fashions a woman. 
 
 It is difficult to speak of this story with the rever- 
 ence which is due to a sacred subject ; but we are at 
 once recalled to a more serious frame of mind by the 
 reflection that while the first scribe is apparently 
 narrating what he believes to be hard and fast fact, the 
 second writer is veiling the most interesting fragments 
 of an ancient philosophy in an allegory which, to modern 
 notions, appears somewhat grotesque. 
 
 We have said that the earlier scribe is apparently 
 dealing with fact. It is, at least, sufficiently obvious 
 that the story of the Creation, even if a kind of philo- 
 sophical poem, is not a pure allegory. It is an honest 
 attempt to account for the existing state of things. 
 Perhaps nothing in the history of philosophy gives us 
 a keener sense of the advances made in modern times 
 than the reflection that the old writer could fail to see 
 that daylight proceeds from the sun, and that night 
 
io8 LAW AND RELIGION. 
 
 and day are respectively due to the presence or absence 
 of that luminary. Making all allowances, it is difficult 
 to realise how any intelligent person, even at that early 
 day, could have fancied he was simplifying the matter 
 by first creating the light, secondly dividing the light 
 from the darkness, and thirdly creating the sun to rule 
 by day and the moon to rule by night. But perhaps it 
 is even more astonishing that intelligent men of the 
 present day should ask us to accept such " preposterous 
 fables " as the dictates of inspiration. 
 
 What no doubt led this writer to the ascription of 
 so fanciful a function to the sun, and of a co-ordinate 
 one to the moon, was the superficial difficulty of ac- 
 counting for the daylight or moonlight when the ruling 
 luminary was wholly obscured. The view of the ancient 
 scribe is just that of the little child who knows nothing 
 of the diffusion of light by atmospheric refraction, and 
 does not dream that the light of day or the darkness of 
 night are phenomena due to the sun's illumination and 
 the earth's rotation. We may suppose that this division 
 of the light from the darkness was intended to cover 
 the case of a luminary being totally obscured by clouds, 
 and it is interesting in this connection to observe that 
 reflective children, who are none the less ready (like 
 other children) to see miracles in startling changes, are 
 wont to refer the sudden withdrawal of light to an 
 arbitrary will. I myself knew a chUd who manifested 
 this peculiarity in an astonishing manner. In the early 
 days of railways he accompanied his father on an ex- 
 cursion by train. When the train was entering the 
 
LAW AND RELIGION. 109 
 
 first tunnel, his father said, by way of preparation, " It's 
 now going to be dark." Soon after emerging from the 
 tunnel the child exclaimed, "Now, papa, do make it 
 dark again ; " and his father, a leading director of the 
 railway company, not unwisely left him under the natural 
 inference that the director had the absolute power of 
 plunging the carriage in darkness whenever he chose. 
 I have no doubt that the child made as absolute a 
 division between the light and the darkness, as co- 
 existing agencies, as the ancient scribe himself. 
 
 The later historian of the Creation apparently writes 
 in ignorance of his predecessor's narrative. He is more 
 minute and concrete in his treatment of those incidents 
 which chiefly concern the fortunes of the human race, 
 viz. (i) the production of two exemplars of the species, 
 one of each sex ; (2) the prohibition which was imposed 
 upon them as a test of their allegiance to the Creator ; 
 and (3) the circumstances and consequences of their 
 disobedience. The prohibition put them at once in a 
 position of disadvantage ; for, on the one hand, they 
 were not shown its reasonableness, nor yet, on the 
 other, were they warned of the subtle and persuasive 
 enemy who was already a denizen of the garden. More- 
 over, the weaker of the two was in no wise guarded 
 against the danger to which, by her nature, she was 
 peculiarly exposed. To compare great things with 
 small, it was as if some children were enjoined by 
 their father not to go near a certain spot around which 
 were growing in tempting luxuriance the flowers they 
 best loved. But what would be thought of him if he 
 
1 10 LAW AND RELIGION. 
 
 omitted to describe tlie danger peculiar to that favoured 
 spot — namely, that the flowers which blossomed there 
 concealed the mouth of a deep pitfall? Would not 
 such neglect stamp the prohibition with injustice ? 
 And how much greater would be the unfairness towards 
 them if their father knew that there was a person prowl- 
 ing about who had a mania for tempting children to 
 the fatal spot, and, notwithstanding, failed to warn 
 them of their special danger ! 
 
 The Oriental treatment of the story of the temptation 
 is suggestive of a satrap — a mere temporal ruler who 
 lounges on his divan during the day, and strolls about 
 his garden in the cool of the evening. But, as the basis 
 of a theology, this Eastern potentate has to be taken to 
 be the direct Creator and Divine Ruler of the universe ; 
 and conduct which might be thought culpable, or even 
 criminal, in a human ruler, thus assumes a " monstrous 
 bulk," too vast to be " covered by any size of words." 
 
 Whatever was the intention of the writer of this 
 story, it is read by the Christian Church as an authentic 
 account of the origin of sin. The man and woman who 
 had been created innocent were subjected to a test of 
 their allegiance ; and we can well imagine a trial which 
 would have been fair, because within that limit of 
 strength and knowledge which had been given them. 
 But, by the nature of the case, it was within the power 
 of the Creator to subject them to a strain in excess of 
 that limit, and, forasmuch as the man was the wiser 
 and stronger, to impose the test upon the woman. In 
 the case of a malignant deity, we could hardly give too 
 
LAW AND RELIGION. m 
 
 mucli praise to the craft by which he econoniised his 
 resources and placed the strain upon the weakest part ; 
 what then are we to say when we find the Christian 
 Chnrch imputing this policy to the Divine Being they 
 worship ? Furthermore, the weaker vessel, having 
 yielded to a temptation beyond what she was consti- 
 tuted to bear, besides sharing her husband's banish- 
 ment, is subjected to a retribution exceeding in severity 
 that which is to fall on him. Nay, more, this very 
 penalty is made to perpetuate the curse throughout all 
 generations ; and millions who have never participated 
 in the guilt of their first parents are judged guilty by 
 imputation, and made to bear the punishment. This 
 is what the Church designates " original sin," and it 
 is on this basis alone that the redemptive scheme of 
 Christianity finds its sole raison d'etre. 
 
 It should be clearly understood that this indictment 
 does not touch the writer of the original story, whether 
 fable or allegory, but is against those who, by reading 
 it as an historical narrative, have drawn from it the 
 outlines of a dogma as incapable of facing the facts of 
 human life as of being reconciled with the attributes 
 of a wise, just, and holy God. In dealing with an 
 ancient record apparently professing to be a narrative 
 of fact, and as such bearing on the history of the human 
 race, it is of prime importance to determine whether 
 it is such. Clearly, a poem, a fiction, or an allegory 
 would not necessarily have that bearing. But grant- 
 ing that in such cases as those we have been considering 
 the writer (let him have been well or ill informed on 
 
112 LAW AND RELIGION. 
 
 the relative matters) had an honest intention to record 
 an event or tradition, other questions still remain to be 
 solved. He may have been a bad observer, or an in- 
 accurate or unscrupulous recorder ; and in dealing 
 with a tradition which he himself believed, he may have 
 been utterly unable to discriminate the true from the 
 false. Thus, in considering the claims of the first 
 account of the Creation which the Christian Church 
 asks us to accept as literal, or, at least, substantial 
 history, we are bound to assure ourselves that there 
 is nothing in the narrative which betrays the incom- 
 petence or untrustworthiness of the narrator. This 
 would be more readily discovered in those portions 
 where a man of common intelligence would be unlikely 
 to err than in those which lie beyond the purview of 
 his ordinary speculations. In a word we should apply 
 to that narrative what is called the argumentum a 
 fortiori. The less in this argument is taken to cover 
 the greater, and a test which is found to fail when 
 applied to the less has the power of discrediting the 
 greater. Of course it might be argued on the other 
 hand that a writer who was authorised by God to deal 
 with facts which in the nature of the case were undis- 
 coverable by human sagacity, might, with the divine 
 sanction, record such matters faithfully and accurately, 
 while he made the most puerile blunders in matters 
 which lay within his own ken. But this is not only 
 begging the question that this particular writer was 
 divinely inspired, but, granting the fact of that in- 
 spiration, is arbitrarily limiting it to a certain range 
 
LAW AND EELIGION. 113 
 
 of subjects, and drawing a hard and fast line where, 
 by the very nature of the case, no line need be drawn. 
 Such an argument is so obvious a makeshift that it 
 would be wasting words to refute it formally. 
 
 To elucidate our position, we may compare this case 
 with one which has arisen in recent times. An im- 
 portant section of the Christian Church, composed 
 entirely of educated persons, have accepted the teach- 
 ing of Emanuel Swedenborg, and receive him as the 
 apostle of interpretation. Now among the many 
 demands which this industrious and productive writer 
 makes upon our faith is one which is exceptionally 
 staggering. He offers for our acceptance, in the most 
 literal sense, a narrative of the visits he was permitted 
 to make to the various bodies in the solar system. Up 
 to the time of his death the planets which were recog- 
 nised in the astronomy of the ancients were the only 
 bodies known to circulate round the sun. A scientist, 
 from whose voluminous works no branch of human 
 knowledge was excluded, and who dealt with things 
 both natural and divine in the most exhaustive way, 
 could hardly have failed at least to speculate, as did 
 Immanuel Kant, on the existence of extra-Saturnian 
 planets. A seer, who was permitted by divine agency 
 to visit the planets seriatim, might well be expected to 
 discover the existence of a body or bodies beyond the 
 orbit of Saturn ? He does nothing of the sort. He 
 finds no more than the five planets of the ancients. 
 Now immediately after his death Sir William Herschel 
 discovered Uranus, and in 1847 Adams and Leverrier 
 
 H 
 
114 LAW' AND RELIGION. 
 
 discovered Neptune. The natural inference is tliat 
 Swedenborg did not visit the actual planets, and that 
 the narrative is purely subjective. 
 
 In the same way we put the first narrator of the 
 Creation to a test of his seership. We try him on 
 matters which are within our own knowledge, and the 
 test yields the same result. It is evident, on the face 
 of the narrative, that this writer, who professes to know 
 the greater, did not know the less. He tells us, for 
 instance, that the sun was created after the Creator 
 had divided the dap fj;pm the night. From this point 
 our interest in the sacred narrative becomes centred in 
 the philosophy or the poetry, and we cease wto' value it 
 as a revelation or record of fact. Like the visions of 
 Swedenborg, it is mainly subjective. 
 
 The one remarkable feature in these old narratives is 
 that all the events recorded are in the inverse order to 
 that of nature. Astronomy assures us that the sun 
 existed as the one great source of light and heat count- 
 less ages before the earth had become ripe to profit by 
 those agencies, and that the alternation of day and 
 night is the natural result of the rotation of the earth 
 on her axis. Accordingly we should expect a divinely 
 informed historian, who essayed the narration of the 
 beginning of the present order of things, to relate first 
 the formation of that stupendous body, without whose 
 energy neither chemistry nor vitality would be mani- 
 fested upon this earth. From this body, he would tell 
 us, proceeded the light which first burst upon our void 
 and formless planet. But the historian of the Creation 
 
LAW AND EELIGION. 115 
 
 reverses this order, beginning with the heavens and 
 the earth, then proceeding to the creation of light, and 
 finally reaching that of the sun and moon as the pre- 
 siding luminaries of the day and night. 
 
 The later scribe, who relates the creation of man, also 
 reverses the natural order. This order is from spirit to 
 matter, as Spenser has it ; " so doth the soul the body 
 make." The so-called matter of which alike divines 
 and physiologists tell us this universe is made, and on 
 which we are taught by sciolists that the laws of the 
 universe are impressed, has, sooth to say, no possible 
 existence without those laws, and, what is more, with- 
 out the coexistence of an immaterial energy in which 
 the great Schelling saw the poor remainder of an 
 extinct vitality. Let me repeat, the natural order, 
 established alike by philosophy and physics, is from 
 energy to materiality ; and matter, whether in the form 
 of clay or dust, is simply a product or residue of life. 
 Accordingly a divinely informed historian would begin 
 with life and end with that organised body which is its 
 material envelope. But this old writer tells us that 
 the Creator moulded the first man out of the dust of 
 the ground, and, having completely formed him, en- 
 dowed the image with vitality by breathing into his 
 nostrils the breath of life, whereby man became a living 
 soul. The scribe also reverses the natural order when 
 he comes to the production of a second exemplar of the 
 species. One imagines it would have been natural for 
 him to have obtained the first man from the first woman 
 
ii6 LAW AND RELIGION. 
 
 in the manner described by the evangelist of the New- 
 Testament. But the most striking and serious of all 
 these preposterities is that which is involved in the 
 notions of the Fall of Man and original sin. It is true 
 that science does not give us any absolute guarantee 
 for believing that man is derived from a lower species 
 of animal, but since the discoveries which have estab- 
 lished against the theologians the antiquity of man, it 
 is a matter of knowledge that man, as we know him, 
 is a comparatively recent production derived from 
 beings of a ruder and more animal type. The pheno- 
 mena, then, which have led theologians to believe that 
 man has fallen by wilful transgression from a divine 
 and perfect state are simply due to his having grown 
 into a state of self-consciousness, conscience, and reason. 
 The very fact that reason shows us the law of a higher 
 life with the promise of infinitely greater happiness and 
 blessedness, and that experience proves that the law in 
 our members — the animal and selfish propensities — is 
 a great and often a fatal hindrance to the attainment 
 of the higher life, should satisfy every cultivated mind 
 that man is not a fallen but an ascending creature. It 
 remains, then, to inquire what concern religion has with 
 this new aspect of affairs. Is it possible, by reading 
 between the lines, to make the records of Holy Scripture 
 an instrument, not for convincing man of the good 
 tidings of redemption, but of helping him to realise the 
 better tidings of an accessible paradise from which he 
 has never been excluded ? 
 
LAW AND RELIGION. 117 
 
 It behoves us before all things to realise in the fullest 
 and sharpest manner the tremendous issue at stake in 
 this conflict. Whatever be the value of the moral and 
 religious teachings of the sacred writings, it is hardly 
 too much to say that in their whole range there is not 
 an expression or image which exaggerates that mo- 
 mentous change implied in the words " repentance " and 
 " regeneration." The little we know of the inner life of 
 the more intelligent animals is derived from applying 
 to them the phenomena of our own consciousness ; but 
 in that application we must be on our guard against 
 imputing to them those attributes which constitute the 
 differentiae of humanity. In the case of subjection to 
 the animal impulses, a man so situated is tolerably safe 
 in reasoning from his own interior condition to that of 
 the dog ; but even here he has to be on his guard against 
 imputing to the dog that attribute of will which is 
 peculiar to human nature. What we call the dog's 
 volition is doubtless analogous to the human will, but 
 that it is not a will is sufficiently evident from the fact 
 that it is by nature in subjection to animal impulses and 
 the corresponding mental associations. If the natural 
 resultant of these forces does not ensue, it is due to a 
 hindrance from without ; and in the case of the dog this 
 hindrance is caused by the voluntary act of his master. 
 The process of crossing the natural bent of the dog is 
 called training, and it is just this training which elicits 
 from the mind of the animal an analogon to the human 
 will, viz., a volition which is capable of obedience to a 
 
ii8 LAW AND RELIGION. 
 
 rule imposed on him from without. We have thus, in 
 the case of the dog, an incomplete picture, on a lower 
 level and on a smaller scale, of that stupendous educa- 
 tion to which, as by a divine ordinance, human nature 
 is submitted. But, after all, the difference is infinite ; 
 for the animal cannot resist, and the man can. It is 
 just this power of spontaneous action which makes the 
 human will what it is. It appears to be divinely con- 
 stituted to do the work of obedience to a law above 
 human nature ; and though its actions are always 
 determined by motives, it is to rational principles of 
 action and not to mere blind impulses that man is 
 called upon to yield implicit obedience. The resistance 
 to these in any shape is called rebellion, which, accord- 
 ing to a wise and notable saying of Scripture, is as the 
 sin of witchcraft and idolatry ; and nothing can be more 
 fitly spoken than this concerning the evil motions of 
 the human will. It is just this obedience or dis- 
 obedience, this perceiving choice or blind rejection of 
 the higher principles of life, that determines whether a 
 man's course is to be upwards or downwards. And 
 herein lies the justification of an exoteric religion. Be 
 it as corrupt a religion as you please, it has always this 
 merit — it demands implicit obedience. Now to the 
 natural man there is nothing so galling as an external 
 interference with his course of nature, and it is always 
 at great cost that he thwarts his natural impulses in 
 order to obey the dictates and injunctions of authority. 
 The like merit belongs to the legislative and executive 
 
LAW AND RELIGION. 119 
 
 bodies of the state, who, whether they recognise it or 
 not, are discharging a religious function. But the re- 
 ligion proper has this peculiar merit, that the sacrifice 
 demanded is, at least indirectly, with the view of up- 
 holding and realising an ideal, and is therefore linked 
 with a form of worship. It has often been a subject 
 of debate whether Christianity has, from first to last, 
 occasioned more good than harm to humanity. In my 
 judgment it is paying the poorest religion the poorest 
 compliment to acknowledge that it has done more good 
 than harm. 
 
 It is assumed that the good of humanity is insured, 
 not by multiplying and perfecting the comforts and 
 couYeniences of daily life, not by simplifying and 
 economising the processes of human labour, in a word, 
 not by increasing and developing the resources of the 
 natural man, but by making each individual a good 
 man in himself. What is the man ? Is it his animal 
 structure? Is it his intellect, or what? The con- 
 current answer of the great writers on Ethics is that 
 man is his will, and that actions are simply the deter- 
 minations of his will. The moral worth of those actions 
 is just the moral worth of his determining motives, and 
 these, as far as one can judge, can only work on him 
 through his perceptions and afi'ections, neither of which 
 essentially constitute the man. It is only by these two 
 avenues that religion can afiect a man's actions. How 
 far the traditional religion of any race or country pro- 
 motes human advancement in these directions is a 
 
I20 LAW AND RELIGION. 
 
 question demanding tlie most careful consideration ; 
 and as no man, by taking thought, can create a religion 
 any more than he can create a language, it is of the 
 utmost importance to determine how far the Christianity 
 of Western Europe can, without doing violence to estab- 
 lished facts, be adjusted so as to discharge the function 
 of a great moral regenerator. 
 
121 ) 
 
 VI. 
 
 ROMANTIC HISTORY, 
 
 There is a game, which for want of a better name may- 
 be called contes circulaires, consisting of a short story 
 (first committed to writing) repeated at second-hand by 
 a person who received it orally from another who read 
 it. The game may be prolonged at pleasure : the person 
 hearing it so repeated at second-hand may repeat it to 
 another, and so forth indefinitely. The last hearer 
 must tell the tale to all the players, after which the 
 original raconteur reads the story aloud, and the 
 discrepancies always occasion surprise, and many of 
 them are so absurd as to provoke great merriment. 
 The game is not common, simply because it is trouble- 
 some ; but, if resorted to but once, it furnishes a most 
 interesting example of the manner in which narrative 
 is made to diverge, insensibly and involuntarily, from 
 fact. The enormous difficulties of exact description, 
 and the impossibility of perfect recollection, are thus 
 strikingly made manifest. But this game exhibits 
 only two out of many coefficients in the perversion of 
 history from the facts originally experienced, or from 
 
122 ROMANTIC HISTORY. 
 
 the most faithful record of their occurrence. To com- 
 plete the account, we must add to the causes at work 
 in these contes circulaires every other source of error 
 which lurks in the exercise of the senses, in the play 
 of imagination and the emotions, in the state of bodily 
 health, and in the many besetting temptations to 
 untruthfulness in the use of the mental faculties. 
 
 The publication of M. Mortimer-Ternaus's five 
 volumes on the Eeign of Terror ^ once more impressed 
 us with the fact, which had so often before been forced 
 on our attention, that history is a golden impossibility, 
 and that what usually arrogates to itself the name 
 bears the same likeness to history that the scribble of 
 a child bears to a geometrical figure. We are once 
 again, and more strongly than ever, impressed with 
 the fact that history at best is but an approximation 
 to truth. The period of French history selected by 
 M. Mortimer-Terneaux is rank with pseudo-historic 
 details, which it has been reserved for him to confront 
 with newly discovered contemporary records, and to 
 brand with the name of Ugende or mcnsonge. Both 
 the one and the other play an important part in the 
 pseudo-history of this period, for which reason we 
 propose to exemplify the general proposition above 
 stated by a few of the more salient instances recorded 
 by the historians of the French Kevolution. In doing 
 BO we shall have occasion to signalise some very re- 
 markable cases of " Romantic History " which are not 
 turned to account in M. Mortimer- Terneaux's great 
 
 ■ Hisioire de la Terreur. Michel L^vy, 1861-1S66. 
 
ROMANTIC HISTORY. 123 
 
 work ; at the same time we shall extract some instances, 
 not less important, from his pages. 
 
 But first let ns consider with a little more accuracy- 
 how it comes to pass that written history is not a 
 truthful representation of facts. The sources of un- 
 truth, whether legendary or factitious, are mainly two- 
 observation and narration. We all know the opinion 
 of the criminal lawyer on the relative value of direct 
 testimony and circumstantial evidence — koI tovtcov 
 ia-rlv ayaOo'i KpiTTj'; — a question on which he ought to 
 be the best judge. Such a man holds that in cases 
 where the accused is convicted on the force of con- 
 curring circumstances, there is, as a rule, less reason 
 for doubt than where the conviction ensues on the 
 mere testimony of an eye-witness. This at first seems 
 strange and unreasonable, but we are disposed to 
 believe that the professional opinion is sound. The 
 ground of that opinion consists in this, that all ob- 
 servation involves discrimination and valuation of the 
 evidence of our fallible senses. Experience soon 
 satisfies us, as in the case of the contes circulaires, that 
 testimony, where not wholly to be rejected, should 
 always be received with suspicion. A very small per- 
 centage of even honest, intelligent, and educated men 
 are competent observers ; and few have the slightest 
 notion of the difSculties involved in the simplest 
 observation. We remember a case in which three 
 persons in a railway carriage concurred in the testi- 
 mony that the fourth had given up his ticket to the 
 collector ; and all three were wrong. We call to mind 
 
124 ROMANTIC HISTORY. 
 
 another case in which a well-known director of the 
 Bank of England believed himself to have given up his 
 ticket at Swindon, and told the collector so on his 
 being asked for it at Slough and again at Paddington. 
 He had it in his pocket all the while, and was un- 
 wittingly mingling a dream with his waking thoughts. 
 The fact is, prepossessions and assumptions are uncon- 
 sciously mixed up with facts. What we look for we 
 are apt to imagine that we see, or to believe that we 
 have seen. In narration we are still more liable to 
 error. It is exceedingly hard to remember exactly 
 what we have seen and heard, and even harder to 
 describe or reproduce it. What we dream or read we 
 are prone to mix up with the memory of fact. What 
 we believe forms, almost of necessity, the substratum 
 of the language in which we describe what has been 
 presented to our senses ; and too often, in the con- 
 catenation of events, propter hoc means nothing more 
 than post hoe. 
 
 The facts to which the observer is called upon to 
 attest are generally the identity of persons and things, 
 and the discrimination of events and actions. But how 
 diflScult it is to connect the event with its cause, the 
 action with its motive. Equally difiicult is it to avoid 
 a false liaison, and to separate an action from motives 
 which seem adequate to have occasioned it, but which 
 are not known to have so operated. We are also apt 
 to fancy that causes and motives are direct objects of 
 the senses, simply because we exercise observation 
 under the tacit assumption of this or that cause or 
 
ROMANTIC HISTOEY. 125 
 
 motive being a coefficient of the result. But a 
 judgment on cause is grounded on tlie reason, and a 
 judgment on motive is grounded on sympathy. Even 
 ignorance of a man's character or temperament, like 
 ignorance of facts, may determine a wrong valuation 
 of the actions witnessed, and lead to their being 
 described in terms which imply a knowledge of un- 
 known motives. Further, by way of complicating what 
 is already inextricably involved, there may be special, 
 singular, and misleading features in the case which 
 defy that exact observation by which alone it is pos- 
 sible to elicit the clue to the motive of action : or 
 the witness, having observed well, may suffer from 
 some morbid freak of memory ; or, what is still worse, 
 may wilfully and with evil forethought falsify the 
 facts which he happens to remember with sufficient 
 accuracy. 
 
 As Dr. Samuel Johnson well remarks (Life, by 
 Boswell, 181 1, vol. iii. p. 250) — 
 
 " Nothing but experience could evince the frequency of false 
 information, or enable any man to conceive that so many ground- 
 less reports should be propagated, as every man of eminence may 
 hear of himself." 
 
 We know that Johnson's bearish manners gave offence 
 to persons who did not enjoy an intimate acquaintance 
 with him. The prepossession that he was bearish, joined 
 to the very common error of referring to indifference 
 what was really due to constitutional indolence, is quite 
 sufficient to account for the distortion of facts, and the 
 creation of fable in the following anecdote. Boswell 
 
126 ROMANTIC HISTORY. 
 
 was assured by a friend (Life, by Boswell, 1811, 
 vol. iii. p. 2 1 3) — 
 
 " That a gentleuian who had lived in great intimacy with him 
 [Johnson], shown him much kindness, and even relieved him 
 from a sponging-house, having afterwards fallen into bad cir- 
 cumstances, was one day, when Johnson was at dinner with him, 
 seized for debt, and carried to prison ; that Johnson sat still, 
 undisturbed, and went on eating and drinking ; upon which the 
 gentleman's sister, who was present, could not suppress her 
 indignation : ' What, sir/ said she, ' are you so unfeeling as not 
 even to offer to go to my brother in his distress ; you who have 
 been so much obliged to him 1 ' And that Johnson answered, 
 ' Madam, I owe him no obligation ; what he did for me he would 
 have done for a dog.' " 
 
 Novs' in tliis story the only facts are, that the person 
 in question had done Johnson the particular service 
 specified ; and that possibly Johnson may (as he 
 admitted to Boswell) have described him as a man 
 whose " generosity proceeded from no principle, but 
 was part of his profusion ; he would do for a dog 
 what he would do for a friend." It does not appear 
 that this gentleman, who was so " full of the milk of 
 human kindness,'' ever was in difficulties ; and we have 
 Johnson's assurance that, in such an event, he " would 
 have gone to the world's end to relieve him." 
 
 Such fables are being constantly forged and circulated 
 of every man of mark. Thus they gain currency and 
 credit, are repeated from mouth to mouth with frequent 
 additions, omissions, and exaggeration of colour, till at 
 length, in the case where their hero is a chief agent in 
 the affairs which determine the fate of a kingdom, a 
 church, or a people, they gain admission into history, 
 
KOMANTIC HISTORY. 127 
 
 and poison the stream of national tradition. In order 
 to understand fully how this takes place, it is but 
 necessary to read Hume's 'History of England under 
 the Reign of Charles II.,' and then to verify the details 
 by reference to that wonderful aubaine litteraire, Pepys' 
 Diary. But the space at our command forbids us to 
 make any excursion in that direction. One of the 
 latest revelations of this kind has discomfited, not the 
 inaccurate Hume, but the accurate Macaulay. In the 
 first volume of his History (ed. 1849, pp. 500-502), we 
 have an eloquent description of the barbarous murders 
 of Margaret Maclachlan and Margaret Wilson, on May 
 II, 1685 — "The former an aged widow, the latter a 
 maiden of eighteen." 
 
 It is a happy instance of Macaulay's descriptive rhe- 
 toric. His authority was Wodrow ; and the narrative is 
 confirmed by the memorial to Margaret Wilson erected 
 in Wigtown Churchyard, which, for aught one sees, may 
 be as authentic as the Martyrs' Monument in Greyfriars 
 Churchyard at Edinburgh. But apparently Macaulay 
 quotes the epitaph, not from the stone, but from the 
 Cloud of Witnesses. As Mr. Emerson says on another 
 subject — " It is very unhappy, but too late to be helped, 
 the discovery we have made." It is now a matter 
 of certainty that neither of these poor women was 
 murdered, despite the monumental inscription and the 
 tradition. Sentenced to death they were, but that was 
 all. The Wigtown Session Books, which record their 
 sentence, also record their reprieve. How the memorial 
 came to be raised to Margaret Wilson "by Scottish 
 
128 ROMANTIC HISTORY. 
 
 piety '' is a problem that tas yet to be solved ; but as 
 it was not erected till some years after the alleged date 
 of tte event it was intended to commemorate, it cannot 
 be allowed to weigh against the direct evidence of the 
 Session Books. 
 
 If such a fable as this can secure a footing in the 
 accredited History of Scotland, not in the years of her 
 tribulation, but long subsequently, what may we not 
 expect of the contemporary traditions and records of a 
 revolution which for violence and duration is without 
 parallel ? At a time of popular tumult and excitement 
 it is evident that exact observation, if not impossible, 
 is peculiarly difBcult. This is the case, both in conse- 
 quence of the extraordinary multiplicity of events to be 
 observed and of their complex relations, as well as by 
 reason of the perturbation of the mind and senses of 
 the observer. 
 
 We thus find any such historical question open to 
 various conflicting doubts. We know that an observer 
 in such a case has a right to look for what is abnormal 
 and extreme ; but the very consciousness of that is 
 apt to make him see a swan in every goose. On the 
 other hand, an observer, who, not considering that, is 
 exacting in his demand for proof in proportion as the 
 event is outrageous and difficult to observe, is apt to 
 make too great a discount upon " the attest of eyes and 
 ears ; " or otherwise to ignore what he seems to observe, 
 lest the record of the incredible should destroy his 
 credit. In dealing, then, with the accumulated testi- 
 monies of the French Revolution, we are puzzled to 
 
ROMANTIC HISTORY. 129 
 
 determine their just valuation. " In an age of miracles, 
 such as the Eeign of Terror," writes Carlyle (Misc. 
 1 842, vol. V. p. 360), " one knows not at first view what 
 is incredible." " But too often," says De Quincey on 
 the other side (Works, Hogg, vol. x. pref. vi.), " writers 
 who have been compelled to deal in ghastly horrors 
 form a taste for such scenes ; and oftentimes, as may 
 be seen exemplified in those who record the French 
 Reign of Terror, become angrily credulous and im- 
 patient of the slightest hesitation in going along with 
 the maniacal excesses recorded." The latter remark has 
 been completely borne out by the recent researches of 
 MM. Michelet, Louis Blanc, and Mortimer- Terneaux. 
 
 In truth we can hardly be too cautious and hesitating 
 in arbitrating upon the worth of evidence in such a cir- 
 cumstance as the Reign of Terror. We may be pre- 
 pared, indeed, for " maniacal excesses ; " but let it be 
 remembered that among those excesses is the particular 
 excess, so fatal to history, of colouring, whereby the 
 already ensanguined aspect of affairs is heightened and 
 falsified. If the actors are extravagant, the reporter is 
 so too ; and in proportion as they overstep the limits of 
 probability, does he, in his amazement and revulsion, 
 surpass the due proportions of the event. 
 
 To take one prominent and hitherto unchallenged 
 episode of the Terrmr, how shall any well-balanced 
 mind, not agape and agog for horrors, receive the 
 current story of the martyrdom of the fair and virtuous 
 Princess de Lamballe ? We are indeed confronted with 
 a fulness of testimony — testimony of pretended eye- 
 
I30 EOMANTIC HISTORY. 
 
 witnesses — bearing on all, even the invisible, details of 
 the monstrous tragedy. But to us some of the tradi- 
 tions are to the last degree incredible. That the un- 
 fortunate girl was struck down in the midst of the 
 raging mob that beset the entrance of La Force is 
 only too credible : would it were otherwise ! But the 
 obscene indignities said to have been practised on her 
 corpse, " which, " says Carlyle, " human nature would 
 fain find incredible," should be henceforth dismissed 
 as fiction — an infernal progeny begot between an in- 
 toxicated imagination and terror-stricken senses. Amid 
 the ferment and confusion of unremitting carnage, and 
 stunned by the roar and tumult of a multitude of raging 
 fiends, what observer could be cool, calm, and collected ? 
 What atrocities such a multitude may or may not have 
 done on the body of the princess it is impossible for us 
 to determine ; for it was impossible for any unpartici- 
 pating spectator to observe. Speculate we may; but 
 speculation is not observation, and possibility is not 
 history. We may be quite sure that no kind-hearted 
 bystander, as our own countryman, Dr. Moore, regard- 
 ing the scene of carnage from a necessary distance, his 
 heart sickening and his head swimming at the bare 
 possibilities of the case, could have discriminated any 
 of those obscene details. He could well have seen her 
 already senseless and 'bleeding form supported between two 
 rnffians (Mortimer-Terneaux's Histoire de la Terrcur^ 
 vol. iii. p. 270) on the elevated threshold of the black 
 prison, far above the surging mob. He could well 
 have noted her disappearance among the crashing 
 
ROMANTIC HISTORY. 131 
 
 pikes and flashing sabres ; but more be could not see ; 
 and where testimony becomes impracticable, we have 
 no call to eke out the narrative with speculations as 
 to what might have happened then. We know it will 
 cost the lovers of sensational history a pang to throw 
 off the nightmare of their faith. Anxiously will they 
 demand, " "Where is all this uprooting to end ? " Begin 
 or end, it cannot much matter to you who demand not 
 dear-bought truth and verisimilitude, but a narrative 
 teres atqite rotundns, heedless whether it be homo- 
 geneous, or whether the breaks and flaws of fact be 
 concealed by the cement of fable and fiction. 
 
 For this same Revolution, with its crisis called 
 Reign of Terror, but which was rather the chaos of 
 elements which might reign, but were at this time 
 without any reigning order,'- there is indeed much that 
 must be uprooted before we can find any trustworthy 
 foundation for our faith. Even Oarlyle's brief story, 
 told in very questionable English, in three small volumes 
 of large type, and with wearisome and utterly indiges- 
 tible padding, concerning Windbags, Saraha-waltzes, 
 Tophet, and what not, will bear a good deal of pruning 
 and paring before human reason and faith can find a 
 safe harbourage there. Happily in dealing with many 
 of the current episodes of the Revolution we are not 
 
 ' Madame de Stael will not allow that the rule of the Jacobin party 
 was an anarchy ; she maintains it to have been a despotism. A 
 dominant and uncompromising power there was, but it was one which 
 the leaders of the party themselves could not regulate, and which, 
 accordingly, was as fatal to themselves as to their opponents. See 
 ' Considerations on the French Revolution,' 1S13, vol. ii. p. 120. 
 
132 EOMANTIO HISTORY. 
 
 left to mere protests and expressions of doubt, but have 
 
 relevant evidence of their falsehood. Poor Dr. Guillotin 
 
 has enjoyed a species of immortality to which his name 
 
 has little title, and which has been accorded to him at 
 
 the expense of his philanthropy. Let us hear Carlyle's 
 
 account of the Doctor's connection with the beheading 
 
 machine : — 
 
 " And worthy Doctor Guillotin, -whom we hoped to behold one 
 other time ? If not here, the Doctor should be here, and we see 
 him with the eye of prophecy : for indeed the Parisian Deputies 
 are all a little late. Singular Guillotin, respectable practitioner ; 
 doomed by a satiric destiny to the strangest immortal glory that 
 ever kept obscure mortal from his resting-place, the bosom of 
 oblivion ! Guillotin can improve the ventilation of the Hall ; 
 in all cases of medical police and hygiene be a present aid : but, 
 greater far, he can produce his ' Eeport on the Penal Code ; ' and 
 reveal therein a cunningly devised Beheading Machine, which 
 shall become famous and world-famous. This is the product of 
 Guillotin's endeavours, gained not without meditation and read- 
 ing ; which product popular gratitude or levity christens by a 
 feminine derivative name, as if it were his daughter, La Guillo- 
 tine ! ' With my machine, Messieurs, I whisk off your head (vous 
 fais sauter la tete) in a twinkling, and you have no pain ; " — 
 whereat they all laugh. Unfortunate Doctor ! For two-and- 
 twenty years he, unguillotined, shall hear nothing but guillotine, 
 see nothing but guillotine ; then dying, shall through long cen- 
 turies wander, as it were, a disconsolate ghost, on the wrong side 
 of Styx and Lethe; his name 'like to outlive Caesar's." — French 
 Revolution, 1837, vol. i. p. 203 ; 1848, p. 173. 
 
 Carlyle's authority for the Doctor's speech is the 
 Monitexir of Dec. i, 1789, in the Sistoire Parlemen- 
 taire. It seems indisputable that Dr. Guillotin had an 
 " Idea," as Carlyle elsewhere designates the design ; but 
 whether that was the divine exemplar of the behead- 
 ing machine which was named after him is doubtful. 
 
ROMANTIC HISTORY. 133 
 
 Certain it is that the Bill proposed by him in the 
 Constituent Assembly, and made law on Jan. 21, 1790, 
 revealed no "cunningly devised Beheading Machine." 
 That law simply enacted that " in all cases where the 
 law pronounced the penalty of death, the punishment 
 should be the same, whatever might be the nature of 
 the crime ; " and, moreover, that the criminal should be 
 beheaded by means of a simple machine. What that 
 machine should be, " cunningly devised " or otherwise, 
 was a matter for subsequent discussion and arrange- 
 ment. With anything beyond the projet de hi Dr. 
 Guillotin appears to have had no concern. At this 
 point his connection with the Penal Code and its 
 instruments of death terminated. ^ 
 
 Granting that Dr. Guillotin had an " Idea," he does 
 not appear to have had any opportunity of realising it. 
 In September 1792, before the advent of the Convention, 
 we find the Tribunal of the Commune commencing their 
 operations on the aristocrats with a certain machine 
 recommended by Dr. Louis, the perpetual secretary of 
 the Academy of Surgery. After his name it was first 
 
 ^ To understand the admirable justice and humanity of the worthy 
 Doctor's measure, we must remember that up to this epoch the nobles of 
 France had enjoyed an exemption from many of the penalties attaching 
 to oflfences committed by others. Among these was the mode of suffering 
 the penalty of death, which in the case of the common people entailed 
 various tortures and indignities from which the privilege of nobility 
 secured a complete immunity. The law introduced by Guillotin de- 
 stroyed this privilege, and insured for all capital offenders a merciful 
 death. Surely, since Voltaire had, by his almost superhuman exertions, 
 carried the measure, which rendered illegal the trial by torture for 
 religious offences, no greater boon had ever been bestowed on the 
 French nation. 
 
134 ROMANTIC HISTORY. 
 
 called tte Louison, or Louisette. The particular instm- 
 ment used was constructed by a German named Sciimitt, 
 a maker of harpsichords. It was this very machine 
 which was subsequently christened by the mob La 
 Guillotine, in grateful remembrance of the services which 
 "the worthy Doctor" had rendered to the cause of 
 humanity and justice. 
 
 Whatever Dr. Guillotin's "Idea" may have been, 
 neither its conception nor its execution could have 
 demanded any great exercise of invention. La Guillotine 
 did not materially differ from the Manuaja of Italy, or 
 the Maiden of Scotland. To the former fell the unhappy 
 Beatrice Cenci at Rome in 1605, and the Duke of 
 Montmorency at Toulouse in 1632; to the latter fell 
 the Regent Morton, who has the credit of having intro- 
 duced the instrument into his native land. 
 
 On the whole, perhaps, the reader will be of opinion 
 that the error of Oarlyle and the historians, and its 
 correction, are alike unimportant ; still, as he more than 
 once elsewhere says, " universal history is not indif- 
 ferent." Besides, the current story is prejudicial to one 
 of the most humane and amiable men of the Constitnent 
 Assembly. The genesis of the error is plain. Dr. 
 Guillotin had an " Idea " of a beheading machine. 
 Naturally enough, when Dr. Louis' recommendation was 
 carried out " in oak and iron " by the maker of harpsi- 
 chords, the concrete machine was associated with the 
 first proposition, and so came to be christened after the 
 first proposer. Herr Schmitt's machine was no musical 
 instrument this time. Its utterances were clanking and 
 
ROMANTIC HISTORY. 135 
 
 horribly discordant. No tuning, stringing, or buffing was 
 ever needed by La Guillotine : a little cart-grease (vieux 
 oing) was all she wanted to give despatch to her opera- 
 tions, and otherwise there was no fear of her rusting. 
 
 But let us pass on to the more turbulent and tragic 
 times of the Eeign of Terror ; and first as to the great 
 event of the tenth of August 1792. Let us hear M. 
 Michelet : — 
 
 " I know of no event of ancient or modern times which has 
 been more entirely distorted than that of the loth August, more 
 altered in its essential circumstances, or more charged and 
 obscured by legendary or lying accessories. All parties, for envy, 
 seem here to have conspired to exterminate history, to render it 
 impossible, to inter and bury it, so that one cannot so much as 
 find it any more. Sundry alluvial deposits of lies, of an astonish- 
 ing thickness, have overlaid it. If you have seen the banks of 
 the Loire, after the overflowings of late years, where the earth 
 has been turned up or laid out, and the astonishing accumulations 
 of ooze, sand, and pebbles, under which whole fields have dis- 
 appeared, you will have some slight idea of the state in which 
 the history of the loth August still remains." 
 
 M. Mortimer-Terneaux writes : — 
 
 " If certain incidents of the 9th to the loth August have 
 been a hundred times recounted, we still remain in the most 
 complete ignorance of the manner in which the Hotel de 
 Ville prepared and consummated the overthrow of the most 
 ancient monarchy of modern Europe. The only documents 
 historians have hitherto consulted have been truncated, mutilated, 
 and falsified at pleasure ; and yet the lie has not been so well 
 concocted but that the truth shows through the tissue, compressed 
 [as it is] by the winding-sheet in which the oonq[ueror3 would 
 fain have shrouded it for ever.'' 
 
 It would occupy the space of several articles such 
 as this to set forth in detail the various instances of 
 exaggeration and distortion by historians both of Bng- 
 
135 EOMANTIC HISTORY. 
 
 land and of France in recounting the affairs of thia 
 critical period, and to confront tliem with the evidences 
 discovered by M. Mortimer-Temeaux. He has unearthed 
 and deciphered all sorts of seemingly worthless but 
 really invaluable records, such as gaol-deliveries and 
 reports of sections, which cast a flood of light on this 
 obscure event of the 9th and loth August. We 
 select one instance as a sample of the rest, viz., 
 the assumed unanimity and co-operation of the Forty- 
 eight Sections. Let us hear Oarlyle first : — 
 
 " Some new Twentieth of June we shall have ; only still more 
 ineffectual ? Or probably the Insurrection will not dare to rise 
 at all ? Mandat's Squadrons, Horse-Gendarmerie and Blue Guards 
 march, clattering, tramping; Mandat's Cannoneers rumble. Under 
 cloud of night, to the sound of his g^nerah, which begins drum- 
 ming when Tnen should go to bed. It is the ninth night of August 
 1792. Oil thtc other hand, the Forty-eight Sections correspond 
 by swift messe)ngers ; are choosing each their ' three Delegates 
 wijin full pc77v-ers,'" &c. — French Revolution, vol. ii. p. 342. 
 
 This account, save as to the Forty-eight Sections, is 
 probably as true as such English can ever be, where 
 notes of interrogation do duty for semicolons, which 
 have usurped the place of commas, and an adverbial 
 parenthesis stands for a sentence without nominative or 
 verb. But in this respect the extract we have just 
 given is neither better nor worse than the general 
 run of that quasi-primitive jargon in which, at so 
 much pains, Carlyle attempts to give expression to his 
 thoughts. It is true, of course, that some Sections did 
 thus correspond. On this subject let us hear once more 
 M. Mortimer-Terneaux : — 
 
ROMANTIC HISTORY. 137 
 
 " We shall see that this unanimity of Sections, rising as a single 
 man to overthrow the constitutional monarchy, never had any 
 existence ; that this list of three hundred ' delegates of the people 
 in insurrection,' which has heen so often spoken of, is false ; we 
 shall see how those full powers, 'committed by the people' into 
 the hands of its saviours, were obtained, and by whom they were 
 given ; and to those descriptions of giant contests, where we have 
 representations of thick masses heroically rushing to the assault 
 of the Tuileries, we shall oppose the net number of the dead and 
 wounded." 
 
 The very copious details vs^hich substantiate these 
 statements are perhaps a little too dry to interest general 
 readers, so we will not extract them, but pass on to 
 matters of more sensational attractions. For this char- 
 acteristic, what salient event of the Terreur is more 
 notable than the Massacres of the second of September 
 1792. After narrating on the authority of P^l^mhesi 
 and Dr. Moore the chief horrors of this red-letter day 
 in the French calendar, including the assassination of 
 the Princess de Lamballe, Carlyle writes as follows : — 
 
 " But it is more edifying to note what thrillings of affection, 
 what fragments of wild virtues turn up in this shaking asunder 
 of man's existence ; for of these too there is a proportion. Note 
 old Marquis Cazotte : he is doomed to die ; but his young 
 Daughter clasps him in her arms, with an inspiration of elo- 
 quence, with a love which is stronger than very death : the heart 
 of the killers themselves is touched by it ; the old man is spared. 
 Yet he was guilty, if plotting for his King is guilt : in ten days 
 more, a Court of Law condemned him, and he had to die else- 
 where ; bequeathing his Daughter a lock of his old grey hair. Or 
 note old M. de Sombreuil, who also had a Daughter : — My Father 
 is not an Aristocrat : O good gentlemen, I will swear it, and 
 testify it, and in all ways prove it ; we are not ; we hate Aristo- 
 crats ! ' Wilt thou drink Aristocrats' blood ? ' The man lifts 
 blood (if universal Rumour can be credited) ; the poor maiden 
 
I3S ROMANTIC HISTORY. 
 
 does drink. 'Tliis Sombreuil is innocent then!' Yes, indeed, 
 — and now note, most of all, how the bloody pikes, at this news, 
 do rattle to the ground ; and the tiger yells become bursts of 
 jubilee over a brother saved ; and the old man and his Daughter 
 are clasped to bloody bosoms, with hot tears ; and borne home in 
 triumph of Vive la 2fation, the killers refusing even money ! " — 
 French Bevolution, 1837, vol. iii. p. 42 ; 1848, p. 36. 
 
 The stories are substantially taken from Montgaillard, 
 vol. iii. p. 205, and are given on the authority of Dulanre. 
 More recently "the September ordeal of blood" has 
 been reproduced by M. Granier de Cassagnac, in his 
 Histoire des Girondins, in these words : — 
 
 "One of them took a glass, and poured into it some of the 
 blood that had issued from the head of M. de St. Mart, which 
 he mixed with wine and gunpowder, and told her [Mademoiselle 
 de Sombreuil] that if she drank that to the health of the nation, 
 she would save the life of her father.'' 
 
 How is it possible for any one henceforth to believe 
 such stories? The trick is too manifest. An imagination 
 more lively than representative is pressed into the 
 service of a mendacious book-maker, and in obedience 
 to the demand, the liquor is concocted for the ordeal of 
 the poor lady. Tradition gives blood as the only fit 
 libation ; the historians variously season and spice the 
 horrible draught ; but of all conceivable compounds that 
 the ingenuity of the romancist could pitch upon for 
 this purpose, this is the most atrocious. The wine, 
 however, is a soupgon of truth, as we shall shortly see ; 
 but the act of drinking is the only particle of simple 
 truth in the anecdote. 
 
 Happily in this case, as m so many others, " Universal 
 
ROMANTIC HISTORY. 139 
 
 Rumour," to which Oaiiyle pays the double homage 
 of capital initials and belief, is not to be credited hence- 
 forth. We have most fortunately the testimony of M. de 
 Sombreuil's daughter herself, given by her as Madame de 
 Villelume. It was recovered and published by M. Louis 
 Blanc (See The Aihenceum, Sept. 26, 1863). The facts 
 are simple, and lie in a nutshell. The protestations and 
 entreaties of the daughter had touched the murderers, 
 and they granted her the life of her father. She then 
 fainted. When she returned to consciousness, she found 
 herself before the door of a caf6, supported by the very 
 men who had been massacring the prisoners of La Force. 
 One of them procured for her a glass of sugar and orange- 
 flower water, and made her drink ; but, she says, in 
 doing so, 
 
 " His fingers, stained with blood, had smeared the glass. My 
 first impulse, at the sight of the ensanguined hand stretched out to 
 me, was to turn away in horror ; whereupon one of those who 
 supported me whispered in my ear, ' Drink, Gitoyenne, and think 
 of your father.' So I did, but ever since, whenever I see red 
 wine in a glass, I am seized with sickness." 
 
 Such an episode as this to the furious carnage of 
 the second of September would have pointed Carlyle's 
 remark on the " wild virtues that turn up in this 
 shaking asunder of man's existence " far more appositely 
 than the fable he has recorded. It is not difficult to 
 understand how this fable arose. An eye-witness may 
 very well have mistaken the gore-dropping glass for 
 an actual glass of blood. This single incident in the 
 course of frequent repetition might readily receive the 
 
140 ROMANTIC HISTORY. 
 
 various additions wliicli appear in the current story. 
 A better esample of the facility with which an eye- 
 witness may receive a totally false impression of the 
 events passing within the scope of his observation, and 
 the fatality with which the perversion, when monstrous 
 and unnatural, gathers about it an array of circum- 
 stances which render it intelligible, could not possibly 
 be found. 
 
 Any account of the Romantic History of the Terreur 
 would be incomplete without recording once more the 
 famous case of the Vengeur, a frigate of the French 
 fleet, which were vanquished by the English off Brest, 
 on June ist, 1794. Here is Carlyle's account of the 
 affair : — ■ 
 
 " War thunder from off the Brest waters : Villaret-Joyeuse and 
 English Howe, after long manceuvring, have ranked themselves 
 there ; and are helching fire. The enemies of human nature are 
 on their own element ; cannot be conquered ; cannot be kept from 
 conquering. Twelve hours of raging cannonade ; sun now sinking 
 westward through the battle-smoke : six French Ships taken, 
 the Battle lost ; what Ship soever can still sail, making off ! But 
 how is it, then, with that Vengeur Ship, she neither strikes nor 
 makes off ? She is lamed, she cannot make off ; strike she will 
 not. Fire rakes her fore and aft from victorious enemies ; the 
 Vengeur is sinking. Strong are ye. Tyrants of the Sea ; yet we 
 also, are we weak? Lo ! all flags, streamers, jacks, every rag of 
 tricolor that will yet run on rope, fly rustling aloft : the whole 
 crew crowds to the upper deck, and with universal soul-mad- 
 dening yell, shouts Vive la Re'publique, — sinking, sinking. She 
 staggers, she lurches, her last drunk whirl ; Ocean yawns 
 abysmal : down rushes the Vengeur, carrying Vive la Republique 
 along with her, unconquerable, into Eternity. Let foreign 
 despots think of that. There is an Unconquerable in man, when 
 he stands on bis Rights of Man : let Despots and Slaves and all 
 people know this, and only them that stand on the Wrongs of 
 
ROMANTIC HISTORY. 141 
 
 Man tremble to know it. — So has History written, nothing doubt- 
 ing, of the sunk Vengeur." — Freiich Revolution, 1837, vol. iii. 
 p. 33S ; 1848, p. 289. 
 
 To Carlyle himself is due the credit of thoroughly- 
 investigating the facts of this case. He was, in fact, 
 the first to publish the evidence which invalidated his 
 own narrative. Rear- Admiral Griffiths, of the Culloden, 
 one of the British men-of-war in that action, was an 
 eye-witness of the behaviour of the Vengeur under the 
 English fire ; and he answers and refutes Carlyle's 
 statements seriatim : — 
 
 " ' The Vengeur neither strikes nor makes off.' She did both. 
 . . . ' Fire rakes her fore and aft from victorious enemies.' Wicked 
 . . . indeed would it have been to have iired into her, a sinking 
 ship with colours down ; and I can positively state that not a 
 gun was fired at her for an hour before she was taken possession 
 of. ' The Vengeur is sinking.' True. ' Lo ! all flags, streamers, 
 jacks, every rag of tricolor that will yet run on rope, fly rustling 
 aloft.' Not one mast standing, not one rope on which to hoist or 
 display a bit of tricolor, not one flag or streamer or ensign dis- 
 played. . . . ' The whole crew crowds the upper deck, and with 
 Tiniversa Isoul-maddening yell, shouts Vive la B^publique !' . . . 
 Not one shoutjbeyond that of horror and despair. At the moment 
 of her sinking we had on hoard the Gulloden, and in our boats 
 then at the wreck, 127 of her crew, including the captain 
 [Renaudin, and his son]. The Alfred had many ; I believe about 
 100 : Lieutenant Winne, in command of a hired cutter, a 
 number, I ihinJc 49." 
 
 The source of this strange perversion of fact will be 
 found in the nationality and pride of the members of 
 the Convention. In their behalf the story was concocted 
 by Barrere : for them he was fain to give a lying version 
 of the sinking of the Vengeur, on the one hand to 
 
142 ROMANTIC HISTOEY. 
 
 aggrandise his nation and his patrie; on the other to 
 conceal a mortifying defeat. He could not succeed in 
 falsifying the fact that the Vengeur was utterly de- 
 stroyed : so he did what seemed to him the next best 
 thing : he invented and put in circulation a story, which, 
 while it embalmed that fact, administered a sop to both 
 the patriotism and the vanity of the French people. 
 Perhaps also he thereby saved his own head. 
 
 This matter of refutation has been thoroughly well 
 done by Carlyle ('Miscellanies,' 1847, ^ol. iv. p. 198). 
 But having effected that refutation, it is astonish- 
 ing to find him repeating his original version of the 
 event in the third edition of his ' French Revolution ' 
 (1848). It is true that having set up his men he 
 knocks them all down ; that he supplements the in- 
 comparable loursouffiage of the first and second editions 
 with the comforting statement that " the Vengeu?; after 
 fighting bravely, did sink altogether, as other ships do," 
 and that the " enormous inspiring feat, and rumour of 
 ' sound most piercing,' " is " founded, like the world, 
 upon nothing." But in that case it strikes us as little 
 better than a mock-swindle that the " billowy ecstasy 
 of woe" of the old story should be inflicted on the 
 reader, and that he should be drawn on towards the 
 verge of distraction, to find his tempter, after all, 
 grinning at him over the tragic mask. 
 
 The story of the Vengeur, substantially as Carlyle 
 originally gave it, has in it, we fear, the seeds of im- 
 mortality. It is all too good to be let slip, and no 
 amount of evidence against it will be able to give it its 
 
ROMANTIC HISTORY. 143 
 
 quietus. We have little doubt it will continue to walk 
 the earth for ages to come; and when the world at 
 large has become convinced that it was wholly the 
 invention of Barr^re, the French will repeat and believe 
 it as they do at this present. Besides its own intrinsic 
 merits as a sublime piece of heroism, it is the one 
 dignifying incident among the disgraceful events of the 
 Terreur, and it is a case in which the glory of France 
 was earned in despite of victory. We much fear that 
 fables have mor^" vitality than Carlyle is willing to 
 allow. He may give the myth a deadly wound ; but 
 like the mystic living creature in the Apocalypse, that 
 " was wounded to death," its deadly wound has often a 
 wondrous power of healing ; and the myth holds on its 
 way rejoicing against the truth. 
 
 The fifth volume of M. Mortimer-Terneaux's laborious 
 and well -written history adds its quota to the list 
 of myths surprised and branded. Among the many 
 false charges brought against the King and Queen 
 was that of having poisoned the locksmith Gamain, 
 in revenge for his having revealed the place in the 
 Tuileries in which the iron chest was secreted. This 
 story has recently received fresh currency by its admis- 
 sion, with credence, into M. Louis Blanc's Ilistoire de 
 la Bivolution. Happily, M. Mortimer-Terneaux has 
 destroyed the only seeming evidence on which it rested, 
 and this Mensonge de la Terreur has received its death- 
 blow. How many more pieces of accredited history 
 will be banished to the wind on further searches being 
 made into the numerous archives of Paris it is of course 
 
144 ROMANTIC HISTORY. 
 
 impossible to predict ; but we may at least be sure of 
 this, that the True History of the French Revolution 
 has yet to be written, and that when it has at length 
 been " immutably fixed," it may be easily " comprised 
 in a few volumes,'' while the unauthorised incidents 
 which once formed the great bulk of the narrative will 
 have to be collected and edited by themselves, under 
 the title of Legendes et Mensonges de la PUvolution 
 Frangaise, as a standing warning to the historiographers 
 of the future. 
 
( 145 ) 
 
 VII. 
 
 FRANCIS BACONS 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Theee are but two legitimate modes of studying a 
 science : the historical and the systematic. There may, 
 indeed, be a latent system in its historical development, 
 
 ^ The works of Pranois Bacon, edited by J. Spedding, R. Leslie 
 Ellis, and D. D. Heath. 1857, &c. Review of the above in the 
 Athenceum, September 11 and 18, 1858. 'Francis Bacon of Verulam.' 
 By Kuno Tiseher. Translated from the German by John Oxenford. 
 1857. 'Bacon, sa Vie, son Temps, sa Philosophie.' By C. F, 
 Remusat. Paris, 1857. 'Novum Organon Renovatum. ' By W. 
 WheweU. 1858. Chap. viii. § 2. ' On the Philosophy of Discovery.' 
 By W. WheweU. i860. Chap, xv., xvi., and xvii. 'On Bacon of 
 Verulam and his Scientific Principles.' By Professor Lasson. i860. 
 ' On Francis Bacon of Verulam and the History of the Natural 
 Sciences.' By Justus Liebig. 1863. ' Lord Bacon as Natural Philo- 
 sopher.' By Baron Liebig. Macmillan's Magazine, July and August, 
 1863. Review of Baron Liebig's Discourse in the Home and Foreign 
 Review. January 1864. A Reply to Baron Liebig's two Articles, in 
 MacmUlan's Magazine, by G. P. Rodwell. The Header, June 2 and 9, 
 1866. ' Th^Correlation of the Physical Forces.' By W. R. Grove. 
 Fifth edition. 1867. Pp. 8-10. ' Was Lord Bacon an Impostor ? ' 
 Fraser's Magazine, December 1866. ' Was Lord Bacon an Impostor ? ' 
 By Baron Liebig. Fraser's Magazine, April 1867. 'The Poems of 
 Francis Bacon, Baron of Verulam. ' For the first time collected and 
 edited after the original texts by the Rev. Alex. B. Grosart, Black- 
 bum. Privately printed in the Fuller Worthies' Library Miscellanies. 
 1870. 
 
 K 
 
146 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 but that need not be identical with the system on 
 which the science may be best studied, and by which 
 it may be most readily taught. On the contrary, it is 
 the rule, not without exceptions, that the history of a 
 science is a history of error and its correction. The 
 quarry is run down after many faults and doubles, 
 instead of being picked off at a long range. Eminently 
 interesting and instructive is such a history ; but it is 
 so in behalf of those who have acquired, with thorough 
 comprehension, at least the elements of the science. 
 Mutatis mutandis, but with far less force, may the same 
 be said of Philosophy ; for at present its elements are 
 inextricably interwoven with its history. Of late years 
 some French writers have attempted to identify the 
 history of any branch of knowledge with the method on 
 which it can be best taught. It has been confidently 
 maintained that the only sound method of instruction 
 is "la methode d'invention" — "la m^thode suivie par 
 I'inventeur." If such be the fact in any case, it is so 
 exceptionally. The only sound method of instruction is 
 that which starts, not with the locus standi of the in- 
 ventor, but with that of the learner, whose rude notions 
 and profound ignorance must be the very groundwork 
 of instruction. Ignoring both, and sublimely contem- 
 plating the architecture of the science to be imparted, 
 we may find that our foundations have been laid on a 
 morass or on a quicksand. 
 
 The history of a science, and therefore of science 
 in general, is for the initiated; and for such it has 
 almost the charm of a romance, at least of a romance 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 147 
 
 read backwards, like Proude's ' Lieutenant's Daughter.' 
 Fable, indeed, can hardly obtain a footing there, for 
 the results always exercise some check on the narrative 
 of those fictions and mistakes which the results have 
 overthrown. We know, at least, from the results what 
 could not have been observed or performed by the 
 physical philosopher during the epoch of discovery. 
 We know, for instance, that Bacon could not have 
 burnt a candle in the flame of spirit of wine ; and that 
 Haiiy's antimony could not have been rhombohedral. 
 We may thus with certainty determine what, among 
 alleged observations, were inventions or blunders, and 
 what, among alleged experiments, were performed in 
 fancy only, or not performed at all. We may indeed 
 err, through the insufficiency of evidence, in assigning 
 a discovery to one who was not first in making it, or 
 who did not discover it at all. This has been done in 
 the case of many notable additions to science, as the 
 composition of water, the polarisation of light, and the 
 doctrine of limiting ratios ; in each of which there are 
 still contending claims, where some find it hard to give 
 the preference, while others administer a summary 
 justice or injustice. 
 
 There is a small class of eminent men included in 
 the larger class of " many-sided minds," who became 
 distinguished by virtue of pursuits for which they had 
 received no special professional training. Such men were 
 Francis Bacon, Emanuel Swedenborg, and Johann Wolf- 
 gang Goethe. It may be remarked, however, in passing' 
 that these three men, presenting so many marked dif- 
 
148 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 ferences, do also present some striking forms of agree- 
 ment. All three were born to a position of eminence 
 or affluence : all were functionaries of the government 
 under which they lived, and rose to be eminent states- 
 men. All, by virtue of congenital powers and tastes, 
 became physical philosophers, equally rejecting ideas, 
 and working on nature by means of observation, experi- 
 ment, and induction. The poet, however, is the only 
 one who can be credited with a positive and unequivocal 
 discovery in physical science. Between Bacon and 
 Swedenborg (quite irrespective of the spiritual experi- 
 ences of the latter) it will be found that a remarkable 
 parallel subsists. 
 
 A sketch of Bacon's life is quite unnecessary here. 
 Mr. Hepworth Dixon, on the one side, and Messrs. 
 Jas. Spedding and J. T. Foard on the other, have com- 
 pletely exhausted the subject, and made the facts of 
 Bacon's life " familiar in our mouths as household 
 words." It is only with his philosophy that we are 
 concerned. Bacon was born at York House, Strand, 
 London, on January 22, 1560, O.S. (February i, 1560, 
 N.S.), i.e., four years and three months before Shake- 
 speare. He died at Highgate, at Lord Arundel's, on 
 April 9, 1626, having survived Shakespeare nearly ten 
 years. 
 
 Bacon's best philosophical works appear to have been 
 written in the seventeenth century; and the more 
 important of them were published in the last four 
 years of his life. Of the works by which this "many- 
 sided mind " became his country's glory the following 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 149 
 
 details may be found of interest to students of Bacon. 
 In a letter written in 1623 or 1624, Bacon speaks of 
 having composed an exposition of his philosophical 
 method, to which he gave the title of Temporis Partus 
 Maximus — ' The Greatest Birth of Time.' One of his 
 successors in the chancellorship, John, Lord Campbell, 
 thinks this work was published, though copies of it 
 are unknown to bibliographers. If such were the fact, 
 this constitutes his first work, and must be referred 
 to 1584. His 'Essays, Religious Meditations,' first 
 appeared in type in 1597. There were originally only 
 ten of them; in the second edition (16 12) there were 
 thirty-eight; and the latest edition published in his 
 lifetime (1625) contained fifty-eight. In 1605 his 
 ' Two Books of the Proficience and Advancement of 
 Learning, Divine and Human,' were published. They, 
 too, expanded and enlarged, were issued in Latin 
 in 1623, with the title De Augmentis Scientiarum. 
 In 1 610 the Be Sapientia, Veterum, 'Concerning the 
 Wisdom of the Ancients,' a fanciful, but wise and 
 brilliant, book, gave evidence of his continued activity 
 of mind. Having projected an ' Instauratioj Magna,' 
 or grand restoration of the sciences, he published in 
 1620, as the second part of it, his Noviom Organum 
 Scientiarum, or 'New Instrument of the Sciences.' 
 In 1622, despite his fall from place and power, he 
 published his ' History of the Reign of Henry VII. ; ' 
 and in 1624 not only 'The Translation of Oertaine 
 Psalmes into English Verse ' (recently reissued in ' The 
 Fuller Worthies' Library Miscellanies' by the Rev. 
 
150 FEANCIS BACON. 
 
 A. B. Grosart), but also his ' Apophthegms, New and 
 Old,' were published, having been produced during' 
 a fit of sickness, in that same year. To his political 
 tracts, 'Miscellany Works,' the Resuscitatio, many 
 fragmentary additions to his Instauratio, and some 
 other writings, we are unable to assign any date. His 
 'New Atlantis,' or Solomon's House, in which he 
 aimed at excelling Plato, as in his Novum Organum 
 he had endeavoured to outdo Aristotle, as well as many 
 other literary schemes, was left unfinished at his death. 
 It will be seen from this mere mention of works 
 written by this " Lord of Induction and of Verulam " — 
 as Herbert calls him, in a most palpable anti-climax — 
 that his authorship for the most part belongs to the 
 seventeenth century, and that much of what he 
 thought under the Tudors he wrote under the Stuarts. 
 Of the illustrious Englishmen who lived in those times 
 he is one of the most famed ; and if we except Shake- 
 speare under the former dynasty, and Milton under 
 the latter, the entire literature of the age possesses no 
 name equal to his own. 
 
 Above the fame of any discoverer in science is the 
 glory of him who is believed to have furnished man- 
 kind with a certain if not a royal road to all physical 
 knowledge : and such was once the lot of Francis 
 Bacon. Hardly has such renown as his been associated 
 with such a name. Think of the stupendous opposi- 
 tion to be overcome by poetic genius, before such 
 names as Oottle and Tupper could act as a spell on 
 men's imaginations. Philosophy had assuredly as hard 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 151 
 
 a time of it with Bacon ; and yet so intensely dazzling 
 was the aureole that for two hundred years invested that 
 unfortunate name that from thenceforth its contemptu- 
 ous associations were consigned to deserved oblivion, 
 and, even now that its almost Aristotelian tyranny has 
 been broken, it acts as a spell on the imagination still. 
 The works of Lord Bacon belong to the history of 
 philosophy rather than to the history of science, and 
 to the latter rather than to science itself. In the 
 study of geometry we necessarily encounter the con- 
 structions of Thales, Pythagoras, and Euclid, not to 
 mention the more important contributions of Michel 
 Chasles and the moderns. In algebra we as necessarily 
 come upon the theorems of Newton, Euler, and Wallis, 
 with those of very many other inventors. In physics 
 we owe so much to particular discoverers that much of 
 what we learn under that name is stamped with the 
 peculiar genius of a few great men. Bacon is not 
 one of these ; nor yet is there a single physical dis- 
 covery due to his industry or genius. The fact is 
 certainly remarkable ; for though he did not set up for 
 a physical discoverer, he assuredly claimed to have 
 constructed an organon, or instrument of universal 
 discovery, which, accordingly, should have yielded 
 some fruit in the hands of others. Some, indeed, have 
 credited him with having discovered the relation of 
 heat to friction. In point of fact, the correlation of 
 heat and motion is found in Plato. In the Thecetetus, 
 chap. 26, we read, — 
 
 T6 yap dspiiov re Kal irOp, S Sr) Kal rHWa yevvq. Kal iiviTpoireiei, airb 
 
152 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 yevvarat ^k ipopas Ka.1 7pl\f/e(js ' rovTO 5^ Kivrjffi^ ij ovx d^Tat ycv^creii 
 TTVpbs ; that is — • 
 
 " For heat and fire, which engenders and supports other things, 
 is itself engendered by impact and friction, hut this is motion. 
 Are not these [? modes of motion] the origin of fire 1 " 
 
 But we may find nearly the same thing in Heraclitus. 
 I have no doubt whatever that Bacon did no more in 
 this speciality than hundreds had done before him ; and 
 it is certain that the theory of heat made no advance in 
 consequence of his famous Inquisitio in Naturam Calicli. 
 On the other hand, it is impossible, as I shall soon 
 make manifest, to do justice to his unrivalled powers 
 of mind without crediting him with a very remarkable 
 divination as to the essential mode of sensible heat, 
 which, in the hands of a practised experimenter, must 
 have hastened the epoch of discovery in that science. 
 But such was not the event. The conjecture perished 
 like the seed that fell on stony ground. The Organon 
 of Bacon has not, I say, been the direct agent in any 
 physical discovery. This is the all but universal 
 verdict of competent critics. A few, indeed, whose 
 competency it would be invidious, if not presumptuous 
 to call in question, contend that discoveries have been 
 made on Bacon's method. Perhaps some new evidence 
 in favour of that position may yet be adduced. But 
 what is meant by the allegation is plain enough, when 
 we find that able and elegant writer, Dugald Stewart, 
 making this assertion : — 
 
 " I shall take this opportunity to remark that Newton had 
 evidently studied Bacon's writings with care, and has followed 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 153 
 
 them (sometimes too implicitly) in his logical phraseology." — 
 Works, Ed. Hamilton, vol. iii., p. 236. 
 
 This is the inverted base of the pyramid, whose apex 
 is the solitary fact that Newton twice employs the word 
 " axiom " in the Baconian sense. But the pyramid will 
 not stand inverted; besides, I hardly think that fact 
 belongs to the pyramid; for Newton could not have 
 failed to get the word " axiom," in the sense of general 
 expression, from Peter Ramus, in the ordinary curriculum 
 of studies at the University of Cambridge. Others 
 assert that Newton employed Bacon's method, as in his 
 experiments on inertia : this, however, is a mistake. 
 
 But, allowing that no physical discovery has been 
 made directly by means of Bacon's Organon, the ques- 
 tion still remains whether his works did ' not exercise 
 a very powerful indirect influence on the course of 
 physical science ; and it is this question which has 
 been so hotly debated in late years. Certain it is that 
 never till Bacon wrote was the corrupt Aristotelian 
 method denounced and exposed with such trumpefc- 
 tongued eloquence and with such studious and prophetic 
 iteration. None, till Bacon rose, had wearied the ears 
 of a generation with its eternal wail — delenda est 
 Carthago. Yet it is said, on the other hand, that the 
 labour was Quixotic, since the tyranny of Aristotle had 
 already received its quietus. Certain it is that never 
 till then had the keynote of induction — well-digested 
 observations first, theory afterwards — been sounded in 
 the van of a Novum Organum. Yet, on the other side, 
 it is asserted that a better method than Bacon's had 
 
154 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 been actually employed with success before his great 
 work saw the light. Equally certain it is that the 
 publication of his work synchronised with the great 
 epoch of physical discovery, which was crowned by the 
 immortal speculations of Newton and Laplace. Yet, 
 the enemy has something to say against Bacon's influ- 
 ence on the science of his own day ; that he was not 
 the general but the herald of the victorious army ; and 
 that it was the blunder of a few enthusiastic followers 
 to attribute to him the splendour of a glory which 
 radiated from men of a very different order of mind. 
 In this view, Bacon was simply felix opportunitate 
 vitce. 
 
 Coleridge, remarking on the necessity of amassing a 
 store of materials before constituting " a sound and 
 stable theory," thus indicates the special need of him 
 who would execute successfully the great work in which, 
 it is said, Bacon failed. 
 
 "All this, and mucli more, must be achieved before 'a sound 
 and stable theory ' could be ' constituted ; ' — wliich even then 
 (except as far as it might occasion the discovery of a law) might 
 possibly explain (ex plicis plana reddere), but never account for 
 the facts in question. But the most satisfactory comment on 
 these and similar assertions would be afforded by a matter-of-fact 
 history of tire rise and progress, the accelerating and retarding 
 momenta, of science in the civilised world." — The Friend, 1844, 
 vol. iii., Essay 8. 
 
 It is just this need which has been so admirably 
 supplied by Dr. Whewell's ' History of the Inductive 
 Sciences/ his ' History of Scientific Ideas,' and the two 
 other of his works to which I have assigned a place at 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 155 
 
 the head of this paper. By the aid of these, and of Sir 
 John Herschel's ' Discourse on the Study of Natural 
 Philosophy,' and Mr. J. S. Mill's ' Logic,' we may very well 
 judge of the adequacy of Bacon's Novum Organum, as a 
 means of enlarging the borders of science ; and allow- 
 ing, with the mass of competent critics, the inadequacy, 
 or even failure, of that work, we shall, with these appli- 
 ances, he fully prepared to estimate the effect which 
 Bacon's writings had on the course of scientiiic dis- 
 covery. 
 
 The time is not long past when Bacon's name enjoyed 
 the repute both of success in his great attempt and of 
 being the great regenerator of science. It was once the 
 universal belief that to Bacon's method was mainly due 
 the vast progress of science ever since the crystal spheres 
 of Purbach were shivered by the arrowy intellect of 
 Copernicus. Even Sir John Herschel once agreed with 
 this verdict. 
 
 " This important task was executed by Prancis Bacon, Lord 
 Verulam, who will, therefore, justly be looked upon in all future 
 ages as the great reformer of philosophy." — Discourse, 1835, 
 p. 114. 
 
 This opinion ran out its course, and it is now gener- 
 ally looked upon as a mistake. It is curious that it 
 should have been combated by three distinct parties in 
 this criticism, whereof two are diametrically opposed to 
 each other. First, It was contested by those who held 
 that Bacon taught nothing but old truth; that his system 
 was as old as Aristotle, and that, though discoveries in 
 science, and any number of them, had been made by pur- 
 
156 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 suing the method prescribed by Bacon, it was so only 
 by virtue of the fact that Bacon's method was the method 
 pursued by all physical discoverers, from the Stagirite 
 downwards. Second, It was contested by those who 
 held that Bacon's system was indeed a startling novelty, 
 which neither Aristotle nor any one else, save its pro- 
 pounder, had ever dreamed of; but that unfortunately 
 it was trifling and useless, and had about the same 
 relation to science that a penny trumpet has to Spohr's 
 ' Power of Sound.' Macaulay may be taken as the 
 type of the former, and Lasson or Liebig as the type of 
 the latter. Third, It was contested by a few, on the 
 high priori ground, that his method was a sell; that 
 the salt of Verulam could not be applied to the tail of 
 the old bird called " Nature," till the bird was actually 
 in the hand ; or, to change the metaphor, that nature's 
 cabinet, having a snap lock which had been shut upon 
 the key, the locksmith of St. Albans would be glad to 
 pick the lock, in order to get at the key. The most 
 superficial view of the 'Advancement of Learning' suflB.ces 
 to show what Bacon was about ; that he was proposing 
 to himself a problem of the utmost difficulty, viz., to 
 reduce the business of scientific discovery to a method 
 which should be certain in its results, and, by its very 
 perfection, be for the most part independent of private 
 sagacity. His single aim was to invent an instrument 
 of physical research which might be handled with 
 thorough efficiency by average intellects, and which, 
 being so handled, should constrain Nature to reveal her 
 secret processes. Bacon never arrogated to himself the 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 157 
 
 title whicli lias been awarded to him, viz., that of 
 Father of Induction; the actual claim he set up for 
 himself was that he was the inventor of a new and 
 infallible method of induction. As Mr. Leslie Ellis 
 well puts it — 
 
 " Ordinary induction is a tentative process, because we chase 
 our quarry over an open country : here it is confined within 
 definite limits, and these limits become, as we advance, continu- 
 ally narrower and narrower." — General Preface to the Phil. Worlcs, 
 1857. I., p. 35. 
 
 Bacon, in fact, proposed to do for induction what 
 certain African Nimrods have done for hunting. Dr. 
 Livingstone tells us that the tribe of the Bakwains, 
 instead of hunting down the wild beasts in the jungle, 
 or over the open prairie, are accustomed to employ a 
 very ingenious device for snaring and destroying hun- 
 dreds of head of game at once. They set up what they 
 call a Tuypo, which is a wattled fence in the form of a 
 V of vast dimensions, the angle of which is open, and 
 debouches on a long deep pit. The Bakwain hunters 
 send out scouts, who surround and drive their prey 
 from their retreats towards the wide mouth of the 
 ho-po ; they are thus chased unawares into an area 
 which fatally narrows at every step, and ends in a 
 prison or a grave. Bacon proposed, I say, to do the 
 same by the universe and its " natures ; " the Novum 
 Organum is his hopo, or at least a portion of it ; and 
 it is yet the subject of fierce dispute whether, in the 
 event of the entire structure having been realised, it 
 would have been as successful as the African device. 
 
158 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 Certain it is tliat the only quarry driven into it by its 
 inventor, viz., " the form of heat," had been marked 
 before it entered the hopo, and was hastily captured 
 by a secondary manoeuvre before it reached the pit. 
 It was thus that the efficacy of the New Organon 
 remained untested. 
 
 Simple enumeration, or indiscriminate observation, 
 or chance experiment, is hunting the game, " over an 
 open country." Bacon's alternative was a plan of 
 observation and experiment, on which would sooner or 
 later arise a vast number of definite issues to be tried 
 by ulterior observation or experiment. From this 
 second batch of observations or experiments would crop 
 up a still smaller number of definite issues ; and thus 
 the field of research is narrowed at each step of the 
 investigation, till at length the " natures," which are 
 the objects of the induction, are isolated and determined. 
 Such, in general terms, was the project. Nothing in 
 the nature of such an Organon had ever been proposed, 
 still less executed ; yet it can hardly be maintained 
 that the end in view was a novelty, for it had been the 
 common practice of physicists to restrict the sphere of 
 observation and experiment by the adoption of some 
 plan of operation, though its application was restricted, 
 its name Legion, and qxwt homines tot methodi. No 
 one knew better than Bacon that Aristotle and Plato 
 taught induction, and that the former extensively 
 practised it. On this point see the Novicm Organum, 
 book i., aph. 63 and 105. But whatever plans might 
 have been worked upon by the Stagirite, the only in- 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 159 
 
 duction taught by him was that " by simple enumera- 
 tion," which, by its very form, is a barren process, and 
 that, moreover, is the only induction taught by modern 
 writers on logic, with a few notable exceptions, Mr. J. 
 S. Mill, the Archbishop of York, and Mr. S. Neil. Aris- 
 totle's example of this form of induction is as follows : 
 " Every man, horse, mule, is long-lived : whatever is 
 galless is man, horse, or mule ; therefore whatever is 
 galless is long-lived." To sustain the validity of the 
 conclusion, says the Stagirite — 
 
 del voew t6 T (i.e., man, horse, mule, &c.) t6 i^ B,Tra.vTav tuv Ka6' 
 ^Kaarov uvyKdjievov . . . k.t.X — Prior Analytics, ii. 23. 
 
 That is, it is requisite that they he full representatives 
 of the class to which they are referred; so that the 
 class must be unwarrantably assumed, or else estab- 
 lished by some more subtle process. Bacon not only 
 knew how barren was this form of induction, but also 
 that other inductive methods were practised with suc- 
 cess ; yet from so partial a study of causes, and one, 
 moreover, in which native wit and lucky accident had 
 so great a share, he augured ill for the restoration of 
 physical science, as a whole. Verulam, though from 
 the pressure of professional duties and the infirmity 
 of ill health he had been able to acquire but a com- 
 paratively small repertoire of natural facts, and these 
 not seldom very inaccurately noted, was as clear-sighted 
 and as far-sighted as an eagle. He saw that induction, 
 however constituted, did extend knowledge ; whereas de- 
 duction could only serve as the handmaid of induction, 
 
i6o FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 to disclose what was thought, however obscurely, in our 
 general conceptions. He did not indeed anticipate 
 Kant in his famous distinction of ampliative and ex- 
 plicative judgments; but he discriminated between 
 the deductive syllogism and the inductive method 
 with as much precision and rigour as Kant himself 
 in his Metliodologie. 
 
 It is not easy for us, standing on the eminence which 
 inductive philosophy has raised for our speculation, to 
 realise the actual state of the figment which passed 
 for science at the time when Bacon wrought and wrote. 
 It was not a fragmental discovery of Gilbert or Coper- 
 nicus that can be shown as a sample of the methods 
 then in vogue, or of the conclusions thereby arrived at. 
 The human mind was under an incubus of physical 
 speculations, handed down from the schoolmen, who had 
 monstrously corrupted and deformed what they had 
 received from Aristotle. It was in respect to science 
 what it now is in respect to theology. The mass of 
 educated persons were taught and made to believe 
 in traditions, which, happily, while they had the effect 
 of postponing the epoch of discovery, served to create 
 the technical terms by which future discoveries were 
 to be expressed. Bacon describes as truthfully as 
 eloquently the state of things which then prevailed, 
 and of which traces Kngered in our universities long 
 after the innovations of Newton's Principia had been 
 somewhat grudgingly established. Scientific method 
 was, for all purposes of instruction, wholly deductive, 
 and its scheme consisted of logical sorites and dilemmas, 
 
FRANCIS BACON. i6i 
 
 depending upon notions formed haphazard from a super- 
 ficial, cursory, and inexact survey of the universe. 
 Such, indeed, are all our notions till we are educated 
 in observation ; and they are therefore called notiones 
 primce. Into the truth, generality, clearness, or fitness 
 of such notions to represent real things and their 
 qualities and relations, it was the business neither of 
 the teacher nor of the pupil to inquire. In playing 
 with such scholastic toys as were the instruments of 
 the dialectician, it was sufiicient entertainment to 
 expound all that was connoted by the terms standing 
 for those notions ; and thus it came to pass that it was 
 the subjective notion, and not the objective pheno- 
 menon, that was expounded or explained. 
 
 Bacon resolved to put a term to all such trifling : 
 but in his attempt to do so he was " wise in his genera- 
 tion." He knew the old fabric was doomed, though 
 men had grown so accustomed to its reprieve that they 
 almost adjudged it immortal. As it had awaited its 
 destruction for two thousand years, so my lord of 
 Verulam was well content that his great work should 
 bide its time in patience, if only he could get it written 
 and published before death arrested his labours (see 
 Prommium). In the meanwhile he assured his readers 
 that he had no wish to overthrow at once the old 
 edifice; no, not even to win admiration for his own. 
 Note the irony and covered sarcasm of his protest : — 
 
 " For those who prefer the former, either from hurry or from 
 considerations of business, or for want of mental power to take 
 in and embrace the other (which must needs be most men's case), 
 
 L 
 
i62 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 I wish that they may succeed to their desire in what they are 
 about, and obtain what they are pursuing." — Preface to 'Nov. 
 Org.' 
 
 But all " true sons of knowledge " he invites to rally 
 roiind his standard : just as the more liberal among our- 
 selves congratulate those who have thrown off the yoke 
 of an obsolete and effete theology, and in the same breath 
 protest that they have no wish to unsettle the faith of 
 timid and weak-minded persons, bidding them affec- 
 tionately God-speed. They who pursue this course, if 
 they have not large hearts, have assuredly long heads. 
 
 It seems to me that Bacon addressed himself to his 
 task with no self-seeking, but with as honest a love of 
 truth, and with as earnest a resolve to pioneer for it, as 
 ever inspired Kepler or Galileo : and this point is to 
 be the more carefully noted, because, as we shall shortly 
 see, it has been bluntly impugned by one of Bacon's 
 later critics. Whatever be the fact, I must insist on 
 this, that it is grossly unfair to prejudge him a liar 
 because he conformed to the corrupt judicial customs 
 of his time, and to set down all he says as to the purity 
 of his ends and aim to the score of ambitious hypocrisy ; 
 on the contrary, we are bound by the lowest principles 
 of humanity to presume that he speaks truth till he 
 be found a liar. As to this love of truth, then, let us 
 hear his own words : — 
 
 "For my own part at least, in obedience to the everlasting 
 love of truth, I have committed myself to the uncertainties and 
 difficulties and solitudes of the ways ; and, relying on the 
 Divine assistance, have upheld my mind, both against the shocks 
 and embattled ranks of opinion, and against my own private 
 
PRANCIS BACON. 163 
 
 and inward hesitations and scruples, and against the fogs and 
 clouds of nature, and the phantoms flitting about on every side ; 
 in the hope of providing at last for the present and future genera- 
 tions guidance more faithful and secure." — Preface to the ' Inst. 
 Mag.' 
 
 Here he professes that his hope is the benefit of his 
 race ; but even this hope is secondary to his allegiance 
 to the everlasting love of truth. Nest, as to his 
 humility, he adds : — 
 
 "Wherein if I have made any progress, the way has been 
 opened to me by no other means than the true and legitimate 
 humiliation of the human spirit. . . . And the same humility 
 which I use in inventing I employ likewise in teaching." 
 
 Then in the first book of the Novum Organum, V7hich 
 was designed as the second treatise of the Instauratio 
 Magna (the De Augmentis Scientiarum being a first 
 sketch of the first treatise), he enumerates, in a strain 
 of graceful rhetoric, the various grounds of hope for 
 the realisation, at least by his successors, of his magnifi- 
 cent project. Among these is the following, which is 
 pregnant with "true and legitimate humiliation of 
 spirit : " — 
 
 "And this I say, not by way of boasting, but because it is 
 useful to say it. If there be any that despond, let them look at 
 me ; that, being of all men of my time the most busied in affairs 
 of State, and a man of health not very strong (whereby much 
 time is lost), and in this course altogether a pioneer, following 
 no man's track nor sharing these counsels with any one, have 
 nevertheless, by resolutely entering on the true road and submit- 
 ting my mind to things, advanced these matters, as I suppose, 
 some little way. And then let them consider what may be 
 expected (after the way has been thus indicated) from men 
 abounding in leisure, and from association of labours, and from 
 
1 64 FEANCIS BACON. 
 
 successions of ages : the rather because it is not a way over 
 which only one man can pass at a time (as is the case with that 
 of reasoning), but one in which the labours and industries of 
 men (especially as regards the collecting of experience) may 
 with the best effect be first distributed and then combined. For 
 then only all men begin to know their strength, when instead of 
 great numbers doing all the same things, one shall take charge 
 of one thing, and one of another." — Aph. 113. 
 
 In Bacon's scheme tHs collecting of instances was 
 the premier pas wliich implicitly involved everything 
 else. But they were to be collected on a definite 
 plan of operation. Prom one class of such instances 
 he was to obtain an axiom, or gener&l expression of 
 some relation or law. This was an axiom of the first 
 order of generality; and this, like the axioms of Euclid, 
 was to be made a basis of deduction forthwith. The 
 conclusion thereby arrived at was to become the prin- 
 ciple of a new class of observations or experiments, 
 from which might be derived an axiom of the second 
 order of generality : and so forth. — See Nov. Org., 
 book i., aph. 104. He says : — 
 
 " Hitherto the proceeding has been to fly at once from the 
 sense to particulars, up to the most general propositions as certain 
 fixed poles for the argument to turn upon, and from these to 
 derive the rest by middle terms : a short way, no doubt, but 
 precipitate, and one which will never lead to nature, though it 
 offers an easy and ready way to disputation. Now my plan is to 
 proceed regularly and gradually from one axiom to another, so 
 that the most general are not reached till the last : but then 
 when you do come to them, you find them to be not empty 
 notions, but well-defined, such as nature would really recognise 
 as her first principles, and such as lie at the heart and marrow of 
 things [talia quaj natura ut revera sibi notiora agnosoat, quseque 
 rebus hsereant in medullis]."— iV^oi;. Org. Bistributio Operis. 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 165 
 
 " The one [way] begins at once by establishing certain abstract 
 and useless generalities ; the other rises by gradual steps to that 
 which is prior and better known in the order of nature [ad ea 
 quae revera naturae sunt notiora]." — Nov. Org., book i., aph. 22. 
 
 " Lastly, the true form is such that it deduces the given nature 
 from some source of being which is inherent in more natures, and 
 which is better known in the natural order of things than the 
 form itself [notior est natures]." — Nov. Org., book ii., aph. 4. 
 Cf. ibid., book i., aph. 43. 
 
 The contrast between notio, prima aut prior, and id 
 quod notior est natures (it should rather be naturd), 
 though expressed in an obsolete and somewhat mistaken 
 phraseology, is radical and thorough-going. Whatever 
 be the method to follow, the preamble is proved. Be that 
 method practicable or not, his philosophy has a valid 
 foundation, which the subsequent course of inductive 
 science has never disturbed. The inadequacy of first 
 notions to deal with nature is further treated by Bacon 
 under the head of Idola Fori ; and he elsewhere de- 
 clares the end of his labours to be " a true and law- 
 ful marriage between the empirical and the rational 
 faculty, the unkind and ill-starred divorce and separa- 
 tion of which has thrown into confusion all the affairs 
 of the human family." The term /orm, which plays so 
 important a part in this philosophy, and is used in the 
 third extract given above concerning first notions, is so 
 utterly obsolete that it needs to be translated into 
 modern technology, if that may be. Bacon contem- 
 plated the properties of matter as form-natures and 
 sensible natures. The form was ideal; the sensible 
 was real. The leading inquiry of the new philosophy 
 was, how is the form of a given sensible nature to be 
 
1 66 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 determined from the various manifestations of that 
 sensible nature? Hence we see, rudely at least, that 
 the form-natures relate to our primary qualities, and the 
 sensible natures to our secondary qualities of matter. 
 This will become plainer as we proceed. But first, I 
 must premise a few words more on the inutility of the 
 old deductive method, which there are still critics to 
 praise, both as being the method of Aristotle and 
 as being the method employed by modern men of 
 science. 
 
 It is plain that a notion, in order to serve as the 
 middle term of a syllogism, must connote the predicate 
 of the conclusion : so that, in fact, nothing can be got 
 out of it but what is already thought in it. The very 
 formula of deduction, then, is merely explicative, and 
 cannot extend our knowledge of nature, though it may 
 serve to force on our attention what we already know. 
 It has, in truth, the same relation to induction that an 
 analytical or explicative judgment has to a synthetical 
 or ampliative judgment in Kant's philosophy. In 
 fact, Kant's distinction involves the whole difference 
 between deduction and induction ; for, if there be no 
 ampliative judgment in a syllogism, the procedure is 
 barren, and the conclusion is a truism. If, then, the 
 notion which is used as the middle term of a syllogism 
 be not commensurate with nature — be neither precise, 
 clear, nor appropriate — and such is the case with all 
 notiones primce — the syllogism is not merely incom- 
 petent to enlarge the borders of science, but its expli- 
 cative power is thrown away by dealing with the con- 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 167 
 
 tents of a notion which is utterly worthless. Against 
 the dominion, then, of this alliance between notiones 
 primcB and the syllogism Bacon waged war ; and I am 
 satisfied that he did not — 
 
 " Come ill the rearward of a conquered /oe, 
 But in the onset." 
 
 In his attempt to substitute an unfailing inductive 
 method for the old scholastic trifling he claimed the 
 credit of a reformer, and proclaimed the novelty of the 
 attempt. " Sunt certe prorsus nova," &c. These 
 words occur in his dedication to James I., which is 
 singularly free from the usual servility and sycophancy 
 of such compositions. It is here, too, that he makes a 
 request in simple and dignified language, that the king, 
 who resembled Solomon in so many things, would 
 further follow that wise man's example "in taking 
 order for the collecting and perfecting of a natural 
 and experimental history, true and severe, such as 
 philosophy might be built upon." Here we have the 
 keynote of his Organon, and he is never wearied with 
 sounding it. Now, James did not grant Bacon's 
 request. The work was not set in order by the king, 
 nor undertaken by others. Well might he utter his 
 old complaint, — 
 
 " I have at length hecome a mere labourer and hod-carrier, there 
 being many things necessary for completing the design, which 
 others, from an innate pride, have avoided."— Z*e Augmsntis, 
 book vii., chap. i. 
 
 By some means or other the work of collecting 
 instances must be first accomplished. He might well 
 
1 68 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 insist on this preliminary ; for he had gone a little too 
 far in discrediting hypothesis as the initiative of 
 experiment. At one time he seems to have thought 
 it practicable to make snch collections exhaustive. 
 Probably we must not take his statements quite ■ au 
 pied de la lettre. He writes : — 
 
 " Moreover, since there is so great a number and army of 
 particulars, and that army so scattered and dispersed as to dis- 
 tract and confound the understanding, little is to be hoped for 
 from the skirmishings and slight attacks and desultory move- 
 ments of the intellect, unless all the particulars which pertain 
 to the subject of inquiry shall, by means of tables of discovery, 
 apt, well-arranged, and as it were, animate, be drawn up and 
 marshalled ; and the mind be set to work upon the helps duly 
 prepared and digested which these tables supply." — Nov. Org., 
 book i., aph. 102. 
 
 And in aph. 103 he speaks of the time when " all 
 the experiments of all the arts shall have been collected 
 and digested, and brought within one man's knowledge 
 and judgment." Truly it has been said, " C'est le 
 premier pas qui coute ; " and it may well be asked, 
 " Who is sufScient for these things ? " Some suspicion 
 of the impracticability of realising this stupendous pre- 
 liminary must have crossed Bacon's mind ; and it was 
 probably this which moved him to allow the inductive 
 philosopher to proceed from time to time to provisional 
 vindemiations, as an " indulgence of the understand- 
 ing." Still, the method of Bacon demands, to say the 
 least of it, a provision of vast collections of instances in 
 each department of research, before the actual work of 
 induction in each can begin. How are these collec- 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 169 
 
 tions to be made ? What are their guiding principles ? 
 The observers find themselves committed to a task of 
 Briarean multifariousness. "The world is all before 
 them what to choose." Even after the universe is 
 parcelled out into special fields of research, the possible 
 instances of any one department are practically infinite, 
 and the energies of the experimenter are paralysed by 
 the vastness of his resources. 
 
 Accordingly, it follows that he must work on some 
 principle of selection. In our days the principle is 
 furnished by intelligent hypothesis, and there is always 
 a definite issue (that Bacon called a crucial case) to be 
 tried. But Bacon's object was to perfect an organon 
 which should be theoretically independent of individual 
 sagacity ; and it is from individual sagacity that intel- 
 ligent hypothesis arises. To this question, then, of the 
 principle of selection, the method according to which 
 the observer could always select the most promising 
 and suggestive instances for his collection, Bacon now 
 addressed himself. As a principle of selection, and a 
 method of classification of instances, Bacon propounded 
 his doctrine of prerogatives, the nature and plan of 
 which, in the Baconian induction, we shall consider in 
 the second part of this paper. 
 
( 170 ) 
 
 VIII. 
 
 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 SiE John Heeschel thus defines prerogative in- 
 stances : — 
 
 "Phenomena selected by the investigator on account of some 
 peculiarly forcible way in which, they strike the reason, and 
 impress us with a kind of sense of causation, or a peculiar apti- 
 tude for generalisation." — Discourse, I S3 5, p. 182. 
 
 Bacon discusses these under the classes of solitary, 
 migratory, glaring, clandestine, constitutive, crucial, and 
 many other heads. 
 
 The collections of prerogative instances being thus 
 made up in tables, the business which devolves on the 
 philosopher is to construct from them four kinds of 
 tables. I. Tables in which the presence of the given 
 nature is shown. 2. Tables in which the given nature 
 is not presented at all. 3. Tables in which the 
 instances presenting the given nature are graduated, 
 according to the degree in which that nature appears. 
 4. Tables of rejections of instances. 
 
 Having arrived at this point, Bacon allows the 
 philosopher to frame a hypothesis, which, for purposes 
 of verification, he has to treat as if it were an ascer- 
 tained axiom. This hypothesis is the first vindemia- 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 171 
 
 tion, or first vintage. Tlie Athenmum review, v/riting 
 in depreciation of Bacon's method, says : — 
 
 " Wrong hypotheses rightly -worked from have produced more 
 useful results than unguided observation. But this is not the 
 Baconian plan." — Athenoeum, September 18, 1858. 
 
 Now, curiously enough, this is a mere paraphrase of 
 Bacon, who assigns as his reason for allowing the use 
 of hypothesis as a basis of deduction, that " truth will 
 sooner come out from error than from confusion." — Nov. 
 Org., book ii., aph. 20. The result of this verification, if 
 it do not lead to the most general axiom, will assuredly 
 enable the observers and experimenters to restrict the 
 field of their research. (See Nov. Org., book i., aph. 106.) 
 
 I have given Sir John Herschel's definition of pre- 
 rogative instances ; I will now add his opinion of their 
 value : — 
 
 " It has always appeared to us, we must confess, that the help 
 •which the classification of instances under the different titles of 
 prerogative aifords to inductions, however just such classification 
 may be in itself, is yet more apparent than real. The force of 
 the instance must be felt in the mind, before it can be referred 
 to its place in the system ; and before it can be either referred or 
 appreciated, it must be known ; and when it is appreciated, we 
 are ready enough to interweave it in our web of induction, without 
 greatly troubling ourselves with inquiring whence it derives the 
 weight we acknowledge it to have in our decisions." — Discourse, 
 1835, p. 183. 
 
 This opinion comes to us with the highest possible 
 authority. Of course we are not prepared to regard it 
 as conclusive ; indeed, the utmost care must be taken 
 to view Bacon's doctrine in every light, and so to do 
 the utmost justice to it ; for we must bear in mind that 
 
172 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 the doctrine of prerogatives is cardinal. If the pro- 
 posed classification is useless as an economic of research, 
 the question may be asked in vain, " What other means 
 are proposed by Bacon as a principle of direction for 
 the collector of instances ? " Let us now hear Whewell's 
 opinion on the matter, — 
 
 "Such II classification is much of the same nature as if, having 
 to teach the art of building, we were to describe tools with 
 reference to the amount and place of the work which they must 
 do, instead of pointing out their construction and use : — as if we 
 were to inform the pupil that we must have tools for lifting a 
 stone up, tools for moving it sideways, tools for laying it square, 
 tools for cementing it firmly. Such an enumeration of ends 
 would convey little instruction as to the means." — Philosophy of 
 Discovery, i860, p. 140. 
 
 This metaphor is less happy than Sir John Herschel's, 
 for the instance is a woof in the web of induction, a 
 constituent part of the entire method ; but it is not a 
 tool for accomplishing the work. The real tool is the 
 Organon, and its constituent parts are no more like 
 building-tools than are the stones and bricks of which 
 the house is built. But letting the metaphor pass, it 
 hardly tells against Bacon's prerogatives. For if a 
 large chest of building and other tools were placed at 
 the disposal of a man who knew nothing of the builder's 
 art, the bare description of the kind of work usually 
 done by the requisite tools would be some guide to him 
 in his attempt to select them from the omniitm gatherum 
 of the tool-chest. In another place Whewell attacks 
 Bacon's " classes of instances " from another point. 
 
 "But we may remark that instances, classed and treated as 
 Bacon recommends in those parts of his work, could hardly lead 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 173 
 
 to scientific truth. His processes are vitiated by his proposing 
 to himself the form or cause of the property before him, as the 
 object of his inquiry ; instead of being content to obtain, in the 
 first place, the law of phenomena." — Nov. Org. Renovatum, 1858, 
 p. 225. 
 
 And, in continuation of the penultimate extract, he 
 says : — • 
 
 "Moreover, many of Bacon's classes of instances are vitiated 
 by the assumption that the 'form,' that is, the general law or 
 cause of the property which is the subject of investigation, is 
 to be looked for directly in the instances ; which, as we have 
 seen in his inquiry concerning heat, is a fundamental error." — 
 Philosophy of Discovery, i860, p. 141. 
 
 And elsewhere, in reference to the Inquisitio in 
 Formajn Calidi, Whewell says : — 
 
 " One main ground of Bacon's ill-fortune in this undertaking 
 appears to be, that he was not aware of an important maxim of 
 inductive science, that we must first obtain the measure and 
 ascertain the laws of phenomena, before we endeavour to discover 
 their causes." — Philosophy of Discovery, i860, p. 137. 
 
 It is curious to find Whewell correcting Bacon almost 
 in his own words. Thus, in the penultimate extract 
 Bacon is charged with the vice of looking for the cause 
 directly in the instances. Now Bacon, in his 70th aph,, 
 book i., says, — " For no one successfully investigates 
 the nature of a thing in the thing itself." And as to 
 the next extract, Whewell might have been well assured 
 of Bacon's acquaintance with the " important maxim," 
 for in his 98th aph., book i., he complains of the natural 
 history of his own day, for that " nothing [was] duly 
 investigated, nothing counted, nothing weighed or 
 measured." Bacon may indeed have neglected all this 
 
174 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 in his own collections ; but it can hardly be said that 
 his " ill-fortune " in his Inquisitio in Form am Calidi, 
 was due to his ignorance of the maxim. 
 
 To these objections Whewell adds Bacon's attempt 
 to dispense with private sagacity. To this it is sufficient 
 to reply that Bacon does not, as some haye asserted, 
 propose to supersede all use of sagacity. As to this, 
 see the Preface to the Instauratio Magna and the Novum, 
 Organum, book i., aph. 6i and 91 ; and book ii., aph. 
 27. So far from this being the case, he looks to sagacity 
 for aid in the investigation of "physical conformities 
 and similarities," which play so important a part in the 
 formation of tentative and provisional vintages, as well 
 as in the selection of prerogative instances. 
 
 Leslie Ellis, in his character of editor of Bacon's 
 Philosophical Works, may be expected to rate Bacon's 
 merits as an inductive philosopher at their highest, yet 
 even he finds himself obliged to indicate two essential 
 defects in Bacon's method. The chief of these must 
 receive our best attention. This, without directly in- 
 validating the doctrine of prerogatives, does in effect 
 establish its utter insufficiency. The physical discoverer 
 is supposed to be master of the operations which pre- 
 cede induction. He has, we will suppose, an army of 
 observers, experimenters, collectors, marshals, and re- 
 corders under him, whom he directs like a centurion, 
 and who obey him with the promptitude and precision 
 of Eoman soldiers. If the collections could but be 
 adequately made, Bacon's method, in Mr. Ellis's opinion, 
 " leads to certainty, and may be employed with nearly 
 
PRANCIS BACON. 175 
 
 equal success by all men wlio are equally diligent." 
 
 But the collections cannot be adequately made ; for 
 
 not only is the prerogative, the only aid to collection 
 
 vouchsafed by Bacon, utterly insufficient, but no such 
 
 aid can he given. Hear Mr. Ellis's own words : — 
 
 "We may, perhaps, be permitted to believe that, so far as 
 relates to the subject of which we are now speaking, Bacon 
 never, even in idea, completed the method which he proposed. 
 For of all parts of the process of scientific discovery, the forma- 
 tion of conceptions is the one with respect to which it is the 
 most diflScult to lay down general rules. The process of estab- 
 lishing axioms Bacon had succeeded, at least apparently, in re- 
 ducing to the semblance of a mechanical operation ; that of the 
 formation of conceptions does not admit of any similar reduction. 
 Yet these two processes are in Bacon's system of co-ordinate 
 importance. All commonly received general scientific concep- 
 tions Bacon condemns as utterly worthless. A complete change 
 is therefore required ; yet of the way in which induction is to 
 be employed in order to produce this change he has said nothing. 
 The omission is doubtless connected with the kind of realism 
 which runs through Bacon's system, and which renders it practi- 
 cally useless. For that his method is impracticable cannot, I 
 think, be denied, if we reflect not only that it never has pro- 
 duced any result, but also that the process by which scientific 
 truths have been established, cannot be so presented as even to 
 appear to be in accordance with it. In all oases this process 
 involves an element to which nothing corresponds in the tables 
 of comparance and exclusion ; namely, the application to the facts 
 of observation of a principle of arrangement, an idea existing in 
 the mind of the discoverer antecedently to the act of induction." 
 — General Preface to the Philosophical Worlcs, 1857, p. 38. 
 
 On the other hand, let us hear Mr. Spedding, who 
 was partner with the late Mr. Leslie Ellis in the pro- 
 duction of his admirable trade edition of Bacon's works. 
 He says : — 
 
 " One man may be used to make a rough and general collec- 
 tion, what we call an omnium gatherum. Another must be em- 
 
176 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 ployed to reduce the confused mass into some order fit for 
 reference. A third to clear it of superfluities and rubbish. A 
 fourth must be taught to classify and arrange what remains. 
 And here I cannot but think that Bacon's arrangement of in- 
 stances according to what he calls their prerogatives, or some 
 better arrangement of the same kind which experience ought to 
 suggest, would be found to be of great value ; especially when 
 it is proposed to make, through all the regions of nature, separate 
 collections of this kind, such as may combine into one general 
 collection." — Preface to the Parasceue Works, vol. i., 1857, p. 379. 
 
 Mr. Spedding wrote these remarks in 1847. He 
 submitted them to Mr. Ellis, with the context, which 
 certainly should be read with them, though space fails 
 me for presenting it here. Mr. Ellis's judgment on 
 the question is so important that I subjoin it. 
 
 " That it is impossible to sever the business of experiment and 
 observation from that of theorising, it would, perhaps, be rash 
 to afiirm. But it seems to me that such a severance could hardly 
 be effected. A transcript of nature, if I may so express myself 
 — that is, such a collection of observed phenomena, as would 
 serve as the basis and materials of a system of natural philo- 
 sophy — would be like nature itself, infinite in extent and variety. 
 No such collection could be formed ; and were it formed, general 
 laws and principles would be as much hidden in a mass of details 
 as they are in the world of phenomena. The marshalling idea, 
 teaching the philosopher what observations he is to make, what 
 experiments to try, seems necessary in order to deliver him from 
 this difiiculty. Can we conceive that such experiments as those 
 of Faraday could have preceded the formation of any hypothesis 1 
 You allude, I think, to what has been done in the way of 
 systematic observation with reference to terrestrial magnetism. 
 And beyond all doubt the division of labour is possible and 
 necessary in many scientific inquiries. But then this separating 
 of the observer from the theoriser is only possible (at least in 
 such a case as that of magnetism) when the latter can tell his 
 ' bajulus ' what experiments he is to make, and how they are 
 to be made. As a matter of fact, the memoirs of Gauss, which 
 
FRAKCIS BACON. 177 
 
 have done so mucli to encourage systematic observation of ter- 
 restrial magnetism, contain many results of theory directly 
 bearing on observation, e.g. the method of determining the 
 absolute measure of magnetism." — Ibid., p. 386. 
 
 Mr. Spedding accepts this judgment "as perfectly- 
 sound and just." But he thinks that, without aiming 
 at the completeness contemplated by Bacon, and ad- 
 mitting "that the collection of natural history could 
 not have been used in the way Bacon proposed unless 
 it were more complete than it ever could have been 
 made," yet much might be done in that direction 
 which has been hitherto unattempted. 
 
 My old friend, now, alas ! no more, James "Walker, 
 C.E., when a young man, formed one of a deputation 
 to wait on James Watt, who, sinking under bodily 
 infirmities, was then living in retirement near the 
 north bank of the Thames (I think in Surrey Street), 
 in order to ascertain his opinion on the projected scheme 
 of steam-locomotion. The veteran engineer shook his 
 grey head in doubt as to its practicability ; yet, after 
 all, said, " I think it's worth a trial." Mr. Spedding 
 seems to be more confident of success in his attempt 
 to realise, to some extent, the project of Bacon, than 
 James Watt was of the success of steam-locomotion. 
 For myself, I must confess I think Mr. Spedding's 
 scheme may be " worth a trial," though I fear the 
 trial would be very costly. Three sciences have already 
 been conducted in the manner proposed ; and, as to two 
 of them, with very encouraging results. Not to speak 
 now of Brahe, or of Flamsteed and his staff of observers, 
 
 M 
 
178 PRANCIS BACON. 
 
 or of Gauss and his staff of observers, let us consider the 
 single case of meteorology. As opinions differ, let us 
 hear what Herschel, Whewell, the Athenceum reviewer, 
 and Mr. Spedding have to say on the prospects of this 
 science. My extracts shall be as brief as possible. 
 Herschel shall speak first : — 
 
 " Meteorology, one of the most complicated but important 
 branches of science, is at the same time one in which any person 
 who will attend to plain rules and bestow the necessary degree 
 of attention may do effectual service." — Discourse, 1835, p. 133. 
 
 " Occasional observations apply to occasional and remarkable 
 phenomena, and are by no means to be neglected : but it is to 
 the regular meteorological register, steadily and perseveringly 
 kept throughout the whole of every voyage, that we must look 
 for the development of the great laws of this science." — Manual 
 of Scientific Inquiry, p. 281. 
 
 Mr. Spedding, who quotes the last extract, with its 
 context, adds : — 
 
 " Between the officers of her majesty's navy registering the 
 readings of their instruments in all latitudes and longitudes, and 
 the man of science in his study deducing laws of meteorology 
 from a comparison of the results, the division of labour is surely 
 as complete as Bacon would have desired." — Preface to Parascene 
 Works, vol. i., p. 389. 
 
 But have their labours, distinct but co-operating, 
 been as fruitful as Bacon would have expected, or are 
 they likely to be so? Have any such laws been 
 deduced? On this let us hear the Athenceum re- 
 viewer : — 
 
 " There is an attempt at induction going on, wliich-has yielded 
 little or no fruit, the observations made in meteorological observa- 
 tories. This attempt is carried on in a manner which would 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 179 
 
 have caused Bacon to dance for joy ; for he lived in a time when 
 Chancellors did dance. Eussia, says M. Biot, is covered by an 
 army of meteorographs, ivith generals, high officers, subalterns, 
 and privates, with fixed and defined duties of observation. And 
 what has come of it ? Nothing, says M. Biot ; and nothing will 
 ever come of it." — Athen(Bum, Sept. 18, 1858. 
 
 Whewell allows the record to have a certain value, 
 but adds : — 
 
 "Observations of the weather, made and recorded for many 
 years, have not led to any general truths forming a science of 
 meteorology ; and, although great numerical precision has been 
 given to such observations by means of barometers, thermometers, 
 and other instruments, still no general laws regulating the cycles 
 of change of such phenomena have yet [i.e. up to 1858] been 
 discovered." — Nov. Org. Benovatum, 1858, p. 57. 
 
 I suppose by "general laws," &c., Whewell did not 
 include such a fact as " the diurnal oscillations of the 
 barometer ; " for he knew of it, and uses it as an 
 illustration of " the method of means " (JSfov. Org. 
 Ben., 1858, p. 214). The same might be said of Osier's 
 law of "the rotation of the wind," discovered by a 
 reduction of the continuous record of his anemometer ; 
 though that discovery was made since Whewell's 
 lamented death. 
 
 It must be owned that the prospects of meteorology 
 are not very bright : yet I think we may hope for a 
 better state of things than at present exists by the 
 improvement of the means of observation and registra- 
 tion, and by the substitution of continuous for periodic 
 observation. To effect this, without the costly use of 
 photography, Mr. Alfred King, of Liverpool, has per- 
 fected an instrument which he calls the Floating 
 
i8o FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 Barograph, which self registers, by means of clockwork, 
 the curve of atmospheric pressure. A description of 
 this most ingenious instrument, with illustrations, is 
 given in the Report of the Astronomer to the Marine 
 Committee, Mersey Docks and Earlour Board, December 
 1865. The instrument itself may be seen at work 
 in the Liverpool Observatory. 
 
 In the various critical remarks on Bacon's system 
 which I have brought together in this paper, there is 
 but little agreement. One might be disposed to argue 
 from this that the critics have not all understood their 
 author. If I might hazard an opinion on this point, 
 I should say that Sir John Herschel and Mr. Leslie 
 Ellis are the only two clear-headed and understanding 
 critics among them. Of the rest, the Athenwum 
 reviewer is the most flippant, and his remarks are 
 tinged with the genuine German spleen. Still that 
 writer, as well as Sir J. Herschel and Whewell, has 
 the merit of insisting on the immense debt under 
 which inductive science lies to mathematics. Hypo- 
 thesis, suggested by facts, made the basis of mathe- 
 matical analysis, whose outcome has to be tested, and, 
 if possible, verified or falsified by express esperiment, 
 has been the most fruitful source of inductive science. 
 But while it is fair enough to hold up this method 
 as distinguishable from Bacon's, it is not correct to 
 assert that Bacon's method is that of modern meteor- 
 ologists. So far from Bacon dancing for joy at being 
 made aware of a network of meteorological observa- 
 tories over Europe and America, with their legions of 
 
FKANCIS BACON. 
 
 ibi 
 
 observers and their voluminous records, I make no 
 doubt that he would have frowned upon, if he could 
 not have frowned down, the whole proceeding as blind 
 and objectless. For two or three narrow-minded men 
 to be pottering over and ponderiug the same kind 
 of observation of the same kind of fact excited his 
 ridicule and scorn. That whole armies of intelligent 
 beings should be engaged on this sort of work, at an 
 enormous cost, would assuredly have filled him with 
 despair. 
 
 The almost uniform failure of meteorological enter- 
 prise is not, I apprehend, far to seek. Compare this 
 embryonic science with the tidal theory, which has 
 made but little more way. Determine, which it is 
 easy to do, why that theory has been so unfruitful, 
 and you have the opposite reason for the meteorological 
 failure. 
 
 "In all other departments of astronomy, as, for instance, in 
 the cases of the moon and the planets, the leading features of the 
 phenomena had been made out empirically before the theory 
 explained them. The course which analogy would have recom- 
 mended for the cultivation of our knowledge of the tides would 
 have been to ascertain by an analysis of long series of observations 
 the effect of changes in the time of transit, parallax, and declina- 
 tion of the moon, and thus to obtain the laws of phenomena ; 
 and then to proceed to investigate the laws of causation." — 
 History of the Inductive Sciences, 1857, vol. ii., p. 191. 
 
 Conversely, the failure of meteorology has been due 
 to the fact that hitherto there has been no mathe- 
 matical theory; there have been observations, and 
 nothing else. In truth, the theories of the dynamics 
 of fluids, of electricity, and of heat (not to mention 
 
1 82 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 otliers) are in their infancy. When they advance, 
 meteorology will not long remain an all but barren 
 record. 
 
 Bacon's mathematical attainments were unquestion- 
 ably small; and, to judge by the slight and almost 
 slighting manner in which he occasionally speaks of 
 mathematics, as well as by their occupying no con- 
 spicuous place in his method, we must conclude that 
 he was far from anticipating the dominant power 
 which they now exercise on the course of inductive 
 science. To speak plainly. Bacon, like Goethe, was 
 not only non-mathematical, but was somewhat jealous 
 of mathematicians. The likeness holds, too, in many 
 other respects. Just as Bacon wished to emancipate 
 astronomy from the dominion of mathematics (N'ov. 
 Org., book i., aph. 96), so did Goethe endeavour, at 
 great cost of experiment and theory, to accomplish a 
 like emancipation for optics. 
 
 Both had an innate contempt for theology and 
 priestcraft; both were courtiers, and did homage to 
 rank; and both were selfish. Great differences there 
 were, undoubtedly : for though Bacon's system is per- 
 vaded by a strong realistic leaven, yet he was eminently 
 the philosopher, as Goethe was the poet. Even here, 
 however, there was likeness ; for, while both mistrusted 
 the ideal, both, in fact, derived their excellences from 
 the ideal. If we look carefully into the matter, it is 
 not on the prescribed method of Bacon that his fame 
 was built. It was the power of divination in the man 
 which made him great and influential. Let us see 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 183 
 
 How the matter stands in respect to his famous judg- 
 ment on the form of heat. Concerning this, Professor 
 Tyndall's evidence is important : for he it is who has 
 wrought with such remarkable success in perfecting 
 the theory of " Heat considered as a mode of motion ; " 
 and this great authority, in the first of his course of 
 lectures so named, gives the credit of this magnificent 
 discovery to Bacon. It derogates no whit from his 
 credit that he had been, in some degree, anticipated. 
 Bacon, it appears, was very near discovering the law of 
 the correlation of the physical forces. In the Novum 
 Organum, book ii., aph. 4, he lays down with minute 
 accuracy the relation of the form-nature (as the special ' 
 configuration and motion of molecules) to the sensible 
 nature (as heat, colour, sound, &c.). But, perhaps by 
 the accident of his scholastic training, he places the 
 form only in the relation of cause, and the sensible 
 quality only in the relation of effect. Still his use of 
 the word " convertible " is eminently suggestive of the 
 actual correlation. He writes : — 
 
 " For a true and perfect rule of operation, then, the direction 
 will be that it he certain, free, and disposing or leading to action. 
 And this is the same thing with the discovery of the true form. 
 For the form of a nature is such that, given the form, the nature 
 infallibly follows. Therefore it is always present when the 
 nature is present, and universally implies it, and is constantly 
 inherent in it. Again : the form is such, that, if it be taken away, 
 the nature infallibly vanishes. Therefore it is always absent 
 when the nature is absent, and implies its absence and inheres in 
 nothing else. Lastly, the true form is such that it deduces the 
 given nature from some source of being which is inherent in 
 more natures, and which is better known in the natural order of 
 things than the form itself. For a true and perfect axiom of 
 
1 84 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 knowledge, then, the direction and precept will be, that another 
 nature he discovered which is convertible with the given nature, and 
 yet is a limitation of a more general nature, as of a true and real 
 genus.'' 
 
 His favourite examples are latent motion and latent 
 configuration: as in the JVovum Organma, book ii., 
 apli. I, and Valerius Terviinus, book ii., ckap. i. 
 Taking Bacon's /or???, as a departure from the term of 
 the schoolmen, i.e., as the scholastic form with a real- 
 istic element, we may readily perceive that in Bacon's 
 works it is our idea of a specially conditioned ]primary 
 quality. Bacon's experiments soon taught him that 
 latent motion of some sort was the form of heat, and 
 latent conjSguration the form of colour; and, armed 
 with these most sagacious divinations, his business was 
 to determine how, by his own method of philosophising, 
 these axioms could be evolved from experiment. Like 
 Dr. Whewell, I accept the view of Mr. Ellis : — 
 
 "Ifit were affirmed that Bacon, after having had a glimpse of the 
 truth suggested by some obvious phenomena, had then recourse, 
 as he himself expresses it, to certain ' differentiae inaues ' in order 
 to save the phenomena, I think it would be hard to dispute the 
 truth of the censure." — Footnote to 'Nov. Org.,' book ii., aph. 20. 
 
 In any view of the method of Bacon, it must be 
 allowed that his attempt to exhibit the operation of 
 that method in the inductive determination of the form 
 of heat is a miserable failure. If Mr. Ellis's statement 
 is correct, "that the process by which scientific truths 
 have been established cannot be so presented as even 
 to appear to be in accordance with Bacon's method," it 
 is not unreasonable to suppose that its inventor would 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 185 
 
 have found it as little answerable to his expectations 
 as it has proved to be comformable to any actual pro- 
 cess of discovery. But granting that, it by no means 
 follows that Bacon, in his attempt to apply it, even to 
 a foregone insight, would have been reduced to the 
 miserable shift of bolstering it up by such trifling and 
 absurd "instances" as he has pressed into its service. 
 In fact, a greater contrast cannot be found or conceived 
 than that between the masterly grasp, as well as 
 eloquence, displayed in the first book of the Novum 
 Organum, and the imbecile and worse than childish 
 trifling which pervades the whole of the Ingidsitio in 
 Formam Calidi of the second book. 
 
 Such is the general result of modern English criti- 
 cism on the Baconian philosophy. It is, in all con- 
 science, sufficiently adverse to the actual claim of its 
 author, without reinforcing it with the unfair and spite- 
 ful attacks of German critics : yet it is necessary to 
 glance at these before our survey is at all complete. 
 We will take Professor Lasson and Baron Liebig, the 
 invidious champions or rather ringleaders in the anti- 
 Bacon revolt, as a sample of the band to which they 
 belong. Liebig, indeed, has been exceeding well 
 answered by Mr. G. F. Rodwell in the Reader for June 
 2nd and 9th, 1866; and a writer in Fraser's Magazine 
 for December 1866, and April 1867, has attempted to 
 discharge the same task, but with far less ability, and, 
 I regret to say, with no manner of fairness. He has 
 fought Liebig with his own weapons; and the result 
 is, to say the least, unsatisfactory. Of Professor 
 
1 86 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 Lasson, one of tlie most celebrated men in Europe, 
 this writer is so bold as to say that " his name is un- 
 fortunately unknown in this country." It is, indeed, 
 possible that the writer had never heard of him; 
 though "not to know him argues himself unknown." 
 In this matter at least I beg to assure Professor Lasson, 
 if he should happen to encounter and be so good as to 
 read this article, that the paper " Was Lord Bacon an 
 Impostor ? " is no representative of the knowledge 
 which Englishmen have of illustrious foreigners. 
 
 In the first place, both Professor Lasson and Baron 
 Liebig fall into a number of positive mistakes concern- 
 ing Bacon's philosophy; and, unfortunately, all their 
 mistakes are to Bacon's prejudice. I am not disposed, 
 for my part, to rate Bacon's moral character very high. 
 He was unsympathetic, unamiable, unscrupulous, and 
 sensual ; a lover of power and rank, a hater of women. 
 Yet, for all that, I believe that, in the single scope of 
 physical discovery. Bacon was a lover of truth, and an 
 investigator for truth's sake, as well as for that of 
 utility. Small blame to him if he did combine both 
 motives in all he attempted to do and all he accom- 
 plished. Small blame to him if, when advancing under 
 the spur of " the eternal love of truth," he found his 
 energies provoked and his industry sustained by the 
 reflection that "man is born to trouble as the sparks 
 fly upwards ; " that the very elements are, as in Blake's 
 masterly sketches, arraigned against him; and that the 
 "tyrants, giants, and monsters "of the world, man's 
 miseries and necessities" {Valerius Terminus, book ii., 
 
FRANCIS BACON. 187 
 
 chap. 1 1) are so often triumphant over the only defence- 
 less and reasonable creature in it. In that direction 
 the truth-seeker had a touch — only a touch I own — of 
 that kindly sympathy which " makes the whole world 
 kin." 
 
 Just to show the sort of error into which these 
 German critics have fallen, I will take an example from 
 each, and place, side by side with the extract, the words 
 of Bacon himself. First : Professor Lasson writes : — 
 
 " To Bacon, perceptions of sense and memory are sufficient : the 
 task of reason begins only when the experiment is performed." — - 
 Baco von Verulam. i860. 
 
 "Those who have handled sciences have been either men of 
 experiment or men of dogmas. The men of experiment are like 
 the ant ; tliey only collect and use : the reasoners resemble spiders, 
 who make cobwebs out of their own substance. But the bee 
 takes a middle course ; it gathers its material from the flowers 
 of the garden and of the field, but transforms and digests it by a 
 power of its own. Not unlike this is the true business of philo- 
 sophy ; for it neither relies solely or chiefly on the power of the 
 mind, nor does it take the matter which it gathers from natural 
 history and mechanical experiments, and lay it up in the memory 
 as it finds itj but lays it up in the understanding altered and 
 digested." — Novum Organum, book i., aph. 96. 
 
 Secondly, let us hear Baron Liebig : — 
 
 "In all his investigations Bacon sets great value on experi- 
 ments. Of their meaning, however, he knows nothing. . . . 
 But in science all investigation is deductive, or a priori." — Second 
 article in Fraser's Magazine. 
 
 " But my course and method, as I have often clearly stated and 
 would wish to state again, is this, — not to extract works from 
 works or experiments from experiments (as an empiric), but from 
 works and experiments to extract causes and axioms; and again, 
 from these causes and axioms, new works and experiments, as a 
 legitimate interpreter of nature." — Nov. Org., book i., aph. 117. 
 
iS8 FRANCIS BACON. 
 
 What is this but the method of verification by deduc- 
 tion, which is denied to Bacon alike by Baron Liebig 
 and by the writer of the review in the Athenmum ? It 
 is in this same aphorism that Bacon points out the 
 inadequacy of his own collection of natural history (the 
 Sylva Sylvaruvi) "to serve the purposes of a legitimate 
 interpretation : " yet a great part of Professor Liebig's 
 censure is devoted to extracts from this very work, 
 which he quietly assumes to have been destined to 
 occupy the place of book ii. in the Novum Organum, 
 and to have been intended to serve the very end for 
 which, as we have seen, Bacon says it is wholly 
 inadequate. I can hardly think the Baron had read 
 the 117th aphorism; and, if he ignored that, other 
 aphorisms may have shared the same fate. Such 
 mistakes as these are fundamental, and are only accept- 
 able to a reviewer on the ground that a critique which 
 is infested with them can hardly be worth detailed 
 review. But Baron Liebig's articles are rendered 
 worthless by another fault, viz., personal invective. 
 Bacon, according to this would-be censor, " shows like 
 a quack doctor ; " in whose vocabulary " the word 
 truth, as we understand it, which is the sole aim of 
 science, is not to be found ; " whose " experiment to 
 cheat the world has succeeded ; " who " approached 
 nature with a lie in his mouth ; " and whose intellect 
 " had only receptivity for the false, no feeling for the 
 true ; " and so forth. When we find the Baron in- 
 dulging in this reckless slander of a man who has 
 been three centuries in his grave, we can hardly help 
 
PRANCIS BACOK 189 
 
 believing that he attacked Bacon with a sinister motive, 
 and intended to wound others through his sides. If 
 this production has been received in Germany with 
 respect, we are satisfied that time will reverse the 
 j udgment ; and if Bacon's countrymen have given the 
 Baron a fair hearing, he must none the less expect 
 that his discourse will be speedily consigned to that 
 oblivion, which such a combination of perversity and 
 malignity deserves. 
 
( 19° ) 
 
 IX. 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE— 
 THE POET} 
 
 The founder of the distinguished family of Coleridge 
 was John Coleridge, the son of a woollen trader at 
 South Molton, Devon. John Coleridge was born in 
 
 ^ Whatever may be thought of the outcome embodied in these 
 pages, the sources whence it has been dra^mi are numerous and volumi- 
 nous ; in fact, I have spared no pains to discover all that has been 
 written about Coleridge ; and with very few exceptions I have made 
 myself acquainted with every work recorded in the subjoined biblio- 
 graphy. In addition to these published sources of knowledge (some of 
 which, however, as 5 and 33, .ire grossly inaccurate), I have had the 
 benefit of personal communication with the Kev. Derwent Coleridge 
 (the poet's second and only surviving son), the late Herbert Coleridge 
 (grandson of the poet), and Mr. Arthur Duke Coleridge. I am also 
 indebted for some facts to the Registrar of the University of Cambridge, 
 the University Librarian, and the Vice-Provost of King's College, 
 Cambridge. 
 
 1. Alsop, Thomas. — ' Letters, Conversations, and Recollections of 
 
 S. T. Coleridge' (extending over the period 1818-1S32), 2 vols., 
 1836. 
 Anonymous Writings relating to S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 2. ' College Reminiscences,' Gentleman's Magazine, December 1834. 
 
 3. 'Conversations from Cambridge,' 1836. (There is a section 
 
 relating to " S. T. Coleridge at Trinity.") 
 
 4. 'Poets, Preachers, and Politicians' [circa 1S47,] (describing a 
 
 conversation with Coleridge). 
 
 5. Obituary Notice, Gentleman's lilagazinc, vol. ii., N.S., p. 544. 
 
 6. Obituary Notice, Quarterhj Review, vol. Hi., August 1S34, p. 291. 
 
COLERIDGE. 191 
 
 1719- Nothing is known of his early life. He 
 matriculated at Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, on 
 March i8th, 1748; and, having graduated there, be- 
 came "Vicar of Ottery St. Mary, Devon, and Master of 
 the Free Grammar or King's School in that town, 
 founded by Henry VIII. He was the author of three 
 works, viz., ' Miscellaneous Dissertations on the Seven- 
 teenth and Eighteenth Chapters of the Book of Judges,' 
 
 7. Eeview of ' Christabel,' 'Kubla Khan,' and the 'Pains of Sleep.' 
 
 — Edinburgh Keview, vol. xxvii., September 1S16, p. 58. 
 
 8. Review of Statesman Manual, and Lay Sermons. — Ibid., p. 444. 
 
 9. Review of 'Table-Talk,' Edinburgh Review, vol. Ixi., April 1835 
 
 p. 129. 
 
 10. Review of Poetical Works (by Prof. John Wilson), Blackwood's 
 
 Magazine, October 1834. 
 
 11. College Reminiscences of S. T. Coleridge, Gentleman's Magazine, 
 
 December 1834. 
 
 12. Review o£ Cottle's Early Recollections, Quarterly Review, vol. 
 
 lix., July 1837, p. 25. 
 
 13. Review of Poetical Works, ibid., vol. lii., August 1834, p. I. 
 
 14. 'A Century of Great Poets. No. IV. — Samuel Taylor Coleridge.' 
 
 — Blackwood's Magazine, November 1871, p. 552 (said to be by 
 Mrs. Oliphant). 
 
 The list of reviews might have been almost indefinitely augumented : 
 the foregoing appear to me to be the most noteworthy. The last is the 
 most recent contribution to Coleridgeana, and is a most interesting sketch 
 of Coleridge's life and poetry. It contains, however, eight lines of un- 
 mitigated nonsense, p. 553, col. a. I postponed the perusal of the larger 
 and biographical portion till I had written my own biographical sketch. 
 
 15. Carlyle, Thomas.— 'Life of Sterling' (with account of Coleridge 
 
 at Highgate, chap, viii., pp. 4^-54 of People's Edition). 
 l5. Carlyon, Dr. — 'Early Years and Late Reflections.' 
 
 17. Coleridge, Henry Nelson. — 'Biographical Supplement to the 
 
 Biographia Literaria,' 1847, vol. ii., pp. 311-447. See under 
 Stuart, Letter in Gentleman's Magazine. 
 
 18. Coleridge, John Taylor.— Letter appended to Coleridge's ' Table- 
 
 Talk.' 
 
192 COLERIDGE. 
 
 1768; 'A Critical Latin Grammar,' 1772 ; and a Latin 
 exercise book, entitled Sententice Uxcerptce. He also 
 printed a sermon, and contributed many papers to the 
 Gentleman's Magazine from 1745 to 1780. He was 
 said by the poet (his youngest child) to have been re- 
 puted " a profound Hebraist,'' and in life and character 
 to have been " a perfect Parson Adams." He married 
 (secondly) Ann Bowdon, and by all accounts had ten 
 
 19. Coleridge, Sara. — Introduction to the Biographia Literaria, 1S47. 
 
 20. „ Chapters V. and VII. added to the Bio- 
 
 graphia Literaria^ 1847. 
 
 21. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. — Satyrane's Letters appended to the 
 
 Biograpliia Literaria, 1847, "vol. ii., pp. 187-254. 
 
 22. Cottle, Joseph. — 'Early Recollections, chiefly relating to the 
 
 late Samuel Taylor Coleridge,' 2 vols., 1837. 
 
 23. De Quincey, Thomas. — ' Coleridge and Opium-Eating.' Tail's 
 
 Magazine, September, October, and 
 November, 1834. 
 
 24. ,, 'Autobiographic Sketches.' Samuel 
 
 Taylor Coleridge — ' Grave and Gay,' 
 vol. ii., chap. 4, 1854. 
 
 25. Dibdin, Thomas Frogden. — ' Reminiscences of a Literary Life,' 
 
 vol. i., p. 253 ; and Gentleman's Magazine, vol. vi., N.S., 
 p. 255. 
 
 26. Emerson, Ralph Waldo. — ' English Traits ' (with account of u, 
 
 visit to Coleridge at Highgate). 
 
 27. Terrier, Prof.— 'The Plagiarisms of S. T. Coleridge,' Blade- 
 
 wood's Magazine, March 1840, p. 2S7. 
 
 28. Gillman, James. — 'Life of Coleridge,' 1838. (Only one volume 
 
 published : this stops at 1819.) 
 
 29. Hamilton, Sir William [Stirling]. — Edition of Reid's Works, 
 
 Appendix p. 890, note. 
 
 30. Hare, Julius Charles. — ' S. T. Coleridge and the English Opium 
 
 Eater,' British Magazine, January 1835, No. 37, p. 15. 
 
 31. Hazlitt, William. — 'Spirit of the Age; or. Contemporary 
 
 Portraits,' 1S25. ('Mr. Coleridge,' p. 55.) 
 
 32. Hort, Fenton John Anthony. — 'Cambridge Essays,' 1S56. 
 
 33. Howitt, William.—' Northern Heights of London,' 1869, 'Cole- 
 
 ridge,' p. 300 {circa). 
 
COLERIDGE. 193 
 
 cliilclreii, of whom tlie subject of this sketch was the 
 tenth. He died at Plymouth, October 4, 1781. 
 
 Henry Nelson Coleridge mentions ten children of 
 John Coleridge, but names only nine.i According to 
 Coleridge himself, the omitted child was one named 
 William, who died in infancy;^ and the tablet at 
 Ottery St. Mary follows Coleridge. John Coleridge's 
 children, then, were — 
 
 34. Ingleby, Clement Mansfield. — On the ' Unpublished Manuscripts 
 
 of Samuel Taylor Coleridge,' 
 ' Transactions of the Koyal 
 Society of Literature, ' vol. ix. 
 New Series, 1S67. 
 
 25. ,, ' On Some Points connected with 
 
 the Philosophy of Coleridge,' 
 ' Transactions of the Koyal 
 Society of Literature,' vol. x., 
 New Series, 1869. 
 
 36. Jerdan, William. — 'Men I have Known,' 1866, 'Coleridge, 
 
 p. 119. 
 
 37. Lamb, Charles. — ' EecoUections of Christ's Hospital,' 118. 
 
 28. _, 'Essays of Elia,' 1823. Essay entitled ' Christ's 
 
 Hospital Eive-and-thirty Years ago." 
 
 39. Robinson, Henry Crabb. — 'Diary and Correspondence,' passim. 
 
 40. Stirling, James Hutchison. — ' De Quincey and Coleridge upon 
 
 Kant,' Fortnightly Revieio, July i, 1S67. 
 
 41. Stuart, Daniel. — ' Anecdotes of the Poet Coleridge,' Gentleman's 
 
 Magazine, May 1838, p. 485. 
 
 42. „ 'Newspaper Writings of the poet Coleridge,' 
 
 ibid., June 1838, p. S77- 
 .n. „ Copies of Letters from Mr. Coleridge to Mr. 
 
 Stuart, ihid, p. 580. 
 .. ,, Letterof Mr. -H.N. Coleridge to, and Mr. Stuart's 
 
 Reply, ihid., July 1S38, pp. 22 and 23. 
 ,c. „ 'The late Mr. Coleridge, the Poet,' Hid., 
 
 August 1838, p. 124. 
 Mill, John Stuart.—' Dissertations and Discussions ' (Samuel Taylor 
 Coleridge, vol. i. p. 392). 
 
 1 17. ^ 28, p. 9. 
 
 N 
 
194 COLERIDGE. 
 
 1. John: a captain in H.E.I.C.S. ; died in India in 
 1786, aged 31. 
 
 2. William : died an infant. 
 
 3. James: a colonel of Militia; married a Miss 
 Duke, and was the founder of a distinguished branch 
 of the family; died 1836, aged seventy-five. 
 
 4. William : said to have been of Pembroke College, 
 Oxford, certainly of Wadham College ; graduated B.A. 
 17th March 1779 ; died 1780, aged twenty-three. 
 
 5. Edward : a notable wit, of Pembroke College, 
 Oxford; graduated B.A. 2Sth May 1780 ; a clergy- 
 man; died March 15, 1843, aged eighty-two. 
 
 6. George : a most learned divine, of Pembroke 
 College, Oxford; graduated B.A. gth June 1784, and 
 succeeded his father as Vicar of Ottery St. Mary, 
 Devon; died 1828, aged sixty-four. 
 
 7. Luke Herman : a surgeon; died 1790. 
 
 8. Ann : died at the age of twenty-three, in 1790. 
 
 9. Francis Syndercombe : a midshipman, afterwards 
 an officer in H.E.I.C.S. ; died in 1792, at the age of 
 twenty-two, a lieutenant, after the siege of Seringa- 
 patam. He was called " the handsome Coleridge." 
 
 10. Samuel Taylor. 
 
 A word or two as to the next generation. 
 
 The children of Colonel James Coleridge were — 
 
 1. James Duke, D.D. : Prebendary of Exeter. 
 
 2. Frederic Bernard : a midshipman; killed by a fall 
 from the top to the deck. 
 
 3. John Taylor : now the Right Hon. Sir John 
 Taylor Coleridge, late Justice of the Q.B. He is the 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 195 
 
 father of Sir Jolm Duke Coleridge, the present Attorney- 
 General. 
 
 4. Francis George, a solicitor at Ottery : he was the 
 father of Arthur Duke Coleridge, Barrister-at-law, 
 translator of Goethe's " Egmont," and author of a 
 " Life of Franz Schubert." 
 
 5. Henry Nelson Coleridge: late Fellow of King's 
 College, Cambridge. He married Sara Coleridge, the 
 Poet's only daughter. The late Herbert Coleridge was 
 their only son. 
 
 6. Edward : Fellow of Eton College. 
 
 7. Frances Duke : she is the relict of Sir John 
 Patteson, late Justice of the Q.B., and mother of the 
 unfortunate Bishop of Melanesia. 
 
 George Coleridge, the Vicar of Ottery, had only one 
 son, the Rev. George May Coleridge, M.A., Vicar of St. 
 Mary Church, Devon. 
 
 Luke Herman Coleridge had one son, the Right Rev. 
 William Hart Coleridge, late Bishop of Barbadoes 
 and the Leeward Islands, and subsequently Warden of 
 St. Augustine's College, Canterbury. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born at Ottery St. Mary 
 on October 21, 1772, "about eleven o'clock in the fore- 
 noon." He was christened Samuel Taylor after a god- 
 father of that name. At two years old he went to an 
 infants' school kept by a woman of the name of Key, 
 who was said to be nearly related to Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds.^ At six, or soon after, he entered his father's 
 school, but his pupilage was cut short in 1 78 1 by the 
 1 17, pp. 311-318. 
 
196 COLERIDGE. 
 
 old man's death ; and in the spring of the following 
 year he removed to London, where he lived for ten 
 weeks with his nncle Bowdon.^ Mr. Justice Buller, 
 who had been educated by old John Coleridge, obtained 
 for Samuel Taylor Coleridge a presentation to Christ's 
 Hospital." He was entered on the books on July 8, 
 1782, and at once went to reside in the junior school at 
 Hertford. In the following September he returned to 
 London, and was placed in the second ward of the 
 Under Grammar School. 
 
 These ten years of his childhood had borne witness 
 to that abnormal and precocious sensibility which was 
 repeated many years after in his eldest son. Coleridge 
 relates that shortly before the death of his father, 
 through the jealousies infused into his brother Francis's 
 mind by Molly, the nurse, he was driven to isolation, 
 and his mind was forced in upon itself. Let me quote 
 from his own touching narrative : — 
 
 " I never played except by myself, and then only acting over 
 what I had been reading or fancying, or half one, half the other, 
 ■with a stick cutting down weeds and nettles as one of the seven 
 champions of Christendom. Alas ! I had all the simplicity, all 
 the docility of the little child, but none of the child's habits. I 
 never thought as a child, never had the lauguage of a child. I 
 forget whether it was in my fifth or sixth year, but I believe the 
 latter, in consequence of some quarrel between me and my 
 brother, in the first week in October, I ran away from fear of 
 being whipped, and passed the whole night, a night of rain and 
 Btorm, on the bleak side of a hill on the Otter, and was there 
 found at daybreak, without the power of using my limbs, about 
 six yards from the naked bank of the river." * 
 
 ^ 17. P- 35-- ' 25, p. II. s 2S, pp. 10, II. 
 
COLERIDGE. 197 
 
 Another account — which, however, presents ample 
 evidence of inaccuracy and embellishment — contains 
 the very natural incident that " a waggoner, proceeding 
 along at four in the morning, thought he heard a child's 
 voice. He stopped and listened. He now heard the 
 voice cry out, ' Betty, Betty, I can't pull up the 
 clothes.'"^ For "four" we may read six; and for 
 " Betty," Molly : while many of the recorded incidents 
 are utterly at variance with the poet's own narrative. 
 This anecdote is significant, if we bear in mind that 
 fourteen years later he once more turned himself 
 adrift, and was discovered by accident, not asleep on 
 the banks of the Otter, but on duty in a military 
 hospital. 
 
 One's heart sickens when one reflects on the suifer- 
 ings of this poor child, endowed by nature with such 
 exquisite sensibility, when he found himself face to face 
 with the unsympathetic and Procrustean world of a 
 public school. What Coleridge might have achieved 
 under the plastic power of a more kindly culture we 
 may imagine, but we shall never know. In my view, 
 the case of Coleridge is that of a man of rare and price- 
 less genius, marred and ruined by an insane and 
 monstrous system of education. Let us fancy what a 
 Samson or a Hercules would turn out if forced to grow 
 awry in a dark and pestilential dungeon, or in the res 
 angusta of what our ancestors called a " Little-Base," 
 and we shall be able to realise in some degree how 
 much of Coleridge's errors and failures were due to the 
 1 22, vol. i., p. 248. 
 
198 COLERIDGE. 
 
 perverse and inappropriate machinery by whicli his 
 opening faculties were directed and trained. 
 
 At the time to which I am referring, Christ's Hospital 
 was presided over by a fiend of the name of James 
 Boyer (or Bowyer), a pedagogue of the Parr type, who 
 professed but one principle of action in the education 
 of a boy, — " Flog him ! " Lamb i has given us a " full, 
 true, and particular account'' of the proceedings of 
 this great school under the iron sway and remorseless 
 discipline of Boyer. 
 
 Boyer, of course, had his likes and dislikes ; and 
 among other objects of aversion he particularly dis- 
 liked ugliness and awkwardness in a child, for which 
 I do not hold him to be very blameworthy. But the 
 gravamen of the charge against Boyer is that he regu- 
 lated his punishments, to a great extent, by his likes 
 and dislikes. Lamb records one instance which speaks 
 volumes, and which, at the risk of disproportionate 
 illustration (no small sin in a biography), I will adduce 
 with some severity of abbreviation. Boyer detested a 
 certain long, dark, ugly boy ; but, forasmuch as the boy 
 was industrious and well-conducted, he could find no 
 pretext for subjecting him to any extraordinary punish- 
 ment. Caned he was every day of his life, and many 
 times a day, but such fleabites were wholly inadequate 
 to allay the Boyer rage. Fortunately for his peace of 
 mind, the class in which was his iete-noire was reported 
 to him for some breach of rules. The master advanced 
 to the class, and pulling out his watch, said, " Gentle- 
 
 1 37 and 38. 
 
COLERIDGE. 199 
 
 men, I have not time to flog all the class ; you must 
 draw lots for two." The lot did not fall on the intended 
 victim. Thereupon Boyer, unwilling to be balked of 
 his prey, once more took out his watch and said, 
 " Gentlemen, I find I have time to flog the class, and I 
 shall begin with you, sir." The ugly boy was forthwith 
 conducted into the retirement of Boyer's sanctum. In 
 a quarter of an hour boy and master returned into 
 school — the former in abject and sorry plight, the 
 latter appeased and radiant. Once more taking out 
 his watch, the miserable ogre, addressing the class, 
 said, " Gentlemen, I find I have not time to flog the rest 
 of the class ; you are discharged." Such was the flend 
 under whose ferule and birch the most sensitive child 
 in the land was doomed for years to sufier. Coleridge 
 was eight or nine years of age when one of the " Deputy 
 Grecians," named Middleton (afterwards Bishop of 
 Calcutta), found him in playtime, with his points 
 untrussed and his shoes down at heel, reading Virgil 
 for amusement. Middleton reported the fact to Boyer, 
 and Boyer at once sent for the master of the lower 
 school, from whom he learnt that Coleridge was a dunce, 
 who could not be got to repeat a single rule of syntax. 
 This report brought the boy before the dreaded head- 
 master ; who, on being found sufficiently advanced in 
 Latin, was promoted to the upper school. Coleridge, 
 who was the kindest of beings, was always ready in 
 after life to make the best of his old master's character 
 and scholarship ; but even he was obliged to allow that, 
 when he was flogged, Boyer gave him an extra cut 
 
200 COLERIDGE. 
 
 saying, " You are such an ugly fellow ! " i "We iiave 
 Samuel Johnson's coup d'essai in versification, in his 
 ' Epitaph on a Duck.' I will not take upon myself to 
 omit Coleridge's first attempt, which seems to have been 
 made while he was suffering under an irritating appli- 
 cation to his skin. It runs thus : — 
 
 " Lord, have mercy on me ! 
 For I am very sad ; 
 Eor why, good Lord 1 I've got the itch, 
 And eke I've got the tad," 
 
 tad being the school-name for ringworm.^ The verse 
 for humour promises much, but it is remarkable that 
 Coleridge's serious poetical efforts in early life contain 
 no prophecy of that wondrous poetic power which 
 broke forth into song in his twenty-fifth year. 
 
 It was about the same time that he was made free of 
 a circulating library. What a redeeming " touch of 
 nature " is that quality which we self-flatteringly call 
 humanity ! How many men walking the Strand at 
 that or any other time would have turned to so good an 
 account the accident of a boy catching at his coat ? 
 Coleridge was acting one of his day-dreams in the 
 Strand — ^just as he used to play the Seven Champions 
 of Christendom in the fields of Ottery. He fancied 
 himself Leander swimming the Hellespont, when his 
 hand committed the alleged offence. The story, as told 
 by Gillman, is simply incredible, by which assertion it 
 is not very strongly diflTerentiated from the majority 
 of stories in his book.2 No gentleman would suspect a 
 ' 28, p. 20. - 28, p. 17. 
 
COLERIDGE. 201 
 
 Blue-coat boy of picking liis pocket. Be that as it 
 may, the gentleman with whom Coleridge came in con- 
 tact was both kind and discerning. God bless him ! 
 say I, for being both, since his kindness and discern- 
 ment concurred in placing at the boy's disposal a very 
 treasury of book-lore. 
 
 Henceforth, barring a little mechanical drudgery at 
 Greek, the circulating library in King Street, Cheap- 
 side, was Coleridge's school.'- His own account runs 
 thus : — • 
 
 "I read thrmigh the catalogue, folios and all, whether 
 I understood them, or did not understand them, run- 
 ning all risks in skulking out to get the two volumes 
 which I was entitled to have daily ; conceive what I 
 must have been at fourteen. I was in a continual low 
 fever. My whole being was, with eyes closed to every 
 object of present sense, to crumple myself up in a 
 sunny corner, and read, read, read : fancy myself on 
 Eobinson Crusoe's island, finding a mountain of plum- 
 cake, and eating a room for myself, and then eating 
 it into the shapes of tables and' chairs — hunger and 
 fancy ! " 
 
 Such a course of life was fatal to his bodily health. 
 Just as in the case of De Quincey, Coleridge contracted 
 at school a morbid affection of the stomach — partly 
 caused by want of bodily exercise and partly by want 
 of food — which became the bane of his mature years. 
 He himself tells us that, "what with jaundice, and 
 what with rheumatic fever, full half the time from 
 
 ^ 17. P- 329- 
 
202 COLERIDGE. 
 
 seventeen to eighteen was passed in the sick ward 
 of Christ's Hospital.'' 
 
 The incidents of his youth, many of them so signi- 
 ficant of his future life, seem to grow upon me as I 
 write ; and it is with great unwillingness that, in view 
 of that future life, and the limits of this article, I pass 
 over so much that ought to be taken into account in 
 estimating his character. I have already forestalled 
 one romantic incident in his after-life, viz., that the 
 Cambridge student abandoned the academic shades of 
 Jesus College for a barrack. Just so did the Blue-coat 
 boy of fifteen deliberately resolve, with as little regard 
 to his position and scholarship, as for the judgment of 
 his masters and his friends, to be apprenticed to a shoe- 
 maker ! He, and a cobbler keeping shop hard by, con- 
 spired to carry this resolve into effect ; and Coleridge 
 instructed the old man how to broach the matter to 
 Boyer, preparing him for the head-master's inevitable 
 anger. It is told by Gillman that Boyer once threatened 
 to flog a girl who had come to beg a half-holiday for 
 her brother. On the occasion of the shoemaker's appli- 
 cation, Boyer held out threats, but followed up the 
 exclamation of " Od's my life, man ! what d'ye mean ? " 
 by so furious a demonstration of physical force, that 
 the old shoemaker found discretion the wiser part of 
 valour.^ So the shoemaking was abandoned, and 
 Coleridge remained at school till he had attained the 
 dignity of a Grecian. He left Christ's Hospital in 
 September 1790, and was entered at Jesus College, 
 ' 28, p. 21. 
 
COLERIDGE. 203 
 
 Cambridge, on the Sth of the following February. He 
 was then nineteen years of age.^ 
 
 We must hurry over his Cambridge career. In the 
 following year he gained Sir William Browne's medal 
 for a Greek ode on " the Slave Trade." It is a speci- 
 men of average scholarship, but in no way remarkable. 
 He wrote for the Person prize what he called his 
 " finest Greek poem," but was unsuccessful. He con- 
 tinued in residence at Jesus College till November 
 1793, when moved by some disappointment, academical 
 or other, he left Cambridge without an exeat, for London, 
 where on December 3rd he enlisted in the 15th Light 
 Dragoons under the name of Silas Titus Comberbacke 
 (Cottle gives the name as Silas Tomken Cumberbatch, 
 but he blunders after his fashion). It is said that the sur- 
 name was taken from a shop in Lincoln's Inn Fields or the 
 Temple ; and it is not impossible (though I have never 
 met with the suggestion) that the first Christian name 
 was suggested to Coleridge by Aubrey's " Captain Silas 
 Taylor." The story of his life in barracks is too well 
 known to need repetition here ; let it suflice to say that 
 his Latin and Greek betrayed his grade. He was at 
 length discovered by some of his family or friends as 
 he was doing duty in the infirmary of the barracks at 
 Hounslow, and was bought off' and discharged on April 
 10, 1794. He seems to have returned to Cambridge 
 the same month, and to have become a Unitarian in 
 religion. In the following June, Coleridge visited 
 Oxford, where he made the acquaintance of Robert 
 1 28, p. 38. 2 19, vol. i. p. 253. 
 
204 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Southey, who was then at Balliol College. The friend- 
 ship thus formed between these two poets and men of 
 letters lasted till Coleridge's death, with one brief in- 
 terruption arising from some act or default of Southey's 
 as editor of the Quarterly Beview. In August or 
 September Coleridge went by appointment to meet 
 Southey at Bristol. Southey's mother lived at Bath, 
 but it does not appear that Coleridge stayed there. The 
 object of this meeting was to organise a society whose 
 members were forthwith to embark for America, and 
 to found a Communist colony on the banks of the 
 Susquehannah. This society at the time in question 
 consisted of four male members, and was called a 
 Pantisocracy, -i.e., one in which all had common rights 
 and equal powers. Coleridge was the founder; the 
 rest were Southey, Robert Lovell (a young Quaker 
 poet), and George Burnet, son of a Somersetshire 
 farmer, and, like Southey, an Oxonian.'- To Burnet 
 was confided the agricultural department, and on 
 the requisite funds being raised he was to purchase 
 the implements. What the others were to do it is 
 hard to say, unless they were to write poetry and 
 preach to one another. I suppose, too, that Burnet 
 was to be " without encumbrance ; " for Lovell was 
 already committed to matrimony, having married Mary 
 Pricker, one of three sisters who resided with their 
 mother at Bristol ; which was on the whole a con- 
 siderate proceeding, as it left one sister for each of 
 
 ' Lovell died about July 1795 ; and Burnet, at the age of thirty-two, 
 in 1S07. So says Gillman. 
 
COLERIDGE. 205 
 
 Ms brother poets. Coleridge, indeed, once more re- 
 turned to Cambridge in September, where he published 
 a poem called " The Fall of Eobespierre." But in 
 February 1795 he was again with Southey in Bristol, 
 where both gave themselves to public lecturing, and 
 Coleridge to Unitarian preaching; and at private 
 gatherings Pantisocracy was an inexhaustible theme 
 of conversation and dispute. 
 
 On October 4, Coleridge married Sarah Fricker, and 
 six weeks afterwards her Sister Edith became the wife 
 of Southey .1 Doubtless marriage was in a sort a con- 
 dition of colonial success ; but in default of the neces- 
 sary capital it was an absolute bar to the realisation 
 of the project ; and so it fell out that Pantisocracy 
 was tacitly abandoned, though it was all the more 
 eagerly pursued in speech. Southey was the first 
 seceder ; his nuptial knot had no sooner been tied than 
 he sailed for Portugal to earn the means of keeping a 
 wife. Doubtless it would have been more regular (and 
 for matter of fact more prudent also) if he had done 
 the earning first and the marrying afterwards. But 
 he was the very soul of honour ; so he redeemed his 
 promise out of hand, and he extended to Edith Fricker 
 the protection of a husband's name while he began his 
 life of honourable toil in a distant land. Coleridge, on 
 the contrary, found " love in a cottage " at Clevedon ; 
 and after enjoying his honeymoon, and celebrating it 
 in very sweet verses, set forth alone on a visit to friends 
 in Worcester, Birmingham, Derby, Shefiield, Man- 
 ^ 17, P- 347- 
 
2o6 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Chester, and Liverpool. His ostensible object was to 
 obtain subscribers to a periodical to be written by him- 
 self, and entitled The Watchman. On this tour he 
 made acquaintance with Joseph Strutt, the father of 
 Lord Belper, Dr. Darwin (who from the testimony of 
 Mrs. Schimmelpenninck seems to have combined the 
 four characteristics of naturalist, poet, atheist, and 
 glutton), Charles Lloyd, a brainsick young poet ; James 
 Montgomery, the poet, and others. During his absence 
 his forgotten bride found the ennui of the cottage in- 
 supportable, and returned to her mother's house on 
 Redcliff Hill, Bristol, and there fell sick. Coleridge 
 was summoned from Liverpool to her bedside. The 
 double misery of sickness and poverty which was 
 thenceforth to poison their matrimonial life had now 
 commenced with a vengeance ; and the biographer, 
 who is determined to do his duty by his hero's wife 
 and children, as well as by the hero himself, finds 
 himself obliged to allow that the peculiar training of 
 the juvenile poet had proved a very insufficient dis- 
 cipline for the correction of the bosom vice of selfish- 
 ness. It is very hard to hold the balance fairly between 
 Coleridge and his wife. It always is hard to be just 
 to both parties in an ill-assorted marriage. For myself 
 I decline the task, believing that the time has not yet 
 arrived — if arrive ever it will — for passing an objective 
 judgment on this remarkable being. 
 
 " Then at the balance let's be mute, 
 We never can adjust it ; 
 What's done we partly may compute, 
 But know not what's resisted." 
 
COLEEIDGE. 207 
 
 However, once for all, let me say that, except for brief 
 and uncertain intervals, Coleridge never did maintain 
 either wife or children. At one time Southey, poor as 
 a church rat, but industrious as a bee, with a wife and 
 children of his own to provide for, kept Coleridge's wife 
 and children too. The story is pitiable; perhaps of 
 all the parties involved in Coleridge's seeming self- 
 indulgent life, Southey and his poor wife are most to 
 be pitied and most to be loved. How matters could 
 have turned out better it is hard to say : for assuredly 
 Coleridge was wholly unfit for any other kind of 
 work than that he actually accomplished ; and with 
 that work posterity seems to be very well satisfied ; 
 so we may allow that in some inscrutable way " it's 
 all for the best." 
 
 The Watchman, like almost everything Coleridge 
 attempted, proved a miserable failure. The first number 
 was published on March i, 1796, and it expired with 
 the tenth number, viz., that of May 13. In March, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Coleridge removed from Redcliff Hill to 
 Oxford Street, Kingsdown. He drew his maintenance 
 from Cottle, the Bristol bookseller, doing, it must be 
 owned, very scant work for very liberal pay. Cottle 
 published Coleridge's first volume of poems early in 
 April. According to the poet's own view, his ' Re- 
 ligious Musings ' were a certificate of high merit. In 
 each of two letters to a friend, Mr. Thomas Poole, of 
 Nether Stowey (dated April 1st and nth), he says, 
 " I rest all my poetical credit on the ' Religious 
 Musings.' " 
 
2o8 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Coleridge now betiiouglit liim of tlie necessity of 
 keeping tlie wolf from the door by his own personal 
 exertions. Three schemes were soon on foot, of which 
 the one entailing the least exertion on his part was 
 actually realised. In July, Mr. and Mrs. Coleridge 
 visited Darley, near Derby, where a negotiation was 
 opened for Coleridge to undertake the education of 
 the sons of a Mrs. Evans. It came to nothing. After 
 visiting Oakover, Ham, and Dovedale, they left Darley, 
 to stay at the house of a Mr. Thomas Hawkes, of 
 Moseley, near Birmingham, at which town Coleridge 
 preached on Faith to a Unitarian congregation. Here 
 he again met Charles Lloyd. 
 
 In September, Coleridge, leaving his wife at 
 Kingsdown, once more visited Birmingham. He 
 seems to have stayed with the Lloyds of Bingley 
 Hall, with a view to Charles Lloyd — who was a 
 young man of fine poetic genius, but in extremely 
 delicate health — being domesticated with him at 
 Kingsdown. 
 
 While here the news arrived that Mrs. Coleridge 
 had, on September 19th, presented him with a son. 
 He hurried back to Bristol, taking Charles Lloyd with 
 him. Matters had changed in his absence : Southey 
 had returned from Portugal to claim his bride ; and the 
 ideal pantisocratic colony had received the addition of 
 one who was to inherit no little of Coleridge's poetic 
 genius, and a great deal of his weakness. This child 
 was christened David Hartley, after the famous author 
 of the " Observations on Man," who at that time, jointly 
 
COLERIDGE. 209 
 
 ■with Bishop Berkeley and the poet Bowles, shared the 
 bulk of Coleridge's hero-worship.^ 
 
 Soon after we find Mr. and Mrs. Coleridge, with 
 their child and Charles Lloyd, residing at a cottage 
 taken for them at Nether Stowey by Mr. Thomas Poole 
 of that place.2 As Coleridge rarely dated a letter, and 
 when he did do so contented himself with the year or 
 the week-day only, it is difficult to fix with nicety the 
 time of his entering on this new residence. However, 
 he was there in November 1796, preparing a second 
 edition of his poems, which was published by Cottle in 
 the summer of 1797. 
 
 The more distressing eSects of Coleridge's life at 
 Christ's Hospital seem to have become chronic before 
 his marriage. Early in 1795 (if I may infer a date for 
 an undated note to Cottle^) he complains that "a very 
 devil has got possession of my left temple, eye, cheek, 
 jaw, throat, and shoulder." It is unquestionable that 
 it was about this time that he first had recourse to 
 opium to allay his sufferings. On the ist November 
 1 796, he was seized with violent neuralgia, * and took 
 laudanum, evidently not for the first time. Assuredly 
 
 ^ Coleridge's other children, whose names occur seldom or never in 
 the published biographies, were Sara, born at Bristol : and Derwent, 
 born at Keswick. The former married Henry Nelson Coleridge, and 
 was the accomplished author of ' Phautasmion,' Pickering, 1837. 
 The latter alone survives. He was Principal of St. Mark's Training 
 College, and is now Eector of Hanwell ; and he has been for many 
 years one of H. M.'s Inspectors of Schools. He edited his brother 
 Hartley's ' Remains ' with a short biography, and has contributed 
 important papers to the London Philological Society. , 
 
 2 22, vol. i., p. 187; 17, p. 391. 
 
 3 22, vol. i., p. 54- M7, p. 330. 
 
 
 
210 COLERIDGE. 
 
 be had not the slightest suspicion that he was contract- 
 ing a habit of body which would render a periodical 
 supply of the narcotic a positive necessity. He records, 
 under date 1826, "I wrote a few stanzas three-and- 
 twenty years ago, soon after my eyes had been opened 
 to the true nature of the habit into which I had been 
 ignorantly deluded by the seeming magic effects of 
 opium," &c., which is to say, that his eyes were not 
 opened till about 1803, i.e., seven or eight years after 
 he first took laudanum. In the same paper his bond- 
 age to opium is attributed to Kendal's Black Drop, 
 which he took esperimentally on the recommendation 
 of a medical review, and which " worked miracles ; 
 the swellings [in the knees] disappeared, the pains 
 vanished." But here was a mistake, or a self-delusion, 
 for the habit had been already formed from the occa- 
 sional use of laudanum. He continues, " Alas ! it is 
 with a bitter smile, a laugh of gall and bitterness, that 
 I recall this period of unsuspecting delusion, and how 
 I first became aware of the maelstrom, the fatal whirl- 
 pool to which I was drawing just when the current 
 was beyond my strength to stem. . . . God knows that 
 from that moment I was the victim of pain and terror, 
 nor had I at any time taken the flattering poison as a 
 stimulus, or for any craving after pleasurable sensations. 
 I needed none ; and oh ! with what unutterable sorrow 
 did I read the ' Confessions of an Opium-Eater,' in 
 which the writer, with morbid vanity, makes a boast of 
 what was my misfortune, for he had been faithfully and 
 with an agony of zeal warned of the gulf, and vet wil- 
 
COLERIDGE. 211 
 
 fully struck into the current ! Heaven be merciful to 
 him! — April, 1826."^ De Quincey amply avenged 
 himself for this ; ^ and Sara Coleridge gently replied to 
 De Quincey ; ^ but I have no space for the consideration 
 of this controversy now. I note en passant that William 
 Wilberforce, Eobert Hall, Coleridge, De Quincey, and 
 J. P. Nichol, the astronomer, were all consumers of 
 opium. All of these, except poor Eobert Hall, took it 
 inordinately ; and for them that drug had irresistible 
 fascinations. With Wilberforce, Coleridge, and Nichol, 
 the consequential mischief was found to be so serious 
 as to render expedient a lengthened residence in the 
 house of a medical man, with a view to the discontinu- 
 ance of the habit. In all these cases, as in that of 
 De Quincey, it was found impossible to permanently 
 accustom the nervous system to the enforced absti- 
 nence; and in the event the narcotic resumed, if it 
 ever relaxed, its baneful sway. 
 
 At Nether Stowey Coleridge wrote his tragedy of 
 ' Osorio,' which he afterwards altered and printed 
 under the name of ' The Eemorse.' It was completed 
 up to the middle of Act V. by September 6th, 1797, 
 and was brought out at Drury Lane (by favour of Lord 
 Byron) nineteen years after it was composed, when Eae 
 took the chief part. This year (1797) has been called 
 Coleridge's annus mirabUis ; for in the course of it he 
 produced an unusually large number of poems ; among 
 which we count the first part of ' Christabel,' ' Genevieve,' 
 
 I 28, pp. 246-24S. ' 20. ^ 19- 
 
 * 22, vo], i., p. 234. 
 
 4 
 
212 COLERIDGE. 
 
 and the 'Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni,' 
 and a considerable part of ' The Ancient Mariner.' 
 This famous ballad was completed in February 1798, 
 and published with Wordsworth's ' Lyrical Ballads ' in 
 the following June. At this time, too, he met at Mr. 
 Poole's, Thomas and Josiah Wedgewood,^ who intro- 
 duced him by letter to Mr. Daniel Stuart, and he began 
 to contribute to the Morning Post. He must have 
 returned with the Wedgewoods to Cote House, and 
 stayed there till the end of the year.^ In that month of 
 February he made another attempt to obtain a preacher- 
 ship. His success at Birmingham had been small ; the 
 Unitarians, fresh from the school of Priestley, found 
 Coleridge's doctrines too pronouncedly metaphysical, 
 and also probably tinged with orthodoxy. He had not 
 succeeded better at ShefiSeld. At the chapel of Mr. 
 Jardine, at Bristol, Coleridge had made a lamentable 
 failure. He now went to Shrewsbury, as candidate in 
 succession to the Rev. Mr. Rowe. Whatever may have 
 been his design, he withdrew his candidature on learn- 
 ing that the Messrs. Wedgewood had settled on him a 
 pension of ;^i 50 a year.^ 
 
 On September 16, 1798, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and 
 Miss Wordsworth sailed from Yarmouth for Hamburg. 
 They landed on the 19th, at four o'clock p.m., and the 
 following day the two poets were introduced to the 
 brother of the poet Klopstock, and to Ebeling. A few 
 days later they made the acquaintance of the greater 
 
 ' 22, vol. i., pp. 250, 305, and 307. 2 ^j^ p ^gg^ 
 
 3 17, p. 3S9 ; 22, vol. i., p. 308. 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 213 
 
 Klopstock, with whom, however, they were much dis- 
 appointed. Doubtless Klopstock had a reputation 
 vastly in excess of his merits; but much of the dis- 
 appointment must have been owing to the want of an 
 adequate medium of communication. Wordsworth left 
 for England on September 27 ; but Coleridge remained 
 in Germany for the purpose of acquiring the language, 
 and of extending his acquaintance with German cele- 
 brities. 
 
 In my opinion De Quincey has exaggerated Coleridge's 
 acquaintance with German. During the year and two 
 months of his residence in Germany a hard-working 
 student might have obtained a passable acquaintance 
 with the language ; but Coleridge, after his first year 
 at coUege, was never a hard-working student ; and at 
 this time he was physically incapable of the exertion 
 necessary to so vast an acquirement. His version of 
 Schiller's ' Wallenstein ' teems with mistakes of trans- 
 lation, though it is a treasury of fine original poetry. 
 I suspect he knew no foreign language so well as Latin ; 
 but he had acquired sufficient French and Italian to 
 read (doubtless with more or less difficulty) the classics 
 of Prance and Italy. 
 
 Coleridge returned to England on November 27, 1799.^ 
 The months of July and October, 1800, he passed at 
 Keswick as the guest of Southey, who then resided at 
 Greta Hall.^ In this year he composed his fine but 
 inaccurate version of the ' Piccolomini/ and ' The 
 
 ' 21, passim, and IJ, p. 230. 
 ^ 17. P- 393 ; and 41. P- 489- 
 
214 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Death, of Wallenstein,' which it is said he wrote in six 
 weeks. It was published immediately, but few copies 
 were ever sold, and at length the large remainder was 
 disposed of as waste paper.^ He now composed the 
 second part of ' Christabel.' Soon after this period, 
 with the exception of some short pieces, he discon- 
 tinued writing poetry. 
 
 In the preface to the second part of ' Christabel,' 
 written early in 1800, he observes, "Till very lately 
 my poetic powers have been in a state of suspended 
 animation." I cannot make out that he wrote any 
 poetry after this time but ' Zapolya.' ' Kubla Elan,' 
 and ' The Pains of Sleep,' whensoever written, were 
 published in the same volume with ' Christabel,' in 
 1 8 16. 'Sibylline Leaves' and 'Zapolya' appeared 
 in that year also. 
 
 In October 1803, Coleridge, in company with "Words- 
 worth, visited the Highlands. The scenery of Scotland, 
 which inspired Wordsworth, and made his genius pro- 
 ductive, had but little effect on Coleridge. In truth, 
 the poetical period of his life was rapidly rounding to 
 a close. We may consider it closed by 1804, when he 
 sailed for ilalta. We may well credit the assertion that 
 Coleridge the poet died there, but Gillman's assertion 
 has no such qualification. He says, " He seemed at 
 this time [i.e., while in Malta], in addition to his 
 rheumatism, to have been oppressed in his breathing, 
 which oppression crept on him imperceptibly to him- 
 self without suspicion of its cause : yet so obvious was 
 
 ' 28, p. 281. 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 2IS 
 
 it, that it was noticed by others 'as laborious;' and 
 continuing to increase, though with little apparent advance- 
 ment, at length terminated in death." i 
 
 Happily, however, he came to life again in England 
 — not indeed as a poet, but as a religious philosopher. 
 As I have recorded that Coleridge became a Unitarian 
 in religion about the spring or summer of 1794, let me 
 add that he had outgrown his Unitarianism by the 
 time he left Malta, and was an outspoken defender of 
 the Holy Trinity by the year 1807. It is the more im- 
 portant to note this, since Mr. Wm. Howitt ^ appears 
 to attribute Coleridge's Unitarianism to his study of 
 the German philosophers, and distinctly states that 
 " towards the close of his life he even disclaimed them, 
 and returned a strict Trinitarian to the bosom of the 
 Church of England." This extraordinary perversion I 
 have elsewhere exposed.^ 
 
 We learn from Lamb that Coleridge's talk, while at 
 Christ's Hospital, acted like a spell on chance visitors. 
 "How have I seen the casual passer through the 
 cloisters stand still, entranced with admiration ! " &c.* 
 It was just the same at Jeaus' College and at Hounslow 
 Barracks. Students and soldiers alike could not resist 
 the fascination, but on the cessation of his diatribe, like 
 Adam after the angel's discourse (' Paradise Lost,' xii.)., 
 must often have — 
 
 " Thought him still speaking, still stood fixed to hear." 
 This gift of speech was in full perfection in 1797, and 
 
 I28, p. 167. =33. P- 315- 
 
 ^ 35. PP- 27-30. * 3^. 
 
2i6 COLERIDGE. 
 
 we are indebted to Mr. D. Stuart for tlie fact tliat it 
 did Coleridge a disservice in the Christmas of that 
 year. He was an inmate of Cote House, where a large 
 party, including James Mackintosh, were assembled, 
 and " so riveted by his discourse the attention of the 
 gentlemen, particularly of Mr. Thomas Wedgewood," 
 and " so prevented general conversation, that several 
 of the party wished him out of the house." The result 
 was that " Mackintosh, at the instance of some of the 
 inmates, attacked Coleridge on all subjects — politics, 
 poetry, religion, ethics, &c. Mackintosh was by far 
 the most [i.e., more] dexterous disputer. Coleridge 
 . . . was speedily confused and subdued. He felt 
 himself lowered in the eyes of the Wedgewoods," and 
 incontinently left the house, a sadder, if not a wiser 
 man ! " ^ 
 
 Of Coleridge's extraordinary gift of consecutive talk- 
 ing, which Madame De Stael called le monologue, as 
 distinguished from le dialogue, we have several trust- 
 worthy accounts. I take Dr. Dibdin's, which is certainly 
 not overcharged : — 
 
 " The orator rolled himself up in his chair, and gave the most 
 unrestrained indulgence to his speech ; and how fraught with 
 acuteness and originality was that speech, and in what copious 
 and eloquent periods did it flow ! . . . For nearly two hours 
 he spoke with unhesitating and uninterrupted fluency. . . . 
 The manner of Coleridge was rather emphatic than dogmatic, 
 and thus he was generally and satisfactorily listened to. It 
 might he said of Coleridge, as Cowper has so happily said of Sir 
 Philip Sidney, that he was 'the warhler of poetic prose.' . . . 
 
 ' 41. P- 485- 
 
COLERIDGE. 217 
 
 Coleridge was eminently simple in his manner. Thinking and 
 speaking were his delight ; and he would sometimes seem, during 
 the more fervid movements of discourse, to be abstracted from 
 all and everything around him, and to be basking in the sunny 
 warmth of his own radiant imagination." ■■ 
 
 Lamb used to tell an amusing and wholly incredible 
 story of Coleridge's abstraction when he was once 
 engaged in the evolution of discourse. Coleridge met 
 him (so the story runs) as he was on his way to his 
 place of business, the India House, in Leadenhall 
 Street. Coleridge stopped him, and opened upon him 
 the floodgates of his eloquence. To avoid the inter- 
 ruption and observation of passers-by, Coleridge drew 
 Lamb into an entry, and was soon absorbed in his 
 spoken day-dream. Lamb had no time to spare, so 
 he slipped out of the entry, apparently unobserved 
 by the rapt talker. Six hours later — the India House 
 times were from ten till four — Lamb was on his way 
 home, and happening to pass the entry of the morn- 
 ing's exploit, he observed Coleridge still standing 
 there, holding forth, with impassioned eloquence, to 
 an imaginary listener. Well, the story is rather hard 
 to swallow, but the six hours' talk is quite credible. 
 The present Bishop of St. David's has given me the 
 particulars of a similar display in his rooms at Cam- 
 bridge, when he was a tutor of Trinity College. He 
 says : — 
 
 " I remember very distinctly that we dined at the early hour 
 of four, for the purpose of allowing the longer time for oonver- 
 
 1 25, vol. i., p. 253. 
 
21 8 COLERIDGE. 
 
 sation in the evening, when several who were not of the dinner 
 party joined our company. At this distance of time I could not 
 be sure as to the precise hour at which Coleridge began his 
 monologue or ended it. But I feel quite certain that it did not 
 occupy much less than six hours, if it did not last longer ; for I 
 think we did not breaii up before midniglit." 
 
 The Bishop assured me that during this time no 
 one interrupted the monologue ; indeed, it would have 
 been impracticable to have drawn the speaker from 
 his magic circle without positive rudeness ; and that, 
 but for the necessary interruptions of sleep and meals, 
 there seemed to be no reason why Coleridge should 
 not have realised the classical description of a river, — 
 
 "at ills 
 Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis sevum." 
 
 Coleridge's early poetical efforts gave, as I have 
 said, little or no promise of his future excellence. 
 Perhaps the earliest examples of his marvellous poetic 
 genius are found in the lines ' To Sara,' and those 
 ' To a friend who had declared his intention of writing 
 no more poetry.' From the latter I select a dozen 
 lines which might have been written by the author 
 of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' or the author of 
 ' Comus : ' — 
 
 " On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian Mount, 
 There stands a lone and melancholy tree, 
 AVhose aged branches to the midnight blast 
 Make solemn music : pluck its darkest bough. 
 Ere yet the unwholesome night dew be exhaled. 
 And weeping, wreathe it round thy poet's tomb : 
 Then, in the outskirts where pollutions grow, 
 Pick stinking henbane, and the dusky flowers 
 
COLERIDGE. 219 
 
 Of nightsliade, or its red and tempting fruit ; 
 These witli stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand 
 Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine 
 The illustrious brow of Scotch nobility ! " — 
 
 t 
 
 e., the brow of that nobility whicli, witii so exquisite 
 a sense of propriety, made an exciseman of their 
 national poet. Of course these lines, like all worthy 
 poetry, must be read aloud: the anastomosis, which 
 is here so masterly, would otherwise be lost. The 
 writer of the able critiqtie in Blackwood ^ quotes from 
 Coleridge the following remarks: — "The sudden charm 
 which accidents of light and shade, which moonlight 
 or- sunlight, diffused over a familiar landscape, ap- 
 peared to represent the practicability of combining 
 both powers;" viz., "the power of exciting the sym- 
 pathy of the reader by a faithful adherence to the 
 truth of nature, and the power of giving the interest 
 of novelty by the modifying colours of imagination." 
 "These are the poetry of nature. The thought sug- 
 gested itself (to which of us I do not recollect), [i.e., 
 himself or Wordsworth,] that a series of poems might 
 be composed of two sorts. In the one, the incidents 
 and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural ; 
 for the second class subjects were to be chosen from 
 ordinary life." He was thus led to make the experi- 
 ment of a poem belonging to the former class. The 
 first result was ' The Ancient Mariner,' the second 
 was ' Christabel.' 
 
 These two masterpieces belong to the same class 
 
 1 14. 
 
220 COLERIDGE. 
 
 as the immortal romances of La Motte Fouque. ' The 
 Ancient Mariner ' and ' Ciiristabel ' are to poetry 
 exactly what ' Undine ' and ' Sintram ' are to prose 
 literature. If it be allowed that neither of those 
 poems is comparable, as a romance, to ' Undine,' 
 Coleridge must nevertheless be credited with having 
 clothed his thoughts in a far nobler investiture of 
 words. 
 
 Those who would attribute the production of such 
 poems to the influence of opium, or laudanum, should 
 consider that of the thousands who have habitually 
 eaten opium or drunk laudanum, only one has given 
 us an ' Ancient Mariner ' and a ' Christabel.' 
 
 On these two poems, and on ' Genevieve,' rests 
 the splendid reputation of Coleridge as a poet. His 
 own claim to originality, on the score of rhythm, 
 must be disallowed. In the Preface to ' Christabel ' 
 he enumerates his "new principle, namely, that of 
 counting the accents, not the syllables. Though the 
 latter may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line 
 the accents will be found to be only four." Thus — 
 
 " Is the night chilly and dark ? 
 The night is chilly but not dark." 
 
 Coleridge would claim for the seven syllables of the 
 one, and the eight of the other line, but four accents. 
 All the same, it can hardly be doubted that both 
 lines are indistinguishable from prose, in which respect 
 they may be likened to many in the ' Paradise 
 Eegained.' 
 
COLERIDGE. 221 
 
 Hazlitt delivers himself of this brief but emphatic 
 praise of ' Christabel,'— " In ' Christabel ' there is 
 one splendid passage on divided friendship."! As 
 if a great poem could be judged by its "beauties," 
 or a carcanet by its gems ! However, speaking of 
 such incidents, Hazlitt is right. The passage is 
 singularly splendid : — 
 
 " Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
 And to be wroth with one we love 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
 With Eoland and Sir Leoline. 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 And insult to his heart's best brother : 
 They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
 But never either found another 
 To free the hollow heart from paining — 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder. 
 A dreary sea now flows between ; 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween. 
 The marks of that which once hath been.'' 
 
 To understand the nature (not at all the secret) 
 of Coleridge's poetry we must picture him to our 
 minds as a seer, one who has inward vision of the 
 inner world, the vision of which is simply provoked 
 by the outward sight of outer objects. Unhappily, 
 this aphorism is all I have to say in the nature of 
 
 1 31, p. 69. 
 
222 COLERIDGE. 
 
 criticism: To every seer the outer is but a means of 
 suggesting the inner. To the simple-liearted and pro- 
 found-souled Bohme, the auroral redness was fraught 
 with spiritual regeneration; to Tennyson (in the 
 ' Vision of Sin '), it was instinct with divine ven- 
 geance. 
 
 "William Blake used to say that when he looked 
 at the sun he saw angels and archangels around 
 the throne of God. Tennyson, with appropriate in- 
 sight, assigns to Merlin (in ' Vivien ') a similar 
 confession respecting the nebula in the sword of 
 Orion : — 
 
 " A single misty star, 
 "Which, is the second in a line of stars 
 That seem a sword beneath a belt of three ; 
 I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 
 Of some vast charm concluded in that star 
 To make fame nothing." 
 
 Coleridge was fully conscious of his seership. He 
 says, "In looking at objects of nature, while I am 
 thinking, as at yonder moon dim glimmering through 
 the dewy window-pane, I seem rather to be seeking, 
 as it were asking, a symbolical language for something 
 within me that already and for ever exists, than 
 observing anything new. Even when that latter is 
 the case, yet still I have always an obscure feeling, 
 as if that new phenomenon were the dim awakening 
 of a forgotten or hidden truth of my inner nature." ^ 
 The greatness of Coleridge as a poet consisted in his 
 
 1 28, p. 311. 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 223 
 
 possession of this seersJiip, Ms fidelity to it, and his 
 extraordinary wealth of language for giving it utterance. 
 It is just such an inner vision, inseparably linked to 
 or mingled with the world of sense, that he strove to 
 express, in ' The Ancient Mariner ' and in ' Chris- 
 tabel ; ' neither story has a real end, and the latter, 
 by its very nature, is a fragment. These poems are 
 criticised in a genial and appreciative spirit by the 
 author of ' A Century of Great Poets, No. IV.' Espe- 
 cially am I rejoiced to find in that paper a corro- 
 boration of my own judgment on ' Genevieve.' " For 
 our own part, we are afraid to say all that we think 
 of its perfection, lest our words should seem inflated 
 and unreal." Just so. I, too, hold it to be the most 
 perfect poem in the English language. It is a lesson 
 and a warning to young poets. The brevity of a 
 poem precludes all excuse for shortcoming or imper- 
 fection. A brief poem should be faultless and perfect, 
 or it had better have remained unwritten. The faults 
 we tolerate in a building are intolerable in a statue. 
 'Genevieve' is brief; but it has such unparalleled 
 perfection of structure and language, of story and 
 sentiment (just a tale within a tale, as ' Kubla Khan ' 
 is a dream within a dream), that its author, had he 
 written nothing else, would for ever have taken his 
 place in the roll of great poets. After all talk about 
 Coleridge being incapable of sustained effort, of his 
 inability to accomplish a voluminous poem like ' Para- 
 dise Lost,' let us remember what Henry Taylor, in 
 one of his 'Essays on Books,' has said so well, that 
 
224 COLERIDGE. 
 
 a long poem is always, in truth, a connected series 
 of short poems, and that Coleridge, if he wrote but 
 little, wrote that little with consummate excellence. ^ 
 
 ^ Copy of the slab in the church of Ottery St. Mary, commemorating 
 the Coleridge family : — 
 
 In Memokt of 
 
 Rev. John Coleridge, who died a.d. 1781, aged 63. 
 
 Of Ann, his wife, who died a.d. 1809, aged 83. 
 
 And of their children. 
 
 John died in the East Indies, a.d. 17S6, aged 31. 
 
 William an infant. 
 
 William, at Hackney, a.d. i 780, aged 23. 
 
 Luke Herman, at Thorverton, a.d. 1790, aged 24. 
 
 Ann, at Ottery, a.d. 1791, aged 23. 
 
 Francis, in the East Indies, a.d. 1792, aged 22. 
 
 George, at Ottery, A.D. 1S28, aged 64. 
 
 Samuel Taylor, at Highgate, a.d. 1834, aged 62. 
 
 James, at Ottery, a.d. 1836, aged 75. 
 
 ■Rev. Edward Coleridge, B.A., who died March 15th, 1843, in the 83rd 
 
 year of his age. 
 
( 22S 
 
 X. 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE— 
 THE DIVINE. 
 
 One of two grave charges brought against Coleridge 
 in several of the writings recorded in my bibliographical 
 list.i and in particular in 35 and 40, is, in short, this : 
 that as a philosopher, he professed so much and per- 
 formed so little. Of course, the so much and so little are 
 correlative ; for assuredly, compared with many other 
 men of genius, Coleridge accomplished a great deal. 
 It would be hopeless to contest the truth of either 
 clause in that charge. A few words to exemplify this 
 will suffice. In the Biographia Literaria^ he writes : — 
 
 " In the third treatise of my Logosophia ... I shall 
 give {Deo volente) the demonstrations and constructions of the 
 Dynamic Philosophy scientifically arranged." 
 
 1 Preiixed to the preceding essay. Here (as there) I refer to those 
 writings under their numbers in the list. I am convinced that many 
 must have eluded my search. I am told that Mrs. Oliphant's 'Life 
 of Edward Irving ' contains interesting reference to Coleridge. I for- 
 got to include Mr. J. S. Mill's 'Dissertations and Discussions,' 1859, 
 with whose paper on Coleridge, vol. i. p. 392, I was acquainted. I 
 ought also to have included a Review of Coleridge's Poetical Works 
 (by Prof. John Wilson) in Blaclewood's Magazine, October 1834, in 
 the list of "Anonymous Writings." We will call this 46, and Mr. 
 Mill's paper 47. 
 
 1 must add, that I omitted the mention of Coleridge's son, Berkeley, 
 who died an infant in 1 799. 
 
 2 1847. Vol. i., p. 267, footnote. 
 
 P 
 
226 COLERIDGE. 
 
 That is to say, in the tliird treatise of a work whereof 
 no first nor second treatise ever existed ! This Logo- 
 sopliia is the " great work " which is so often alluded 
 to and even described in his Letters ; ^ and it was this 
 work which was (but was not destined) to contain the 
 boasted Coleridgean "system," characterised in such 
 very general terms in the ' Table Talk.' ^ What this 
 system actually was, as existing only in the brain of 
 Coleridge, is an open question, on which there may be 
 qtwt liomiius tot sententice, i.e. homines who may care to 
 speculate on the nature of a nonentity ! This much is 
 certain — that no systematic treatment of any strictly 
 metaphysical doctrine (on its theoretical side, at least) 
 is to be found amongst Coleridge's published works. 
 What it was believed to be (though, again, mainly on 
 the practical side) by the late Joseph Henry Green we 
 know from his two volumes (edited by Dr. J. Simon) 
 on ' Spiritual Philosophy,' recently reviewed in the 
 columns of the British Controversialist. So fully was 
 the Coleridge-Green system considered in that paper, 
 and so largely was it exemplified by extracts from 
 Green's work, that it is unnecessary for me to ex- 
 pound or discuss that system here. I wish it to 
 be clearly understood, however, [that the conclusions 
 I have arrived at, after a long and careful study of 
 Coleridge's works, are unfavourable to his pretensions. 
 1 believe he made certain German philosophers his 
 " thinking-ground " (in particular, Lessing and Schel- 
 
 ^ E.g., I, vol. i., pp. 7, 154-156, 161, &o. 
 - Ed. 1S51, pp. 146 and 329. 
 
COLERIDGE. 227 
 
 ling, and, in a far less degree, Kant, Maasz, and some 
 others), deliberately intending to utilise their work, 
 to stand on their shoulders, to make their germs 
 fructify in his own mind, to scale the philosophic 
 heights with their ladders, or (to employ a phrase of 
 the late Prof. Ferrier) to swim in the philosophic 
 depths with their bladders ; and having scaled the 
 one, or (if you will) approfondi the other, to kick 
 down the ladders, or puncture the bladders, and 
 thenceforth to set up as climber-in-chief, or swimmer 
 -in-chief, or, to combine both metaphors, as the great 
 explorer of the unknown in metephysical geography. 
 This was the rdle of a man of great parts ; who pos- 
 sessed sublime powers of imagination, and whose in- 
 tellect, in his chosen walk, was not contemptible, but 
 who was, nevertheless, by defect of constitution or 
 of discipline, incapable of excogitating propria marte a 
 philosophy for himself. I believe, then, that Coleridge 
 had no original philosophical system, but only the 
 fragments of a system borrowed, without due under- 
 standing, and without original elaboration, from some 
 earlier works of Schelling ; and that, as a theoretical 
 philosopher, it will henceforth for ever be impossible 
 to reinflate Coleridge's collapsed reputation. Some 
 English philosophers there are, I am quite aware, 
 who are not prepared for the reception of this verdict. 
 They will " for time, times, and half a time," work as 
 if for their very lives at patching up the hole ; but the 
 reinflation will be postponed sine die. 
 
 But there is also a practical philosophy closely allied 
 
228 COLERIDGE. 
 
 to religion. Now in tMs field I conceive Colericlge's 
 industry to have borne notable fruit; and to this 
 special industry I attribute the remarkable influence 
 which I hold his works to have had on the course of 
 religious thought in England and America. Admitting 
 the shortcomings of Coleridge, and deploring the 
 enormous disproportion which his performance bears 
 to his promise, I still think this fault admits of com- 
 plete explanation without any very disastrous imputa- 
 tion on his morals. In the ' Table Talk ' i we find 
 him speaking of himself thus : — 
 
 "Hamlet's character is the prevalence of the abstract and 
 generalising habit over the practical. He does not want courage, 
 skil], will, opportunity ; but every incident sets him thinking : 
 and it is curious, and at the same time strictly natural that 
 Hamlet, who all through the play seems reason itself, should be 
 impelled at last by mere accident to effect his object. 1 have a 
 smaclc of Samlet myself, if I may say so." 
 
 This may, perhaps, serve as a key to unlock the 
 problem of Coleridge's stupendous failure. But as a 
 critique on Hamlet it is surely at fault. "He does 
 not want will," says Coleridge. Why that's the very 
 thing he does want; else he would not need to be 
 " impelled at last by mere accident to efiect his object." 
 I strongly suspect that disease, in the first place, must 
 be credited with Coleridge's indolence and desultori- 
 ness of study, producing an idiosyncrasy which opium 
 (such is its perilously subtle influence) only served to 
 strengthen and to disguise; and that, in the second 
 
 ^ Ed. 1S51, p. 40. 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 229 
 
 place, the evil is due to the elevation from which he 
 viewed his own relation to the great problems of life. 
 The present Regius Professor of Divinity at Oxford, the 
 Rev. J. B. Mozley, a man of such admirable power and 
 attainment in his faculty, that he has been called " the 
 modern Butler," expresses in the most appropriate 
 terms what I am seeking to convey. He wrote,i — 
 
 " Persons of the greatest capacity are often those who for this 
 reason do the least ; for, surveying themselves from the highest 
 point of view, amidst the infinite variety of the universe, their 
 own share in it seems trifling, and scarce worth a thought, and 
 they prefer the contemplation of all that is, or has been, or can 
 be, to the maldng a coil about doing what, when done, is no 
 better than vanity. It is hard to concentrate all our attention 
 and efforts on one pursuit, except from ignorance of others ; and 
 without this concentration of our faculties, no great progress can 
 be made in any one thing. It is not merely that the mind is not 
 capable of the effort ; it does not think the effort worth making." 
 
 Here we have both the causes (co-operating with 
 bodily sickness and the somewhat fraudulent habit of 
 mind, which the habitual use of opium unfailingly 
 engenders or confirms) which I conceive to have con- 
 curred in rendering Coleridge's intellectual powers so 
 much less productive than they ought to have been, 
 and his actual achievements so disproportionate to his 
 
 pretensions, 
 
 " not answering the aim. 
 And that unbodied figure of the thought," 
 
 of which he is so often found speaking and writing 
 as of a fait accompli. That he could have done better 
 
 ^ Ch-istian Sememirancer, Jan. 1S42. 
 
230 COLERIDGE. 
 
 philosopliical work than almost any Englishman of 
 his own time I do not deny ; but the sort of work he 
 could have done, and I think would have done with a 
 narrower range of tastes, and less self-consciousness, 
 would have borne no proportion to what had been 
 accomplished by the great Germans. 
 
 Coleridge's fourteen months' residence in Germany 
 was for him an opening of the eyes. Fancy a poetic 
 Rasselas, who had lived so long in his "happy valley" 
 that he knew and loved every tree within its rocky 
 bourn, till he could interpret the murmured language 
 of its mountain runlets, and felt a yearning towards 
 every little island which was lovingly embraced by the 
 gliding river, or overwhelmed by the swollen torrent. 
 Fancy such a man being taken for the first time to 
 the summit of a glacier-bound Alp, and beholding 
 thence " the kingdoms of the world and the glory of 
 them." Is it wonderful that his heart should sink 
 within him, when he finds how insignificant he is 
 in the midst of creation, how little he can do, and 
 how unsatisfactory it is when done? Is it wonder- 
 ful that his will should fall before the work which 
 he is invited to accomplish, and that after all the 
 work should be left undone ? Is not this a picture 
 of Coleridge the poet growing into Coleridge the 
 philosopher ? 
 
 Such thoughts were suggested to me on attempting 
 to trace Coleridge's career after his return to England 
 from Malta in the year 1 806. In 1 807 I find him re- 
 siding alternately at Nether Stowey with Mr. Thomas 
 
COLERIDGE. 231 
 
 Poole (at whose house he made the acquaintance of 
 De Quincey), and at Bristol, probably with Cottle.^ 
 I have been unable to follow his footsteps in the next 
 two years, except that he delivered a course of lectures 
 on Shakespeare at the Eoyal Institution in 1808,^ and 
 that in 1809, on June 8th, the first number of The 
 Friend was published. This we may regard as his 
 first essay in philosophy. The twenty-seventh and 
 last number was issued on March 15, i8i0.s This 
 work will assuredly live, though its political economy 
 has been condemned by Mr. J. S. Mill* in terms 
 which I conceive applicable to its metaphysics.^ To 
 my mind, the most curious thing in it is the story of 
 Maria Schoning in the second volume ; for I am con- 
 vinced, on internal evidence, that it contains scarcely 
 a sentence of Coleridge's writing.^ In 18 10 I find him 
 residing with Southey at Greta Hall, Keswick,^ and 
 then with Basil Montagu. His irregular habits at 
 Montagu's were so disturbing to that quiet household, 
 that the host found it expedient to remonstrate with 
 his eccentric guest, which led to a rupture. The re- 
 sult was, that Coleridge left in dudgeon and removed 
 to lodgings at Hammersmith ; thence he went by 
 invitation to reside with a Mr. Morgan at Calne. In 
 this grateful retirement he wrote his Biographia 
 Literaria, and composed, or perhaps I should say 
 completed his latest and last poetical work of any pre- 
 
 1 22, vol. ii., pp. 74 and 134. = 28, p. 333. 
 
 ' 28, pp. 187 and 190. ■> 47, p. 452. 5 35, p. 9. 
 
 ° 34> P- 7- ' 28, p. 261. 
 
232 COLERIDGE. 
 
 tensions, viz., ' Zapolya.' These, as I said, were 
 published six or seven years later. 
 
 I have stated what is to me the most curious thing 
 in The Friend. I will now notify what is to me the most 
 curious thing in the Biographia Literaria : it is the 
 enormously long letter which almost constitutes Chapter 
 XIII., and is put there as the moving cause why that 
 chapter was not written ! This letter purports to be 
 addressed to the poet by " a friend whose practical 
 judgment," says Coleridge, " I have had ample reason 
 to estimate [? esteem] and revere, and whose taste and 
 sensibility," &c., in reply to one from the poet asking 
 that friend's opinion on the expediency of the proposed 
 chapter. If the chapter was not written, how could 
 this friend give any opinion upon it, a fortiori, such an 
 elaborate and detailed opinion as he does give ? That 
 would be a crux indeed but for the fact that the friend 
 knew intuitively what that chapter was (not) to be; 
 for he was none other than Coleridge himself — his own 
 best friend ; like Mr. Noah Claypole's " number one," 
 in 'Oliver Twist.' The simple fact is this: Coleridge 
 was not prepared to write a chapter on such a subject 
 as that announced at the head of Chapter XIII. ; and 
 he wrote this letter to serve as a plausible excuse for 
 not doing so, and a means of making his readers believe 
 that he had written and withdrawn it. To make this 
 the more plausible, he refers them to a " detailed 
 prospectus " of the chapter which is to be given at the 
 end of the second volume. This was " going rayther too 
 far," as Mr. Waller, senior, expresses it ; for Colerido'e's 
 
COLEEIDGE. 233 
 
 incapacity to write the chapter was gross and total, 
 and even teetotal, embracing an inability to furnish the 
 prospectus : which accordingly is as much a nonentity 
 as the chapter " on the imagination or esemplastic 
 faculty." 
 
 During the period from 1810 to 1816, I have not 
 been able to follow Coleridge with any constancy or 
 detail. In 1811-12^ he delivered a course of twelve 
 lectures on Shakespeare and Milton, at the Scottish 
 Corporation Hall, Crane Court, Fleet Street. These 
 are the lectures which Mr. J. P. Collier professed to 
 have taken down in shorthand, of which notes the 
 volume published by him in 1856 professes to contain 
 verbatim copies. But the whole thing was exploded 
 by Mr. A. E. Brae, of Leeds, in a pamphlet, entitled 
 ' Collier, Coleridge, and Shakespeare,' in which he proves 
 that the lectures published by Mr. Collier are fabrica- 
 tions ; and the late Mr. Herbert Coleridge told me that 
 he regarded them as " apocryphal." ^ In the year 181 1, 
 too, Coleridge delivered a course on the same subject 
 to the London Philosophical Society, the first of which 
 was on November 18.® In 1814 he lectured at Bristol,* 
 and at the Surrey Institution in London. During 
 these six years, too, I gather that Coleridge's con- 
 sumption of laudanum was excessive ; in fact, his health 
 began to suffer so much alternately from the abuse of 
 
 ' 28, p. 262. 
 
 ^ It is unfortunate that Mr. Hort, in 32, adduces one of these 
 spurious lectures as the sufficient evidence of an important date. 
 3 28, p. 352 ; 15, p. 52 ; I, vol. ii., p. 220. 
 * Quarterly Review, vol. ovii., p. 480. 
 
234 COLERIDGE. 
 
 laudanum and from his efforts to discontinue the practice, 
 that he called in Dr. Adams, by whose introduction he 
 made the acquaintance of Mr. -James Gillman. 
 
 In the month of April 1816, Coleridge called upon 
 Gillman, who resided in the Grove, Highgate, and 
 made a proposal for his being domiciled there, in 
 order that he might be restrained from the excessive 
 use of opium. He warned Gillman that though prior 
 habits had rendered it out of his power to tell an 
 untruth, he dared not promise that he " should not, 
 with regard to this detested poison, be capable of acting 
 one." On Monday, April 15 th, 18 16, he became an 
 inmate of Gillman's house ; and, with the exception 
 of somewhat rare visits to Eamsgate, Cambridge, and 
 some other places, the Grove was his constant residence 
 till death. Up to a few years since, many a stranger 
 has made a pilgrimage to this spot, and been shown 
 Coleridge's study, religiously preserved in exactly the 
 same state as it was in his lifetime. But all that is 
 changed now. Even the old-fashioned dormer-windows 
 in the top story have given place to an execrable 
 modern structure of sashes : and but for the specific 
 instructions which were given me by another Highgate 
 celebrity (now no longer resident there) I should never 
 have dreamed that this hideous, staring, topheavy piece 
 of cockneyism was the shrine of that Ancient j\Iariner, 
 who, in De Quincey's words, had "cruised on the broad 
 Atlantic of Kant and Schelling." 
 
 From the time of Coleridge's removal to Highgate, 
 his life was uneventful. In 18 17 he delivered his 
 
COLERIDGE. 235 
 
 second course of Lectures on Shakespeare at the Royal 
 Institution ; ^ and some time later, a single lecture 
 to the London Philosophical Society, ' On the Growth 
 of the Individual Mind,' the subject of which seems 
 to have been chosen for him immediately before the 
 lecture was spoken.^ In 18 18 he delivered three courses 
 — one on the ' Choice of Books,' in Fleur-de-Lis Court, 
 Fetter Lane ; ^ one elsewhere on the ' History of Philo- 
 sophy,' ' Works,' vol. xiii., as well as Charles Lamb's 
 exquisite squib, 'Letter to an Old Gentleman whose 
 Education has been neglected,' and one on the ' English 
 Dramatists ' at the Crown and Anchor. Other courses 
 he delivered later, at Willis's Rooms, and at the Russell 
 Institution. 
 
 It was on January 26, 18 18, after delivering one of 
 the lectures on the English Dramatists, that a young 
 man among the audience stepped forth and requested 
 his advice on the best means of remedying the faults of 
 a neglected education. This was Mr. Thomas Alsop. 
 Coleridge's kindness to the stranger emboldened Mr. 
 Alsop to write to him the next day, with a present of 
 game ; and thus began that strange and eventful inti- 
 macy between them which gave us the two remarkable 
 volumes of ' Letters ' and ' Table-Talk,' standing at the 
 head of my biographical list, and also, I think, the 
 ' Letters to a Young Man,' &c., by De Quincey. 
 
 Coleridge's habits and health were now such as to 
 preclude him from really hard work : besides it was, in 
 
 1 Quarterly Review, vol. cvii. p. 480. ^ 28, p. 354. 
 
 ^ I, vol. ii., p. 80 
 
236 COLERIDGE. 
 
 any case, too late for him to make up lee-way. It is 
 not surprising that during the sisteen years of life 
 which remained to him, he did not redeem the magni- 
 ficent promise which he was always holding forth to 
 his disciples and friends, and which he ratified even in 
 his published works. Fragments of a philosophical 
 system, indeed, are found in The Friend, the Bio- 
 graphia Literaria, and the ' Theory of Life : ' but they 
 are little else than translations from Schelling. 
 
 Those sixteen years, however, were not wasted. He 
 dictated to the late Mr. Joseph Henry Green one large 
 volume on ' The Dynamic Philosophy ; ' to Mr. Seth 
 B. Watson the essay on ' The Theory of Life ; ' to the 
 late Mr. Stutfield, a fragment on Logic, which is still 
 in the possession of that gentleman's widow. Finally 
 he dictated some portions of a ' History of Philosophy ' 
 to the late eminent scholar and poet, the Right Hon. 
 John Hookham Frere, who took them down in short- 
 hand. This manuscript and the volume on the Dynamic 
 Philosophy are, I believe, at present at Hadley, near 
 Barnet, in the custody of Mrs. Green. Both were 
 adjudged by Mr. Green, as Coleridge's sole executor, to 
 be unfitted for publication. "We know that as to the 
 latter Coleridge thought differently. He tells Mr. 
 Alsop that it was dictated to Mr. Green " so as to exist 
 fit for the press." ^ Be that as it may, he invested Mr. 
 Green, by his will, with absolute discretion as to the 
 publication of his manuscripts; so that Mr. Green's 
 verdict can be impeached only on the ground of his 
 ^ I, vol i., p. 156. 
 
COLERIDGE. 237 
 
 want of judgment. But for one thing I hold him to 
 have been not free from blame — that he used the 
 materials of the manuscript volume for the purpose 
 of completing his own ' Spiritual Philosophy.' His 
 reason for doing this was, I think, a conscientious 
 desire to give Coleridge's "system" a logical consis- 
 tency, so that the public mind might be prepared for 
 the disclosure (inevitable in course of time) of the 
 fragmentary views contained in the unpublished manu- 
 scripts. Here, however, his sanguine temperament led 
 him astray ; for there never was any prospect of his 
 own work attaining that popularity which even the 
 name of Coleridge (so potent a spell in the promotion 
 of his kinsfolk) ^ has failed to do for the ' Theory of 
 Life.' 
 
 Other works more directly bearing on Divinity were 
 written or dictated by Coleridge during this period. 
 The more important of these were ' Two Lay Sermons,' 
 ' Aids to Reflection,' ' Constitution of Church and State,' 
 and ' Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit.' The last 
 was a posthumous publication, edited by Mr. Green. 
 
 It was most unfortunate that Gillman did not write 
 the second volume of his 'Life of Coleridge' before 
 the first; or that he did not live to accomplish the 
 former, and complete his work ; for with the exception 
 of the last few pages, his solitary Volume I. is of very 
 little value; for the materials were necessarily taken 
 at second-hand, and are presented in a singularly slip- 
 shod manner; besides which the anecdotes are mere 
 ^ I, vol. i., p. 225. 
 
238 COLERIDGE. 
 
 travesties, and many of the particulars inaccurate. 
 Whereas the materials for his Volume II. would have 
 been the record of his own experiences of the last 
 eighteen years of Coleridge's life, and would therefore, 
 despite the faults of authorship, have had an abiding 
 value. As it is, of those years we have no record 
 whatever. What the late Henry Nelson Coleridge 
 might have done to supply the defect we know 
 nothing ; for he died after writing a mere fragment 
 of the biography he was attempting, and which is 
 printed at the end of the second volume of the 
 JBiograpliia Literaria} The additional chapters 
 added by his accomplished and admirable wife, Sara 
 (the poet's only daughter), afford but few biographical 
 facts."^ In truth the somewhat sudden death of all 
 those who, among Coleridge's relatives and friends, 
 could have completed his biography, leave us at the 
 mercy of mere " anecdotage," which too often is found 
 dispensing with the first two syllables. 
 
 This is my all-sufficient apology for the meagreness 
 of my own account. I can venture on the allegation 
 of only one fact more in Coleridge's life ; viz. that he 
 attended the meeting of the British Association at 
 Cambridge in June 1833: and that this was the occa- 
 sion of the remarkable monoloquial display described 
 by the Bishop of St. David's in the preceding essay .^ 
 He died July 25th, 1834. 
 
 Pursuing my prescribed plan, I proceed to a brief 
 
 ■ 1 17- » 19. 
 
 ^ 3, p. I. The correct title is, ' Conversations at Cambridge.' 
 
COLERIDGE. 239 
 
 consideration of some of the work performed by 
 Coleridge during the period of his domestication with 
 the Gillmans. I considered him in the preceding essay 
 as the Poet ; in this, as the Divine. According to my 
 judgment, what he wrote in that capacity has had an 
 enormous influence on religious belief, and possesses 
 an abiding value. It was provoked under two 
 impulses; (i) to satisfy the legitimate wants of his 
 own moral nature, sorely tried and even broken down 
 as it was by his own repeated backslidings, and his 
 inability to emancipate himself from the bondage of a 
 vicious habit ; (2) to supply a grave and pressing intel- 
 lectual want common to all thoughtful men of his own 
 times, viz., the means of holding to certain religious 
 verities and facts in man's nature, while questioning 
 alleged facts in sacred history, and inferences therefrom 
 inconsistent with our primary ethical notions. 
 
 As to (i) — ^I remark that Gillman protests against 
 the justice of Coleridge's designation of his opium- 
 habits as a vice ; asserting that his moral weakness 
 was the result of disease, which made the craving too 
 strong for him to resist. We are thus plunged at once 
 into the vexing and vexed question ^ of moral guilt, in 
 cases where habits inconsiderately, if not innocently 
 established, or strong inherited tendencies, have sub- 
 jugated the moral will. I am disposed to admit the 
 justice of Coleridge's designation. His habit was a 
 vice in two senses. It was a physical vice in the same 
 
 ' Qucestio ■vexata is a question that has been much tossed about or 
 canvassed. The phrase is often greatly misapplied. 
 
240 COLERIDGE. 
 
 sense in which we speak of the vice of a malicious or 
 nervous horse. Any physical fact which carries a man 
 beyond self-control is a vice, even though it were unjust 
 to impute to him a corresponding degree of guilt. 
 Coleridge's habit was also a moral vice. He was fully 
 alive to the mischief of the submission of his will to 
 the physical demand, and to the consequential injury to 
 his bodily, mental, and moral health. Moreover, being 
 very sensitive and contemplative, he had the advantage, 
 such as it is, of stating to himself the whole nature and 
 scope of the evil, and was able to devise the most likely 
 means of procuring his liberation. In the face of all 
 which he would stoop to the grossest deception, and 
 resort to the meanest artifices, in order to procure 
 a supply of that "detested poison" which he had 
 solemnly and prayerfully resolved to adjure. Such an 
 experience may be common; I believe it is. But 
 surely it argues the utmost moral devastation in him 
 who is self-abandoned to the Dantean hell of fierce 
 extremes, throbbing for ever between both, without 
 power of rest or means of extrication. 
 
 As to (2) — The doctrines of Christianity, as they 
 were usually expounded, not only in Coleridge's day, 
 but centuries before, were open to many rational ob- 
 jections; not the captious cavils of evil or crotchety 
 persons, but the reasoned objections of those who set 
 the highest value on intellectual and moral truth. In 
 fact, the objections to which I refer grew out of the 
 great ideal of a personal God, out of the moral prin- 
 ciple itself, and out of its supporting emotions of 
 
COLERIDGE. 241 
 
 benevolence and self-respect. Coleridge's faith had 
 once been shaken by these very considerations. He 
 had renounced the Tri-unity of the Godhead, the 
 Atonement of Christ, and the use of Prayer. But he 
 grew out of these objections, lived them down and 
 reasoned them down, and found at length that it was 
 not the Bible that was at fault, but the foregone con- 
 clusion set forth by divines as. to its peculiar origin 
 and nature, and the strained and literal interpreta- 
 tions which they had put upon its utterances. Accord- 
 ingly he addressed himself to the work of destroying 
 certain mischievous dogmas, and vindicating anew 
 the impeached doctrines of the New Testament. In 
 his own words (borrowed from Holy Scripture) he 
 endeavoured not so much to destroy as to falfil. He 
 was, in fact, the great pioneer in that work which has 
 been carried on by so many divines since his time ; 
 among which we reckon J. 0. Hare, Dr. Arnold, 
 Bunsen, Dean Stanley, and others as great and good 
 as they were. 
 
 Coleridge attempted to perform this delicate task by 
 demanding a secure position between those of the literal- 
 ising and allegorising divines. This he found in the 
 great doctrine of the symbol, as being alike distinct 
 from the fact and the inetaphor. He thus established 
 the tautegory, as the correlate of the allegory. The 
 allegory is so named because it finds a superficial and 
 often illusory resemblance between two facts or events 
 of different genera : then the tautegory would be an 
 
 essential likeness, a substantial identity between two 
 
 Q 
 
242 COLERIDGE. 
 
 distinct and differing facts or events that are of one 
 genus. It is by this fundamental distinction between 
 allegorical and tautegorical figures, that he expounds 
 the chief doctrines of Christianity, certain of them, 
 as regeneration, being figured tautegorically ; others, 
 as the redemptive work of Christ, being figured allegori- 
 cally. I will briefly consider the latter, as a sample of 
 Coleridge's work. 
 
 He contends that when Christ's work is described 
 in Holy Scripture as a sacrifice for committed sin, an 
 atonement or o-econciliation ietween man and God, a 
 redemption of the soid from the bondage of original sin, 
 a liquidation of an infinite debt due from man to God, 
 or as a washing of the sinner's conscience from moral 
 taint, or even as a penalty inflicted on Christ for man's 
 violation of the law, and imputed to man — these descrip- 
 tions (which are not only various and discrepant, but 
 incompossihle, and quite inconsistent with one another) 
 are mere allegories or metaphors, intended to convey 
 to man some notion of the consequential benefit he 
 receives by virtue of Christ's life and death, and not at 
 all substantive figures or tautegories, whereby man may 
 learn the nature of the act itself, which is eSicient 
 in bringing upon man that benefit. Of course such 
 an interpretation sweeps away at a blow the whole 
 machinery of (so-called) evangelical exegesis, together 
 with the point, so often insisted on, that Christ's death 
 was a veritable oblation offered up to, and accepted by 
 the Father, and also a penalty inflicted on him by the 
 Father for our sakes. 
 
COLEEIDGB. 243 
 
 This particular " aid to reflection " must prove at 
 least of great negative advantage to Christian faith. 
 Evangelical divines have fastened on Christ's " work " 
 such absurd, incongruouSj and repulsive features, for 
 which Holy Scripture gives no countenance whatever, 
 that it must be felt as a great relief when we find that 
 those features are a travesty of a mere allegory, one 
 among many employed by the apostles, with the aim 
 of enforcing the inestimable value of that " work,'' 
 
 "Whose worth's unkno-wii, although his height be taken." 1 
 
 Thus it is said that "the blood of Jesus Christ 
 cleanseth us from all sin ; " that He " washed us from 
 our sins in His own blood ; " and that the souls of the 
 saved had " washed their robes and made them white 
 in the blood of the Lamb." Divines of the school 
 referred to have not hesitated to take these phrases as 
 veritable symbols, good to the minutest detail for a 
 representation of Christ's " work." Accordingly, they 
 are never tired of insisting on the cleansing power of 
 Christ's blood. The majority, however, mean by this 
 no more than a Jew would understand by the sprinkling 
 of §acrificial blood for purification ; but even this would 
 be to take the figure as tautegorical, instead of being, 
 what all such figures must necessarily be (since the 
 redemptive work transcends all understanding), a mere 
 allegory.^ 
 
 1 Shakespeare's Sonnet exvi. 
 
 ^ Some have gone the length of insisting on the appropriateness of 
 an image which is not to be found in the whole length and breadth of 
 the Bible, viz., that the soul is to he plunged into the stream or fountain 
 
244 COLERIDGE. 
 
 A ludicrous sophism fastened upon Professor Fawcett 
 in Ruskin's periodical work, Fors Clavigera, is called 
 by that writer " the position of William." In imita- 
 tion of Euskin, I will call an illustration adduced by 
 Coleridge, in refutation of the literal interpretation 
 of any of those figures, "the position of James." 
 Coleridge says : — 
 
 "A sum of £1000 is owing from James to Peter, for which 
 James had given a bond in judgment. He is insolvent, and 
 the bond is on the point of being carried into effect, to James's 
 certain ruin. At this moment Matthew steps in, pays Peter the 
 ;£looo, and discharges the bond. In this case no man would 
 hesitate to admit that a complete satisfaction had been made to 
 Peter." [He then puts the case that James had been guilty of 
 the basest and most hard-hearted ingratitude to a most worthy 
 and affectionate mother, &c. He then supposes a friend to step 
 in and discharge all the offices of a son to her ; saying,] " Now I 
 trust you are appeased, and will be henceforth reconciled to 
 James. I have satisfied all your claims on him : I have paid his 
 debt in full ; and you are too just to require the same debt to be 
 paid twice over. You will therefore regard him with the same 
 
 of Cfirist's blood in order to be cleansed from sin ! So sang poor 
 Cowper, when residing at Olney, under the influence of John Newton : — 
 
 ' ' There is a fountain filled with blood 
 Drawn from Immanuel's veins ; 
 And sinners plunged beneath the flood 
 Are washed from all their stains." 
 
 We read in Holy Scripture of a water-baptism, 'of a Spirit-baptism, and 
 of a fire-baptism, but not of a blood-baptism ; which is so revolting an 
 image that one would have thought, apart from its unscriptural nature, 
 it would have always provoked more loathing than liking. Besides, 
 the language is open to grave exception : for a " fountain " is the spring 
 or source ; and of that one may not say that it is full or empty, but 
 that it flows or fails. Strange as it may appear, this shocking hymn, 
 breathing of Cowper's unhappy malady, has been admitted into most 
 of the collections used in Anglican churches. 
 
COLERIDGE. 245 
 
 complacency, and receive him into your presence with the same 
 love as if there had been no difference between him and you. 
 For I have made it up." 
 
 Coleridge draws hence the grand distinction between 
 things and persons in respect to satisfaction, and 
 demands that when " the position of James," in the 
 latter case, is called one of indebtedness, that shall be 
 taken as a metaphor or allegory borrowed from the 
 former, but possessing no features of essential likeness. 
 In the first edition (1825) of the ' Aids to Eeflection,' 
 appended to pages 323-325 (where the point is argued 
 at length), is a long footnote, detailing the case of 
 Angelini, who ofiered his own life in lieu of Fontleroy's 
 when the latter was sentenced to be hanged for forgery. 
 It seems that the Lord Mayor, to whom Angelini 
 addressed his singular request, told him that " it was 
 contrary to all justice that the life of an innocent 
 person should be taken to save that of one who was 
 guilty, even if the innocent man chose to devote him- 
 self." But when Angelini adduced, in refutation of 
 this argument, the example of our Saviour, he was told 
 that it could not be so, because he (Angelini) was not 
 absolutely innocent. The Lord Mayor of that day did 
 not see that his surrejoinder destroyed his replication. 
 But he had the excuse that he had not mastered " the 
 position of James," i.e., if excuse be needed; for it 
 seems to me that the contradiction is merely verbal. I 
 have called attention to this curious footnote, because 
 it bears on the question of editorship ; for it has 
 been bodily omitted from all editions published since 
 
246 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Coleridge's death, and it is not stated, by any of the 
 editors, on what authority, or on what ground, the 
 omission was made. 
 
 Such was Coleridge's doctrine of the symbol. Its 
 value is unquestionable; but evidently its reach is 
 restricted to the enunciations of doctrine. But the 
 greater part of scriptural difficulties spring out of an 
 apparent (if not real) clash between the Book and 
 either ethics or science (physical or historical), and 
 evidently all such difiSculties involve the question of the 
 authority of Holy Scripture. To this question Coleridge 
 addressed himself in his ' Confessions of an Inquiring 
 Spirit,' being six letters on the inspiration of the Scrip- 
 tures. In the fourth letter he addresses an imaginary 
 friend in these remarkable words : — 
 
 " Friend ! the truth revealed through Christ has its evidence 
 in itself, and the proof of its divine authority in [! is] its fitness 
 to our nature and needs ; — the clearness and cogency of this 
 proof being proportionate to the degree of self-knowledge in each 
 individual hearer. Christianity has likewise its historical evi- 
 dences, and tliese as strong as is Isicl compatible with the nature 
 of history, and with the aims and objects of a religious dispensa- 
 tion. And to all these Christianity itself, as an existing power 
 in the world, and Christendom as an existing fact, with the no 
 less evident fact of a progressive expansion, give a force of 
 moral demonstration that almost supersedes particular testimony. 
 These proofs and evidences would remain unshaken, even though 
 the sum of our religion were to be drawn from the theologians of 
 each successive century on the principle of receiving that only as 
 divine which should be found in all, — quod semper, quod uhique, 
 quod ah omnibus. Be only, my friend, as orthodox a believer as 
 you would have abundant reason to be, though from some 
 accident of birth, country, or education, the precious boon of the 
 Bible, with its additional evidence, had up to this moment been 
 
COLERIDGE. 247 
 
 concealed from you ; and then read its contents with only the 
 same piety which you freely accord on other occasions to the 
 writings of men, considered the best and wisest of their several 
 ages ! What you find therein coincident with your pre-estab- 
 lished convictions you will of course recognise as the Revealed 
 "Word, while as you read the recorded workings of the Word and 
 the Spirit in the minds, lives, and hearts of spiritual men, the 
 influence of the same Spirit on your own being, and the conflicts 
 of grace and infirmity in your own soul, will enable you to 
 discern and to know in and by what spirit they spake and acted, 
 — as far at least as shall be needful for you, and in the times of 
 j'our need. 
 
 " Thenceforward, therefore, your doubts will be confined to such 
 parts or passages of the received canon as seem to you irreconcil- 
 able with known truths, and at variance with the tests given in 
 the Scriptures themselves, and as shall continue so to appear 
 after you have examined each in reference to the circumstances 
 of the Writer or Speaker, the dispensation under which he lived, 
 the purpose of the particular passage, and the intent and object 
 of the Scriptures at large. Respecting these, decide for your- 
 self : and fear not for the result. . . . [The apparent 
 exceptions to the fidelity of the Canon] will be found neither 
 more nor greater than may well be supposed requisite, on the 
 one hand, to prevent us from sinking into a habit of slothful, 
 undiscriminating acquiescence, and, on the other, to provide a 
 check against those presumptuous fanatics who would . . . 
 frame oracles by private divination from each letter of each 
 disjointed gem, uninterpreted by the priest, and deserted by the 
 Spirit which shines in the parts only as it pervades and irradiates 
 the whole." 1 
 
 ^ This looks like a tacit allusion to the text of 2 Pet. i. 20, 21, where 
 undoubtedly the words translated " private interpretation " present a 
 great difficulty. The context suggests that the expression should be 
 ^private divination ; and a learned friend points out to me, while I am 
 writing this paper, that not improbably iTcXvaeojs is an error for 
 ^TTiyXiJiTewj. This conjecture is felicitous, for eTrriXval-q in the Homeric 
 hymns, &o., means enchantment ; while the confusion between ri and i 
 in late Greek is the commonest of mistakes. It is now beyond the 
 shadow of a doubt that in the somewhat similar passage in 2 Tim. iii. 
 l6, the conjunction copulative /cai has no business there. 
 
248 COLERIDGE. 
 
 All this is a careful feeling after the principle whicli 
 Coleridge enunciates and supports at length in the 
 sixth letter, viz., " that it is the spirit of the Bible, and 
 not the detached words and sentences, that is infallible 
 and absolute," a principle which implicitly disallows a 
 plenary or verbal inspiration, and is consistent with 
 the admission of various degrees of value in the various 
 parts of the canon, as, for instance, that Jael could not 
 have been blessed in her deed of treachery, and that it 
 is of little or no importance to us to know that St. Paul 
 left his cloak at Troas. 
 
 There is, indeed, nothing at all profound in these 
 letters, nothing whatever to make one believe that 
 the writer was a great philosopher ; but they present 
 an agreeable association of sound sense and eloquent 
 language. The really important distinction indicated 
 by Coleridge is that between private divination, or, 
 perhaps, personal illumination, which may endlessly 
 differ with different 'minds, and that catholic inspira- 
 tion of God's Spirit which is one and the same for all 
 inspired writers. The former is subjective, the latter 
 objective. If we can but once for all be sure that the 
 objects and purposes of that inspiration are the 
 regeneration and conversion of man as a moral and 
 responsible being, the foothold which Coleridge offers 
 for faith seems sure enough; for then it matters not 
 if the Scriptures are repugnant to each other in 
 historical points, or that they are antagonistic to the 
 results of physical science, for in his view those are 
 matters on which the sacred penman need not have 
 
COLERIDGE. 249 
 
 been inspired. I am far from asserting that this is a 
 satisfactory conclusion, or that it is free from difiBculty. 
 I ought to add that from first to last Coleridge is 
 opposed to that worship of the letter of the Bible which 
 he was the first to call hihliolatry. 
 
 Space now fails me for the further illustration of his 
 services to the cause of sound religious faith. For 
 these sketches of Coleridge the poet, and Coleridge the 
 divine, I must solicit the largest indulgence. It is 
 not easy to trace Coleridge through the later years of 
 his life ; and it is a task of prodigious difiSculty to 
 epitomise the character and genius of so eccentric a 
 being. It is a common saying, thirty or forty years 
 after an eminent man is dead, that " he has been vastly 
 overrated." It is said of Johnson, of Goethe, of Scott, 
 of Coleridge, and many others. Will time briag about its 
 revenges ? It is curious that the larger number of men of 
 mark do not attain an adequate popularity, nor to any 
 just appreciation, till they have been many years dead. 
 But there is a minority, consisting of men who were 
 illustrious in their lifetime, each of whom lived to see 
 his lustre culminate, and left behind him the waning 
 track of an exploded meteor. Of such was Coleridge. 
 I have done my little best to estimate his worth as poet, 
 and as philosopher. I have rated him very high in the 
 one character, and very low in the other : at the same 
 time I have allowed the influence of his religious writ- 
 ings on his own generation, and on that which succeeded 
 him. If I have ever found it hard to determine with 
 firmness his moral worth, I have never doubted the 
 
250 COLERIDGE. 
 
 intensity of his liuman sympathy. He had certainly 
 a warm heart as well as an aspiring intellect. When- 
 ever I read his letter to Lamb on the tragedy which 
 embittered Lamb's life, yet moulded to highest excel- 
 lence his character, it is "borne on my mind" that 
 Coleridge was a good man ; and that clear verdict I 
 have BOW no temptation to qualify by the faintest echo 
 of doubt. In conclusion, I will apply to Coleridge his 
 own words : — 
 
 "Take him in his whole— his head, his heart, his 
 wishes, his innocence of all selfish crime — and . . . 
 what will be the result ? The good — were it but a 
 single volume that made truth more visible, and good- 
 ness more lovely, and pleasure at once more akin to 
 virtue, and, self-doubled, more pleasurable ! — and the 
 evil, — while he lived, it injured none but himself; 
 and where is it now ? In his grave. Follow it not 
 thither." 
 
 ' Lit. Rem., vol. i., p. 36S. 
 
( 251 ) 
 
 XL 
 
 AN ESTIMATE OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Wordsworth has been dead thirty-two years ; for 
 upwards of fifty, during a lifetime of fourscore years, 
 he wrote poetry, the great bulk of which was, so 
 far as we know, fondly cherished by its author, and 
 printed, and reprinted with more or less anxious 
 emendation, in the innumerable editions of his poems. 
 We know, however, that verses written by him very 
 late in life, and probably others that he composed in 
 early youth, have never been included in his published 
 works, though printed to serve an occasional purpose. 
 It is scarcely disputed that much of what he so 
 included has been a detriment to his reputation ; yet, 
 notwithstanding that drawback, his fame has been 
 steadily on the increase during those thirty-two years i 
 and at the present time, both in England and America, 
 he has been placed upon an eminence which to many 
 thoughtful critics seems invidious and unjust. By the 
 late Professor Henry Reed and Mr. Matthew Arnold 
 he is placed above Byron. Mr. Reed's judgment was 
 probably biassed by the unhealthy tone of much that 
 proceeded from Byron's genius : indeed he carries his 
 
252 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 abhorrence of that profanity, which dares to consecrate 
 ia poesy its rebellious aspirations — to desecrate poesy 
 thereby, he would say — that he bodily excludes Shelley 
 from the roll of British poets ! It is well to be grate- 
 ful for the smallest favours ; and assuredly, after seeing 
 in what fashion he drags Byron before his own private 
 court martial, where (as Hood says of the ' Last Man,') 
 "He was judge and jury and all," we were thankful 
 that Mr. Eeed ignored Shelley's existence altogether. 
 It was in good taste, at least, to spare that " bright 
 but ineffectual angel." On the contrary, Mr. Matthew 
 Arnold's sympathies are with every honest rebel 
 against " Anarch Custom ; " and if he is ever drawn 
 aside from the golden line of justice to give Words- 
 worth more than his due, the kindly aberration is 
 prompted by the enthusiasm of private feelings. To 
 have associated with Wordsworth in his home, and 
 among the solitudes of Rydal woods and mountains, 
 could hardly have failed to prejudice in his favour the 
 mind and feelings of the younger poet ; and we more 
 often find ourselves in disagreement with Mr. Arnold's 
 deliverances when they praise, than when they blame 
 the compositions of Wordsworth. 
 
 The establishment of Professor Knight's "Words- 
 worth Society,'' and the more recent estimates of those 
 compositions by Mr. Matthew Arnold, and by a writer 
 in the last Quarterly Review, invite us to a renewed 
 study of what has proved so fertile a subject of criticism 
 and controversy. The greatness of Wordsworth may 
 be taken for granted; for it would be easy to select 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 253 
 
 from the abounding results of his industry, a consider- 
 able quantity of poetry, which should incontestably 
 prove him to be one of the greatest poets of the cen- 
 tury. Perhaps his ' Lines composed a few miles above 
 Tintern Abbey ' is at once the most exquisite and the 
 most representative of all ; to that may be added the 
 somewhat artificial, but still superb, ' Ode on the 
 Intimations of Immortality in Early Childhood;' and 
 the still more artificial and more ambitious poem called 
 ' Laodamia ; ' that simple and finely balanced narrative 
 of ' The Leech Gatherer,' and, though in our judgment 
 somewhat inferior, 'Michael;' and of the shorter pieces, 
 ' To a Highland Girl,' ' She was a phantom of delight,' 
 ' Three years she grew,' ' I wander'd lonely as a 
 cloud,' ' Elegiac Stanzas on Peele Castle,' ' Yew 
 Trees,' and ' Nutting ; ' all intensely beautiful : to 
 which some still slighter pieces might be added, as 
 'To the Cuckoo,' 'The Longest Day,' 'The Solitary 
 Reaper,' ' Lucy Gray,' and the verses ' To the Nightin- 
 gale,' and ' On the Skylark ' (the shorter of the two so 
 named), and others of less, but still of decided merit. 
 To read and appreciate those poems only, is to concur 
 in the verdict which has placed Wordsworth upon one 
 of the very few thrones reserved for English poets of 
 the nineteenth century. 
 
 Doubtless, in order to present Wordsworth fairly to 
 a reader who comes fresh to the study of his works, a 
 much larger number of his poems should be selected 
 than the seventeen we have adduced ; but in our view, 
 the danger in making a representative selection is not 
 
234 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 that of too great restriction, but of including poems of 
 small merit, whose presence can only mar the effect of 
 the rest, and dim the glory of the poet. 
 
 It is perhaps true that no critic, however able, is 
 competent to make a selection for another — which is 
 another way of saying, that at present the critics have 
 not arrived at an objective judgment. We agree with 
 the writer in the Quarterly Review that Mr. Arnold's 
 selection from Wordsworth is insufficiently select, and 
 that we should be the gainers by the omission of 
 much that he has included. Perhaps, too, we should 
 add several poems and extracts which are not given in 
 his volume. The justification of large omissions lies in 
 a fact which is almost peculiar to Wordsworth, as one 
 of the great poets, namely, the astounding inequality 
 of his workmanship. Mr. Arnold thus remarks upon 
 it in the ' Introduction ' to his selection (pp. sii.- 
 siii.) : 
 
 " His best work is in his sliorter pieces, and many indeed are 
 there of these which are of first-rate excellence. But in his seven 
 volumes, the pieces of hiL,'h merit are mingled with a mass of 
 pieces very inferior to them ; so inferior to them, that it seems 
 wonderful how the same poet could have produced both. . . . 
 Work altogether inferior, work quite uninspired, flat and dull, 
 is produced by him with evident unconsciousness of its defects, 
 and he presents it to us with tlie same faith and seriousness as 
 liis best work. In reading Wordsworth, the impression made by 
 one of his fine pieces is too often dulled and spoiled by a very 
 inferior piece coming after it." 
 
 This is indeed quite true ; and is a reason for re- 
 arrangement, rather than for such a selection as Mr. 
 Arnold has given us. We except to one phrase, " His 
 
WORDSWORTH. 255 
 
 best work is in his shorter pieces." This may mean 
 either of two things : but, not to be hypercritical, we 
 will say that we find much of Wordsworth's best work 
 in what we understand by his longer pieces, and some 
 of his worst in certain of his shorter pieces. Further, 
 admitting the stern necessity of liberal exclusion if 
 ever the general reader is to appreciate the consummate 
 greatness of "Wordsworth, we must say that the reason 
 adduced fails to account for the presence of no small 
 number of inferior pieces in Mr. Arnold's volume. 
 Siich inferior work, as ' Anecdote for Fathers,' ' The 
 Childless Father,' ' The Power of Music,' ' The Star- 
 gazers,' and some others, could hardly be excused in 
 any collection : for these stand on a very difierent foot- 
 ing from ' Goody Blake and Harry Gill,' ' The Idiot 
 Boy,' and ' Peter Bell.' Wordsworth usually writes 
 with absolute fidelity and decorum. Many of his 
 subjects, indeed, are (in our view at least) utterly 
 unsuitable for poetical treatment. We will shortly 
 illustrate this remark in the example of ' Goody Blake 
 and Harry Gill.' Mean or poor thoughts are expressed 
 in mean or poor language : dignified or exalted thoughts, 
 in dignified or exalted language ; and so dear was 
 nature to this poet, that he never touches her, be it ever 
 so gently (see last two lines of ' Nutting '), slightly, or 
 incidentally, but his verse becomes instinct with natural 
 beauty, and is fraught with a subtle power to call up 
 in us the gladness, melancholy, or reverence which she 
 occasioned in him. This is as it should be. A reader 
 is always quite safe in dismissing from serious considera- 
 
256 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 tion a piece expressed in prosaic or puerile language ; 
 for whenever the treatment is prosaic or puerile, the 
 subject is so too, and it may "go by the board." Bub 
 when all this truly inferior work is omitted (as it is in 
 Mr. Arnold's selection), there still remains much work 
 worse than inferior (in Mr. Arnold's sense), downright 
 bad work, which unhappily confronts us in his ' Select 
 Poems of Wordsworth,' side by side with the best, and 
 we seem driven to apply to the critic the remark he 
 makes on the poet, that he is unconscious of the enormous 
 difference between the downright bad and the absolutely 
 good. In fact, the ' Select Poems ' presents on a smaller 
 scale the offensive and injurious contrast which Mr. 
 Arnold complains of in Wordsworth's seven volumes. 
 But this complaint, which doubtless justifies the omis- 
 sion of such nursery verses as ' Goody Blake and Harry 
 Gill,' is not the worst that can be said on the subject 
 of Wordsworth's inequality. Seeing that he mixes up 
 in a hopelessly confusing fashion his earlier and his 
 later poems, it is scarcely worth remark, that " pieces 
 of high merit " are mingled with " inferior work," except 
 for the purpose of recommending such an edition of 
 Wordsworth as, we understand. Professor Knight is at 
 present engaged upon, namely, one that shall present 
 the poems in chronological order. The one fact really 
 worth considering in this matter of inequality is, that 
 in one and the same piece, where the workmanship is 
 generally inferior, a single verse in the middle or at the 
 end. or perhaps only a single line, may be found in 
 splendid contrast or relief, like a cloud glowing in full 
 
WORDSWORTH. 257 
 
 sunliglit, while the rest of the cloud-world, is in deepest 
 shade ; and in such cases we cannot help inferring that 
 the author is unconscious of the astounding inequality, 
 or rather of the disproportion, between the inspired 
 verse and the prevailing insipid, dull, and puerile 
 verbiage which constitutes the tissue of the poem. The 
 writer in the Quarterly Eeview incidentally points out 
 one instance of this peculiarity in ' The Song at the 
 Feast of Brougham Castle,' of which the prevailing 
 language is " equally poor and unpoetical," but which 
 contains this verse of solitary beauty : 
 
 " Love had he found in huts where poor men He ; 
 His daily teacliers had been woods and rills, 
 The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills," 
 
 of which the third line recalls one of the loveliest 
 lines in Byron — 
 
 " To mingle with the quiet of her sky." 
 
 Again, in 'The Idiot Boy,' in the midst of such 
 twaddle as the following : 
 
 " And Susan's growing worse and worse, 
 And Betty's in a sad quandary ; 
 And then there's nobody to say 
 If she must go, or she must stay ! 
 She's in a sad quandary.'' 
 
 — in fact, embedded in a morass of eighty-nine of 
 such stanzas, we come upon this gem : 
 
 " By this the stars were almost gone, 
 The moon was setting on the hill, 
 
25 8 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 So pale you scarcely looked at her : 
 The little tirds began to stir, 
 Though yet their tongues were still." 
 
 Surely, no poet ever wrote a more simple, graceful, 
 
 and touching description of the edge of night — on the 
 
 side towards daybreak. Not more stirring, if more 
 
 numerous, are the poetical oases in ' Peter Bell ; ' " that 
 
 sandy desert of verse," for which its creator had a 
 
 profound admiration, as well as fatherly affection ; for 
 
 which he claimed, in the preface, a permanent place 
 
 in English literature, and which he actually defended 
 
 from critical assault in a sonnet. In this waste, at 
 
 last we come upon the following stanzas of startling 
 
 beauty ; the hero 
 
 " reach'd 
 A spot where in a sheltering cove, 
 A little chapel stands alone. 
 With greenest ivy overgrown. 
 And tufted with an ivy grove ; 
 Dying insensibly away 
 From human thoughts and purposes 
 It seem'd — wall, window, roof, and tower — 
 To bow to some transforming power. 
 And blend with the surrounding trees.'' 
 
 Can anything be more poetical in conception and 
 
 expression ? Still later we find another gem : the 
 
 hero now is 
 
 " taught to feel 
 That man's heart is a holy thing ; 
 And Nature, through a world of Death, 
 Breathes into him a second breath, 
 More searching than the breath of Spring." 
 
 Surely no poet ever wrote more worthily ! 
 
WORDSWORTH. 259 
 
 But last — whether least or not — we take ' Goody- 
 Blake and Harry Gill.' We hold ' The Idiot Boy ' and 
 ' Peter Bell ' self-condemned on the ground of the 
 subject. We devoutly believe that the great poet did 
 all that poet could do for such subjects : indeed he 
 seems to have almost glorified ' Peter Bell,' by occa- 
 sional touches of natural beauty, and chiefly the lovely 
 stanzas we have quoted. We do not wonder that Mr. 
 Matthew Arnold can read it " with pleasure and edifi- 
 cation " (the two last words were first added in the 
 reprint of the Macmillan article, July 1879, where we 
 find " with pleasure," only). We should rather wonder 
 if any poet could read ' Peter Bell ' without being pro- 
 foundly touched by what is so lovely and affecting in 
 some of the stanzas — alas ! too few, " like angels' 
 visits." But when we come to ' Goody Blake and 
 Harry Gill,' we are not solicitous to inquire whether 
 Mr. Arnold obtained either pleasure or edification 
 there. Here is an early verse, which we commend to 
 the extreme clique of Wordsworthians : 
 
 " In March, December, and in July, 
 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 
 The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 At night, at morning, and at noon, 
 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill, 
 Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still ! " 
 
 " Delightful iteration ! " we can imagine that clique 
 to ejaculate. We, on our part, are content to leave 
 the stanza to speak for itself; merely remarking that 
 
26o WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Wordswortli was quite sane when he wrote it ; and 
 that at that very time he was quite capable of writing 
 good poetry. He chose a subject utterly unsuitable for 
 poetic treatment, and he treated it as such in unpoetic 
 {i.e.., in prosaic and puerile) language, even to the con- 
 fusion of accent and quantity. When he does come 
 upon a touch of nature, he is thoroughly himself, as in 
 this stanza : 
 
 " Remote from shelter'd village green, 
 On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 
 Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, 
 And hoary dews are slow to melt." 
 
 And again, in this : 
 
 " The moon was full and shining clearly. 
 And crisp with frost the stubble land," 
 
 either of which gives us a perfect and beautiful 
 picture. 
 
 The story of ' Goody Blake and Harry Gill ' is un- 
 suitable for serious poetic treatment, because its interest 
 is mean and vulgar, and its critical situations humorous 
 and funny. Even in the homely and serious drapery 
 with which Wordsworth has clothed it, it is provocative 
 of irreverent feelings, and the fun is none the slower 
 for the attempt to convey a moral of very questionable 
 value. There can be scarcely a farmer, who has not 
 had at one time or another to chastise persons of either 
 sex, for converting his fences into a store of firewood, 
 and for destroying them fasciatim. Evidently no farm 
 could prosper if every needy person were to be allowed 
 
WORDSWORTH. 261 
 
 to carry off the wood of the fences, night after night, for 
 fuel ; and we must candidly say we sympathise more 
 with Mr. Gill than with Mrs. Blake, despite all the 
 poet has done to enlist our feelings on her side. The 
 critical situation emerges on the night when, after 
 several unsuccessful night-watchings, Mr. Gill, already 
 chilled to the marrow of his bones by repeated exposure 
 to frost and snow, discovers and pounces upon his prey. 
 We have then the picture of these two persons con- 
 fronting each other ; a young farmer and an old woman 
 of the labouring class, both as cold as frost and snow 
 could make them. Then the woman kneels down on 
 her sticks (or rather his sticks), and prays to God that 
 the man may never more be warm. Well, for matter 
 of that, Mr. Gill's case has already become more serious 
 than Mrs. Blake's ; for he had contracted a chronic 
 rigor from his repeated night-watchings ; and so there 
 was small need for the woman's curse. But it is just 
 the curse that the poet lays most stress on, and to it 
 he appears to attribute the illness of the farmer ; the 
 moral being — " Farmers, let poor women burn your 
 fences, lest they curse you, and your teeth chatter like 
 Harry Gill's." 
 
 It is quite another question how Wordsworth came 
 to choose such a subject for a narrative poem. Its 
 adoption was probably due to his obstinate adherence, 
 in the face of provocative criticism, to the letter of the 
 rules enunciated by him in his prefaces. Indeed, we 
 cannot but think there was just a touch of spite in the 
 employment of such violations of poetic propriety as 
 
262 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "July" and "quandary," and in the choice of the 
 most offensively proper names for the characters of 
 his narratives. 
 
 But it is not merely in such "inferior work" that 
 Wordsworth's inequality comes out. We see it quite 
 as distinctly in smaller pieces of better workmanship. 
 
 In the lines ' To Hartley Coleridge, six years old,' the 
 only bit of really fine work is in the last seven lines : 
 
 " Thou art a dewdrop which the mom brings forth, 
 111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks ; 
 Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 
 A gem that glitters while it lives, 
 And no forewarning gives ; 
 But at the touch of wrong, withoiit a strife 
 Slips in a moment out of life." 
 
 A passage of great beauty, distantly recalling the 
 concluding stanza of Mrs. Barbauld's Life, though of 
 very different import. Again, the lines on ' Memory,' 
 which are excluded by Mr. Arnold, has one verse, the 
 last, conceived in the purest spirit of imaginative 
 beauty ; it describes the contentment and serenity of 
 the good, in the retirement of age : — 
 
 " With thoughts as calm as lakes that sleep 
 In frosty moonlight glistening, 
 Or mountain rivers where they creep 
 Along a channel smooth and deep, 
 
 To their own far off murmurs listening." 
 
 We have observed a passage of similar imagery in 
 the first chapter of ' Ann of Geierstein ; ' but neither 
 is borrowed from the other. On the other hand some of 
 the finest of his shorter pieces are just a little dashed 
 
WORDSWORTH. 263 
 
 with bits of prose or bathos, or even damaged by some 
 awkwardness of construction or expression. To take a 
 few examples, ' She was a phantom of delight ' has that 
 unfortunate couplet : — 
 
 " A creature not too wise or good 
 For human nature's daily food." 
 
 The second piece, ' To a Skylark,' is marred by the 
 middle verse. Its awkwardness in that place is ac- 
 counted for by the fact that it was inserted by an after- 
 thought. Mr. Arnold praises ' The Highland Eeaper,' a 
 piece which in all the editions we have seen is entitled 
 ' The Solitary Reaper.' But the last verse was (and in 
 some editions is) not a little marred by the line, 
 
 " I listened till I had my fill," 
 
 The inference that the Laureate was unconscious of 
 the fault in such case, is disproved by the fact that in 
 this last, and many others, he reconstructed the line or 
 verse, and removed the blemish. Accordingly, the last 
 verse of ' The Solitary Eeaper ' now stands : — 
 
 " I listen'd motionless and still,i 
 And as I mounted up the hill 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 Lons; after it was heard no more." 
 
 ^ It should be remarked that "motionless and still" is not a 
 pleonasm. We lately read a critique of a performance of Handel's 
 ' Messiah,' in which it is said that " when the band had ceased, a death- 
 like silence prevailed, and it was not until after some minutes had 
 elapsed that a toot was moved — a word spoken : " that is, the audience 
 were motionless and still. No doubt Wordsworth liked the familiar 
 concrete imagery, involved in " human nature's daily food," and " till I 
 had my fill " — but a refined taste will always rise against it. 
 
264 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 It is curious that the Quarterly Review not only 
 praises this piece — " perhaps the best of any, certainly 
 one as good as any," but, following Mr. Arnold, quoted 
 it with the objectionable and superseded line. We are 
 without evidence how far the consciousness of the 
 blemish in any poem of Wordsworth's was brought to 
 him by the criticism of some judicious friend. We do 
 know, however, that his attention was called to blemishes 
 of the kind, by Coleridge and his daughter, by Lamb, 
 and others. According to his own theory of poetry, 
 nothing was too homely, nothing too common, to be 
 embalmed in poetry ; and that whatever was to be so 
 embalmed should be treated with the utmost simplicity, 
 and without the affectation of fine writing. He wrote 
 an address to Mr. Wilkinson's spade, and he called a 
 spade a spade. A writer in the Spectator of June 3, 
 attempts to account for Wordsworth's occasional lapses 
 into bathos and the intrusion of " gritty "' bits into his 
 otherwise well-fused poetry, by an assertion which is 
 utterly at variance mth the facts. "All that is ex- 
 ternal, and the outward dress of poetry, is more diffi- 
 cult to Wordsworth than it has probably been to any 
 great poet before or since." But Professor ]Masson 
 was right when he asserted that Wordsworth must 
 have possessed an " easy and perfect mastery over the 
 elements of language and a natural gift of rich and 
 exuberant expression ; but it is equally evident that he 
 must have, at a very early period, submitted this natural 
 exuberance to a careful and classic training, and also 
 that he must have bestowed his last pains in finishing, 
 
WORDSWORTH. 265 
 
 according to his own ideas of correctness, all his com- 
 positions individually." It is in the words we give 
 in italics that may be found the reason for much that 
 offends us in his versification. It was the natural 
 outcome of a theory of composition, according to 
 which the language should be that of common life, 
 freed from its vulgarisms and solecisms, and that 
 it should differ from prose only in its metrical con- 
 struction. Even Wordsworth did not slavishly carry 
 this theory into practice. But it is self-evident, that 
 however liberally he applied his own principles, they 
 would certainly lead him into prosaic expressions, of 
 which he could not fail to be conscious, and to 
 which he would, on revision, be likely to apply 
 some remedy. It is remarkable that, in one of the 
 worst of such cases, in which, in deference to the 
 judgment of his friends, he twice re- wrote that part 
 of the poem in which the offence lay, his preference 
 for the original verses remained unshaken. The piece 
 to which we refer is, ' The Blind Highland Boy,' and 
 the cancelled verses ran thus : — 
 
 " Strong is the current : but te mild 
 Ye waves, and spare the helpless child ! 
 If ye in danger fret or chafe, 
 A bee-hive would be ship as safe 
 As that in which he sails. 
 
 But say, what was it 1 thought of fear ! 
 Well may ye tremble when ye hear ! — 
 A household Tub, like one of those 
 Which women use to wash their clothes- 
 This carried the blind boy. 
 
266 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Close to the water he had found 
 This vessel, pushed it Irom dry ground, 
 Went into it ; and without dread, 
 Following the fancies in his head, 
 He paddled up and down." 
 
 Sara Coleridge ventured to suggest to the poet a 
 change in the Washing-Tub couplet. It was a tub 
 that the real boy embarked in, so a tub let it be, only- 
 let it not be called a washing-tub ; there was really no 
 need to associate the utensil with so unpoetical a sub- 
 ject as the laundry. So she proposed as a substitute : 
 
 " A tub of common form and size. 
 Such as each rustic home supplies.'' 
 
 Coleridge's accomplished daughter must have been 
 down in the lowest depths of bathos when she proposed 
 that ultra-prosaic couplet. Why, it reminds one of 
 another tub : " a small tub," into which Professor Tyn- 
 dall's copious libation of goat's milk was poured for his 
 accommodation, and which he tells us he emptied in 
 three draughts, by the process of raising it in his 
 two hands, and " giving it the necessary inclination : " 
 and of both these tub episodes, " the effect was 
 astonishing." But Wordsworth's stomach rose against 
 Sara Coleridge's tub : for the very indefiniteness of the 
 characterisation ("of common form and size") was 
 against one of the poet's canons ; for the description no 
 more brought before the mind's eye the utensil actually 
 employed by the blind boy, than the size of an object 
 can be conveyed by saying that it is " as big as a lump 
 of chalk.'' In the event the poet wearied, we dare say, 
 
WORDSWORTH. 267 
 
 by the adverse criticism of friends and foes, sent the 
 refractory tub to limbo ; and substituted for it a turtle- 
 shell. But now emerged another difficulty. Turtle- 
 shells are not found " close to the water," unless the 
 turtles are on duty inside them ; in which case, the 
 blind boy could not play the part of the hedgehog in 
 the old fable, and turn out the rightful occupant. The 
 objections of the turtle would be too great, and the 
 blind boy would never have a chance of being saved 
 from a watery grave. So the poet had to account for 
 the possession of this very uncommon article by the 
 young navigator; and this involved a radical change 
 of conception. So he cancelled all three verses — thus 
 wiping out every trace of the tub (washing or other), 
 and wrote four stanzas instead ; which are certainly 
 quite up to Wordsworth's average. Of these he was 
 ultimately induced to cancel two, and substitute others, 
 which we agree with the late Archdeacon Hare in 
 judging to be utterly unsuited to the poem, and in 
 regard to the contest much inferior to those they sup- 
 planted. But, why rake up this old story ? some will 
 be disposed to ask. Because we see in Wordsworth's 
 " Household Tub " the key to the situation. When 
 we see clearly why he adopted it, why he displaced it, 
 and why he regretted it, we shall see clearly why he 
 admitted so many prosaic, puerile, or inharmonious 
 passages ("gritty bits," if we prefer the crystalline 
 metaphor), into his poems ; and why he made so unfortu- 
 nate a selection of incidents for them, and of names for 
 his dramatis personce. His was a prodigious genius 
 
268 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 trained by self-imposed restrictions into obedience to a 
 subjective theory of poetry. He had an abounding and 
 versatile faculty of speech. There is such a thing as 
 having that faculty in excess : a fault imputed by 
 Ben Jonson to Shakespeare. Posterity has reversed 
 Jonson's judgment. We have now in our midst two 
 respectable poets of the same name, whose works bear 
 witness to their authors' possession of a power of ex- 
 pression greater than that of Wordsworth ; yet in the 
 whole body of their voluminous writings, there is not a 
 passage which would have passed the ordeal of Words- 
 worth's judgment. One salutary effect they have had 
 on us : they have made us gentle towards the great 
 poet's faults, and respectful towards the modesty which 
 led him to revise what he had deliberately written. 
 
 The conclusion we have reached is certainly un- 
 favourable to Wordsworth's great reputation. AVe 
 attribute most of his faults, not so much to a defect 
 in the poet, such as want of knowledge, taste, wit, or 
 humour, as to the hampering effect of certain canons 
 of verse composition, which he had adopted in early 
 youth, and from which, owing to the retired and con- 
 templative life he led, he was never able entirely to 
 extricate himself Why he adopted them is not far to 
 seek. It was as a recoil or revolt of his genius against 
 the debased and artificial poetry of the eighteenth 
 century, and an expression of adhesion to the natural- 
 istic school of Cowper and Crabbe. 
 
 With such results before us, it is almost unnecessary 
 to add that Wordsworth's theory is untenable. That 
 
WORDSWORTH. 269 
 
 so costly an experiment has been made by so great a 
 poet, and has, in the main, failed, should be a warning 
 to all who, attracted by the exceeding beauty of much 
 that Wordsworth wrote, may dream of following his 
 lead. Let us, by all means, have " a new departure." 
 
( 270 ) 
 
 XII. 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 
 
 '' O genius of good sense, keep any child of mine from ever sacrificing 
 his intellectual health to such a life of showy emptiness, of pretence, of 
 noise, and of words." — De Quincey. 
 
 The Kev. Sydney Smith, one of the wittiest and wisest 
 of his cloth, addressing an assembly of students, gave 
 them this advice : — 
 
 " There is a piece of foppery ^vliicli is to be cautiously guarded 
 against, the foppery of universality — of knowing all sciences, 
 and excelling in all arts, chemistry, algebra, mathematics, danc- 
 ing, history, reasoning, riding, fencing, low Dutch, high Dutch, 
 and natural philosophy ! In short, the modern precept of 
 education very often is, ' Take the Admirable Crichton for your 
 model : I would have you ignorant of nothing.' Now my 
 advice, on the contrary, is, to have the courage to be ignorant 
 of a great number of things, in order that you may avoid the 
 calamity of being ignorant of everything." 
 
 Very similar to this is the counsel of Hegel (quoted 
 by Dr. J. H. Stirling, at the end of an admirable article 
 contributed by him to the Fortnightly Eevieiv, October 
 I, 1867 :— 
 
 " He who wills something great must, as Goethe says, know 
 how to restrict himself. He who, on the other hand, wills all, ■wills 
 in effect nothing, and brings it to nothing. There is a number of 
 
DE QUINCEY. 271 
 
 interesting things in the world : Spanish, poetry, chemistry, 
 politics, music ; this is all very interesting, and we cannot take 
 it ill of any one who occupies ihimself with these. In order 
 however, as an individual in a prescribed position, to bring some- 
 thing about, he must hold by what is definite, and not split up 
 his strength in many directions." ^ 
 
 Even Hegel was — perhaps not contentedly — ignorant 
 of the physico-matliematics ; and it is a remarkable 
 instance of the large demand which philosophy makes 
 upon human knowledge, that this ignorance was detri- 
 mental to his philosophy in its ultimate issues, and 
 fatal to its reception in England. 
 
 Good as this advice is, it does not necessarily follow 
 that its neglect is fatal to success in life. Kant, Hegel, 
 Goethe, Alexander von Humboldt (to which roll might 
 well be added the living Helmholtz), and many other 
 Germans, are proofs to the contrary : — all of whom not 
 only achieved the most distinguished success in their 
 several specialities, but rendered their names historical. 
 With Englishmen and Frenchmen the case is some- 
 what different. The names of Frederick Schleffel, 
 Brougham, Whewell, and Michelet, occur to me as 
 instances of the sort of success attainable by those who 
 have made the Admirable Orichton their model. A 
 few of those who dare to attempt to know everything 
 may, notwithstanding such unwise temerity, attain to 
 considerable eminence ; but their names are never 
 found in the first rank. With men of less mental and 
 
 ^ Compare with the above the Second Proposition in Pfere Euffier's 
 " Examen des Prijugis Vulgaires," " Que la science ne consiste point ^ 
 savoir beaucoup" (That science does not consist in knowing much.) 
 
272 DE QUINCET. 
 
 bodily strength the attempt is simply fatal. The 
 physique of Brougham and Whewell was of extra- 
 ordinary tenacity, and their natural abilities were 
 excellent, insomuch that it is difficult to say to what 
 perfection and power of intellect they might not have 
 reached, had each devoted himself to the cultivation of 
 a single set of faculties, or to the acquisition of a single 
 branch of knowledge. Virgil's advice to the vine- 
 grower (in which he reiterates the counsel of Hesiod) 
 may be figuratively applied to the student : — 
 
 " Laudato ingentia rura, 
 Exiguum colito:" 
 
 i.e., admire large vineyards, but cultivate a small 
 one. Equivalent to the counsel of Sydney Smith, 
 Hegel, Buffier, Hesiod, and Virgil, is the old proverb, — 
 " Whatever is worth doing is worth doing well," for 
 few indeed have the mental endowments and physical 
 endurance necessary to the attainment of great excel- 
 lence in many distinct subjects of study. Since the 
 establishment of the Classical Tripos at Cambridge, it 
 has never once happened that the Senior Classic had 
 been Senior Wrangler. The nearest approach to this 
 occurred in the year 1835 (which was what is called a 
 weak mathematical year), when Mr. Goulburn, the only 
 and highly gifted son of the late ex-Chancellor of the 
 Exchequer, was second Wrangler and Senior Classic ; 
 and he paid for this double honour with his life. 
 
 The application, however, of the above-quoted 
 maxim varies with different orders of mental endow- 
 
DE QUINOEY. 273 
 
 ments. The subject of this sketch was fond of sub- 
 tilising (as he and Tennyson call it), and his favourite 
 distinctions were between imagination and fancy, 
 between power and knowledge, and between genius 
 and talent. 
 
 " Walking Stewart," says De Quincey, " was a man 
 of very extraordinary genius ; " but he was utterly 
 devoid of talent, and, as a natural result, produced 
 nothing. Many years ago, I knew a gentleman 
 named James Arthur Davies, who might well have 
 been called "the admirable Davies." He appeared to 
 me to possess every conceivable talent, and, up to the 
 limits of his brain-power, to have turned all his talents 
 to account ; but, as I surmise, for want of some touch 
 of true genius, he produced nothing, and did not 
 achieve even a moderate success in life.^ 
 
 Now to the man of genius, with or without these 
 special gifts, and to the man of many talents, with or 
 
 1 After Davies' death his MSS. were placed at my disposal. They 
 weighed almost exactly a hundredweight : and they may fairly be 
 described as de omnibus rebus et guibusdam aliis. My first examination 
 of them revealed such versatility of talent, painstaking industry, and 
 wide erudition, that I was prepared for the discovery of some works of 
 the highest value. Something like half of the MSS. were written in 
 Latin, a language which Davies spoke fluently ; but I also found in 
 them a, good sprinkling of Greek and Hebrew, as well as French, 
 German, and Italian. Of the last language Davies had acquired the 
 most perfect mastery ; but he ordinarily conversed in English or French. 
 My expectation was disappointed. The MSS. proved to be little more 
 than digested collections. A few original pieces in which he appeared 
 to have worked wholly on his own mental resources were but elaborate 
 failures. I have arranged seven volumes of his Lectures and Treatises 
 on Music for presentation to his and my college— Trinity College, 
 Cambridge. 
 
 S 
 
274 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 without some toucli of tlie Prometliean fire, the fore- 
 going protest against versatility in mental culture 
 must not be taken too literally ; for there are cases in 
 which an exemption may be claimed. The subject of 
 this essay was, in the best sense, a man of genius, 
 and possessed all the talents requisite and sufficient 
 for the accomplished philosopher. Metaphysics was 
 his hobby, and the work which he constantly kept 
 before him, as the one thing for him to do, was a 
 treatise De, Emendatione Humani Intelledus ; yet that 
 book was never written, perhaps not attempted. The 
 bent and powers of his mind carried him to philosophy, 
 and his early training had thoroughly fitted him for 
 the study of any philosophical works in Latin, Greek, 
 or German. He read Plato with appreciation, and 
 subsequently applied himself to the mastery of Kant's 
 ' Critic of Pure Reason.' His various notices, both of 
 Kant and of his philosophy, are hopelessly discrepant. 
 In one place he brands Kant as a liar, and in 
 another calls him " the most sincere, honourable, and 
 truthful of human beings." At one time he imputes 
 Atheism to Kant, and at another he conceded to him 
 the character of a Christian; and his remarks on the 
 philosophy are equally contradictory. The key to all 
 this is easily found. De Quincey wrote flippantly and 
 dogmatically on these subjects before he had acquired 
 any real acquaintance with them at first hand. Having 
 once devoted himself to the study of the ' Critic,' his 
 remarks are just and genial. Henceforth he proclaimed 
 this book to be the Alpha and Omega of philosophy. 
 
DE QUINCE Y. 275 
 
 and hurled great scorn at the troop of unhappy- 
 impostors who had hitherto encumbered with their 
 help such English students as dreamed of cracking 
 this huge cocoa-nut. And that was all : no help in 
 that direction was ever vouchsafed by Da Quincey 
 himself. 
 
 We cannot be far wrong in attributing this unfor- 
 tunate result to the fact that, instead of concentrating 
 his faculties on some one subject, such as fiction, 
 criticism, history, in any of which he might have taken 
 the first rank, or on philosophy, the successful prose- 
 cution of which would have called into healthy action 
 every faculty of his mind, he divided his forces, and 
 lost the vantage of their co-operation. A glance at the 
 tremendous index appended to the fifteenth volume of 
 Messrs. Black's edition of his minor works is sufficient 
 to show that philosophy necessarily shared the fate of 
 all the other subjects which occupied his versatile mind, 
 and about which he delighted to pour forth his voluble, 
 but often most eloquent gossip. 
 
 Thomas Quincey, the father of the author, was a 
 West Indian merchant, carrying on business in Market 
 Street Lane, Manchester. All we know about him is, 
 that he had four sons and four daughters : that, grow- 
 ing genteel, he declined the retail trade from the 
 beginning of 1783, and that he died at Greenhays, 
 Manchester, on July nth, 1793. His son Thomas 
 (the fourth child) was born at Greenhays, on August 
 15th, 1785. He was instructed in the rudiments of 
 the classics by the Eev. Samuel Hall, Incumbent of 
 
2/6 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 St. Peter's. Three years after the death of his father, 
 the widow removed with her family to Bath, and for 
 the following three years " young Thomas " continued 
 his education at the grammar school there, and at a 
 private school in Wiltshire. He was then removed to 
 the grammar school at Manchester, in the expectation 
 of being able to obtain an exhibition for Oxford. Mr. 
 Lawson, the head-master, placed him at once in the 
 first class. The system pursued at this school was 
 such that no boy of delicate health could conform to it 
 without serious detriment to his constitution. To this 
 cause De Quincey (as he called himself) attributed that 
 fatal derangement of the stomach which first led to his 
 having recourse to opium. Whatever may have been 
 the effect of the school discipline on his bodily health, 
 it is certain that to it he owed that mastery over 
 Latin and Greek composition which, in early years, 
 made him so great a name. 
 
 At the end of three years he would have been 
 entitled to stand for an exhibition, and his pre-eminent 
 classical attainments would have insured his success ; 
 but his failing health, and the impatience and irrita- 
 bility resulting therefrom, rendered school restraints 
 insufferable, so that in his eighteenth month he clan- 
 destinely left the town, and for two years abandoned 
 himself to a wandering life, being found in Chester, 
 North Wales, London, and other parts of England. 
 At length, on December 17th, 1803, he matriculated 
 at Worcester College, Oxford ; but, like Shelley, Landor, 
 and the late Lord Derby (to which list we might add 
 
DE QUINCEY. 277 
 
 Coleridge [at Cambridge], and some otlier distinguished 
 poets), he left without taking a degree. At this time 
 he had acquired so extensive and accurate a knowledge 
 of the classics that he would certainly have attained 
 the distinction of a first class, had he merely kept up 
 his reading. His Greek scholarship is reputed to have 
 been prodigious, and he himself professes that, before 
 he went to Oxford, Attic Greek was to him almost as 
 familiar a medium of conversation as his native tongue. 
 The reason for his abandoning the university course 
 lies in one fatal word — Opium. The excess to which 
 he indulged in this delusive and pernicious drug, 
 turned his life into a voluptuous dream. His habits 
 were, in all respects, inconsistent with the ordinary 
 life of his fellow-creatures, food, sleep, and study being 
 resorted to according to the fit that was on him, and 
 without the least regard to times and places. For such 
 a man university discipline was simply torture. 
 
 It is most difficult to trace De Quincey's erratic 
 course from the time he left Oxford. His ' Confes- 
 sions and Autobiographic Sketches' are chiefly per- 
 sonal revelations, designed, in all probability, to set 
 forth their eccentric author as a psychological curiosity. 
 They must be read in extenso to be appreciated, so 
 that our space will not be occupied by any extracts 
 from them. We find De Quincey residing at Grasmere 
 in 1 8 17, in which year, on February 15, he married 
 Miss Margaret Simpson, by whom he had several 
 children. One of these, a daughter, is now living at 
 Greenhays, St. Leonard's-on-Sea. De Quincey now 
 
278 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 enjoyed constant intercourse with the so-called Lalcists, 
 Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, Wilson, and others 
 of that distinguished coterie. 
 
 He seems to have left Grasmere in 1819, and to 
 have once more betaken himself to a shifting life. 
 In 1822-24 ^6 '^^^ one of the chief contributors to 
 the London Magazine, edited by John Scott. As soon 
 as Blackwood's Magazine came under the influence of 
 Professor John Wilson, De Quincey's services were 
 put into requisition in its behalf; but he also con- 
 tributed to Tait's Magazine, the Edinburgh and North 
 British Reviews, the Encyclopcedia Britannica, and 
 Hogg's WeeJdy Instructor. Later in life he wrote for 
 the Titan and several other periodicals. 
 
 In 1843 i'is wanderings (which we believe never 
 extended far beyond his native land) came to an end, 
 and he settled, with his family, in the beautiful village 
 of Lasswade, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, and 
 became the Coleridge of the North, in both the char- 
 acters of Talker and Opium-eater. He might be 
 described as a sort of soliloquising Plato. He did 
 for Lasswade what Socrates did for Athens, Johnson 
 for London, and Goethe for Weimar. There he con- 
 stantly associated with Sir William S. Hamilton, 
 Professor John Wilson, Samuel Browne, Professor 
 J. P. Nichol (also an opium-eater). Professor J. F. 
 Ferrier, Blackie, &c., and, for a time, J. W. Semple, 
 the erratic and learned translator of Kaht. He died 
 December 8th, 1859, and was buried in the Church- 
 yard of St. Cuthbert, Edinburgh. 
 
DE QUINOEY. 279 
 
 De Quincey's head was a splendid study for the 
 phrenologist, presenting a wonderful combination of 
 the reflective and perceptive types. His portrait, 
 prefixed to either the first or the last volume of the 
 English editions, represents a man advanced in life, 
 the face pale and emaciated, and the dress slovenly. 
 The face and head suggest a strange compound of 
 opposite and usually incompatible qualities. There 
 is infinite power and wealth in the massive cliS'-like 
 head, and the utmost weakness and poverty are ex- 
 pressed by the nose and mouth. How to interpret 
 that weird, good-natured, and suSering expression 
 of the decrepit face? It is truthful yet sinister, 
 earnest yet satirical ; the sinister and the satirical 
 blending in a dream-like insipidity. The upper lip 
 is treacherous, the lower jaw sensual ; but the face 
 is so drawn with safiering or age as to complicate 
 or obliterate the usual landmarks of physiognomy. 
 
 De Quincey unquestionably belongs to the class of 
 minds called by the Germans inannichseitig, or many- 
 sided. He is, perhaps, best known to the world as 
 an opium-eater, and therefore, despite all he said or 
 could say in praise of opium, in a disreputable char- 
 acter. I will say no more on this infirmity or vice, 
 whichever it may have been : it is best lost sight of 
 altogether, or at least kept in the background. We 
 will resolve henceforth not to know him in that char- 
 acter. From which of his many sides, then, shall we 
 approach him? We have called him scholar, philo- 
 sopher, theologian, economist, humorist, romancer, 
 
28o DE QUINOEY. 
 
 historian, biographer, and critic. He was all these, 
 and more. Those who have read the fifteen volumes 
 of his minor works agree, on the whole, to praise him 
 as a stylist. Truly he must rank very high in this 
 regard. Passages in his autobiographic sketches, his 
 memoir of Charles Lamb, his monograph on the 
 ' Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth ' i (not to specify 
 many other opuscula) are unrivalled for simple and 
 natural beauty. But it is his matter rather than his 
 style that shall now engage our attention ; and it is 
 as a critic on the obscure problems of ancient records 
 that we shall approach the study of his versatile and 
 voluminous writings. 
 
 De Quincey, while resting his claim to the favour 
 of posterity on that section of his writings which may 
 be called Dream Literature, still set a high value on 
 the results of his critical labours ; in fact, he went so 
 far as to assert that, till his advent as a critic, there 
 was " no rational criticism on Greek literature ; nor, 
 indeed, to say the truth, much criticism which teaches 
 anything, or solves anything, upon any literature." — 
 (Ed. A. and 0. Black, vol. siii., p. 59.) The critics, 
 he held, " had one and all been deluded by the seem- 
 ing force of certain foregone conclusions respecting the 
 intellectual and moral status of the ancients." 
 
 ' The ' Cambridge Editors ' of Shakespeare, in the edition o£ ' Mac- 
 beth ' which forms part of the ' Clarendon Press Series ' (p. 109), 
 declare their opinion that the Porter's speech (act ii., sc. 3) " seems 
 strangely out of place, " &c. That opinion argues an ignorance on their 
 part of De Quincey's criticism. This goes far to justify the seeming 
 incongruity, but does so indirectly. 
 
DE QUINCEY. 
 
 2Sl 
 
 It would be impossible to do justice to De Quincey's 
 views on the entire subject within the limits at our 
 disposal; and as it behoves us to follow our own 
 counsel, and to do a little thoroughly rather than 
 much superficially, we shall restrict our remarks to 
 one single point of the general question, viz., the 
 Antagonism between Paganism and Christianity. 
 
 De Quincey tells us that it was from his conversa- 
 tions with Wordsworth that he was led to draw the 
 first and fundamental distinction in the functions of 
 books, literce humaniores, — the literature which con- 
 fers power, and which alone deserves to be called 
 literature — being contrasted with literce didadica;, 
 the literature which confers knowledge. From this 
 distinction emerge the only two possible modes of 
 human culture, the one which instructs and the other 
 which informs. By the one the faculties of the mind 
 are fed and quickened; by the other the potential 
 forms o? feeling are actualised, and elevated into con- 
 sciousness. Now it is with literature proper that 
 criticism is mainly concerned. 
 
 In the third of the ' Letters to a Young Man whose 
 Education has been neglected' (vol. xiii., pp. 53-60), 
 (which, by the way, were written some years before 
 they were published) De Quincey broaches this most 
 interesting subject, but his allusion to it is tangential. 
 In fact, he simply throws out this hint, " that the 
 antique or Pagan literature is a polar antagonist to 
 the modern or Christian literature ; that each is an 
 evolution from a distinct principle, . . . and that they 
 
282 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 are to be criticised from different stations and points 
 of view." He adds that he attempted to develop this 
 thought in a series of " reveries." To what limho are 
 they consigned? Little, it is to be feared, is the 
 chance of their discovery ; a remark which applies 
 to some other writings of De Quincey, the titles of 
 which are given in a note at the end of this essay. 
 
 The conclusions he arrived at will be found in four 
 essays, viz., ' Christianity as an Organ of Political 
 Movement,' ' The Pagan Oracles,' ' The Theban Sphinx,' 
 and one in ' The Autobiographic Sketches.' 
 
 The followinET extracts will furnish the reader with 
 a convenient summary of the chief of those con- 
 clusions : — 
 
 " Wiat is a Eeligion 1 To Christians it means, over and above 
 a mode of worship, a dogmatic (that is, a doctrinal) system ; a 
 great body of doctrinal truths, moral and spiritual. But to the 
 ancients (to the Greeks and Romans, for instance) it meant 
 nothing of the kind. A religion -vvas simply a cultus : a mode of 
 ritual worship, in which there might be two differences, viz. : i. 
 As to the particular deity who furnished the motive to the 
 worship. 2. As to the ceremonial, or mode of conducting the 
 worship. But in no case was there so much as a pretence of 
 communicating any religious truths, far less any moral truths. 
 The obstinate error rooted in modern minds is that, doubtless, 
 the moral instruction was bad, as being heathen ; but that still 
 it was as good as heathen opportunities allowed it to be. No 
 mistake can be greater. Moral instruction had no existence even 
 in the plan or intention of the religious service. Tlie Pagan 
 priest, or flamen, never dreamed of any function like that of 
 teaching as in any way connected with his office. He no more 
 undertook to teach morals than to teach geography or cookery. 
 He taught nothing. What he undertook was simply to do, viz. : 
 to present authoritatively (that is, authorised and supported by 
 some civil community, Corinth, or Athens, or Rome, which he 
 
DE QUINCEY. 283 
 
 represented) the homage and gratitude of that community to the 
 particular deity adored. As to morals, or just opinions upon the 
 relations to man of the several divinities, all this was resigned to 
 the teaching of nature, and for any polemic functions the teach- 
 ing was resigned to the professional philosophers, academic, 
 peripatetic, stoic, &c. By religion it was utterly ignored." — 
 Autobiographic Sketches, Works, vol. xiv., p. 413. 
 
 "The reader must understand, upon our authority, nostra 
 periculo, and in defiance of all the false translations spread 
 through hooks, that the ancients (meaning the Greeks and Komans, 
 before the time of Christianity) had no idea, not by the faintest 
 vestige, of what, in the scriptural system, is called siny that 
 neither one word nor the other has any such meaning in writers 
 belonging to the pure classical period. When baptized into new 
 meanings through their adoption by Christianity, these words, 
 in common with many others, transmigrated into new and 
 philosophic functions. But originally they tended towards no 
 such acceptations, nor could have done so, seeing that the ancients 
 had no avenue opened to them through which the profound idea 
 of sin would have been even dimly intelligible. Plato, 400 years 
 before Christ, or Cicero, more than 300 years later, was fully 
 equal to the idea of guilt through all its gamut ; but no more 
 equal to the idea of sin than a sagacious hound to the idea of 
 gravitation, or of central forces. It is the tremendous postulate 
 upon which this idea reposes that constitutes the initial moment 
 of that revelation which is common to Judaism and to Christi- 
 anity. We have no intention of wandering into any discussion 
 upon this question. It will suffice for the service of the occasion 
 if we say that guilt, in all its mortifications, implies only a defect 
 or a wound in the individual. Sin, on the other hand, the most 
 mysterious and the most sorrowful of all ideas, implies a taint, 
 not in the individual but in the race — tluit is the distinction ; or 
 a taint in the individual, not through any local disease of his 
 own, but through a scrofula equally diffused through the infinite 
 family of man. We are not speaking controversially, either as 
 teachers of theology or of philosophy ; and we are careless of 
 the particular construction by which the reader interprets to 
 himself this profound idea. What we affirm is, that this idea 
 was utterly and exquisitely inappreciable by Pagan Greece and 
 Kome ; that various translations from Pindar, from Aristophanes, 
 
284 DE QUINCE Y. 
 
 and from the Greek tragedians, embodying at intervals this 
 word sin, are more extravagant than would be the word category, 
 or the synthetic unity of consciousness, introduced into the harangue 
 of an Indian sachem amongst the Cherokees ; and finally, that 
 the very nearest approach to the abysmal idea which we Chris- 
 tians attach to the word sin (an approach but to that which 
 never can be touched, a writing as of palmistry upon each 
 man's hand, but a writing which "no man can read,") lies 
 in the Pagan idea of piacularity, which is an idea thus far 
 like hereditary sin, that it expresses an evil to which the party 
 affected has not consciously occurred ; which is thus far not like 
 hereditary sin, that it expresses an evil personal to the individual, 
 and not extending itself to the race." — The Tl1eba.11 Sphinx, Works, 
 vol. ix., p. 239. 
 
 Copernicus, finding that he could not read the 
 heavens upon the time-honoured assumption of a firma- 
 ment of stars revolving around a stationary earth, tried 
 vfhat would come of assuming the earth to be itself 
 revolving in a firmament at rest. This happy expe- 
 dient was imitated by Kant in the world of philosophy, 
 and he tried the experiment of reversing Locke's hypo- 
 thesis, and assuming that the phenomena revealed to 
 the senses were conformed to the perceptive faculty of 
 the observer. De Quincey was profoundly struck by 
 the success of both experiments, and (perhaps with- 
 out any conscious intention of doing so) applied the 
 Copernican expedient to theology ; and this he did in 
 two ways, and for these two purposes : to explain the 
 prerequisite of Christian regeneration, as embodied in 
 the command metanocite ; and to explain the apparently 
 irregular or retrograde movements of Christianity in 
 generations long after the preaching of the Baptist. 
 
 De Quincey 's remarkable speculations on this subject 
 
DE QUmCEY. 285 
 
 will be fonnd in four volumes of his collected works, 
 viz., vol. siv., pp. 410-418; vol. xi., p. 234 et seq., 
 vol. vii, p. 165 et seq., and vol. is., pp. 339-341, from 
 which last I have given one quotation. In the first of 
 these four references we have his exposition of fxerdvoia 
 (alluded to in a footnote to vol. vi., p. 310, and vol. xi., 
 p. 247). He says : — 
 
 " Metanoeite was the cry from the wilderness : wheel into a 
 new centre your moral system ; geocentric has that system been 
 np to this hour — that is, having earth and the earthly for its 
 starting-point ; henceforth make it heliocentric, i.e., with the sun, 
 or the heavenly, for its principle of motion." 
 
 And this exposition is followed by a statement of 
 the distinction between the ritual worship of Paganism 
 and that of Christianity. At the second of those four 
 references he essays the application of the Oopernican 
 expedient to defend Christianity from the assaults or 
 objections of men like the poet Shelley and General 
 Jacob ; " minds of the highest order," who, not referring 
 the movements of Christianity to its true centre, " have 
 arraigned it as a curse to man, and have fought against 
 it, even upon Christian impulses, impulses of benignity 
 that could not have had a birth except in Christianity : " 
 and he says at length that, though we may discern the 
 fact that its apparently irregular or retrograde motions 
 are really regular and progressive, yet that " no finite 
 intellect will ever retrace the total curve upon which 
 Christianity has moved, any more than eyes that are 
 incarnate will ever see God." 
 
 The key to this position is the distinction between 
 
286 DE QUINCET. 
 
 Paganism and Christianity, in their nature, their ends, 
 and their eflfects. . . . 
 
 De Quincey enforces the position that Paganism was 
 a mere culius, or ritual worship, teaching nothing, and 
 accomplishing (positively) nothing for the advance of 
 man. This cultus was founded on the assumption that 
 man, as a 'person, was not in any reciprocal relation to 
 the gods ; that he was not in any sense the object of 
 their solicitude ; and that he could not by any means 
 make them actively or positively friendly to him. The 
 utmost that was proposed by this cultus was, by costly 
 sacrifices, to propitiate the gods and, so far, to protect 
 defenceless man from the selfish or passionate ravages 
 of malignant beings invested with irresponsible power. 
 
 Christianity, on the contrary, afforded a ritual 
 worship, which was in close connection with a system 
 of ethics and philosophy. It was founded on the en- 
 lightened assumption that God was not only friendly 
 to man, but had Himself incurred the most costly 
 sacrifice for man's regeneration and promotion. Accord- 
 ingly, the end of the Christian cultus was to bring him 
 within a positive spiritual influence for his own good, 
 making him better, wiser, and happier, both in fruition 
 and in expectancy ; making possible for him the pos- 
 session of good, though also as a result of self-denial 
 in this world, and the reversion of eternal good after 
 death. 
 
 The elements of Christianity are stated by De 
 Quincey to be — i. A cultus. 2. A new idea of God. 
 3. An idea of the relation of man to God, " breathing 
 
DE QUINCEY. 287 
 
 houseliold laws." 4. A doctrinal part, ethical and 
 mystical. Of these elements, Paganism had but the 
 first. It was a cultus. Now a mltus, in the Christian 
 system, has four parts : (a) an act of praise, (6) an act 
 of thanksgiving, (c) an act of confession, {d) an act of 
 prayer. Of these the first and the last appear present 
 in Paganism. Pagans glorified and invoked their 
 deities. But how? "You ve&di oi preces,oi apau, &c., 
 and you are desirous to believe the Pagan suppli- 
 cations were not always corrupt." But, "vainly you 
 come before the altars with empty hands. 'But my 
 hands are pure.' Pure, indeed ! would reply the scofi"- 
 ing god ; let me see what they contain." Bo ut des {i.e., 
 I give thee that thou mayest give me), or quid pro 
 quo, was the maxim. Do or quo was either a costly 
 gift or a banquet (cosna) dedicated to the god : to the 
 oracle it was a gift ; to the altar it was a feast. But 
 neither advice nor aid (even from a tutelary deity, 
 could be had gratis. Even the magnificent choric 
 prayer to Onca and the rest,in the ' Seven against Thebes,' 
 is backed up by reminding them that the sacrifices 
 had been paid. Such was Pagan prayer ; and Pagan 
 praise was often the exaggerated imputation of the 
 grossest vices. But from this cultus thanksgiving and 
 confession were absent by the nature of the case ; for 
 thanks could not be due where every advance was paid 
 for beforehand ; and what were the poor Pagans to 
 confess ? Their sins ? How could that be ? for, first, 
 they did not regard their vices as sinful, else were their 
 gods the gravest of sinners ; and, not regarding them 
 
2?8 DE QUmCEY. 
 
 as sinful, how could they feel remorse for them ? Penit- 
 ence they had none. Poenitentia meant regret, vexation. 
 Merdvoia meant either second thoughts, or after- 
 thought, as being too late to be of any avail. Neither 
 afiapTM nor peccatum meant sin ; the nearest approach 
 to sin was piacularity . No personal transgression was 
 contemplated, but simply an offence against the 
 idiosyncrasy of the god, and in such an offence the 
 devotee was as often as not involved by the act of 
 others, while he himself was wholly innocent of it. 
 But not the less did the vengeance of the god fasten on 
 him unless he could propitiate him ; and such was pre- 
 cisely the case of CEdipus. On his devoted head were 
 poured the vials of wrath for the committal of three 
 unconscious crimes — regicide, parricide, and incest ; 
 not for slaying a man on the king's highway, not for 
 marrying the king's widow — acts which he had done 
 with his eyes open, but, for crimes involved in these 
 acts, but which were wholly hidden from his knowledge, 
 he met with that pariah fate, which in its mysterious- 
 ness and its pathos is a likeness, and for its despair 
 and misery is a contrast, to the fabled doom of our 
 King Arthur. For this reason it is that De Quincey 
 takes CEdipus as the type of the child of wrath according 
 to the Pagan scheme. 
 
 It must be allowed that, even if De Quincey's theory 
 is a little too prono7ic4, it is pregnant with a truth which 
 is of great value to the Christianity of our own day. 
 It is incident to any religious development from a 
 new_ centre that it should adopt and resuscitate the 
 
DE QUINCEY. 289 
 
 words that did duty for the religious system which it 
 supplanted; and thus it must happen that in after 
 ages a grave risk will be run of reflecting back on the 
 words of ancient usage a sense and power which they 
 did not then have. If this danger be not avoided, 
 there is the consequent risk of mistaking the actual 
 freshness and originality of the religious ideas of the 
 latest development, and of arguing that all its peculiar 
 doctrines are borrowed from the supplanted system. 
 In this way it is that many are now, let us hope in 
 ignorance, assailing the originality of the special 
 characteristics of Christianity ; and it was against 
 this stupendous blunder that De Quincey devoted his 
 best powers and his ripest learning. 
 
 But it must be confessed that these views as a 
 whole are chargeable with inconsistency. The Baptist's 
 Mdanoeite was addressed to Jews : the mainstay of the 
 theory that the Jewish sect of the Essenes was a 
 secret society of early Christians is, that on any other 
 assumption there must have been a Christianity before 
 Christ. The drift of De Quincey's remarks on these 
 questions seems to be that Judaism, in a less degree 
 than Paganism, but still in a great degree, had a 
 distinct centre of evolution, and that a change in the 
 point of reference, and an intellectual and moral 
 revolution, were demanded in the one as in the other. 
 But when brought face to face with this fact, De 
 Quincey wards off the inevitable conclusion by the 
 following note: — "Once for all, to save the trouble 
 of continual repetitions, understand Judaism to be 
 
290 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 commemorated jointly witii Christianity — the dark 
 root together with the golden fruitage — whenever the 
 nature of the case does not presume a contradistinction 
 of the one to the other" (vol. xi., p. 241). But the 
 only question between Judaism and Christianity is 
 just this — in what respect are they to be contradis- 
 tinguished ? in what respect was the " New Com- 
 mandment " opposed to the old ? And the answer 
 to this, if searching and true, must go far to reduce 
 Judaism to a rank with which Christianity had 
 nothing in common save the doctrines of monotheism 
 and original sin.^ 
 
 ^ In the course of T)e Quincey's works mention is occasionally made 
 of other of his writings, which are not known to have been published. 
 Such as SiiS2Jiria de Profundis (twenty to twenty-five sketches, 
 of which ' The Daughter of Lebanon ' and (a) one other piece are 
 all that have been published), mentioned in vol. i., preface, xiv. De 
 Emendatione Ilumani Intellectus, mentioned in vol. i., p. 254. 
 ' Prolegomena to all Future Systems of Political Economy ' (possibly 
 the same as ' The Logic of Political Economy '), mentioned in vol. 
 i., p. 256. ' Reveries on the Evolution of Pagan and Christian 
 Literatures,' mentioned in vol. xiii., p. 60. And a work citing the 
 ' Antigone,' mentioned in vol. xiii., p. 204. 
 
 Besides these, there are various papers by De Quincey scattered 
 about our periodical literature, which have never yet been gathered 
 in. Foremost is the admirable article on ' Kant in his iliscellaneous 
 Essays,' published in Blackioood's Maga-inc, August 1830, included, 
 I believe, with some other papers unknown in England, in Messrs. 
 Ticknor & Field's American edition of De Quincey's works. There 
 is also the paper above mentioned to which (a) is prefixed, which I 
 read in some English periodical ci7'ca 1S50-1855. De Quincey 
 mentions (vol. vi., p. 267) a paper by himself on 'Freemasonry,' 
 published in a London journal about 1823 or 1824; and (vol. xiv., 
 p. 71, note) another on 'The Prevalence of Danish Names of 
 Places in England,' published in u, provincial newspaper. These are 
 possibly only a few of the monographs of this gifted and voluminous 
 writer yet to be garnered. One is loath to lose a line which fell from 
 
DE QUINCEY. 291 
 
 that inspired penman. These references are to Black's reissue of 
 Hogg's edition. Neither of the English editions, nor the American 
 edition, nor the combination of all these, includes those of his works 
 which had been published separately, viz., ' The Logic of Political 
 Economy,' 1844; ' Walladmor,' &c. 
 
( 292 ) 
 
 XIII. 
 
 HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE. 
 
 LiTERATDEE has sustained a severe loss in the untimely 
 death of Mr. Buckle. He leaves the work, to which he 
 had devoted his life, unfinished, and none is found 
 worthy to complete it for him. Not a line, I under- 
 stand, has been written beyond what has been printed, 
 save his numerous and copious common-place books ; 
 these, indeed, bear superfluous witness to the almost 
 unexampled extent and selectness of his reading ; but 
 it is a grave question, which his executor has not yet 
 resolved, whether it is expedient, either for the reputa- 
 tion of their author, or the benefit of his nation, to give 
 them publicity. 
 
 Having had some personal acquaintance with the 
 illustrious deceased, having conversed with him on 
 some of the most interesting and momentous questions 
 of the day and of all time, having seen his common- 
 place books, and been^j^with him when he was writing 
 the MS. of the second volume of his great work, it 
 may be interesting if I give a short sketch of the life, 
 writings, personnel, and character of the historian of 
 civilisation. 
 
BUCKLE. 293 
 
 Henry Thomas Buckle was born at Lee, on November 
 24, 1 82 1 [the Times of June 9th says 1822, which I 
 believe to be an error]. His father was a wine mer- 
 chant, and gained considerable wealth by his calling. 
 His extensive library is an evidence that he, too, was a 
 reading man. His son did not enjoy the advantages of 
 a public school, or of a university. He was educated in 
 the private academy of Dr. James Thomas Holloway, at 
 Gordon House, Kentish Town, and it is evident that 
 this circumstance of his private education gave a pecu- 
 liar colour to his future career. On his father's death, 
 in 1840, Henry succeeded to the library, and a part 
 only, I believe, of his father's fortune, as his widow may 
 be supposed to have had a life interest in a portion of 
 the property. The early life of Henry was dedicated to 
 letters and chess. By dint of constant practice in that 
 game, he became the best English amateur chess-player 
 of his day ; and he eminently distinguished himself in 
 the Chess Congress of 1851. He does not appear to 
 have subsequently cultivated that laborious " game," 
 all his time being sedulously devoted to his great 
 work, ' The History of Civilisation in England,' which 
 he calculated would fill seventeen thick octavo volumes, 
 whereof he lived to write but two. 
 
 The first volume, dedicated to his mother, was pub- 
 lished, at his own expense, in 1857. It at once made 
 an immense sensation, and a second imprint was 
 demanded and published within the year. Buckle 
 rose, per sallum, to a pinnacle of fame. He became 
 one of the " lions " of the London season of 1858. Now 
 
294 BUCKLE. 
 
 lie had never once opened his lips in public. On March 
 1 9 he delivered a brilliant oration on " The Influence 
 of Women on the Progress of Society," before a crowded 
 and fashionable audience, at the Royal Institution. He 
 made but little preparation for this formidable ordeal. 
 He took into the lecture theatre a small card containing 
 the heads of his discourse; but, finding that he spoke 
 with perfect fluency and exactness, and with a full 
 retention of his prescribed order of thought, he had no 
 occasion to consult his notes at all. His hearers, even 
 the physical science men who were so shocked at his 
 heterodoxy on the subject of Induction, one and all 
 testify to the lecturer's extraordinary eloquence, despite 
 the natural unmelodiousness of his voice. Happily the 
 address was taken down in shorthand : and when written 
 out, it was corrected by Buckle himself, and published 
 in Fraser's Magazine, vol. Ivii. p. 325.-'- 
 
 Buckle's next publication was another contribution 
 to Frascr's Magazine, vol. lix. p. 509. It is an article 
 entitled ' Mill, on Liberty,' and consists of a review of 
 Mr. J. Stuart Mill's work on that subject. This was 
 Buckle's " great sensation article," and how it ever came 
 to be inserted in Fraser is to me a mystery. In it he 
 righteously fell foul of everybody concerned in the pro- 
 secution of Thomas Pooley, a labourer, of Liskeard, in 
 
 ' In the copy of that volume in the library of the Athenteum Club, 
 the leaves of the address are almost worn out of the binding with the 
 constant use to which it has been subjected, and the type is, in places, 
 partly worn out : facts which, standing alone, furnish no inconsider- 
 able proof of the extent to which the address has been read and studied 
 in town. 
 
BUCKLE. 29s 
 
 Cornwall, who, in 1857, was committed for trial on a 
 charge of blasphemy, and was afterwards sentenced by 
 ilr. Justice Coleridge to a long term of imprisonment. 
 The incarceration of the unhappy man was, in fact, cut 
 short by an outbreak of insanity : the actual fact being 
 that he had been of unsound mind for years. Most 
 religious lunatics believe themselves apostles of Chris- 
 tianity, and not a few conceive themselves to be Jesus 
 Christ Himself, and to be charged with the mission of 
 redeeming a fallen world. Pooley's madness was of a 
 less frequent kind, but one not without its instances. 
 He beheved Jesus Christ to be a scoundrel, and himself 
 to be commissioned to publish that fact, and put down 
 the Redeemer. I hardly know if this be a more shock- 
 ing delusion than the other. Perhaps it is. No con- 
 clusive evidence of Pooley's insanity was tendered for 
 his defence: indeed he was undefended. So the jury 
 did not find Pooley insane, and he was left to the 
 religious prejudices of an otherwise admirable judge. 
 Coleridge did not spare Pooley; and Buckle did not 
 spare Coleridge ; he calls him bad names — " that stony- 
 hearted man," &c., and congratulates himself on having 
 " done something towards dragging the criminal from 
 his court, and letting in on him the full light of 
 day ! " Hard words : but very venial. While one 
 liopes that they did not injure the judge, one feels sure 
 that they will be of use to protect some future Pooley 
 from the judicial persecution of men who may be as 
 conscientious as Hale, and yet as culpably ignorant. 
 This attack drew forth an indignant reply from the 
 
296 BUCKLE. 
 
 judge's son, Mr. Jolm Duke Coleridge, Q.O., who was 
 counsel for the prosecution of Pooley. This learned 
 gentleman retaliated on Buckle with as little mercy as 
 Buckle had shown his father (see same vol. p. 635). 
 The poor editor of Fraser found that what with the 
 heterodoxy of Buckle's opinions on "Liberty/' and what 
 with the fiery indignation of Coleridge's partizans, he 
 had, by the insertion of Buckle's article, got a hornet's 
 nest about his head. He made a most undignified dis- 
 claimer of Buckle's views, and subjected them to the 
 earnest and persuasive pen of that genial, if not power- 
 ful, contributor who writes under the initials A.K.H.B., 
 but whose name is well enough known. This writer 
 came down with a review on a work anonymously pub- 
 lished, entitled ' Man and his Dwelling-place.' '■ 
 
 In this contribution A.K.H.B. attempted to circulate 
 the antidote to Buckle's bane : and the attempt is a 
 model of Christian courtesy combined with deadly con- 
 flict. Buckle never wrote another line in Fraser. His 
 friends said he sadly wanted discretion. But discretion 
 was no part of Buckle's policy. It was his design, 
 with a firm, relentless hand, to pluck from the poor 
 weak eyes of justice her conventional bandage of rose- 
 tinted or red-taped propriety. 
 
 The second volume of the ' History of Civilisation in 
 England' appeared in 1861. In the meanwhile his 
 mother died, to whom he was most devotedly attached, 
 
 1 W. Parker & Son: 1859. The work is by Mr. Hiuton, and I 
 must confess, despite the ability it displays, I never saw so little said 
 in so many words. 
 
BUCKLE. 297 
 
 and owing to whose illness tlie completion of that 
 volume had been delayed for some months. It was 
 "consecrated" to her memory. At the conclusion of 
 chapter iv., Buckle enters a timely confession that he 
 had projected a work too vast for the labour of one life, 
 (pp. 325—329), and announces his intention of deviat- 
 ing materially from his original design, by curtailing 
 the remainder of his programme. Poor fellow ! He 
 little thought that death would effectually save him 
 that trouble. He tells us that imperfection in the 
 evidence on which the solution of the problems of 
 civilisation depend is henceforth an essential part of 
 his plan. " It is essential, because I despair of supply- 
 ing those deficiencies in my knowledge, of which I grow 
 more sensible in proportion as my views become more 
 extensive. It is also essential, because after a fair 
 estimate of my own strength, of the probable duration 
 of my life, and of the limits to which industry can 
 safely be pushed, I have been driven to the conclusion, 
 that this introduction, which I had projected as a solid 
 foundation on which the history of England might subse- 
 quently be raised, must either be greatly curtailed, and 
 consequently shorn of its force, or that, if not curtailed, 
 there wiU hardly be a chance of my being able to 
 narrate with the amplitude and fulness of detail which 
 they richly deserve, the deeds of that great and splendid 
 nation with which I am best acquainted, and of which 
 it is my pride to count myself a member." Even here 
 Buckle overrated his physical powers. He had had 
 one warning. He had suddenly fallen to the ground ; 
 
298 BUCKLE. 
 
 and though he recovered his consciousness immedi- 
 ately, and was able to rise without assistance, his 
 friends feared that the attack was of an apoplectic 
 nature. As soon as the second volume of his gigantic 
 work was a fait accompli, he went to Filey for the 
 benefit of the sea breezes : and ultimately arranged to 
 spend the winter and spring in Egypt and Palestine. 
 He left England last autumn, in company with two 
 young friends. In his last letter to a cousin, resident 
 in town, he speaks of his health having been completely 
 re-established, and says that he was never better in his 
 life. He announced his intention of going to Cyprus, 
 and sailing thence for England, in order to avoid the 
 physical inconveniences of an overland tour in the heat 
 of summer. Unfortunately he was taken ill with 
 typhus fever, at Beyrout, and with his constitutional 
 headstrong temper, intensified by his sickness, insisted, 
 while the fever was approaching its height, and delirium 
 was imminent, on being carried in a litter over the 
 mountains to Damascus. He arrived there utterly 
 exhausted, and soon fell a prey to the malady which 
 would, in all probability, have yielded to careful 
 nursing, and due medical treatment. He died at 
 Damascus, on JMay 26th last, in the 41st year of his 
 age. 
 
 This is not the time to form an estimate of the 
 results of Buckle's natural powers and acquirements. 
 Of the vast extent of his researches we may form some 
 notion from the fact that he had some access to the 
 literature of twenty-four languages, and made a laborious 
 
BUCKLE. 299 
 
 use of his linguistic attainments. He could read sisteen 
 languages with scholarly precision, and in four or five 
 he could converse. He was widely read in the literature 
 of physical, political, and physiological science. He 
 was deeply versed in all the Metaphysical Schools, and 
 in an amount of Theology which it is sickening to con- 
 template, and which he himself regarded as the most 
 arid tract of mind that he had to traverse. As an 
 example of the accuracy and extent of his knowledge 
 of German Metaphysics, I may cite the fact that he 
 removed from my mind a misapprehension as to the 
 evidences of the reality of phenomena and noumena, 
 according to the critical philosophy; and gave me ex 
 tempore the required proof that Kant held those two 
 evidences to be of the same degree, but of difierent 
 kinds, by citing, in German, a passage from one of 
 Kant's letters : thus evincing his familiar knowledge, 
 not merely of the great works of Kant, but of his minor 
 writings. In a similar exact and off-hand manner 
 Buckle settled the question, which was much mooted 
 two years ago, as to the discoverer of the Polarisation 
 of Light. I have his own assurance that he had read 
 every English drama that had been printed up to the 
 Georgian epoch. If I were called upon to say in 
 what particular department of knowledge Buckle was 
 fundamentally deficient, I should indicate Mathematics. 
 There is a proof of it in vol. i. of his history. At p. 28 
 Buckle makes an analogical use of " the Parallelogram 
 of Forces," which he enunciates as if the demonstration 
 depended on two parallelograms. I took the liberty of 
 
300 BUCKLE. 
 
 pointing out to him this error shortly before he left 
 England. There is also a grave misstatement of the 
 principles of geometrical deduction, at p. 435 of vol. ii. 
 Notwithstanding Buckle's headstrong tendencies, great 
 intellectual power, and huge stock of knowledge, I never 
 knew a man who more gracefully, though cautiously, 
 submitted to correction. In his discourse at the Eoyal 
 Institution he had spoken of the late Sir W. Hamilton, 
 and Professor De Morgan, as the orginators of the 
 doctrine of " the quantiiied predicate." I found no 
 difiBculty in convincing him that neither of those able 
 men had any title to the distinction assigned to them ; 
 but he was not satisfied till I had pointed out to him an 
 enunciation of the doctrine in question in the works of 
 Laurentius Valla. He has been called dogmatic and 
 crotchety : whatever he may have been, I never found 
 him otherwise than ardent and conscientious in the 
 pursuit of truth. So that he got at the truth he cared 
 little whether he had to correct another or to submit to 
 correction himself. 
 
 In morals he was a firm necessitarian : in religion 
 he was a positivist, sympathising, however, with the 
 Broad Church party. In both he was jealous of the 
 claims of tradition as superseding or limiting positive 
 science. I never was able to determine whether any 
 private dislikes had whet his trenchant criticism on 
 the Scottish clergy. I am inclined to think that the 
 virulence with which he assailed iAem would have been 
 extended to any other party who used a powerful theo- 
 logical influence to the detriment of civilisation. 
 
BUCKLE. 301 
 
 In personal appearance Buckle was tall and spare, 
 of fair complexion, with mild yet penetrating eyes, 
 light hair, a nose like a hawk's bill, a large mouth, and 
 huge under-jaw. His head was handsome, his forehead 
 massive and expanded. His voice was somewhat loud 
 and dissonant, and his accent was broad and unmusical. 
 He had a hesitating manner of talking, as if he were 
 forcibly restraining the current of speech until his 
 thoughts were cleai'ly ordered, and he had a very disa- 
 greeable way of emphasising the word and and some 
 other monosyllables. Yet the expression of his face, 
 and his manner generally were pleasing. They were 
 significant of earnest and vigorous thought, and in- 
 domitable firmness. He had little sense of the humor- 
 ous, and made little allowance for the absurd. With 
 all his vehemence and animosity, and his vast over- 
 bearing intellect, he had a genial equability of temper 
 and a generous sympathy which made him the friend 
 of men who had little in common with him. He had 
 no conceit or vanity in his composition, and he could 
 not understand it in others. They who have charged 
 him with this vice have foully libelled him. I never 
 knew a man to whom such a vice was so impossible ; 
 yet he had a thorough appreciation of his own great 
 powers, and kept himself and his aims so constantly 
 before him, that he might, in the French signification 
 of the term, be called an egotist. This brief and im- 
 perfect sketch of Buckle's life and character must be 
 taken with due allowance for probable error. It must 
 be borne in mind that at present but little is known 
 
302 BCrCKLE. 
 
 of the last few months of his life ; and that though I 
 had occasional opportunities of intercourse with him 
 before the publication of his second volume, I was by 
 no means his intimate friend. He always treated me 
 with the most perfect candour and thorough sincerity, 
 and though I disagreed with much in his philosophical 
 systems, I deeply respected and admired him. He was 
 indeed a man of mark ; and I know of no man whose 
 intellect and training fit him to succeed Buckle in his 
 immortal labours. 
 
( 303 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A VOICE FOR THE MUTE CREATION. 
 
 Theke are, in my opinion, many moral questions as 
 to which the Old Testament is favourably contrasted 
 with the New. In moral precepts the former is scarcely 
 less rich than the latter. In the duty of sincerity 
 and purity of heart, as in that of recognising the 
 equality of all men, according to the famous Terentian 
 dictum ; in the duty of consideration towards strangers, 
 as in those of restraining the tongue from lying, 
 slandering, and evil-speaking, the two Testaments are 
 co-ordinate, and the New sometimes borrows of the Old. 
 But further, there is, I think, one point upon which 
 the Old Testament has a decided superiority oyer the 
 New : viz., in respect to the conduct of man towards 
 his less richly gifted associates in Creation. I do not 
 intend to impute the slightest blame to the writers of 
 the New Testament for their omission to enjoin kind- 
 ness towards the brutes : nor for their still more 
 remarkable silence respecting a " peculiar institution." 
 They were probably not directly called upon to pro- 
 nounce upon any questions of those kinds. Whatever 
 may be the explanation of their omission respecting 
 
304 A VOICE FOR 
 
 our treatment of the brutes — and I doubt not a 
 sufficient one existed — we must still say that for all 
 moral purposes the Old Testament is here better than 
 the New. 
 
 Let us briefly inquire what is enjoined in the Old 
 Testament on the subject before us. "We shall not find 
 much; but what there is, is pointed and significant. 
 In the Book of Exodus (xxiii. 12) we shall find an 
 ordinance for the observance of the Sabbath based on 
 a most merciful consideration. " Six days shalt thou 
 do thy work, and on the seventh day shalt thou rest : " 
 and one of the reasons assigned for this rest is, " that 
 thine ox and thine ass may rest.'' In the Book of 
 Numbers (xxii. 28-33) '^^ hear the Divine Voice lifted 
 up on behalf of an ill-used ass. "What have I done 
 unto thee, that thou has smitten me these three 
 times? . . . Am not I thine ass, upon which thou 
 has ridden ever since I was thine unto this day ? was 
 I ever wont to do so unto thee ? " (i.e., to fall down 
 under him). So spake the Lord by the mouth of an 
 ass. And what saith the angel? "Wherefore hast 
 thou smitten thine ass these three times? behold I 
 went out to withstand thee, because thy way is per- 
 verse before me : and the ass saw me, and turned from 
 me these three times : unless she had turned from me, 
 surely now also I had slain thee, and saved her alive." 
 Never did ass do a man such " yeoman service " as 
 this, except perhaps when Samson slew his thousands 
 with the jaw-bone of that animal. Now, I question 
 whether I am far from wrong if I aver that, if any man 
 
THE MUTE CREATION. 305 
 
 were guilty of cruelty towards a harmless and defence- 
 less creature, lie might, if lie listened with his inward 
 sense, hear both the plaintive remonstrance of the 
 animal, and the denunciation of the Angel of God. 
 "In reason's ear" I am sure both roices will be loud 
 enough. How much do we not lose by shutting up 
 that avenue of perception against whose closed door the 
 hand of God is never wearied with knocking ! What 
 heavenly precepts and persuasions, what Divine har- 
 monies of righteousness and truth might we not catch, 
 as the shy breathings of a far-off ^olian lute, if we did 
 but stand and listen ! Sad, indeed, is it to think how 
 many of that patient, toiling, hard-lived race have 
 suffered at man's hand since Balaam in anger smote 
 his ass three times. Let us at least hope that God 
 tempers the strokes we inflict by the endowment of a 
 less sensitive structure than is possessed by creatures 
 of a higher class. How many of our best writers have 
 " stooped to eulogise an ass ! " a noble band, headed 
 by God's own angel, with Sterne, Wordsworth, and 
 Coleridge for followers, whose words shall live as long 
 as the angel's rebuke can find utterance in the English 
 language. 
 
 We have another just and merciful precept in the 
 Book of Deuteronomy (xxv. 4), which forbidst he use 
 of the customary head-gear for oxen, when it is not 
 needed for guidance and control. " Thou shalt not 
 muzzle the ox when he treadeth out the corn." And 
 this prohibition is remarkable as being the only one 
 having reference to our treatment of the lower animals 
 
3o6 A VOICE FOR 
 
 which is found in the New Testament, and it is 
 there repeated twice (i Cor. ix. 9; i Tim, v. 18). In 
 another part of the Book of Exodus (xxxiv. 26) we 
 find an injunction conceived in a singularly quaint yet 
 kindly spirit. It appears a second time in Deuteronomy 
 (xiv. 21); and though we may perhaps look upon it as 
 an over-refinement upon considerate kindness, border- 
 ing on the romantic, we cannot fail to perceive that it 
 is profoiindly significant of the importance which the 
 Israelitish Lawgiver attached to the duty we are con- 
 sidering. He says, " Thou shalt not seethe a kid in 
 his mother's milk." Later in Deuteronomy (xxii. ^-f) 
 is an equally quaint instance of the kindness he incul- 
 cated towards birds : but to our modern and doubtless 
 better feelings the precepts seem strangely one-sided. 
 " If a bird's nest chance to be before thee in the way in 
 any tree, or on the ground, whether they be young ones 
 or eggs, and the dam sitting upon the young, or upon 
 the eggs, thou shalt not take the dam with the young : 
 but thou shalt in any wise let the dam go, and take the 
 young to thee ; that it may be well with thee, and that 
 thou mayest prolong thy days." What a capital excuse 
 have we here for the young gentlemen to whose depre- 
 dations, according to Virgil, we are indebted for the 
 "doleful ditty" of the widowed nightingale. Let 
 Jehovah be deemed if you will a harsh and severe God 
 towards men ; but who will deny that by the mouth 
 of Moses he is a kind and merciful God towards His 
 lower and more defenceless creatures ? The numerous 
 instances which appear to contradict this judgment 
 
THE MUTE CREATION. 307 
 
 are all explicable by considering the supreme import- 
 ance of sacrificial institutions, and the duty of im- 
 plicit obedience to the commands of the Israelitish 
 prophets. 
 
 Such is the morality of the Old Testament in respect 
 to our treatment of the lower animals. Under the 
 influence of the Christian teaching we have attained 
 to much higher and more exhaustive maxims than any 
 we can cull out of the Old Testament. I am not going 
 to recite a code of morality concerning the subject we 
 are considering. Let us look to our practice in these 
 enlightened days. Does it bear any proportion to our 
 enlightenment ? I fear not. Unfortunately, civilisa- 
 tion, while it gives increased opportunities and better 
 means of moral training, also furnishes us with more 
 refined instruments for the perpetration of wickedness. 
 We may now sin with perfect good taste, and without 
 discomfort to our sensitive feelings. Let me lay bare 
 this sore of civilised society. Great is the temptation 
 to divorce "might" from "right." The exercise of 
 power is pleasant for its own sake : and where the 
 creature upon which it is exercised can be thereby 
 made to subserve the profit or pleasure of the exerciser, 
 there is a secondary and consequential temptation to 
 use it in disregard of the obligations which its posses- 
 sion entails. The preservation of life is a first motive 
 with most men, and it is instinctively and rightly so. 
 The fact that animal food conduces to its preservation 
 as well as to sensual enjoyment blinds most of us to 
 the horrors of the shambles and the slaughterhouse. 
 
3o8 A VOICE FOR 
 
 Tlie fact that neither the business of life could be con- 
 ducted nor some of its pleasures enjoyed without the 
 use of horses, blinds most of us to the sufferings and 
 sorrows of that truly noble animal. If any of us are 
 sufficiently alive to these hard facts, the very difficulty 
 which we experience in self-discipline and self-denial, 
 as well as the very limited influence which we neces- 
 sarily have in modifying the iron usages of society, and 
 thus in mitigating the sufferings of our mute fellows 
 in Creation, . . . these are circumstances which ought 
 to make us gentle towards those who do not feel as we 
 feel, or do not see the relations of man to brute in the 
 same light as ourselves. Let us ever remember that 
 men commonly act cruelly from the want of moral culture 
 — that discipline, ^vhich fosters the kindly feelings of a 
 man, enlightens his conscience, and trains him in habits 
 of considerate forbearance and willing self-denial. 
 
 It is proverbial that children are cruel by nature, 
 and in this, according to my experience, they are not 
 slandered. They are cruel partly from " want of 
 thought," and partly from " want of heart," i.e., from a 
 barbarous pleasure taken in the infliction of suffering, 
 as a wanton exercise of blind power on that which 
 cannot resist. A highly educated lady of station, who 
 was driven by sudden adversity to get her living as a 
 governess, and whose breeding and accomplishments 
 obtained for her a situation in the family of a well- 
 known marquis, confessed to me that she could not 
 endure to associate with her young charges because 
 they were " addicted to torturing frogs." 
 
THE MUTE CREATION. 309 
 
 My own childish experiences afford me, on this point, 
 a sufficiently bitter retrospect : yet I was not so cruel 
 as many other children of my own age, and moreover I 
 was always, as I am now, morbidly sensitive to pain 
 endured by man or beast. I sometimes think I suffer 
 more from seeing an act of cruelty which I cannot pre- 
 vent than is endured by the creature on whom it is 
 inflicted ; and I always pay a heavy penalty if I forego 
 an opportunity of intercession in the animal's favour, 
 even where I know that my interference will be un- 
 availing. Unavailing it too often is, from the apathy 
 of the bystanders, who, as a rule, if you interfere, will 
 look upon the inflictor as the injured party, and will 
 side with him against you. 
 
 The simple fact is that it requires maturity of mind 
 to be thoroughly conscious of the heinous sin of cruelty. 
 Individually we learn this lesson by slow degrees. 
 Immanuel Kant teaches that the wanton destruction 
 of an organism of inanimate beauty — as a shoot, or a 
 blossom — is sin (' Metaph. of Eth. Blementology,' book i. 
 sec. 17). And though this is not cruelty, it is closely 
 allied to it. But the little pleasure, either immediate or 
 consequential, derivableTrom such an act (except, indeed, 
 in the way of retaliation for an injury received) is neces- 
 sarily so small that but little culture is required for the 
 eradication of this despicable and childish practice.-' 
 
 ^ In the year 1814 Edward Polio was hanged at the new gaol, Chelms- 
 ford, for cutting down a cherry-tree, in a plantation at Kelvedon, in 
 Essex, the property of a Mr. Brewer. Mr. Justice Heath, who tried 
 him, told him that "a man that would wilfully cut down a, young 
 cherry-tree would take away a man's life ! " 
 
3IO A VOICE FOR 
 
 But not only is the lesson of kindness to " the mute 
 creation" (as Lord Erskine called the lower animals) 
 slowly and gradually learned by the individual, but it 
 is slowly and gradually learned by the race or tribe of 
 which that individual is a unit. We English were 
 once notably cruel on principle both to man and to 
 beast. Sir Thomas Elyote was a popular writer of 
 the sixteenth century ; and it will excite surprise to 
 learn that he found no better way of extolling the 
 blameless habits of the Roman Emperor Alexander, 
 than by setting forth his keen relish of diversions 
 which we count among the most cruel. He writes 
 (' The Image of Govemaunce,' 1549, p. 15): "In feasts 
 or bankettyng he neuer wolde haue any wanton pas- 
 time. His pleasure luas to heJwld lyrdes fightyng together. 
 And therefore he had in his gardein, places, where 
 birdes of sundry kyndes were inclosed and kepte, wherein 
 he toke singular pleasure." Indeed both cock-fighting 
 and bull-baiting were not only commonly practised in 
 England for a century after the time of Sir Thomas 
 Elyote, but they were regarded as respectable and 
 innocent diversions, and, as such, were frequented by 
 the best educated of both sexes. 
 
 Now I am not prepared to say that the sports of the 
 field are as cruel as cock-fighting and bull-baiting ; at 
 least the cruelty in the one case is not so barbarous as 
 in the other. In the case of field sports the infliction of 
 cruelty is incidental, not essential, to the pleasure. It 
 usually forms no part of the sportsman's enjoyment. 
 His delight is not in the terrors or anguish of a deer 
 
THE MUTE CKEATION. 311 
 
 at bay, or, what is often worse, of an over-ridden horse, 
 but in " the glory of motion," the excitement of pur- 
 suit, and the not too formidable dangers of the fence 
 and brook. He takes no pleasure in the torments 
 endured by a winged partridge or a limping hare, but 
 in the exercise of the trained eye and arm, and the 
 athletic morning walk. Yet be these manly exercises 
 as exhilarating and invigorating as they may, the 
 sportsman should not allow his feelings to become 
 callous to the sufferings which " the mute creation " 
 pay as the extorted price of his pleasure. None but 
 the sportsman can accurately know what amount or 
 kind of suffering is usually inflicted in the course of 
 a day's hunt ; and as he does not trouble his head about 
 the feelings of a terror-stricken fox, or the toils of a 
 dead-beat horse, these silent sufferers get little sym- 
 pathy either in the field or in the hall. Yet how often 
 have I heard of a sportsman breaking his horse's back 
 in training or in the hunt. One of the best riders I 
 ever knew set his horse at a high double fence, which 
 he refused. Again and again, under the stimulus of 
 whip and spur, did he repeat the experiment, and each 
 time the sagacious animal, from instinctive knowledge 
 of his own inability, refused the leap. The rider at 
 last came off victorious, and the horse broke his back. 
 I had the privilege of travelling with a first-rate sports- 
 man in the month of October i860, and I now rejoice 
 that I was prompted by the character of his conver- 
 sation to take some of it down. It was addressed to 
 a sporting friend who sat opposite him: so I shall 
 
312 A VOICE FOR 
 
 indicate the sportsman by the letter A. and his friend 
 byB. 
 
 A. Ah ! the hardest run we ever had was one day 
 last year from Ingatestone. To my knowledge ciffht 
 horses died after the hunt ! I was prepared against 
 emergencies, and sent on a second horse to be in readi- 
 ness ; but he did not come up in time, so I had to ride 
 one poor devil all day ; and he died the next morning. 
 Bless you ! at last he could hardly draw his hindquarters 
 out of the loam. 
 
 B. Good G ! and I suppose others were injured 
 
 for life ? 
 
 A. Why, yes ; Jive of the survivors to my knowledge 
 were good for nothing afterwards. 
 
 B. That's thirteen : out of how many ? 
 
 A. Out of fifteen or thereabouts. Some fifteen only 
 were left at the end of the day. Let me give you a 
 bit of advice. It's of no use to keep a horse that has 
 gone through such a day as that. And mind you this, 
 one palpitation of the heart is enough for one horse. My 
 advice is, " Sell him." 
 
 B. I dare say you are in the right there. 
 
 A. And if your horse takes to bleeding at the nose, 
 lose no time, sell him as soon as you have him in con- 
 dition, you'll get more for him then than ever after- 
 wards. 
 
 Here I closed my note-book. I had got a faithful 
 photograph of an Essex sportsman, and "a right-down 
 good fellow" into the bargain: and I was satisfied. 
 However, I made this mental comment on the sports- 
 
THE MUTE CREATION. 313 
 
 man's sound advice. "And as for the purchaser of 
 the damaged horse, I suppose he must take care of 
 himself. Caveat emptor. He will doubtless find out 
 when it is too late that his newly purchased hunter is 
 worth a trifle more to the knacker than to the hunts- 
 man. And thus the iniquity of cruelty is capped by 
 the iniquity of fraud." 
 
 And yet I dare say this fox-hunter was not in other 
 respects- a bad man. He is probably an excellent land- 
 lord, and, as times go, a judicious magistrate. Habitual 
 cruelty is unfortunately an abstraction, or I should say 
 that it must bear the blame of much that is faulty in 
 the worthy gentleman's character. We may say of it, 
 as Angell James said of the sin of indifference, " It 
 rots the heart," or as Burns said of illicit love — 
 
 " It hardens a' witliin, 
 And petrifies the feeling." 
 
 Call it a case of putrefaction or petrifaction — it is all 
 one in metaphorical language. 
 
 Do you suppose Assheton Smith was a bad man ? 
 Not at all. If we may believe the united testimony of 
 all who knew him, he was a fine, manly old English 
 gentleman. But his virtues could not make that right 
 which is wrong : nor ought his high character to blind 
 any reader of his biography to the fact that he devoted 
 a long and vigorous life to the prosecution of a pastime 
 which is inseparaUy connected with cruelty. Wise is that 
 advice of Zimmerman : " Put this restriction on your 
 pleasures: be cautious that they injure no being 
 which has life." 
 
314 A VOICE FOR 
 
 After these examples of inhumanity, I will say, 
 perhaps excusable inhumanity, how delightful it is to 
 read the confession of a brave soldier and an able 
 general, who early resolved — whatever may have been 
 his motive — 
 
 " Never to blend his pleasures or his pride 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that lives.'' 
 
 I allude to the late Sir Charles James Napier. He 
 writes thus of his illustrious family : — 
 
 "We are all a hot violent crew ; to do us justice, with the 
 milk of human kindness, though. We were all fond of hunting, 
 fishing and shooting ; yet all gave them up when young men, 
 because we had no pleasure in killing little animals. George 
 and I were bold riders. . . . We, however, always found it 
 pain, not pleasure, to worry poor animals. Lately, in camp, a 
 little hare got up, the greyhounds pursued, and the men shouted 
 to aid the dogs. My sorrow was great, and I rode away ; yet at 
 dinner I ate a poor fowl ! It is not principle, therefore, on. 
 which we act ; it is a painful feeling. As to cat-hunting and 
 dog-fighting, feeling and principle unite to condemn : a domestic 
 animal confides in you and is at your mercy ; a wild animal 
 has some fair play, a domestic one none. Cat-hunters and dog- 
 fighters are, therefore, not only cruel, but traitors : no pohshed 
 gentleman does these things." — Life of Sir C. J. Napier, 1857, vol. 
 ii. p. 291. 
 
 Let us take another example of the man, who, 
 according to the wise king, " doeth good to his own 
 soul " (Prov. xi. 17). 
 
 When Beckford of Fonthill built the high wall 
 round his estate, society, who are never at a loss to 
 imagine a bad motive where a good one is not known, 
 would have it that he built it "to cut himself off from 
 
THE MUTE CREATION. 315 
 
 mankind." But he had a good reason for doing so, 
 as he tells us : 
 
 " I built the wall because I would not be intruded upon by 
 sportsmen. In vain were they warned off. Your country 
 geutleiiian will transport a pauper for taking a few twigs from a 
 hedge while they break it down without ceremony themselves. 
 They will take no denial when they go hunting in their red 
 jackets to excruciate to death a poor hare. I found remonstrance 
 vain, and so I built the wall to exclude them. I never suffer an 
 animal to be killed but through necessity. In early life I gave 
 up shooting because I consider that we have no right to murder 
 animals for sport. I am fond of animals. The birds in the 
 plantations of Fonthill seem to know me : they continued their 
 songs as I rode close to them. It was exactly what I wished." 
 — Memoirs of William, Beckford, 1859, p. 259. 
 
 This is to me a green spot in the life of Beckford ; 
 and vrith me his kindness to his birds and game shall 
 cover a multitude of sins. 
 
 Cruel as are the most innocent of English field 
 sports, I must admit that they fall short, in cruelty, of 
 some which prevail in other lands, whether of the field 
 or of the arena. I wish, however, I could believe that 
 England furnished no parallel to the cruelties of 
 German deer-stalking. But I much fear the following 
 incident might have happened as well in Scotland as 
 in Germany. It must be premised that a stag had 
 been hit in the hind leg, and was lost. Two keepers 
 with a bloodhound and a turnspit fast to their waists 
 by a leathern thong, took to the track of the wounded 
 animal. The dogs were at last let loose ; then came 
 the denouement of the tragedy, which I give in the 
 words of an eyewitness. 
 
3i6 A VOICE FOR 
 
 " The stag, as was expected, came down to the meadow, and he 
 emerged from the trees, limping forward very fast, with one dog 
 hanging on to his nose and the rest to his heels and sides. Down he 
 came to a little brook into which he threw himself, and at last, 
 turned at bay. The hound hanging to his nose kept a firm grip 
 of him, even when the stag, holding his head down, tried to 
 drown him in the stream ; at the same time the stag butted 
 violently with his horns iu every direction, making the dogs 
 cautious. Then tired out, he fairly lay down in the stream, and 
 at this moment a shot from the Duke's rifle struck him, and a 
 huntsman running up plunged his dagger into the expiring 
 animal's heart." — All the Fear Round, No. 85. 
 
 I would ask, vrliat more could these wretclies have 
 done had they been dealing with a leopard or a tiger, 
 instead of a poor deer ? And, if the animal was to be 
 killed, why did not " the Duke's rifle " put him out of 
 his miseries when he first emerged from the trees ? 
 If the first shot fails to arrest the stag, is it necessary 
 to wait till he is at bay before you deal with him ? I 
 do not profess to understand the ceremonies of the 
 chase. But it seems to me as if one part of the diver- 
 sion consisted in aggravating the dying agonies of the 
 prey. In this I hope I do his serene highness an 
 injustice. At all events, if this be deer-stalking, it is a 
 most barbarous sport. 
 
 I am sore afraid it is only too easy to blunt the kindly 
 feelings of those that have any. The excitement of the 
 field or the arena soon overwhelm the emotions of 
 humanity ; there is an excellent example of this in the 
 ' Confessions ' of St. Augustine (book vi. c. 8, translation 
 revised by Dr. Pusey). It is stated that one Alypius, 
 though " utterly averse to and detesting " the spectacles 
 
THE MUTE CREATION. 
 
 317 
 
 of tlie gladiators — i.e., from report only, was induced 
 at last to enter the Amphitheatre protesting all the 
 while, " though you take my body to that place, and 
 there sit me, can you force me also to turn my mind or 
 my eyes to those shows ? I shall then be absent while 
 present, and so shall oyercome both you and them." 
 The result is thus told : — 
 
 " So soon as he saw that blood, he therewith drank down savage- 
 ness ; nor turned away, but fixed his eye drinking in pleasure 
 unawares, and was delighted with that guilty fight, and intoxicated 
 ■with the bloody pastime ; nor was he now the man he came, but 
 one of the throng he came unto, yea a true associate of theirs that 
 brought him thither." 
 
 It is thus that the humanest person in Spain soon 
 learns the terrible fascination of the bull-fight. Here, 
 as in the gladiatorial spectacle of ancient Eome, the 
 danger encountered by the assailants might seem to 
 redeem the pastime from that contemptible meanness 
 which marks at least one of our athletic and most of our 
 field sports. But, in point of fact, there are circum- 
 stances in both the former which degrade them to the 
 level of the ring and the chase. Indeed I am not sure that 
 I am not wronging the shows of the gladiators in class- 
 ing the bull-fight with them. In the latter, there are 
 acts which deserve to be ranked with what Sir 0. J. 
 Napier called " traitorous cruelty." ^ In the first place the 
 
 1 The persons who take part in a bull- fight are called generically 
 toreadors. 
 
 1. Alguaciles (officers). 
 
 2. Picadores — on horseback. 
 
 3. Banderilleros and Chulos — on foot. 
 
31 8 A VOICE FOE 
 
 bull, if shy, is often urged to the contest by the most 
 revolting acts of torture; it is the business of the 
 banderilleros to insert in the flanks of the unhappy 
 creature barbed darts and hand-rockets, which goad 
 him to fury or madness. In the next place, the animals 
 used to protect the picador are selected from among the 
 aged beasts of burden ; with the merciful among us 
 those horses who have faithfully worked out a long 
 term of service are rewarded with the grateful repose 
 of the meadow or the moor for the rest of their declin- 
 ing years. Now, in Spain, it is just from this class that 
 horses are chosen to encounter the dying agonies of the 
 arena, which thus becomes a dreadful substitute for the 
 knacker's yard. Then again, though the picador and 
 matador run great risks, often encountering a dreadful 
 death, yet the spectators and proprietors, they for 
 whose enjoyment and profit the spectacle is maintained, 
 are well and securely protected from reaping that re- 
 compense of their wicked folly which is meet. Bevies 
 of well-dressed ladies and their gallants look on 
 unmoved except by fierce exultation, while sometimes 
 bulls, horses, and occasionally men are involved in one 
 common destruction.^ 
 
 4. Matadores or Espadas — on foot ; whose business it is to slaughter 
 the bull. 
 
 5. Msestros ; and 
 
 6. Attendants with mules. 
 
 ^ The Times (during the month of October 1862) reported a bull-6ght 
 at Saragossa, in which the first bull, after having two fireworks stuck 
 into his shoulder, became so furious that the President advised the use 
 of the demilune — which is an instrument used for mowing off the legs 
 of the bulls. The matador, in this case, refused the offer, and accord- 
 ingly engaged the bull, when he was so badly thrown and gored that 
 
THE MUTE CREATION. jjg 
 
 I am afraid that the callousness which I have 
 pointed out and explained in the frequenter of the bull- 
 fight and the chase is very generally diffused among 
 ordinary men. However, I am both surprised and dis- 
 appointed when I find men of high intellectual culture, 
 and who are not professed sportsmen, devoid of kindly 
 feelings towards our domestic animals. How few men 
 care how much the driver "punishes" his horse.i For 
 my part I generally put a summary stop to the castigation 
 of horses ; and I can assure those who do not do so, 
 that there is no slight instruction and amusement in 
 the excuses cabmen make when reprimanded for their 
 cruelty. One driver said to me, " Well, I can assure you 
 that most of the gentlemen I carry insist on my putting 
 my horse to the top of his speed, and keeping him 
 there." Another driver, whom I corrected for repeated 
 applications of the whip in the course of a short drive, 
 
 he was removed in a hopeless state. The demilune was then brought 
 into play, and the bull fought on his hind legs and two stumps : but 
 he WAS still so formidable that he had to ie reduced to four stumps, 
 before he received the coup-de-grace. 
 
 In the month of September 1862 the Emperor and Empress of 
 the French witnessed a bull-fight at Bayonne. " A bull-fight " is, 
 however, rather a misnomer — a double misnomer : for there was no 
 genuine fighting, and such as it was there were six fights. Six fine 
 bulls were slavightered on the occasion. 
 
 ' Hear the most sensible and the most devout savan of the reign of 
 George II. "When I am on my way," said Johnson, "to dine with 
 a friend, and, finding it late, have bid the coachman make haste, if I 
 happen to attend when he whips his horses, I may feel unpleasantly 
 that the animals are put to pain, but I do not wish him to desist. No, 
 sir, I wish him to drive on" (Boswell's 'Life of Johnson ' iSli, i. 113). 
 We cannot say, from this, that Johnson would have countenanced cruelty: 
 but we may, and perhaps do, infer that he was not scrupulous in bis con- 
 duct towards the brutes. 
 
320 A VOICE FOR 
 
 gave me this explanation of the circumstance. "Why, 
 the fact is, sir, I could not have got my 'oss to go with- 
 out flogging him. Bless you, he's a lazy old 'oss he is, 
 and a knowing one too ; doesn't he just know well 
 enough when he's got a gemman behind him, as don't 
 like to see him flogged ! " i 
 
 Oarlyle tells us that his friend Sterling had not 
 " much depth of real laughter, or sense of the ludicrous, 
 but what he had was genuine, free, and continual." This 
 little trait in his character is thus illustrated by his 
 biographer. " We once got into a cab, about Charing 
 Cross, I know not now whence, or well whitherward, 
 nor that our haste was at all special — however, the cab- 
 man, sensible that his pace was slowish, took to whipp- 
 ing with a steady, passionless, business-like assiduity 
 which, though the horse seemed rather lazy than weak, 
 became afflictive," — mind it was Carlyle, not the horse 
 that was afflicted — " and I urged remonstrance with the 
 savage fellow, ' Let him alone,' answered Sterling, ' he 
 is kindling the enthusiasm of his horse ; you perceive 
 that is the first thing, then we shall do very well,' — as 
 we accordingly did." 
 
 ' " Charlotte [Bronte] was more than commonly tender in her treat- 
 ment of all dumb creatures, and they, with that fine instinct so often 
 noticed, were invariably attracted towards her " (Mrs. Gaskell's ' Life 
 of C. Bronte,' 1S67, p. 203). Cf. Shirley — "Do you know what sooth- 
 sayers I would consult ? . . . The little Irish beggar that comes 
 barefoot to my door ; the mouse that steals out of the cranny in my wains- 
 cot ; the bird in frost and snow that pecks at my window for a crumb j 
 the dog that licks my hand and sits beside my knee. ... I know some- 
 body to whose knee the black cat loves to climb, against whose shoulder 
 and cheek it likes to purr. The old dog always comes out of his kennel 
 and wags his tail, and whines affectionately when somebody p.isses.'' 
 
THE MUTE CREATION. 321 
 
 Now I think Carlyle would have more wisely con- 
 sulted his friend's memory by allowing this little 
 incident to drop into oblivion: a joke at the expense 
 of a persecuted horse is but a sorry one. Nor does 
 Carlyle himself look to the best advantage "urging 
 remonstrance," but not remonstrating. None of the 
 parties to this little drama seem to have had the 
 excuse of irritability of temper or thoughtlessness. 
 The castigation, like Sterling's sense of the ludicrous, 
 was " genuine, free, and continual : " it was genuine 
 in its severity, and it was freely and continually 
 administered. It was also coldly calculated and 
 mechanically inflicted. By the two good men inside it 
 was calmly discussed and deliberately permitted. What 
 a contrast is this to the less blameworthy conduct of a 
 small tradesman whom I suddenly and angrily arrested 
 in the passionate infliction of the whip on a stubborn 
 pony. " What a brute you are," I said, " to flog your 
 little horse so. You are by far the greater brute of the 
 two." "I can't help it," yelped the little man with the 
 tears in his eyes, " he almost drives me mad ! " The 
 common practice of mercilessly beating the Esquimaux 
 dogs met with no efficient check from Sir Leopold 
 M'Clintock. Hear his account of the matter. 
 
 " Poor dogs ! they have a hard life of it in these 
 regions. Even Petersen, who is generally kind and 
 humane, seems to fancy that they have little or no 
 feeling : one of his theories is, that you may knock 
 an Esquimaux dog about the head with any article, 
 however heavy, with perfect impunity to the brutes. 
 
 X 
 
322 A VOICE FOR 
 
 One of 113 upbraided him tlie other day because be 
 broke his whip-handle over the head of a dog. ' That 
 was nothing at all,' he assured us: some friend of 
 his in Greenland found he could beat his dogs over 
 the head with a heavy hammer, — it stunned them 
 certainly, — but by laying them with their mouths 
 open to the wind, they soon revived, got up, and 
 ran about 'all right'" ('Narrative,' 1859, P- 32i)- 
 And this " assurance," which even if true amounted 
 but to this, that the dogs were only put in pain, not 
 vitally or even seriously hurt, was sufScient to insure 
 Captain M'Clintock's toleration of the cruelty uniformly 
 practised towards those hard-working, hard-lived, gentle 
 creatures. Man shrinks from calling his vices by 
 their right names. Gaiety and gallantry are terms 
 that from the days of Ancient Rome until now have 
 served to dissemble very great wickedness : 
 
 " Hoec eadem illi 
 Omnia qiitim faciunt, hilares nitidique vocantur." ■■ 
 
 Cleverness often stands for fraud, and embellishment 
 for lying. What is sharp practice but dishonesty? 
 So, likewise, have cruelty and other abominable acts 
 been designated, as if the lower animals were the 
 aggressors rather than the victims. Every kind of 
 contempt has been heaped upon the brutes in our 
 words and proverbs. In particular the dog has been 
 made, as it were, the type of all the vileness which 
 
 • "Whenever they do all these same things they are called gay'vcai 
 gallant." — Juvenal, Sat. xi. 
 
THE MUTE CREATION. 323 
 
 was conceiYed to belong to the lower animals. Both 
 the Old and the New Testaments countenance this 
 use in many places: and this, perhaps, because the 
 dogs were the scavengers of the camp and the city. 
 From that appellative we derive our verb to dog (a 
 verb of a bad sense), and dogged, stupid or obstinate ; 
 and in times past there were few "bad names" so 
 offensive in their application to the Jew, and indeed 
 to men generally, as ' dog.' In ' i Henry IV.,' ii. 8, we 
 have the phrase or proverb "as dank as a dog;" in 
 ' The Silent Woman,' ii. 2, we have, " as melancholy 
 as a dog ; " and in one of Marlowe's plays we have a 
 roll-call of such phrases : — 
 
 " Thou say'st thou art as weary as a dog, 
 As angry, sick, and hungry as a dog, 
 As dull and melancholy as a dog. 
 As lazy, sleepy, and as idle as a dog ; 
 But why dost thou compare thee to a dog 
 In that for which all men despise a dog 1 " 
 
 [Marlowe's Works, ed. 1826, iii. 448 ; cited by Halliwell, Shak, 
 Soc. Papers, iii, 36.] 
 
 And yet, of all the animals God has given for our use, 
 which of them comes so near to man in the afiections 
 and emotions as the dog, whom all men, by their speech, 
 despise ? It is convenient to affect this contempt for 
 the brutes. Our own natural cruelty towards them 
 thus gets called hrutality : and yet in this sense the 
 brutes are not commonly " brutal." In conformity with 
 this usage, that quality which is so rare in men we call 
 their humanitg, as if all that is "human" were "humane." 
 
324 A' VOICE FOR 
 
 The simple fact is, that by such a use of words we 
 point an indirect compliment to ourselves, and transfer 
 to the innocent brute the odium of our own barbarity. 
 
 But we have lived to see a new and strangely 
 horrible phase of cruelty grow up among us, which let 
 us earnestly pray for the means to eradicate, ere it be 
 naturalised here, and get the privilege of a colloquial 
 name. Contradictory as it may appear, it is a species of 
 cruelty which could hardly be perpetuated by men until 
 they had attained to a high condition of mental en- 
 lightenment and social progress. The late M. Magendie, 
 of the French Academic du M6decin, instituted a new 
 school of surgery in which all dissections of the lower 
 animals wei'e made on the living subject. These opera- 
 tions, which pass under the learned name of vivisections, 
 made no small sensation among French physicians, not 
 so much on account of the sympathy which even a 
 Frenchman must at times feel for the sufferings of the 
 helpless brute, as by reason of the rich prospect of 
 scientific progress held out to his pupils by that fiendish 
 savan ; and since M. Magendie's introduction of the new 
 method of dissection, the school of Vivisection has been 
 widely patronised, not only by French and Italian, but 
 also by English, students. Horses have been purchased 
 in great numbers for the use of the Acaddmic. These 
 wretched animals are made fast into frames of admir- 
 able workmanship, and are then slowly and securely 
 dissected alive,^ the art of the operator being propor- 
 
 ^ Not always " securely. " 
 
THE MUTE CREATION. 325 
 
 tional to the length of time during which he can keep 
 the horse "stretched on the rack of life." Besides 
 horses, numbers of apes, dogs, cats, and rabbits have 
 been subjected to vivisection : and all for what ? I can 
 hardly say. I believe science has not benefited by it. 
 Sir Charles Bell expressed a strong opinion that science 
 could not benefit by it. For my part, I should have 
 expected Atheism to have become religion, if vivisection 
 had become science. M. Magendie's experiments were 
 deemed so inconclusive that they have been repeated 
 over and over again by his pupils, among whom M. 
 Claude Bernard at present occupies the foremost place. 
 I am not aware that any French voice was ever 
 efficiently raised against these strange barbarities, 
 which in malignant and unnatural cruelty throw every- 
 thing I have spoken of into the shade. 
 
 Honour to England in that she first uttered public 
 protest against Vivisection. In the month of October 
 (1861), the "Eoyal Society for the Prevention of 
 Cruelty to Animals " sent a deputation, headed by the 
 eminent surgeon, Mr. Curling, to the Emperor of the 
 French. The deputation presented a memorial from 
 the Society to that potentate praying him to prohibit 
 Vivisection in the French Acadimie. Let us render 
 honour to Napoleon III. in that he immediately issued 
 an interim order for the suspension of Vivisection, 
 and nominated a committee of inquiry into the facts. 
 The Acaddmie responded by nominating a committee 
 on their part. The reports of these committees have 
 not yet been made : but it cannot be doubted that sooner 
 
326 . A VOICE FOR 
 
 or later the indefatigable exertions of Mr. Curling and 
 his colleagues will be crowned with success. 
 
 Well may we say with St. Paul, " The whole creation 
 groaneth and travaileth in pain together." Some men 
 more sensitive than others have manfully done their 
 share in the duty of sparing the brutes. Shelley, the 
 immortal poet, would never touch animal food, simply 
 because he thought it wrong to purchase a benefit or a 
 pleasure which is obtainable only at the cost of suffering 
 to an inferior animal. Many have followed his example. 
 We must revere the motive ; and though we might 
 scruple to partake of a pa<«, de foie gras, or & fricassee de 
 grenouilles, we shall probably think that Shelley was 
 mistaken in his view of the duty of abstinence from 
 animal food. He also believed in a future state of 
 retribution for the lower animals. Dickens fancies 
 the horses crying out against men, and glorying in the 
 thought that even men die. 
 
 It is not for us to speculate rashly on the question 
 whether there is an hereafter for creatures who have 
 neither reason nor conscience. The preacher, indeed, 
 and the psalmist give it against them : but so they do 
 against man in more places than one. BishogButler 
 with his hard head and his large heart allowed room for 
 hope that they will live after death in a higher and 
 happier state of existence : and his reverent speculation 
 has been finely translated into painting by Sir Edwin 
 Landseer in his "Dying Camel." "The kind star,'' 
 says a contemporary writer {All the Tear Round, June 
 25, 1859), "which shines forth over the half-prostrate 
 
THE MUTE CREATION. 327 
 
 animal, dimly suggests a hope that even ' the mute 
 creation ' are not excluded from a share in Heaven's 
 eternal mercy. The minds of those who feel deeply 
 will at times stretch forward thus in a strong sympathy 
 with the sufferings of creation, and will strain to get a 
 glimpse beyond that glass through which we see so 
 darkly." 
 
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